by Ngaio Marsh
Breezy looked up at Alleyn and gave him the celebrated smile. He was pallid and sweating slightly. His expression was one of relief, of well-being. Dr Curtis washed his syringe in a tumbler of water on the desk and then returned it to his case.
Alleyn opened the door into the foyer and nodded to Fox, who rose and joined him. Together they returned to the contemplation of Breezy.
Fox cleared his throat: ‘Alors,’ he said cautiously, and stopped. ‘Evidemment,’ he said, ‘il y a un avancement, n’est ce pas?’
He paused, slightly flushed, and looked out of the corners of his eyes at Alleyn.
‘Pas grand’chose,’ Alleyn muttered. ‘But as Curtis says, he’ll do for our purpose. You go, by the way, Br’er Fox, from strength to strength. The accent improves.’
‘I still don’t get the practice though,’ Fox complained. Breezy, who was looking with complete tranquillity at the opposite wall, laughed comfortably. ‘I feel lovely, now,’ he volunteered.
‘He’s had a pretty solid shot,’ Dr Curtis said. ‘I don’t know what he’d been up to before but it seems to have packed him up a bit. But he’s all right. He can answer questions, can’t you, Bellairs?’
‘I’m fine,’ Breezy rejoined dreamily. ‘Box of birds.’
‘Well…’ Alleyn said dubiously. Fox added in a sepulchral undertone: ‘Faute de mieux.’ ‘Exactly,’ Alleyn said and, drawing up a chair, placed himself in front of Breezy.
‘I’d like you to tell me something,’ he said. Breezy lazily withdrew his gaze from the opposite wall and Alleyn found himself staring into eyes that, because of the enormous size of their pupils, seemed mere structures and devoid of intelligence.
‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘what you did at Lord Pastern’s house?’
He had to wait a long time for an answer. At last Breezy’s voice, detached and remote, said: ‘Don’t let’s talk. It’s nice not talking.’
‘Talking’s nice too, though.’
Dr Curtis walked away from Breezy and murmured to no one in particular, ‘Get him started and he may go on.’
‘It must have been fun at the dinner party,’ Alleyn suggested. ‘Did Carlos enjoy himself?’
Breezy’s arm lay curved along the desk. With a luxurious sigh, he slumped further into the chair and rested his cheek on his sleeve. In a moment or two his voice began again, independently, it seemed, with no conscious volition on his part. It trailed through his scarcely moving lips in a monotone.
‘I told him it was silly but that made no difference at all. “Look,” I said, “you’re crazy”. Well of course I was sore on account of he held back on me, not bringing me my cigarettes.’
‘What cigarettes?’
‘He never did anything I asked him. I was so good to him. I was as good as gold. I told him. I said, “Look,” I said, “she won’t take it from you, boy. She’s as sore as hell,” I said, “and so’s he, and the other girl isn’t falling so what’s the point?” I knew there’d be trouble. “And the old bastard doesn’t like it,” I said. “He pretends it doesn’t mean a thing to him, but that’s all hooey because he just naturally wouldn’t like it.” No good. No notice taken.’
‘When was this?’ Alleyn asked.
‘Off and on. Most of the time you might say. And when we were in the taxi and he said how the guy had hit him, I said: “There you are, what was I telling you?”’
‘Who hit him?’
There was a longer pause. Breezy turned his head languidly.
‘Who hit Carlos, Breezy?’
‘I heard you the first time. What a gang, though! The Honourable Edward Manx in serious mood while lunching at the Tarmac with Miss Félicité de Suze who is, of course, connected with him on the distaff side. Her stepfather is Lord Pastern and Bagott, but if you ask me it’s a punctured romance. Cherchez la femme.’
Fox glanced up from his notes with an air of bland interest.
‘The woman in this case,’ Alleyn said, ‘being…?’
‘Funny name for a girl.’
‘Carlisle?’
‘Sound dopey to me, but what of that? But that’s the sort of thing they do. Imagine having two names. Pastern and Bagott. And I can look after both of them, don’t you worry. Trying to swing one across me. What a chance! Bawling me out. Saying he’ll write to this bloody paper. Him and his hot gunning and where is he now.’
