by Ngaio Marsh
Mr. Cartell raised his eyes and looked at her. For a moment she boggled, but only for a moment. “And I must say,” she said boldly, “we both take a pretty poor view of your coming to Baynesholme and creating a scene. Not that it made any difference with Lady Bantling. She’s asked us both for tonight in spite of whatever nonsense she may have been told about us,” Moppett announced and laughed rather shrilly.
He waited for a moment and then said: “It would be idle to discuss this matter any further. I shall turn to my second point and put it very bluntly. What did you do with Mr. Period’s cigarette case?”
Moppett recrossed her legs and waited much too long before she said: “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Precisely what I have said. You and Leiss examined it after luncheon. What did you do with it?”
“How dare you—” Moppett began. “How dare you—” and Leonard came Into the room.
When he saw Mr. Cartell he fetched up short. “Pardon me,” he said elegantly. “Am I interrupting something?”
Moppett extended her arm towards him. “Darling,” she said. “I’m being badgered. Can you cope?”
He took her hand and sat on the arm of her chair. “What goes on?” he asked. He was normally a white-faced young man — this characteristic at the moment was particularly noticeable.
“To be perfectly honest,” Moppett began, “I haven’t a clue. But it appears that we’re meant to know where poor old P.P. puts his museum pieces.”
“Mr. Period’s cigarette case has disappeared,” Mr. Cartell said, addressing Leonard exclusively. “You and Miss Ralston were the last persons known to handle it. You may care to make a statement as to what you did with it.”
Leonard said: “Disappeared! By Jove, that’s too bad, isn’t it?” His pale fingers closed tightly over Moppett’s. “Of course we must help, if we can. Yes, now — Yes. I do remember. I left it on the window ledge in the dining-room. You remember, sweetie, don’t you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Was the window open or shut?”
“Oh,” Leonard said easily, “open. Yes. Open.”
“Did you open it, Mr. Leiss?”
“Me? What would I do that for? It was open.”
“It was shut,” Mr. Cartell said, “during luncheon.”
“Then I suppose the butler-chap — what’s-’is-name — must have opened it.”
“No.”
“That,” Leonard remarked, smiling, “is what he says.”
“It is what I say.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t much fancy the way you say it.” Leonard produced a silver case from his pocket, offered it to Moppett, helped himself, and with great deliberation lit both cigarettes. He snapped the case shut, smiled at Mr. Cartell and returned it to his pocket. He inhaled deeply, breathed out the vapour and fanned it with his hand. He wore an emerald ring on his signet finger. “How about the sewer men in the lane?” he asked. “Anything in that?”
“They could not open the window from outside.”
“Perhaps it was opened for them.”
Mr. Cartell stood up. “Mr. Leiss,” he said, “I consider myself responsible to Mr. Period for any visitors who, however unwelcome, come to his house under my aegis. Unless his case is returned within the next twelve hours, I shall call in the police.”
“You’re quite an expert at that, aren’t you?” Leonard remarked. He looked at the tip of his cigarette. “One other thing,” he said. “I resent the way you’re handling this, Mr. Cartell, and I know exactly what I can do about it.”
Mr. Cartell observed him with a sort of astonished disgust. He addressed himself to Moppett. “There’s no point,” he said, “in pursuing this conversation.”
A door banged, footsteps were heard in the hall together with an outbreak of yapping and long-drawn-out whines. A loud, uninhibited voice shouted: “Geddown! Geddown, you brute.” There followed a canine yelp and a renewed outbreak of yapping.
“Quiet, Li. Quiet, sweetie. Who the hell let this blasted mongrel in! Trudi!”
“I have changed my mind,” Mr. Cartell said. “I shall speak to my sister.”
He went out and found her, clasping a frenzied Pekingese to her bosom, kicking Pixie and shouting at her Austrian house-parlourmaid.
“My God, Boysie,” she said when she saw her brother, “are you dotty, bringing that thing in here? Take it out. Take it out!”
The Pekingese turned in her arms and bit her thumb.
