by Ngaio Marsh
"That's a very fair answer. Let me know at my flat this evening, will you? Now I must ask you both to go."
Nigel followed Fox into the passage. At the door he turned and looked back.
"Well—good-bye for the present," he muttered.
"Good-bye, you old sausage," said Inspector Alleyn.
Fox told the constable at the entrance to the flat to go off. Then he turned to the still discomfited Nigel.
"I dare say you think the Chief's been a bit hard, sir," he ventured, "but you don't want to look at it that way. It's a matter of what you might call professional etiquette. The Chief liked you, you see, and he's so—so blasted honest, if you'll excuse me. His job has to come before anything. Don't you worry about Mr. Gardener. He's been the cat's-paw, and nothing else, and if he starts holding back information he's very foolish."
"I don't think he has done anything of the sort," complained Nigel.
"Well, all the better. If you decide to help us, Mr. Bathgate, I'm sure you won't regret it and I'm sure Chief Inspector Alleyn will be very pleased."
Nigel looked at his large, comfortable face and suddenly liked him very much.
"It's nice of you to bother, inspector," he said. "I was a bit disgruntled. He made me feel such an ass and—and I do admire him so very much."
"You're not alone in that, sir. Well, I must be off. Going my way, sir?"
"I'm for Chester Terrace."
"And I'm for the Yard. No rest for the wicked. Good night, sir."
"Good night, inspector."
Nigel's flat in Chester Terrace was a short walk from Gerald's Row. He strode along quickly, still rather miserable over his lecture from Alleyn. He had only gone a couple of hundred yards when a taxi passed him, moving slowly along the kerb as though cruising for a passenger. Nigel automatically shook his head, and then saw that the man had a fare—a woman. As the cab passed him a streamer of light from the street lamp caught her face. It was Stephanie Vaughan. She gave no hint of recognition, and in a moment had passed him. He turned and stared after the taxi. She must have misunderstood, he thought, and is going now to the flat. However, the man drove slowly down the little street, past Surbonadier's windows, and then turned off to the left and disappeared.
"Rum!" thought Nigel and walked on thoughtfully. "Very rum!" he said aloud.
Back in his own flat he turned on the light and, after further cogitation, decided to try and put himself in a better mood by writing to Angela North, who does not come into this story. She was an ardent admirer of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and would know just how raw Nigel felt. Would she suggest he kept in the game? Would she tell him his scruples about "pumping" Gardener were ridiculous? He couldn't ask her without breaking confidence. Damn it all, what was he going to do? Perhaps he'd better go to the Queen's in Cliveden Place and have an evening meal. He wasn't hungry. Alleyn was fed up with him and had made him feel young, and a prig. He knew, Good Lord, that Felix hadn't murdered Arthur Surbonadier. Why shouldn't he ask him if——
The telephone pealed shrilly. Nigel muttered and grumbled and took off the receiver.
Gardener's voice came urgently.
"Is that you, Nigel? Look here, I want to see you. There's something I didn't tell you, about Cambridge, this morning. I was a fool. Could I see you now?"
"Yes," said Nigel. "Yes."
"Will you come here or would you rather I came to you? How about dining here with me? Will you?"
"Yes," said Nigel. "Thank you, Felix."
"Well, don't change—come along now."
"Yes," said Nigel. "Thank you, Felix."
They rang off. He could have shouted with joy. His problem was solved. He rushed to the bathroom and washed, lavishly. He changed his shirt and brushed his hair. Seized with a desire to acquire a little merit in Alleyn's eyes, he rang up Surbonadier's flat. He could hear the telephone ringing there and waited for some time, but nobody answered it. Alleyn had gone, after all. He would ring up again later. He seized his hat and ran downstairs. He hailed a taxi, gave Gardener's address, and flung himself back. Only then did it occur to him that it was very clever of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to have guessed that Gardener would be able to tell them something more about the peculiar behaviour of Arthur Surbonadier, during the days when he was an undergraduate. Gradually he was conscious of an idea that edged in at the back of his mind, an idea that was still only half sensed. He examined it now more closely, letting it come up to the front of his consciousness. For a moment he shied round it nervously, but it was insistent, and presently he fell to reasoning it out with logical persistence. Then a great light dawned on Nigel.
