Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 14

Dinner had been catastrophic, a one-man show by the Sommita. To say she had run through the gamut of the passions would be a rank understatement: she began where the gamut left off and bursts of hysteria were as passages-of-rest in the performance. Occasionally she would come to an abrupt halt and wolf up great mouthfuls of the food that had been set before her, for she was a greedy lady. Her discomforted guests would seize the opportunity to join her, in a more conservative manner, in taking refreshment. The dinner was superb.

Her professional associates were less discomforted, the Alleyns afterwards agreed, than a lay audience would have been and indeed seemed more or less to take her passion in their stride, occasionally contributing inflammatory remarks while Signor Romano who was on her left made wide ineffable gestures and when he managed to get hold of it, kissed her hand. Alleyn was on her right. He was frequently appealed to and came in for one or two excruciating prods in the ribs as she drove home her points. He was conscious that Troy had her eyes on him and when he got the chance, made a lightning grimace of terror at her. He saw she was on the threshold of giggles.

Troy was on Mr Reece’s right. He seemed to think that in the midst of this din he was under an obligation to make conversation and remarked upon the lack of journalistic probity in Australia. The offending newspaper, it seemed, was an Australian weekly with a wide circulation in New Zealand.

When the port had been put before him and his dear one had passed for the time being into a baleful silence, he suggested tonelessly that the ladies perhaps wished to withdraw.

The Sommita made no immediate response and a tricky hiatus occurred during which she glowered at the table. Troy thought: Oh, to hell with all this, and stood up. Hilda Dancy followed with alacrity and so after a moment’s hesitation did wide-eyed Sylvia Parry. The men got to their feet.

The Sommita rose, assumed the posture of a Cassandra about to give tongue, appeared to change her mind and said she was going to bed.

About twenty minutes later Alleyn found himself closeted in a room that looked like the setting for a science-fiction film but was Mr Reece’s study. With him were Mr Reece himself, Mr Ben Ruby, Rupert Bartholomew and the straw-coloured secretary whose name turned out to be Hanley.

The infamous sheet of newsprint was laid out on a table round which the men had gathered. They read the typewritten letter reproduced in the central box.

To The Editor

The Watchman

Sir: I wish, through your column, to repudiate utterly an outrageous calumny which is circulating in this country. I wish to state, categorically, that I have no need of, and therefore have never resorted to, cosmetic surgery or to artificial embellishment of any kind whatsoever. I am, and I present myself to my public, as God made me. Thank you.

Isabella Sommita.

(Picture on page 30)

‘And you tell me,’ Alleyn said, ‘that the whole thing is a forgery?’

‘You bet it’s a forgery,’ said Ben Ruby. ‘Would she ever help herself to a plateful of poisonous publicity! My God, this is going to make her the big laugh of a lifetime over in Aussie. And it’ll spread overseas, you better believe it.’

‘Have there in fact been any rumours, any gossip of this sort?’

‘Not that we have knowledge of,’ said Mr Reece. ‘And if it had been at all widespread, we certainly would have heard. Wouldn’t we, Ben?’

‘Well, face it, old boy, anyone that’s seen her would know it was silly. I meantersay, look at her cleavage! Speaks for itself.’ Mr Ruby turned to Alleyn. ‘You’ve seen. You couldn’t miss it. She’s got the best twinset you’re likely to meet in a lifetime. Beautiful! Here! Take a look at this picture.’

He turned to page 30 and flattened it out. The ‘picture’ was a photograph of the Sommita in profile with her head thrown back, her hands behind her resting on a table and taking the weight. She was in character as Carmen and an artificial rose was clenched between her teeth. She was powerfully décolletée and although at first glance there seemed to be no doubt of the authenticity of the poitrine, on closer examination there were certain curious little marks in that region suggestive of surgical scars. The legend beneath read ‘Seeing’s believing!’

‘She never liked that picture,’ Mr Ruby said moodily. ‘Never. But the press did, so we kept it in the handouts. Here!’ he exclaimed jamming a forefinger at it. ‘Here, take a look at this, will you? This has been interfered with. This has been touched up. This has been tinkered with. Those scars are phoney.’

Alleyn examined it. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said and turned back to the front page.

‘Mr Hanley,’ he said, ‘do you think that typewriter could have been one belonging to anybody in Madame Sommita’s immediate circle? Can you tell that?’

‘Oh? Oh!’ said the secretary and stooped over the paper. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it wasn’t typed on my machine.’ He laughed uncomfortably. ‘I can promise you that much,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know about hers. How about it, Rupert?’

‘Bartholomew,’ explained Mr Reece in his flattened way, ‘is Madame’s secretary.’ He stood back and motioned Rupert to examine the page.

Rupert who had a tendency to change colour whenever Mr Reece paid him any attention, did so now. He stooped over the paper.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not our – I mean my – machine. The letter p is out of alignment in ours. And anyway it’s not the same type.’

‘And the signature? That looks convincing enough, doesn’t it?’ Alleyn asked his host.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s Bella’s signature.’

‘Can any of you think of any cause Madame Sommita may have had to put her signature at the foot of a blank sheet of letter paper?’

Nobody spoke.

