Photo Finish ra-31

by Ngaio Marsh

  He had been careful not to tread on the narrow strip of earth that separated the path from the wall and now, squatting, was able to examine it. It had been recently trampled by a number of persons. To hell with the search party, thought Alleyn.

  He moved farther along the path, passing a garden seat and keeping as far away as was possible from the windows. The thicket of fern and underbrush on his right was broken here and there by forays, he supposed, of the hunt, successfully ruining any signs there might have been of an intruder taking cover. Presently the path branched away from the house into the bush to emerge, finally, at the hangar.

  Inside the hangar there was ample evidence of Marco’s proceedings. The earthy shortcut he had taken had evidently been damp, and Alleyn could trace his progress on the asphalt floor exactly as he had described it.

  Alleyn crossed the landing ground, scorching under the noonday sun. Sounds from the concert chamber had faded. There was no bird song. He found the path through the bush to the lakeside and followed it: dark green closed about him and the now familiar conservatory smell of wet earth and moss.

  It was only a short distance to the lake, and soon the bush began to thin out, admitting shafts of sunlight. It must have been about here that Marco said he had spotted the protective cap from the camera. Alleyn came out into the open and there, as he remembered them from his morning walk, were the lake and overhead power lines reaching away to the far shore.

  Alleyn stood for a time out there by the lakeside. The sun that beat down on his head spread a kind of blankness over the landscape, draining it of color. He absentmindedly reached into his pocket for his pipe and touched a small hard object. It was the lens cap, wrapped in his handkerchief. He took it out and uncovered it, being careful not to touch the surface: a futile precaution, he thought, after Marco’s handling of the thing.

  It was from a well-known make of camera, which produced self-developing instant results. The trade name was stamped on the top.

  He folded it up and returned it to his pocket. In a general way he did not go much for “inspiration” in detective work, but if ever he had been visited by such a bonus, it was at that moment down by the lake.

  Chapter four

  Performance

  i

  Early in the morning of the following day there came a change in the weather. A wind came up from the northwest, not a strong wind and not steady, but rather it was a matter of occasional brushes of cooler air on the face and a vague stirring among the trees around the house. The sky was invaded by oncoming masses of cloud, turrets and castles that mounted and changed and multiplied. The Lake was no longer glassy but wrinkled. Tiny wavelets slapped gently at the shore.

  At intervals throughout the morning new guests would arrive: some by chartered plane to the nearest airport and thence by helicopter to the island, others by train and car and a contingent of indigenous musical intelligentsia by bus. The launch would be very active.

  A piano tuner arrived and could be heard dabbing away at single notes and, to the unmusical ear, effecting no change in their pitch.

  Sir David Baumgartner, the distinguished musicologist and critic, was to stay overnight at the Lodge, together with a Dr. Carmichael, a celebrated consultant who was also president of the New Zealand Philharmonic Society. The remainder faced many dark hours in launch, bus and cars and in midmorning would be returned wan and bemused to their homes in Canterbury.

  The general idea, as far as the Sommita had concerned herself with their reaction to these formidable exertions, was that the guests would be so enraptured by their entertainment as to be perfectly oblivious of all physical discomfort. In the meantime she issued a command that the entire house party was to assemble outside the house for Mr. Ben Ruby to take a mass photograph. They did so in chilly discomfort under a lowering sky.

  “Eyes and teeth to the camera, everybody,” begged Mr. Ruby.

  The Sommita did not reappear at luncheon and was said to be resting. It was, on the whole, a quiet meal. Even Signor Lattienzo did little to enliven it. Rupert Bartholomew, looking anguished, ate nothing, muttered something to the effect that he was needed in the concert chamber, and excused himself. Mr. Reece made ponderous small talk with Troy while Alleyn, finding himself next to Miss Hilda Dancy, did his best. He asked her if she found opening nights trying and she replied in vibrant contralto, “When they are important,” clearly indicating that this one was not. After Rupert had left them she said, “It’s a crying shame.”

  “A crying shame?” he ventured. “How?”

