Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh

by Ngaio Marsh

  “In what way?”

  “In almost every way. He shouted at me. I was startled and nervous, clumsy with papers, and making mistakes. I wasn’t well. I blundered and then… I… I broke down. I have always irritated him. My very mannerisms—”

  “Had he no irritating mannerisms, himself?”

  “He! My God!”

  “What were they?”

  “I can’t think of anything in particular. It doesn’t matter does it?”

  “Anything to do with the wireless, for instance?”

  There was a short silence.

  “No,” said Hislop.

  “Was the radio on in here last night, after dinner?”

  “For a little while. Not after—after the incident in the hall. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

  “What did you do after Miss Phillipa and her father had gone upstairs?”

  “I followed and listened outside the door for a moment.” He had gone very white and had backed away from the desk.

  “And then?”

  “I heard someone coming. I remembered Dr. Meadows had told me to ring him up if there was one of the scenes. I returned here and rang him up. He told me to go to my room and listen. If things got any worse I was to telephone again. Otherwise I was to stay in my room. It is next to hers.”

  “And you did this?” He nodded. “Could you hear what Mr. Tonks said to her?”

  “A — a good deal of it.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “He insulted her. Mrs. Tonks was there. I was just thinking of ringing Dr. Meadows up again when she and Mr. Tonks came out and went along the passage. I stayed in my room.”

  “You did not try to speak to Miss Phillipa?”

  “We spoke through the wall. She asked me not to ring Dr. Meadows, but to stay in my room. In a little while, perhaps it was as much as twenty minutes—I really don’t know—I heard him come back and go downstairs. I again spoke to Phillipa. She implored me not to do anything and said that she herself would speak to Dr. Meadows in the morning. So I waited a little longer and then went to bed.”

  “And to sleep?”

  “My God, no!”

  “Did you hear the wireless again?”

  “Yes. At least I heard static.”

  “Are you an expert on wireless?”

  “No. I know the ordinary things. Nothing much.”

  “How did you come to take this job, Mr. Hislop?”

  “I answered an advertisement.”

  “You are sure you don’t remember any particular mannerism of Mr. Tonks’s in connection with the radio?”

  “No.”

  “Will you please ask Mrs. Tonks if she will be kind enough to speak to me for a moment?”

  “Certainly,” said Hislop, and went away.

  Septimus’s wife came in looking like death. Alleyn got her to sit down and asked her about her movements on the preceding evening. She said she was feeling unwell and dined in her room. She went to bed immediately afterwards. She heard Septimus yelling at Phillipa and went to Phillipa’s room. Septimus accused Mr. Hislop and her daughter of “terrible things.” She got as far as this and then broke down quietly. Alleyn was very gentle with her. After a little while he learned that Septimus had gone to her room with her and had continued to speak of “terrible things.”

  “What sort of things?” asked Alleyn.

  “He was not responsible,” said Isabel. “He did not know what he was saying. I think he had been drinking.”

  She thought he had remained with her for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Possibly longer. He left her abruptly and she heard him go along the passage, past Phillipa’s door, and presumably downstairs. She had stayed awake for a long time. The wireless could not be heard from her room. Alleyn showed her the curtain knobs, but she seemed quite unable to take in their significance. He let her go, summoned Fox, and went over the whole case.

  “What’s your idea on the show?” he asked when he had finished.

  “Well, sir,” said Fox, in his stolid way, “on the face of it the young gentlemen have got alibis. We’ll have to check them up, of course, and I don’t see we can go much further until we have done so.”

  “For the moment,” said Alleyn, “let us suppose Masters Guy and Arthur to be safely established behind cast-iron alibis. What then?”

  “Then we’ve got the young lady, the old lady, the secretary, and the servants.”

