by Ngaio Marsh
Written underneath these notes in the spiky, irritable hand of Alleyn’s Assistant Commissioner:
For Ch. Sup. Alleyn’s attn. Not much joy. Any items however insignificant will be appreciated.
Alleyn locked the file back in the case. He began to walk about the room as if he kept an obligatory watch. It would be so easy, he thought, to concoct a theory based on the meagre document. How would it go?
The Sommita, born Bella Pepitone which he thought he’d heard or read somewhere, was a common Sicilian name, but was reared in the United States. He remembered the unresolved Rossi case quite well. It was of the sort that turns up in books about actual crimes. The feud was said to be generations deep: a hangover from some initial murder in Sicily. It offered good material for ‘true crimes’ collections being particularly bloody and having a peculiar twist: in the long succession of murders the victims had always been women and the style of their putting-off grisly.
The original crime which took place in 1910 in Sicily and triggered off the feud, was said to have been the killing of a Pepitone woman in circumstances of extreme cruelty. Ever since, hideous idiocies had been perpetrated on both sides at irregular intervals in the name of this vendetta.
The macabre nature of the Sommita’s demise and her family connections would certainly qualify her as a likely candidate and it must be supposed would notch up several points on the Rossi score.
Accepting, for the moment, this outrageous proposition, what, he speculated, about the MO? How was it all laid on? Could Strix be slotted into the pattern? Very readily, if you let your imagination off the chain. Suppose Strix was in the Rossi interest and had been hired, no doubt at an exorbitant price, to torment the victim, but not necessarily to dispatch her? Perhaps Strix was himself a member of the Rossi Family? In this mixed stew of concoctions there was one outstanding ingredient: the identity of Strix. For Alleyn it was hardly in doubt but if he was right it followed that Strix was not the assassin. (And how readily that melodramatic word surfaced in this preposterous case.) From the conclusion of the opera until Alleyn went upstairs to write his letter this ‘Strix’ had been much in evidence downstairs. He had played the ubiquitous busybody. He had been present all through dinner and in the hall when the guests were milling about waiting to embark.
He had made repeated trips from house to jetty full of consoling chat, sheltering departing guests under a gigantic umbrella. He had been here, there and everywhere but he certainly had not had time to push his way through the crowd, go upstairs, knock on the Sommita’s door, be admitted, administer chloroform, asphyxiate her, wait twenty minutes and then implant the stiletto and the photograph. And return to his duties, unruffled, in his natty evening get-up.
For, in Alleyn’s mind, at this juncture there were no two ways about the identity of Strix.
CHAPTER 6
Storm Continued
Alleyn wrote up his notes. He sat at the brand-new paint-table Troy would never use and worked for an hour, taking great pains to be comprehensive, detailed, succinct and lucid, bearing in mind that the notes were destined for the New Zealand police. And the sooner he handed them over and he and Troy packed their bags, the better he would like it.
The small hours came and went and with them that drained sensation accompanied by the wakefulness that replaces an unsatisfied desire for sleep. The room, the passage outside, the landing and the silent house beyond seemed to change their character and lead a stealthy night life of their own.
It was raining again. Giant handfuls of rice seemed to be thrown across the windowpanes. The Lodge, new as it was, jolted under the onslaught. Alleyn thought of the bathing pool below the studio windows, and almost fancied he could hear its risen waters slapping at the house.
At a few minutes short of two o’clock he was visited by an experience Troy, ever since the early days of their marriage when he had first confided in her, called his ‘Familiar’, though truly a more accurate name might be ‘Unfamiliar’ or perhaps ‘Alter Ego’. He understood that people interested in such matters were well acquainted with this state of being and that it was not at all unusual. Perhaps the ESP buffs had it taped. He had never cared to ask.
The nearest he could get to it was to say that without warning he would feel as if he had moved away from his own identity and looked at himself as if at a complete stranger. He felt that if he held on outside himself something new and very remarkable would come out of it. But he never did hang on and as suddenly as normality had gone it would return. The slightest disturbance clicked it back and he was within himself again.
