Vintage Murder

by Ngaio Marsh

  Alleyn got up and walked across to the fireplace.

  “Wade,” he said, “I don’t know whether you’ll approve of this but I’m going to take Mr. Mason into our confidence over the affair on the train.”

  “Just as you please, Mr. Alleyn,” said Wade, looking rather blank. “You do just as you think best.”

  “It’s this,” said Alleyn, turning to Mason. “You remember that before we got to Ohakune everyone in the carriage was asleep.”

  “Well,” said Mason, “I don’t remember because I was asleep myself.”

  “As Mr. Singleton would say,” grinned Alleyn, “a very palpable hit. I put it carelessly. Let me amend it. Each of us has admitted that he or she was asleep for some time before we got to Ohakune. I have asked all the others and they agree to this. They also agree that they were all awakened by a terrific jolt as we got on to the thing they call the spiral. Old Miss Max was decanted into my lap. You remember?”

  “I do. Poor old Susie! She looked a scream, didn’t she?”

  “And Ackroyd let out a remarkably blue oath.”

  “That’s right. Foul-mouthed little devil—I don’t like that sort of thing. Common. He will do it.”

  “Well now, you remember all this—”

  “Of course I do. I thought we’d run into a cow or something.”

  “And Mr. Meyer thought someone had given him a kick in the seat.”

  “By George!” said Mason, “why didn’t someone think of that.”

  “That’s what we’re always saying to the chief, Mr. Mason,” said Wade. “The trouble is, we don’t, and he does.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “That’ll be the doctor,” said Wade. “Come in.”

  Dr. Te Pokiha came in, smiling.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here before. I had to go to the hospital—urgent case. You wanted to see me, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “We all want to see you, I think,” said Alleyn. “It’s in connection with our conversation last night.”

  He repeated the story of Mason and his overcoat. Te Pokiha listened without a word. When Alleyn had finished, there was a pause.

  “Well, doctor, do you think you made a mistake?” said Wade.

  “Certainly not. Mr. Mason came in at the outside door wearing his coat and hat. He took them off afterwards, when I removed my own coat. I am not in the habit of making mis-statements.”

  “It’s not that,” said Mason peaceably, “it’s just that I came in before you did and put on my coat because I was cold. I’ve got a weak tummy, Doctor,” he added with an air of giving the medical man a treat.

  “You came in after I did,” said Te Pokiha with considerable emphasis. The whites of his eyes seemed to become more noticeable and his heavy brows came together.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t,” said Mason.

  “You mean to say I’m a liar.”

  “Don’t be silly, Doctor. You simply made a mistake.”

  “I did not make any mistake. This is insufferable. You will please admit at once that I am right.”

  “Why the deuce should I when you are obviously wrong,” said Mason irritably.

  “Don’t repeat that.” Te Pokiha’s warm voice thickened. His lips coarsened into a sort of snarl. He showed his teeth like a dog. “By Jove,” thought Alleyn, “the odd twenty per cent of pure savage.”

  “Oh, don’t be a fool,” grunted Mason. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You give me the lie!”

  “Shut up. This isn’t a Wild West show.”

  “You give me the lie!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake don’t go native,” said Mason—and laughed.

  Te Pokiha made a sudden leap at him. Mason scuttled behind Packer. “Keep off, you damn’ nigger!” he screamed.

  The next few minutes were occupied in saving Mr. Mason’s life. Alleyn, Packer, and Wade tackled Te Pokiha efficiently and scientifically, but even so it took their combined efforts to subdue him. He fought silently and savagely and only gave up when they had both his arms and one of his legs in chancery.

  “Very well,” he said suddenly, and relaxed.

  Cass appeared bulkily in the doorway. Ackroyd, clasping an armful of underwear, peered under his arm.

  “Here, let me out,” said Mason.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” asked Cass, not moving.

  “I apologise, Mr. Alleyn,” said Te Pokiha quietly. “You can loose your hand.”

  “All right, Wade,” said Alleyn.

  “Thank you.” He moved away from them, his brown hands at his tie. “I am deeply ashamed,” he said. “This man has spoken of my—my colour. It is true I am a ‘native.’ I come of a people who do not care for insults but I should not have forgotten that an ariki does not lay hands on a taurekareka.”

  “What’s all this?” asked Ackroyd greedily.

  “You buzz off, sir,” advised Cass. Ackroyd disappeared.

  “I will go now,” said Te Pokiha. “If you wish to see me again, Mr. Alleyn, I shall be at my rooms between one and two. I am very sorry indeed that I forgot myself. Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “And with that he swep’ off,” said Mason, coming out of cover. “My God, what a savage. I think if you don’t mind I’ll go back to the pub. This has upset me. My God. Has he gone? Right, I’m off.”

