Alleyn stubbed his cigarette on the floor.

"I think he had a rendezvous," he said. "With a murderer."

Fox looked scandalised and perturbed.

"Or murderess as the case may be," added Alleyn.

"Cuh!" said one of the plain clothes men under his breath.

"But," said Fox, "they're all under surveillance."

"I know. Thompson's man gave him the slip. There may be another of our wonderful police who's lost his sheep and doesn't know where to find it. Not a comfortable thought, but it arises. What's the time?"

"Eleven-twenty, sir."

"What the devil is that whispering noise?" asked Alleyn restively. He peered up into the flies; a ceiling-cloth was stretched across under the lowest gallery and the grids were hidden.

"I noticed something of the sort the night of the murder," said Fox. "There must be a draught up there making the canvas swing a bit."

Apparently Alleyn did not hear him. He walked across to the ladder by which Props had descended. He stood there, very still, for a moment. When he spoke his voice sounded oddly.

"I think," he said, "we will begin with the grid."

The two men returned from the front of the house. Alleyn walked over to the proscenium door, which was locked. The key hung on a nail beside it. He opened the door. It emitted a loud shriek.

"So much for Bathgate's theory," murmured Alleyn.

The men came through.

"Wait here," said Alleyn. "I'm going into the grid."

"Not on your own, sir," chided Fox. "That chap may be sitting there ready to dong you one."

"I think not. Follow me up if you like."

He climbed the iron ladder that ran flat up the wall. Slowly the shadow of the ceiling-cloth enfolded him. Fox followed.

The other four men stood with their faces tipped back, watching. Alleyn's stocking feet disappeared above the ceiling-cloth. The ladder vibrated slightly.

"Wait a moment, Fox."

Alleyn's voice sounded eerily above their heads. Fox paused.

Alleyn's dulled footsteps thumped on the gallery overhead. The cloth quivered and sagged. He had unloosed the ropes that fastened it. Presently, with a sort of swishing sigh, the border fell away and the whole thing collapsed in a cloud of dust on to the tops of the wings.

When the dust had settled, the men who looked upwards saw the soles of a pair of rubber shoes. The shoes turned slowly to the right, stopped, turned slowly to the left. The canvas having been taken away they no longer fretted it with a sibilant whisper, but every time they swung, the rope round Props's neck creaked on the wooden cleat above.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

This Ineffable Effrontery

INSPECTOR FOX was accustomed to what he termed unpleasantness, but for a moment he nearly lost his grip on the iron ladder.

"Props," he said slowly. "So Props was the man, after all."

"Come up here," said Alleyn.