  “You’ll see,” she prophesied. “Cannibal!” she added and, apart from giving him a dark look which he was unable to interpret, though he thought he could make a fairly good guess, she was disinclined for any further conversation.

  After luncheon the Alleyns went up to the studio, where he related the story of the interloper and the camera cap. When he had finished and Troy had taken time to think it over, she said: “Rory, do you think he’s still on the Island? The photographer?”

  “The photographer? Yes,” he said, and something in his voice made her stare at him. “I think the photographer’s here. I’ll tell you why.” And he did.

  For the rest of the afternoon Troy brooded over her drawings and made some more. Sounds of arrival were heard from time to time. Beyond the great window the prospect steadily darkened and the forest on the far shore moved as if brushed by an invisible hand. “The arrivals by launch will have a rough trip,” said Alleyn. The helicopter flapped down to its landing place and discharged an imposing personage in a black overcoat and hat. “Sir David Baumgartner, no less,” said Alleyn and then, “Troy, you saw me outside that window, didn’t you? Do you think you would have been bound to notice a photographer if one had operated through that same window?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “not bound to at all. I was working.”

  “So you were,” he agreed. “I think I’ll take a look.”

  And he went downstairs to the concert chamber. When he arrived, there was no one to be seen but Hanley, who was evidently stage manager for the production, superintending three imported electricians in the management of the lights and seeming to be in a state of controlled dementia. Whatever the climate outside might be, inside it was electric.

  Alleyn heard Hanley demand at large: “Well, where the hell is he? He ought to be here. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The curtain that separated the apron from the stage proper was open and the acting areas were prepared for the performance. A realistic set had not been attempted. A blue cloth had been hung behind the pillars and the central entrance was flanked by two stylized sheafs of corn. Three sumptuously draped seats completed the decor.

  Alleyn sat where Troy had sat to make her drawings. The window in question was still uncurtained and open. Such had been her concentration that he thought she would not have noticed him if he had not leaned over the sill.

  Hanley said to the electricians, “It’s easy, really. You’ve marked the areas where Madame Sommita stands, and you’ve got them covered. Fade up when she’s there and fade down when she moves away. Otherwise there are no lights cues: they stay as set throughout. Cover the windows and we’ll run it through once more.”

  He turned to Alleyn. “Have you seen Rupert?” he asked. “He was to be here half an hour ago to give the music cues. They went all to blazes at the dress rehearsal. Honestly, it’s too much.”

  “I’ll see if I can find him,” he volunteered.

  “Super of you,” gushed Hanley with a desperate return to his secretarial manner. “Thank you so much.”

  Alleyn thought that a hunt for the unhappy Rupert might well turn out to be as fruitless as the one for a problematical photographer, but he struck it lucky, if that was the appropriate word, at the first cast, which was Mr. Reece’s spectacular study.

  He wondered if a visitor was expected to knock or even to make an appointment before venturing upon this sanctum, but decided to effect an entrance in the
normal manner. He opened the door and walked in.

  The actual entrance was shut off from the room by a large leather screen, the work of a decorator much in vogue. Alleyn came in to the sound of Mr. Reece’s voice.

  “—remind you of the favors you have taken at her hands. And this is how you would choose to repay them. By making her a laughingstock. You allow us to engage celebrated artists, to issue invitations, to bring people of the utmost distinction halfway across the world to hear this thing, and now propose to tell them that after all there will be no performance and they can turn round and go back again.”

  “I know. Do you think I haven’t thought of all this! Do you think — please, please believe me — Bella, I beg you—”

  “Stop!”

  Alleyn, behind the screen and about to beat a retreat, fetched up short as if the command had been directed at him. It was the Sommita.

  “The performance,” she announced, “will take place. The violin is competent. He will lead. And you, you who have determined to break my heart, will sulk in your room. And when it is over you will come to me and weep your repentance. And it will be too late. Too late. You will have murdered my love for you. Ingrate!” shouted the Sommita. “Poltroon! So!”

  Alleyn heard her masterful tread. As he had no time to get away, he stepped boldly out of cover and encountered her face-to-face.

