A Man Lay Dead

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Yes—often,” said Angela, startled. “We have competitions sometimes, face first without hanging on.”

  “You did this on Saturday, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Can you go down face first; it’s a bit tricky.”

  “I can. Marjorie can’t, and Doctor Tokareff was hopeless when we did it last week-end.”

  “Look here!” shouted Nigel suddenly, “what about Mary?”

  “Mystery solved,” said Alleyn. “Shall we go to a cinema, or would you rather return immediately?”

  “Don’t mock me,” insisted Nigel. “Mary was the last to see him. She could have done it. And what was she doing in the front of the house? She’s a tweeny. Her place is the back stairs. Look for the motive.”

  “I shall. Meanwhile, I want Miss Angela to look for something else. She is going to the Wildes’ house in Green Street. I want you, Miss Angela, to go in and pretend to be a good deal sillier than you really are.”

  “I suppose you mean to be nice,” said Angela. “Who do I ask for in my silly way?”

  “You ask whoever comes to the door—will it be a maid or the butler?—if they know where Sandilands is. You say you are in London unexpectedly, and Mrs. Wilde asked you to call.”

  “Now listen,” began Angela rebelliously.

  “It’s no good,” Alleyn interrupted, “raising schoolgirl scruples. When you do this job you will be helping to clear an innocent person, if she is, as you seem to believe, innocent. Well?”

  “Go on, please.”

  “You are to say you are simply too stupid for words and cannot remember the message, but it was something Mrs. Wilde wanted, and you think Sandilands the sewing maid has it or knows where it is. You may say—yes, I think you may say—it is a letter or some letters. Shake your curls.”

  “Revolting,” murmured Angela.

  “Be vague and fashionable and ‘charming to the servant’ all at once. Murmur something about Tunbridge, and ask if they can help.”

  “About Tunbridge?”

  Alleyn told her of the intercepted letter. To his astonishment Angela burst out laughing.

  “My poor pet,” gasped Angela annoyingly, “and did you think you ought to go to Tunbridge, and were you all muddledy-puddledy?”

  “Miss Angela,” said Alleyn, “it is not fitting that you should address a limb of the law as your poor pet on such a short acquaintance. I must confess that Tunbridge has been a difficulty. I have had exhaustive enquiries made. The Wildes, so far as I can trace them, know no one at Tunbridge, and you tell me they never visit the place. The letter said ‘destroy parcel in Tunbridge B.’ Why B.? The great detective is baffled, I do assure you.”

  “You’ll be the death of me,” Angela assured him. “Do you know anything about cabinet-making or Victorian objets d’art?”

  “I don’t collect them.”

  “Well, I shall for you—tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t the smallest intention of telling you,” said Angela.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Russian Element

  THERE WAS A SHORT SILENCE broken by Angela.

  “Does Nigel come with me to the Wildes’?” she asked.

  “If you don’t mind—no. I’ve a job for him here. We will both get into the car with you. Vassily will see us out and we two will leave the car once it is out of sight of the house. There is a garage two hundred yards up the street. Will you park the Bentley there and take a taxi to the Wildes. When you have got your parcel and had your Tunbridge fun, whatever it is—I’m trusting you there, young woman—please return to—where shall we say?—the Hungaria. I’ll book a table. Wait for us there. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Angela assured him. “What are you going to do?”

  “Honestly there isn’t time to tell you, and you must allow me my smack of officialdom.”

  Alleyn rang and Vassily appeared. The Inspector told him that he was going back to Frantock and would be away for two days. They put on their coats and hats and three minutes later were looking back at the silhouette of the old butler bowing in the lighted doorway.

  Angela drove the car up the cul-de-sac and into Coventry Street, stopping outside the garage Alleyn had indicated. He and Nigel got out.

  “Au revoir,” said Alleyn, leaning in at the driving window. “If we are not at the Hungaria by twelve, ring up this number and ask for Inspector Boys. Quote the code number written on the card, say who you are and ask him to raid my flat.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Good hunting.”

