by Ngaio Marsh
Fabian looked at Alleyn’s hands. “And gloves if it could be managed,” Alleyn said. “I’m very sorry about taking up the floor. The police department will pay the damage, of course. It may only be one section — the one nearest the press. I think you might warn the others when we go in.”
“May I ask what you hope to find?”
“A light that failed,” said Alleyn.
“Am I supposed to understand that?”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” They had reached the gate into the lavender walk. Alleyn turned and looked back at the track. He could see the open door into the annex where they had left Albie Black weeping off the combined effects of confession, betrayal and the hangover from wood alcohol.
“Was it methylated spirit they’d been drinking?” he asked. “He and the cook?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Or Hokanui.”
“What’s that?”
“The local equivalent of potheen.”
“Why do you keep him?”
“He doesn’t break out very often. We can’t pick our men in war-time.”
“I’d love to lock him up,” Alleyn said. “He stinks. He’s a toad.”
“Then why do you listen to him?”
“Do you suppose policemen only take statements from people they fall in love with? Come in. I want to get that call through before the Bureau shuts.”
They found the members of the household assembled in the pleasant colonial-Victorian drawing-room, overlooking the lawn on the wool-shed side of the house.
“We rather felt we couldn’t face the study again,” Ursula said. “After last night, you know. We felt it could do with an airing. And I’m going to bed at eight. If Mr. Alleyn lets me, of course. Does everyone realize we got exactly five and a half hours of sleep last night?”
“I should certainly prefer that Flossie’s portrait did not preside over another session,” Fabian agreed. “If there was to be another session, of course. Having never looked at it for three years I’ve suddenly become exquisitely self-conscious in its presence. I suppose, Ursy darling, you wouldn’t care to have it in your room?”
“If that’s meant to be a joke, Fabian,” said Ursula, “I’m not joining in it.”
“You’re very touchy. Mr. Alleyn is going to dash off a monograph on one of the less delicious aspects of the merino sheep, Douglas. We are to take up the floor of the wool-shed pens.”
Alleyn, standing in the doorway, watched the group round the fire. Mrs. Aceworthy wore her almost habitual expression of half-affronted gentility. Terence Lynne, flashing the needles in her scarlet knitting, stared at him, and drew her thin brows together. Ursula Harme, arrested in the duelling mood she kept for Fabian, paused, her lips parted. Douglas dropped his newspaper and began his usual indignant expostulation: “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Fab? Good Lord—!”
“Yes, Douglas my dear,” said Fabian, “we know how agitating you find your present condition of perpetual astonishment, but there it is. Up with the slats and down goes poor Mr. Alleyn.”
Douglas retired angrily behind his newspaper. “The whole thing’s a farce,” he muttered obscurely. “I always said so.” He crackled his paper. “Who’s going to do it?”
“If you’ll trust me,” said Alleyn, “I will.”
“I don’t envy you your job, sir.”
“The policeman’s lot,” Alleyn said lightly.
“I’ll tell the men to do it,” Douglas grunted ungraciously from behind his paper. He peeped round the corner of it at Alleyn. The solitary, rather prominent eye he displayed was reminiscent of Florence Rubrick’s in her portrait. “I’ll give you a hand, if you like,” he added.
“That’s the spirit that forged the empire,” said Fabian. “Good old Douggie.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Alleyn said and moved into the hall. Fabian joined him there.
“The telephone’s switched through to the study,” he said. “I promise not to eavesdrop.” He paused reflectively. “Eavesdrop!” he muttered. “What a curious word! To drop from eaves. Reminds one of the swallows and, by a not too extravagant flight of fancy, of your job for the morrow. Give one long ring and the exchange at the Pass may feel moved to answer you.”