  Her own face might have been a mask for one of the Furies. She made a complicated gesture, and for a moment he thought that actually she might haul off and hit him, blameless as he was, but she ended up by grasping him by his coat collar, giving him a ferocious précis of their predicament, and ordering him to bring Rupert to his senses. When he hesitated, she shook him like a cocktail, burst into tears, and departed.

  Mr. Reece, standing with authority on his own hearthrug, had not attempted to stem the tide of his dear one’s wrath nor was it possible to guess at his reaction to it. Rupert sat with his head in his hands, raising it momentarily to present a stricken face.

  “I’m so sorry,” Alleyn said; “I’ve blundered in with what is clearly an inappropriate message.”

  “Don’t go,” said Mr. Reece. “A message? For me?”

  “For Bartholomew. From your secretary.”

  “Yes? He had better hear it.”

  Alleyn delivered it. Rupert was wanted to set the lights.

  Mr. Reece asked coldly, “Will you do this? Or is it going too far to expect it?”

  Rupert got to his feet. “Well,” he asked Alleyn, “what do you think, now? Do you say I should refuse?”

  Alleyn said: “I’m not sure. It’s a case of divided loyalties, isn’t it?”

  “I would have thought,” said Mr. Reece, “that any question of loyalty was entirely on one side. To whom is he loyal if he betrays his patrons?”

  “Oh,” Alleyn said, “to his art.”

  “According to him, he has no ‘art.’ ”

  “I’m not sure,” Alleyn said slowly, “whether, in making his decision, it really matters. It’s a question of aesthetic integrity.”

  Rupert was on his feet and walking toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mr. Reece said sharply.

  “To set the lights. I’ve decided,” said Rupert loudly. “I can’t stick this out any longer. I’m sorry I’ve given so much trouble. I’ll see it through.”

  ii

  When Alleyn went up to their room in search of Troy, he found her still suffering from jet lag, fast asleep on their enormous bed. At a loose end, and worried about Rupert Bartholomew’s sudden capitulation, Alleyn returned downstairs. He could hear voices in the drawing room and concert chamber. Outside the house, a stronger wind had got up.

  Midway down the hall, opposite the dining room, there was a door which Mr. Reece had indicated as opening into the library. Alleyn thought he would find himself something to read and went in.

  It might have been created by a meticulous scene painter for an Edwardian drama. Uniform editions rose in irremovable tiers from floor to ceiling, the result, Alleyn supposed, of some mass-ordering process: classics, biographies, and travel. There was a section devoted to contemporary novels, each a virgin in its unmolested jacket. There was an assembly of “quality” productions that would have broken the backs of elephantine coffee tables, and there were orderly stacks of the most popular weeklies.

  He wandered along the ranks at a loss for a good read and high up in an ill-lit corner came upon a book that actually bore signs of usage. It was unjacketed and the spine was rubbed. He drew it out and opened it at the title page.

  Il Mistero da Bianca Rossi, by Pietro Lamparelli. Alleyn didn’t read Italian with the complete fluency that alone gives easy pleasure but the title was an intriguing surprise. He allowed the half-title page to flip over and there on the flyleaf in sharp irregular characters was the owner’s name, M. V. Rossi.

  He settled down to read it.

  An hour later he went upstairs and found Troy awake and refreshed.

  The opera, a one-acter which lasted only an hour, was to begin at eight o’clock. It would be prefaced by light snacks with drinks and followed by a grand dinner party.

  “Do you suppose,” Troy wondered, as they dressed, “that a reconciliation has taken place?”

  “I’ve no idea. She may go for a magnificent acceptance of his surrender or she may not be able to do herself out of the passionate rapture bit. My bet would be that she’s too professional to allow herself to be upset before a performance.”

  “I wish he hadn’t given in.”

  “He’s made the harder choice, darling.”

  “I suppose so. But if she does take him back — it’s not a pretty thought.”

  “I don’t think he’ll go. I think he’ll pack his bags and go back to teaching the piano and playing with his small Sydney group and doing a little typing on the side.”

