Free Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh

Bill also, it appeared. At this juncture one of the underlings remarked, unexpectedly and dramatically:
    “ ’E ’ated ’im.”
    “Who hated who?”
    “Ole Bill ’e ’ated Mr. Sirbonbadier. For why? Because Mr. Sirbonbadier ’e was a-mucking arahnd Trixie.”
    “Er—” said Mr. Willings uneasily.
    Fox pricked up his ears. “And how did Props like— er — the deceased — paying attention to his girl?
    “ ’E ’ated ’im, too.”
    “Did he now,” said Fox.
    There was a short silence. Mr. Willings looked at his boots, stood uncertainly on one leg, grinned, and ran out of information. He and his myrmidons were told they might go home, having first left their names and addresses. They departed. Fox almost rubbed his hands together.
    “There you are!” he exclaimed. “Deceased was interfering with his girl. He’s just the type to go off the deep end. I think before we go any further I’d better let the big noise know about this.”
    They returned to the wings. Neither Alleyn or Props were to be seen.
    “Well now,” remarked Inspector Fox. “Where’s he gone popping off to, I wonder?”
    “Here I am,” said Alleyn’s voice. Nigel and Fox started slightly and walked round the prompt wing.
    Alleyn and Bailey were on their knees by the prompt box. Bailey was busy with an insufflator and the chief inspector seemed to be peering at the floor through a magnifying glass. Beside him, opened, was the bag they had brought him from the Yard. Nigel looked into it and saw a neat collection of objects, among which he distinguished magnifying glasses, tape, scissors, soap, a towel, an electric torch, rubber gloves, sealing wax, and a pair of handcuffs.
    “What are you doing?” asked Nigel.
    “Being a detective. Can’t you see?”
    “What are you looking for?”
    “Little signs of footprints, little grains of sand. Fox, my valued old one, my little brush is not in my case. Wing your way to Miss Vaughan’s dressing-room and get the foot of my grandmother’s hare which you will find on the dressing-table. Fetch me that foot and be thou here again ‘ere the Leviathan can swim a league’.”
    Inspector Fox cast his eyes towards heaven and did as he was bid, returning with a roughed hare’s foot.
    “Thank you. Any luck with the hirelings?”
    “Quite a bit,” said Fox. “Surbonadier had been fooling round with the property man’s girl, and she’s Miss Vaughan’s dresser, and her old man’s Mr. Gardener’s dresser.”
    “Oh, that”
    “What do you mean, ‘Oh that’?” asked Fox.
    “I knew all that.”
    “How?”
    “Props told me. Carry on with the rest of ’em except Miss Vaughan, and Mr. Gardener. See them one by one. Find out where they all were during the black-out.”
    “Very good, sir,” said Fox formally.
    “And don’t be cross with me, my Foxkin. You’re doing well — excellent well, i’faith.”
    “Is that Shakespeare?”
    “What if it is? Away you go.”
    “May I stay?” asked Nigel, as Fox went off.
    “Do!” Alleyn took a small bottle and a rag from his bag and thoroughly cleaned the hare’s foot. He then began to use it as a tiny broom, sweeping up what appeared to be dust from the floor, into a little phial out of the bag. “What have you found, Bailey?” he asked.
    “Prints from Prop’s rubber shoes, and Simpson’s evening ones. Nobody else has stood right inside the prompt box.”
    “Well, I’ve got enough sand to be conclusive, if it tallies with what’s in the blanks, and I think it will. Gosh, it’s getting late!”
    “Why the sand?” asked Nigel.
    “Think. Think. Think, ”
    “Oh, I see. If it’s sand out of the cartridge case, it means Props did bring the dummies to Simpson and they must have been changed during the black-out.”
    “Stop laughing,” said Alleyn to an imaginary audience. “The child’s quite right. Now Bailey, will you get what you can in the way of prints from the revolver and the desk. Oh, lummie, what a muddle it all is!