Mr. Cartell said, with dignity: “Come along, old girl, you’re not wanted.” He withdrew Pixie to the garden, tied her to the gatepost, and returned to the hall, where he found his sister stanching her wound. The Pekingese had been removed.
“I am sorry, Constance. I apologize. Had I imagined—”
“Oh, come off it,” Miss Cartell rejoined. “You’re hopeless with animals. Let’s leave it at that. If you want to see me, come in here while I get some stuff on my thumb.”
He followed her into her “den”: a small room, crowded with photographs that she had long ago ceased to look at, with the possible exception of those that recorded the progress of Moppett from infancy to her present dubious effulgence.
Miss Cartell rummaged in a drawer and found some cotton wool, which she applied to her thumb with stamp paper and a heavy coating of some black and evil-smelling unguent.
“What is that revolting stuff?” asked her brother, taking out his handkerchief.
“I use it on my mare for girth-gall.”
“Really, Connie!”
“Really what? Now then, Boysie,” she said, “what’s up? I can see you’re in one of your moods. Let’s have a drink and hear all about it.”
“I don’t want a drink, Connie.”
“Why not? I do,” she shouted, with her inevitable gust of laughter, and opened a little cupboard. “I’ve been having a go at the Hunt Club,” she added and embarked on a vigorous exposé of a kennel maid. Mr. Cartell suffered her to thrust a whisky-and-soda into his hand and listened to her with something like despair.
In the end he managed to get her to attend to him. He saw the expected and familiar look of obstinacy come into her face.
“I can’t put it too strongly, Connie,” he said. “The fellow’s a bad lot, and, unless you put your foot down, the girl’s going to be involved in serious trouble.”
But it was no use. She said, readily enough, that she would tackle Moppett, but almost at once she began to defend her — and before long they had both lost their tempers and had become a middle-aged brother and sister furiously at odds.
“The trouble with you, Boysie, is that you’ve grown so damned selfish. I don’t wonder Désirée got rid of you. All you think of is your own comfort. You’ve worked yourself up into a stink because you’re dead-scared P.P. will turn you out.”
“That’s an insufferable construction to put on it. Naturally, I don’t relish the thought—”
“There you are, you see.”
“Nonsense, Constance! Will you realize that you are entertaining a young man with a criminal record?”
“Moppett has told me all about him. She’s taken him in hand, and he’s going as straight as a die.”
“You’ve made yourself responsible for Mary, you appear to be quite besotted on her — and yet you can allow her to form a criminal association—”
“There’s nothing like that about it. She’s sorry for him.”
“She’ll be sorry for herself before long.”
“Why?”
“This cigarette case—”
“P.P.’ll find it somewhere. You’ve no right—”
“I have every right,” Mr. Cartell cried, now quite beside himself with chagrin. “And I tell you this, Connie. The girl is a bad girl. If you’ve any authority over her, you’d better use it. But in my opinion your sensible course would be to let her be brought to book and pay the consequences. She’s got a record, Connie. You’ll be well rid of her. And I promise you that unless this wretched cigarette cas
e is returned before tomorrow, I shall call in the police.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I shall. And the upshot, no doubt, will be jail for the pair of them.”
“You miserable little pipsqueak, Boysie!”
“Very well,” Mr. Cartell said and rose. “That’s my final word, Connie. Good evening to you.”
He strode from the hall into the garden, where he fell over his dog. With some commotion they effected an exit — and returned, presumably, to Mr. Period’s house across the Green.
Désirée wore black for her April Fool’s party. On any other woman of her age it would have been a disastrous dress, but, by virtue of a sort of inward effrontery, she got away with it. Her neck, her bosom and that dismal little region known, unprettily, as the armpit were all so many statements of betrayal, but she triumphed over them and not so much took them in her own stride as she obliged other people to take them in theirs. With her incredible hair brushed up into a kind of bonfire, her carefree makeup, her eyeglass, and her general air of raffishness, she belonged, as Mr. Period mildly reflected, to Toulouse-Lautrec rather than to any contemporary background.
