by Ngaio Marsh
Alleyn was suddenly and vividly reminded of Lord Pastern. He said nothing and after a pause Skelton went on.
“I realize I’m working for the rottenest section of a crazy society but what can I do? It’s my job and I have to take it. But this affair! Walking out and letting a dopey old dead beat of a lord make a fool of himself with my instruments, and a lot of dead beat effects added to them! Looking as if I like it! Where’s my self-respect?”
“How,” Alleyn asked, “did it come about?”
“Breezy worked it because…”
He stopped short and advanced on Alleyn. “Here!” he demanded. “What’s all this in aid of? What do you want?”
“Like Lord Pastern,” Alleyn said lightly, “I want the truth. Bellairs, you were saying, worked it because — of what?”
“I’ve told you. Snob value.”
“And the others agreed?”
“They haven’t any principles. Oh, yes. They took it.”
“Rivera, for instance, didn’t oppose the idea?”
Skelton flushed deeply. “No,” he said. Alleyn saw his pockets bulge as the hidden hands clenched. “Why not?” he asked.
“Rivera was hanging his hat up to the girl. Pastern’s stepdaughter. He was all out to make himself a hero with the old man.”
“That made you very angry, didn’t it?”
“Who says it made me angry?”
“Bellairs said so.”
“Him! Another product of our so-called civilization. Look at him.”
Alleyn asked him if he knew anything of Breezy’s use of drugs. Skelton, caught, as it seemed, between the desire of a zealot to speak his mind and an undefined wariness, said that Breezy was the child of his age and circumstances. He was a by-product, Skelton said, of a cynical and disillusioned social set-up. The phrases fell from his lips with the precision of slogans. Alleyn listened and watched and felt his interest stirring. “We all knew,” Skelton said, “that he was taking some kind of dope to keep him going. Even he knew — old Pastern. He’d nosed it out all right and I reckon he knew where it came from. You could tell. Breezy’s changed a hell of a lot. He used to be a nice sort of joker in a way. Bit of a wag. Always having us on. He got off-side with the Dago for that.”
“Rivera?”
“That’s right. Breezy used to be crazy on practical jokes. He’d fix a silly squeaker in one of the saxes or sneak a wee bell inside the piano. Childish. He got hold of Rivera’s p-a and fixed it with little bits of paper between the keys so’s it wouldn’t go. Only for rehearsal, of course. Rivera came out all glamour and hair oil and swung his p-a. Nothing happened. There was Breezy grinning like he’d split his face and the Boys all sniggering. You had to laugh. Rivera tore the place up: he went mad and howled out he’d quit. Breezy had a hell of a job fixing him. It was quite a party.
“Practical jokes,” Alleyn said. “A curious obsession, I always think.”
Skelton looked sharply at him. “Here!” he said. “You don’t want to get ideas. Breezy’s all right. Breezy wouldn’t come at anything like this.” He laughed shortly, and added with an air of disgust: “Breezy fix Rivera! Not likely.”
“About this drug habit — ” Alleyn began. Skelton said impatiently: “Well there you are! It’s just one of those things. I told you — we all knew. He used to go to parties on Sundays with some gang.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“No, I never asked. I’m not interested. I tried to tell him he was heading for a crash. Once. He didn’t like it. He’s my boss and I shut up. I’d have turned it up and gone over to another band but I’m used to working with these boys and they do better stuff than most.”
“You never heard where he got his drug, whatever it is?”
Skelton muttered, “I never heard. Naturally.”
“But you formed an opinion, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“Going to tell me about it?”
“I want to know what you’re getting at. I’ve got to protect myself, haven’t I? I like to get things straight. You’ve got some notion that because I looked at Pastern’s gun I might have shoved this silly umbrella what-have-you up the nuzzle. Why don’t you come to the point?”
“I shall do so,” Alleyn said. “I’ve kept you behind because of this circumstance and because you were alone with Lord Pastern for a short time after you left the platform and before he made his entrance. So far as I can see at the moment there is no connection between your possible complicity and the fact that Bellairs takes drugs. As a police officer I’m concerned with drug addicts and their source of supply. If you can help me with any information I’ll be grateful. Do you know, then, where Bellairs got whatever he took?”
