by Ngaio Marsh
“Hell!” Edward ejaculated. “At this pace he’ll kill himself.”
Breezy Bellairs had got a large artificial wreath. Dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief he knelt by Rivera, placed the wreath on his chest and felt his heart. He bent his head, groped frantically inside the wreath and then looked up with a startled expression in the direction of the tympani, where the spot light revealed Lord Pastern in an ecstatic fury, wading into his drums. His solo lasted about eighty seconds. During this time four waiters had come in with a stretcher. Bellairs spoke to them excitedly. Rivera was carried off while the saxophones made a grotesque lugubrious sobbing and Lord Pastern, by hitting his big drum and immediately releasing the tension, produced a series of muffled groans.
The metronome clacked to a standstill, the restaurant lights went up and the audience applauded generously. Breezy, white to the lips and trembling, indicated Lord Pastern, who joined him, glistening with sweat, and bowed. Breezy said something inaudible to him and to the pianist and went out, followed by Lord Pastern. The pianist, the double-bass and the three saxophonists began to play a dance tune.
“Good old George!” cried Félicité. “I think he was superb, Maman darling, don’t you? Ned, wasn’t he heaven?”
Edward smiled at her. “He’s astonishing,” he said, and added: “Cousin G, do you mind if Lisle and I dance? You will, won’t you, Lisle?”
Carlisle put her hand on his shoulder and they moved away. The headwaiter slid past them and stooped for a moment over a man at a table further down the room. The man rose, let his eyeglass fall and, with a preoccupied look, passed Carlisle and Edward on his way to the vestibule.
They danced in silence, companionably. At last Edward said: “What will he do next, do you suppose? Is there anything left?”
“I thought it dreadfully pathetic.”
“Quintessence of foolery. Lisle, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about that business before we left. I suppose I oughtn’t to have hit the fellow, considering the set-up with Fée, but really it was a bit too much. I’m sorry if I made an unnecessary scene, but I must say I enjoyed it.” When she didn’t answer, he said uncertainly: “Are you seriously annoyed? Lisle, you didn’t by any chance…”
“No,” she said. “No, I didn’t. I may as well confess I was extremely gratified.” His hand tightened on hers. “I stood,” she added, “in the door of my cave and preened myself.”
“Did you notice his ear? Not a cauliflower, but distinctly puffy, and a little trickle of blood. And then the unspeakable creature had the infernal nerve to goggle at you over his hurdy-gurdy.”
“It’s all just meant to be one in the eye for Fée.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“If it is, he’s not having much success.”
“How do you mean?” Edward asked sharply.
“Arst yerself, dearie.”
“You mean Fée…” He stopped short and turned very red. “Lisle,” he said, “about Fée… Something very odd has occurred. It’s astonishing, and, well, it’s damned awkward. I can’t explain but I’d like to think you understood.”
Carlisle looked up at him. “You’re not very lucid,” she said.
“Lisle, my dear… Lisle, see here…”
They had danced round to the band dais. Carlisle said: “Our waiter’s standing over there, watching us. I think he’s trying to catch your eye.”
“Be blowed to him.”
“Yes, he is. Here he comes.”
“It’ll be some blasted paper on my tracks. Yes, do you want me?”
The waiter had touched Edward’s arm. “Excuse me, sir. An urgent call.”
“Thank you. Come with me, Lisle. Where’s the telephone?”
The waiter hesitated, glanced at Carlisle and said: “If madam will excuse me, sir…” His voice sank to a murmur.
“Good Lord!” Edward said and took Carlisle by the elbow. “There’s been some sort of trouble. Cousin George wants me to go in. I’ll drop you at the table, Lisle.”
“What’s he up to now, for pity’s sake?”
“I’ll come as soon as I can. Make my excuses.”
As he went out Carlisle saw, with astonishment, that he was very pale.
In the vestibule, which was almost deserted, Edward stopped the waiter. “How bad is it?” he asked. “Is he badly hurt?”
The man raised his clasped hands in front of his mouth. “They say he’s dead,” said the waiter.
