by Ngaio Marsh
‘He had every reason, though, to attack Sweet. But don’t give it another thought.’
Alleyn’s translation was typed, with copies, by a brisk bilingual clerk. During this period Bergarmi was rather ostentatiously busy. When the transcription was ready he and Alleyn went to the lesser office where for the second and last time the travellers were assembled. At Bergarmi’s request Alleyn handed out the copies.
‘I find this a correct summary of our joint statements,’ Alleyn said, ‘and am prepared to sign it. What about everyone else?’
Lady Braceley, who was doing her face, said with an unexpected flight of fancy: ‘I’d sign my soul to the devil if he’d get me out of here.’ She turned her raffish and disastrous gaze upon Alleyn. ‘You’re being too wonderful,’ she predictably informed him.
He said, ‘Lady Braceley, I wonder—simply out of curiosity, you know—whether you noticed anything at all odd in Sweet’s manner when he took you up to the atrium. Did you?’
He thought she might seize the chance to tell all how responsive she was to atmosphere and how she had sensed that something was wrong, or possibly come out with some really damaging bit of information. All she said, however, was: ‘I just thought him a bloody rude, common little man.’ And after a moment’s thought: ‘And I’ll eat my hat if he was ever in the Gunners.’ She waited again for a moment and then said, ‘All the same, it’s quite something, isn’t it, to have been trotted about by a murderer, however uncivil? My dear, we’ll dine on it: Kenny and I. Won’t we, darling?’
Her nephew looked up at her and gave a sort of restless acknowledgement. ‘I just don’t go with all this carry-on,’ he complained.
‘I know, darling. Too confusing. Three dead people in as many days, you might say. Still, it’s a wonderful relief to be in the clear oneself.’ She contemplated Bergarmi, smiling at him with her head on one side. ‘He really doesn’t speak English, does he? He’s not making a nonsense of us?’
Bergarmi muttered to Alleyn, ‘What is she saying? Does she object to signing? Why is she smiling at me?’
‘She doesn’t object. Perhaps she has taken a fancy to you, Signor Vice-Questore.’
‘Mamma mia!’
Alleyn suggested that if they were all satisfied they would sign and Lady Braceley instantly did so, making no pretence of reading the statement. The Van der Veghels were extremely particular and examined each point with anxious care and frequent consultations. Barnaby Grant and Sophy Jason read the typescript with professional concentration. Then they all signed. Bergarmi told them, through Alleyn, that they were free to go. They would be notified if their presence at the inquest was required. He bowed, thanked them and departed with the papers.
The six travellers rose, collected themselves and prepared, with evident signs of relief, to go their ways.
Sophy and Barnaby Grant left together and the Van der Veghels followed them.
Lady Braceley with her eye on Alleyn showed signs of lingering.
Kenneth had lounged over to the door and stood there, watching Alleyn with his customary furtive, sidelong air. ‘So that would appear to be that,’ he threw out.
‘You remember,’ Alleyn said, ‘you took a photograph of Mithras when we were all down there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you had it developed?’
‘No.’
‘Is it in black-and-white or colour?’
‘Black-and-white,’ Kenneth mumbled. ‘It’s meant to be better for the architecture and statues bit.’
‘Mine are being developed by the police expert, here. They’ll only take a couple of hours. Would you like me to get yours done at the same time?’
The film’s not finished. Thank you very much, though.’
Lady Braceley said, ‘No, but do let Mr Alleyn get it done, darling. You can’t have many left. You never stopped clicking all through that extraordinary picnic on the what-not hill. And you must admit it will have a kind of grisly interest. Not that I’ll be in the one Mr Alleyn’s talking about, you know—the bowels of the earth. Do give it to him.’
‘It’s still in my camera.’
‘And your camera’s in the car. Whip down and get it.’
‘Darling Auntie—it’ll wait. Need we fuss?’
‘Yes,’ she said pettishly, ‘we need. Go on, darling!’ He slouched off.
‘Don’t come all the way back,’ Alleyn called after him. ‘I’ll collect it down there. I won’t be a moment.’
‘Sweet of you,’ Lady Braceley said, and kissed her hand. ‘We’ll wait.’
