by Ngaio Marsh
‘Yes, Fox. Are you suggesting that this lurker was the General?’
‘The description tallies, sir. I thought I’d arrange for this chap, who’s still here at the Yard, to get a look at the General and see if he can swear to him.’
‘You do. Better take your linkman off to the Square. See if you can catch the General doing his evening march. He’ll be able to see him in the same light under the same conditions as last night’s.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m going to the Matador and then home. Ring me up if there’s anything.’
‘Very good, Mr Alleyn. Good night.’
‘Good night, Brer Fox.’
Alleyn turned from the telephone and stared at his mother.
‘It looks as if Lucy Lorrimer isn’t altogether dotty,’ he said. ‘Old Halcut-Hackett seems to have behaved in a very curious manner last night. If, indeed, it was the General, and I fancy it must have been. He was so remarkably evasive about his own movements. Do you know him at all well?’
‘Not very, darling. He was a brother-officer of your father’s. I rather think he was one of those large men whom regimental humour decrees shall be called “Tiny”. I can’t remember ever hearing that he had a violent temper or took drugs or seduced his colonel’s wife or indeed did anything at all remarkable. He didn’t marry this rather dreadful lady of his until he was about fifty.’
‘Was he rich?’
‘I rather think he was fairly rich. Still is, I should have thought from that house. He’s got a country place too, I believe, somewhere in Kent.’
‘Then why on earth does she bother with paying débutantes?’
‘Well, you know, Rory, if she’s anxious to be asked everywhere and do everything she’s more likely to succeed with something young behind her. Far more invitations would come rolling in.’
‘Yes. I rather think there’s more to it than that. Good night, darling. You are the best sort of mama. Too astringent to be sweet, thank God, but nevertheless comfortable.’
‘Thank you, my dear. Come in again if you want to. Good night.’
She saw him out with an air of jauntiness, but when she returned to her drawing-room she sat still for a long time thinking of the past of her son, of Troy, and of her own fixed determination never to meddle.
Alleyn took a taxi to the Matador in Soho. The Matador commissionaire was a disillusioned giant in a plum-coloured uniform. He wore beautiful gloves, a row of medals, and an expression of worldly wisdom. He stood under a representation in red neon lights of a capering bull-fighter, and he paid the management twenty pounds a year for his job. Alleyn gave him good evening and walked into the entrance-hall of the Matador. The pulsation of saxophones and percussion instruments hung on the air, deadened in this ante-room by draperies of plum-coloured silk caught up into classic folds by rows of silvered tin sunflowers. A lounge porter came forward and directed Alleyn to the cloakroom.
‘I wonder if you know Captain Maurice Withers by sight,’ asked Alleyn. ‘I’m supposed to join his party and I’m not sure if I’ve come to the right place. He’s a member here.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve only just taken this job myself and I don’t know the members by sight. If you ask at the office, sir, they’ll tell you.’
With a silent anathema on this ill chance Alleyn thanked the man and looked for the box-office. He found it beneath a large sunflower and surrounded by richer folds of silk. Alleyn peered into it and saw a young man in a beautiful dinner-jacket, morosely picking his teeth.
‘Good evening,’ said Alleyn.
The young man abandoned the toothpick with lightning sleight-of-hand.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said brightly in a cultured voice.
‘May I speak to you for a moment—Mr—?’
The young man instantly looked very wary.
‘Well—ah—I am the manager. My name is Cuthbert.’
Alleyn slid his card through the peep-hole. The young man looked at it, turned even more wary, and said:
‘Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind walking round to the side door, Mr—Oh!—Inspector—ah!—Alleyn. Simmons!’
A cloakroom attendant appeared. On the way to the side door Alleyn tried his story again but neither the cloakroom attendant nor the commissionaire, who was recalled, knew Withers by sight. The attendant conducted Alleyn by devious ways into a little dim room behind the box-office. Here he found the manager.
‘It’s nothing very momentous,’ said Alleyn. ‘I want you to tell me, if you can, about what time Captain Maurice Withers arrived at this club last night—or rather this morning?’
