Free Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh

very much suspect, is the piece of cord. Neatly rolled round the cleat. Clever fellow, this. Keeps his head. What? Shall we move on?”
    “I’ll collect that cord on the way back,” grunted Wade. “On you go, sir. After you.”
    “There are any number of footprints in these damn’ slats. The stage hands have been all over the place, of course.”
    “Not much chance of anything there,” agreed Wade, “but we’ll have to see. If you’re right, sir, the suspect’s prints will be on top.”
    “So they will. Here’s the back wall. Another ladder here, you notice. I daren’t look down, I’m terrified of heights. Round we go. This, no doubt, is where he crouched with blazing eyes and bared molars while I climbed the ladder. Dramatic, ain’t it? Also remarkably grubby. Bang goes the old boiled shirt. Hullo! Another ladder going down to the back of the stage. That’ll be the one he used, I should think. Turn the corner gently. Now we’re on the last lap.”
    “And there’s the pulley again.”
    They had worked round to the O.P. gallery and were close by the pulley which hung within easy reach from its batten.
    “Yes,” said Alleyn, “and there hangs the counterweight on the hook. I understand the weight is one of the sort that is used in the second act, to lead the ship’s funnel down to the right spot. They’ve got several of them. Look. There is the funnel with the weight on it, just above our heads. And here, along the side, are several spare weights. Different sizes. You’ll notice that the ring at the top of the hook would serve as a chock and prevent the rope whizzing through the pulley when the weight was removed. The weight hung exactly half-way, so there would be no slack rope on the table.”
    “And you say there was no weight on this rope when you looked up here before?”
    “There was no weight. The rope with the cut end of red cord simply hung in the pulley.
    He flashed his light on the beam. “You’ll notice the whole thing is within arm’s length of the gallery. The table was placed well over to the side for that reason.”
    “Well, I’ll test the batten for prints,” said Wade, “but it’s a bit hopeless. Anyway he’d use gloves. Don’t you reckon it’s a mistake, sir, the way they’ve advertised the finger-print system? Any fool-crook knows better than to forget his gloves, these days.”
    “There are times,” said Alleyn, “when I could wish the penny Press-lords in the nethermost hell. Yet they have their uses, they have their uses. Nay, I can gleek on occasion.” Sensing Wade’s bewilderment he added hurriedly: “You’re right, Inspector, but of course they have to come out in evidence. Prints, I mean. I grow confused. It must be the smell of fizz.”
    “It was certainly a high-class way of murdering anybody,” said Wade dryly. “Dong him one with a gallon of champagne. Good-oh!”
    “I doubt if I shall enjoy even the soundest vintage years for some time to come,” said Alleyn. “The whole place reeks of it. You can even smell it up here. Great hopping fleas!”
    “What’s wrong, sir!”
    Alleyn was staring from the counterweight on the rope to those on the platform.
    “My dear Wade, we have come within an ace of making the most frightful fools of ourselves. Look at that weight.”
    “I am,” said Wade.
    “Well, my dear chap, what’s keeping it there?”
    “The weight of the— Cripey, sir, the cork blew out and half the champagne with it. That weight ought to be on the stage. It ought to be heavier than the half-empty bottle.”
    “Exactly. Therefore it is
very much
lighter than the full bottle. Therefore it is not the weight they rehearsed with. And what’s more, the original weight must have hung hard by the lower gallery, half-way down to the stage, within easy reach. He didn’t come up here for the first visit He did his stuff from the lower gallery.”
    “You’re right, sir. And if you hadn’t come up the first time, it would have looked more