by Ngaio Marsh
Alleyn took out his notebook, scribbled: “Get Thompson to tail W at once,” and showed it to Fox. “Give that message, will you, and see that Captain Withers’s telephone is reconnected immediately. As soon as it’s through, ring me here. What’s the number?”
“Sloane 8405,” said Withers.
“Right. I’ll join you, Fox.”
“Very good, sir,” said Fox. “Good morning, sir.”
Withers did not answer. Fox departed.
“When your telephone is working again,” Alleyn said, “I would be glad if you’d ring up Mr Donald Potter to suggest that as his mother is in great distress, you think it would be well if he stayed with her for the time being. You will send his property to Cheyne Walk in a taxi.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No. I am warning you. You are in rather uncertain country at the moment, you know.”
Alleyn walked over to the divan bed and looked at the books.
“Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence,” he murmured. “Is Mr Potter thinking of becoming a medical jurist?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Alleyn ruffled the pages of a large blue volume.
“Here we have the fullest information on asphyxia. Very interesting. May I borrow this book? I’ll return it to Mr Potter.”
“I’ve no objection. Nothing to do with me.”
“Splendid. Have you any objection to my looking at your dress clothes?”
“None,” said Withers.
“Thank you so much. If you wouldn’t mind showing them to me.”
Withers walked into the bedroom and Alleyn followed him. While Withers opened his wardrobe and pulled open drawers Alleyn had a quick look round the room. Apart from the photograph, which was frankly infamous, the only item of interest was a row of paper-bound banned novels of peculiar indecency and no literary merit whatsoever.
Withers threw a tail coat, a white waistcoat and a pair of trousers on the bed. Alleyn examined them with great care, smelt the coat and turned out the pockets, which were empty.
“Had you a cigarette-case?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“It’s in the next room.”
Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn, with a cat-like swiftness, looked under the bed and in at a cupboard door.
Withers produced a small, flat silver case.
“Is this the only case you possess?”
“It is.”
Alleyn opened it. The inside lid was inscribed: “Maurice from Estelle.” He returned it and took another from his pocket.
“Will you look at this case carefully, please, and tell me if you have seen it before?”
Withers took it. It was a thin, smooth, gold case, uninscribed, but with a small crest in one corner.
“Open it, will you, please?”
Withers opened it.
“Do you know it?”
“No.”
“You don’t by any chance recognise the crest?”
“No.”
“It is not Mr Donald Potter’s crest, for instance?”
Withers made a quick movement, opened his mouth, shut it again and said:
“It isn’t his. I’ve seen his. It’s on his links. They’re here somewhere.”
“May I see them?” said Alleyn, taking the case.
Withers crossed to the dressing-table. Alleyn rapidly wrapped his silk handkerchief round the case and put it in his pocket.
“Here they are,” said Withers.
Alleyn solemnly inspected Donald’s links and returned them.
The telephone rang in the next room.
“Will you answer it, please?” said Alleyn.
Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn whipped off the dust jacket from one of the banned novels and coolly slipped it in his overcoat pocket. He then followed Withers.
“It’s for you,” Withers said, “if you’re Alleyn.”
“Thank you.”
It was Fox; to say in an extremely low voice that Thompson was well on his way.
“Splendid,” said Alleyn. “Captain Withers wanted to use it at once.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to Withers.
“Now, please,” he said. “Will you telephone Mr Potter? I’d be glad if you would not mention that it was my suggestion. It would come more gracefully from you.”
Withers dialled the number with as bad a grace as well might be. He got Donald, whose voice came over in an audible quack.
“Hullo.”
“Hullo, Don, it’s Wits.”
“Oh, God, Wits, I’m most frightfully worried, I—”
“You’d better not talk about your worries on the telephone. I rang up to say I thought it might be as well if you stayed with your mother for a bit. She’ll want you there with all this trouble. I’ll send your things round.”
