by Ngaio Marsh
Fox made a short derisive noise. ‘You’ll take over, sir, of course.’
‘I can at least make my report. I’d better warn you at the outset, I was watching that extraordinary chap Pastern most of the time. What a queer cup of tea it is, to be sure.’
‘I suppose,’ said Fox stolidly, ‘you’ll be telling me, sir, that you were his fag at Eton.’
Alleyn grinned at this jibe. ‘If I had been I should probably have spent the rest of my life in a lunatic asylum. No, I was going to say that I watched him to the exclusion of the others. I noticed, for instance, that he really pointed his gun—a revolver of some sort—at this man and that he stood not more than seven feet off him when he did it.’
‘This is more like it,’ Fox said and reopened his book. ‘You don’t mind, Mr Alleyn?’ he added primly.
Alleyn said, ‘You’re gloating over this, aren’t you? Very well. They did a damn’ silly turn, revolving umbrellas and parasols like a bunch of superannuated chorus girls and I noticed that one parasol, a very pansy Frenchified affair of black and white lace, seemed to be giving trouble. The chap had to shove his hand up to hold it.’
‘Is that so?’ Fox looked at Thompson. ‘You might get hold of the umbrella.’ Thompson went out. Bailey moved forward with an insufflator and bent over the weapon.
‘I’d better describe the final turn, I suppose,’ said Alleyn, and did so. His voice moved on quietly and slowly. Thompson returned with the black and white parasol. ‘This is it, sure enough, sir,’ he said. ‘A section of the shaft’s gone. Look here! No clip anywhere to keep it shut.’ He laid it beside the dart.
‘Good enough,’ Fox said. ‘Get your shots, will you.’
Thompson, having taken three further photographs of the weapon, folded it in the handkerchief and put it in Fox’s case. ‘I’ll fix it up with proper protection when we’re finished, Mr Fox,’ he said. On a nod from Fox, he and Bailey went out with their gear.
‘…when the shot was fired,’ Alleyn was saying, ‘he had swung round, facing Lord Pastern, with his back half-turned to the audience and fully turned to the conductor. He was inclined backwards at a grotesque angle, with the instrument raised. He was directly under the point of the metronome which was motionless. After the report he swung round still further and straightened up a bit. The piano accordion, if that’s what it is, ran down the scale and let out an infernal bleat. His knees doubled and he went down on them, sat on his heels and then rolled over, fetching up on his back with his instrument between himself and the audience. At the same time one of the bandsmen aped being hit. I couldn’t see Rivera clearly because the spotlight had switched to old Pastern who, after a moment’s hesitation, loosed off the other rounds. Three more of the band chaps did comic staggers as if he’d hit them. Something seemed a bit out of joint here. They all looked as if they weren’t sure what came next. However, Pastern gave his gun to Bellairs, who pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. The last round had been used, so there was only a click. Bellairs registered disgust, broke the revolver, pocketed it and gestured as much as to say: “I’ve had it. Carry on,” and Lord Pastern then went to market in a big way and generally raised hell. He looked extraordinary. Glazed eyes, sweating, half-smiling and jerking about over his drums. An unnerving exhibition from a middle-aged peer but of course he’s as mad as a March hare. Troy and I were snobbishly horrified. It was then that the metronome went into action in a blaze of winking lights. It’d been pointing straight down at Rivera before. A waiter chucked a wreath to the conductor who knelt down by this chap Rivera and dumped it on his chest. He felt his heart and then looked closely at Rivera and bent over his body, groping inside the wreath. He turned in a startled sort of way to old Pastern. He said something to the blokes with the stretcher. The wreath hid the face and the accordion was half across the stomach. Bellairs spoke to the pianist and then to Lord Pastern who went out with him when they finished their infernal din. I smelt trouble, saw a waiter speak to Allington and stop a chap in Lady Pastern’s party. I had a long argument with myself, lost it and came out here. That’s all. Have you looked at the revolver?’
‘I’ve taken it off Bellairs. It’s in my pocket.’ Fox put his glove on, produced the revolver and laid it on the table. ‘No known make,’ he said.
‘Probably been used for target-shooting,’ Alleyn muttered. He laid the dart beside it. ‘It’d fit, Fox. Look. Had you noticed?’