‘Swing one across you?’ Alleyn repeated quietly. He had pitched his voice on Breezy’s level. Their voices ran into and away from each other. They seemed to the two onlookers to speak as persons in a dream, with tranquillity and secret understanding.
‘He might have known,’ Breezy was saying, ‘that I wouldn’t come at it but you’ve got to admit it was awkward. A permanent engagement. Thanks a lot. How does the chorus go?’
He laughed faintly, yawned, whispered: ‘Pardon me,’ and closed his eyes.
‘He’s going,’ Dr Curtis said.
‘Breezy,’ Allen said loudly, ‘Breezy.’
‘What?’
‘Did Lord Pastern want you to keep him on permanently?’
‘I told you. Him and his blankety blankety blank cartridges.’
‘Did he want you to sack Skelton?’
‘It was all Carlos’s fault,’ Breezy said quite loudly and on a plaintive note. ‘He thought it up. God, was he angry!’
‘Who was angry?’
With a suggestion of cunning the voice murmured: ‘That’s telling.’
‘Was it Lord Pastern?’
‘Him? Don’t make me laugh!’
‘Syd Skelton?’
‘When I told him,’ Breezy whispered faintly, ‘he looked like murder. Honest, I was nervy.’
He rolled his face over on his arm and fell into a profound sleep. ‘He won’t come out of that for eight hours,’ said Dr Curtis.
At two o’clock the cleaners came in; five middle-aged women who were admitted by the police and who walked through the foyer into the restaurant with the tools of their trade. Caesar Bonn was greatly distressed by their arrival and complained that the pressmen, who had been sent away with a meagre statement that Rivera had collapsed and died, would lie in wait for these women and question them. He sent the secretary, David Hahn, after the cleaners. ‘They are to be silenced at all costs. At all costs, you understand.’ Presently the drone of vacuum cleaners arose in the restaurant. Two of Alleyn’s men had been there for some time. They now returned to the foyer and, joining the policemen on duty there, glanced impassively at its inhabitants.
Most of the Boys were asleep. They were sprawled in ungainly postures on their small chairs. Trails of ash lay on their clothes. They had crushed out their cigarette butts on empty packets, on the soles of their shoes, on match boxes or had pitched them at the floor containers. The smell of dead butts seemed to hang over the entire room.
Lady Pastern appeared to sleep. She was inclined backwards in her armchair and her eyes were closed. Purplish shadows had appeared on her face and deep grooves ran from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks sagged. She scarcely stirred when her husband, who had been silent for a considerable time, said: ‘Hi, Ned!’
‘Yes, Cousin George?’ Manx responded guardedly.
‘I’ve got to the bottom of this.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I know who did it.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘I disagree entirely and emphatically with capital punishment,’ Lord Pastern said, puffing out his cheeks at the group of police officials. ‘I shall therefore keep my knowledge to myself. Let ’em muddle on. Murder’s a matter for the psychiatrist, not the hangman. As for judges they’re a pack of conceited old sadists. Let ’em get on with it. They’ll have no help from me. For God’s sake, Fée, stop fidgetin’.’
Félicité was curled up in the chair she had used earlier in the evening. From time to time she thrust her hands out of sight, exploring, it seemed, the space between the upholstered arms and seat. She did this furtively with sidelong glances at th
e others.
Carlisle said: ‘What is it, Fée? What have you lost?’
‘My hanky.’
‘Here, take mine for pity’s sake,’ said Lord Pastern, and threw it at her.
The searching had gone forward steadily. Carlisle, who liked her privacy, had found the experience galling and unpleasant. The wardress was a straw-coloured woman with large artificial teeth and firm pale hands. She had been extremely polite and uncompromising.
Now the last man to be searched, Syd Skelton, returned from the men’s cloakroom and at the same time Alleyn and Fox came out of the office. The Boys woke up. Lady Pastern opened her eyes.
Alleyn said: ‘As the result of these preliminary inquiries…’ (‘Preliminary!’ Lord Pastern snorted.) ‘…I think we have got together enough information and may allow you to go home. I’m extremely sorry to have kept you here so long.’
