Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 26

He began a search. The bedroom was much more ornate than the rest of the house. No doubt, Alleyn thought, this reflected the Sommita’s taste more than that of the clever young architect. The wardrobe doors, for instance, were carved with elegant festoons and swags of flowers in deep relief each depending from the central motif of a conventionalized sunflower with a sunken black centre: the whole concoction being rather loudly painted and reminiscent of art nouveau.

Alleyn made a thorough search of the surfaces under the bed, of the top of her dressing table, of an escritoire, in which he found the Sommita’s jewel box. This was unlocked and the contents were startling in their magnificence. The bedside table. The crimson coverlet. Nothing. Could it be under the body? Possible, he supposed, but he must not move the body.

The bathroom: all along the glass shelves, the floor, everywhere.

And yet Maria, if she was to be believed, had heard the key turned in the lock after she and Mr Reece were kicked out. And when she returned she had used her own key. He tried to picture the Sommita, at the height, it seemed, of one of her rages, turning the key in the lock, withdrawing it and then putting it – where? Hiding it? But why? There was no accommodation for it in the bosom of her Hebraic gown which was now slashed down in ribbons. He uncovered the horror that was the Sommita, and with infinite caution, scarcely touching it, examined the surface of the counterpane round the body. He even slid his hand under the body. Nothing. He recovered the body.

‘When all likely places have been fruitlessly explored, begin on the unlikely and carry on into the preposterous.’ This was the standard practice. He attacked the drawers of the dressingtable. They were kept, by Maria, no doubt, in perfect order. He patted, lifted and replaced lacy undergarments, stockings, gloves. Finally, in the bottom drawer on the left he arrived at the Sommita’s collection of handbags. On the top was a gold mesh, bejewelled affair that he remembered her carrying on the evening of their arrival.

Using his handkerchief he gingerly opened it and found her key to the room lying on top of an unused handkerchief.

The bag would have to be fingerprinted but for the moment it would be best to leave it undisturbed.

So what was to be concluded? If she had taken her bag downstairs and left it in her dressing room, then she must have taken it back to the bedroom. Mr Reece was with her. There would have been no call for the key for Maria was already in the room, waiting for her. She was, it must never be forgotten, in a passion, and the Sommita’s passions he would have thought, did not admit of methodical tidying away of handbags into drawers. She would have been more likely to chuck the bag at Mr Reece’s or Maria’s head, but Maria had made no mention of any such gesture. She had merely repeated that when they beat their retreat they heard the key turn in the lock and that when she came back with the hot drink she used her own key.

Was it then to be supposed that, having locked herself in, the Sommita stopped raging and methodically replaced her key in the bag and the bag in the drawer? Unlikely, because she must have used the key to admit her killer and was not likely to replace it. Being, presumably, dead.

Unless, of course, Maria was her killer. This conjured up a strange picture. The fanatically devoted Maria, hot drink in hand, re-enters the bedroom, places the brimming cup in its saucer on the bedside table and chloroforms her tigerish mistress who offers no resistance; she then produces the dagger and photograph and having completed the job, sets up her own brand of hullabaloo and rushes downstairs proclaiming the murder? No.

Back to the Sommita, then. What had she done after she had locked herself in? She had not undressed. She had not taken her pill. How had she spent her last minutes before she was murdered?

And what, oh what, about Rupert Bartholomew?

At this point there was a tap on the door and Dr Carmichael returned.

‘“Safely stowed”,’ he said. ‘At least, I hope so. Mrs Bacon was still up and ready to cope. We escorted that tiresome woman to her room, she offering no resistance. I waited outside. Mrs B. saw her undressed, be-nightied and in bed. She gave her a couple of aspirins, made sure she took them and came out. We didn’t lock her up, by the way.’

‘We’ve really no authority to do that,’ said Alleyn. ‘I was making an idle threat.’

‘It seemed to work.’

‘I really am very grateful indeed for your help, Carmichael. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.’

‘To tell you the truth, in a macabre sort of way, I’m enjoying myself. It’s a change from general practice. What now?’ asked Dr Carmichael.

‘Look here. This is important. When you went backstage to succour the wretched Bartholomew the Sommita was still on deck, wasn’t she?’