“Yes, but listen, Wits. About the house at—”
Captain Withers said: “You stay where you are,” and rang off.
“Thank you,” said Alleyn. “That will do nicely. How tall are you, Captain Withers?”
“Five foot eight and a half in my socks.”
“Just about Lord Robert’s height,” said Alleyn, watching him.
Withers stared blankly at him.
“I suppose there must be some sense in a few of the things you say,” he said.
“I hope so. Can you remember what Lord Robert was saying on the telephone when you walked into the room at one o’clock this morning?”
“What room?”
“At Marsdon House.”
“You’re talking through your hat. I never heard him on any telephone.”
“That’s all right then,” said Alleyn. “Were you on the top landing near the telephone-room round about one o’clock?”
“How the devil should I know? I was up there quite a bit.”
“Alone?”
“No. I was there with Don sometime during the supper dances. We were in the first sitting-out room. Old Carrados was up there then.”
“Did you hear anyone using a telephone?”
“Fancy I did, now you mention it.”
“Ah well, that’s the best we can do at the moment, I suppose,” said Alleyn, collecting Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence. “By the way, would you object to my searching these rooms? Just to clear your good name, you know.”
“You can crawl over them with a microscope, if you like.”
“I see. Thank you very much. Some other time, perhaps. Good morning.”
He’d got as far as the door when Withers said:
“Here! Stop!”
“Yes?”
Alleyn turned and saw a flat white finger pointed at his face.
“If you think,” said Captain Withers, “that I had anything to do with the death of this buffoon you’re wasting your time. I didn’t. I’m not a murderer and if I was I’d go for big game — not domestic pigs.”
Alleyn said: “You are fortunate. In my job we often have to hunt the most unpleasant quarry. A matter of routine. Good morning.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Report from a Waiter
In the street outside Alleyn met Detective-Sergeant Thompson, who did not look like a detective-sergeant. As Captain Withers’s windows enjoyed an uninterrupted view of Sling Street Alleyn did not pause to speak to Thompson, but he remarked to the air as they passed:
“Don’t lose him.”
Fox was waiting outside the post office.
“He’s a nasty customer, I should say,” he remarked as they fell into step.
“Who? Withers? I believe you, my old—”
“You were pretty well down on him, Mr Alleyn.”
“I was in a fix,” said Alleyn. “I’d have liked to raid this place at Leatherhead without giving him any warning, but the wretched Donald is sure to let him know what he told us and Withers will close down his gambling activities. The best we can hope for in that direction is that our man will find somethi
ng conclusive if he gets into the house. We’d better take a taxi to Dimitri’s. What time was he to be at the Yard?”
“Midday.”
“It’s a quarter to twelve. He ought to have left. Come on.”
They got a taxi.
“How about Withers?” asked Fox, staring solemnly at the driver’s back.
“For a likely suspect? He’s the right height to within an inch. Good enough in the cloak and hat to diddle the taxi-man. By the way, there’s nowhere in the bedroom where he could have stowed them. I saw inside the wardrobe and had a quick look under the bed and in the cupboard while he was on the telephone. Anyway, he said I could crawl over the flat with a microscope if I liked and he wasn’t calling my bluff either. If he’s got anything to hide it’s at the house at Leatherhead.”
“The motive’s not so hot,” said Fox.
“What is the motive?”
“He knew Lord Robert had recognized him and thought he was on his trail. He wants to get hold of the money and knows young Potter is the heir.”
“That’s two of his motives. But well? Damn,” said Alleyn, “nearly a quotation! Bunchy warned me against ’em. Associating with the peerage, that’s what it is. There’s a further complication. Mrs Halcut-Hackett may think Bunchy was a blackmailer. From his notes Bunchy seems to have got that impression. He was close to her when her bag was taken and had stuck to her persistently. If Withers is having an affair with the woman, she probably confided the blackmail stunt to him. Withers is possibly the subject of the Halcut-Hackett blackmail. The letter the blackmailer has got hold of may be one from Mrs H-H to Withers or t’other way round. If she told him she thought Lord Robert was the blackmailer—”
“That’s three of his motives,” said Fox.
