Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh Page A

protest from outside they all seemed to draw together. They looked anxiously at each other, ignoring Gordon.
    “You don’t seem to realise a man’s been murdered,” he went on. His voice, trying to be compelling and indignant, was boyishly lame.
    “Shut up,” said Geoffrey Weston.
    “I won’t. There’s poor Mr. Meyer—” The voice wobbled uncertainly.
    “If Alfred Meyer can think at all where he’s gone,” said little George Mason surprisingly, “he’s thinking about the show. The Firm came first with Alfred — always.”
    There was a short silence.
    “I’m very sorry it happened, ladies and gentlemen,” added Mason, “very sorry for your sakes, I mean. We’ve brought you all this way. I–I can assure you you’ll be — looked after. My partner wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. We’re old friends, all of us. I can’t just sort things out in my own mind but — if I’ve got anything to do with it there’ll be no difference.”
    He looked solemnly at his company. There was a little stir among them as if they were touched by his sudden assumption of formality, and by the illusion of security that his words had given to them. And, as he watched them, it seemed to Alleyn that of all things security is most desired by actors since it is the one boon that is never granted them. Even when they are in great demand and command absurdly large salaries, he reflected, few of them contrive to save much money. It is almost as though they were under the compulsion of some ancient rule of their guild, never to know security but often to desire it. And he fell to thinking of their strange life and of the inglorious and pathetic old age to which so many of them drifted.
    Packer came in, interrupting his thoughts.
    The inspector, said Packer, would now speak to Mr. Mason, if the latter was feeling better. Mr. Mason turned pale, said he felt much better, and followed the sergeant out.
    “I hope to God he meant what he said,” rumbled old Brandon Vernon. “I’ve been so long with the Firm I’ve forgotten what other managements are like.”
    Gradually they settled down to the actor’s endless gossip about “shop.” It was obvious that they were all shocked — some of them deeply moved perhaps — by Meyer’s death. But they slipped into their habitual conversation quite unconsciously and soon were talking peaceably enough. Courtney Broadhead had gone to the far end of the room and stayed there, glowering, till old Vernon strolled across and tried to talk him into a better humour. They all completely ignored Gordon Palmer who sulked in a corner with his silent bear-leader.
    Presently Packer returned.
    “Inspector Wade would like to speak to you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Packer.
    Alleyn followed him into the dark passage.
    “Mr. Wade was wondering if you’d be glad of the chance to get out of there, sir;” murmured Packer.
    “I see. Very thoughtful of him.”
    “Good night, sir.”
    “Good night, Packer. I’ll see you again, I expect.”
    “Good-oh, sir,” said Packer with enthusiasm.
    Alleyn made his way to the office where he found Wade seated at Alfred Meyer’s desk with the colossal Cass in attendance.
    “I thought perhaps you were getting a bit fed up in there, sir,” said Wade.
    “It wasn’t dull,” said Alleyn. “The conversation took rather an interesting turn.”
    “Yes?”
    Alleyn related his experiences in the wardrobe-room.
    “Oh,” said Wade, “that’s a bit of news, now, all that about Mr. Courtney Broadhead and the Gaynes woman. We’ll just get some notes on that, if we may, sir. Cass’ll take it down in shorthand. Now, how does it go?”
    “Briefly,” said Alleyn, “like this. Liversidge, Miss Gaynes, young Gordon Palmer, his cousin, Geoffrey Weston, who seems to have strange ideas on the duties of a bear-leader, and Courtney Broadhead, all played poker for high stakes on the voyage out. Gordon Palmer and Liversidge were conspicuous winners, Broadhead a conspicuous