‘She was indeed. Trying to manhandle the boy.’

‘Still in her Old Testament gear, of course?’

‘Of course.’

‘When they persuaded her to go upstairs – Reece and Lattienzo, wasn’t it? – did she take a gold handbag with her? Or did Reece take it?’

‘I can’t remember. I don’t think so.’

‘It would have looked pretty silly,’ Alleyn said. ‘It wouldn’t exactly team up with the white samite number. I’d have thought you’d have noticed it.’ He opened the drawer and showed Dr Carmichael the bag.

‘She was threshing about with her arms quite a bit,’ the doctor said. ‘No, I’m sure she hadn’t got that thing in her hand. Why?’

Alleyn explained.

Dr Carmichael closed his eyes for some seconds. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I can’t reconcile the available data with any plausible theory. Unless –’

‘Well?’

‘Well, it’s a most unpleasant thought, but – unless the young man –’

‘There is that, of course.’

‘Maria is already making strong suggestions along those lines.’

‘Is she, by George,’ said Alleyn, and after a pause: ‘But it’s the Sommita’s behaviour and her bloody key that won’t fit in. Did you see anything of our host downstairs?’

‘There’s a light under what I believe is his study door and voices beyond.’

‘Come on, then. It’s high time I reported. He may be able to clear things up a bit.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Either confirm or refute la bella Maria, at least,’ said Alleyn. ‘Would you rather go to bed?’

Dr Carmichael looked at his watch. ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s a quarter to twelve.’

‘As Iago said, “Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.”’

‘Who? Oh. Oh yes. No, I don’t want to go to bed.’

‘Come on, then.’

Again they turned off the lights and left the room. Alleyn locked the door with Maria’s key.

Bert was on the landing.

‘Was you still wanting a watch kept up?’ he said. ‘I’ll take it on if you like. Only a suggestion.’

‘You are a good chap,’ Alleyn said. ‘But –’

‘I appreciate you got to be careful. The way things are. But seeing you suggested it yourself before and seeing I never set eyes on one of this mob until I took the job on, I don’t look much like a suspect. Please yourself.’

‘I accept with very many thanks. But –’

‘If you was thinking I might drop off, I’d thought of that. I might, too. I could put a couple of them chairs in front of the door and doss down for the night. Just an idea,’ said Bert.

‘It’s the answer,’ Alleyn said warmly. ‘Thank you, Bert.’

And he and Dr Carmichael went downstairs to the study.

Here they found, not only Mr Reece but Signor Lattienzo, Ben Ruby and Hanley, the secretary.

Mr Reece, perhaps a trifle paler than usual but he was always rather wan, sat at his trendy desk – his swivel chair turned towards the room as if he had interrupted his work to give an interview. Hanley drooped by the window curtains and had probably been looking out at the night. The other two men sat by the fire and seemed to be relieved at Alleyn’s appearance. Signor Lattienzo did, in fact, exclaim: ‘Ecco! At last!’ Hanley, reverting to his customary solicitude, pushed chairs forward.

‘I am very glad to see you, Mr Alleyn,’ said Mr Reece in his pallid way. ‘Doctor,’ he added with an inclination of his head towards Carmichael.

‘I’m afraid we’ve little to report,’ Alleyn said. ‘Dr Carmichael is very kindly helping me but so far we haven’t got beyond the preliminary stages. I’m hoping that you, sir, will be able to put us right on some points, particularly in respect of the order of events from the time Rupert Bartholomew fainted until Maria raised the alarm.’

He had hoped for some differences: something that could give him a hint of a pattern or explain the seeming discrepancies in Maria’s narrative. Particularly, something about keys. But no, on all points the account corresponded with Maria’s.

Alleyn asked if the Sommita made much use of her bedroom key.

‘Yes; I think she did, I recommended it. She has – had – there was always – a considerable amount of jewellery in her bedroom. You may say very valuable pieces. I tried to persuade her to keep it in my safe in this room but she wouldn’t do that. It was the same thing in hotels. After all, we have got a considerable staff here and it would be a temptation.’

‘Her jewel case is in the escritoire – unlocked.’