Skelton deliberated, his brows drawn together, his lower lip thrust out. Alleyn found himself speculating about his background. What accumulation of circumstances, ill-adjustments or misfortunes had resulted in this particular case? What would Skelton have been if his history had been otherwise? Were his views, his truculence, his suspicions, rooted in honesty or in some indefinable sense of victimization? To what lengths would they impel him? And finally Alleyn asked himself the inevitable question: could this be a killer?
Skelton wetted his lips. “The drug racket,” he said, “is like any other racket in a capitalistic government. The real criminals are the bosses, the barons, the high-ups. They don’t get pulled in. It’s the little blokes that get caught. You have to think it out. Silly sentiment and big talk won’t work. I’ve got no tickets on the police department in this country. A fairly efficient machine working for the wrong ideas. But drug-taking’s no good from any point of view. All right. I’ll co-operate this far. I’ll tell you where Breezy got his dope.”
“And where,” said Alleyn patiently, “did Breezy get his dope?”
“From Rivera,” said Skelton. “Now! From Rivera.”
CHAPTER VII
DAWN
Skelton had gone home, and Caesar Bonn and David Hahn. The cleaners had retired into some remote part of the building. Only the police remained: Alleyn and Fox, Bailey, Thompson, the three men who had searched the restaurant and band-room and the uniformed constable who would remain on duty until he was relieved after daybreak. The time was now twenty minutes to three.
“Well, Foxkin,” said Alleyn, “where are we? You’ve been very mousy and discreet. Let’s have your theory. Come on.”
Fox cleared his throat and placed the palms of his hands on his knees. “A very peculiar case,” he said disapprovingly. “Freakish, you might say. Silly. Except for the corpse. Corpses,” Mr. Fox observed with severity, “are never silly.”
Detective-Sergeants Bailey and Thompson exchanged winks.
“In the first place, Mr. Alleyn,” Fox continued, “I ask myself: Why do it that way? Why fire a bit of an umbrella handle from a revolver when you might fire a bullet? This applies in particular to his lordship. And yet it seems it must have been done. You can’t get away from it. Nobody had a chance of stabbing the chap while he was performing, did they now?”
“Nobody.”
“All right then. Now, if anybody pushed this silly weapon up the gun after Skelton examined it, they had the thing concealed about their person. Not much bigger than a fountain pen but sharp as hell. Which brings us to Bellairs, for one. If you consider Bellairs, you have to remember that his lordship seems to have searched him very thoroughly before he went out to perform.”
“Moreover his lordship in the full tide of his own alleged innocence declares that the wretched Breezy didn’t get a chance to pocket anything after he had been searched, or to get at the gun.”
“Does he really?” said Fox. “Fancy!”
“In fact his lordship, who, I submit, is no fool, has been at peculiar pains to clear everybody but himself.”
“No fool, perhaps,” Fox grunted, “but would you say a bit off the plumb mentally?”
“Everybody else says so, at all events. In any case, Fox, I’ll give sworn evidence that no
body stabbed Rivera before or at the time he was shot at. He was a good six feet away from everybody except Lord Pastern, who was busy with his blasted gun.”
“There you are! And it wasn’t planted among the music stands because they were used by the other band. And anyway none of the musicians went near his lordship’s funny hat where the gun was. And being like that, I asked myself, isn’t his lordship the most likely to use a silly fanciful method if he’d made up his mind to do a man in? It all points to his lordship. You can’t get away from it. And yet he seems so pleased with himself and kind of unruffled. Of course you do find that attitude in homicidal mania.”
“You do. What about motive?”
“Do we know what he thought of his stepdaughter keeping company with the deceased? The other young lady suggested that he didn’t seem to care one way or the other but you never know. Something else may turn up. Personally, as things stand at the moment, I favor his lordship. What about you, Mr. Alleyn?”