They had dined. The party had assembled, made a great deal of noise and gone off in pairs by car to follow up the clues. Bimbo was driving round the terrain to keep observation, rescue any couple that had become unintentionally lost and whip in the deliberate stragglers.
Everyone was to be in by midnight. Supper was set out in the ballroom, and in the meantime Désirée and Mr. Period sat over a fire in her boudoir enjoying coffee and brandy. It was, Mr. Period noticed, Dé-sirée’s third brandy, but she carried her drink with astonishing bravura. He nursed his own modest potion and cozily lamented his fate.
“Désirée, my dear,” he was saying, “I really don’t know what it is about you, but you have so got the gift of drawing one out. Here am I letting my back hair down in the naughtiest way, and about poor old Hal, which is not at all the done thing, considering.”
“Why not?” she said, propping her feet in their preposterously high heels above the fireplace. Mr. Period, as she noticed with amusement, gazed tactfully at the flames. “Why not? I found Harold plain hell to live with, and I don’t know why you should fare any better. Except that you’re nicer than me and have probably got more patience.”
“It’s the little things. Every morning to tap on one’s door and say, ‘Bath’s empty. For what it’s worth.’ Every day to clear his throat before he opens his Telegraph, and say he may as well know the worst. And his dog, Désirée! The noise,” Mr. Period exclaimed, unconsciously plagiarizing, “and the smell! And the destruction!”
“One of those mixed-up dogs that try to marry one’s foot, I’ve noticed.”
Mr. Period gave a little cough and murmured, “Exactly. Moreover, every night, at one o’clock precisely, he takes it out of doors and it sets up the most hideous barking until, and indeed for some time after, he shuts it up. There have been complaints from all over the village. And now,” he added, throwing up his hands, “this afternoon! This afternoon was too much.”
“But do tell me, P.P., what happened? With Moppett and her flash friend and the car? I’ve heard Harold’s version, of course, but I’m having my own private war with him and was too angry to pay all that much attention.”
Mr. Period told her the whole story.
“And I do feel, darling Désirée, that you should be warned. It’s plain to be seen that this frightful person, the Leiss, is an out-and-out bad ’un. And indeed, for your ear alone, we most strongly suspect—” Mr. Period looked about him as if the boudoir concealed microphones and began to whisper the story of the cigarette case.
“Oh, no!” Désirée said with relish. “Actually a burglar! And is Moppett his con-girl, do you suppose?”
“I fear, only too probably. And, my dear, here you are, in the kindness of your heart, asking them to your wonderful party.”
“It wasn’t kindness. It was to spite Harold. He won’t give Andy his money. I can’t tell you how livid it makes me.”
She looked rather fixedly at Mr. Period. “You’re a trustee, P.P. Have you discussed it with Hal, or with Andrew?”
Mr. Period said uncomfortably: “Not really discussed it, my dear.”
“Don’t tell me you disapprove, too!”
“No, no, no!” he said in a hurry. “Not disapprove exactly. It’s just — leaving the Brigade and so on. For that rather outré world. Art…the Chelsea set…Not that Andrew…But there! ’Nuff said.”
“We’re not going to quarrel over it, I hope?”
“My dear. Quarrel!”
“Well,” she said, suddenly giving Mr. Period a kiss. “Let’s talk about something more amusing.”
They embarked on a long gossip and Mr. Period eased up. He was enjoying himself immensely, but he did not wish to stay until the return of the treasure hunters. He looked at his watch, found it was eleven o’clock, and asked if he might telephone for the Bloodbath.
“No need,” Désirée said, “my car’s outside. I’d love to take you. Don’t fuss, P.P., I’d really like to. I can have a cast around the village and see how the hunt’s going. By the way, one of Bimbo’s clues leads to your sewage excavation. It says: All your trouble and all your pain will only land you down the drain. He’s not very good at poetry, poor sweet, but I thought that one of his neater efforts. Come on, darling. I can see you’re in a fever lest Slick Len and his moll should get back with the first prize before you make your getaway.”