When they had gone Alleyn went out to the lift landing and found the Van der Veghels busily assembling the massive photographic gear without which they seemed unable to move. He reminded the Baroness of the photographs she had taken in the Mithraic insula and offered to have the police develop the film.
‘I think,’ he said ‘that the police would still be very glad to see the shot you took of the sarcophagus, Baroness. I told them I’d ask you for it.’
‘You may have it. I do not want it. I cannot bear to think of it. Gerrit, my darlink, please give it to him. We wish for no souvenirs of that terrible day. Ach, no! No!’
‘Now, now, now,’ the Baron gently chided. ‘There is no need for such a fuss-pot. I have it here. One moment only and I produce it.’
But there was quite a lot to be done in the way of unbuckling and poking in their great rucksacks, and all to no avail.
Suddenly the Baroness gave a little scream and clapped her hand to her forehead.
‘But I am mad!’ she cried. ‘I forget next my own head.’
‘How?’
‘It was the young Dorne. Yesterday we arrange he takes it with his own development.’
‘So,’ said the Baron. ‘What a nonsense,’ and began with perfect good humour to re-assemble the contents of his rucksack.
‘He hasn’t done anything about it,’ Alleyn said. ‘If I may, I’ll collect your film with his.’
‘Good, good,’ agreed the Baron.
Alleyn said aside to him, ‘You’re sure you don’t want it?’
He shook his head, pursed his lips and frowned like a nanny.
‘No, no, no,’ he murmured. ‘You see how it is. My wife prefers—no. Although,’ he added rather wistfully, ‘there are some pictures—our little group, for instance. But never mind.’
‘I’ll let you know how it comes out,’ Alleyn said.
They went down in the lift together. He wondered if, long after the case of Sebastian Mailer had faded out of most people’s memories, he and the Van der Veghels would meet somewhere. The Baroness had cheered up. They were off on a coach trip to the water-gardens at the Villa d’Este. He walked with them to the main entrance. She went ahead with that singularly buoyant tread that made Alleyn think of the gait of some kind of huge and antique bird: a moa, perhaps.
‘My wife,’ said the Baron fondly regarding her, ‘has the wise simplicity of the classic age. She is a most remarkable woman.’ And dropping his voice, he added to himself rather than to Alleyn, ‘And to my mind, very beautiful.’
‘You are a fortunate man.’
‘That, also, is my opinion.’
‘Baron, will you have a drink with me? At about six o’clock? I will be able to show you your photographs. Since they would distress the Baroness I don’t ask you to bring her with you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall be delighted. You are very considerate,’ and, shifting his rucksack on his massive shoulders, he called: ‘Mathilde, not so fast! Wait! I am coming.’
And he, also with springing gait, sped nimbly after his wife. They went down the street together, head and shoulders above the other pedestrians, elastically bobbing up and down and eagerly talking.
Kenneth Dorne sat at the wheel of a white sports-car with his aunt beside him. It occurred to Alleyn that they might have been served up neat by an over-zealous casting department as type-material for yet another Dolce Vita. Kenneth had one of the ridiculous �
�trendy’ caps on his head, a raspberry-coloured affair with a little peak. He was very white and his forehead glistened.
‘Here we are,’ cried Lady Braceley, ‘and here’s the film. Such a fuss! Come and have drinks with us this evening. I suppose it’s frightful of one, isn’t it, but one can’t help a feeling of relief. I mean that poisonous Giovanni terrifying one. And all lies. Kenneth knows that I told you. So, don’t you think a little celebration? Or don’t you?’
Kenneth stared at Alleyn with a pretty ghastly half-grin. His lips moved. Alleyn leant forward. ‘What am I to do?’ Kenneth mouthed.
Alleyn said aloud, ‘I’m afraid I’m booked for this evening.’ And to Kenneth, ‘You don’t look well. I should see a doctor if I were you. May I have the film?’
He handed it over. The carton was damp.
‘I think you’ve got the Baroness’s film too, haven’t you?’
‘Oh God, have I? Yes, of course. Where the hell—Here!’
He took it out of the glove-box and handed it over.
‘Can we give you a lift?’ Lady Braceley asked with the utmost concern. ‘Do let us give you a lift.’