  “Let us parade them. But first let us go over the wireless game. You’ll have to watch me here. I gather that the only way in which the radio could be fixed to give Mr. Tonks his quietus is like this: Control knobs removed. Holes bored in front panel with fine drill. Metal knobs substituted and packed with blotting paper to insulate them from metal shafts and make them stay put. Heavier flex from adapter to radiator cut and the ends of the wires pushed through the drilled holes to make contact with the new knobs. Thus we have a positive and negative pole. Mr. Tonks bridges the gap, gets a mighty wallop as the current passes through him to the earth. The switchboard fuse is blown almost immediately. All this is rigged by murderer while Sep was upstairs bullying wife and daughter. Sep revisited study some time after ten-twenty. Whole thing was made ready between ten, when Arthur went out, and the time Sep returned—say, about ten-forty-five. The murderer reappeared, connected radiator with flex, removed wires, changed back knobs, and left the thing tuned in. Now I take it that the burst of static described by Phillipa and Hislop would be caused by the short-circuit that killed our Septimus?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It also affected all the heaters in the house. Vide Miss Tonks’s radiator.”

  “Yes. He put all that right again. It would be a simple enough matter for anyone who knew how. He’d just have to fix the fuse on the main switchboard. How long do you say it would take to—what’s the horrible word?—to recondition the whole show?”

  “M’m,” said Fox deeply. “At a guess, sir, fifteen minutes. He’d have to be nippy.”

  “Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “He or she.”

  “I don’t see a female making a success of it,” grunted Fox. “Look here, Chief, you know what I’m thinking. Why did Mr. Hislop lie about deceased’s habit of licking his thumbs? You say Hislop told you he remembered nothing and Chase says he overheard him saying the trick nearly drove him dippy.”

  “Exactly,” said Alleyn. He was silent for so long that Fox felt moved to utter a discreet cough.

  “Eh?” said Alleyn. “Yes, Fox, yes. It’ll have to be done.” He consulted the telephone directory and dialed a number.

  “May I speak to Dr. Meadows? Oh, it’s you, is it? Do you remember Mr. Hislop telling you that Septimus Tonks’s trick of wetting his fingers nearly drove Hislop demented. Are you there? You don’t? Sure? All right. All right. Hislop rang you up at ten-twenty, you said? And you telephoned him? At eleven. Sure of the times? I see. I’d be glad if you’d come round. Can you? Well, do if you can.”

  He hung up the receiver.

  “Get Chase again, will you, Fox?”

  Chase, recalled, was most insistent that Mr. Hislop had spoken about it to Dr. Meadows.

  “It was when Mr. Hislop had flu, sir. I went up with the doctor. Mr. Hislop had a high temperature and was talking very excited. He kept on and on, saying the master had guessed his ways had driven him crazy and that the master kept on purposely to aggravate. He said if it went on much longer he’d… he didn’t know what he was talking about, sir, really.”

  “What did he say he’d do?”

  “Well, sir, he said he’d—he’d do something desperate to the master. But it was only his rambling, sir. I daresay he wouldn’t remember anything about it.”

  “No,” said Alleyn, “I daresay he wouldn’t.” When Chase had gone he said to Fox: “Go and find out about those boys and their alibis. See if they can put you on to a quick means of checking up. Get Master Guy to corroborate Miss Phillipa’s statement that she was locked in her room.”

  F
ox had been gone for some time and Alleyn was still busy with his notes when the study door burst open and in came Dr. Meadows.

  “Look here, my giddy sleuth-hound,” he shouted, “what’s all this about Hislop? Who says he disliked Sep’s abominable habits?”

  “Chase does. And don’t bawl at me like that. I’m worried.”

  “So am I, blast you. What are you driving at? You can’t imagine that… that poor little broken-down hack is capable of electrocuting anybody, let alone Sep?”

  “I have no imagination,” said Alleyn wearily.

  “I wish to God I hadn’t called you in. If the wireless killed Sep, it was because he’d monkeyed with it.”

  “And put it right after it had killed him?”

  Dr. Meadows stared at Alleyn in silence.

  “Now,” said Alleyn, “you’ve got to give me a straight answer, Meadows. Did Hislop, while he was semi-delirious, say that this habit of Tonks’s made him feel like murdering him?”

  “I’d forgotten Chase was there,” said Dr. Meadows.

  “Yes, you’d forgotten that.”

  “But even if he did talk wildly, Alleyn, what of it? Damn it, you can’t arrest a man on the strength of a remark made in delirium.”

  “I don’t propose to do so. Another motive has come to light.”

  “You mean — Phips — last night?”

  “Did he tell you about that?”

  “She whispered something to me this morning. I’m very fond of Phips. My God, are you sure of your grounds?”

