Death in a White Tie ra-7

by Ngaio Marsh

  “All right. You know Mrs Halcut-Hackett? Old General Halcut-Hackett’s wife?”

  “Yes. American actress. Twenty years younger than H-H. Gorgeous creature.”

  “That’s the one. She came to us last week with a story of blackmail. Here it is in this file. I’ll tell you briefly what she said, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one Madame X.”

  “Phoo!” said Lord Robert.

  “She told us that a very great woman-friend of hers had confided in her that she was being blackmailed. Mrs H-H wouldn’t give this lady’s name so there’s your Mrs X.”

  “Um,” said Lord Robert doubtfully. “Otherwise Mrs ’Arris?”

  “Possibly,” said Alleyn, “but that’s the story and I give it to you as Mrs H-H gave it to me. Mrs X, who has an important and imperious husband, received a blackmailing letter on the first of this month. It was written on Woolworth paper. The writer said he or she had possession of an extremely compromising letter written to Mrs X by a man-friend. The writer was willing to sell it for £500. Mrs X’s account is gone into very thoroughly every month by her husband and she was afraid to stump up. In her distress (so the story went) she flew to Mrs Halcut-Hackett who couldn’t provide £500 but persuaded Mrs X to let her come to us with the whole affair. She gave us the letter. Here it is.”

  Alleyn laid the file on Lord Robert’s plump little knees. Lord Robert touched his glasses and stared for quite thirty seconds at the first page in the file. He opened his mouth, shut it again, darted a glance at Alleyn, touched his glasses again and finally read under his breath:

  “ ‘If you would care to buy a letter dated April 20th, written from the Bucks Club addressed to Darling Dodo and signed M., you may do so by leaving £500 in notes of small denomination in your purse behind the picture of the Dutch funeral above the fireplace in the ballroom of Comstock House on the evening of next Monday fortnight.’ ”

  Lord Robert looked up.

  “That was the night the Comstocks ran their charity bridge-party,” he said. “Big show. Thirty tables. Let’s see, it was last Monday.”

  “It was. On the strength of this letter we saw the Comstocks, told them a fairy-story and asked them to let us send in a man dressed as a waiter. We asked Mrs H-H to get her distressed friend to put the purse full of notes, which we dusted with the usual powder, behind the Dutch funeral. Mrs H-H said she would save her friend much agony and humiliation by doing this office for her.” Alleyn raised one eyebrow and bestowed a very slow wink upon Lord Robert.

  “Poor thing,” said Lord Robert.

  “Did she suppose she’d taken you in?”

  “I don’t know. I kept up a polite pretence. Our man, who I may say is a good man, attended the party, saw Mrs H-H tuck away the bag, and waited to see what would happen.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Nothing. Our man was there all night and saw a maid discover the bag next morning, put it unopened on the mantelpiece and call Mrs Comstock’s attention to it. Mrs Comstock, in the presence of our man and the maid, opened it, saw the paper, was surprised, could find nothing to indicate the owner and told the maid to put it aside in case it was asked for.”

  “And what,” asked Lord Robert, suddenly hugging himself with his short arms, “what do you deduce from that, my dear Roderick?”

  “They rumbled our man.”

  “Is it one of the Comstocks’ servants?”

  “The whole show was done by Dimitri, the Shepherd Market caterer. You know who I mean, of course. He does most of the big parties nowadays. Supplies service, food and everything.”

  “One of Dimitri’s men?”

  “We’ve made extremely careful enquiries. They’ve all got splendid references. I’ve actually spoken to Dimitri himself. I told him that there had been one or two thefts lately at large functions and we were bound to make enquiries. He got in no end of a tig, of course, and showed me a mass of references for all his people. We followed them up. They’re genuine enough. He employs the best that can be found in the world. There’s a strict rule that all objects left lying about at these shows should be brought at once to him. He then, himself, looks to see if he can find the owner and in the case of a lost purse or bag returns it in person or else, having seen the contents, sends it by one of his men. He explained that he did this to protect both his men and himself. He always asks the owner to examine a bag the moment it is handed to her.”

  “Still—”

  “I know it’s by no means watertight but we’ve taken a lot of trouble over the Dimitri staff and in my opinion there’s not a likely man among ’em.”