When Alleyn lifted the receiver it was to cut in on a cross-plateau conversation. A voice angrily admonished him: “Working!” He hung up and waited. He could hear Fabian whistling in the hall. The telephone gave a brief tinkle and he tried again, this time with success. The operator at the Pass came through. Alleyn asked for a police station two hundred miles away, where he hoped Sub-Inspector Jackson might possibly be on duty. “I’ll call you,” said the operator coldly. “This is a police call,” said Alleyn, “I’ll hold the line.” “Arent you Mount Moon?” said the operator sharply. “Yes, and it’s still a police call, if you’ll believe me.” “Not in trouble up there, are you, Mr. Losse?” “I’m as happy as a lark,” said Alleyn, “but in a bit of a hurry.” “Hold the line,” giggled the operator. A vast buzzing set up in his ear, threaded with ghost voices. “That’ll be good-oh, then, Bob.”
“Eh?”
“I said, that’ll be jake.” The operator’s voice cut in omnipotently. “There you are, Mr. Losse. They’re waiting.”
Sub-Inspector Jackson was not there but P.C. Wetherbridge, who had been detailed to the case in town, answered the telephone and was helpful. “The radio programs for the last week in January, ’42, Mr. Alleyn? I think we can do that for you.”
“For the evening of Thursday the 29th,” Alleyn said, “between eight and nine o’clock. Only stations with good reception in this district.”
“It may take us a wee while, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Of course. Would you tell the exchange at the Pass to keep itself open and call me back?”
“That’ll be O.K., sir.”
“And Wetherbridge. I want you to get hold of Mr. Jackson. Tell him it’s a very long chance, but I may want to bring someone in to the station. I’d very much like a word with him. I think it would be advisable for him to come up here. He asked me to let him know if there were developments. There are. If you can find him, he might come in on the line when you call me back.”
“He’s at home, sir. I’ll ring him. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble over the other call.”
The voice faded, and Alleyn caught only the end of the sentence… “a cobber of mine… all the back numbers… quick as I can make it.”
“Three minutes, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “Will I extend the call?”
“Yes — no! All right, Wetherbridge. Splendid. I’ll wait.”
“Working?” demanded a new voice.
“Like a black,” said Alley crossly, and hung up.
He found Fabian sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, a cigarette in his mouth. He hummed a dreary little air to himself.
“Get through?” he asked.
“They’re going to call me back.”
“If you’re very very lucky. It’ll be some considerable time, at the best, if I know Toll. I’m going up to the workroom. Would you care to join me? You can hear the telephone from there.”
“Right.” Alleyn felt in his breast pocket. “Damn!” he said.
“What’s up?”
“My cigarette case.”
“Did you leave it in the drawing-room?”
“I don’t think so.” He returned to the drawing-room. Its four occupants, who seemed to be about to go to bed, broke off what appeared to be a lively discussion and watched him. The case was not there. Douglas hunted about politely, and Mrs. Aceworthy clucked. While they were at this employment there was a tap on the door and Cliff came in with a rolled periodical in his hand.
“Yes?” said Douglas.
“Dad asked me to bring this in,” said Cliff. “It came up with our mail by mistake. He says he’s sorry.”
“Thank you, Cliff,” they murmured. He shuffled his feet and said awkwardly, “Good night, then.”
�
��Good night, Cliff,” they said and he went out.
“Oh Lord!” Alleyn said. “I’ve remembered. I left it in the annex. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”
He saw Terence Lynne’s hands check at their work.
“Shall I dodge up and get it?” Douglas offered.
“Not a bit of it, thanks Grace. I’ll do my own tedious job. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get a coat and run up there.”
He returned to the hall. Cliff was in the passage heading to the kitchen. Fabian had gone. Alleyn ran upstairs. A flashlight bobbed in the long passage and came to rest on the workroom door. Fabian’s hand reached out to the lock. “Hi,” Alleyn called down the passage, “you had it.” The light shone in his eyes.”
“What?”
“My cigarette case. You took it away from the unspeakable Albert.”
“Oh, help! I put it on the piano. It’ll be all right.”
“I think I’ll get it. It’s rather special. Troy — my wife — gave it to me.”
“I’ll get it,” Fabian said.
“No, you’re going to work. It won’t take me a moment.”
