Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 3: Death in a White Tie, Overture to Death, Death at the Bar - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 24

When Alleyn had finished his examination of the study he sat at Lord Robert’s desk and telephoned to Marsdon House. He was answered by one of his own men.

‘Is Mr Fox there, Bailey?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s upstairs. I’ll just tell him.’

Alleyn waited. Before him on the desk was a small, fat notebook and upon the opened page he read again in Lord Robert’s finicky writing the notes he had made on his case:

‘Saturday, May 8th. Cocktail-party at Mrs H-H’s house in Halkin Street. Arrived 6.15. Mrs H-H distraite. Arranged to meet her June 3rd, Constance Street Hall. Saw Maurice Withers, ref. drug affair 1924. Bad lot. Seems thick with Mrs H-H. Shied off me. Mem. Tell Alleyn about W’s gambling hell at L.

‘Thursday, June 3rd. Constance Street Hall. Recital by Sirmione Quartette. Arrived 2.15. Met Mrs H-H 2.30. Mrs H-H sat on left-hand end of blue sofa (occupant’s left). Sofa about 7 feet inside main entrance and 8 feet to right as you enter. Sofa placed at right angles to right-hand corner of room. Side entrance on right-hand wall about ten feet behind sofa. My position in chair behind left arm of sofa. At 3.35 immediately after interval observed Mrs H-H’s bag taken from left end of sofa where previously I watched her place it. She had left the room during interval and returned after bag had gone. Will swear that hand taking the bag was that of Dimitri of Shepherd Market Catering Company. Saw him there. Seat nearby. Little finger same length as next and markedly crooked. Withers was there. N.B. Think Mrs H-H suspects me of blackmail. R.G.’

Fox’s voice came through the receiver. ‘Hullo, sir?’

‘Hullo, Fox. Have you seen the room where he telephoned to me?’

‘Yes. It’s a room on the top landing. One of Dimitri’s waiters saw him go in. The room hasn’t been touched.’

‘Right. Anything else?’

‘Nothing much. The house is pretty well as it was when the guests left. You saw to that, sir.’

‘Is Dimitri there?’

‘No.’

‘Get him, Fox. I’ll see him at the Yard at twelve o’clock. That’ll do him for the moment. Tell Bailey to go all over the telephone room for prints. We’ve got to find out who interrupted that call to the Yard. And, Fox –’

‘Sir?’

‘Can you come round here? I’d like a word with you.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn, and hung up the receiver.

He looked again at the document he had found in the central drawer of Lord Robert’s desk. It was his will. A very simple little will. After one or two legacies he left all his possessions and the life interest on £40,000 to his sister, Lady Mildred Potter, to revert to her son on her death and the remainder of his estate, £20,000, to that same son, his nephew, Donald Potter. The will was dated January 1st of that year.

‘His good deed for the New Year,’ thought Alleyn.

He looked at the two photographs in leather frames that stood on Lord Robert’s desk. One was of Lady Mildred Potter in the presentation dress of her girlhood. Mildred had been rather pretty in those days. The other was of a young man of about twenty. Alleyn noted the short Gospell nose and wide-set eyes. The mouth was pleasant and weak, the chin one of those jutting affairs that look determined and are too often merely obstinate. It was rather an attractive face. Donald had written his name across the corner with the date, January 1st.

‘I hope to God,’ thought Alleyn, ‘that he can give a good account of himself.’

‘Good morning,’ said a voice from the doorway.

He swung round in his chair and saw Agatha Troy. She was dressed in green and had a little velvet cap on her dark head and green gloves on her hands.

‘Troy!’

‘I came in to see if there was anything I could do for Mildred.’

‘You didn’t know I was here?’

‘Not till she told me. She asked me to see if you had everything you wanted.’

‘Everything I wanted,’ repeated Alleyn.

‘If you have,’ said Troy, ‘that’s all right. I won’t interrupt.’

‘Please,’ said Alleyn, ‘could you not go just for a second?’

