Photo Finish ra-31

by Ngaio Marsh

  Chapter eight

  The Police

  i

  “From now on,” Alleyn said to Dr. Carmichael, “it would be nice to maintain a masterly inactivity. I shall complete my file and hand it over, with an anxious smirk, to Inspector Hazelmere in, please God, the course of a couple of hours or less.”

  “Don’t you feel you’d like to polish it off yourself? Having gone so far?”

  “Yes, Rory,” said Troy. “Don’t you?”

  “If Fox and Bailey and Thompson could walk in, yes, I suppose I do. That would be, as Noel Coward put it, ‘an autre paire de souliers.’ But this hamstrung solo, poking about without authority, has been damned frustrating.”

  “What do you suppose the chap that’s coming will do first?”

  “Inspect the body and the immediate environment. He can’t look at my improvised dabs-and-photographs, because they are still in what Lattienzo calls the womb of the camera. He’ll take more of his own.”

  “And then?”

  “Possibly set up a search of some if not all of their rooms. I suggested he bring a warrant. And by that same token did your bed-making exercise prove fruitful? Before or after the envelope-and-ashes episode?”

  “A blank,” said Dr. Carmichael. “Hanley has a collection of bedside books with Wilde and Gide at the top and backstreet Marseilles at the bottom, but all with the same leitmotiv.”

  “And Ben Ruby,” said Troy, “has an enormous scrapbook of newspaper cuttings all beautifully arranged and dated and noted and with all the rave bits in the reviews underlined. For quotation in advance publicity, I suppose. It’s got the Strix photographs and captions and newspaper correspondence, indignant and supportive. Do you know there are only seven European Strix photographs, two American, and four Australian, including the retouched one in the Watchman? Somehow one had imagined, or I had, a hoard of them. Signor Lattienzo’s got a neat little pile of letters in Italian on his desk. Mr. Reece has an enormous colored photograph framed in silver of the diva in full operatic kit — I wouldn’t know which opera, except that it’s not Butterfly. And there are framed photographs of those rather self-conscious slightly smug walking youths in the Athens Museum. He’s also got a marvelous equestrian drawing in sanguine of a nude man on a stallion which I could swear is a da Vinci original. Can he be as rich as all that? I really do swear it’s not a reproduction.”

  “I think he probably can,” said Alleyn.

  “What a shut-up sort of man he is,” Troy mused. “I mean who would have expected it? Does he really appreciate it or has he just acquired it because it cost so much? Like the diva, one might say.”

  “Perhaps not quite like that,” said Alleyn.

  “Do you attach a lot of weight to Signor Lattienzo’s observations?” asked the doctor suddenly. “I don’t know what they were, of course.”

  “They were confidential. They cast a strongly Italian flavor over the scene. Beyond that,” said Alleyn, “my lips are sealed.”

  “Rory,” Troy asked, “are you going to see Maria again? Before the police arrive?”

  “I’ve not quite decided. I think perhaps I might. Very briefly.”

  “We mustn’t ask why, of course,” said Carmichael.

  “Oh yes, you may. By all means. If I do see her, it will be to tell her that I shall inform the police of her request to— attend to her mistress and shall ask them to accede to it. When they’ve finished their examination of the room, of course.”

  “You will?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Well, then — Are you going to explain why?”

  “Certainly,” said Alleyn. And did.

  When he had finished Troy covered her face with her hands. It was an uncharacteristic gesture. She turned away to the windows. Dr. Carmichael looked from her to Alleyn and left the studio.

  “I wouldn’t have had this happen,” Alleyn said, “for all the world.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” she mumbled into his sweater and helped herself to his handkerchief. “It’s nothing. It’s just the fact of that room along there. Off the landing. You know — behind the locked door. Like a Bluebeard’s chamber. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s kind of got me down a bit.”

  “I know.”

  “And now — Maria. Going in there. Damn!” said Troy and stamped. “I’d got myself all arranged not to be a burden and now look at me.”