  “Good-bye darling,” shouted Nigel brazenly, and he and Alleyn walked back towards the flat. Alleyn spoke rapidly.

  “Listen carefully, Bathgate. Take a taxi to 128 Little Pryde Street and ask there for Mr. Sumiloff. He is working with me on the Russian side of this case and expects a call. Tell him I asked you to communicate with him and that he is to ring up my house and speak to Vassily in Russian. He is to say headquarters are unsafe but Kuprin suggests an immediate meeting of the committee in my house. If Vassily hesitates he is to say that I have been watched and have left in the Bentley for Frantock. He is to instruct Vassily and then summon the committee by telephone at once. He is to stress the fact that my house is the most unlikely and therefore the safest rendezvous. He is to suggest a password and all who arrive at the flat are to use it before gaining admittance. All this Sumiloff is to tell Vassily to organize. I will go over it again. Have you a pencil and paper? Good. Shorthand? Aren’t you the clever one? Then note the name. Sumiloff.” Alleyn went over his instructions again.

  “I’ve got that,” said Nigel.

  “Sumiloff is then to go to the flat and gain admittance by the use of the password. He is to say that Kuprin has been arrested for the murder of the Pole, Krasinski, and has asked him to go to the meeting in his stead. He must pitch a yarn to cover himself. Tell him to make certain of Yansen attending the meeting. Yansen cannot speak Russian, only Swedish and English. It is important he should be there. Note that down. That right? Now off you go.”

  “One moment, Alleyn,” said Nigel, “I understand that Vassily is in the thick of it after all.”

  “He’s in direct and constant communication with the brotherhood, but I do not wish him to think I suspect this. I am under the impression he yearns to be out of it, but dare not say so. I thought it better not to give you these instructions in the flat. Your manner is so very eloquent, Bathgate.”

  “Where do I go when the party is on?”

  “You? To the Hungaria, where you may inform Miss Angela of the situation. First of all, though, you wait with Sumiloff while he rings up Vassily. If Vassily agrees to receive the committee, you then ring him up yourself—no, wait a bit, that won’t do—yes, it will. Say you want the Frantock number as I have asked you to ring me up there tonight. Then go and book a table for three at the Hungaria and wait for us. Goodbye—you’ll like Sumiloff—he’s a charming fellow. Here’s a taxi for you.”

  Alleyn held up his stick and a taxi drew up at the curb. “We meet,” he said airily, “at Philippi.”

  “128 Little Pryde Street,” said Nigel to the driver. When he had opened the door and got in, Alleyn had already disappeared.

  “Damn it all,” said Nigel to himself, “I don’t in the least know what he’s going to do.”

  Mr. Sumiloff was at home and received Nigel. He was a fairish, slightish Russian who spoke excellent English.

  “I am delighted to see you,” he told Nigel. “Alleyn asked me to hold myself in readiness for a job tonight and mentioned your name. This horrible murder must have been a great shock to you as well as a personal loss. Now please what are our instructions? Let me give you a drink.”

  Nigel produced his notes and carefully repeated his lesson.

  “I see. A meeting of the committee at Alleyn’s flat. What an amusing idea. And Vassily is to receive them and I am to summon them—Yansen, the three Russians, but not Kuprin, wh
o is under arrest. I am to be Kuprin’s friend representing him. A little difficult that, but I think I know a way to manage it. Actually, is Kuprin under arrest?”

  “I’ve no idea. Who is Kuprin?”

  “He is the leader, the head of the organization in London. He killed Krasinski, no doubt of that. The Yard has been watching the brotherhood for two years. I also, for my friend Alleyn, have been watching and have wormed my way into their council.”

  Nigel told him of Tokareff’s arrest.

  “Do you think Tokareff killed my cousin, Mr. Sumiloff?”

  “I think—I think it very possible,” said Sumiloff, pulling the telephone towards him. He dialled a number and waited.