They were all on their feet. Alleyn raised a hand. ‘There’s one restriction, I’m afraid. I think you’ll all understand, and I hope, respect it. Those of you who were in immediate communication with Rivera or who had access to the revolver used by Lord Pastern, or who seem to us, for sufficient reasons, to be in any way concerned in the circumstances leading to Rivera’s death, will be seen home by police officers. We shall provide ourselves with search warrants. If such action seems necessary, we shall use them.’
‘Of all the footlin’, pettifoggin’…’ Lord Pastern began, and was interrupted.
‘Those of you who come under this heading,’ Alleyn said, ‘are Lord Pastern and the members of his party, Mr Bellairs and Mr Skelton. That’s all, I think. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘I’m damned if I’ll put up with this. Look here, Alleyn…’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I must insist, I’m afraid.’
‘George,’ said Lady Pastern, ‘you have tried conclusions with the law on more than one occasion and as often as you have done so you have made a fool of yourself. Come home.’
Lord Pastern studied his wife with an air of detachment.
‘Your hair-net’s loose,’ he pointed out, ‘and you’re bulgin’ above your waist. Comes of wearin’ stays. I’ve always said…’
‘I, at least,’ Lady Pastern said directly to Alleyn, ‘am prepared to accept your conditions. So, I am sure, are my daughter and my niece. Félicité! Carlisle!’
‘Fox!’ said Alleyn.
She walked with perfect composure to the door and waited there. Fox spoke to one of the plain-clothes men who detached himself from the group near the entrance. Félicité held out a hand towards Edward Manx. ‘Ned, you’ll come, won’t you? You’ll stay with us?’
After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand. ‘Dearest Edward,’ said Lady Pastern from the door. ‘We should be so grateful.’
‘Certainly, Cousin Cecile. Of course.’
Félicité still held his hand. He looked at Carlisle. ‘Coming?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. Goodnight Mr Alleyn,’ said Carlisle.
‘Goodnight, Miss Wayne.’
They went out, followed by the plain-clothes man.
‘I should like to have a word with you, Mr Skelton,’ Alleyn said. ‘The rest of you,’ he turned to the Boys, the waiters, and the spotlight man, ‘may go. You will be given notice of the inquest. Sorry to have kept you up so late. Goodnight.’
The waiters and the electrician went at once. The band moved forward in a group. Happy Hart said: ‘What about Breezy?’
‘He’s sound asleep and will need a bit of rousing. I shall see he’s taken home.’
Hart shuffled his feet and looked at his hands. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but he’s all right. Breezy’s OK, really. I mean, he’s just been making the pace a bit too hot for himself as you might say. He’s a very nervy type, Breezy. He suffers from insomnia. He took the stuff for his nerves. But he’s all right.’
‘He and Rivera got on well, did they?’
Several of the Boys said quickly: ‘That’s right. Sure. They were all right.’ Hart added that Breezy was very good to Carlos and gave him his big chance in London.
All the Boys agreed fervently with this statement except Skelton. He stood apart from his associates. They avoided looking at him. He was a tall darkish fellow with narrow eyes and a sharp nose. His mouth was small and thin-lipped. He stooped slightly.
‘Well, if that’s all,’ Happy Hart said uneasily, ‘we’ll say goodnight.’
‘We’ve got their addresses, haven’t we, Fox? Good. Thank you. Goodnight.’
They filed out, carrying their instruments. In the old days when places like the Metronome and Quags and the Hungaria kept going up to two in the morning the Boys had worked through, sometimes going on to parties in private houses. They were Londoners who turned home-wards with pale faces and blue jaws at the time when fans of water from giant hose pipes strike across Piccadilly and Whitehall. They had been among the tag-ends of the night in those times, going soberly to their beds as the first milk carts jangled. In summer-time they had undressed in the dawn to the thin stir of sparrows. They shared with taxi-drivers, cloakroom attendants, waiters and commissionaires, a specialized disillusionment.
Alleyn watched them go and then nodded to Fox. Fox approached Caesar Bonn and David Hahn, who lounged gloomily near the office door. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen wouldn’t mind coming into the office,’ he suggested. They followed him in. Alleyn turned to Skelton. ‘Now, Mr Skelton.’
‘What’s the idea,’ Skelton said, ‘keeping me back? I’ve got a home, same as everybody else. Though how the hell I’m going to get there’s nobody’s business.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s a nuisance for you, I know, but it can’t be helped.’
