much was in it?’
‘I’m not sure. Let me think. I used four – no, five pounds for tips and then I paid Frankie ten that I lost at—’
She stopped short, and a kind of blankness came into her eyes.
‘Oh, what’s the use, anyway,’ she said. ‘I suppose it was about ninety pounds. It’s gone. And that’s that. I mustn’t keep you up, darling Miss Dacres.’
She made for the door. Alleyn opened it.
‘If you would like to let me see the leather case—’ he said.
‘Too sweet of you, but honestly I’m afraid the money’s gone for good.’
‘Well, I should let him see it,’ said Carolyn, vaguely. ‘He may be able to trace it directly to the murderous footballer.’
‘What murderous footballer?’
‘I’ll tell you in the morning, Valerie. Good night, I’m so sorry about your money, but Mr Alleyn will find it for you as soon as he has time. We’ve all had quite enough excitement for one night. Let us curl up in our horrid little sleepers.’
‘Good night,’ said Miss Gaynes and went out.
Alleyn looked at Carolyn Dacres. She had shut her eyes as soon as Valerie Gaynes had gone. She now opened one of them. It was a large, carefully made-up eye, and it was fixed on Alleyn.
‘Good night, Carol,’ said Hambledon. ‘’Night, Alf. Hope you get some sleep. Not much of the night left for it. Don’t worry too much about your adventure.’
‘Sleep!’ ejaculated Mr Meyer. ‘Worry! We get to Middleton in an hour. Scarcely worth trying. I can’t lie down with any hope of comfort and you’d worry if someone tried to kick you off a train on the top of a mountain.’
‘I expect I should. Coming, Alleyn?’
‘Yes. Good night, Miss Dacres.’
‘Good night,’ said Carolyn in her deepest voice.
‘So long,’ said Mr Meyer bitterly. ‘Sorry you’ve been troubled.’
Hambledon had already gone out into the little corridor, and Alleyn was in the doorway, when Carolyn stopped him.
‘Mr Alleyn!’
He turned back. There she was, still looking at him out of one eye, like some attractive, drowsy, but intelligent bird.
‘Why didn’t Valerie want you to see the leather writing-folder?’ asked Carolyn.
‘I don’t know,’ said Alleyn. ‘Do you?’
‘I can make a damn’ good guess,’ said Carolyn.
The Dacres Company arrived at Middleton in time for breakfast. By ten o’clock the stage staff had taken possession of the Theatre Royal. To an actor on tour all theatres are very much alike. They may vary in size, in temperature, and in degree of comfort, but once the gas-jets are lit in the dressing-rooms, the grease-paints laid out in rows on the shelves, and the clothes hung up in sheets on the walls, all theatres are simply ‘theatre’. The playhouse is the focus-point of the company. As soon as an actor has ‘found a home’, and, if possible, enjoyed a rest, he goes down to the theatre and looks to the tools of his trade. The stage-manager is there with his staff, cursing or praising the mechanical facilities behind the curtain. The familiar flats are trundled in, the working lights are on, the prompter’s table stands down by the footlights and the sheeted stalls wait expectantly in the dark auditorium.
Soon the drone of the run-through-for-words begins. Mechanics peer from the flies and move, rubber-footed, about the stage. The theatre is alive, self-contained and warm with preparation.
The Royal, at Middleton, was a largish playhouse. It seated a thousand, had a full stage and a conservative but adequate system of lighting and of overhead galleries, grid, and ropes. Ted Gascoigne, who was used to the West End, sniffed a little at the old-fashioned lighting. They had brought a special switchboard and the electrician morosely instructed employees of the local power-board in its mysteries.
At ten o’clock Carolyn and her company were all asleep or breakfasting in their hotels. Carolyn, Valerie Gaynes, Liversidge, Mason and Hambledon stayed at the Middleton, the most expensive of these drear establishments. For the rest of the company, the splendour of their lodgings was in exact ratio to the amount of their salaries, from Courtney Broadhead at The Commercial down to Tommy Biggs, the least of the staff, at ‘Mrs Harbottle, Good Beds’.
George Mason, the manager, had not gone to bed. He had shaved, bathed, and changed his clothes, and by ten o’clock, uneasy with chronic dyspepsia, sat in the office at The Royal talking to the ‘advance’, a representative of the Australian firm under whose auspices the company was on tour.
‘It’s going to be big, Mr Mason,’ said the advance. ‘We’re booked out downstairs, and only fifty seats left in the circle. There’s a queue for early-door tickets. I’m very pleased.’
‘Good enough,’ said Mason. ‘Now listen.’
They talked. The telephone rang incessantly. Box-office officials came in, the local manager of the theatre, three slightly self-conscious reporters, and finally Mr Alfred Meyer, carrying a cushion. This he placed on the swivel chair, and then cautiously lowered himself on to it.
‘Well, Alf,’ said Mason.
‘’Morning, George,’ said Mr Meyer.
Mason introduced the Australian advance, who instantly seized Mr Meyer’s hand in a grip of iron and shook it with enthusiasm.
‘I’m very glad to meet you, Mr Meyer.’
‘How do you do?’ said Mr Meyer. ‘Good news for us, I hope?’
The reporters made tentative hovering movements.
‘These gentlemen are from the Press,’ said Mason. ‘They’d like to have a little chat with you, Alf.’
Mr Meyer rolled his eyes round and became professionally cordial.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he said, ‘certainly. Come over here, gentlemen, will you?’
The advance hurriedly placed three chairs in a semi-circle close to Meyer, and joined Mason, who had withdrawn tactfully to the far end of the room.
The reporters cleared their throats and handled pads and pencils.
‘Well now, what about it?’ asked Mr Meyer helpfully.
‘Er,’ said the oldest of the reporters, ‘just a few points that would interest our readers, Mr Meyer.’
He spoke in a soft gruff voice with a slight accent.
