by Ngaio Marsh
Lord Pastern said: ‘You’re wrong, Alleyn, you’re wrong. I searched him. I’ll swear he had nothing on him then and I’ll swear he didn’t get a chance to pick anything up. Where the devil was the weapon? You’re wrong. I searched him.’
‘As he intended you to do. Yes. Did you notice his baton while you searched him?’
‘I told you, damn it. He held it above his head. Good God!’ Lord Pastern added, and again, ‘Good God!’
‘A short black rod. The pointed steel was held in his palm, protected by the cork out of an empty gun-oil bottle in your desk. Fox reminded me this morning of Poe’s story The Purloined Letter. Show a thing boldly to unsuspecting observers and they will think it’s what they expect it to be. Breezy conducted your programme last night with a piece of parasol handle and a stiletto. You saw the steel mounting glinting as usual at the tip of an ebony rod. The stiletto was concealed in his palm. It really was quite like his baton. Probably that gave him the idea when he handled the dismembered parasol in the ballroom. I think you asked him, didn’t you, to put it together.’
‘Why the hell,’ Lord Pastern demanded, ‘didn’t you tell us this straight away? Tormentin’ people. It’s a damn’ scandal. I’ll take you up on this, Alleyn, by God I will.’
‘Did you,’ Alleyn asked mildly, ‘go out of your way to confide in us? Or did you willfully and dangerously play a silly lone hand? I think I may be forgiven, sir, for giving you a taste of your own tactics. I wish I could believe it had shaken you a bit: but that, I’m afraid, is too much to hope for.’ Lord Pastern bunched up his cheeks and swore extensively, but Manx said with a grin: ‘You know, Cousin George, I rather think we bought it. We’ve hindered the police in the execution of their duty.’
‘Serve ’em damn’ well right.’
‘I’m still sceptical,’ Manx said. ‘Where’s your motive? Why should he kill the man who supplied him with his dope?’
‘One of the servants at Duke’s Gate overheard a quarrel between Bellairs and Rivera when they were together in the ballroom. Breezy asked Rivera for cigarettes—drugged cigarettes, of course—and Rivera refused to give him any. He intimated that their association was ended and talked about writing to Harmony. Fox will tell you that sort of thing’s quite a common gambit when these people fall out.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Fox said. ‘They do it, you know. Rivera would have a cast-iron story ready to protect himself and get in first with the information. We’d pick Breezy up and be no further on. We might suspect Rivera but we wouldn’t get on to anything. Not a thing.’
‘Because,’ Lord Pastern pointed out, ‘you’re too thick headed to get your man when he’s screamin’ for arrest under your great noses. That’s why. Where’s your initiative? Where’s your push and drive? Why can’t you—’ he gestured wildly—‘stir things up? Make a dust?’
‘Well, my lord,’ said Fox placidly ‘we can safely leave that kind of thing to papers like Harmony, can’t we?’
Manx muttered: ‘But to kill him—no, I can’t see it. And to think all that nonsense up in an hour—’
‘He’s a drug addict,’ Alleyn said. ‘He’s been drawing near the end of his tether for some time, I fancy, with Rivera looming up bigger and bigger as his evil genius. It’s a common characteristic for the addict to develop an intense hatred of the purveyor upon whom he is so slavishly dependent. This person becomes a sort of Mephistopheles-symbol for the addict. When the purveyor is also a blackmailer and for good measure in a position where he can terrify his victim by threats of withdrawal, you get an excruciating twist to the screw. I fancy the picture of you, Lord Pastern, firing point-blank at Rivera had begun to fascinate Bellairs long before he saw you fit the section into the barrel of the gun. I believe he had already played with the idea of frigging round with the ammunition. You added fuel to his fire.’
‘That be damned—’ Lord Pastern began to shout, but Alleyn went on steadily.
‘Breezy,’ he said, ‘was in an ugly state. He was frantic for cocaine, nervous about his show, terrified of what you would do. Don’t forget, sir, you, too, had threatened him with exposure. He planned for a right-and-left coup. You were to hang, you know, for the murder. He has always had a passion for practical jokes.’