‘Can she type?’

‘No,’ they all said and Ben Ruby added irritably, ‘Ah, for Chrissake, what’s the point of labouring at it? There’ve been no rumours about her bosom, pardon my candour, and, hell, she never wrote that bloody letter. It’s got to be a forgery and, by God, in my book it’s got to be that sodding photographer at the bottom of it.’

The two young men made sounds of profound agreement.

Mr Reece raised his hand and they were silenced. ‘We are fortunate enough,’ he announced, ‘to have Mr Alleyn, or rather Chief Superintendent Alleyn, with us. I suggest that we accord him our full attention, gentlemen.’

He might have been addressing a board meeting. He turned to Alleyn and made a slight inclination. ‘Will you – ?’ he invited.

Alleyn said: ‘Of course, if you think I can be of use. But I expect I ought just to mention that if there’s any idea of calling in the police it will have to be the New Zealand police. I’m sure you will understand that.’

‘Oh, quite so, quite so,’ said Mr Reece. ‘Let us say we will value, immensely, your unofficial expertise.’

‘Very well. But it won’t be at all startling.’

The men took chairs round the table, as if, Alleyn thought, they were resigning themselves to some damned lecture. The whole scene, he thought, was out of joint. They might have arranged between themselves how it should be played but were not quite sure of their lines.

He remembered his instructions from the AC. He was to observe, act with extreme discretion, fall in with the terms of his invitation and treat the riddle of the naughty photographer as he would any case to which he had been consigned in the ordinary course of his duties.

He said: ‘Here goes then. First of all: if this was a police job one of the first things to be done would be to make an exhaustive examination of the letter which seems to be a reproduction in print of an original document. We would get it blown up on a screen, search the result for any signs of fingerprints or indications of what sort of paper the original might be. Same treatment for the photograph with particular attention to the rather clumsy faking of surgical scars.

‘At the same time someone would be sent to the offices of The Watchman to find out everything available about when the original letter was received and whether by post or pushed into the correspondence box at the entrance or wherever of The Watchman’s office. And also who dealt with it. The Watchman, almost certainly, would be extremely cagey about this and would, when asked to produce the original, say it had not been kept, which might or might not be true. Obviously,’ Alleyn said, ‘they didn’t ask for any authorization of the letter or take any steps to assure themselves that it was genuine.’

‘It’s not that sort of paper,’ said Ben Ruby. ‘Well, look at it. If we sued for libel it’d be nothing new to The Watchman. The scoop would be worth it.’

‘Didn’t I hear,’ Alleyn asked, ‘that on one occasion the photographer – “Strix” isn’t it? – dressed as a woman, asked for her autograph and then fired his camera at point-blank range and ducked out?’

Mr Ruby slammed the table. ‘By God, you’re right,’ he shouted, ‘and he got it. She signed. He got her signature.’

‘It’s too much, I suppose, to ask if she remembers any particular book or whether she ever signed at the bottom of a blank page or how big the page was.’

‘She remembers! Too right she remembers!’ Mr Ruby shouted. ‘That one was an outsize book. Looked like something special for famous names. She remembers it on account it was not the usual job. As for the signature she’s most likely to have made it extra big to fill out the whole space. She does that.’

‘Were any of you with her? She was leaving the theatre, wasn’t she? At the time?’

‘I was with her,’ Mr Reece offered. ‘So were you, Ben. We always escort her from the stage door to her car. I didn’t actually see the book. I was looking to make sure the car was in the usual place. There was a big crowd.’

‘I was behind her,’ said Mr Ruby. ‘I couldn’t see anything. The first thing I knew was the flash and the rumpus. She was yelling out for somebody to stop the photographer. Somebody else was screaming “Stop that woman!” and fighting to get through. And it turned out afterwards, the screamer was the woman herself who was the photographer Strix if you can follow me.’

‘Just,’ said Alleyn.

‘He’s made monkeys out of the lot of us; all along the line he’s made us look like monkeys,’ Mr Ruby complained.

‘What does he look like? Surely someone must have noticed something about him?’

But, no, it appeared. Nobody had come forward with a reliable description. He operated always in a crowd where everyone’s attention was focused on his victim and cameramen abounded. Or unexpectedly he would pop round a corner with his camera held in both hands before his face, or from a car that shot off before any action could be taken. There had been one or two uncertain impressions – he was bearded, he had a scarf pulled over his mouth, he was dark. Mr Ruby had a theory that he never wore the same clothes twice and always went in for elaborate make-ups but there was nothing to support this idea.

‘What action,’ Mr Reece asked Alleyn, ‘would you advise?’

‘To begin with: not an action for libel. Can she be persuaded against it, do you think?’

‘She may be all against it in the morning. You never know,’ said Hanley, and then with an uneasy appeal to his employer: ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean to say you don’t, do you? Actually?’

Mr Reece, with no change of expression in his face, merely looked at his secretary who subsided nervously.

Alleyn had returned to The Watchman. He tilted the paper this way and that under the table lamp. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure but I think the original paper was probably glossy.’

‘I’ll arrange for someone to deal with The Watchman end,’ said Mr Reece, and to Hanley: ‘Get through to Sir Simon Marks in Sydney,’ he ordered. ‘Or wherever he is. Get him.’