He saw Mr Cuthbert glance quickly at an evening paper on which appeared a quarter-page photograph of Robert Gospell. During the second or two that elapsed before he replied, Alleyn heard again that heavy insistent thudding of the band.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea at all,’ said Mr Cuthbert at last.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Alleyn. ‘If you can’t tell me I suppose I’ll have to make rather a business of it. I’ll have to ask all your guests if they saw him and when and so on. I’m afraid I shall have to insist on seeing the book. I’m sorry. What a bore for you!’
Mr Cuthbert looked at him with the liveliest distaste.
‘You can understand,’ he began, ‘that in our position we have to be extremely tactful. Our guests expect it of us.’
‘Oh, rather,’ agreed Alleyn. ‘But there’s not going to be nearly such a fluster if you give me the information I want quietly, as there will be if I have to start asking all sorts of people all sorts of questions.’
Mr Cuthbert stared at his first finger-nail and then bit it savagely.
‘But if I don’t know,’ he said peevishly.
‘Then we’re just out of luck. I’ll try your commissionaire and—Simmons, is it? If that fails we’ll have to start on the guests.’
‘Oh, damn!’ ejaculated Mr Cuthbert. ‘Well, he came in late. I do remember that.’
‘How do you remember that, please?’
‘Because we had a crowd of people who came from—from the Marsdon House Ball at about half-past three or a quarter to four. And then there was a bit of a lull.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, well, and then a good deal later Captain Withers signed in. He ordered a fresh bottle of gin.’
‘Mrs Halcut-Hackett arrived with him, didn’t she?’
‘I don’t know the name of his partner.’
‘A tall, big, blonde woman of about forty to forty-five, with an American accent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind calling—’
‘All right, then, all right. She did.’
‘Was it as late as half-past four when they arrived?’
‘I don’t—look here, I mean—’
‘It’s quite possible you may hear no more of this. The more exact your information, you know, the less troublesome our subsequent enquiries.’
‘Yes, I know, but we owe a DUTY to our guests.’
‘Do you know actually to within say ten minutes when this couple arrived? I think you do. If so, I most strongly advise you to tell me.’
‘Oh, all right. As a matter of fact it was a quarter-past four. There’d been such a long gap with nobody coming in—we were practically full anyway of course—that I did happen to notice the time.’
‘That’s perfectly splendid. Now if you’ll sign a statement to this effect I don’t think I need bother you any more.’
Mr Cuthbert fell into a profound meditation. Alleyn lit a cigarette and waited with an air of amiability. At last Mr Cuthbert said:
‘Am I likely to be called as a witness to anything?’
‘Not very. We’ll spare you if we can.’
‘I could refuse.’
‘And I,’ said Alleyn, ‘could become a member of your club. You couldn’t refuse that.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ said Mr Cuthbert unhappily. ‘All right. I’ll sign.’
Alleyn wrote out a short statement and Mr Cuthbert signed it
. Mr Cuthbert became more friendly and offered Alleyn a drink, which he refused with the greatest amiability. Mr Cuthbert embarked on a long eulogistic account of the Matador and the way it was run and the foolishness of nightclub proprietors who attempted to elude the lawful restriction imposed on the sale of alcoholic beverages.
‘It never pays,’ cried Mr Cuthbert. ‘Sooner or later they get caught. It’s just damn silly.’
A waiter burst into the room, observed something in Mr Cuthbert’s eye, and flew out again. Mr Cuthbert cordially invited Alleyn to accompany him into the dance-room. He was so insistent that Alleyn allowed himself to be ushered through the entrance-hall and down a plum-coloured tunnel. The sound of the band swelled into a rhythmic all-pervading rumpus. Alleyn was aware of more silver sunflowers; of closely ranked tables and faces dimly lit from below, of a more distant huddle of people ululating and sliding in time to the band. He stood just inside the entrance, trying to accustom his eyes to this scene, while Mr Cuthbert prattled innocently Ruddigore: ‘We only cut respectable capers.’ He was about to turn away when he knew abruptly that someone was watching him. His eyes followed this intangible summons. He turned slowly to the left and there at a corner table sat Bridget O’Brien and Donald Potter.
