by Ngaio Marsh
“We’d love to,” said Angela. “Are you up to. one of your tricks?” she added suspiciously.
“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Angela. Bathgate, will you ring up for seats?”
They went to the Palladium and enjoyed themselves. Mr. Thoms’s sketch was the third number in the second half. It had not run three minutes before Nigel and Angela turned and stared owlishly at the inspector.
The sketch was well cast and the actor who played the surgeon was particularly clever. Alleyn sensed a strange feeling of alertness in the audience. Here and there people murmured together. Behind them a man’s voice asked: “Wonder if Sir John Phillips goes to the Palladium?”
“Ssh,” whispered a woman.
“The great British public twitching its nose.” thought Alleyn distastefully. The sketch drew to a close. The surgeon came back from the operating theatre, realistically bloody. A long-drawn “Ooooo” from the audience. He pulled off his mask, stood and stared at his gloved hands. He shuddered. A nurse entered up-stage. He turned to face her: “Well, nurse?”
“He’s gone.” The surgeon walked across to a practical basin and began to wash his hands as a drop curtain, emblazoned with an enormous question-mark, was drawn down like a blind over the scene.
“So that’s why we came?” said Angela, and remained very quiet until the end of the show.
They had supper at Alleyn’s flat, where Angela was made a fuss of by Vassily.
“Curious coincidence, that little play, didn’t you think?” asked Alleyn.
“Very rum,” agreed Nigel. “When did you hear about it?”
“Thoms told me that he and Phillips discussed it before the operation. Thoms seemed so anxious not to talk about it I thought it might be worth seeing. I can’t help wondering if he meant to convey precisely that suggestion.”
“Had Sir John seen it?” inquired Angela.
“No. Thoms told him about it?”
“I say,” said Nigel. “Do you think that could have given Phillips the big idea?”
“It might be that.”
“Or it might be — something quite different,” added Angela, watching him.
“I congratulate you, Miss Angela,” said Alleyn.
“Did Mr. Thoms tell you quite frankly about their conversation?”
“No, child, he didn’t. He flustered like an old hen.”
“And what did you deduce from that?” asked Angela innocently.
“Perhaps he was afraid of incriminating his distinguished colleague and senior.”
“Oh,” she said flatly. “What’s he like in other ways?”
“Besides being a bit of a buffoon? Well, I should say either rather forgetful or a bit of a liar. He says he came out of the theatre with Phillips after the latter had prepared the hyoscine injection. Phillips, matron and Banks say he didn’t.”
“Oh,” said Angela, “they do, do they.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at, Angela,” complained Nigel. “I should like to hear more about the funny little man. Didn’t he behave at all queerly?”
“He behaved very queerly indeed,” said Alleyn. “He was as scary as a rabbit whenever the murder was mentioned. He’s obviously very frightened whenever he thinks of it. And yet I don’t think his alarm is purely selfish. He said it was, I believe. Thoms, in that asinine way of his, made very merry over Roberts’s alarm when he rang up.”
Alleyn looked steadily at Angela.
“Roberts is the man, depend upon it,” pronounced Nigel. “I’ll back him with you for a quid.”
“I won’t,” said Angela. “I’ll back— ”
“I’m afraid the official conscience won’t allow me to join in this cold-bloomed gamble,” said Alleyn. He looked at them both curiously. “The attitude of the intelligent layman is very rum,” he observed.
“I lay you two to one the field, bar Roberts, Angela,” said Nigel.
“Done,” said Angela. “In guineas,” she added grandly. “And what were you saying, inspector?”
“I was only reflecting. Does the decision rest with the judge?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well — if it does, you are betting on a man or woman who, if you’re right, will presumably be hanged. I can’t imagine you doing this over any other form of death. That’s what I mean about the attitude of the layman.”
Angela turned red.
“That’s the second time in our acquaintanceship you’ve made me feel a pig,” she said. “The first was because I was too sensitive. The bet’s off, Nigel.”
“You can be pretty cold-blooded yourself, Alleyn,” said Nigel indignantly.
“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn, “but I’m an official.”
“Anyway,” argued Angela, “I was betting on Dr. Roberts’s innocence.”
“So you were.”