Mr Reece clicked his tongue. ‘She’s – she was incorrigible. The artistic temperament, I am told, though I never, I’m afraid, have known precisely what that means.’

‘One is never quite sure of its manifestations,’ said Alleyn, surprised by this unexpected turn in the conversation. Mr Reece seemed actually to have offered something remotely suggesting a rueful twinkle.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you, no doubt have had first-hand experience.’ And with a return to his elaborately cumbersome social manner, ‘Delightful, in your case, may I hasten to say.’

‘Thank you. While I think of it,’ Alleyn said, ‘do you, by any chance, remember if Madame Sommita carried a gold mesh handbag when you took her up to her room?’

‘No,’ said Mr Reece, after considering it. ‘No, I’m sure she didn’t.’

‘Right. About these jewels. No doubt the police will ask you later to check the contents of the box.’

‘Certainly. But I am not familiar with all her jewels.’

Only, Alleyn thought, with the ones he gave her, I dare say.

‘They are insured,’ Mr Reece offered. ‘And Maria would be able to check them.’

‘Is Maria completely to be trusted?’

‘Oh, certainly. Completely. Like many of her class and origin she has an uncertain temper and she can be rather a nuisance, but she was devoted to her mistress, you might say fanatically so. She has been upset,’ Mr Reece added with one of his own essays in understatement.

‘Oh, my dear Monty,’ Signor Lattienzo murmured. ‘Upset! So have we all been upset. Shattered would be a more appropriate word.’ He made an uncertain gesture and took out his cigarette case.

And indeed he looked quite unlike himself, being white and, as Alleyn noticed, tremulous. Monty, my dear,’ he said. ‘I should like a little more of your superb cognac. Is it permitted?’

‘Of course, Beppo. Mr Alleyn? Doctor? Ben?’

The secretary with a sort of ghostly reminder of his customary readiness, hurried into action. Dr Carmichael had a large whisky and soda and Alleyn nothing.

Ben Ruby, whose face was puffed and blotched and his eyes bloodshot, hurriedly knocked back his cognac and pushed his glass forward. ‘What say it’s one of that mob?’ he demanded insecurely. ‘Eh? What say one of those buggers stayed behind?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Reece.

‘S’all very fine, say “nonsense”.’

‘They were carefully chosen guests of known distinction.’

‘All ver’ well. But what say,’ repeated Mr Ruby, building to an unsteady climax, ‘one of your sodding guestserknownstinction was not what he bloody seemed. Eh? What say he was Six.’

‘Six?’ Signor Lattienzo asked mildly. ‘Did you say six?’

‘I said nothing of sort. I said,’ shouted Mr Ruby, ‘Strix.’

‘Oh no!’ Hanley cried out, and to Mr Reece: ‘I’m sorry, but honestly! There was the guest list. I gave one to the launch person and he was to tick off all the names as they came aboard in case anybody had been left behind. In the loo or something. I thought you couldn’t be too careful in case of accidents. Well, you know, it was – I mean is – such a night.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Reece said wearily. ‘Give it a rest. You acted very properly.’ He turned to Alleyn. ‘I really can’t see why it should be supposed that Strix, if he is on the premises, could have any motive for committing this crime. On the contrary, he had every reason for wishing Bella to remain alive. She was a fortune to him.’

‘All ver’ well,’ Mr Ruby sulked. ‘If it wasn’t, then who was it? Thass the point. D’you think you know who it was? Beppo? Monty? Ned? Come on. No, you don’t. See what I mean?’

‘Ben,’ said Mr Reece quite gently, ‘don’t you think you’d better go to bed?’

‘You may be right. I mean to say,’ said Mr Ruby, appealing to Alleyn, ‘I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. Cables. Letters. There’s the US concert tour. She’s booked out twelve months ahead: booked solid. All those managements.’

‘They’ll know about it soon enough,’ said Mr Reece bitterly. ‘Once this storm dies down and the police arrive it’ll be world news. Go to bed, boy. If you can use him, Ned will give you some time tomorrow.’ He glanced at Hanley. ‘See to that,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course,’ Hanley effused, smiling palely upon Mr Ruby who acknowledged the offer without enthusiasm. ‘Well, ta,’ he said. ‘Won’t be necessary, I dare say. I can type.’