‘Thank you, no. I’ve a job to do here.’
The sports-car shot dangerously into the traffic.
Alleyn went back into the building.
He sought out Bergarmi and got the name and working address of their photographic expert. Bergarmi rang the man up and arranged for the films to be developed immediately.
He offered to accompany Alleyn to the photographic laboratory and when they got there expanded on his own attitude.
‘I have looked in,’ Bergarmi said, ‘to see our own photographs. A matter of routine, really. The case against Sweet is perfectly established by Giovanni Vecchi’s evidence alone. He now admits that he was aware of a liaison of some sort between Sweet and Mailer and will swear that he heard Mailer threaten Sweet with exposure.’
‘I see,’ Alleyn said, ‘exposure of what? And to whom?’
‘Giovanni believes, Signore, that Mailer was aware of Sweet’s criminal record in England and threatened to expose his identity to you whom he had recognized.’
‘Very neat flashes of hindsight from Giovanni,’ said Alleyn drily. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. Do you?’
‘Well, Signore, that is his guess! His evidence of fact I accept entirely. The important point is that Sweet was in danger, for whatever reason, and that the threat came from Mailer. Who, of course, had discovered that Sweet was sent to spy upon him by Ziegfeldt. It is a familiar story, Signor Super, is it not? The cross and the double-cross. The simple solution so often the true one. The circumstance of Mailer being a ricattatore and of his extorting money from tourists has no real bearing on his murder, though Sweet may have hoped it would confuse the issue.’ Bergarmi’s quick glance played over Alleyn. ‘You are in doubt, Signor Super, are you not?’ he asked.
‘Pay no attention to me,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’m a foreigner, Signor Vice-Questore, and I should not try to fit Giovanni into an English criminal mould. You know your types and I do not.’
‘Well, Signore,’ said Bergarmi, smiling all over his face, ‘you have the great modesty to say so.’
The photographic expert came in. ‘They are ready, Signor Vice-Questore.’
‘Ecco!’ said Bergarmi, clapping Alleyn on the shoulder. ‘The pictures. Shall we examine?’
They were still submerged in their fixative solution along benches in the developing-room. The Questore’s photographs: Violetta in the sarcophagus with her tongue out. Violetta on the stretcher in the mortuary. Mailer’s jaw. Details. Alleyn’s photographs of Mailer, of a scrap of alpaca caught in a rail, of Mailer’s foot, sole uppermost, caught in the fangs of the grille, of boot polish on another rail. Of various papers found in Mailer’s apartment. Regulation shots that would fetch up in the police records.
And now, unexpectedly, views of Rome. Conventional shots of familiar subjects always with the same large, faintly smiling figure somewhere in the foreground or the middle distance. The Baron looking waggish with his head on one side, throwing a penny into the Trevi Fountain. The Baron looking magisterial in the Forum, pontifical before the Vatican and martial underneath Marcus Aurelius. And finally a shot taken by a third person of the Van der Veghels’ heads in profile with rather an Egyptian flavour, hers behind his. They even had the same large ears with heavy lobes, he noticed.
And then—nothing. A faint remnant of the Baron at the head of the Spanish Steps heavily obscured by white fog. After that—nothing. Blankness.
‘It is a pity,’ said the photographic expert, ‘there has been a misfortune. Light has been admitted.’
‘So I see,’ Alleyn said.
‘I think,’ Bergarmi pointed out, ‘you mentioned, did you not, that there was difficulty with the Baroness’s camera in the Mithraeum?’
‘The flashlamp failed. Once. It worked the second time.’
‘There is a fault, evidently, in the camera. Or in the removal of the film. Light,’ the expert reiterated, ‘has been admitted.’
‘So,’ Bergarmi said, ‘we have no record of the sarcophagus. It is of secondary interest after all.’
‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘It is. After all. And as for the group by the statue of Mithras—’
‘Ah, Signore,’ said the expert. ‘Here the news is better. We have the film marked Dorne. Here, Signore.’
Kenneth’s photographs were reasonably good. They at once disproved his story of using the last of his film before meeting Mailer at the Apollo and of replacing it on his way to the Mithraeum. Here in order were snapshots taken in Perugia. Two of these showed Kenneth himself, en travesti in a garden surrounded by very dubiouslooking friends, one of whom had taken off his clothes and seemed to be posing as a statue.