  “Could it be that you’ve done a morsel too much self-arranging and I’ve done a morsel too much male chauvinism, although, I must say,” Alleyn confessed, “I’m never quite sure what the ladies mean by the phrase. Have a good blow,” he added as Troy was making gingerly use of his handkerchief. She obeyed noisily and said she was feeling better.

  “What would Br’er Fox say to me?” she asked and answered herself. Alleyn joined in.

  “ ‘We’ll have to get you in the Force, Mrs. Alleyn,’ ” they quoted in unison.

  “And wouldn’t I make a pretty hash of it if you did,” said Troy.

  “You’ve done jolly well with the half-burnt envelope. Classic stuff that and very useful. It forced Marco to come tolerably clean.”

  “Well, come, that’s something.”

  “It’s half an hour to lunch time. How about putting a bit of slap on your pink nose and coming for a brisk walk.”

  “Lunch!” said Troy, “and Mr. Reece’s massive small talk. And food! More food!”

  “Perhaps the cook will have cut it down to clear soup and a slice of ham. Anyway, come on.”

  “All right,” said Troy.

  So they went out of doors, where the sun shone, the dark wet trees glittered, the Lake was spangled, and the mountains were fresh, as if, it seemed, from creation’s hand. The morning was alive with bird song, sounds that might have been the voice of the bush itself, its hidden waters, its coolness, its primordial detachment.

  They walked round the house to the empty hangar and thence, across the landing ground, to the path through the bush and arrived at the lakeside.

  “Wet earth and greenery again,” said Troy. “The best smell there is.”

  “The Maori people had a god-hero called Maui. He went fishing, and hauled up the South Island.”

  “Quite recently, by the feel of it.”

  “Geologically it was, in fact, thrust up from the ocean bed by volcanic action. I’ve no idea,” said Alleyn, “whether it was a slow process or a sudden commotion. It’s exciting to imagine it heaving up all of a sudden with the waters pouring down the flanks of its mountains, sweeping across its plains and foaming back into the sea. But I daresay it was a matter of eons rather than minutes.”

  “And you say there are now lots and lots of painters, busy as bees, having a go at”—Troy waved an arm at the prospect— “all that.”

  “That’s right. From pretty peeps to competent posters and from factual statements to solemn abstractions. You name it.”

  “How brave of them all.”

  “Only some of them think so.” Alleyn took her arm. “Some have got pretty near the bones. If things had been different,” he said, “would you have wanted to paint?”

  “Not at once. Make charcoal scribbles, perhaps. And after a time make some more with paint. Bones,” said Troy vaguely. “The anatomy of the land. Something might come of it.”

  “Shall we see what happens if we follow round the shore?”

  “If you like. We’ll either fetch up in the front of the house or get ourselves bushed. After all we are on an island.”

  “All right, smarty-pants. Come on.”

  A rough track followed the margin of the lake, for the most part clear of the bush but occasionally cutting through it. In places storm water poured across the path. They came to a little footbridge over a deep-voiced creek. Here the bush was dense but farther on it thinned enough to allow glimpses, surprising close at hand, of the west wall of the house. They were walking parallel with the path that skirted the concert chamber. The ground here was soft under th
eir feet.

  They walked in single file. Alleyn stopped short and held up his hand. He turned and laid his finger on his lips.

  Ahead of them, hidden by the bush, someone was speaking.

  The voice was so low, so very quiet that it was almost toneless and quite without a personality. It was impossible to catch what was said or guess at who said it.

  Alleyn signaled to Troy to stay where she was and himself moved soundlessly along the path. He was drawing closer to the voice. He remembered that at a point opposite the first window of the concert chamber there was a garden seat, and he fancied the speaker might be sitting on it. He moved on and in another moment or two realized that he should be able to make out the sense of what was said and then that it was said in Italian. At first the phrases slid past incomprehensibly and then he began to tune in.

  “—I have acted in this way because of what is being— hinted — suggested by you. All of you. And because when these policemen come you may try—”

  Alleyn lost the next phrase or two. There were gaps as if the speaker paused for a reply and none was forthcoming. The voice was raised “—this is why — I have anticipated — I warn you — can go further and if necessary I will. Now. How do you answer? You understand, do you not? I mean what I say? I will act as I have said? Very well. Your answer? Speak up. I cannot hear you.”