"That's it," he whispered. "That's it. Gosh, what a blind fool I've been." And then with complete understanding he thought: "Poor old Felix!"
Meanwhile in Surbonadier's flat it had grown very dark.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gardener Looks Backwards
"IF YOU DON'T MIND, Nigel," said Gardener, "I'm going to get this off my chest, right away. It'll clear the air. There's a drink. Sit down." He looked less jumpy and nightmare ridden, thought Nigel, and had the air of a man who has come to a decision and is glad of it.
"It's this," he began. "When you came this morning, I was properly under the weather. Hadn't slept a wink and the—the awfulness of having killed Arthur Surbonadier had given place to the terror of being suspected by your friend, Alleyn. You simply can't imagine what that sort of fear is like. Perhaps, if a man's guilty, he is less panic-stricken than I was. It seemed to me I couldn't prove I was not guilty, and that, in spite of everything you said, I was the man they really suspected."
"You were quite wrong."
"I hope so. Then, I was sure I was right. Well, I couldn't think of anything coherently, but when you started asking me about the libel case and if I knew Surbonadier at Cambridge I thought: 'He's been sent to ask that. Alleyn thinks I'll be off my guard with Nigel.' I can't tell you how awful I felt. No—let me go on. So I half lied. I said I didn't know Arthur well in those days. It wasn't true—I did know him pretty well for a short time—before I realised quite how unpleasant he was. I was younger than he, and perhaps even more of an ass than most youths. I thought it thrillingly daring and sort of 'draining life to the dregs' kind of thing, when he asked me to a heroin party."
"Good Lord!" apostrophised Nigel.
"Yes. I only went once and it was quite beastly. I didn't take nearly as much as the others, and it didn't have a great effect. I probably offered more resistance. Next morning I felt I'd made a fool of myself, and I thought I'd make a clean break. So I called on Surbonadier to tell him so. I wanted to put it straight. He was still pretty dopey, and inclined to be maudlin. He began to confide in me. He told me things about his uncle and—and he talked about Stephanie Vaughan." Gardener stopped speaking, hesitated, and then said:
"I'd seen her. She'd come up for a production of Othello. If I said I loved her from then onwards, I suppose you'd think it very highfalutin. It's true, though. And when Surbonadier began to tell me how friendly they were, I hated him. Then he said his uncle was going to give her leading parts and he began to tell me how he hated his uncle, and what a lot he knew about him. He told me how Saint was mixed up in the drug trade. He told me about his mistresses. Stephanie seemed so innocent, and when I thought of her in that galère it had a terrible effect on me. I was dreadfully young. Saint seemed like the embodiment of all evil. It was nightmarish. I don't understand psychology, and I expect the heroin had something to do with it. We were neither of us normal. Anyway, when Surbonadier told me, in a dopey sort of way, that he could, if he chose, deal his uncle a pretty shrewd blow, I encouraged him feverishly. He said that Saint was refusing to pay his bills, but that he knew too much and could make him. He then suggested writing that article, and I urged him to do it and egged him on. Then I suddenly remembered what I'd come for, and tried to tell him I wouldn't go to any more of his parties. He didn't seem to pay much attention. He was engrossed with the idea
of the article. I left him and, from that time on, I had nothing to do with him. When the article came out I guessed who had done it, and once, when we met, he tried to pump me, I told him, shortly enough, that he'd nothing to fear from me and, until tonight, I've never spoken of it."
"What made you decide to tell me?" Nigel asked.
Gardener did not answer immediately. Then he said slowly: "I thought the police would start ferreting round in Surbonadier's past, and would find out I had known him."
"That's not it," said Nigel compassionately. "You thought they were—on another trail altogether. I'm right, aren't I? You realised that unless they knew Surbonadier had been blackmailing Saint, they might suspect someone else altogether. Isn't that it?"
"Then they are——?"
"I don't think so. Anyhow, this will clinch it. Surely she doesn't think you are guilty?"
"Each of us was afraid——And then this morning when she came in——My God, they couldn't suspect her."