  “Now for Vassily Ivanovitch,” he murmured, and then, “Hullo, is that Mr. Alleyn’s flat? Is it Mr. Alleyn’s servant speaking? Ah—” Then followed a gusty and splashy speech in Russian, long pauses during which the tiny ghost of Vassily’s voice spoke from the earpiece. Finally Sumiloff rang off.

  “It’s all right so far,” he said. “Vassily is nervous but obedient. He is evidently terrified of the committee. He says Yansen knows where they all are hiding tonight. The rooms in Soho are watched by the police. He suggests that I ring Yansen up and tell him to collect the others. We may learn a great deal from this meeting. If Tokareff did it, they will certainly discuss his position. Yes—Alleyn has set an amusing trap for them.”

  He turned to a memoranda of exchange numbers on his desk and lifted the receiver again. This time the conversation was in English:

  “Ah, that you, Number Four? I am the friend of the boss. You remember we have met at his lodgings and at the general council. You know, of course, the boss is taken and also the doctor. I was with the boss when they came for him. He whispered me to call an immediate meeting at—”

  Sumiloff broke off to listen to a clatter of expostulation and alarm. A lengthy conversation followed. The bi-lingual Yansen seemed to be greatly perturbed.

  “Those are the boss’s instructions,” said Sumiloff. “The Yard man is safely out of London, Vassily knows and I myself have ascertained this. You know me—Sumiloff. If you like I will come and give my account. It is better not by telephone. Very well. In half an hour at Vassily’s then.” He rang off.

  “All right?” asked Nigel.

  “I think so.” Sumiloff looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”

  “Alleyn said I was to ring Vassily and pretend I wanted the Frantock number. That will confirm Vassily’s opinion that Alleyn is out of London.”

  “Of course. Will you ring up now, then?”

  Nigel dialled the number and in a minute heard Vassily’s voice, querulous and elderly, “Are you there?”

  “Hullo, Vassily, is that you?” began Nigel. “Look here, tell me the Frantock telephone number, will you? I want to get hold of Mr. Alleyn as soon as he arrives. It’s Mr. Bathgate speaking.”

  “Jyes, jyes, Mr. Bathgate, certainly. It is Frantock 59, sir. The exchange closes at twelve.”

  “Thank you so much, Vassily—sorry to bother you. Good-night.”

  “So far all right,” said Sumiloff. Nigel got up. “Don’t go yet. I shan’t start myself for twenty minutes. We can leave together,” suggested the Russian. “Is this your first acquaintance with Inspector Alleyn?”

  “Yes. He’s an extraordinarily interesting man,” said Nigel. “Not at all one’s idea of a Scotland Yard official.”

  “No? Well, I suppose not. He has had an expensive education,” said Sumiloff quaintly. “He began in the Diplomatic Service, it was then I first met him. It was for private reasons that he became a policeman. It’s a remarkable story. Perhaps some day he will tell you.”

  As it was evident that Sumiloff himself did not intend further to explain Inspector-Detective Alleyn, Nigel asked him to describe more fully the society whose activities they were investigating. He learnt that the London branch of the brotherhood had been in operation for some years. The organization itself was of amazing antiquity and was strong in the reign of Peter the Great, when it practised various indecent and horrible rites, based on a kind of inverted monasticism.

  “One of their favourite practices was to gather together in one house, work themselves into a sort of disgusting frenzy and then lock themselves in and set fire to the building. Unfortunately they did not all do this, so the brotherhood survived to turn itself into a political organization and to associate itself with the doctrines of the Soviet. Whether it has any official recognition I have not been able to discover, though, at Alleyn’s suggestion, I have become a member and have gone some way with the ritual.” He glanced at Nigel with a look of curious detachment. “I am, you see,” he ended, “a sort of stool pigeon. Unpaid. But I was a patriot once and I do not love the Soviet.”

  “And the knife?”