  Nor could Alleyn. There had been some sort of reply— breathy — short — incomprehensible.

  “I am waiting.”

  Into the silence that followed a bell-bird, close at hand, dropped his clear remark ending with a derisive clatter. Then followed, scarcely perceptible, a disturbance, an intrusion, nowhere — somewhere— coming closer and louder: the commonplace beat of a helicopter.

  Inside the house a man shouted. Windows were thrown open.

  “Il elicottero!” exclaimed the voice. There was a stifled response from his companion and sounds of rapid retreat.

  “Here are the cops, darling!” said Alleyn.

  “Rapture! Rapture! I suppose,” said Troy. “Will you go and meet them?”

  “It may be a case of joining in the rush, but yes, I think I’d better.”

  “Rory — what’ll be the drill?”

  “Unusual, to say the least. I suppose I introduce them to Reece unless he’s already introduced himself, and when that’s effected I’ll hand over my file and remain on tap for questioning.”

  “Will you use the studio?”

  “I’d prefer the study, but doubt if we’ll get it. Look, my love, after lunch will you take to the studio if it’s available? Or if you can’t stand that anymore, our room? I know you must have had them both, but perhaps you might suffer them again, for a bit. Carmichael will look in and so will I, of course, but I don’t know—”

  “I’ll be as right as rain. I might even try a few tentative notes—”

  “Might you? Truly? Marvelous,” he said. “I’ll see you round to the front of the house.”

  Their path took a right turn through the bush and came out beyond the garden seat. On the gravel walk in front of the house stood Maria with her arms folded, a black shawl over her head, staring up at the helicopter, now close overhead and deafening.

  “Good morning, Maria,” Alleyn shouted, cheerfully. “Here are the police.”

  She glowered.

  “I have been meaning to speak to you: when they have completed their examination, I think you’ll be permitted to perform your office. I shall recommend that you are.”

  She stared balefully at him from under her heavy brows. Her lips formed a soundless acknowledgment: “Grazie tante.”

  Hanley came running out of the house, pulling on a jacket over his sweater.

  “Oh, hul-lo, Mr. Alleyn,” he cried. “Thank goodness. I’m the Official Welcome. The Boss Man told me to collect you and here you are. Ben’ troveto, if that’s what they say. You will come, won’t you? I thought he ought to be there in person but no, he’s receiving them in the library. You haven’t seen the library have you, Mrs. Alleyn? My dear, smothered in synthetic leather. Look! That contraption’s alighting! Do let us hurry.”

  Troy went up the front steps to the house. Signor Lattienzo was there, having apparently stepped out of the entrance. Alleyn saw him greet her with his usual exuberance. She waved.

  “Mr. Alleyn, please!” cried the distracted Hanley and led the way at a canter.

  They arrived at the clearing as the helicopter landed and were raked with the unnatural gale from its propeller. Hanley let out an exasperated screech and clutched his blond hair. The engine stopped.

  In the silence that followed, Alleyn felt as if he was involved in some Stoppard-like time slip and was back suddenly in the middle of a routine job. The three men who climbed out of the helicopter wore so unmistakably the marks of their calling, townish suits on large heavily muscled bodies, felt hats, sober shirts and ties. Sharp eyes and an indescribable air of taking over. Their equipment was handed down: cases and a camera. The fourth man who followed was slight, tweedy, and preoccupied. He carried a professional bag. Police surgeon, thought Alleyn.

  The largest of the men advanced to Alleyn.

  “Chief Superintendent Alleyn?” the large man said. “Hazelmere. Very glad indeed to see you, sir. Meet Dr. Winslow. Detective Sergeant Franks, Detective Sergeant Barker.”

  Alleyn shook hands. The police all had enormous hands and excruciating grips and prolonged the ceremony with great warmth.

  “I understand you’ve had a spot of bother,” said Inspector Hazelmere.

  “If I may butt in,” Hanley said anxiously. “Inspector, Mr. Reece hopes—” and he delivered his invitation to the library.