As now, when he caught a faint movement that had not been there before – the sense rather than the sound – of someone in the passage outside the room.
He went to the door and opened it and was face to face with the ubiquitous and serviceable Hanley.
‘Oh,’ said Hanley, ‘so sorry. I was just going to knock. One saw the light under your door and wondered if – you know – one might be of use.’
‘You’re up late. Come in.’
He came in, embellishing his entrance with thanks and apologies. He wore a dressing gown of Noël Coward vintage and Moroccan slippers. His hair was fluffed up into a little crest like a baby’s. In the uncompromising lights of the studio it could be seen that he was not very young.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘it’s absolutely fantastic of you to take on all this beastliness. Honestly!’
‘Oh,’ Alleyn said, ‘I’m only treading water, you know, until the proper authorities arrive.’
‘A prospect that doesn’t exactly fill one with rapture.’
‘Why are you abroad so late, Mr Hanley?’
‘Couldn’t you settle for “Ned"? Mr Hanley makes one feel like an undergraduate getting gated. I’m abroad in the night because I can’t sleep. I can’t help seeing – everything – her. Whenever I close my eyes – there it is. If I do doze – it’s there. Like those crumby old horror films. An awful face suddenly rushing at one. It might as well be one of Dracula’s ladies after the full treatment.’ He gave a miserable giggle and then looked appalled. ‘I shouldn’t be like this,’ he said. ‘Even though, as a matter of fact, it’s no more than the truth. But I mustn’t bore you with my woes.’
‘Where is your room?’
‘One flight up. Why? Oh, I see. You’re wondering what brought me down here, aren’t you? You’ll think it very peculiar and it’s not easy to explain but actually it was that thing about being drawn towards something that gives one the horrors like edges of precipices and spiders. You know? After trying to sleep and getting nightmares I began to think I had to make myself come down to this floor and cross the landing outside – that room. When I went to bed I actually used the staff stairs to avoid doing that very thing and here I was under this beastly compulsion. So I did it. I hated it and I did it. And in the event there was our rather good-looking chauffeur, Bert, snoring on chairs. He must have very acute hearing, because when I crossed the landing he opened his eyes and stared at me. It was disconcerting because he didn’t utter. I lost my head and said: “Oh, hullo, Bert, it’s perfectly all right. Don’t get up,” and made a bolt of it into this passage and saw the light under your door. I seem to be cold. Would you think it too bold if I asked you if I might have a brandy? I didn’t downstairs because I make it a rule never to unless the Boss-Man offers and anyway I don’t really like the stuff. But I think – tonight – ‘
‘Yes, of course. Help yourself.’
‘Terrific,’ Hanley said. Alleyn saw him half fill a small tumbler, take a pull at it, shudder violently and close his eyes.
‘Would you mind awfully if I turned on that radiator?’ he asked. ‘Our central heating goes off between twelve and seven.’
Alleyn turned it on. Hanley sat close to it on the edge of the throne and nursed his brandy. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I feel much better. Sweet of you to understand.’
Alleyn, as far as he knew, had given no sign of having understood anything. He had
been thinking that Hanley was the second distraught visitor to the studio over the past forty-eight hours and that in a way he was a sort of unconvincing parody of Rupert Bartholomew. It struck him that Hanley was making the most of his distress, almost relishing it.
‘As you’re feeling better,’ he suggested, ‘perhaps you won’t mind putting me straight on one or two domestic matters – especially concerning the servants.’
‘If I can,’ Hanley said readily enough.
‘I hope you can. You’ve been with Mr Reece for some years, haven’t you?’
‘Since January 1977. I was a senior secretary with the Hoffman-Beilstein Group in New York. Transferred from their Sydney offices. The Boss-Man was chums with them in those days and I saw quite a lot of him. And he of me. His secretary had died and in the upshot,’ said Hanley, a little too casually, ‘I got the job.’ He finished his brandy. ‘It was all quite amicable and took place during a cruise on the Caribbean in the Hoffman yacht. I was on duty. The Boss-Man was a guest. I think it was then that he found out about the Hoffman-Beilstein organization being naughty. He’s absolutely Caesar’s Wife himself. Well, you know what I mean. Pure as the driven snow. Incidentally, that was when he first encountered The Lady,’ said Hanley and his mouth tightened. ‘But without any noticeable reaction. He wasn’t really a lady’s man.’
