Vintage Murder by Ngaio Marsh

nothing.” And at that moment Packer opened the door and said:
    “Inspector Wade would like to speak to Mrs. Meyer, please.”
    “I’m coming,” said Carolyn. Her long graceful stride took her quickly to the door. Hambledon got there before her.
    “May I take Miss Dacres to the office?” he asked. “I’ll come straight back.”
    “Well, sir—” said Packer uncomfortably. He looked for a fraction of a second at Alleyn, who gave him the ghost of a nod.
    “I’ll just inquire,” said Packer. He went outside and closed the door. They could hear him talking to Sergeant Cass. He returned in a moment.
    “If you would care to go along with Sergeant Cass and Mrs. Mey — beg pardon — Miss Dacres, sir, that’ll be all right. Sergeant Cass will come back with you.”
    Alleyn strolled over to the door.
    “I really cannot understand, officer,” he said, “why I should be kept hanging about here. I’ve nothing whatever to do with this miserable business.” He added swiftly, under his breath: “Keep Mr. Hambledon talking outside the door if he returns.” And to Hambledon: “Stay outside if you can.”
    Hambledon stared, but Packer said loudly:
    “Now that’ll be quite enough from you, Mr. Alleyn. We’re only doing our duty, as you ought to realise. You go back to your chair, if you please, sir. Everything will be quite all right.”
    “Oh, excellent Packer!” thought Alleyn and returned churlishly to his upturned case.
    Carolyn and Hambledon went out with Packer, who shut the door.
    At once the others seemed to relax. There was a slight movement from all of them. Courtney Broadhead said.
    “I simply can’t take it in. It’s so horrible. So horrible.”
    “That’s how
you
feel about it, is it?” said Liversidge.
    “I should think that’s how everybody feels about it,” said old Susan Max. “It’s been a terrible experience. I shan’t forget it in a hurry.”
    “He looked so awful.” Valerie Gaynes’s voice rose hysterically. “I’ll see it all my life. I’ll be haunted by it. His head — all that mess!”
    “My God!” choked George Mason suddenly, “I’ve got to get out of this. I’m going to be sick. Here — let me out.”
    He rushed to the door, his handkerchief clapped to his mouth, and his eyes rolling lamentably. “Let me out!”
    Packer opened the door, cast one glance at Mason’s face, and let him through. Unpleasant noises were followed by the bang of a door.
    “He’s been slowly turning green ever since we came in here,” said Ackroyd. “Damned unpleasant sight, it was. Why the devil does
he
have to turn queasy.”
    “It’s his stomach, dear,” said Susan. “George suffers from dyspepsia, Mr. Alleyn. Martyr to it.”
    “You had to finish him off, Val,” Brandon Vernon pointed out, “by talking about the mess. Why did you have to bring that up?”
    “Don’t talk about bringing things up, for God’s sake,” complained Liversidge.
    “You look as if you were going on for Hamlet senior yourself, Frankie,” sneered Ackroyd.
    “Oh, shut up,” said Liversidge violently.
    “Well, nobody could feel iller than I do. I feel terrible,” said Valerie. “Do you know that? I feel terrible.”
    Nobody paid the slightest attention.
    “What’ll happen to the Firm?” asked Ackroyd of no one in particular. They all stirred uneasily. Gascoigne paused in his dissertation on counterweights and swung round.
    “The Firm?” he said. “The Firm will go on.”
    “Do you mean Incorporated Playhouses?” asked Gordon Palmer eagerly.
    “No,” snapped Ackroyd rudely, “he means Wirth’s Circus.”
    “We always call Incorporated Playhouses ‘the Firm,’ ” explained Susan good-naturedly.
    “The great firm of Inky-R,” rumbled old Vernon.
    “It was founded and built up by Mr. Meyer, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn. “He was actually the only begetter?”
    “He and George Mason,” said Gascoigne. “They made it together. George was a damn’ good actor in his day —