He seemed to pull himself together. He finished his brandy, rose, advanced successfully upon Mr Reece and took his hand. ‘Monty,’ he said. ‘Dear old boy. You know me. Anything I can do? Say the word.’

‘Yes, Benny,’ Mr Reece said, shaking his hand. ‘I know. Thank you.’

‘There’ve been good times, haven’t there?’ Mr Ruby said wistfully. ‘It wasn’t all fireworks, was it? And now …’

For the first time Mr Reece seemed to be on the edge of losing his composure. ‘And now,’ he surprised Alleyn by saying, ‘she no longer casts a shadow.’ He clapped Mr Ruby on the shoulder and turned away. Mr Ruby gazed mournfully at his back for a moment or two and then moved to the door.

‘Good night, all,’ he said. He blew his nose like a trumpet and left them.

He was heard to fall rather heavily on his way upstairs.

‘He is fortunate,’ said Signor Lattienzo who was swinging his untouched cognac around in the glass. ‘Now, for my part, the only occasions on which I take no consolation from alcohol are those of disaster. This is my third libation. The cognac is superb. Yet I know it will leave me stone-cold sober. It is very provoking.’

Mr Reece, without turning to face Alleyn, said: ‘Have you anything further to tell me, Mr Alleyn?’ and his voice was elderly and tired.

Alleyn told him about the Morse signals and he said dully that it was good news. ‘But I meant,’ he said, ‘about the crime itself. You will appreciate, I’m sure, how – confused and shocked – to find her – like that. It was –’ He made a singular and uncharacteristic gesture as if warding off some menace. ‘It was so dreadful,’ he said.

‘Of course it was. One can’t imagine anything worse. Forgive me,’ Alleyn said, ‘but I don’t know exactly how you learned about it. Were you prepared in any way? Did Maria – ?’

‘You must have heard her. I was in the drawing room and came out and she was there on the stairs, screaming. I went straight up with her. I think I made out before we went into the room and without really taking it in, that Bella was dead. Was murdered. But not – how. Beppo, here, and Ned – arrived almost at the same moment. It may sound strange but the whole thing, at the time, seemed unreal: a nightmare, you might say. It still does.’

Alleyn said: ‘You’ve asked me to take over until the police come. I’m very sorry indeed to trouble you –’

‘No. Please,’ Mr Reece interrupted with a shaky return to his customary formality. ‘Please, do as you would under any other circumstances.’

‘You make it easy for me. First of all, you are sure, sir, are you, that after Madame Sommita ordered you and Maria to leave the bedroom you heard her turn the key in the lock?’

‘Absolutely certain. May I ask why?’

‘And Maria used her own key when she returned?’

‘She must have done so, I presume. The door was not locked when Maria and I returned after she raised the alarm.’

‘And there are – how many keys to the room?’

If atmosphere can be said to tighten without a word being uttered it did so then in Mr Reece’s study. The silence was absolute, nobody spoke, nobody moved.

‘Four?’ Alleyn at last suggested.

‘If you know, why do you ask?’ Hanley threw out.

Mr Reece said: ‘That will do, Ned.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, cringing a little yet with a disreputable suggestion of blandishment. ‘Truly.’

‘Who has the fourth key?’ Alleyn asked.

‘If there is one I don’t imagine it is used,’ said Mr Reece.

‘I think the police will want to know.’

‘In that case we must find out. Maria will probably know.’

‘Yes,’ Alleyn agreed. ‘I expect she will.’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Forgive me. The circumstances I know are almost unbelievably grotesque, but did you look closely? At what had been done? And how it had been done?’

‘Oh, really, Alleyn –’ Signor Lattienzo protested but Mr Reece held up his hand.

‘No, Beppo,’ he said and cracked a dismal joke. ‘As you yourself would say: I asked for it, and now I’m getting it.’ And to Alleyn: ‘There’s something under the knife. I didn’t go – near. I couldn’t. What is it?’

‘It is a photograph. Of Madame Sommita.’

Mr Reece’s lips formed the word ‘photograph’ but no sound came from them.