‘Molto sofisticato,’ said Bergarmi.
Next came pictures of Kenneth’s aunt outside their hotel and of the travellers assembling near the Spanish Steps. Midway in the sequence was the picture of the god Mithras.
Kenneth had stood far enough away from his subject to include in the foreground the Baroness, fussing with her camera, and beyond her the group. Alleyn and Sophy grinned on either side of the furiously embarrassed Grant and there was Sweet very clearly groping for Sophy’s waist. They had the startled and rigid look of persons in darkness transfixed by a flashlight. The details of the wall behind them, their own gigantic shadows and the plump god with his Phrygian cap, his smile and his blankly staring eyes, all stood out in the greatest clarity. Kenneth had taken no other photographs in S. Tommaso. The rest of his film had been used up on the Palatine Hill.
Alleyn waited for the films and prints to dry. Bergarmi pleaded pressure of work and said he would leave him to it.
As he was about to go Alleyn said, ‘You know, Signor Vice-Questore, there is one item in this case that I find extremely intriguing.’
‘Yes? And it is—?’
‘This. Why on earth should Mailer, a flabby man, go to all the exertion and waste a great deal of time in stowing Violetta in the sarcophagus when he might so easily and quickly have tipped her down the well?’
Bergarmi gazed at him in silence for some moments.
‘I have no answer,’ he said. ‘There is, of course, an answer but I cannot at the moment produce it. Forgive me, I am late.’
When he had gone Alleyn muttered, ‘I can. Blow me down flat if I can’t.’
It was ten to three when he got back to his hotel.
He wrote up his report, arranged a meeting with Interpol and took counsel with himself.
His mission, such as it was, was accomplished. He had got most of the information he had been told to get. He had run the Mailer case down to its grass roots and had forced Sweet to give him the most useful list yet obtained of key figures in the biggest of the drug rackets.
And Mailer and Sweet were dead.
Professionally speaking, their deaths were none of his business. They were strictly over to the Roman Questura, to Valdarno
and Bergarmi and their boys, and very ably they were being handled. And yet…
He was greatly troubled.
At half past five he laid out all the photographs on his bed. He took a paper from his file. The writing on it was in his own hand. He looked at it for a long time and then folded it and put it in his pocket.
At six o’clock Kenneth Dorne rang up and asked apparently in some agitation if he could come and collect his film.
‘Not now. I’m engaged,’ Alleyn said, ‘at least until seven.’ He waited a moment and then said, ‘You may ring again at eight.’
‘Have—have they turned out all right? The photos?’
‘Yours are perfectly clear. Why?’
‘Is something wrong with hers—the Baroness’s?’
‘It’s fogged.’
‘Well, that’s not my fault, is it? Look: I want to talk to you. Please.’
‘At eight.’
‘I see. Well I—yes—well, thank you. I’ll ring again at eight.’
‘Do that.’
At half past six the office called to say that the Baron Van der Veghel had arrived. Alleyn asked them to send him up.
He opened his door and when he heard the lift whine, went into the corridor. Out came a waiter ushering the Baron, who greeted Alleyn from afar and springingly advanced with outstretched hand.
‘I hope you don’t mind my bringing you up here,’ Alleyn said. ‘I thought we wanted a reasonable amount of privacy and the rooms down below are like a five-star Bedlam at this hour. Do come in. What will you drink? They make quite a pleasant cold brandy-punch. Or would you rather stick to the classics?’
The Baron chose brandy-punch and while it was coming enlarged upon their visit to the water-gardens at the Villa d’Este. ‘We have been there before, of course,’ he said, ‘but with each visit the wonder grows. My wife said today that now she summons up, always at the same vista, a scarlet cardinal and his guests. She sees them through the mists of the fountains.’
‘She has second sight,’ Alleyn said lightly. Seeing the Baron was puzzled, he explained.
‘Ach—no. No, we do not believe such phenomena. No, it is her imagination which is so very vivid. She is most sensitive to her surroundings but she does not see ghosts, Mr Alleyn.’