“And, anyway,” said Nigel, “I think he did it”
“How?”
“Er — well — somehow. With an injection.”
“He gave no injections.”
“Who could have done it?” asked Angela. “I mean who had the opportunity?”
“Phillips, who prepared and gave an injection. The special, who was alone with the patient. Ruth, ditto. Banks, who prepared and gave an injection. Thoms gave an injection, but did not prepare it. He was alone in the theatre for a few minutes if Phillips and the matron are telling the truth. He used the big syringe, and as he quite frankly pointed out, he could hardly have palmed another. Jane Harden had time to empty it and refill with hyoscine.”
“Which of them do you say were alone in the theatre before the operation?”
“All the nurses, Thoms and Phillips had the chance to be there, I suppose.”
“Not Roberts?” asked Nigel.
“I think not. He went straight to the anæsthetic-room, where he was joined by the special with the patient.”
“Bad luck, darling,” said Angela. “It really looks as though he’s the only man who couldn’t have murdered Sir Derek.”
“Then he’s a certainty,” declared Nigel. “Isn’t it true that when there’s a cast-iron alibi the police always prick up their ears?”
“Personally, I let mine flop with a thankful purr,” said Alleyn. “But you may be right. This is scarcely an alibi. Roberts was there; he merely had no hypodermic to give and no syringe to use.”
“And no motive,” added Angela.
“Look for the motive,” said Nigel.
“I will,” said Alleyn. “There’s precious little else to look for. Has it occurred to you, if the lethal injection was given during the operation, how extraordinarily favourable the mise en scène was for the murderer? As soon as a patient is wheeled away they set to work, and as far as I can see, they literally scour out the theatre. Nothing is left — everything is washed, sterilised, polished. The syringes — the dishes — the instruments— the floor — the tables. Even the ampoules that held the injections are cast into outer darkness. If you wanted to think of a perfect place to get rid of your tracks, you couldn’t choose a likelier spot.” He got up and looked at his watch.
“He wants us to go,” remarked Angela calmly.
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” murmured Alleyn. “I wondered if you’d both care to do a job of work for me?”
“What sort of job?” they asked.
“Attend a Bolshevik meeting at midnight.”
“To-night?”
“To-night.”
“I’d adore to,” said Angela quickly. “Where is it? What’s the time? What do we do?”
“It’ll be a bit of copy for you, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Nicholas Kakaroff, agent of a certain advanced section of Soviet propagandists, is holding a meeting at Lenin Hall, Saltarrow Street, Blackfriars. Lenin Hall is a converted warehouse. Mr. Kakaroff is a converted minor official, originally from Krakov. I feel sure Kakaroff is a made-up name. ‘Kakaroff of Krakov’—it’s too good to be really true, don’t you feel? There’s an air of unreality abo
ut his whole gang. As far as we know, they are not officially recognised by Russia or any other self-respecting country. Your genuine Soviet citizen is an honest-to-God sort of chap in his own way, once you get past his prejudices. But these fellows are grotesques — illegitimate offsprings of the I.W.W. You’ll see. Nurse Banks attends the meeting. So do we. Myself disguised and feeling silly. Banks might penetrate my disguise, which would not be in the great tradition, so you sit next to her and get her confidence. You have been given your tickets by one Mr. Marcus Barker, who will not be there. He’s an English sympathiser at present in custody for selling prohibited literature. He has a bookshop in Long Acre. Don’t talk about him; you’d get into a mess if you did. I want you to pump the lady. You are enthusiastic converts. Let her hear that from your conversation together and leave it to her to make friends. If you can do it artistically, rejoice over O’Callaghan’s death. Now wait a moment — I want to ring Fox up. Here, read this pamphlet and see if you can get down some of the line of chat.”
He looked in his desk, produced a pamphlet bound in a vermillion folder, entitled “The Soviet Movement in Britain, by Marcus Barker.” Angela and Nigel sat side by side and began to read it.
Alleyn rang up Fox, who was at the Yard.
“Hullo, Brer Fox. Any news?”