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. I mean, I’ve no excuse for asking you to stay, unless, if you will forgive me, the excuse of wanting to look at you and listen for a moment to your voice.’ He held up his hand. ‘No more than that. You liked Bunchy and so did I. He talked about you the last time I saw him.’

‘A few hours ago,’ said Troy. ‘I was dancing with him.’

Alleyn moved to the tall windows … They looked out over the charming little garden to the Chelsea reaches of the Thames.

‘A few hours ago’ – he repeated her words slowly –’ the river was breathing mist. The air was threaded with mist and as cold as the grave. That was before dawn broke. It was beginning to get light when I saw him. And look at it now. Not a cloud. The damned river’s positively sparkling in the sunlight. Come here, Troy.’

She stood beside him.

‘Look down there into the street. Through the side window. At half-past three this morning the river mist lay like a pall along Cheyne Walk. If anybody was awake at that mongrel hour or abroad in the deserted streets they would have heard a taxi come along Cheyne Walk and stop outside this gate. If anybody in this house had had the curiosity to look out of one of the top windows they would have seen the door of the taxi open and a quaint figure in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat get out.’

‘What do you mean? He got out?’

‘The watcher would have seen this figure wave a gloved hand and heard him call to the driver in a shrill voice: “Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate.” He would have seen the taxi drive away into the mist – and then – what? What did the figure do? Did it run like a grotesque with flapping cloak towards the river to be swallowed up in vapour? Or did it walk off sedately into Chelsea? Did it wait for a moment, staring after the taxi? Did Bunchy’s murderer pull off his cloak, fold it and walk away with it over his arm? Did he hide his own tall hat under the cloak before he got out of the taxi, and afterwards change back into it? And where are Bunchy’s cloak and hat, Troy? Where are they?’

‘What did the taxi-driver say?’ asked Troy. ‘There’s nothing coherent in the papers. I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll tell you. Fox will be here soon. Before he comes I can allow myself a few minutes to unload my mind, if you’ll let me. I’ve done that before – once – haven’t I?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Troy. ‘Once.’

‘There is nobody in the world who can listen as you can. I wish I had something better to tell you. Well, here it is. The taxi-driver brought Bunchy to the Yard at four o’clock this morning, saying he was murdered. This was his story. He picked Bunchy up at three-thirty some two hundred yards from the doors of Marsdon House. There was a shortage of taxis and we suppose Bunchy had walked so far, hoping to pick one up in a side street, when this fellow came along. The unnatural mist that hung over London last night was thick in Belgrave Square. As the taximan drove towards Bunchy he saw another figure in an overcoat and top-hat loom through the mist and stand beside him. They appeared to speak together. Bunchy held up his stick. The cabby knew him by sight and addressed him:

‘“’Morning, m’lord. Two hundred Cheyne Walk?”

‘“Please,” said Bunchy.

‘The two men got into the taxi. The cabby never had a clear view of the second man. He had his back turned as the taxi approached and when it stopped he stood towards the rear in shadow. Before the door was slammed the cabby heard Bunchy say: “You can take him on.” The cabby drove to Cheyne Walk by way of Chesham Place, Cliveden Place, Lower Sloane Street and Chelsea Hospital and across Tite Street. He says it took about twelve minutes. He stopped here at Bunchy’s gate and in a few moments Lord Robert, as he supposed him to be, got out and slammed the door. A voice squeaked through a muffler: “Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate,” and the cabby drove away. He arrived at Jobbers Row ten minutes later, waited for his fare to get out and at last got out himself and opened the door. He found Bunchy.’

Alleyn waited for a moment, looked gravely at Troy’s white face. She said:

‘There was no doubt –’

‘None. The cabby is an obstinate, opinionated, cantankerous old oddity, but he’s no fool. He satisfied himself. He explained that he once drove an ambulance and knew certain things. He headed as far as he could for the Yard. A sergeant saw him; saw everything; made sure it was – what it was, and got me. I made sure, too.’

‘What had been done to Bunchy?’

‘You want to know? Yes, of course you do. You’re too intelligent to nurse your sensibilities.’

‘Mildred will ask me about it. What happened?’

