“It widens out as soon as you’re round the corner,” said Alleyn.

“It’d need to,” said Cass.

Wade looked at his watch.

“It’s time,” he said to Alleyn.

“Ah, yes,” said Alleyn.

They all stood listening. From the street outside came the irregular sound of mid-morning traffic, the whining clamour of trams, the roar of cars in low gear, punctured by intermittent horn notes, and behind it all the patter of feet on asphalt. One pair of feet seemed to separate and come closer.

Someone had turned into the yard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dr. Te Pokiha Plays to Type.
Warn Curtain

BUT IT WAS only Mr. St. John Ackroyd. Cass, who had moved into the yard, stopped him. The others could see him through the half open door. Beside the gigantic Cass, Ackroyd looked a pygmy of a man. He stood there in his rather loud check overcoat and jaunty hat, staring cockily up at Cass.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Cass, “but were you wanting to go into the theatre?”

“Yes, I was. I want to get to my wardrobe. Haven’t a clean shirt to my back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in this morning, sir.”

“Oh, God! Why the devil not? Look here, you can come in with me and see I don’t muck up the half-chewed cigar at the point marked X. Come on now, old boy, be a sport.”

“Very sorry, sir. I’m under orders and it can’t be done.”

“Yes, but look, old boy. Here—”

Mr. Ackroyd appeared to make an attempt to place his tiny hand confidingly in Cass’s. Cass stepped back a pace.

“No, no, sir. We don’t do things that way. Quite out of the question, thank you all the same.”

“Oh, blast! Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? Buy new shirts?”

“If you’ll wait a little, sir, I’ll inquire—”

“Here, Cass!” called Wade.

“Sir?”

“Just a minute. Come in, Mr. Ackroyd, come in.”

The comic face was thrust round the door and distorted into a diverting grimace.

“Hullo, hullo! All the stars in one piece, including the Great Noise from the Yard. Any room for a little one?”

He came in, followed by Cass, and perched on the edge of Alfred Meyer’s desk, cocking his hat jauntily over his left eye.

“Well. How’s things?” he inquired.

“I’m glad you looked in, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade. “There’s just one little matter I wanted to see you about.”

“Is there, by gum! Well, there’s another little matter I’d like to see you about. I want to get at my wardrobe.”

“In the statement you gave us on the night of the fatality,” continued Wade in a monotonous chant, “you said that you went from the dressing-rooms to the party.”

“That’s right.”

“Remaining on the stage until after the fatality?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?” demanded Ackroyd.