by Ngaio Marsh
“Such as the little green tiki? I understand what you mean.”
“Ah—the tiki.”
He paused and Alleyn had the impression that he had been going to say more about the tiki but had stopped himself. It was growing dark. Te Pokiha’s head was silhouetted against a background of green hills and very dark blue mountains.
“To the north are Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe,” he said. “My grandfather would have told you that the volcanic fires of Ngauruhoe were caused by the youngest son of the Earth Mother who lay deep underground with her child at her breast. The fire was given him for comfort by Rakahore, the rock-god.”
They drove on in silence until the mountains were black against the fading sky.
“My house is not very far off now,” said Te Pokiha quietly. And in a minute or two they crossed a clanking cattle-stop and plunged into a dark tunnel where the head-lights shone on the stems of tree-ferns.
“I like the smell of the bush,” said Alleyn.
“Yes? Do you know I once did a very foolish thing. It was when I was at the House—my first year at Oxford, and my first year in England. I became very homesick and wrote in my letters of my homesickness. I said that I longed for the smell of burning bush-wood and begged them to send me some. So my father sent me a case of logs. It was a very expensive business as you may imagine, but I burnt them in my fireplace at the House and the smoke of Te-Ika-a-Maui hung over the famous Dreaming Spires.” He burst out laughing. “Ridiculous, wasn’t it?”
“Did you take your medical degree at home?”
“Yes, at Thomas’s. I was a thorough pakeha by that time—almost. Here we are.”
They pulled up in a wide open space before the dark shape of a long one-storied house. From the centre of the front wall projected a porch with a gable roof, and Alleyn saw that this porch was decorated with Maori carvings.
“An affectation on my part,” said Te Pokiha. “You may question the taste of joining an old-time porch on to a modern bungalow. At least the carving is genuine.”
“I like it.”
“You must see it by daylight. Come in.”
They dined in a pleasant room, waited on by an enormous and elderly Maori woman, who showed a tendency to join in the laughter when Alleyn cracked a modest joke. After dinner they moved into a comfortable living-room with an open fireplace where an aromatic log fire reminded Alleyn of Te Pokiha’s story. The furniture was of the solid smoking-room type—very English and non-committal. A mezzotint of Christ Church, Oxford, an undergraduate group or two, and a magnificent feather cloak decorated the walls.
When, after some excellent brandy, they had lit their pipes, Alleyn asked Te Pokiha if his practice was a general one.
“Oh, yes. When I first came back I had some idea of specialising in gynaecology, but I think it is the one branch of my profession in which my race would tell against me. And then, as I settled down, I began to see the terrible inroads made by civilisation in the health of my own people. Tuberculosis, syphilis, typhoid—none of them known in our savage days when ritual and health-giving dances, as well as strict hygienic habits, were enforced. So I came down to earth—brown earth—and decided that I would become a doctor to my own people.”
“I’m sure you do not regret your choice.”
“No. Though it is depressing to see how quickly a healthy race can degenerate. I am very busy—consulting-room hours in town, and a wide country beat. I am re-learning some of my own race history.”
And he related several stories about his Maori patients, telling them well, without too much emphasis. The time passed pleasantly in this fashion.
At last Alleyn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the tiki. He put it on the arm of Te Pokiha’s chair. “May we talk about the tiki?” he asked.
Te Pokiha looked at it with surprise.
“Does Miss Dacres not wish to accept it? Has she returned it to you?”
“No. I hope she will still accept it, though she may not wish to do so. At the moment it is by way of being used in evidence.”
“The tiki? What do you mean?”
“It was found in the gallery above the stage on the spot where the murderer must have stood.”
Te Pokiha gazed at him with something like horror in his eyes.
“That is—is most extraordinary. Do you know how it got there?”
“Yes. I believe I do.”
“I see.”
There was relief and something else—could it be disappointment?—in Te Pokiha’s voice. Then, suddenly, he leant forward:
“But it’s impossible—that lovely creature! No, there must be some mistake. I cannot believe it of her.”