“You may say so. On the other hand Withers may be the blackmailer. It’s quite in his line.”
“Best motive of all,” said Fox, “if he thought Lord Robert was on to him.”
“How you do drone on, you old devil. Well, if we want to, we can pull him in for having dirty novels in his beastly flat. Look at this.”
Alleyn pulled the book jacket out of his pocket. It displayed in primary colours a picture of a terrible young woman with no clothes on, a florid gentleman and a lurking harridan. It was entitled: The Confessions of a Procuress.
“Lor’!” said Fox. “You oughtn’t to have taken it.”
“What a stickler you are to be sure.” Alleyn pulled a fastidious grimace. “Can’t you see him goggling over it in some bolt-hole on the Côte d’Azur! I’ve got his nasty flat prints on my own cigarette-case. We’ll see if he’s handled Donald Potter’s ‘Taylor’. Particularly the sections that deal with suffocation and asphyxia. I fancy, Fox, that a Captain Withers who was uninstructed in the art of smothering would have made the customary mistake of using too much violence. We’ll have to see if he’s left any prints in this telephone room at Marsdon House.”
“The interruption,” said Fox thoughtfully. “As I see it, we’ve got to get at the identity of the individual who came in while Lord Robert was talking to you on the telephone. If the party’s innocent, well, there’ll be no difficulty.”
“And contrariwise. I tried to bounce Withers into an admission. Took it for granted he was the man.”
“Any good?”
“Complete wash-out. He never batted an eyelid. Seemed genuinely astonished.”
“It may have been Dimitri. At least,” said Fox, “we know Dimitri collects the boodle. What we want to find out is whether he’s on his own or working for someone else.”
“Time enough. Which brings us back to Bunchy’s broken sentence. ‘And he’s working with—’ With whom? Or is it with what? Hullo, one arrives.”
The taxi pulled up at a respectable old apartment house in the Cromwell Road. On the opposite pavement sat a young man mending the seat of a wicker chair.
“That’s Master James D’Arcy Carewe, detective-constable,” said Alleyn.
“What him!” cried Fox in a scandalized voice. “So it is. What’s he want to go dolling himself up in that rig for?”
“He’s being a detective,” Alleyn explained. “His father’s a parson and he learnt wicker-work with the Women’s Institute or something. He’s been pining to disguise himself ever since he took the oath.”
“Silly young chap,” said Fox.
“He’s quite a bright boy really, you know.”
“Why’s he still there, anyway?”
“Dimitri hasn’t left yet, evidently. Wait a moment.”
Alleyn slid back the glass partition of the taxi and addressed the driver:
“We’re police officers. In a minute or two a man will come out of this house and want a cab. Hang about for him. He will probably ask you to drive him to Scotland Yard. If he gives any other address I want you to write it quickly on this card while he is getting into the cab. Drop the card through the gear lever slit in the floor. Here’s a pencil. Can you do this?”
“Right you are, governor,” said the taximan.
“I want you to turn your car and pass that fellow mending a chair seat. Go as slow as you can, drive two hundred yards up the road and let us out. Then wait for your man. Here’s your fare and all the rest of it.”
“Thank you sir. OK, sir,” said the taximan.
He turned, Alleyn lowered the window and, as they passed the wicker expert, leant out and said:
“Carewe! Pick us up.”
The expert paid no attention.
“I told you he’s not as silly as he looks,” said Alleyn. “There we are.”
They got out. The taxi turned once more. They heard the driver’s hoarse: “Taxi, sir?” heard him pull up, heard the door slam, heard the cab drive away. “He hasn’t dropped his card,” said Alleyn staring after the taxi. They continued to walk up the Cromwell Road. Presently a cry broke out behind them.