  He went down the yard. Te Pokiha was getting into his car.

  “Follow him,” snapped Alleyn to Cass. “Don’t lose sight of him.”

  “Who?” said Cass, startled. “Te Pokiha?”

  “No, Mason,” said Alleyn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Alleyn Speaks the Tag

  EXCERPT FROM A letter written by Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Detective-Inspector Fox, C.I.D.:

  —I’ve just returned from the arrest which took place immediately after the inquest. Mason gave no trouble. I think he was taken completely by surprise, though he must have felt things were getting dangerous as soon as the overcoat was mentioned. He said that he was innocent and that he would make no statement until he had consulted a lawyer. Psychologically he might be classed with Crippen, a drab everyday little man; but he’s not got the excuse of the crime passionnel. I suspect a stronger motive than the mere acquisition of money. Your cable seems to point to something fishy about the handling of his side of Incorporated Playhouses. I wouldn’t mind betting that you find he’s been gambling with the Firm’s money and needed this bequest to get himself out of a hole. If the story of his leaving a company stranded in America is true, it looks as if we’ll find a history of unscrupulousness over money matters.

  He is a superb actor, of course. They told me so in the wardrobe-room and, by George, it’s true. He got right into the skin of his part—the insignificant little dyspeptic, worrying about what would happen to the show. The dyspepsia is true enough; we’ve found half a pharmacopoeia of remedies in his room. Somebody ought to write a monograph on the effect of the stomach on the morals.

  You will get a solemn letter of thanks from Nixon, I expect. You’ve been remarkably nippy getting on to the trail, you cunning old devil. The case has interested me very much. It looked so complicated and it was actually so simple, once Bob Parsons had made his statement. Of course Mason had no idea Bob was in a position to provide a cast-iron alibi for the entire company, and no doubt thought that it would look as if any one of them might have dodged out and popped up to the grid. We have been very lucky. If Miss Dacres had not dropped the tiki I don’t believe we should have made an arrest. The stage-staff would have sworn it was murder, but everyone else would have thought they had made a mistake over the weights. I can’t help wondering if Mason meant, all along, to do just what Miss Dacres did for him. He didn’t get a chance, as it happened. I packed him off to the office with Te Pokiha. Really, he planned the thing quite well. His visit to the stage-door established his alibi, and his remark about the cold air drew Singleton’s attention to the fact that he was hatless and in his din
ner-jacket. He returned to the office, put on his overcoat and hat, slid along the wall under cover of the open door—it’s an ill-lit place at night—walked boldly across the open end where there must have been plenty of people coming away from the show, came back along the yard, hidden from Singleton by the projecting bicycle shed, and then doubled round to the back of the theatre using the back-door key and leaving it on the inside when he returned.

  If Te Pokiha had not come in from the box-office, I fancy Mason would have opened the door and shown himself, without his overcoat, to the clerks. That five minutes would never have been accounted for. Of course, we are now going over every inch of the path behind the sheds and hope to get something from it. The defence will have a little difficulty in accounting for Mason’s vivid recollection of an incident that never took place. Susan Max was not projected into my lap in the train, nor did Ackroyd utter any oaths. Mason, of course, thought this little diversion must have occurred when he was put on the platform taking a place kick at Meyer’s behind, and did not dare say he had not remembered it. He couldn’t say he had slept through it, as he’s always talking about being a light sleeper. Broadhead remembers someone coming back from the head of the carriage and sitting somewhere behind him. This, I believe, was Mason returning from his attempt. I fancy he got his idea for the second and successful attempt from the accident with the falling weight.

  I’ve asked Nixon and Wade to give a miss to Carolyn Dacres’s performance as a weight-lifter. They are willing enough as it would very much confuse the issue in the minds of a jury. I shall be called and shall give an account of the condition found on my first visit to the grid, when the weight was still missing. Ticklish and possibly rather hot, but quite honest in the last analysis.