Alleyn shook his head. “I’m stumped,” he said. “Perhaps Skelton could have got the thing into the revolver when he examined it but Lord Pastern, who undoubtedly is as sharp as a needle, swears he didn’t. They were alone together for a minute while Breezy made his announcement but Skelton says he didn’t go near Lord Pastern, who had the gun in his hip pocket. It’s not likely to be a lie because Pastern could deny it. You didn’t hear Skelton. He’s an odd chap — a truculent communist. Australian, I should say. A hard, determined thinker. Nobody’s fool and completely sincere. One-track minded. There’s no doubt he detested Rivera, both on general principles and because Rivera backed up Lord Pastern’s appearance to-night. Skelton bitterly resented this and says so. He felt he was prostituting what he is pleased to regard as his art and conniving at something entirely against his social principles. I believe him to be fanatically sincere in this. He looked on Rivera and Lord Pastern as parasites. Rivera, by the way, supplied Breezy Bellairs with his dope, whatever it is. Curtis says cocaine, and it looks as if he found himself something to go on when he searched the body. We’ll have to follow that one up, Fox.”
“Dope,” said Fox profoundly. “There you are! When we do get a windfall it’s a dead man. Still, there may be something in his rooms to give us a lead. South America, now. That may link up with the Snowy Santos gang. They operate through South America. It’d be nice,” said Mr. Fox, whose talents for some time had been concerned with the sale of illicit drugs, “if d be lovely, in fact, to get the tabs on Snowy Santos.”
“Lovely, wouldn’t it?” Alleyn agreed absently, “Get on with your argument, Fox.”
“Well, now, sir. Seeing Rivera wasn’t meant to fall down and did, you can say he was struck at that moment. I know that sounds like a glimpse of the obvious, but it cuts out any idea that there was some kind of jiggery-pokery after he fell because nobody knew he was going to fall. And unless you feel like saying somebody threw the weapon like a dart at the same time as his lordship fired the first shot — Well,” said Fox disgustedly, “that would be a fat-headed sort of notion wouldn’t it? So we come back to the idea it was fired from the revolver. Which is supported by the scratches in the barrel. Mind, we’ll have to get the experts going there.”
“We shall, indeed.”
“But saying, for the moment, that the little jewelled clip, acting as a sort of stop, did mark the barrel, we come to Skelton’s statement that the scratches were not there when he examined it. And that looks like his lordship again. Look at it how you will, you get back to his lordship, you know.”
“Miss de Suze,” Alleyn said, rubbing his nose in vexation, “did grope under the damned sombrero. I saw her and so did Manx and so did the waiter. Manx seemed to remonstrate and she laughed and withdrew her hand. She couldn’t have got the weapon in then but it shows that it was possible for anyone sitting on her chair to get at the gun. Lady Pastern was left alone at their table while the others danced.”
Fox raised his eyebrows and looked puffy. “Very icy,” he said. “A haughty sort of lady and with a will and temper of her own. Look how she’s stood up to his lordship in the past. Very masterful.”
Alleyn glanced at his old colleague and smiled. He turned to the group of waiting men. “Well, Bailey,” he said, “we’ve about got to you. Have you found anything new?”
Bailey said morosely: “Nothing to write home about, Mr. Alleyn. No prints on this dart affair. I’ve packed it up with protection and can have another go at it.”
“The revolver?”
“Very plain sailing, there, Mr. Alleyn. Not a chance for latents.”
“That’s why I risked letting him handle it.”
“Yes, sir. Well now,” said Bailey with a certain professional relish, “the revolver. Lord Pastern’s prints on the revolver. And this band leader’s. Breezy Bellairs or whatever he calls himself.”
“Yes. Lord Pastern handed the gun to Breezy.”
“That’s right, sir. So I understand.”
“Thompson,” said Alleyn suddenly, “did you get a good look at Mr. Manx’s left hand when you dabbed him?”
“Yes, sir. Knuckles a bit grazed. Very slight. Wears a signet ring.”
“How about the band platform, Bailey?”
Bailey looked at his boots and said he’d been over the floor space round the tympani and percussion stand. There were traces of four finger tips identifiable as Miss de Suze’s. No others.