Breezy Bellairs sat at the little table in the inner office where he had played poker. When Edward came through the outer office he had heard scuffling and expostulations and he had opened the door upon a violent struggle. Breezy was being lugged to his feet from a squatting position on the floor and hustled across the room. He was slack, now, and unresisting. His soft hands scratched at the surface of the table. He was dishevelled and breathless; tears ran out of his eyes, and his mouth was open. David Hahn, the secretary, stood behind him and patted his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done it, old boy,” he said. “Honest. You shouldn’t have done a thing like that.”
“Keep off me,” Breezy whispered. Caesar Bonn, wringing his hands in the conventional gesture of distress, looked past Edward into the main office. The man with the eyeglass sat at the desk there, speaking inaudibly into the telephone.
“How did it happen?” Edward asked.
“Look,” Lord Pastern said.
Edward crossed the room. “You must not touch him,” Caesar Bonn gabbled. “Excuse me, sir, forgive me. Dr. Allington has said at once, he must not be touched.”
“I’m not going to touch him.”
He bent down. Rivera lay on the floor. His long figure was stretched out tidily against the far wall. Near the feet lay the comic wreath of flowers and a little farther off, his piano-accordion. Rivera’s eyes were open. His upper lip was retracted and the teeth showed. His coat was thrown open and the surface of his soft shirt was blotted with red. Near the top of the blot a short dark object stuck out ridiculously from his chest.
“What is it? It looks like a dart.”
“Shut that door,” Bonn whispered angrily. Hahn darted to the communicating door and shut it. Just before he did so, Edward heard the man at the telephone say: “In the office. I’ll wait for you, of course.”
“This will ruin us. We are ruined,” said Bonn.
“They will think it an after-hours investigation, that is all,” said Hahn. “If we keep our heads.”
“It will all come out. I insist we are ruined.”
In a voice that rose to a weak falsetto, Breezy said: “Listen boys. Listen Caesar, I didn’t know it was that bad. I couldn’t see. I wasn’t sure. I can’t be blamed for that, can I? I passed the word something was wrong to the Boys. It wouldn’t have made any difference if I’d acted different, would it, Dave? They can’t say anything to me, can they?”
“Take it easy, old man.”
“You did right,” Bonn said, vigorously. “If you had done otherwise — what a scene! What a debacle! And to no purpose. No, no, it was correct.”
“Yes, but look, Caesar, it’s terrible, the way we carried on. A cod funeral march and everything. I knew it was unlucky. I said so when he told me he wanted the other routine. All the Boys said so!” He pointed a quivering finger at Lord Pastern. “It was your idea. You wished it on us. Look where it’s landed us. What a notion, a cod funeral march!”
His mouth sagged and he began to laugh, fetching his breath in gasps and beating on the table.
“Shut up,” said Lord Pastern, irritably. “You’re a fool.”
The door opened and the man with the eyeglass came in. “What’s all this noise?” he asked. He stood over Breezy. “If you can’t pull yourself together, Mr. Bellairs,” he said, “we shall have to take drastic steps to make you.” He glanced at Bonn. “He’d better have brandy. Can you beat up some aspirin?”
Hahn went out. Breezy sobbed and whispered.
“The police,” said the man, “will be here in a mo
ment. I shall, of course, be required to make a statement.” He looked hard at Edward. “Who is this?”
“I sent for him,” said Lord Pastern. “He’s with my party. My cousin, Ned Manx, Dr. Allington.”
“I see.”
“I thought I’d like to have Ned,” Lord Pastern added wistfully.
Dr. Allington turned back to Breezy and picked up his wrist. He looked sharply at him. “You’re in a bit of a mess, my friend,” he remarked.
“It’s not my fault. Don’t look at me like that. I can’t be held responsible, my God.”
“I don’t suggest anything of the sort. Is brandy any good to you? Ah, here it is.”
Hahn brought it in. “Here’s the aspirin,” he said. “How many?” He shook out two tablets. Breezy snatched the bottle and spilt half a dozen on the table. Dr. Allington intervened and gave him three. He gulped them down with the brandy, wiped his face over with his handkerchief, yawned and shivered.