Manx gave a snort of nervous laughter. Lord Pastern said nothing.
‘But,’ Alleyn went on, ‘it was all too Technicolor to be credible. His red-herrings were more like red whales. The whole set-up had the characteristic unreason and fantastic logic of the addict. A Coleridge creates Kubla Khan but a Breezy Bellairs creates a surrealistic dagger made of a parasol handle and a needlework stiletto. An Edgar Allan Poe writes The Pit and the Pendulum but a Breezy Bellairs steals a revolver and makes little scratches in the muzzle with a stiletto; he smokes it with a candle end and puts it in his overcoat pocket. Stung to an intolerable activity by his unsatisfied lust for cocaine he plans grotesquely but with frantic precision. He may crack at any moment, lose interest or break down, but for a crucial period he goes to work like a demon. Everything falls into place. He tells the band but not Rivera, that the other routine will be followed. Rivera had gone to the end of the restaurant to make his entrance. He persuades Skelton to look at Lord Pastern’s revolver at the last minute. He causes himself to be searched, holding his dagger over his head, trembling with strangled laughter. He conducts. He kills. He finds Rivera’s heart, and with his hands protected by a handkerchief and hidden from the audience by a comic wreath, he digs his stiletto in and grinds it round. He shows distress. He goes to the room where the body lies and shows greater distress. He changes carefully the scarred revolver in his overcoat pocket with the one Lord Pastern fired. He goes into the lavatory and makes loud retching noises while he disposes of Lord Pastern’s unscarred gun. He returns, and being now at the end of his course, frantically searches the body and probably finds the dope he needs so badly. He collapses. That, as we see it, is the case against Breezy Bellairs.’
‘Poor dope,’ Manx said. ‘If you’re right.’
‘Poor dope. Oh, yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘Poor dope.’
Nigel Bathgate murmured: ‘Nobody else could have done it.’
Lord Pastern glared at him but said nothing.
‘Nobody,’ Fox said.
‘But you’ll never get a conviction, Alleyn.’
‘That,’ Alleyn said, ‘may be. It won’t ruin our lives if we don’t.’
‘How young,’ Lord Pastern demanded suddenly, ‘does a feller have to be to get into detection?’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Alleyn,’ Edward Manx said hurriedly, ‘I think I’ll be off.’
‘Where are you goin’, Ned?’
‘To see Lisle, Cousin George. We lunched,’ he explained, ‘at cross-purposes. I thought she meant she knew it was you. I thought she meant the letter was the one Fée got from Harmony. But I see now: she thought it was me.’
‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Goodbye.’
‘Hi, wait a minute. I’ll come with you.’ They went out into the deserted twilight, Lord Pastern locking the door behind him.
‘I’ll be off too, Alleyn,’ said Nigel as they stood watching the two figures, one lean and loose-jointed, the other stocky and dapper, walk briskly away up Materfamilias Lane. ‘Unless—what are you going to do?’
‘Have you got the warrant, Fox?’
‘Yes, Mr Alleyn.’
‘Come on, then.’
‘The Judges’ Rules,’ Fox said, ‘may be enlightened but there are times when they give you the pip. I suppose you don’t agree with that, Mr Alleyn.’
‘They keep you and me in our place, Br’er Fox, and I fancy that’s a good thing.’
‘If we could confront him,’ Fox burst out. ‘If we could break him down.’
‘Under pressure he might make a hysterical confession. It might not be true. That would appear to be the idea behind the Judges’ Rules.’
Fox muttered something unprintable.
&n
bsp; Nigel Bathgate said: ‘Where are we heading?’
‘We call on him,’ Alleyn grunted. ‘And with any luck we find he already has a visitor. Caesar Bonn of the Metronome.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Information received,’ said Fox. ‘He made an arrangement over the telephone.’
‘And so, what do you do about it?
‘We pull Bellairs in, Mr Bathgate, for receiving and distributing drugs.’