  “Signor Lattienzo did say there were two or three signs of promise in the opera.”

  “Did he? If he’s right, the more shame on that termagant for what she’s done to the boy.”

  They were silent for a little while after this and then Troy said: “Is there a window open? It’s turned chilly, hasn’t it?”

  “I’ll look.”

  The curtains had been closed for the night. Alleyn parted them, and discovered an open window. It was still light outside. The wind had got up strongly now; there was a great pother of hurrying clouds in the sky and a wide vague sound abroad in the evening.

  “It’s brewing up out there,” Alleyn said. “The Lake’s quite rough.” He shut the window.

  “Not much fun for the guests going home,” said Troy and then: “I’ll be glad, won’t you, when this party’s over?”

  “Devoutly glad.”

  “Watching that wretched boy’s ordeal, it’ll be like sitting out an auto-da-fé,” she said.

  “Would you like to have a migraine? I’d make it sound convincing.”

  “No. He’d guess. So, oh Lord, would she.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Should we go down, now, darling, to our champagne and snacks?”

  “I expect so. Rory, your peculiar mission seems to have got mislaid, doesn’t it? I’d almost forgotten about it. Do you, by any chance, suppose Mr. Reece to be a ‘Godfather’ with an infamous Sicilian ‘Family’ background?”

  “He’s a cold enough fish to be anything but—” Alleyn hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said. “So far, there’s been nothing to report. I shall continue to accept his hospitality and will no doubt return empty-handed to my blasted boss. I’ve little stomach for the job, and that’s a fact. If it wasn’t for you, my particular dish, and your work in hand, I’d have even less. Come on.”

  Notwithstanding the absence of Rupert and all the performers, the drawing room was crowded. About thirty guests had arrived by devious means and were being introduced to each other by Mr. Reece and his secretary. There were top people from the Arts Council, various conductors and a selection of indigenous criti
cs, notably a prestigious authority from the New Zealand Listener. Conspicuous among the distinguished guests from abroad was a large rubicund man with drooping eyelids and a dictatorial nose: Sir David Baumgartner, the celebrated critic and musicologist. He was in close conversation with Signor Lattienzo, who, seeing the Alleyns, gave them one of his exuberant bows, obviously told Sir David who they were, and propelled him toward them.

  Sir David told Troy that it really was a great honor and a delightful surprise to meet her and asked if it could be true that she was going to paint the Great Lady. He chaffed Alleyn along predictable lines, saying that they would all have to keep their noses clean, wouldn’t they? He spoke gravely of the discomforts of his journey. It had come upon him, to put it bluntly, at a most inconvenient time and if it had been anybody else— here he gave them a roguish glance — he wouldn’t have dreamed of — he need say no more. The implication clearly was that The Alien Corn had better be good.

  Lobster sandwiches, pâté, and miniature concoctions of the kind known to Mr. Justice Shallow as “pretty little tiny kickshaws” were handed round and champagne galore. Sir David sipped, raised his eyebrows and was quickly ready for a refill. So were all the new arrivals. Conversation grew noisy.

  “Softening-up process,” Alleyn muttered.

  And indeed by ten minutes to eight all signs of travel fatigue had evaporated and when Marco, who had been much in evidence, tinkled up and down on a little xylophone, he was obliged to do so for some time like a ship’s steward walking down corridors with a summons to dinner.

  Ben Ruby and Mr. Reece began a tactful herding toward the concert chamber.

  The doors were open. The audience assembled itself.

  The chairs in the front rows were ticketed with the names of the houseguests and some of the new arrivals who evidently qualified as V.I.P.s. Troy and Alleyn were placed on the left of Mr. Reece’s empty chair, Sir David and Signor Lattienzo on its right, with Ben Ruby beyond them. The rest of the élite comprised the conductor of the New Zealand Philharmonic Orchestra and his wife, three professors of music from as many universities, an Australian newspaper magnate, and four representatives of the press — which press exactly had not been defined. The remainder of an audience of about fifty chose their own seats, while at the back the household staff was feudally accommodated.