He got his overcoat from his room. When he came out he found Fabian hovering uncertainly on the landing. “Look here,” he said, “you’d better let me — I mean—”
The telephone in the study gave two long rings. “There’s your call,” Fabian said. “Away with you. Lend me your coat, will you, it’s perishing cold.”
Alleyn threw his coat to him and ran downstairs. As he shut the study door he heard the rest of the party come out of the drawing-room. A moment later the front door banged.
The telephone repeated its double ring.
“There you are, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “We’ve kept open for you. They’re waiting.”
It was P.C. Wetherbridge. “Message from the Sub-Inspector, sir. He’s left by car and ought to make it in four hours.”
“Gemini!”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Great work, Wetherbridge. Hope I haven’t cried Wolf.”
“I don’t get you too clear, sir. We’ve done that little job for you. I’ve got it noted down here. There are three likely stations.”
“Good for you,” said Alleyn warmly.
“Do you want to write the programs out, Mr. Alleyn?”
“No, no. Just read them to me.”
Wetherbridge cleared his throat and began: “Starting at seven-thirty, sir, and continuing till nine.” His voice droned on through a list of items. “… Syd Bando and the Rhythm Kids… I Got a Big Pink Momma… Garden Notes and Queries… Racing Commentary… News Summary… Half an Hour with the Jitterbugs… Anything there, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Nothing like it so far, but carry on. We’re looking for something a bit high-brow, Wetherbridge.”
“Old Melodies Made New?”
“Not quite. Carry on.”
“There’s only one other station that’s likely to come through clearly, up where you are.”
Alleyn thought: “I hope to God we’ve drawn a blank.”
“Here we go, sir. Seven-thirty, Twenty-first instalment of ‘The Vampire.’ Seven forty-five, Reading from Old Favourites. Eight-five, An Hour with the Masters.”
Alleyn’s hand tightened on the receiver. “Yes?” he said. “Any details?”
“There’s a lot of stuff in small print. Wait a jiffy, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m putting on my glasses.” Alleyn waited. “Here we are,” said Wetherbridge, and two hundred miles away a paper crackled. “Eight twenty-five,” said Wetherbridge, “ ‘Polonaise’ by Chopping but there’s a lot more. Back,” said Wetherbridge uncertainly, “or would it be Bark? The initials are J. S. It’s a pianna solo.”
“Go on please.”
“ ‘The Art of Fewje,’ ” said Wetherbridge. “I’d better spell that, Mr. Alleyn. F for Freddy, U for Uncle, G for George, U for Uncle, E for Edward? Any good?”
“Yes.”
“It seems to have knocked off at eight fifty-seven.”
“Yes.”
“Last on the list,” said Wetherbridge. “Will that be the article we’re looking for, sir?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Alleyn.
After they’d rung off he sat on for a minute or two, whistling dolefully. His hand went automatically to the pocket where he kept his cigarette case. It was quite ten minutes since Fabian went out. Perhaps he was waiting in the hall.
But the hall was empty and very still. An oil lamp, turned low, burnt on the table. Alleyn saw that only two candles remained from the nightly muster of six. The drawing-room party had evidently gone to bed. Fabian must be upstairs. Using his torch, Alleyn went quietly up to the landing. Light showed under the doors of the girls’ rooms, and farther down the passage, under Douglas’. There was none under Fabian’s door. Alleyn moved softly down the passage to the workroom. No light in there. He waited, listening, and then moved back towards the landing. A board creaked under his feet.
“Hullo!” called Douglas. “That you, Fab?”
“It’s me,” said Alleyn quietly.
Douglas’ door opened and he looked out. “Well, I wondered who it was,” he said, eyeing Alleyn dubiously. “I mean it seemed funny.”
“Another night prowler? Up to no good?”
“Well, I must say you sounded a bit stealthy. Anything you want, sir?”
“No,” said Alleyn. “Just sleuthing. Go to bed.”
Douglas grinned and withdrew his head. “Enjoy yourself,” Alleyn heard him say cheekily, and the door was shut.
