by Ngaio Marsh
“Because he’s not a bloody skunk,” said Janey loudly.
“Janey, dear!”
“It’s an admirable explanation, Miss Wade,” said Alleyn. “Let us leave it at that. Mr. Garnette, I am afraid I must ask you to come to the police station with us.”
“On what charge? This is an infamous conspiracy. I am innocent. This man whom I have taken to my bosom—this viper—”
“Aw, can it, you—!” said Ogden so savagely that Garnette was suddenly silent and suffered himself to be led away without further protest.
“Ready, Mr. Ogden?” asked Alleyn. “Right, Fox!”
Inspector Fox, who had come in immediately after the arrest, approached Ogden with his customary air of placid courtesy.
“We’ll just move along now, if you please, sir,” he said.
Ogden seemed to come out of a morose trance. He raised his skewbald eyes and looked from Alleyn to Fox.
“You—Britishers,” he said.
“But aren’t Australians British?” asked Alleyn. For the first time Ogden looked frightened.
“I was born in Michigan,” he said.
“Australia may congratulate herself,” answered Alleyn.
“Sez you!”
“Mr. Ogden,” said Alleyn, “you are too vulnerable. What are you waiting for, Fox?”
They took Ogden out. One by one the Initiates drifted away. Mrs. Candour, Claude and Lionel, who seemed to have discovered some mysterious affinity, left together. De Ravigne, who had remained completely unruffled, made ceremonious adieux.
“I imagine, M. l’Inspecteur, that there is something more than hops to the eye in this affair.”
“It will all hop to the eye soon enough, M. de Ravigne,” said Alleyn sombrely.
“I can believe it. So long as my poor Cara is revenged I am satisfied. I must confess I myself suspected the priest. Without a doubt he is on an equality with Ogden. He introduced to Cara so many infamies. The drugs—to one of her temperament—”
“Did you never suspect the drug?”
“Certainly. I confronted her with it. Monsieur, I am myself almost as culpable. I introduced her to this accursed place. For this I can never forgive myself.”
“There is one question I should like to ask you,” said Alleyn. “Did you remember the Curiosities of Chemistry when you saw it again in this room?”
“I remembered that I had held it in my hands, but I could not recollect where, or upon what occasion. It had not interested me. Later, in my flat, the whole scene returned to me. I had upset the glass. The book was stained. I cannot conceive why I had forgotten.”
“I see,” said Alleyn politely. “You discovered the book? Ogden did not show it to you?”
“I discovered it, monsieur. Had I not upset my glass that evening the book would not have been taken from the shelf. I myself called Ogden’s attention to it. He was, as I remember, speaking to Mrs. Candour at the time. I called him to me in order to ask about the book.”
“Ah,” said Alleyn, “that tallies. Thank you very much, monsieur.”
“Not at all, monsieur. If you will excuse me—?”
De Ravigne went out, unruffled. Miss Wade approached Alleyn. As usual she had a deceptive air of perspicacity.
“Good evening, officer,” she said.
“Good evening, Miss Wade,” said Alleyn gravely.
“I am most upset,” announced Miss Wade. “Mr. Ogden has always impressed me as being a very gentlemanly fellow, for a foreigner of course. And now you say he is a poisoner.”
“He is charged with murder,” murmured Alleyn.
“Exactly,” said Miss Wade. “My dear brother was once in Michigan. The world is very small, after all.”
“Indubitably!”
“Obviously,” continued Miss Wade, “Father Garnette has been greatly abused. By whom?”
“Miss Wade,” said Alleyn, “if I may make a suggestion, I—I do most earnestly advise that you put this place and all its associations right out of your mind.”
“Nonsense, officer. I shall continue to attend the ceremonies.”
“There will be no ceremonies.”
Miss Wade stared at him. Gradually a look of desolation came into her faded eyes.
“No ceremonies? But what shall I do?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn gently.
She instantly quelled him with a look that seemed to remind him of his place. She tweaked her shabby gloves and turned to the door.
“Good evening,” said Miss Wade, and went out into the deserted hall.