‘This is a madman,’ Signor Lattienzo broke out. ‘A homicidal maniac. It cannot be otherwise.’

Hanley said: ‘Oh yes, yes!’ as if there was some sort of comfort in the thought. ‘A madman. Of course. A lunatic.’

Mr Reece cried out so loudly that they were all startled. ‘No! What you tell me alters the whole picture. I have been wrong. From the beginning I have been wrong. The photograph proves it. If he had left a signed acknowledgement it couldn’t be clearer.’

There was a long silence before Lattienzo said flatly: ‘I think you may be right.’

‘Right! Of course I am right.’

‘And if you are, Monty, my dear, this Strix was on the Island yesterday and unless he managed to escape by the launch is still on this Island tonight. And in spite of all our zealous searching may actually be in the house. In which case we shall indeed do wisely to lock our doors.’ He turned to Alleyn. ‘And what does the professional say to all this?’ he asked.

‘I think you are probably correct in every respect, Signor Lattienzo,’ said Alleyn. ‘Or rather, in every respect but one.’

‘And what may that be?’ Lattienzo asked sharply.

‘You are proposing, aren’t you, that Strix is the murderer. I’m inclined to think you may be mistaken there.’

‘And I would be interested to hear why?’

‘Oh,’ said Alleyn, ‘just one of those things, you know. I would find it hard to say why. Call it a hunch.’

‘But my dear sir – the photograph.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Quite so. There is always the photograph, isn’t there?’

‘You choose to be mysterious.’

‘Do I? Not really. What I really came in for was to ask you all if you happened to notice that the Italian stiletto, if that is what it is, was missing from its bracket on the wall behind the nude sculpture. And if you did notice, when.’

They stared at him. After a long pause Mr Reece said: ‘You will find this extraordinary but nevertheless it is a fact. I had not realized that was the weapon.’

‘Had you not?’

‘I am, I think I may say, an observant man but I did not notice that the stiletto was missing and I did not recognize it –’ he covered his eyes with his hands – ‘when I – saw it.’

Hanley said: ‘Oh God! Oh, how terrible.’

And Lattienzo: ‘They were hers. You knew that, of course, Monty, didn’t you? Family possessions, I always understood. I remember her showing them to me and saying she would like to use one of them in Tosca. I said it would be much too dangerous, however cleverly she faked it. And I may add that the Scarpia wouldn’t entertain the suggestion for a second. Remembering her temperament, poor darling, it was not surprising.’

Mr Reece looked up at Alleyn. His face was deadly tired and he seemed an old man.

‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I think I must go to my room. Unless of course there is anything else.’

‘Of course not.’ Alleyn glanced at Dr Carmichael, who went to Mr Reece.

‘You’ve had about as much as you can take,’ he said. ‘Will you let me see you to your room?’

‘You are very kind. No, thank you, doctor. I am perfectly all right. Only tired.’

He stood up, straightened himself and walked composedly out of the room.

When he had gone Alleyn turned to the secretary.

‘Mr Hanley,’ he said. ‘Did you notice one of the stilettos was missing?’

‘I’d have said so, wouldn’t I, if I had?’ Hanley pointed out in an aggrieved voice. ‘As a matter of fact, I simply loathe the things. I’m like that over knives. They make me feel sick. I expect Freud would have had something to say about it.’

‘No doubt,’ said Signor Lattienzo.

‘It was her idea,’ Hanley went on. ‘She had them hung on the wall. She thought they teamed up with that marvellous pregnant female. In a way, one could see why.’

‘Could one?’ said Signor Lattienzo and cast up his eyes.

‘I would like again to ask you all,’ said Alleyn, ‘if on consideration you can think of anyone – but anyone, however unlikely – who might have had some cause, however outrageous, to wish for Madame Sommita’s death. Yes, Signor Lattienzo?’

‘I feel impelled to say that while my answer is no, I can not think of anyone, I believe that this is a crime of passion and impulse and not a coldly calculated affair. The outrageous grotesquerie, the use of the photograph and of her own weapon – everything points to some – I feel inclined to say Strindbergian love-hatred of lunatic force. Strix or not, I believe you are looking for a madman, Mr Alleyn.’