"You needn't worry about that now, and as for you——"
"Yes—as for me?" Gardener looked at him. "Nigel," he said. "Do you mind telling me this? Do you in your heart of hearts hide a sort of doubt about me? Do you?"
"No. On my word of honour."
"Then, on my word of honour, I'm not guilty of Surbonadier's death and neither is she. There's something I can't tell you, but—we're not guilty."
"I believe you, old thing."
"I feel better," said Felix Gardener. "Let's dine."
The dinner was an excellent one, and the wine extremely good. They talked about many things, sometimes harking back to the case, but now with less sense of restraint. Once Gardener said suddenly:
"It's pretty gruesome to think of the immediate future of—of the Simes family."
"Then don't think of it. What's happening at the Unicorn?"
"You mean about production? Would you believe it, he actually thought of going on with The Rat and the Beaver."
"What!"
"Yes, he did. As soon as the police were out of it. Of course I refused to carry on, and so did Stephanie. The others didn't like it, but didn't actually refuse. Then he began to wonder if after all it would be a big attraction—with other people playing the leads. The papers might comment unfavourably. So a new piece goes into rehearsal next week."
"What'll you do?"
"Oh, I'll wait. There are other managements." He grimaced wryly. "They tell me I'm a sort of popular figure, and it's helped my publicity. Maudlin sympathy coupled with morbid curiosity, I suppose. Come into the studio room."
They sat down in front of the fire. The front door bell of the flat rang, and Gardener's servant came through with a letter.
"This has just come by special messenger, sir," he said. "There's no answer."
Gardener slit the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper. Nigel lit a cigarette and wandered round the room. He had paused in front of a photograph of Gardener's brother when he was recalled by an exclamation from his host.
"For Heaven's sake," murmured Gardener, "what's all this in aid of?"
He held out the sheet of paper.
It contained a solitary typewritten paragraph, which Nigel read with bewilderment:
"If your job and your life are any use to you, mind your business or you'll lose both. Forget what's past, or you will get worse than a sore foot."
Nigel and Gardener stared at one another in utter bewilderment.
"Coo lumme!" said Nigel at last.
"Not 'alf," agreed Gardener with emphasis.
"Have you got a sore foot?" Nigel inquired.
"Yes, I have. I told you somebody trod on it."
"Somebody who smelt like Jacob Saint?"
"I only thought so. I wasn't sure."
"Look here," said Nigel, "this is no joke. Alleyn ought to know about it."
"Oh, help."
"Well, he ought to, anyway. I'll ring him up, if I may."
"Where will you find him?"
Nigel paused and considered. Possibly Alleyn might not want him to disclose his whereabouts. Nigel did not even know if he would still be at Surbonadier's flat. He looked up the number in the directory and dialled it.
"He may not be at home," he said deceitfully. Again, he could hear the bell pealing in the flat in Gerald's Row. Again there was no answer. He felt vaguely uneasy.
"Nobody there?" said Gardener.
"I could try the Yard," mumbled Nigel. "But I'll leave it for the moment. Let's have another squint at that paper."
He and Gardener spent the next hour in speculation on the authorship of the letter. Gardener said he didn't think Saint would do it. Nigel said if he was rattled, there was no knowing what he would do.
"If he's a murderer——" he began.
"I'm not sure that he is. Another view is that he's scared I may know something of what Surbonadier found out about him, and thinks I may do exactly what I have done—come clean."
"Did he know you were friendly with Surbonadier?"
"Yes, Arthur introduced us in those days. Afterwards, when I took to the boards, he saw me in the first decent part I played, and remembered me. That's partly how I got my first shop under his management. Not nice to think of now. Arthur resented it very much. He used to tell people I'd got in on his family ticket. God, what a dirty game it is! Do you remember what I said about actors?"
"I do."
"Look at the way they behaved last night, with Surbonadier lying dead on the stage. All of them acting their socks off—except Stephanie."
Nigel looked at him curiously. He seemed to hear Alleyn's sardonic "Lovely exit, wasn't it?" after Miss Vaughan had left the stage. He remembered the curiously seductive note she struck afterwards, in her interview with the inspector. Even he, Alleyn, had stood longer than was necessary with his hand on her bruised shoulder. Nigel thought virtuously of his Angela and felt a little superior.
