“Quite right,” agreed Alleyn. “I was a bad last.”

“Well,” said Wade, “I think that’ll be all, sir. If you’ve no objection, I’ll get you to sign these notes later on when they’ve been put into longhand. We’ve got your address. Perhaps you’d look in some time tomorrow morning at the station.”

“Where is it?”

“Hill Street, Mr. Broadhead. Top of Ruru Street. Anyone will direct you.”

“I suppose so. I could ask a policeman. At least he would know that.”

“Good night, Mr. Broadhead,” said Wade coldly.

“I wish I knew,” said Alleyn when Broadhead had gone, “whether to give myself a kick in the neck or a slap on the back.”

“How’s that, sir?” asked Wade.

“After the main body had retired to the dressing-rooms, Mr. Mason, Mr. Gascoigne, Dr. Te Pokiha, the chief mechanist and I were left on the stage with the body. Until then I had imagined the whole show was simply a ghastly accident, but almost automatically I had suggested that none of the company left the theatre. The official mind must have functioned — reaction to sudden death or something. If I had suspected homicide, I should have done my best to keep them all on the stage. I don’t think I would have succeeded without producing the Yard. But at that stage I didn’t actually suspect, although I suppose I asked myself the routine question—‘Homicide or Accident?’ Well, as soon as we were alone the unhappy Bert gave tongue. He protested many times and with sanguinary monotony that there had been some funny business. So did Mr. Gascoigne. They were all for going up aloft to take a look at the tackle. From being almost official I now became quite officious. I said: ‘No, no, gentlemen; we must leave this for our wonderful police.’ ‘Scale not the heights,’ the old man said, and they heeded and gave over.”

“Quite right, too.”

“But was it? Suppose they had gone aloft? They would have found the tackle as it was when the bottle fell. They would have found it as I found it a few minutes later when I snooped up the ladder. Now what would have been the effect of this discovery on the murderer? If the murderer is not Mr. Mason, or Mr. Gascoigne, or Te Pokiha, or Bert, he would presumably have come out of his hole, found the stage empty, heard voices on the grid, and gone back into his hole. He would never have tidied up.”

“That’s so. But we’ve got your evidence, anyway,” objected Wade.

“Yes, we have. We’ve caught him out in a bit of elaboration,” agreed Alleyn. “If — If—” He rubbed his nose vexedly. “I usually welcome elaborations. ‘Beware of fancy-touches’ should be neatly printed and hung above every would-be murderer’s cot. But this time I feel that, as far as we’re concerned, there’s a catch on it. Well, now, if our man is Te Pokiha, or Mason, or Gascoigne, or Bert, he would still have been unable to tidy up. By preventing the inspection of the tackle I made possible the alteration.”

“Well, sir, according to your way of looking at it, that’s all to the good. The alteration was a blunder, as it turned out.”

“And we should never have found the tiki.”

“That’s two blunders.”

“Is it?” said Alleyn. “I’ve got my doubts about that.”

“I don’t get you there, sir. Surely we ought to trace the tiki?”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Alleyn, screwing up one side of his face. “We’ll have to try. What did Hambledon and Mason have to say about it?”

“Oh, same story as young Broadhead. Mr. Hambledon said he took it from Mrs. Meyer soon after you gave it to her. He says he had a look at it and handed it on to someone else — thinks it was old Mr. Vernon, but isn’t sure. Mr. Mason says he can’t say who gave it to him, but he handled it and remembers giving it back to Mrs. Meyer just before you all sat down to supper.”

“And Mrs. Meyer?”

“Thinks she remembers he gave it to her and fancies she put it down on the table somewhere. There you are!”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “it’s wide open.”

“Mrs. Meyer—” began Wade and stopped abruptly. “Look here, sir, what do I call the lady? Mrs. Meyer or Miss Dacres?”

“Miss Dacres, I fancy.”

“Seems hardly nice in some ways. Well, then, Miss Dacres seemed a bit surprised when I asked her about the tiki. She gave me a look.”

“That’s because I had already spoken to her about it.”

“Is that so? Did you get the same answer?”

“More or less. She looked in her bag and then said she didn’t know what had become of it. All the same—”

“Well — there it is,” said Wade without noticing Alleyn’s hesitation. “Better get a move on, I suppose. Who’ll we take next, sir?”

“If I might suggest, I think it would be as well to ask Gascoigne, the stage-manager, if he knows who was the last person, officially, to examine the apparatus.”

“Good enough,” said Wade, and sent for Gascoigne.

Gascoigne said that the last official inspection took place just before the end of the third act.

“Mr. Meyer came round from the front of the house. He was as fussy about it as if it’d been a first night in town,” said Gascoigne. “He asked me if everything was all right. I’d been up myself and seen it and we’d rehearsed it God knows how often. But to humour him I sent Bert up again and I’m blessed if the governor didn’t climb up after Bert. It was then that he loosened the wire, I think. He was in a great flutter. By God, you’d almost think he knew something would happen. That was actually just before the last curtain. I remember they came down the ladder after we’d run down.”

“Which of them came first?”

“Bert. He came to me in the prompt-box and said it was all O.K. Mr. Meyer went off to the front of the house, I think.”

“And what did you do?”

“Me?” said Gascoigne, looking surprised. “I got the staff to work setting the stage for the party. Bert and the local men did it.”

“Did you notice anyone go up the ladder after that?” asked Wade without hope.

“Of course I didn’t. Wouldn’t I be asking you to go after them if I had? Look here, Inspector, had that gear been interfered with? I’d like to go up and take a look at it.”

“You’d find no difference, Mr. Gascoigne,” said Wade.

“But I tell you,” said Gascoigne violently, “there must have been some funny business — there must have been.”

“Now listen, sir,” said Wade. “When everybody left the stage at Chief-Inspector Alleyn’s suggestion—”

“What! Chief-Inspector how much?” ejaculated Gascoigne.

Wade explained.

“Here!” said Gascoigne. “Is there anything fishy about our company? Have you been tailing round after us, Mr. Alleyn? What’s the idea of all this?”

“I’m on a holiday,” explained Alleyn apologetically, “and I’ve not been tailing anybody at all, Mr. Gascoigne.”

“So you say,” muttered Gascoigne.

“It’s true,” said Alleyn. “S’help me.”

“Now, Mr. Gascoigne,” continued Wade doggedly, “when they all left the stage after the accident, what did you do?”

“I stayed put. I wanted to go up and look at the gear, but Mr. — Inspector — Alleyn said wait for the police. Why didn’t you tell us who you were then?”

“It would have been in doubtful taste, don’t you think?” asked Alleyn. “You remained on the stage until the arrival of the police, I think?”

“Yes, I did,” said Gascoigne.

Wade glanced at Alleyn.

“Well, Mr. Gascoigne, I think that’s all I want to know just now. You’re staying — where?”

“The Railway Hotel.”

“Good-oh, sir. Perhaps you’d look in at the station to-morrow. The inquest—” Wade shepherded Gascoigne out and came back looking worried.

“I reckon,” he said, “we can cross him off unless there’s been any collusion. He met us at the door and you left him on the stage. He never had a chance to go up into the grid. Seems to me that the point we want to get at is what they all did when they left the stage. Isn’t that right, sir?”