‘No?’
‘Oh no. She made all the running. And, face it, she was a collector’s piece. It was like pulling off a big deal. As a matter of fact, in my opinion, it was – well – far from being a grande passion. Oh dear, there I go again. But it was, as you might say, a very aseptic relationship.’
This chimed, Alleyn thought, with Dr Carmichael’s speculation.
‘Yes, I see,’ he said lightly. ‘Has Mr Reece any business relationships with Hoffman-Beilstein?’
‘He pulled out. Like I said, he didn’t fancy the way things shaped up. There were very funny rumours. He broke everything off after the cruise. Actually he rescued Madame – and me – at the same time. That’s how it all started.’
‘I see. And now – about the servants.’
‘I suppose you mean Marco and Maria, don’t you? Straight out of grand opera the two of them. Without the voice for it, of course.’
‘Did they come into the household before your time?’
‘Maria came with Madame, of course, at the same time as I made my paltry entrance. I understand the Boss-Man produced her. From the Italian Embassy or somewhere rather smooth. But Marco arrived after me.’
‘When was that?’
‘Three years ago. The Boss-Man wanted a personal servant. I advertised and Marco was easily the best bet. He had marvellous references. We thought that being Italian he might understand Maria and The Lady.’
‘Would that be about the time when Strix began to operate?’
‘About then, yes,’ Hanley agreed and then stared at Alleyn. ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘You’re not suggesting? Or are you?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. Naturally I would like to hear more about Strix. Can you give me any idea of how many times the offensive photographs appeared?’
Hanley eyed him warily. ‘Not precisely,’ he said. ‘There had been some on her European tour, before I joined the circus. About six I think. I’ve filed them and could let you know.’
‘Thank you. And afterwards? After you and Marco had both arrived on the scene?’
‘Now you’ll be making me feel awkward. No, of course you won’t. I don’t mean that. Let me think. There was the one in Double Bay when he bounced round a corner in dark glasses with a scarf over his mouth. And the stage-door débâcle when he was in drag, and the one in Melbourne when he came alongside in a car and shot off before they could see what he was like. And of course the really awful one on the Opera House steps. There was a rumour then that he was a blond. That’s only four!’ Hanley exclaimed. ‘With all the hullabaloo it seemed more like the round dozen. It certainly did the trick with Madame. The scenes!’ He finished his brandy.
‘Did Madame Sommita keep in touch with her family, do you know?’
‘I don’t think there is any family in Australia. I think I’ve heard they’re all in the States. I don’t know what they’re called or anything, really, about them. The origins, one understood, were of the earth, earthy.’
‘In her circle of acquaintances, are there many – or any – Italians?’
‘Well – ‘ Hanley said, warming slightly to the task, ‘let’s see. There are the ambassadorial ones. We always make VIP noises about them, of course. And I understand there was a big Italian fan mail in Australia. We’ve a considerable immigrant population over there, you know.’
‘Did you ever hear of anybody called Rossi?’
Hanley shook his head slowly. ‘Not to remember.’
‘Or Pepitone?’
‘No. What an enchanting fun-name. Is he a fan? But, honestly, I don’t have anything to do with The Lady’s acquaintances or correspondents or on-goings of any sort. If you want to dig into her affairs,’ said Hanley, and now a sneer was clearly to be heard, ‘you’d better ask the infant phenomenon, hadn’t you?’
‘Bartholomew?’
‘Who else? He’s supposed to be her secretary. Secretary! My God!’
‘You don’t approve of Bartholomew?’
‘He’s marvellous to look at, of course.’
‘Looks apart?’