  “Dimitri himself?”

  Alleyn grimaced.

  “Wonders will never cease, my dear Bunchy, but—”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I quite see. He’s a bit too damn grand for those capers, you’d imagine. Anything else?”

  “We’ve been troubled by rumours of blackmail from other sources. You can see the file if you like. Briefly they all point to someone who works in the way suggested by Mrs Halcut-Hackett alias Mrs X. There’s one anonymous letter sent to the Yard, presumably by a victim. It simply says that a blackmailer is at work among society people. Nothing more. We haven’t been able to trace it. Then young Kremorn shot himself the other day and we found out that he had been drawing very large sums in bank-notes for no known reason. His servant said he’d suspected blackmail for some time.” Alleyn rubbed his nose. “It’s the devil. And of all the filthy crimes this to my mind is the filthiest. I don’t mind telling you we’re in a great tig over it.”

  “Bad!” said Lord Robert, opening his eyes very wide. “Disgusting! Where do I come in?”

  “Everywhere, if you will. You’ve helped us before and we’ll be damn glad if you help us again. You go everywhere, Bunchy,” said Alleyn with a smile at his little friend. “You toddle in and out of all the smart houses. Lovely ladies confide in you. Heavy colonels weep on your bosom. See what you can see.”

  “Can’t break confidences, you know, can I! Supposing I get ’em.”

  “Of course you can’t, but you can do a little quiet investigation on your own account and tell us as much as—” Alleyn paused and added quickly: “As much as a man of integrity may. Will you?”

  “Love to!” said Lord Robert with a great deal of energy. “Matter of fact, but it’d be a rum go if it was — coincidence.”

  “What?”

  “Well. Well, see here, Roderick, this is between ourselves. Thing is, as I told you, I called on Evelyn Carrados this morning. Passing that way and saw a feller selling daffodils so thought I’d take her some. Damn pretty woman, Evelyn, but—” He screwed up his face. “Saddish. Never got over Paddy’s death, if you ask me. Devoted to the gel and the gel to her, but if you ask me Carrados comes the high horse a bit. Great pompous exacting touchy sort of feller, ain’t he? Evelyn was in bed. Snowed under with letters. Secretary. Carrados on the hearth-rug looking injured. Bridget came in later on. Well now. Carrados said he’d be off to the City. Came over to the bed and gave her the sort of kiss a woman doesn’t thank you for. Hand each side of her. Right hand under the pillow.”

  Lord Robert’s voice suddenly skipped an octave and became high-pitched. He leant forward with his hands on his knees, looking very earnestly at Alleyn. He moved his lips rather in the manner of a rabbit and then said explosively:

  “It was singular. It was damned odd. He must have touched a letter under her pillow because when he straightened up it was in his right hand — a common-looking envelope addressed in a sort of script — letters like they print ’em only done by hand.”

  Alleyn glanced quickly at the file but said nothing.

  “Carrados said: ‘Oh, one of your letters, m’dear,’ squinting at it through his glass and then putting it down on the counterpane. ‘Beg pardon,’ or something. Thing is, she turned as white as the sheet. I promise you as white as anything, on my honour. And she said: ‘It’s from one of my lame ducks. I must deal with it,’ and slid it und
er the others. Off he went, and that was that. I talked about their ball and so on and paid my respects and pretended I’d noticed nothing, of course, and, in short, I came away.”

  Still Alleyn did not speak. Suddenly Lord Robert jabbed at the letter in the file with his fat finger.

  “Thing is,” he said most emphatically. “Same sort of script.”

  “Exactly the same? I mean, would you swear to the same writer?”

  “No, no! ’Course not. Only got a glimpse of the other, but I rather fancy myself on handwriting, you know.”

  “We rather fancy you, too.”

  “It was very similar,” said Lord Robert. “It was exceedingly similar. On my honour.”

