by Ngaio Marsh
‘Why, it’s Mr Alleyn,’ she murmured in a threadlike voice. ‘How kind!’
‘You’re getting along splendidly,’ Alleyn said, ‘I won’t tire you now but if there is anything you want you’ll let us know.’
‘Nothing. Much better. The doctor – too kind.’
‘There will be another doctor tomorrow and a new nurse to help these ones.’
‘Not – ? But – Dr Baradi – ?’
‘He has been obliged to go away,’ Alleyn said, ‘on a case of some urgency.’
‘Oh,’ she closed her eyes.
Alleyn and Dupont went outside. Miss Garbel came to the door.
‘If you don’t want me,’ she said, ‘I’ll stay and take my turn. I’m all right, you know. Quite reliable until morning.’
‘And always,’ he rejoined warmly.
‘Ah,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That’s another story.’
She showed them where a staircase ran down to ground level and she peered after them, smiling and nodding over the bannister.
‘We must pay one more visit,’ Alleyn said.
‘The third English spinster,’ Dupont agreed. He seemed to have a sort of relish for this phrase.
But when they stood in the white-washed room and the raw light from an unshaded lamp now shone dreadfully on what was left of Grizel Locke, he looked thoughtful and said: ‘All three, each after her own fashion, may be said to have served the cause of justice.’
‘This one,’ Alleyn said dryly, ‘may be said to have died for it.’
V
It was a quarter-past two when Grizel Locke was carried in her coffin down to a mortuary van that shone glossily in the moonlight. Two hours later Alleyn and Dupont walked out of the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent. They left two men on guard and with Raoul went down the passageway to the open platform. It was flooded in moonlight. The Mediterranean glittered down below and the hills reared themselves up fabulously against the stars. Robin Herrington’s rakish car was parked at the edge of the platform.
Alleyn said: ‘These are our chickens come home to roost.’
‘Ah!’ said M. Dupont cosily, ‘it is a night for love.’
‘Nevertheless, if you will excuse me –’
‘But, of course!’
Alleyn, whistling tunelessly and tactfully, went over to the car. Robin was in the driver’s seat with Ginny beside him. Her head was on his shoulder. He showed no particular surprise at seeing Alleyn.
‘Good morning,’ Alleyn said. ‘So you had a breakdown.’
‘We did, sir, but we think we’re under our own steam again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You will find the Chèvre d’Argent rather empty. Here’s my card. The gendarme at the door will let you in. If you’d rather collect your possessions and come back to Roqueville, I expect we could get rooms for you both at the Royal.’
He waited for an answer but it was perfectly clear to him that although they smiled and nodded brightly they had not taken in a word of his little speech.
Robin said: ‘Ginny’s going to marry me.’
‘I hope you will both be very happy.’
‘We think of beginning again in one of the Dominions.’
‘The Dominions are, on the whole, both tolerant and helpful.’
Ginny, speaking for the first time, said: ‘Will you please thank Mrs Alleyn? She sort of did the trick.’
‘I shall. She’ll be delighted to hear it.’ He looked at them for a moment and they beamed back at him. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Get a tough job and forget you’ve had bad dreams. I’m sure it will work out.’
They smiled and nodded.
‘I’ll have to ask you to come and see me later in the morning. At the Préfecture at eleven?’
‘Thank you,’ they said vaguely. Ginny said: ‘You can’t think how happy we are, all of a sudden. And just imagine, I was furious when the car broke down! And yet, if it hadn’t, we might never have found out.’
‘Strange coincidence,’ said Alleyn, looking at Robin. And seeing that they were incapable of coming out of the moonlight he said: ‘Good morning and good luck to you both,’ and left them to themselves.
On the way down to Roqueville he and Dupont discussed the probable development of the case. ‘Oberon,’ Alleyn said, ‘has gone to pieces, as you see. He will try and buy his way out with information.’
‘Callard also is prepared to upset the peas. But thanks to your admirable handling of the case we shall be able to dispense with such aids and Oberon, I trust, will be tried with Baradi.’
‘Of the pair, Oberon is undoubtedly the more revolting,’ Alleyn said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder how many deaths could be laid at the door of those two. I don’t know how you feel about it, Dupont, but I put their sort at the top of the criminal list. If they hadn’t directly killed poor Grizel Locke, by God, they’d still be mass murderers.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Dupont, stifling a yawn, ‘I imagine we take statements from the painter, the actress Wells and the two young ones and let it go at that. They may be more useful running free. Particularly if they return to the habit.’
‘The young ones won’t. I’m sure of that. As for the others: there are cures.’
In the front seat, Raoul, influenced no doubt by the moonlight and by his glimpse of Ginny and Robin, began to sing:
‘La nuit est faite pour l’amour.’
‘Raoul,’ Alleyn said in French for his benefit, ‘did a good job of work tonight, didn’t he?’
‘Not so bad, not so bad. We shall have you in the service yet, my friend,’ said Dupont. He leant forward and struck Raoul lightly on the shoulder.
‘No, M. le Commissaire, that is not my métier. I am about to settle with Teresa. And yet, if M. l’Inspecteur-en-Chef Alleyn should come back one day, who knows?’
They drove through the sleeping town to the little Square des Sarracins and put Alleyn down at the hotel.
Troy was fast asleep, with Ricky curled in beside her. The little silver goat illuminated himself on the bedside table. The french windows were wide open and Alleyn went out for a moment on the balcony. To the east the stars had turned pale and the first dawn cock was crowing in the hills above Roqueville.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dame Ngaio Marsh was born in New Zealand in 1895 and died in February 1982. She wrote over 30 detective novels and many of her stories have theatrical settings, for Ngaio Marsh’s real passion was the theatre. She was both actress and producer and almost single-handedly revived the New Zealand public’s interest in the theatre. It was for this work that the received what she called her ‘damery’ in 1966.
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
A Man Lay Dead
Enter a Murderer
The Nursing Home Murder
Death in Ecstasy
Vintage Murder
Artists in Crime
Death in a White Tie
Overture to Death
Death at the Bar
Surfeit of Lampreys
Death and the Dancing Footman
Colour Scheme
Died in the Wool
Final Curtain
Swing, Brother, Swing
Opening Night
Spinsters in Jeopardy
Scales of Justice
Off With His Head
Singing in the Shrouds
False Scent
Hand in Glove
Dead Water
Death at the Dolphin
Clutch of Constables
When in Rome
Tied up in Tinsel
Black As He’s Painted
Last Ditch
Grave Mistake
Photo-Finish
Light Thickens
Death on the Air and Other Stories
Black Beech and Honeydew (autobiography)
COPYRIGHT
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1954
Copyright © Ngaio Marsh Ltd 1953
Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780006512400
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007344680
Version: 2014–06–19
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