“Oh, Mr. Garnette!” swore Alleyn, “and oh, Mr. Ogden!” Maurice and Janey were the last to leave.
“Look here,” said Alleyn, “I’m not going to be official with you two people. Miss Wade has snubbed me, poor little thing, and you can too if you think fit. Mr. Pringle, I have to thank you most sincerely for the stand you took just now. It was, of course, an extremely courageous move. You spoke frankly about the habit you have contracted. I shall speak as frankly. I think you should go into a nursing home where such cases are treated. I know of an excellent place. If you will allow me to do so I can write to the doctor-in-charge. He will treat you sympathetically and wisely. It won’t be pleasant, but it is, I believe, your only chance. Don’t answer now. Think it over and let me know. In the meantime, I have asked Dr. Curtis to have a look at you and he will help you, I am sure. This is an inexcusable bit of cheek on my part, but I hope you will forgive me.”
Maurice stood and stared at him.
“Can I come and see you?” he said suddenly.
“Yes, when I’m not too busy,” answered Alleyn coolly. “But don’t go and distort me into an object for hero-worship. I seem to see it threatened in your eye. I’m too commonplace and you’re too old for these adolescent fervours.”
He turned to Janey.
“Good-bye,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll be called as witnesses.”
“I suppose so,” said Janey. “Am I allowed to do a spot of hero-worship?”
“You reduce me to the status of an insufferable popinjay,” replied Alleyn. “Good-bye and God bless you.”
“Same to you,” said Janey. “Come on, Blot.”
“Well, Bathgate,” said Alleyn.
“Hullo,” said Nigel.
“You were right again, you see.”
“Was I? When?”
“You warned me on Sunday that Ogden was too good to be true.”
“Good Lord!” said Nigel. “So I did. I’d forgotten. Extraordinarily clever of me. Look here. Could you bear to sit down for ten minutes and—and—confirm my first impression?”
“I knew this was coming. All right. But let it be in your flat.”
“Oh, of course.”
They locked up Father Garnette’s flat and went out into the hall. Only two side lamps were alight and the building was almost as full of shadows as it had been when Nigel walked in, unbidden, on Sunday night. It was so still that the sound of rain beating on the roof filled the place with desolation. The statues, grey shapes against the walls, assumed a new significance. The clumsy gesture of the Wotan seemed indeed to threaten. The phoenix rose menacingly from the sacred flame. Alleyn followed Nigel down the centre aisle. At the door he turned and looked back.
“I wonder what will happen to them,” he said. “One of Garnette’s symbols, at least, is true. The phoenix of quackery arises again and again from its own ashes. Tonight we slam the door on this bit of hocus-pocus and tomorrow someone else starts a new side-show for the credulous. Come on.”
They went down the outside passage and out into the rain. The constable was still on duty.
“It’s all over,” said Alleyn. “You can go home to bed.” Up in Nigel’s flat they built themselves a roaring fire and mixed drinks.
“Now then,” said Nigel.
“What do you want to know?” asked Alleyn a little wearily.
“I don’t want to bore you. If you’d rather—”
“No, no. It’s onl
y the beastly anti-climax depression. Always sets in after these cases. If I don’t talk about it I think about it. Go ahead.”
“When did you first suspect him?”
“As soon as I learnt the order in which they had knelt. He was the last to take the cup before it returned to Garnette. That meant that he had least to risk. Except Garnette, of course. Miss Wade told us that the priest always took the cup in one hand and laid the other over the top. That meant he would not see the little tube of paper. Do you remember I said that Ogden’s position made him the first suspect?”
“Yes. I thought you meant—Never mind. Go on.”
“Ogden would know that Garnette handled the cup in that way. He would also know that Miss Quayne would spend some time over her hysterical demonstration before she drank the wine. There would be time for the cyanide to dissolve. The point you made about the uncertainty of whether the paper would be seen was a good one. It pointed strongly to Ogden. He was the only one, except Garnette and Claude, who could be sure it would not be noticed. I felt that the others would be unlikely to risk it. Claude had neither the motive nor the guts. Garnette had an overwhelming motive, but he’s an astute man and I simply couldn’t believe that he would be ass enough to leave the book lying about for us to find.”