"I wonder what she's doing?" Gardener said presently. "I wanted to go and see her to-night, but she said she'd ring up."
"What's she so frightened about?" Nigel blurted out. Gardener's face whitened. The look that had been there that morning returned.
"Of course she's frightened," he said at last. "She thinks Alleyn realised Surbonadier was pestering her and threatening her. It wasn't hard last night to see how the land lay. She always made nothing of it to me. Until this morning I didn't realise myself what he was up to. This morning she showed me her shoulder, and told me that after I left her he struck her—the swine! My God, if I'd known that!"
"It's damn' lucky for you that you didn't," said Nigel. "And he's dead now, Felix."
"She told me Alleyn had seen the bruise. She thought Alleyn suspected her. She's terribly highly strung and the shock has been almost overwhelming."
"And you were afraid for her, too?"
"Yes—after this morning. Until then, selfish imbecile that I was, I thought only of myself. That they should even think of her! It's monstrous."
"Well, don't worry. I haven't heard one of them ever hint it. I tell you they are off on different tacks. I'd be breaking confidence if I said more than that. And now, if you don't mind, Felix, I'll be off. It was a devilish late night last night and you look as if you wanted sleep too. Take a couple of aspirins and a peg and leave off worrying. Good night."
"Good night, Nigel. We've never known each other particularly well, but I hope we may from now on. I'm rather grateful to you."
"Bosh. Good night."
It was half-past ten when Nigel got back to Chester Terrace, and he was, he discovered, dead tired. He had, however, a story to write for to-morrow, and he didn't want to leave it till the morning.
Very wearily he sat down to his typewriter and ran in a sheet of paper. He thought for a moment and then began to tap at the keys:
"THE UNICORN MURDER.
"Fresh Developments
Saint Libel Case Recalled."
As he worked his thoughts kept turning to Alleyn. The inspector ought to know about Felix
. At last he reached out his hand and took up the telephone. Surely by this time Alleyn would be home. He dialled the number of his flat, rested his head on his hand and waited.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Achilles' Heel
AFTER NIGEL and Inspector Fox had gone out of the room, and the door was shut, Inspector Alleyn stood very still and listened to their footsteps dying away down the passage. He heard Fox speak to the constable at the entrance door, and a little later their voices floated up from the footpath beneath.
If an onlooker had been there, he might perhaps have supposed Alleyn's thoughts were unpleasant ones. The inspector had the type of face that is sometimes described as "winged." The corners of his mouth made two deep depressions such as a painter will render with a crisp upward stroke of the brush. His nostrils, too, slanted up, and so did the outside corners of his very dark eyebrows. It was an attractive and fastidious face and, when nobody watched him, a very expressive one. At the moment it suggested extreme distaste. One might have guessed that he had just done something that was repugnant to him, or that he was about to undertake a task which displeased him.
Alleyn looked at his watch, sighed, turned out the lights, and went to the window, where he was careful to stand behind the curtains. From here he could watch, unseen, the desultory traffic of Gerald's Row. Perhaps only two minutes had passed since Nigel and Fox had gone. A solitary taxi came very slowly down the little street. It loitered past the flat. He had an aeroplane view of it, but he fancied that the occupant's face was in an unusual and uncomfortable position, below the window, for all the world as though its owner were kneeling on the floor, enjoying a worm's-eye view of the flat, and taking rather particular care not to be seen. At this Inspector Alleyn smiled sideways. He was trying to remember the exact location of the nearest telephone booth. The taxi disappeared and he moved away from the window, took out his cigarette-case, thought better of it, and pocketed it again. Three or four minutes passed. His meditations were uncannily checked by the bedside telephone, which came to life abruptly with a piercing double ring. Alleyn smiled rather more broadly, and sat on the bed with his hands in his pockets. The telephone rang twenty times and then inconsequently went dead. He returned to the window. It was now very quiet in the street, so that when someone came briskly on foot from Elizabeth Street, he heard the steps a long way off. Suddenly he drew back from the window, and with a very desolate groan, crawled under the bed, which was a low one. He was obliged to lie flat on his front. He rearranged the valance, which he had noted disgustedly was of rose-coloured taffeta. Then he lay perfectly still.