‘We haven’t got very far.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I don’t know quite what line to take about all the folk in there.’ Fox jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant.
‘Better get names and addresses. The waiters can do it. They’ll know a lot of them already. They can say it’s a new police procedure on extension nights. It’s our good fortune, Br’er Fox, that the public will believe any foolishness if they are told we are the authors of it. The Pastern party had better be held.’
‘I’ll fix it,’ Fox said. He went out, revealing for a moment the assembly in the outer office. ‘…hang about kickin’ my heels all night…’ Lord Pastern’s voice protested and was shut off abruptly.
Alleyn knelt by the body and began to search it. The coat was turned and the breast pocket had been pulled out. Four letters and a gold cigarette case had slipped down between the body and the coat. The case was half-filled and bore an inscription: ‘From Félicité.’ He searched the other pockets. A jade holder. Two handkerchiefs. A wallet with three pound notes. He laid these objects out in a row and turned to the piano accordion. It was a large, heavily ornamental affair. He remembered how it had glittered as Rivera swung it across his chest in the last cacophony before he fell. As Alleyn lifted it, it raised a metallic wail. He put it down hastily on the table and returned to his contemplation of the body. Fox came back. ‘That’s all fixed up,’ he said.
‘Good.’
Alleyn stood up. ‘He was a startling fellow to look at,’ he said. ‘One felt one had seen him in innumerable Hollywood band-features, ogling the cameraman against an exotic background. We might cover him up, don’t you think? The management can produce a clean tablecloth.’
‘The mortuary van will be outside now, Mr Alleyn,’ said Fox. He glanced down at the little collection on the floor. ‘Much obliged, sir,’ he said. ‘Anything useful?’
‘The letters are written in Spanish. Postmark. He’ll have to be dusted, of course.’
‘I rang the Yard, Mr Alleyn. The ASM’s compliments and he’ll be glad if you’ll take over.’
‘That’s a thumping great lie,’ said Alleyn mildly. ‘He’s in Godalming.’
‘He’s come back, sir, and happened to be in the office. Quite a coincidence.’
‘You go to hell, Fox. Damn it, I’m out with my wife.’
‘I sent a message in to Mrs Alleyn. The waiter brought back a note.’
Alleyn opened the folded paper and disclosed a lively drawing of a lady asleep in bed. Above her, encircled by a balloon, Alleyn and Fox crawled on all fours inspecting, through a huge lens, a nest from which protruded the head of a foal, broadly winking. ‘A very stupid woman, I’m afraid, poor thing,’ Alleyn muttered, grinning, and showed it to Fox. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll take another look at the revolver and then get down to statements.’
CHAPTER SIX
Dope
ABOVE THE DOOR LEADING from the foyer of the Metronome to the office was a clock with chromium hands and figures. As the night wore on, the attention of those persons who were congregated there became increasingly drawn to this clock, so that when at one in the morning the long hand jumped to the hour, everyone observed it. A faint sigh, and a dreary restlessness stirred them momentarily.
The members of the band, who were assembled at the end of the foyer, sat in dejected attitudes on gilded chairs that had been brought in from the restaurant. Syd Skelton’s hands dangled between his knees, tapping each other flaccidly. Happy Hart was stretched back with his legs extended. The light found out patche
s on his trousers, worn shiny by the pressure of his thighs against the under-surface of his piano. The four saxophonists sat with their heads together, but they had not spoken for some time and inertia, not interest, held them in these postures of intimacy. The double-bass, a thin man, rested his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. Breezy Bellairs, in the centre of his Boys, fidgeted, yawned, wiped his hands over his face, and bit feverishly at his nails. Near the band stood four waiters and the spotlight operator, whose interrogation had just ended, quite fruitlessly.
At the opposite end of the foyer, in a muster of easier chairs, sat Lady Pastern and her guests. Alone of the whole assembly, she held an upright posture. The muscles of her face sagged a little; its lines were clogged with powder and there were greyish marks under her eyes, but her wrists and ankles were crossed composedly, her hair was rigidly in order. On her right and left the two girls drooped in their chairs. Félicité, chain-smoking, gave her attention fitfully to the matter in hand and often took a glass from her bag and looked resentfully at herself, repainting her lips with irritable gestures.