“Hullo, sir. Well, I don’t know that I’ve got any thing much for you. Inspector Boys checked up on that heredity business. It seems to be quite O.K. Sir Derek’s father was what you might call a bit wanting, very queer old gentleman he seems to have been. There’s a great-uncle who fancied he was related to the Royal Family and did himself in a very peculiar manner with a hedger’s knife, and a great-aunt who started some religious affair and had to be shut up over it. She was always undressing herself, it seems.”
“Really? What about Ruth?”
“Well, as soon as you rang off, I called at Miss O’Callaghan’s house to inspect the hot-water cistern and I had a cup of tea with the cook and the housemaid. They were both rather talkative ladies and full of l’affaire O’Callaghan,” said Fox with one of his excursions into French. “They like Miss O’Callaghan all right, but they think she’s a bit eccentric. It seems she was very much attached to her brother and it seems she’s very thick with this chemist affair — Mr. Harold Sage. It seems he visits her a great deal. The housemaid gave it as her opinion that they were courting. Miss O’Callaghan takes a lot of his medicines.”
“Say it with soda-mints? Anything more?”
“One useful bit of information, sir. Mr. Sage is a Communist.”
“The devil he is! Bless me, Fox, that’s a plum. Sure?”
“Oh, yes — quite certain, I should say. He’s always leaving his literature about. Cook showed me a pamphlet. One of the Marcus Barker lot, it was.”,
Alleyn glanced through the study door at Nigel and Angela sitting very close together, their heads bent over the vermilion leaflet.
“Did you gather if Miss O’Callaghan sympathised with these views?” he asked.
At the other end of the telephone Fox blew his nose thoughtfully.
“Well, no; it seems not. Nina, that’s the housemaid, said she thought the lady was trying to influence him the other way. She gave it as her opinion that Sir Derek would have had a fit if he’d known what was going on.”
“Highly probable. You’ve done a good bit of work there, Fox. What a success you are with the ladies!”
“I’m more at home below-stairs,” said Fox simply, “and the cook was a very nice sort of woman. Is that all, sir?”
“Unless you’ve any more gossip. See you later.”
“That’s right, sir. Au revoir.”
“Bung-oh, you old devil.”
Alleyn returned to the study and repeated the gist of Fox’s information. “See if you can hear anything of this Sage who is Miss O’Callaghan’s soul-mate,” he said. “He may be there to-night. Bathgate, I’m just going to change. Won’t be five minutes. Ask Vassily to call a taxi and give yourself a drink.”
He vanished into his tiny dressing-room, where they heard him whistling very sweetly in a high key.
“Darling,” said Nigel, “this is like old times. You and I on the warpath.”
“I won’t have you getting into trouble,” said Angela. “You did last time, you know.”
“That was because I was so much in love I couldn’t think.”
“Indeed? And I suppose that no longer applies?”
“Do you? Do you?”
“Nigel — darling, this is no moment for dalliance.”
“Yes, it is.”
Alleyn’s whistling drifted into the silent room. “Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, tell me how thy lady does,” whistled the inspector. In a very short time he was back again, incredibly changed by a dirty chin, a very ill-cut shoddy suit, a cheap-smart overcoat, a cap, a dreadful scarf, and pointed shoes. His hair was combed forward under the cap.
“Oh!” exclaimed Angela, “I can’t bear it — you always look so frightfully well turned out and handsome.”
To Nigel’s amusement Inspector Alleyn turned red in the face, and for the first time in their acquaintance seemed at a loss for an answer.
“Has no one ever told you you are handsome, inspector?” pursued Angela innocently.
“Fox raves over me,” said Alleyn. “What are you standing there for Bathgate, with that silly grin on your face? Have you ordered the taxi? Have you had a drink?”
Nigel had done neither of these things. However, this was soon remedied and in a couple of minutes they were in a taxi, heading for the Embankment.
“We’ll walk the last part of the way,” said Alleyn. “Here are your tickets. We got these three with a good deal of difficulty. The brethren are becoming rather exclusive. Now do be careful. Remember The Times criticised me for employing Bright Young People in the Frantock case. Repeat your lesson.”
They did this, interrupting each other a good deal, but giving the gist of his instructions.