  “Yes,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry. I think you’d better go, Meadows.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “I have to do my job.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Meadows at last. “You have to do your job. Goodbye, Alleyn.”

  Fox returned to say that Guy and Arthur had never left their parties. He had got hold of two of their friends. Guy and Mrs. Tonks confirmed the story of the locked door.

  “It’s a process of elimination,” said Fox. “It must be the secretary. He fixed the radio while deceased was upstairs. He must have dodged back to whisper through the door to Miss Tonks. I suppose he waited somewhere down here until he heard deceased blow himself to blazes and then put everything straight again, leaving the radio turned on.”

  Alleyn was silent.

  “What do we do now, sir?” asked Fox.

  “I want to see the hook inside the front-door where they hang their keys.”

  Fox, looking dazed, followed his superior to the little entrance hall.

  “Yes, there they are,” said Alleyn. He pointed to a hook with two latchkeys hanging from it. “You could scarcely miss them. Come on, Fox.”

  Back in the study they found Hislop with Bailey in attendance.

  Hislop looked from one Yard man to another.

  “I want to know if it’s murder.”

  “We think so,” said Alleyn.

  “I want you to realize that Phillipa—Miss Tonks—was locked in her room all last night.”

  “Until her brother came home and unlocked the door,” said Alleyn.

  “That was too late. He was dead by then.”

  “How do you know when he died?”

  “It must have been when there was that crash of static.”

  “Mr. Hislop,” said Alleyn, “why would you not tell me how much that trick of licking his fingers exasperated you?”

  “But — how do you know! I never told anyone.”

  “You told Dr. Meadows when you were ill.”

  “I don’t remember.” He stopped short. His lips trembled. Then, suddenly he began to speak.

  “Very well. It’s true. For two years he’s tortured me. You see, he knew something about me. Two years ago when my wife was dying, I took money from the cash-box in that desk. I paid it back and thought he hadn’t noticed. He knew all the time. From then on he had me where he wanted me. He used to sit there like a spider. I’d hand him a paper. He’d wet his thumbs with a clicking noise and a sort of complacent grimace. Click, click. Then he’d thumb the papers. He knew it drove me crazy. He’d look at me and then… click, click. And then he’d say something about the cash. He never quite accused me, just hinted. And I was impotent. You think I’m insane. I’m not. I could have murdered him. Often and often I’ve thought how I’d do it. Now you think I’ve done it. I haven’t. There’s the joke of it. I hadn’t the pluck. And last night when Phillipa showed me she cared, it was like Heaven—unbelievable. For the first time since I’ve been here I didn’t feel like killing him. And last night someone else did!”

  He stood there trembling and vehement. Fox and Bailey, who had watched him with bewildered concern, turned to Alleyn. He was about to speak when Chase came in. “A note for you, sir,” he said to Alleyn. “It came by hand.”

  Alleyn opened it and glanced at the first few words. He looked up.

  “You may go, Mr. Hislop. Now I’ve got what I expected —what I fished for.”

  When Hislop had gone they read the letter.

  Dear Alleyn,

  Don’t arrest Hislop. I did it. Let him go at once if you’ve arrested him and don’t tell Phips you ever suspected him. I was in love with Isabel before she met Sep. I’ve tried to get her to divorce him, but she wouldn’t because of the kids. Damned nonsense, but there’s no time to discuss it now. I’ve got to be quick. He suspected us. He reduced her to a nervous wreck. I was afraid she’d go under altogether. I thought it all out. Some weeks ago I took Phips’s key from the hook inside the front door. I had the tools and the flex and wire all ready. I knew where the main switchboard was and the cupboard. I meant to wait until they all went away at the New Year, but last night when Hislop rang me I made up my mind to act at once. He said the boys and servants were out and Phips locked in her room. I told him to stay in his room and to ring me up in half an hour if things hadn’t quieted down. He didn’t ring up. I did. No answer, so I knew Sep wasn’t in his study.

  I came round let myself in, and listened. All quiet upstairs, but the lamp still on in the study, so I knew he would come down again. He’d said he wanted to get the midnight broadcast from somewhere.