Carlisle, absorbed as usual with detail, watched the mannerisms of her companions through an increasing haze of sleepiness and was only half-aware of what they said. Ned Manx listened sharply as if he tried to memorize all that he heard. Lord Pastern was never still. He would throw himself into a chair with an air of abandon and in a moment spring from it and walk aimlessly about the room. He looked with distaste at the speaker of the moment. He grimaced and interjected. At one side, removed from the two main groups, stood Caesar Bonn and the secretary, David Hahn. These two were watchful and pallid. Out of sight, in the main office, Dr Curtis, having seen to the removal of Rivera’s body, jotted down notes for his report.
In the centre of the foyer, Inspector Fox sat at a small table with his note-book open before him and his spectacles on his nose. His feet rested side by side on the carpet and his large knees were pressed together. He contemplated his notes with raised eyebrows.
Behind Fox stood Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, and to him the attention of the company, in some cases fitfully, in others constantly, was drawn. He had been speaking for about a minute. Carlisle, though she tried to listen to the sense of his words, caught herself thinking how deep his voice was and how free from mannerisms his habit of speech. ‘A pleasant chap,’ she thought, and knew by the small affirmative noise Ned Manx made when Alleyn paused that he agreed with her.
‘…so you see,’ Alleyn was saying now, ‘that a certain amount of ground must be covered here and that we must ask you to stay until it has been covered. That can’t be helped.’
‘Damned if I see…’ Lord Pastern began and fetched up short. ‘What’s your name?’ he said. Alleyn told him. ‘I thought so,’ said Lord Pastern with an air of having found him out in something. ‘Point is: are you suggestin’ I dug a dart in the chap or aren’t you? Come on.’
‘It doesn’t, at the moment, seem to be a question, as far as you are concerned, sir, of digging.’
‘Well, shootin’ then. Don’t split straws.’
‘One may as well,’ Alleyn said mildly, ‘be accurate.’
He turned aside to Fox’s case which lay on a table. From it he took an open box containing the weapon that had killed Rivera. He held the box up, tilting it towards them.
‘Will you look at this?’ They looked at it. ‘Do any of you recognize it? Lady Pastern?’
She had made an inarticulate sound, but now she said indifferently: ‘It looks like part of a parasol handle.’
‘A black and white parasol?’ Alleyn suggested, and one of the saxophonists looked up quickly.
‘Possibly,’ said Lady Pastern. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t be an ass, C,’ said her husband. ‘Obviously it’s off that French thing of yours. We borrowed it.’
‘You had no right whatever, George…’
Alleyn interrupted. ‘We’ve found that one of the parasols used in the “Umbrella Man” number is minus a few inches of its shaft.’ He glanced at the second saxophonist. ‘I think you had some difficulty in managing it?’
‘That’s right,’ the second saxophonist said. ‘You couldn’t shut it properly, I noticed. There wasn’t a clip or anything.’
‘This is it: five inches of the shaft containing the clip. Notice that spring catch. It is jewelled. Originally, of course, it kept the parasol closed. The actual handle or knob on its own piece of shaft has been engaged with the main shaft of the parasol. Can you describe it?’ He looked at Lady Pastern, who said nothing. Lord Pastern said: ‘Of course you can, C. A damn-fool thing like a bird with emeralds for eyes. French.’
‘You’re sure of that, sir?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. Damn it, I took the thing to bits when I was in the ballroom.’
Fox raised his head and stared at Lord Pastern with a sort of incredulous satisfaction. Edward Manx swore under his breath, the women were rigidly horrified.
‘I see,’ Alleyn said. ‘When was this?’
‘After dinner. Breezy was with me. Weren’t you, Breezy.’
Breezy shied violently and then nodded.
‘Where did you leave the bits, sir?’
‘On the piano. Last I saw of ’em.’
‘Why,’ Alleyn asked, ‘did you dismember the parasol?’
‘For fun.’
‘Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,’ Lady Pastern moaned.
‘I knew it’d unscrew and I unscrewed it.’