Perhaps Fabian had left the cigarette case in his room and was already asleep. Odd, though, that he didn’t wait.
There was no cigarette case in his room. “Blast!” Alleyn muttered. “He can’t find it! The miserable Albert’s pinched it. Blast!”
He crept downstairs again. A faint glimmer of light showed at the end of the hall. A door into the kitchen passage was open. He went through it, and met Markins in the silver pantry, candle in hand.
“Just locking up, sir,” said Markins. “Were you wanting me?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Losse.”
“Wasn’t he up by the men’s quarters with you, Mr. Alleyn? About ten minutes ago.”
“He was probably there, but I wasn’t.”
“That’s funny,” Markins said, staring at him. “I’d ’ave sworn it was you.”
“He was wearing my coat.”
“Is that the case? Who was the other gentleman, then?”
“Not me. What other gentleman?”
Markins set his candle down and shut the door. “I was going up to the manager’s cottage,” he said. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Johns. Cliff had just gone back there. The cottage is up the hill at the back of the annex, you know. When I came out of the back door here, I thought I saw you on the main track to the men’s quarters, going towards the annex. I thought I’d cut across and see you, and I started up the path from the back door. You lose sight of the other track for a bit. I heard you call out something and I sung out ‘Hullo, sir?’ Then I heard you run downhill. When I came up to where you can see the track, you weren’t in sight.”
Alleyn took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not me,” he said. “Mr. Losse.”
“It sounded like you, sir. I thought you must have been talking to someone else.”
“And apparently, on the telephone, I sounded like Mr. Losse. Damn it then,” Alleyn said irritably, “where is he? If he ran downhill why didn’t he come in? And who was he singing out to? Young Cliff?”
“No, sir. Cliff was home by then. When I got up to the cottage I asked him if he’d seen you and he said he hadn’t seen anybody. What was Mr. Losse doing, sir?”
Alleyn told him, “Come on,” he said. “I don’t like this. Let’s hunt him out.”
“There’s half a dozen things he might be doing, Mr. Alleyn.”
“What sort of things? We’ll go through your kitchen, Markins. Lead the way. I’ve
got a torch.”
“Well,” said Markins, moving off, “letting water out of the truck radiator. It’s going to be a hard frost.”
“Would he run downhill to do that?”
“Well, no. The garage is up by the sheds.”
“What was it he called out?” asked Alleyn, following Markins into a dark warm kitchen that smelt of pine wood and fat.
“I couldn’t say, really. He just shouted. He sounded surprised. Just a moment if you please, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve bolted the door. Ever since that young Cliff played up with the whisky, I’ve shut up careful.”
“Cliff didn’t play up. It was the unspeakable Albie.”
“I caught him with the bottle in his hand!”
“He was putting it back.”
“He never was!” Markins cried out with almost lady-like incredulity.
“Albie’s admitted it. The boy was saving his disgusting face for him.”
“Then why the hell couldn’t he say so?” Markins demanded in a high voice. “I’d better stick to valeting and cut out the special stuff,” he added disgustedly. “I can’t pick petty larceny when it’s under my nose. Come on, sir.”
It was pitch-dark outside and bitingly cold. Markins, using Alleyn’s torch, led the way up a steep path. Grass was crisp under their feet and frost scented the air. Ice seemed to move against their faces as they climbed. The sky was clear and full of winking stars.
“Where are we going, Mr. Alleyn?”
“To the annex.”
“This path comes out above the buildings, but we can cut across to the track. It’s not too rough, but it’s steepish.”
Clods of earth broke icily under Alleyn’s shoes. He and Markins skated and slithered. “Kick your heels in,” Markins said. A sense of urgency, illogically insistent, plagued Alleyn. “Where’s this cursed track?” he grunted.
They mounted a rise and a dim rectangular blackness showed against a hillside that must be white with frost. “Here we are,” Markins said. “There’s a wire fence, sir. No barbs.” The wire clanged as they climbed through. The flashlight played on frozen cart tracks.
“There’s no light in the annex,” Alleyn said.
“Shall we call out, sir?”