“And Rivera? On the body?”
“Not much there,” Bailey said, but they would probably bring up latent prints where Bellairs and the doctor had handled him. That was all, so far.
“Thank you. What about you other chaps in the restaurant and band-room? Find anything? Gibson?”
One of the plain-clothes men came forward. “Not much, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary. Cigarette butts and so on. We picked up the wads and shells and Bellairs’s handkerchief, marked, on the platform.”
“He mopped his unpleasant eyes with it when he did his stuff with the wreath,” Alleyn muttered. “Anything else?”
“There was a cork,” said Detective-Sergeant Gibson apologetically, “on the band platform. Might have been dropped by a waiter, sir.”
“Not up there. Let’s see it.”
Gibson produced an envelope from which he shook out a smallish cork on to the table. Alleyn looked at it without touching it. “When was the band platform cleaned?”
“Polished in the early morning, Mr. Alleyn, and mopped over before the evening clients came in.”
“Where exactly did you find this thing?”
“Half-way back and six feet to left of center. I’ve marked the place.”
“Good. Not that it’ll help much.” Alleyn used his lens. “It’s got a black mark on it.” He stopped and sniffed. “Boot polish, I think. It was probably kicked about the place by bandsmen. But there’s another smell. Not wine or spirit and anyway it’s not that sort of cork. It’s smaller and made with a narrow end and a wide top. No trade-mark. What’s this smell? Try, Fox.”
Fox’s sniff was stentorian. He rose, meditated and said: “Now, what am I reminded of?” They waited. “Citronella,” Fox pronounced gravely. “Or something like it.”
“How about gun oil?” said Alleyn.
Fox turned and contemplated his superior with something like indignation. “Gun oil? You’re not going to tell me, Mr. Alleyn, that in addition to stuffing jewelled parasol handles up a revolver somebody stopped it with a cork like a ruddy popgun?”
Alleyn grinned. “The case is taking liberties with your credulity, Br’er Fox.” He used his lens again. “The bottom surface has been broken, I fancy. It’s a forlorn hope, Bailey, but we might try for dabs.”
Bailey put the cork away. Alleyn turned to the others. “I think you can pack up,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you, Thompson, and you, Bailey, with us. It’s a non-stop show. Gibson, you’ll pick up a search-warrant and go on to Rivera’s rooms. Take someone with you. I want a complete search there. Scott and W
atson are attending to Bellairs’s rooms and Sallis has gone with Skelton. You’ll all report back to me at the Yard at ten. Get people to relieve you when you’ve finished. Bellairs and Skelton will both have to be kept under observation, damn it, though I fancy that for the next eight hours Breezy won’t give anybody a headache except himself. Inspector Fox and I will get extra men and attend to Duke’s Gate. All right. We’ll move.”
In the office a telephone bell rang. Fox went in to answer it and was heard uttering words of reproach. He came out looking scandalized.
“It’s that new chap we sent back with his lordship’s party. Marks. And what do you suppose he’s done?” Fox glared round upon his audience and slapped the palm of his hand on the table. “Silly young chump! When they get in they say they’re all going to the drawing-room. ‘Oh,’ says Marks, ‘then it’s my duty, if you please, to accompany you.’ The gentlemen say they want to retire first, and they go off to the downstairs cloak-room. The ladies have the same idea and they go upstairs and Sergeant Expeditious Marks tries to tear himself in halves which is nothing to what I’ll do for him. And while he’s exhausting himself running up and down keeping observation, what happens? One of the young ladies slips down the servants’ stairs and lets herself out by the back door.”
“Which one?” Alleyn asked quickly.
“Don’t,” said Mr. Fox with bitter scorn, “ask too much of Detective-Sergeant Marks, sir. Don’t make it too tough. He wouldn’t know which one. Oh, no. He comes bleating to the phone while I daresay the rest of ’em are lighting off wherever the fancy takes ’em. Sergeant ruddy Police-College Marks! What is it?”
A uniformed constable had come in from the front entrance. “I thought I’d better report, sir,” he said. “I’m on duty outside. There’s an incident.”