‘Thank you,’ Alleyn said. ‘For the benefit of those of you who haven’t examined the parasol closely, I’d better describe it a little more fully. Both ends of this piece of shaft are threaded, one on the outer surface to engage with the top section, the other on the inner surface to receive the main shaft of the parasol. It has been removed and the outer sections screwed together. Now look again at this weapon made from the section that has been removed. You will see that a steel tool has been introduced into this end and sunk in plastic wood. Do any of you recognize this tool? I’ll hold it a little closer. It’s encrusted with blood and a little difficult to see.’
He saw Carlisle’s fingers move on the arms of her chair. He saw Breezy rub the back of his hand across his mouth, and Lord Pastern blow out his cheeks. ‘Rather unusual,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? Wide at the base and tapering. Keen pointed. It might be an embroidery stiletto. I don’t know. Do you recognize it, Lady Pastern?’
‘No.’
‘Anybody?’ Lord Pastern opened his mouth and shut it again. ‘Well,’ Alleyn murmured after a pause. He replaced the box containing the weapon and took up Lord Pastern’s revolver. He turned it over in his hands.
‘If that’s the way you chaps go to work,’ said Lord Pastern, ‘I don’t think much of it. That thing may be smothered with fingerprints, for all you know, and you go pawin’ it about.’
‘It’s been printed,’ Alleyn said without emphasis. He produced a pocket-lens and squinted through it down the barrel. ‘You seem to have given it some rough usage,’ he said.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Lord Pastern countered instantly. ‘Perfect condition. Always has been.’
‘When did you last look down the barrel, sir?’
‘Before we came here. In my study, and again in the ballroom. Why?’
‘George,’ said Lady Pastern, ‘I suggest for the last time that you send for your solicitor and refuse to answer any questions until he is here.’
‘Yes, Cousin George,’ Edward murmured, ‘I honestly think…’
‘My solicitor,’ Lord Pastern rejoined, ‘is a snufflin’ old ass. I’m perfectly well able to look after myself, C. What’s all this about my gun?’
‘The barrel,’ Alleyn said, ‘is, of course, fouled. That’s from the blank rounds. But under the stain left by the discharges there are some curious marks. Irregular scratches, they seem to be. We’ll have it photographed but I wonder if in the meantime you can offer an explanation?’
‘Here,’ Lord Pastern ejaculated. ‘Let me
see.’
Alleyn gave him the revolver and lens. Grimacing hideously he pointed the barrel to the light and squinted down it. He made angry noises and little puffing sounds through his lips. He examined the butt through the lens and muttered indistinguishable anathemas. Most unexpectedly, he giggled. Finally he dumped it on the table and blew loudly. ‘Hanky-panky,’ he said briefly and returned to his chair.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When I examined the gun in my study,’ Lord Pastern said forcibly, ‘it was as clean as a whistle. As clean, I repeat, as a whistle. I fired one blank from it in my own house and looked down the barrel afterwards. It was a bit fouled and that was all. All right. There y’are!’
Carlisle, Félicité, Manx and Lady Pastern stirred uneasily. ‘Uncle George,’ Carlisle said. ‘Please.’
Lord Pastern glared at her. ‘Therefore,’ he said, ‘I repeat, hanky-panky. The barrel was unmarked when I brought the thing here. I ought to know. It was unmarked when I took it into the restaurant.’
Lady Pastern looked steadily at her husband. ‘You fool, George,’ she said.
‘George.’
‘Cousin George.’
‘Uncle George…’
The shocked voices overlapped and faded out.
Alleyn began again. ‘Obviously you realize the significance of all this. When I tell you that the weapon—it is, in effect, a dart, or bolt, isn’t it?—is half an inch shorter than the barrel of the revolver and somewhat less in diameter…’
‘All right, all right,’ Lord Pastern interjected.
‘I think,’ said Alleyn, ‘I should point out…’
‘You needn’t point anything out. And you,’ Lord Pastern added, turning on his relatives, ‘can all shut up. I know what you’re gettin’ at. The barrel was unscratched. By God, I ought to know. And what’s more, I noticed when Breezy and I were in the ballroom, that this bit of shaft would fit in the barrel. I pointed it out to him.’
‘Here, here, here!’ Breezy expostulated, ‘I don’t like the way this is going. Look here—’