  “Very kind, I’m sure,” acknowledged Hazelmere. “You’ll be his secretary, sir? Mr. Hanley? Is that correct? Well now, if it’s all the same to Mr. Reece, I think it might be best if we took a look at the scene of the fatality. And if the Chief Superintendent would be kind enough to accompany us, he can put us in the picture, which will save a lot of time and trouble when we see Mr. Reece.”

  “Oh,” said Hanley. “Oh, yes. I see. Well”—he threw a troubled glance at Alleyn—“if Mr. Alleyn will—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alleyn.

  “Yes. Well, I’ll just convey your message to Mr. Reece. I’m sure he’ll understand,” said Hanley uneasily.

  “I suggest,” said Alleyn, “that you might ask Dr. Carmichael to join us. I’m sure Dr. Winslow would be glad to see him.”

  “Are you? Yes. Of course.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Hanley,” said Hazelmere, blandly dismissive.

  Hanley hesitated for a second or two, said, “Yes, well—” again, and set off for the house.

  Alleyn said: “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. You’ll understand what a tricky position I’ve been in. No official authority but expected to behave like everybody’s idea of an infallible sleuth.”

  “Is that a fact, sir?” said Mr. Hazelmere. He then paid Alleyn some rather toneless compliments, fetching up with the remark that he knew nothing beyond the information conveyed by Les, the launch man, over a storm-battered telephone line, that a lady had been, as he put it, made away with and could they now view the remains and would Alleyn be kind enough to put them in the picture.

  So Alleyn led them into the house and up to the first landing. He was careful, with suitable encomiums, to introduce Bert, who was laconic and removed his two armchairs from their barrier-like position before the door. Dr. Carmichael arrived and was presented, Alleyn unlocked the door, and they all went into the room.

  Back to square one. Blades of cool air slicing in through the narrowly opened windows, the sense of damp curtains, dust, stale scent, and a pervasive warning of mortality, shockingly emphasized when Alleyn and Dr. Carmichael drew away the black satin sheet.

  Hazelmere made an involuntary exclamation, which he converted into a clearance of the throat. Nobody spoke or moved and then Detective Sergeant Franks whispered, “Christ!” I
t sounded more like a prayer than an oath.

  “What was the name?” Hazelmere asked.

  “Of course,” Alleyn said, “you don’t know, do you?”

  “The line was bad. I missed a lot of what the chap was saying.”

  “He didn’t know either. We communicated by various forms of semaphore.”

  “Is that a fact? Fancy!”

  “She was a celebrated singer. In the world class. The tops, in fact.”

  “Not,” exclaimed Dr. Winslow, “Isabella Sommita? It can’t be!”

  “It is, you know,” said Dr. Carmichael.

  “You better have a look, doc,” Hazelmere suggested.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “If you’re thinking of moving her, we’ll just let Sergeant Barker and Sergeant Franks in first, doc,” said Hazelmere. “For photos and dabs.”

  Alleyn explained that he had used his own professional camera and had improvised fingerprinting tactics. “I thought it might be as well to do this in case of postmortem changes. Dr. Carmichael and I disturbed nothing and didn’t touch her. I daresay the results won’t be too hot and I think you’d better not depend on them. While they’re doing their stuff,” he said to Hazelmere, “would you like to get the picture?”

  “Too right I would,” said the Inspector and out came his notebook.

  And so to the familiar accompaniment of clicks and flashes, Alleyn embarked on an orderly and exhaustive report, event after event as they fell out over the past three days, including the Strix-Marco element, the puzzle of the keys, and the outcome of the opera. He gave a list of the inmates and guests in the Lodge. He spoke with great clarity and care, without hesitation or repetition. Hazelmere paused, once, and looked up at him.

  “Am I going too fast?” Alleyn asked.

  “It’s not that, sir,” Hazelmere said. “It’s the way you give it out. Beautiful!”

  Succinct though it was, the account had taken some time. Franks and Barker had finished. They and the two doctors who had covered the body and retired to the far end of the room to consult, now collected round Alleyn, listening.