Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh

quid. The next day Courtney paid Frankie Liversidge and me every penny he owed us. He said afterwards he’d had a windfall. Now he says Mr. Meyer lent him the cash. Well, that’s very charming. Pity, in a way, that Mr. Meyer isn’t here to—”
    “You damned little tripe-hound,” bawled Courtney Broadhead and made for him.
    “Broadhead!” Alleyn made them all jump. Courtney swung round angrily.
    “I shouldn’t, really,” said Alleyn.
    “By God, no one’s going to talk to me like—”
    “If there’s an explanation,” said Gordon Palmer, who looked frightened but obstinate, “why don’t you give it? You seem to be out for blood this evening, don’t you?”
    Courtney Broadhead made a wild swipe at him. Alleyn caught his arm, did something neat and quick with it, and held him.
    “Do you want the sergeant outside to referee, you unspeakable donkey?” inquired Alleyn. “Go back to your seat.”
    To the intense astonishment of everybody Courtney went.
    “Now,” said Alleyn to Gordon Palmer, “you will listen to me, if you please. If you have any information that is relevant to this business, you will give it to the police.”
    “I’m at liberty to say what I choose,” said Gordon, backing away.
    “Shut up,” said Weston.
    “If you go about making statements that may be criminally libellous, you won’t be at liberty to do anything at all for some considerable time,” Alleyn told him. “Sit down and attend to your elders and betters, and don’t be rude. You are a thoroughly tiresome and stupid young cub, and I see small hope of your growing up into anything that remotely resembles a human being.”
    “Look here, who the hell—”
    “Shut up,” said Weston.
    Gordon retired, muttering.
    “I think,” said Liversidge, “that if I were in your place, Court, old boy, I’d just explain quietly. You owe it to yourself, you know.”
    “There’s nothing more to say,” began Broadhead. “I lost at poker and couldn’t pay my debts. I went to Mr. Meyer the morning we got here and told him about it. He was extraordinarily decent and advanced me the money. I was to pay it back out of my salary.”
    “Well then, old boy,” said Liversidge, “you’ve no need to worry. It’ll all be on the books, won’t it, Mr. Mason? I suppose Mr. Meyer told you about it?”
    “I agree with Mr. Alleyn,” said Mason quietly, “that there is nothing to be gained by discussing this matter here.”
    “It won’t be on the books,” said Courtney Broadhead. “It was a private loan.”
    There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
    “I don’t understand,” said Valerie Gaynes suddenly. “Of course, Court didn’t take my money. What’s my money got to do with it? It was stolen in the ship. Probably a steward took it.”
    Her voice flattened. She looked at Liversidge and away again.
    “I’m sure a steward took it, Frankie,” she said. It was almost as though she pleaded with him.
    “I’ll bet it was a steward,” said Liversidge very heartily indeed. He flashed an intolerably brilliant smile at Courtney Broadhead.
    “Well,” said Susan Max roundly, “it may have been a steward or it may have been the captain of the ship, but it wasn’t Courtney Broadhead, and only a fool or a rogue would suggest that it was.”
    “Quite a champion of — ah — good causes to-night, aren’t you, Susie?” said Liversidge winningly.
    “For
God’s
sake,” said George Mason, “can’t you cut out all this stuff about Miss Gaynes’s money and Courtney’s money. We’re up against a terrible tragedy and, my God, you all start selling a lot of cross-talk. What’s going to happen to the show? That’s what I’d like to know. What’s going to happen to the show?”
    And as if he had indeed sounded the very bottom of their trouble they at once became silent and anxious.
    “The show!” said Gordon Palmer shrilly. “You are an extraordinary crowd. The show doesn’t matter— what’s going to happen to
us
?”
    At this