‘I don’t see why.’
The office door was opened from inside. Two constables came out with Breezy Bellairs hanging between them like a cumbersome puppet. His face was lividly pale, his eyes half open. He breathed stertorously and made a complaining noise like a wretched child. Dr Curtis followed. Bonn and Hahn watched from inside the office.
‘All right?’ Alleyn said.
‘He’ll do. We’ll just get him into his coat.’
They held Breezy up while Curtis, with difficulty, crammed him into his tight-fitting overcoat. During this struggle Breezy’s baton fell to the floor. Hahn came forward and picked it up. ‘You wouldn’t think,’ Hahn said, contemplating it sadly, ‘how good he was. Not to look at him now.’
Dr Curtis yawned. ‘These chaps’ll see him into his bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll be off, if you don’t want me, Rory.’
‘Right.’ The dragging procession disappeared. Fox returned to the office and shut the door.
‘That’s a nice way,’ Skelton said angrily, ‘for a first-class band leader to be seen going home. Between a couple of flatties.’
‘They’ll be very tactful,’ Alleyn rejoined. ‘Shall we sit down?’
Skelton said he’d sat down for so long that his bottom was numb. ‘Let’s get cracking, for God’s sake. I’ve had it. What’s the idea?’
Alleyn took out his note-book.
‘The idea,’ he said, ‘is further information. I think you can give it to us. By all means let’s get cracking.’
‘Why pick on me? I know no more than the others.’
‘Don’t you?’ Alleyn said vaguely. He glanced up. ‘What’s your opinion of Lord Pastern as a tympanist?’
‘Dire. What of it?’
‘Did the others hold this opinion?’
‘They knew. Naturally. It was a cheap stunt. Playing up the snob-value.’ He thrust his hands down in his pockets and began to walk to and fro, impelled, it seemed, by resentment. Alleyn waited.
‘It’s when something like this turns up,’ Skelton announced loudly, ‘that you see how rotten the whole setup really is. I’m not ashamed of my work. Why the hell should I be? It interests me. It’s not easy. It takes doing and anybody that tells you there’s nothing to the best type of our kind of music talks through his hat
. It’s got something. It’s clever and there’s a lot of hard thinking behind it.’
‘I don’t know about music,’ Alleyn said, ‘but I can imagine that from the technical point of view your sort can be almost purely intellectual. Or is that nonsense?’
Skelton glowered at him. ‘You’re not far out. A lot of the stuff we have to play is wet and corny, of course. They,’ he jerked his head at the empty restaurant, ‘like it that way. But there’s other stuff that’s different. If I could pick my work I’d be in an outfit that went for the real mackay. In a country where things were run decently I’d be able to do that. I’d be able to say: “This is what I can do and it’s the best I can do,” and I’d be directed into the right channels. I’m a Communist,’ he said loudly.
Alleyn was suddenly and vividly reminded of Lord Pastern. He said nothing and after a pause Skelton went on.
‘I realize I’m working for the rottenest section of a crazy society but what can I do? It’s my job and I have to take it. But this affair? Walking out and letting a dopy old deadbeat of a lord make a fool of himself with my instruments, and a lot of deadbeat effects added to them! Looking as if I like it! Where’s my self-respect?’
‘How,’ Alleyn asked, ‘did it come about?’
‘Breezy worked it because…’
He stopped short and advanced on Alleyn. ‘Here!’ he demanded. ‘What’s all this in aid of? What do you want?’
‘Like Lord Pastern,’ Alleyn said lightly, ‘I want the truth. Bellairs, you were saying, worked it because—of what?’
‘I’ve told you. Snob-value.’
‘And the others agreed?’
‘They haven’t any principles. Oh, yes. They took it.’
‘Rivera, for instance, didn’t oppose the idea?’
Skelton flushed deeply. ‘No,’ he said.
Alleyn saw his pockets bulge as the hidden hands clenched.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Rivera was hanging his hat up to the girl. Pastern’s step-daughter. He was all out to make himself a hero with the old man.’
‘That made you very angry, didn’t it?’
‘Who says it made me angry?’
‘Bellairs said so.’