  I think the verdict will go against him. There is no capital punishment here, so I fancy it will be a life-sentence. Miss Dacres insists on paying the cast a retaining salary for as long as they have to remain in this country. Hambledon and Gascoigne are trying to deal with affairs for her. I suppose she’ll marry Hambledon one of these days. He’s a nice fellow—Hambledon. I don’t think he knows she ever suspected him and I hope she doesn’t tell him. Liversidge is sweating blood and shaking in his fancy socks. He is a nasty bit of work and ought to be jugged. He’s also rather a fool. I fancy his only idea in letting fall ambiguous remarks about Broadhead and the money, was to try and divert suspicion of theft from himself, though, of course, he was terrified we’d find out about his conversation with Meyer and look upon it as a strong indication of motive to murder. He’s such a skunk that I suppose he’d have used Broadhead or anyone else as a red herring. The parents of young Palmer and of Valerie Gaynes have cabled for their respective offspring but won’t get ’em yet a while. Young Palmer is not entirely porcine and may turn into a presentable citizen one day. Miss Gaynes is, beyond all hope, abominable, and I hope they don’t give her the satisfaction of trying to be an actress in the witness-box. Ackroyd is chastened, old Brandon Vernon philosophical, and Gascoigne worried to death. Our old friend Miss Max shakes her head and keeps a friendly eye on Carolyn Dacres. Young Broadhead seems to be in a state of bewildered relief.

  As you will see by this notepaper I am staying with Dr. Te Pokiha. I am learning something of his people. He has apologised seven times, up to date, for losing his temper with Mason, and tells me all members of his family hate being called liars. I hope he doesn’t fly into a rage with defending counsel, who is almost certain to question his veracity. He’s an extraordinarily interesting fellow and in spite of the temper, he has the most exquisite manners.

  I’ve been asked to stay by several of the surrounding station-holders, so I shall see something of the North Island. They’re an amazingly hospitable people, these New Zealanders, very anxious that one should admire their country, rather on the defensive about it, but once they accept you, extremely friendly. I am asked, embarrassingly and repeatedly, about “the accent” and don’t know how to answer. The intelligentsia, who seem to be a gentle distillation of the Press and the universities, speak a queerly careful language and tell funny stories with the most meticulous regard for the mot juste. Their views are blamelessly liberal. What a damn’ superior ass I sound, talking like this about them. After this case is cleared up I go south to a high plateau encircled by mountains. I have fallen in love with the sound of this place, and indeed, with the country altogether. The air really is like wine, balmy and exciting. The colour is clear and everything is exquisitely defined—no pretty smudging.

  Well, my old Fox, all this is a long cry from the case. There’s no more to say except that I await your air-mail letter with composure and confidence. I shall end this letter by running my pen round the little greenstone tiki so that you will have an idea of his shape and size. He will not appear in evidence, I hope, but you will see that in his own way he has played a not inconsiderable part in the affair. Carolyn Dacres tells me she still wants to have him. May he bring her better luck.

  Good-bye, you old devil. It must be so exciting to be a detective.

  Yours ever,

  RODERICK ALLEYN.

  EPILOGUE

  ON AN EVENING three months after the close of the case Alleyn, stretched luxuriously on a widely-spread tussock, looked across Lake Pukaki to where Aeorangi, the cloud-piercer, shone immaculate against the darkening sky. He would smoke one pipe before turning back to the little wooden hotel. With a sigh he put his hand in his pocket and took out three letters with English stamps on the envelopes. His holiday was nearly over, and here was old Fox saying how glad they would be at the Yard to see him again. The second was from his Assistant Commissioner—very cordial. He dropped them on the warm, lichen-surfaced earth, and once again he read the final paragraph in the third letter:

  I felt I should like to tell you that Hailey and I think we shall be married in a year’s time. Please give us your blessing, dear Mr. Alleyn. One other thing. There will be a step-child for Hailey. So you see that the greenstone tiki has fulfilled its purpose and I shall have the best possible remembrance of my dear Alfie-Pooh.

  All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.

  VINTAGE MURDER

  A Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” mystery

  PRINTING HISTORY

  First U.K. print edition (Geoffrey Bles): 1937

  First U.S. print edition (Sheridan): 1940

  Felony & Mayhem print and electronic editions: 2012

  Copyright © 1937 by Ngaio Marsh

  All rights reserved

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-937384-15-9

  For Allan Wilkie and Frediswyde Hunter-Watts in memory of a tour in New Zealand.

  You’re reading a book in the Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” category. These books were originally published prior to about 1965, and feature the kind of twisty, ingenious puzzles beloved by fans of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr. If you enjoy this book, you may well like other “Vintage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press.

  “Vintage” titles available as e-books:

  The Poisoned Chocolates Case, by Anthony Berkeley

  The “Henry Gamadge” series, by Elizabeth Daly

  The “Roderick Alleyn” series, by Ngaio Marsh

  “Vintage” titles available as print books:

  The “Albert Campion” series, by Margery Allingham

  The “Gervase Fen” series, by Edmund Crispin

  For more about these books, and other Felony & Mayhem titles, please visit our website:

  www.FelonyAndMayhem.com

 

 

 
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