  “It is undoubtedly very old. Mongolian, I should say. Its association with the brotherhood is of long standing and it was used for mutilations in the old ritual. It has a hideous history, but the more fanatic among the brethren believe that it possesses extraordinary powers. Krasinski had been entrusted to bring it to England after a special meeting of the Society at Geneva—yes, at Geneva, my friend. We shall never know why he gave it to Mr. Rankin. Perhaps he was hard-pressed, or frightened, or perhaps he merely wished to leave it with a reliable personage. He was mad. The Poles are even madder than the Russians, Mr. Bathgate—and now I must go to my meeting.”

  “Where do you imagine Alleyn is at the moment?” asked Nigel as they went downstairs.

  Sumiloff did not answer at once. He switched the light off in his little hall.

  “At the moment?” his voice spoke quietly in the dark. “In his natural habitat, I should think.”

  Outside on the footpath a man paused to light his pipe. The match went out and he threw away the box with an exclamation of annoyance.

  “Want a light?” asked Sumiloff.

  “Thank you very much,” said the man and held out his hand.

  “Yard?” asked Sumiloff very quietly.

  “Yes, sir. Detailed by Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”

  “This gentleman is all right. I am going to the house now. I don’t expect trouble, but you know the arrangements, I suppose?”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Alleyn was very anxious we should keep out of sight, but as soon as the last of them’s in the house, we shall close in a bit.”

  “I hope you’ll be careful. They will certainly set a watch.”

  “Yes, sir. We were instructed this afternoon. I understand we don’t really mix in at all unless we get a message from the Hungaria restaurant. We are to wait in the empty shop opposite Mr. Alleyn’s house. The entrance is from the other street, and the young lady is to ring us there. It’s an unusual arrangement. Got a whistle, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you.” A solitary pedestrian approached.

  “Much obliged,” said the Yard man aloud.

  “Not at all. Good-night.”

  Sumiloff and Nigel walked on in silence until they had arrived at Lower Regent Street.

  “A whistle might be rather a clumsy method of alarm, “said Nigel, who was eaten up with curiosity.

  “Not this one,” rejoined Sumiloff. He produced a little metal disc which he placed under his tongue. “It is only to be used in an emergency,” he said. “Perhaps we had better part here.”

  “All right. Oh! Half a second. Did you give them a password?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I say, do tell me what it is?”

  “You are not grown up yet, I see. Well, there can be no harm. It is the name of the murdered Pole.”

  “Great hopping fleas, how dramatic! Good-night.”

  “Good-night, Mr. Bathgate.”

  Nigel turned in to the Hungaria and ordered a table. As he was not in evening dress it was among those at the back of the restaurant. Angela had not yet arrived. Nigel sat down in a state of mental fidget. There were not many people there at this hour and he found little to distract his over-stimulated ner
ves. He smoked three cigarettes on end, watched three couples dancing an enervated tango, and thought immediately of Rankin and Mrs. Wilde.

  Another solitary man came in and after a moment’s hesitation, sat down at the next table and ordered lager. The dance band was playing in the desultory manner that distinguishes the off hours in fashionable restaurants.

  “Do you want to order, sir?” murmured Nigel’s waiter.

  “No, thank you. I’ll wait until my—I’m waiting for someone—I’ll order when she comes.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Nigel lit a cigarette and tried to picture the scene in Alleyn’s house. He wished very much that Angela would come. He wished he were with Sumiloff. He wished he were a detective.

  “Excuse me,” said the man at the next table, “but can you tell me when the Hungarian band comes on?”

  “Not until midnight.”

  “That’s a long time,” said the stranger fretfully. “I’ve come on purpose to hear it. Very good, I’m told.”

  “Oh, frightfully,” said Nigel unenthusiastically.

  “They tell me,” continued his neighbour, “that some Russian is to sing here tonight. Lovely voice. He sings a thing called the Death of Boris.”

  Nigel gave a little hop, controlled himself and grunted darkly.

  “Everything O.K. so far?” murmured the man.

  This was too exciting! Nigel, with a still greater effort, muttered in the correct Sumiloff manner.

  “Yard?”

  “Yes. On my way to the appointment. Inspector Boys. Just thought I’d like to hear the latest.”