Free Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh Page A

Let’s have a look at the cartridges in the revolver.”
    The revolver, held delicately by the extreme end of the barrel, was laid on a table. Bailey, using the insufflator, tested it for fingerprints and, referring to those he had already got, disclosed sufficiently clear evidence of Gardener, Surbonadier, and the dresser having handled it. They broke it open and Bailey turned his attention to the butt ends of the shells; The revolver was a Smith and Wesson and the cartridges ordinary.455. The ends yielded no prints, except Surbonadier’s, neither did any other part of the cartridges nor the empty shell.
    “Blast!” said Bailey.
    “Couldn’t expect anything else,” said Alleyn philosophically. “Hullo — what’s this?”
    He picked up one cartridge and held it under a stage lamp. Nigel followed him hopefully. He took out his magnifying glass and looked through it at the shell. He did this with all the other cartridges.
    “What is it?” asked Nigel.
    Alleyn handed him the glass and he in turn examined the cartridges.
    Alleyn waited.
    “There’s — there’s a kind of whitish look,” ventured Nigel, “on all of them. It’s very faint on most, but here’s one where it looks clearer. It looks almost like paint.”
    “Smell it”
    “I can smell nothing but brass.”
    “Put your cigarette out. Blow your nose. Now smell.”
    “There
is
something else. It reminds me of something. What is it?”
    “It looks like one person. It smells like another.”
    “What on earth do you mean?”
    “It looks like cosmetic and it smells like Jacob Saint.”

CHAPTER VIII
Felix Gardener
    “What’s the time?” said Alleyn, yawning.
    “Nearly two o’clock and a dirty night.”
    “Oh, horror! I loathe late hours.”
    “Two’s not late.”
    “Not for a journalist, perhaps. Hullo, here come the mummers.”
    Voices and footsteps sounded in the passage and presently a little procession appeared. Miss Dulcie Deamer, Mr. Howard Melville, Mr. J. Barclay Crammer, Inspector Fox. Miss Dulcie Deamer had her street make-up on — that is to say she had aimed a blow at her cheeks with the rouge puff, and had painted a pair of lips somewhere underneath her nose. She still contrived to be
jeune fille
. J. Barclay Crammer’s face showed signs of No. 5 grease paint lingering round the eyebrows and a hint of rather pathetic grey stubble on the chin. He wore a plaid muffler, with one end tossed over his shoulder, and he looked profoundly disgusted. Mr. Melville was pale and anxious.
    “Dulcie, how are you going home?” he asked querulously.
    “Oh, my God, in a taxi!” she answered drearily.
    “I live at Hampstead,” Mr. Crammer intoned.
    “We are very sorry about all this,” said Alleyn, “and will, of course, make ourselves responsible for getting all of you home. The constable at the door will fix it up. Fox, just look after them, will you? Good night.”
    “
Good
night, everybody,
good
night,” mimicked Mr. Crammer bitterly. Miss Deamer glanced timidly and confidingly at Alleyn, who bowed formally. Mr. Melville said: “Oh — ah — good night.” Alleyn glanced at him and seemed to get an idea.
    “Half a minute, Mr. Melville,” he said.
    Mr. Melville instantly became green in the face.
    “I’ll only keep you a few moments,” explained the inspector, “but we’ll let the others go on, I think. Just wait for me in the wardrobe-room, will you?”
    The others turned alarmed glances on Mr. Melville, who looked rather piteously after them and then returned to the wardrobe-room. They filed out towards the stage door.
    “Fox,” said Alleyn, “have they been searched?”
    “The men have thoroughly. I–I kind of patted the lady. She’s wearing hardly anything.”
    “Is there room for a glove there, do you think?”
    “Oh — a glove. That’s different.”
    “I know it is, and I’ve let two of ’em out without a complete search, benighted dolt that I am. Still, old Miss Max is really out of the picture, and there