They were both staring at him and with such intensity that he could not escape the feeling that they had wished to attract his attention. He deliberately met their gaze and returned it. For a second or two they looked at each other and then Bridget made a quick gesture, inviting him to join them.
He said: ‘I see some friends. Do you mind if I speak to them for a moment?’
Mr Cuthbert was delighted and melted away on a wave of tactfulness. Alleyn walked over to the table and bowed.
‘Good evening.’
‘Will you sit down for a minute?’ said Bridget. ‘We want to speak to you.’
One of Mr Cuthbert’s waiters instantly produced a chair.
‘What is it?’ asked Alleyn.
‘It’s Bridgie’s idea,’ said Donald. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve said I’ll do whatever Bridgie says. I suppose I’m a fool but I give in. In a way I want to.’
‘He’s got nothing to fear,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve told him—’
‘Look here,’ said Alleyn, ‘this doesn’t seem a particularly well-chosen spot for the kind of conversation that’s indicated.’
‘I know,’ said Bridget. ‘If Donna or Bart ever finds out I’ve been here there’ll be a row of absolutely horrific proportions. The Matador! Unchaperoned! With Donald! But we were desperate—we had to see each other. Bart has driven me stark ravers, he’s been so awful. I managed to ring Donald up from an outside telephone and we arranged to meet here. Donald’s a member. We’ve talked it all over and we were coming to see you.’
‘Suppose you do so now. The manager here knows I’m a policeman so we’d better not leave together. Here’s my address. Come along in about fifteen minutes. That do?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Bridget, ‘won’t it, Donald?’
‘All right, all right,’ said Donald. ‘It’s your idea, darling. If it lands me in—’
‘It won’t land you anywhere but in my flat,’ said Alleyn. ‘You’ve both come to a very sensible decision.’
He rose and looked down at them. ‘Good Lord,’ he thought, ‘they are young.’ He said: ‘Don’t weaken. Au revoir,’ and walked out of the Matador.
On the way to his flat he wondered if the loss of the best part of another night’s sleep was going to get him any nearer a solution.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Donald on Wits
ALLEYN WALKED restlessly about his sitting-room. He had sent Vassily, his old servant, off to bed. The flat, at the end of a cul-de-sac behind Coventry Street, was very silent. He was fond of this room. It had a contradictory air of monastic comfort that was, if he had realized it, a direct expression of himself. Dürer’s praying hands were raised above his mantel-piece. At the other end of the room Troy’s painting of the wharf at Suva uttered, in sharp cool colours, a simple phrase of beauty. He had bought this picture secretly from one of her exhibitions and Troy did not know that it hung there in his room. Three comfortable elderly chairs from his mother’s house at Bossicote, his father’s desk and, waist-high all round the walls, a company of friendly books. But this June night his room seemed chilly. He put a match to the wood fire and drew three armchairs into the circle of its radiance. Time those two arrived. A taxi came up the cul-de-sac and stopped. The door banged. He heard Bridget’s voice and went to let them in.
He was reminded vividly of two small children entering a dentist’s waiting-room. Donald was the victim, Bridget the not very confident escort. Alleyn tried to dispel this atmosphere, settled them in front of the fire, produced ciagrettes, and remembering they were grown-up offered them drinks. Bridget refused. Donald with an air of grandeur accepted a whisky and soda.
‘Now then,’ said Alleyn, ‘What’s it all about?’ He felt he ought to add: ‘Open wide!’ and as he handed Donald his drink: ‘Rinse, please.’
‘It’s about Donald,’ said Bridget in a high determined voice. ‘He’s promised to let me tell you. He doesn’t like it but I say I won’t marry him unless he does, so he’s going to. And besides, he really thinks he ought to do it.’
‘It’s a damn fool thing to do,’ said Donald. ‘There’s no reason actually why I should come into it at all. I’ve made up my mind but all the same I don’t see—’
‘All the same, you are in it, darling, so it doesn’t much matter if you see why or not, as the case may be.’