‘We think he was struck on the temple, stunned and then suffocated,’ said Alleyn, without emphasis. ‘We shall know more when the doctors have finished.’

‘Struck?’

‘Yes. With something that had a pretty sharp edge. About as sharp as the back of a thick knife-blade.’

‘Did he suffer?’

‘Not very much. Hardly at all. He wouldn’t know what happened.’

‘His heart was weak,’ said Troy suddenly.

‘His heart? Are you sure of that?’

‘Mildred told me the other day. She tried to persuade him to see a specialist.’

‘I wonder,’ said Alleyn, ‘if that made it easier – for both of them.’

Troy said:

‘I haven’t seen you look like that before.’

‘What do you mean, Troy?’

He turned to her a face so suddenly translated into gentleness that she could not answer him.

‘I – it’s gone now.’

‘When I look at you I suppose all other expression is lost in an effect of general besottedness.’

‘How can I answer that?’ said Troy.

‘Don’t. I’m sorry. What did you mean?’

‘You looked savage.’

‘I feel it when I think of Bunchy.’

‘I can understand that.’

The hunt is up,’ said Alleyn. ‘Have you ever read in the crime books about the relentless detective who swears he’ll get his man if it takes him the rest of his life? That’s me, Troy, and I always thought it rather a bogus idea. It is bogus in a way, too. The real heroes of criminal investigation are Detective-Constables X, Y and Z – the men in the ranks who follow up all the dreary threads of routine without any personal feeling or interest, who swear no full round oaths, but who, nevertheless, do get their men in the end; and with a bit of luck and the infinite capacity for taking pains. Detective-Constables X, Y and Z are going to be kept damned busy until this gentleman is laid by the heels. I can promise them that.’

‘I don’t feel like that,’ said Troy. ‘I mean, I don’t feel anything in particular about this murderer except that I think he must be mad. I know he should be found but I can’t feel savage about him. It’s simply Bunchy who did no harm in this world; no harm at all, lying dead and lonely. I must go now, and see what I can do for Mildred. Has Donald come in?’

‘Not yet. Do you know where he is staying?’

‘He wouldn’t tell Mildred because he thought she would tell Bunchy, and he wanted to be independent. She’s got the telephone number. I’ve seen it written on the memorandum in her room. I suppose you heard about the difference?’

‘Yes, from Mildred. It was his debts, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Mildred has always spoilt Donald. He’s not a bad child really. He will be terribly upset.’

Alleyn looked at the photograph.

‘Did you see him at the dance?’

‘Yes. He danced a lot with Bridgie O’Brien.’

‘Did he stay until the end, do you know?’

‘I didn’t stay till the end myself. Mildred and I left at half-past one. She dropped me at my club. Bunchy – Bunchy – was seeing us home, but he came and asked us if we’d mind going without him. He said he was feeling gay.’

‘Did you see much of him, please?’

‘I danced three times with him. He was very gay.’

‘Troy, did you notice anything? Anything at all?’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Did there seem to be any hint of something behind his gaiety? As if, do you know, he was thinking in the back of his head?’

Troy sat on the edge of the desk and pulled off her cap. The morning sun came through the window and dappled her short dark hair with blue lights. It caught the fine angle of her jaw and her cheek-bone. It shone into her eyes, making her screw them up as she did when she painted. She drew off her green gloves and Alleyn watched her thin intelligent hands slide out of their sheaths and lie delicately in the fur of her green jacket. He wondered if he would ever recover from the love of her.

He said: ‘Tell me everything that happened last night while you were with Bunchy. Look back into your memory before it loses its edge and see if there is anything there that seemed a little out of the ordinary. Anything, no matter how insignificant.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Troy. ‘There was nothing when we danced except – yes. We collided once with another couple. It was a Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Do you know her?’

‘Yes. Well?’