‘Fox,’ said Alleyn, ‘thinks there’s a case against him. Through the customers.’
‘Once he’s inside,’ Fox speculated dismally, ‘he may talk. In spite of the Usual Caution. Judges’ Rules!’
‘He’s a glutton for limelight,’ Alleyn said unexpectedly.
‘So what?’ Nigel demanded.
‘Nothing. I don’t know. He may break out somewhere. Here we go.’
It was rather dark in the tunnel-like passage that led to Breezy’s flat. Nobody was about but a plain-clothes man on duty at the far end: a black figure against a mean window.
Walking silently on the heavy carpet, they came up to him. He made a movement of his head, murmured something that ended with the phrase: ‘hammer and tongs’.
‘Good,’ Alleyn said, and nodded. The man stealthily opened the door into Breezy’s flat.
They moved into an entrance lobby where they found a second man with a note-book pressed against the wall and a pencil poised over it. The four silent men almost filled the cramped lobby.
In the living-room beyond, Caesar Bonn was quarrelling with Breezy Bellairs.
‘Publicity!’ Caesar was saying. ‘But of what a character! No, no! I am sorry. I regret this with all my heart. For me as for you it is a disaster.’
‘Listen, Caesar, you’re all wrong. My public won’t let me down. They’d want to see me.’ The voice rose steeply. ‘They—love me,’ Breezy cried out, and after a pause: ‘You bloody swine, they love me.’
‘I must go.’
‘All right. You’ll see. I’ll ring Carmarelli. Carmarelli’s been trying to get me for years. Or the Lotus Tree. They’ll be fighting for me. And your bloody clientele’ll follow me. They’ll eat us. I’ll ring Stein. There’s not a restaurateur in Town—’
‘One moment.’ Caesar was closer to the door. ‘To spare you discomfiture, I feel I must warn you. Already I have discussed this matter with these gentlemen. An informal meeting. We are all agreed. It will not be possible for you to appear at any first-class restaurant or club.’
They heard a falsetto whining. Caesar’s voice intervened. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘when I say I mean this kindly. After all, we are old friends. Take my advice. Retire. You can afford to do so, no doubt.’ He gave a nervous giggle. Breezy had whispered. Evidently they were close together on the other side of the door. ‘No, no!’ Caesar said loudly. ‘I can do nothing about it. Nothing! Nothing!’
Breezy screamed out abruptly: ‘I’ll ruin you!’ and the pencil skidded across the plain-clothes officer’s note-book.
‘You have ruined yourself,’ Caesar gabbled. ‘You will keep silence. Understand me: there must be complete silence. For you there is no more spotlight. You are finished. Keep off!’ There was a scuffle and a stifled ejaculation. Something thudded heavily against the door and slid down its surface. ‘There now!’ Caesar panted. He sounded scandalized and breathlessly triumphant. Unexpectedly, after a brief pause, he went on in a reflective voice. ‘No, truly you are too stupid. This decides me. I am resolved. I inform the police of your activities. You will make a foolish appearance in court. Everyone will laugh a little and forget you. You will go to gaol or perhaps to a clinic. If you are of good behaviour you may, in a year or so, be permitted to conduct a little band.’
‘Christ! Tell them, then! Tell them!’ Beyond the door Breezy stumbled to his feet. His voice broke into falsetto. ‘But it’s me that’ll tell the tale; me! If I go to the dock, by God, I’ll wipe the grins off all your bloody faces. You haven’t heard anything yet. Try any funny business with ME! Finished! By God, I’ve only just started. You’re all going to hear how I slit up a bloody dago’s heart for him.’
‘This is it,’ Alleyn said, and opened the door.
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
SWING, BROTHER, SWING
A Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First U.K. edition (Collins): 1949
First U.S. edition (as A Wreath for Rivera) (Little, Brown): 1949
Felony & Mayhem electronic edition: 2012
Copyright © 1940, 1967 by Ngaio Marsh
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-937384-49-4
For Bet who asked for it
And now gets it with my love
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:
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