“Of Miss Dacres? Why should you suspect Miss Dacres?”
“Why because I saw—but I do not suspect her.”
“Because you saw her slip it into her dress?”
“There is something very strange in this,” said Te Pokiha, staring at the tiki. “May I ask one question, Mr. Alleyn. Do you suspect Miss Dacres of murder?”
“No. I believe her to be innocent.”
“Then how did the tiki get there?”
“I’ll tell you presently,” said Alleyn. “It was strange, wasn’t it? Almost as though the tiki itself had taken a hand, don’t you think?”
“You ask a leading question,” said Te Pokiha, smiling. He had regained his poise completely, it seemed. “Remember I am a materialistic general practitioner.”
“You are also a pure-blooded Maori aristrocrat,” answered Alleyn. “What would your grandfather have thought?”
Te Pokiha put out his thin dark hand as though to take up the tiki. Then he paused and drew back his hand.
“The demi-god Tiki was the father of mankind. These little symbols are named after him. They do not actually represent him but rather the human embryo and the fructifying force in mankind. The ornament and carving is purely phallic. I know something of the history of this tiki. It was tapu. Do you know what that means?”
“Sacred? Untouchable?”
“Yes. Long ago it was dropped from the breast of a woman in a very tapu place, a meeting-house, and remained there, unnoticed, for a long time. It therefore became tapu itself. The meeting-house was burned to the ground and a pakeha found and kept the tiki, afterwards telling where he had found it. My grandfather would have said that this in itself was a desecration, a pollution. The pakeha, not long afterwards, was drowned in attempting to ford a river. The tiki was found in his pocket and given, by his son, to the father of the man from whom you have bought it. Your man was once a very prosperous run-holder, but lost almost everything during the depression. Hence his desire to sell the tiki.”
“Miss Gaynes has repeatedly expressed her opinion that the tiki is unlucky,” said Alleyn dryly. “It seems that she is right. What would your grandfather have thought of the reception they gave it last night? Poor little Meyer was very facetious, wasn’t he, pretending to say his prayers to it?”
“Not only facetious but ill-bred,” said Te Pokiha quietly.
“I felt rather ashamed of my compatriots, Dr. Te Pokiha, and, as I told you at the time, I regretted my impulse.”
“You need not regret it. The tiki is revenged.”
“Very much so. I shall ask Miss Dacres to return it to me, I think.”
Te Pokiha looked at him, hesitated a moment and then said: “I do not think she need fear it.”
“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “if it’s not an impertinent question, do you yourself feel anything of—well, anything of what your ancestors would have felt in regard to this coincidence?”
There was a long pause.
“Naturally,” said Te Pokiha, at last, “I do not feel exactly as a European would feel about the tiki. What do your gipsies say? ‘You have to dig deep to bury your daddy.’”
“Yes,” murmured Alleyn, “I suppose you do.”
“I hear you are working personally on the case,” said Te Pokiha after another silence. “May one ask if you feel confident that
the murderer will be found?”
“Yes, I am confident.”
“That is excellent,” said Te Pokiha, tranquilly.
“It is simply a question of eliminating the impossible. And, by the way, you can help us there.”
“Can I? In what way?”
“We are trying to establish alibis for all these people. Mr. Mason’s movements are a little more difficult to trace than those of the cast, because he was in his office before the supper-party. Wade says you saw him there.”
“Yes. I did. At the end of the play I made for the exit at the back of the stalls. I noticed that the office door into the box-office was open, and thought I would look in on Mr. Mason before going behind the scenes. He came in just as I did.”
“From the yard?”
“Yes. He had been out to speak to the stage-doorkeeper, he said.”
“That tallies with what we have. How long did you stay in the office? By the way I hope you don’t mind me hauling in shop like this?”