‘All right. That’s settled anyway, isn’t it? We needn’t go on arguing. Let’s tell Mr Alleyn and get it over.’
‘Yes, let’s. Shall I?’
‘If you like.’
Bridget turned to Alleyn.
‘When we met tonight,’ she began, ‘I asked Donald about Captain Withers, because the way you talked about him this afternoon made me think perhaps he’s not a good idea. I made Donald tell me exactly what he knows about Wits.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. Well, Wits is a crook. Isn’t he Donald?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘He’s a crook because he runs a gambling hell at Leatherhead. Don says you know that or anyway you suspect it. Well, he does. And Donald said he’d go in with him only he didn’t know then how crooked Wits was. And then Donald lost money to Wits and couldn’t pay him back and Wits said he’d better stand in with him because he’d make it pretty hot for Donald if he didn’t. What with Bunchy and everything.’
‘But Bunchy paid your debts to Withers,’ said Alleyn.
‘Not all,’ said Donald with a scarlet face but a look of desperate determination (‘First extraction,’ thought Alleyn.) ‘I didn’t tell him about all of it.’
‘I see.’
‘So Donald said he’d go in with Wits. And then when he quarrelled with Bunchy and went to live with Wits he found out that Wits was worse of a crook than ever. Don found out that Wits was getting money from a woman. Do I have to tell you who she was?’
‘Was it Mrs Halcut-Hackett?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it much?’ Alleyn asked Donald.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Donald. ‘I don’t know how much. But she—he told me she had an interest in the Leatherhead club. I thought at first it was all right. Really I did. It’s hard to explain. I just got sort of used to the way Wits talked. Everything is a ramp nowadays—a racket—that’s what Wits said and I began rather to think the same way. I suppose I lost my eye. Bridget says I did.’
‘I expect she’s right, isn’t she?’
‘I suppose so. But—I don’t know. It was all rather fun in a way until—well, until today.’
‘You mean since Bunchy was murdered?’
‘Yes. I do. But—you see—’
‘Let me,’ said Bridget. ‘You see, Mr Alleyn, Donald got rather desperate. Wits rang up and told him to keep away. That was this morning.’
>
‘I know. It was at my instigation,’ said Alleyn. ‘I was there.’
‘Oh,’ said Donald.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Bridget, ‘Donald got a bit of a shock. What with your questions and Wits always rubbing it in that Donald was going to be quite well off when his uncle died.’
‘Did Captain Withers make a lot of that?’
Bridget took Donald’s hand.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he did. Didn’t he, Donald?’
‘Anyone would think, Bridget, that you wanted to hang one of us, Wits or me,’ said Donald and raised her hand to his cheek.
Bridget said: ‘I’m going to tell everything. You’re innocent, and if you’re innocent you’re safe. My mother would say that. You say it, don’t you, Mr Alleyn?’
‘Yes,’ said Alleyn.
‘Well, this afternoon,’ Bridget went on, ‘Donald’s things came back from Wits’ flat. His clothes and his books. When he unpacked them he saw one book was missing.’
‘The first volume of Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence?’ Donald wetted his lips and nodded.
‘That upset Donald awfully,’ Bridget continued, growing rather white in the face, ‘because of one chapter in the book. After they read the papers this morning Donald and Wits had an argument about how long it took to—to—’
‘Oh God!’ said Donald suddenly.
‘To asphyxiate anybody?’ asked Alleyn.
‘Yes. And Donald looked it up in this book.’
‘Did Captain Withers handle the book?’
Donald looked quickly at Bridget and said: ‘Yes, he did. He read a bit of it and then lost interest. He thought it would have taken longer, he said.’
‘Donald was puzzled about the book not arriving, and about Wits telling him not to come to the flat,’ said Bridget. ‘He thought about it all the afternoon, and the more he thought the less he liked it. So he rang up. Wits answered but when he heard Donald’s voice he simply cut him off without another word. Didn’t he, darling?’