They went out to her car. Mr. Period was a little apprehensive because of the amount of liqueur brandy Désirée had consumed, but she drove with perfect expertise and all the way to Little Codling they talked about Mr. Cartell. Presently they turned into Green Lane. A red lantern marked the end of the open ditch. They passed an elderly sports car, parked in the rough grass on the opposite side.
“Andy,” said his mother, giving a long hoot on her horn. “He’s going to fall in love with your secretary, I can see.”
“Already!” ejaculated Mr. Period.
“Going to. Heavily, I fancy. I took to the girl rather.”
“Charming! A really nice gel. I’m delighted with her.”
“P.P.,” Désirée said, as they drew near the house, “there’s something extra Harold’s done to inflame you, isn’t there?”
There was a silence.
“Don’t tell me if you’d rather not, of course.”
“It’s very painful to me. Something he said. One shouldn’t,” Mr. Period added in a constrained and unnatural voice, “let such things upset one, but — No, dearest Désirée, I shan’t bore you with it. It was nothing. I prefer to forget it.”
“Fair enough,” she said and pulled up.
Mr. Period did not immediately get out of the car. He made another little speech of thanks for his entertainment and then, with many hesitations and apologetic noises, hinted obscurely at bereavement.
“I haven’t said anything, my dear,” he murmured, “because I felt you preferred not. But I wouldn’t like you to think — But never mind, I only wanted you to know…” He waved his hands and was silent.
“Do you mean about Ormsbury?” she said in her direct way. Mr. Period made a small confirmatory sound. “You didn’t say anything,” he added. “So, of course—”
“There are some sorrows,” Désirée said and it was impossible to catch any overtones in her voice, “that go too deep for words.”
Mr. Period gave a little groan of sympathy, kissed her hand, and left her.
He went in by the side gate. She watched him, by the light of her headlamps, pick his way in a gingerly fashion over the planks that had been laid across the ditch. He was safely inside his house and Désirée was about to drive away when she caught sight of a figure in an upper window. She stopped her engine and got out of the car.
By midnight the winning pair had presented themselves with their prize, a magnum of champagne. They were, inevitably, Moppett and Leonard, all smiles
, but with a curious tendency to avoid looking at each other. Leonard was effulgent in the matter of cuff links and lapels and his tie was large and plum-coloured. Bimbo looked upon him with loathing, gave them both drinks and put a jazz record on the machine. Leonard with ineffable grace extended his hands towards Désirée. “May we?” he said and in a moment was dancing with her. He was a superb dancer. “Much too good,” she said afterwards. “Like the really expensive gigolos used to be. He smells like them too: it quite took me back. I adored it.”
Bimbo, sulking, was then obliged to dance with Moppett, who made businesslike passes at him. These exercises were interrupted by the arrival in straggling pairs of the rest of the treasure hunters, Nicola and Andrew being the last to come in — both looking radiantly pleased with themselves.
Désirée had a talent for parties. Sometimes they began presentably and ended outrageously, sometimes they were presentable almost all the time and sometimes they began, continued and ended outrageously. It was for the last sort that she had gained her notoriety. This one was, at the moment, both gay and decorous, possibly because Andrew had unexpectedly said he hoped it would be.
They were all dancing, and the time was a quarter past one, when a rumpus broke out on the drive. Bimbo was changing records, so the noise established itself readily: it was that of a multiple dogfight.
Growls, yaps, full-blooded barking and strangulated cries of anguish mounted in a ragged crescendo.
Désirée said: “A rival show, it seems”—and then: “Bimbo! Ours! They must have got out!”
Bimbo swore, pulled back curtains and went through French windows to the terrace, followed by Andrew, Désirée and most of the men.
Nicola found herself on the terrace in a group composed of all the other ladies and Leonard.
The combat was joined among parked cars at the head of the drive and was illuminated by lights from the house. All was confusion. Some six or seven contestants bit at each other in a central engagement, others rolled together under cars. One very large, isolated dog sat on its haunches howling dispassionately, and one could be discerned bolting down the drive screaming its classic cry of “pen-and-ink.”