“Not in the least. I hoped that we might discuss the case. Let me see. We stayed there for about ten minutes, I think. Mr. Mason said that they would not be ready behind the scenes for some little time and suggested we should have a drink. We took off our overcoats and sat down by the fire. I refused the drink, but he had one, and we both smoked. The men from the box-office came in and Mason dealt with them. Someone came in from the bank to take the cash, and the stage-doorkeeper looked in too, I remember. Oh, yes, and Ackroyd, the little comic fellow, you know—he looked in.”
“Did he, now? What for?”
“As far as I remember it was to tell Mason the guests were beginning to arrive. It struck me he was looking for a free drink, but he didn’t get it. Mason packed him off in no time.”
“Did you see him go?”
“How do you mean? I saw him go out into the yard. Then someone else looked in, I think. People were going in and out all the time.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I suppose that was a crucial time,” said Te Pohika. “I heard about the counterweight from Gascoigne and Mason, last night. They both insisted that there had been interference. Of course there must have been interference. That sort of thing couldn’t happen accidentally.”
“Hardly, one would think. Yes, it’s an important period that, when you were in the office. You left Mason there?”
“Yes. He was there when I returned, too; still in his chair by the fire.”
“You returned to the office? Why did you return?”
“Didn’t I tell you? How stupid of me. When I got to the stage-door I found I had taken Mason’s overcoat instead of my own. We had taken them off at the same time and put them down together. I took my own coat, said a word or two more, and left him locking things up in the office. I remember that I had only just gone on to the stage when you and Mason arrived.”
“I met him at the door of the office as I went down the yard.”
“Well, I suppose I have established Mason’s alibi for him,” said Te Pokiha, with a smile, “and my own too I hope, if I needed one.”
“It’s always a handy little thing to have beside you.”
“I suppose so—still there’s an absence of motive in my case.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Alleyn, “we must have motive, of course.”
He picked up the tiki, returned it to his pocket, and looked at his watch.
“Good lord, it’s eleven o’clock and I haven’t so much as rung up for a car.”
“There’s no need. I shall drive you back and spend the night at my rooms. I often do that—it’s all arranged. You must have a drink before you go.”
“No, really not, thanks. I promised Wade I’d ring him up before eleven-thirty, so if you don’t mind—”
“You can telephone from here.”
“It may be rather a lengthy conversation, so perhaps I’d better leave it until I get to Middleton.”
“Come along, then,” rejoined Te Pokiha courteously. “I mustn’t try to keep you, I suppose.”
“It’s been a delightful evening.”
“I hope it is not to be the last.”
They drove back in the starlight. To Alleyn it seemed strange that it was only that morning—a short eighteen hours ago—that he had stood in the deserted street to watch dawn break over the mountains. It seemed to be ages ago. So much had happened. Carolyn by the little stream, talking about her husband, the bush bird whistling “She was only a bird—” with a wrinkled human face, Gordon Palmer drinking whisky that poured itself out of the neck of a gargantuan champagne bottle. “Don’t do that, it shouldn’t be interfered with.” “But my old dad taught me. It used to go big in vordevil.” And there was Wade running up and down a ladder like a performing monkey and saying: “Eight minutes for refreshments at the central police station.” “Don’t do that, you’ll muddle the prints.” “It’s all right if you sound your horn at the top. This horn is called a beep-beep. Listen—beep-beep—”
“This horn is called a ‘beep-beep’,” said Te Pokiha. “It reminds me of the Paris streets.”
“Lord love us, I’ve been asleep,” said Alleyn.
“If you will allow me to say so, I think you’re overtaxing your strength a little. You look tired. Aren’t you supposed to be on a holiday.”
“I’ll be able to sink back into sloth tomorrow.”
“As soon as that?”
“I hope so. Here we are at the hotel, I see. Well, thank you so much, Te Pokiha. It’s been an extremely interesting evening.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been of little use as far as your case is concerned.”
“On the contrary,” said Alleyn, “you have given me a piece of exceedingly valuable information.”
“Really? I mustn’t ask questions, I suppose. Good night.”