“Right. Now it’s only eleven-twenty. We’re early, but there will be plenty of people there already. With any luck I’ll spot Banks and you may get near her. If not, drift in her direction afterwards. I’ll be near the door. As you come out brush up against me, and if you’ve been shown the Sage, point him out to each other so that I can hear you. See? Good. Here’s where we get out, for fear of seeming proud.”
He stopped the taxi. They were still down by the river. The air felt chilly and dank, but exciting. The river, busy with its night traffic, had an air of being apart and profoundly absorbed. There were the wet black shadows, broken lights, and the dark, hurried flow of the Thames towards the sea. London’s water-world was about its nightly business. The roar of the streets became unimportant and remote down here, within sound of shipping sirens and the cold lap of deep water against stone.
Alleyn hurried them along the Embankment for a short way and then turned off somewhere near Blackfriars Underground Station. They went up a little dark street that resembled a perspective in a woodcut. A single street lamp, haloed in mist, gave accent to shadows as black as printer’s ink. Beyond the lamp a flight of stone steps led dramatically downwards. They followed these steps, came out in a narrow alley, took several more turns and fetched up at last by an iron stairway.
“Up you go,” said Alleyn. “We’ve arrived.”
The stairs ended in an iron landing which rang coldly under their feet. Here, by a closed door, stood a solitary man, who struck his hands together and blew on his fingers. Alleyn showed him his ticket, which he inspected by the light of an electric torch. Nigel and Angela followed. The man flashed his torch on their faces, a disconcerting business.
“New, aren’t you?” he said to Nigel.
“Yes,” said Angela quickly, “and terribly excited. Will it be a good meeting?”
“Should be,” he answered, and opened the door behind him. They went through and found themselves in a narrow passage lit by a solitary globe at the far end. Under this lamp stood anot
her man, who watched them steadily as they came towards him. Angela took Nigel’s arm.
“ ‘Evening,” said Alleyn.
“ ‘Evening, comrade,” said the man self-consciously. “You’re early to-night.”
“That’s right. Many here?”
“Not many yet. Show your tickets, please.” He turned to the others. “You newcomers?”
“Yes,” said Nigel.
“I’ll have to take your names, comrades.”
“That’s new,” remarked Alleyn.
“Instructions from headquarters. We’ve got to be more careful.”
“Just as well. I’m bringing Miss Northgate and Mr. Batherston. Friends of Comrade Marcus Barker.” He spelt the names while the man wrote them down. “They come from Clearminster-Storton, Dorset, and are both right-minded.”
“Anything doing in your part of the world?” asked the man.
“Gosh, no!” said Nigel. “All landed gentry, bourgeoisie and wage-slaves.”
“Bone from the eyes up,” added Angela perkily.
The man laughed loudly.
“You’ve said it! Just sign these cards, will you?”
With an effort they remembered their new names and wrote them at the foot of two pieces of pasteboard that seemed to be inscribed with some sort of profession of secrecy. Angela felt rather guilty. While they did this someone came in at the outside door and walked along the passage. The man took their cards, pulled open the door and turned to the newcomer. Led by Alleyn, they all walked through the door, which immediately was shut behind them.
They found themselves in a large room that still looked like a warehouse. Six office lamps with china shades hung from the ceiling. The walls were unpapered plaster in bad condition. A few Soviet propagandist posters, excellent in design, had been pasted on the walls. The Russian characters looked strange and out of place. At the far end a rough platform had been run up. On the wall behind it was an enlarged photograph of Lenin draped in a grubby festoon of scarlet muslin. There were some thirty people in the room. They stood about in small groups, talking quietly together. One or two had seated themselves among the chairs and benches that faced the platform. Nigel, who prided himself on this sort of thing, tried to place some of them. He thought he detected a possible newsagent, two undergraduates, three Government school teachers, compositors, shopkeepers, a writing bloke or two, and several nondescripts who might be anything from artists to itinerant hawkers. There were one or two women of the student type, but as Alleyn made no sign, Nigel concluded that none of these was Nurse Banks. Evidently the inspector had been to former meetings. He went up to a middle-aged, vehement-looking man with no teeth, who greeted him gloomily and in a little while began to talk very excitedly about the shortcomings of someone called Sage. “He’s got no guts,” he repeated angrily, “no guts at all.”