‘One doesn’t want to be catty,’ said Hanley, succeeding in being so pretty well, nevertheless, ‘but what else is there? The opera? You heard that for yourself. And all that carry-on at the curtain call! I’m afraid I think he’s a complete phoney. And spiteful with it.’
‘Really? Spiteful? You surprise me.’
‘Well, look at him. Take, take, take. Everything she could give. But everything. All caught up with the opera nonsense and then when it flopped, turning round and making a public fool of himself. And her. I could see right through the high tragedy bit, don’t you worry: it was an act. He blamed her for the disaster. For egging him on. He was getting back on her.’ Hanley had spoken rapidly in a high voice. He stopped short, swung round and stared at Alleyn.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t say these things to you. For Christ’s sake don’t go reading something awful into it all. It’s just that I got so bored with the way everyone fell for the boy-beautiful. Everyone. Even the Boss-Man. Until he chickened out and said he wouldn’t go on with the show. That put a different complexion on the affaire, didn’t it? Well, on everything, really. The Boss-Man was livid. Such a change!’
He stood up and carefully replaced his glass on the tray. ‘I’m a trifle tiddly,’ he said, ‘but quite clear in the head. Is it true or did I dream it that the British press used to call you the Handsome Sleuth? Or something like that?’
‘You dreamt it,’ said Alleyn. ‘Good night.’
II
At twenty to three Alleyn had finished his notes. He locked them away in his dispatch case, looked round the studio, turned out the lights and, carrying the case, went out into the passage, locking the door behind him.
And now how quiet was the Lodge. It smelt of new carpets, of dying fires and of the aftermath of food, champagne and cigarettes. It was not altogether silent. There were minuscule sounds suggestive of its adjusting to the storm. As he approached the landing there were Bert’s snores to be heard, rhythmic but not very loud.
Alleyn had, by now, a pretty accurate knowledge, acquired on the earlier search, of the Lodge and its sleeping quarters. The principal bedrooms and the studio were all on this floor and opened on to two passages that led off, right and left, from the landing, each taking a right-angled turn after three rooms had been passed. The guests’ names were inserted in neat little slots on their doors: à la Versailles, thought Alleyn; they might as well have gone the whole hog while they were about it and used the discriminating pour. It would be Pour Signor Lattienzo. But he suspected merely Dr Carmichael.
He crossed the landing. Bert
had left the shaded table lamp on and it softly illuminated his innocent face. As Alleyn passed him he stopped snoring and opened his eyes. They looked at each other for a second or two. Bert said ‘Gidday’ and went back to sleep.
Alleyn entered the now dark passage on the right of the landing, passed his own bedroom door and thought how strange it was that Troy should be in there and that soon he would be able to join her. He paused for a moment and as he did so heard a door open somewhere beyond the turn of the passage.
The floor, like all floors in this padded house, was thickly carpeted; nevertheless he felt rather than heard somebody walking towards him.
Realizing that he might be silhouetted against the dimly glowing landing, he flattened himself against the wall and slid back to where he remembered seeing a switch for the passage lights. After some groping his hand found it. He turned it on and there, almost within touching distance, was Rupert Bartholomew.
For a moment he thought Rupert would bolt. He had jerked up his hands as if to guard his face. He looked quickly behind him, hesitated, and then seemed to pull himself together.
‘It’s you,’ he whispered. ‘You gave me a shock.’
‘Wasn’t Signor Lattienzo’s pill any good?’
‘No. I’ve got to get to the lavatory. I can’t wait.’
‘There isn’t one along here, you must know that.’
‘Oh God!’ said Rupert loudly. ‘Lay off me, can’t you?’
‘Don’t start anything here, you silly chap. Keep your voice down and come to the studio.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes you will. Come on.’
He took him by the arm.
Down the passage, back across the landing, back past Bert Smith, back into the studio, will this night never end? Alleyn wondered, putting down his dispatch case.
‘If you really want the Usual Offices,’ he said, ‘there’s one next door which you know as well as I do and I don’t mind betting there’s one in your own communicating bathroom. But you don’t want it, do you?’