“Chairs to mend! Chairs to mend!”
“There!” said Fox in exasperation. “Listen to him making an exhibition of himself! It’s disgraceful. That’s what it is. Disgraceful.”
They turned and found the wicker-worker hard at their heels, followed by long trails of withy.
“Sir!” said the wicker-worker in consternation.
“Tell me,” Alleyn went on, “why are you presenting the Cries of London to an astonished world?”
“Well, sir,” said the chair-mender, “following your instructions, I proceeded—”
“Quite. But you should understand by this time that the art of disguise is very often unnecessary and is to be attained by simpler means than those which embrace a great outlay in willow wands, envious slivers, and cabriole legs. What, may I ask, would you have done with all this gear when the hunt was up?”
“There’s a taxi rank round the corner, sir. If I whistled—”
“And a pretty sight you’d have looked,” said Fox indignantly, “whistling cabs in that rig-out. By the time you’d wound yourself in and out of that muck and got yourself aboard, your man would have been half-way to Lord knows where. If that’s the sort of stuff they teach you at—”
“Yes, all right, Fox,” said Alleyn hastily. “Very true. Now, look here, Carewe, you go away and undress and report to me at the Yard. You can go back by Underground. Don’t look so miserable or the old ladies will start giving you coppers.”
Carewe departed.
“Now then, Fox,” Alleyn continued, “give me a few minutes in that flat and then ring up as if from the Yard and keep Dimitri’s servant on the telephone as long as possible. You’d better have a list of names and places. Say Dimitri has given them to you and say you will be able to confirm them. All right?”
“Right oh, Mr Alleyn.”
“You can use the call-box at the taxi rank. Then away with you to the Yard and keep Dimitri going until I come. Arrange to have him tailed when he leaves.”
Alleyn returned to Dimitri’s flat which was on the ground floor. The door was opened by a thin dark man who exuded quintessence of waiter.<
br />
“Is Mr Dimitri in?” asked Alleyn.
“Monsieur has just left, sir. May I take a message?”
“He’s gone, has he?” said Alleyn very pleasantly. “What a bore, I’ve just missed him. Do you know if he was going to Scotland Yard?”
The man hesitated.
“I’m not sure, sir. I think—”
“Look here,” said Alleyn, “I’m Chief Inspector Alleyn. Here’s my card. I was in this part of the world and I thought I’d save Mr Dimitri the trouble of moving if I called. As I am here I may as well get you to clear up one or two points for me. Do you mind?”
“Please, sir! Not at all, but it is a little difficult—”
“It is rather, out here. May I come in?” asked Alleyn, and walked in without waiting for the answer.
He found himself in a sitting-room that had an air of wearing a touch of black satin at the neck and wrists but was otherwise unremarkable. The servant followed him and stood looking uneasily at his own hands.
“You will have guessed,” Alleyn began, “that I am here on business connected with the death of Lord Robert Gospell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The first thing I have to say is that we would be glad if you’d use great discretion in discussing this affair. Indeed it would be better if you did not discuss it at all, with anybody. Except of course, Mr Dimitri himself.”
The man looked relieved.
“But it is understood perfectly, sir. Monsieur has already warned me of this himself. I shall be most discreet.”
“Splendid. We feel it our duty to protect Mr Dimitri and any other person of position from the unpleasant notoriety that unfortunately accompanies such accidents as these.”
“Yes, certainly, sir. Monsier himself was most emphatic.”
“I’m sure he was. You will understand,” Alleyn went on, “that it is also necessary to have before us a clear account of the movements of many persons. What is your name?”
“François, sir, François Dupont.”
“Were you at Marsdon House last night?”
“Yes, sir. By an unusual chance I was there.”
“How did that happen?”
“An important member of our staff failed M. Dimitri yesterday afternoon. It seems that he was afflicted suddenly with appendicitis. M. Dimitri was unable to replace him satisfactorily at so short notice and I took his place.”