Hanley retreated to a distant telephone and huddled over it in soundless communication.

Alleyn said: ‘If I were doing this as a conscientious copper I would now ask you all if you have any further ideas about the perpetrator of these ugly tricks – assuming for the moment that the photographer and the concoctor of the letter are one and the same person. Is there anybody you can think of who bears a grudge deep enough to inspire such persistent and malicious attacks? Has she an enemy, in fact?’

‘Has she a hundred bloody enemies?’ Mr Ruby heatedly returned. ‘Of course she has. Like the homegrown baritone she insulted in Perth or the top hostess in Los Angeles who threw a high-quality party for her and asked visiting royalty to meet her.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘She didn’t go.’

‘Oh dear!’

‘Took against it at the last moment because she’d heard the host’s money came from South Africa. We talked about a sudden attack of migraine, which might have answered if she hadn’t gone to supper at Angelo’s and the press hadn’t reported it with pictures the next morning.’

‘Wasn’t “Strix” already in action by then, though?’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Mr Ruby gloomily. ‘You’ve got something there. But enemies! My oath!’

‘In my view,’ said Mr Reece, ‘the matter of enmity doesn’t arise. This has been from first to last a profitable enterprise. I’ve ascertained that “Strix” can ask what he likes for his photographs. It’s only a matter of time, one imagines, before they reappear in book-form. He’s hit on a money-spinner and unless we can catch him in the act he’ll go on spinning as long as the public interest lasts. Simple as that.’

‘If he concocted the letter,’ Alleyn said, ‘it’s hard to see how he’d make money out of that. He could hardly admit to forgery.’

Rupert Bartholomew said: ‘I think the letter was written out of pure spite. She thinks so, too: you heard her. A sort of black practical joke.’

He made this announcement with an air of defiance, almost of proprietorship. Alleyn saw Mr Reece look at him for several seconds with concentration as if his attention had been unexpectedly aroused. He thought: That boy’s getting himself into deep water.

Hanley had been speaking into the telephone. He stood up and said, ‘Sir Simon Marks, sir.’

Mr Reece took the call inaudibly. The others fell into an unrestful silence, not wishing to seem as if they listened but unable to find anything to say to each other. Alleyn was conscious of Rupert Bartholomew’s regard which as often as he caught it was hurriedly turned away. He’s making some sort of appeal, Alleyn thought and went over to him. They were now removed from the others.

‘Do tell me about your opera,’ he said. ‘I’ve only gathered the scantiest picture from our host of what is going to happen but it all sounds most exciting.’

Rupert muttered something about not being too sure of that.

‘But,’ said Alleyn, ‘it must be an enormous thing for you, isn’t it? For the greatest soprano of our time to bring it all about? A wonderful piece of good fortune, I’d have thought.’

‘Don’t,’ Rupert muttered. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Hullo! What’s all this? First night nerves?’

Rupert shook his head. Good Lord, Alleyn thought, a bit more of this and he’ll be in tears. Rupert stared at him and seemed to be on the edge of speech when Mr Reece put back the receiver and rejoined the others. ‘Marks will attend to The Watchman,’ he said. ‘If the original is there he’ll see that we get it.’

‘Can you be sure of that?’ Ruby asked.

‘Certainly. He owns the group and controls the policy.’

They began to talk in a desultory way and for Alleyn their voices sounded a long way off and disembodied. The spectacular room became unsteady and its contents swelled, diminished and faded. I’m going to sleep on my feet, he thought and pulled himself together.

He said to his host, ‘As I can’t be of use, I wonder if I may be excused? It’s been a long day and one didn’t get much sleep on the plane.’

Mr Reece was all consideration. ‘How very thoughtless of us,’ he said. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He made appropriate hospitable remarks about hoping the Alleyns had everything they required, suggested that they breakfasted late in their room and ring when they were ready for it. He sounded as if he was playing some sort of internal cassette of his own recording. He glanced at Hanley who advanced, all eager to please.

‘We’re in unbelievable bliss,’ Alleyn assured them, scarcely knowing what he said. And to Hanley: ‘No, please don’t bother. I promise not to doze off on my way up. Good night, everyone.’

He crossed the hall which was now dimly lit. The pregnant woman loomed up and stared at him through slitted eyes. Behind her the fire, dwindled to a glow, pulsated quietly.

As he passed the drawing-room door he heard a scatter of desultory conversation: three voices at the most, he thought, and none of them belonging to Troy.

And, sure enough, when he reached their room he found her in bed and fast asleep. Before joining her he went to the heavy window curtains, parted them and saw the lake in moonlight close beneath him, stretching away like a silver plain into the mountains. Incongruous, he thought, and impertinent, for this little knot of noisy, self-important people with their self-imposed luxury and serio-comic concerns to be set down at the heart of such an immense serenity.

He let the curtain fall and went to bed.

He and Troy were coming back to earth in Mr Reece’s aeroplane. An endless road rushed towards them. Appallingly far below, the river thundered and water lapped at the side of their boat. He fell quietly into it and was immediately fathoms deep.