Voices sounded in the outer office. Bonn and Hahn moved towards Breezy. Lord Pastern planted his feet apart and lightly flexed his arms. This posture was familiar to Edward. It usually meant trouble. Dr. Allington put his glass in his eye. Breezy made a faint whispering.
Somebody tapped on the door. It opened and a thick-set man with grizzled hair came in. He wore a dark overcoat, neat, hard and unsmart, and carried a bowler hat. His eyes were bright and he looked longer and more fixedly than is the common habit at those he newly encountered. His sharp impersonal glance dwelt in turn upon the men in the room and upon the body of Rivera, from which they had stepped aside. Dr. Allington moved out from the group.
“Trouble here?” said the newcomer. “Are you Dr. Allington, sir? My chaps are outside. Inspector Fox.”
He walked over to the body. The doctor followed him and they stood together, looking down at it. Fox gave a slight grunt and turned back to the others. “And these gentlemen?” he said. Caesar Bonn made a dart at him and began to talk very rapidly.
“If I could just have the names,” said Fox and took out his notebook. He wrote down their names, his glance resting longer on Breezy than upon the others. Breezy lay back in his chair and gaped at Fox. His dinner-jacket with its steel buttons sagged on one side. The pocket was dragged down.
“Excuse me, sir,” Fox said, “are you feeling unwell?” He stooped over Breezy.
“I’m shot all to hell,” Breezy whimpered.
“Well, now, if you’ll just allow me…” He made a neat unobtrusive movement and stood up with the revolver in his large gloved hand.
Breezy gaped at it and then pointed a quivering hand at Lord Pastern.
“That’s not my gun,” he chattered. “Don’t you think it. It’s his. It’s his lordship’s. He fired it at poor old Carlos and poor old Carlos fell down like he wasn’t meant to. That’s right, isn’t it, chaps? Isn’t it, Caesar? God, won’t somebody speak up for me and tell the Inspector? His lordship handed me that gun.”
“Don’t you fret,” Fox said comfortably. “We’ll have a chat about it presently.” He dropped the revolver in his pocket. His sharp glance travelled again over the group of men. “Well, thank you, gentlemen,” he said and opened the door. “We’ll need to trouble you a little further, Doctor, but I’ll ask the others to wait in here, if you please.”
They filed into the main office. Four men already waited there. Fox nodded and three of them joined him in the inner room. They carried black canes and a tripod.
“This is Dr. Curtis, Dr. Allington,” said Fox. He unbuttoned his overcoat and laid his bowler on the table. “Will you two gentlemen take a look? We’ll get some shots when you’re ready, Thompson.”
One of the men set up a tripod and camera. The doctors behaved like simultaneous comedians. They hitched up their trousers, knelt on their right knees and rested their forearms on their left thighs.
“I was supping here,” said Dr. Allington. “He was dead when I got to him, which must have been about three to five minutes after this — ” he jabbed a forefinger at the blotch on Rivera’s shirt — “had happened. When I got here they had him where he is now. I made a superficial examination and rang the Yard.”
“Nobody tried to withdraw the weapon?” said Dr. Curtis and added: “Unusual, that.”
“It seems that one of them, Lord Pastern it was, said it shouldn’t be touched. Some vague idea of an effusion of blood following the withdrawal. They realized almost at once that he was dead. At a guess, would you say there’d been considerable penetration of the right ventricle? I haven’t touched the thing, by the way. Can’t make out what it is.”
“We’ll take a look in a minute,” said Dr. Curtis. “All right, Fox.”
“All right, Thompson,” said Fox.
They moved away. Their shadows momentarily blotted the wall as Thompson’s lamp flashed. Whistling under his breath he manoeuvred his camera, flashed and clicked.
“O.K., Mr. Fox,” he said at last.
“Dabs,” said Fox. “Do what you can about the weapon, Bailey.”
The finger-print expert, a thin dark man, squatted by the body.
Fox said: “I’d like to get a statement about the actual event. You can help us, there, Dr. Allington? What exactly was the set-up? I understand a gun was used against the deceased in the course of the entertainment.”
He had folded his overcoat neatly over the back of his chair. He now sat down, his knees apart, his spectacles adjusted, his notebook flattened out on the table. “If I may trouble you, Doctor,” he said. “In your own words, as we say.”
