Foreword

WHEN I SHOWED this manuscript to my friend, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, of the Criminal Investigation Department, he said:

"It's a perfectly good account of the Unicorn case, but isn't it usual in detective stories to conceal the identity of the criminal?"

I looked at him coldly.

"Hopelessly vieux jeu, my dear Alleyn. Nowadays the identity of the criminal is always revealed in the early chapters."

"In that case," he said, "I congratulate you."

I was not altogether delighted.

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue to a Play

ON MAY 25TH Arthur Surbonadier, whose real name was Arthur Simes, went to visit his uncle, Jacob Saint, whose real name was Jacob Simes. Jacob was an actor before he went into management and had chosen Saint as his stage name, and stuck to it for the rest of his life. He made bad jokes about it—"I'm no Saint"—and wouldn't allow his nephew to adopt it when he in turn took to the boards. "Only one Saint in the profession," he roared out. "Call yourself what you like, Arthur, but keep off my grass. I'll start you off at the Unicorn and I'll leave you the cash—or most of it. If you're a bad actor you won't get the parts—that's business."

As Arthur Surbonadier ("Surbonadier" had been suggested by Stephanie Vaughan) walked after the footman towards his uncle's library, he remembered this conversation. He was not a bad actor. He was an adequate actor. He was, he told himself, a damn' good actor. He tried to stiffen himself for the encounter. A damn' good actor with personality. He would dominate Jacob Saint. He would, if necessary, use that final weapon—the weapon that Saint knew nothing about. The footman opened the library door.

"Mr. Surbonadier, sir."

Arthur Surbonadier walked in.

Jacob Saint was sitting at his ultra-modern desk in his ultra-modern chair. A cubistic lamp lit up the tight rolls of fat at the back of his neck. His grey and white check jacket revealed the muscles of his back. His face was turned away from Surbonadier. Wreaths of cigar smoke rose above his pink head. The room smelt of cigar smoke and the scent he used—it was specially made for him, that scent, and none of his ladies—not even Janet Emerald—had ever been given a flask of it.

"Sit down, Arthur," he rumbled. "Have a cigar; I'll talk to you in a moment."

Arthur Surbonadier sat down, refused the cigar, lit a cigarette, and fidgeted. Jacob Saint wrote, grunted, thumped a blotter and swung round in his steel chair.

He was like a cartoon of a theatre magnate. He was as if he played his own character, with his enormous red dewlaps, his coarse voice, his light blue eyes and his thick lips.

"What d'yer want, Arthur?" he said and waited.

"How are you, Uncle Jacob? Rheumatism better?"

"It isn't rheumatism, it's gout, and it's bloody. What d'yer want?"