‘It’s a tiny thing, but you say that doesn’t matter. She was dancing with a tall coarse-looking man. Bunchy apologized before he saw who they were. He danced very bouncily, you know, and always apologized when there were collisions. Then we swung round and he saw them. I felt his hand tighten suddenly and I looked over his shoulder at them. The man’s red face had gone quite pale and Mrs Halcut-Hackett looked very odd. Frightened. I asked Bunchy who the man was and he said: “Feller called Withers,” in a queer frozen little voice. I said: “Don’t you like him?” and he said: “Not much, m’dear,” and then began to talk about something else.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘That’s interesting. Anything more?’

‘Later on, Bunchy and I went to chaperones’ corner. You know, the end of the ballroom where they all sit. Your mother was there. Mrs Halcut-Hackett came up with her husband and then the girl she’s bringing out arrived with that old ass Carrados. The girl had toothache, she said, but I’m afraid the wretched child was really not having a great success. There’s something so blasted cruel and barbaric about this season game,’ said Troy vigorously.

‘I know.’

‘Your mother noticed it. We said something to each other. Well, General Halcut-Hackett said he’d take the girl home and Bunchy offered to take Mrs Halcut-Hackett home later on. The General thanked him but she looked extraordinarily put out and seemed to me to avoid answering. I got the impression that she hated the idea. There was one other thing just about then. Wait a second! Bunchy started a conversation about punctuality with old Lucy Lorrimer. You know?’

‘Lord, yes. She’s a friend of my mama’s. Dotty.’

‘That’s her. She twitted Bunchy about being late or something and Mrs Halcut-Hackett suddenly said in a loud, high voice that she knew all about Bunchy’s punctual habits and could vouch for them. It sounds nothing, but for some extraordinary reason it made everybody feel uncomfortable.’

‘Can you remember exactly what she said?’

Troy ran her fingers through her hair and scowled thoughtfully.

‘No, not exactly. It was just that she knew he always kept appointments. Your mother might remember. I went away to dance soon after that. Evelyn Carrados was there but –’

‘But what?’

‘You’ll think I’m inventing vague mysteries but I thought she seemed very upset, too. Nothing to do with Bunchy. She looked ill. I heard someone say afterwards that she nearly fainted in the supper-room. She looked rather as if she might when I saw her. I noticed her hands were tense. I’ve often thought I’d like to paint Evelyn’s hands. They’re beautiful. I watched them last night. She kept clutching a great fat bag in her lap. Bunchy sat between her and your mother and he gave each of them a little pat – you know Bunchy’s way. His hand touched Evelyn’s bag and she started as if he’d hurt her and her fingers tightened. I can see them now, white, with highlights on the knuckles, dug into the gold stuff of the bag. I thought again I’d like to paint them and call the thing: “Hands of a frightened woman.” And then later on – but look here,’ said Troy, ‘I’m simply maundering.’

‘God bless your good painter’s eyes, you’re not. Go on.’

‘Well, some time after supper when I’d danced again with Bunchy, I sat out with him in the ballroom. We were talking away and he was telling me one of his little stories, a ridiculous one about Lucy Lorrimer sending a wreath to a wedding and a toasting-fork to a funeral, when he suddenly stopped dead and stared over my shoulder. I turned and saw he was looking at Evelyn Carrados. There was nothing much to stare at. She still looked shaken, but that was all. Dimitri, the catering man you know, was giving her back that bag. I suppose she’d left it somewhere. What’s the matter?’

Alleyn had made a little exclamation.

He said: ‘That great fat bag you had noticed earlier in the evening?’

‘Yes. But it wasn’t so fat this time,’ said Troy quickly. ‘Now I think of it, it was quite limp and flat. You see, I was looking at her hands again. I remember thinking subconsciously that it seemed such a large bag for a ball-dress. Mildred came up and we left soon after that. I’m afraid that’s all.’

‘Afraid? Troy, you don’t know what an important person you are.’

‘Don’t I?’

She looked at him with an air of bewildered friendliness and at once his whole face was lit by his fierce awareness of her. Troy’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She reached out her hand and touched him.

‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Alleyn drew back. He struck one hand against the palm of the other and said violently:

‘For God’s sake, don’t be kind! What is this intolerable love that forces me to do the very things I wish with all my soul to avoid? Yes, Troy, please go now.’

Troy went without another word.