Dr. Allington fitted his glass in position and looked apologetic. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be a success,” he said. “To be quite frank, Inspector, I was more interested in my guest than in the entertainment. And, by the way, I’d like to make my apologies to her as soon as possible. She must be wondering where the devil I’ve got to.”
“If you care to write a note, sir, we’ll give it to one of the waiters.”
“What? Oh, all right,” said Dr. Allington fretfully. A note was taken out by Thompson. Through the opened door they caught a glimpse of a dejected group in the main office. Lord Pastern’s voice, caught midway in a sentence, said shrilly: “… entirely the wrong way about it. Making a mess, as usual…” and was shut off by the door.
“Yes, Doctor?” said Fox placidly.
“Oh God, they were doing some kind of idiotic turn. We were talking and I didn’t pay much attention except to say it was a pretty poor show, old Pastern making an ass of himself. This chap, here” — he looked distastefully at the body — “came out from the far end of the restaurant and made a hell of a noise on his concertina or whatever it is, and there was a terrific bang. I looked up and saw old Pastern with a gun of some sort in his hand. This chap did a fall, the conductor dropped a wreath on him and then he was carried out. About three minutes later they sent for me.”
“I’ll just get that down, if you please,” said Fox. With raised eyebrows and breathing through his mouth, he wrote at a steady pace. “Yes,” he said comfortably, “and how far, Doctor, would you say his lordship was from the deceased when he fired?”
“Quite close. I don’t know. Between five and seven feet. I don’t know.”
“Did you notice the deceased’s behaviour, sir, immediately after the shot was fired? I mean, did it strike you there was anything wrong?”
Dr. Allington looked impatiently at the door. “Strike me!” he repeated. “I wasn’t struck by anything in particular. I looked up when the gun went off. I think it occurred to me that he did a very clever fall. He was a pretty ghastly-looking job of work, all hair oil and teeth.”
“Would you say…” Fox began and was interrupted.
“I really wouldn’t say anything, Inspector. I’ve given you my opinion from the time I examined the poor devil… To go any further would be unprofessional and stupid. I simply wasn’t watching and therefore don’t remember. You’d better find somebody who did watch and does remember.”
; Fox had raised his head and now looked beyond Dr. Allington to the door. His hand was poised motionless over his notebook. His jaw had dropped. Dr. Allington slewed round and was confronted with a very tall dark man in evening dress.
“I was watching,” said this person, “and I think I remember. Shall I try, Inspector?”
“Good Lor’!” Fox said heavily and rose. “Well, thank you, Dr. Allington,” he said. “I’ll have a typed statement sent round to you to-morrow. Would you be good enough to read it through and sign it if it’s in order? We’ll want you for the inquest, if you please.”
“All right. Thanks,” said Dr. Allington, making for the door, which the newcomer opened. “Thanks,” he repeated. “Hope you make a better fist of it than I did, what?”
“Most unlikely, I’m afraid,” the other rejoined pleasantly and closed the door after him. “You’re in for a party, Fox,” he said, and walked over to the body. Bailey, the finger-print expert, said, “Good evening, sir,” and moved away, grinning.
“If I may ask, sir,” said Fox, “how do you come to be in on it?”
“May I not take mine ease in mine restaurant with mine wife? Shall there be no more cakes and ale? None for you, at all events, you poor chap,” he said, bending over Rivera. “You haven’t got the thing out yet, I see, Fox.”
“It’s been dabbed and photographed. It can come out.”
Fox knelt down. His hand wrapped in his handkerchief closed round the object that protruded from Rivera’s chest. It turned with difficulty. “Tight,” he said.
“Let me look, may I?”
Fox drew back. The other knelt beside him. “But what is it?” he said. “Not an orthodox dart. There’s thread at the top. It’s been unscrewed from something. Black. Silver-mounted. Ebony, I fancy. Or a dark bronze. What the devil is it? Try again, Fox.”
Fox tried again. He twisted. Under the wet silk the wound opened slightly. He pulled steadily. With a jerk and a slight but horrible sound, the weapon was released. Fox laid it on the floor and opened out the handkerchief. Bailey clicked his tongue.