“Good night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alleyn as Maskelyne
ALLEYN SLEPT HEAVILY and dreamlessly until half-past nine. He had arranged to meet Wade at ten, and the inspector was waiting for him when he came out of the breakfast-room. They walked down to the theatre together.
“I’ve fixed it with old Singleton, Mr. Alleyn. He’ll be there waiting for us. He’s a funny old chap. Dismal Joe, the stage-hands call him; quite an old character in his way, he is, with a great gift of the gab. He says he’s an old actor and I believe it’s a fact, too.”
“Another actor! I remember giving him my name. He seemed rather a rum old article.”
“It’s a theatre show this, isn’t it, sir?”
They walked on in silence, and then Wade said:
“Well, Mr. Alleyn, I hope you’re quite satisfied with the work we’ve done for you.”
“My dear chap, more than satisfied. I’ve never had such a case. All the routine work done by you fellows, and damn’ well done. All I had to do was to pick out the plums.”
“Well sir, as far as we’re concerned it’s been a pleasure. We very much appreciate the way you’ve worked with us, Mr. Alleyn, taking us into your confidence all along. I must say when you rang up last night I got a bit of a surprise. I don’t say we wouldn’t have thrashed it out for ourselves and come to the right conclusion, but we wouldn’t have come there so quick.”
“I’m sure you’d have got there,” said Alleyn cordially. “You fixed up the other business all right, I suppose?”
“Yes. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble. Packer and Cass are there.”
Packer and Cass met them in the theatre yard. Standing just behind them was the doorkeeper to whom Alleyn remembered giving his name on the night of the party. Old Singleton was an extraordinary figure. He was very tall, very bent, and remarkably dirty. His nose was enormous and gloomily purple, he suffered from asthma, and he smelt of whisky.
“Morning, Packer, morning, Cass,” said Alleyn.
“This is Mr. Singleton, Chief Inspector,” said Wade.
“Chief Inspector who, Mr. Wade?” asked Singleton earnestly, in a rumbling wheeze.
>
“Alleyn.”
“Of New Scotland Yard, London?”
“Yes, Mr. Singleton,” said Alleyn good-humouredly.
“Shake, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Singleton, extending a particularly filthy hand. Alleyn shook it.
“From the Dear Old Town!” continued Mr. Singleton emotionally. “The Dear Old Town!”
“You are a Londoner, Mr. Singleton?”
“Holborn Empire! Ten years. I was first fiddle, sir.” Mr. Singleton went through an elaborate pantomime of drawing a bow across the strings of an imaginary violin. “You wouldn’t think it to look at me now,” he added truthfully. “I have fallen into the sere and yellow, Chief Inspector. I am declined into the vale of years. I am a fixed figure for the time of scorn to point his slow unmoving finger at. Yurrahumph!” He coughed unpleasantly and spat. “You would not credit it, Superintendent Alleyn, if I were to tell you I played the Moor for six months to capacity business.”
As Alleyn really could not credit it, he contented himself with making a consolatory noise.
“Shakespeare!” ejaculated Mr. Singleton, removing his hat. “The Swan of Stratford-on-Sea! The Bard!”
“Nobody like him, is there?” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Well, Mr. Singleton, you’re about to take the stage again. I want you to tell us all about last night.”
“Last night of all when that same star did entertain her guests. An improvisation, Chief Constable, based on the Bard. Last night. I could a tale unfold would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood. As a matter of fact I am unable to do any such thing. Last night I merely discharged my degrading duties as a doorkeeper in the house of the ungodly, and repaired to my lonely attic.”
He paused and blew his nose on an unspeakable handkerchief. Wade slipped behind, him and gave a spirited imitation of someone draining a glass to the dregs.
“You kept a list of the guests, I understand, and checked off the names as they came in.”
Mr. Singleton drew a piece of paper from his bosom and handed it to Alleyn with a slight bow.
“To witness if I lie,” he explained grandly.
It was the list. Alleyn glanced at it and returned to the job.