  “Good Lord,” said Alleyn mildly. “That’s what the Americans call a break. Coincidence stretches out a long arm. So does the law. ‘Shake,’ says Coincidence. Not such a very long arm, after all, if this pretty fellow is working among one class only and it looks as if he is.” He shoved a box of cigarettes in Lord Robert’s direction. “We had an expert at that letter — the Mrs H-H one you’ve got there. Woolworth paper. She didn’t show us the envelope, of course. Woolworth ink and the sort of nib they use for script writing. It’s square with a feeder. You notice the letters are all neatly fitted between the ruled lines. That and the script nib and the fact that the letters are careful copies of ordinary print completely knocks out any sort of individuality. There were no finger-prints and Mrs Halcut-Hackett hadn’t noticed the postmark. Come in!”

  A police constable marched in with a packet of letters, laid them on the desk and marched out again.

  “Half a moment while I have a look at my mail, Bunchy; there may just be — yes, by gum, there is!”

  He opened an envelope, glanced at a short note, unfolded an enclosure, raised his eyebrows and handed it to Lord Robert.

  “Wheeoo!” whistled Lord Robert.

  It was a sheet of common ruled paper. Three or four rows of script were fitted neatly between the lines. Lord Robert read aloud:

  “ ‘Unforeseen circumstances prevented collection on Monday night. Please leave bag with same sum down between seat and left-hand arm of blue sofa in concert-room, 57 Constance Street, next Thursday afternoon.’ ”

  “Mrs Halcut-Hackett,” said Alleyn, holding out the note, “explains that her unfortunate friend received this letter by yesterday evening’s post. What’s happening on Thursday at 57 Constance Street? Do you know?”

  “Those new concert-rooms. Very smart. It’s another charity show. Tickets on sale everywhere. Three guineas each. Chamber music. Bach. Sirmione Quartette. I’m going.”

  “Bunchy,” said Alleyn, “let nothing wean you from the blue sofa. Talk to Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Share the blue sofa with her and when the austere delights of Bach knock at your heart pay no attention but with the very comment of your soul—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Don’t quote now, Roderick, or somebody may think you’re a detective.”

  “Blast you!” said Alleyn.

  Lord Robert gave a little crowing laugh and rose from his chair.

  “I’m off,” he said. Alleyn walked with him into the corridor. They shook hands. Alleyn stood looking after him as he walked away with small steps, a quaint out-of-date figure, black against a window at the end of the long passage. The figure grew smaller and smaller, paused for a second at the end of the passage, turned the corner and was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sequence to a Cocktail-party

  A few days after his visit to the Yard, Lord Robert Gospell attended a cocktail-party given by Mrs Halcut-Hackett for her plain protégée. Who this plain protégée was, nobody seemed to know, but it was generally supposed that Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s object in bringing her out was not entirely philanthropic. At the moment nobody ever remembered the girl’s name but merely recognized her as a kind of coda to Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s social activities.

  This was one of the first large cocktail-parties of the season and there were as many as two hundred and fifty guests there. Lord Robert adored parties of all kinds and was, as Alleyn had pointed out, asked everywhere. He knew intimately that section of people to whom the London season is a sort of colossal hurdle to be taken in an exhilarating leap or floundered over as well as may be. He was in tremendous demand as a chaperone’s partner, could be depended on to help with those unfortunate children of seventeen who, in spite of all the efforts of finishing schools, dressmakers, hairdressers, face-specialists and their unflagging mothers, were apt to be seen standing alone nervously smiling on the outskirts of groups. With these unhappy débutantes Lord Robert took infinite trouble. He would tell them harmless little stories and when they laughed would respond as if they themselves had said something amusing. His sharp little eyes would search about for younger men than himself and he would draw them into a group round himself and the girl. Because of his reputation as a gentle wit, the wariest and most conceited young men were always glad to be seen talking to Lord Robert, and soon the débutante would find herself the only girl in a group of men who seemed to be enjoying themselves. Her nervous smile would vanish and a delicious feeling of confidence would inspire her. And when Lord Robert saw her eyes grow bright and her hands relax, he would slip away and join the cluster of chaperones where he told stories a little less harmless and equally diverting.