“Did Ogden plant the book?”
“No. Master Claude did that.”
“Claude?”
“Yes, when he called for Garnette’s books, three weeks ago, after the party.”
“On purpose?’
‘No. Accidentally.”
“How do you know?”
“The books Garnette leant Ogden were in brown paper wrappers. There were five of them. Ogden’s maid said so and when we saw them in Garnette’s flat there were five that were so covered. Six, counting the Curiosities. But Claude told Fox he knew he returned six books to Garnette. He took them in an attache case, and they just fitted it. What happened, I believe, was something like this. For some time Ogden had thought of murdering Cara Quayne. He may even have pondered over the sodium cyanide recipe, but I think that came later. He knew she was leaving her fortune to Sacred Flame Limited and he was the biggest shareholder. He may have meant to destroy the book and then have thought of a brighter idea, that of planting it in Garnette’s flat. When de Ravigne drew everybody’s attention to the book at the party, I believe Ogden made up his mind to risk this last plan. As soon as they had gone he covered the Curiosities in brown paper. Next morning when the maid cleaned up the mess she noticed it had gone. It hadn’t gone. It was disguised as one of Garnette’s bits of hot literature. When Claude called for the books he took the ones with brown paper wrappers: the Curiosities among them. I suppose when Ogden found what had happened he waited for developments, but there were none. The six books had been shoved back behind the others and neither Garnette nor Claude had noticed anything. This was a phenomenal stroke of luck for Ogden. No doubt if it hadn’t happened he would have planted the book himself, but Claude had saved him the trouble. He must have waited his chance to find the book and wipe off any prints. He was emphatic about drawing de Ravigne’s attention to the Curiosities, but the others, questioned independently, said that de Ravigne himself found the book. If he had already laid his plans, this chance discovery by de Ravigne must have disconcerted our Samuel, as it brought the book into unwelcome prominence. He may have thought then of the pretty ruse of incriminating Garnette and pulling in his share of the bequest. But I rather fancy that chance finding by de Ravigne put the whole idea into his head. Otherwise the book would not have been on show. Yes. I think the cyanide scheme was born on the night of the party. It sounds risky, but how nearly it succeeded! There was Elsie, the maid, to swear the book had gone the morning after the party. There were the others to say Garnette and de Ravigne had both handled it the night before. Ogden made a great show of defending de Ravigne, but, of course, if I’d gone for de Ravigne it would have suited his book almost as well as if I’d gone for Garnette. Ogden played his cards very neatly. He owned up to the book with just the right amount of honest reluctance. He gave a perfectly true account of the business arrangement with de Ravigne and Garnette. He had to bring that out, of course, in order to collect when the Will was proved. He made a great point of the legality of their contract. He’s a fly bird, is our Samuel.”
“I’m sure you’re right about all this,” said Nigel diffidently, “but it seems very much in the air. Without Pringle’s evidence could you ever bring the thing home to him? Isn’t it altogether too speculative?”
“It’s nailed down with one or two tin-tacks. Ogden and Garnette were the only two who could have concocted the sodium cyanide at what house-agents call the Home Fire side.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They are the only two who have open fires. The others, if you wash out Miss Jerkin’s gas-ring, all live in electrically heated, or central-heated, service-flats. The cooking of sodium cyanide is not the sort of thing one would do away from the Home Fireside, and anyway they have, none of them, been out of residence for the last six months. Then Elsie told me that two days after the party the servants all went on their holiday and Mr. Ogden, who was so kind, ‘did’ for himself. A dazzling chance for him to do for Cara Quayne at the same time. When Elsie returned from the night-life of Marine Parade, Margate, she no doubt found everything in perfect order. A little less washing-soda in the wooden box over the sink, perhaps, one new Fyrexo patent heatproof crock. Mr. Ogden had unfortunately dropped the old one and it was just too bad, but he had got her another. He didn’t say anything about it, but bright little Elsie spotted the difference. While she was away he had made his sodium cyanide.”
“Yes, but you don’t know—”
“Here’s another tin-tack.”