  I locked myself in and got to work. When Sep was away last year, Arthur did one of his modern monstrosities of paintings in the study. He talked about the knobs making good pattern. I noticed then that they were very like the ones on the radio and later on I tried one and saw that it would fit if I packed it up a bit. Well, I did the job just as you worked it out, and it only took twelve minutes. Then I went into the drawing-room and waited.

  He came down from Isabel’s room and evidently went straight to the radio. I hadn’t thought it would make such a row, and half expected someone would come down. No one came. I went back, switched off the wireless, mended the fuse in the main switchboard, using my torch. Then I put everything right in the study.

  There was no particular hurry. No one would come in while he was there and I got the radio going as soon as possible to suggest he was at it I knew I’d be called in when they found him. My idea was to tell them he had died of a stroke. I’d been warning Isabel it might happen at any time. As soon as I saw the burned hand I knew that cat wouldn’t jump. I’d have tried to get away with it if Chase hadn’t gone round bleating about electrocution and burned fingers. Hislop saw the hand. I daren’t do anything but report the case to the police, but I thought you’d never twig the knobs. One up to you.

  I might have bluffed through if you hadn’t suspected Hislop. Can’t let you hang the blighter. I’m enclosing a note to Isabel, who won’t forgive me, and an official one for you to use. You’ll find me in my bedroom upstairs. I’m using cyanide. It’s quick

  I’m sorry, Alleyn. I think you knew, didn’t you? I’ve bungled the whole game, but if you will be a super-sleuth… Goodbye.

  Henry Meadows

  I Can Find My Way Out

  At half-past six on the night in question, Anthony Gill, unable to eat, keep st
ill, think, speak or act coherently, walked from his rooms to the Jupiter Theatre. He knew that there would be nobody backstage, that there was nothing for him to do in the theatre, that he ought to stay quietly in his rooms and presently dress, dine and arrive at, say, a quarter to eight. But it was as if something shoved him into his clothes, thrust him into the street and compelled him to hurry through the West End to the Jupiter. His mind was overlaid with a thin film of inertia. Odd lines from the play occurred to him, but without any particular significance. He found himself busily reiterating a completely irrelevant sentence: “She has a way of laughing that would make a man’s heart turn over.”

  Piccadilly, Shaftesbury Avenue. “Here I go,” he thought, turning into Hawke Street, “towards my play. It’s one hour and twenty-nine minutes away. A step a second. It’s rushing towards me. Tony’s first play. Poor young Tony Gill. Never mind. Try again.”

  The Jupiter. Neon lights: i can find my way out—by Anthony Gill. And in the entrance the bills and photographs. Coralie Bourne with H. J. Bannington, Barry George and Canning Cumberland.

  Canning Cumberland. The film across his mind split and there was the Thing itself and he would have to think about it. How bad would Canning Cumberland be if he came down drunk? Brilliantly bad, they said. He would bring out all the tricks. Clever actor stuff, scoring off everybody, making a fool of the dramatic balance. “In Mr. Canning Cumberland’s hands indifferent dialogue and unconvincing situations seemed almost real.” What can you do with a drunken actor?

  He stood in the entrance feeling his heart pound and his inside deflate and sicken.

  Because, of course, it was a bad play. He was at this moment and for the first time really convinced of it. It was terrible. Only one virtue in it and that was not his doing. It had been suggested to him by Coralie Bourne: “I don’t think the play you have sent me will do as it is but it has occurred to me—” It was a brilliant idea. He had rewritten the play round it and almost immediately and quite innocently he had begun to think of it as his own although he had said shyly to Coralie Bourne: “You should appear as joint author.” She had quickly, over-emphatically, refused. “It was nothing at all,” she said. “If you’re to become a dramatist you will learn to get ideas from everywhere. A single situation is nothing. Think of Shakespeare,” she added lightly. “Entire plots! Don’t be silly.” She had said later, and still with the same hurried, nervous air: “Don’t go talking to everyone about it. They will think there is more, instead of less, than meets the eye in my small suggestion. Please promise.” He promised, thinking he’d made an error in taste when he suggested that Coralie Bourne, so famous an actress, should appear as joint author with an unknown youth. And how right she was, he thought, because, of course, it’s going to be a ghastly flop. She’ll be sorry she consented to play in it.