  But in the plain protégée of General and Mrs Halcut-Hackett he met his Waterloo. She was not so very plain but only rather disastrously uneventful. Every inch of this unhappy child had been prepared for the cocktail-party with passionate care and at great expense by her chaperone — one of those important American women with lovely faces and cast-iron figures. Lord Robert was greeted by Mrs Halcut-Hackett, who looked a little older than usual, and by her husband the General, a notable fire-eater who bawled “What!” two or three times and burst into loud surprising laughter which was his method of circulating massed gaiety. Lord Robert twinkled at him and passed on into the thick of the party. A servant whom he recognized as the Halcut-Hackett’s butler gave him a drink. “Then they’re not having Dimitri or anybody like that,” thought Lord Robert. He looked about him. On the right-hand side of the enormous room were collected the débutantes, and the young men who, in the last analysis, could make the antics of the best dance-bands in London, all the efforts of all the Dimitris, Miss Harrises, and Mrs Halcut-Hacketts to the tune of a thousand pounds, look like a single impotent gesture. Among them were the young men who were spoken of, in varying degrees of irony, as “The Debs’ Delight.” Lord Robert half suspected his nephew Donald of being a Debs’ Delight. There he was in the middle of it all with Bridget O’Brien, making himself agreeable. Very popular, evidently. “He’ll have to settle down,” thought Lord Robert. “He’s altogether too irresponsible and he’s beginning to look dissipated. Don’t like it.”

  Then he saw the plain protégée of Mrs Halcut-Hackett. She had just met a trio of incoming débutantes and had taken them to their right side of the room. He saw how they all spoke politely and pleasantly to her but without any air of intimacy. He saw her linger a moment while they were drawn into the whirlpool of high-pitched conversation. Then she turned away and stood looking towards the door where her chaperone dealt faithfully with the arrivals. She seemed utterly lost. Lord Robert crossed the room and greeted her with his old-fashioned bow.

  “How-de-do. This is a good party,” he said, with a beaming smile.

  “Oh! Oh — I’m so glad.”

  “I’m an old hand, y’know,” continued Lord Robert, “and I always judge a cocktail-party by the time that elapses between one’s paying one’s respects and getting a drink. Now this evening I was given this excellent drink within two minutes of shaking hands with the General. Being a thirsty, greedy old customer, I said to myself: ‘Good party.’ ”

  “I’m so glad,” repeated the child.

  She was staring, he noticed, at her chaperone, and he saw that Mrs Halcut-Hackett was talking to a tall smooth man with a heavy face, lack-lustre eyes and
a proprietary manner. Lord Robert looked fixedly at this individual.

  “Do tell me,” he said, “who is that man with our hostess?”

  The girl started violently and without taking her gaze off Mrs Halcut-Hackett, said woodenly: “It’s Captain Withers.”

  “Ah,” thought Lord Robert, “I fancied it was.” Aloud he said: “Withers? Then it’s not the same feller. I rather thought I knew him.”

  “Oh,” said the protégée. She had turned her head slightly and he saw that she now looked at the General. “Like a frightened rabbit,” thought Lord Robert. “For all the world like a frightened rabbit.” The General had borne down upon his wife and Captain Withers. Lord Robert now witnessed a curious little scene. General Halcut-Hackett glared for three seconds at Captain Withers who smiled, bowed, and moved away. The General then spoke to his wife and immediately, for a fraction of a second, the terror — Lord Robert decided that terror was not too strong a word — that shone in the protégée’s eyes was reflected in the chaperone’s. Only for a second, and then with her husband she turned to greet a new arrival who Lord Robert saw with pleasure was Lady Alleyn. She was followed by a thin girl with copper-coloured hair and slanting eyebrows that at once reminded him of his friend Roderick. “Must be the niece,” he decided. The girl at his side suddenly murmured an excuse and hurried away to greet Sarah Alleyn. Lord Robert finished his drink and was given another. In a few minutes he was surrounded by acquaintances and was embarked upon one of his new stories. He made his point very neatly, drifted away on the wave of laughter that greeted it, and found Lady Alleyn.

  “My dear Bunchy,” she said, “you are the very person I hoped to see. Come and gossip with me. I feel like a phoenix.”

  “You look like a princess,” he said. “Why do we meet so seldom? Where shall we go?”

  “If there is a corner reserved for grandmothers I ought to be in it. Good heavens, how everybody screams. How old are you, Bunchy?”