Alleyn went to his overcoat and took out a thin object wrapped in paper.
“I brought it to show you. I stole it from Ogden’s flat.” He unwrapped the paper. A very short and extremely black iron poker was disclosed.
“Here’s where he got his iron filings. I noticed the corrugations on the tip. He had made it nice and black again, but pokers don’t wear away in minute ridges. Elsie agreed with me. It wasn’t like what it was before she went away, that it wasn’t.”
“And what, may I ask, was the meaning of the cable to Australia?”
“Do you remember another very intelligent remark you made on Sunday evening?”
“I made any number of intelligent remarks.”
“Possibly. This was to the effect that Ogden’s Americanese was too good to be true. It seemed to me no more exaggerated than the sounds that fill the English air in August, but after a bit I began to think you were right. I was sure of it when, under stress, he came out with a solecism. He said ‘Good-oh.’ Now ‘Good-oh’ is purest dyed-in-the-wool Australian. It is the Australian comment on every conceivable remark. If you say to an Australian: ‘I’m afraid your trousers are on fire,’ he replies ‘Good-oh.’ Mr. Ogden, on a different occasion, ejaculated ‘Too right!’ Another bit of undiluted Sydney. And yet when I asked him if he had been to Australia he denied the soft impeachment. So we’ve asked headquarters, Sydney, if it knows anything about a tall man with an American accent and skewbald eyes. It may be productive. One never knows. But the longest and sharpest tack is Madame la Comtesse de Barsac.
“From the fastness of her nursing home she has come out strong with a telegram that must have cost her a pretty sum. It is this sort of thing. ‘Madame la Comtesse de Barsac has just learned of the death of Mademoiselle Cara Quayne. She believes that she has evidence of the utmost importance and urges that the officials in charge of the case apprehend one Samuel Ogden. Mademoiselle Quayne’s letter of December tenth follows and will explain more fully the reasons that commend this action.’”
“’Struth,” said Nigel, “that puts the diamante clasp on it.”
“I rather fancy it does.”
“I suppose it’s the letter Cara Quayne wrote after she got back to the flat on Sunday af
ternoon.”
“That’s it. With the help of the bits we got from the blotting-paper I think we can make a pretty shrewd guess at what’s in it. Cara may describe her visit to the temple, her encounter with Ogden and her fears for the consequences. She had gone so far with the heroin habit that she cannot face the prospect of being done out of it. She implores her old friend to help her, perhaps asks if Madame de Barsac could put her on to an agent for the stinking stuff. I hope she’ll say he threatened her, specifically. If she does—”
“Yes,” said Nigel, “if she says that it’ll look murky for Mr. Ogden.”
“There’s another useful bit of information. Old Nanny Hebborn, as I think you heard her tell me, lurked in Mr. Garnette’s parlour on Sunday night and saw the beginning of the cup ceremony. She described the movements of the Initiates when they formed their circle. She said Ogden went up first. When Miss Wade and the Candour skirmished to get one on each side of Garnette, Ogden outmanoeuvred them and himself got in on Garnette’s right hand. Nanny said he deliberately stopped Miss Wade and took her place. Of course he did. It was the only safe place for him.”
“I suppose Ogden’s counsel will go for Garnette?”
“Oh yes. I’ve no doubt Mr. Garnette’s trans-Atlantic origin and activities will all be brought out into the fierce light that beats upon the witness-box. I hope it will be the dock. Him and his heroin! Devil take me, but I swear he’s the nastier sample of the two.”
“Will he get the money?”
“Not if Mr. Rattisbon can help it.”
The telephone rang. Nigel answered it.
“It’s for you,” he said. “Fox, I think.”
Alleyn took the telephone from him. Nigel walked over to the window and stared out into the street.
“Hullo, Fox,” said Alleyn, “you’ve run me to earth. What is it?”
The telephone quacked industriously.
“I see,” said Alleyn. “That’s all very neat and handy. Thank you, Foxkin. Are you at the Yard? Well, go home to bed. It’s late. Good night.”
He hung up the receiver and swung round in his chair.
