by Ngaio Marsh
“Did she say anything at all that could possibly be of any help to us?”
“Ah! Any help? I do not think so. Except one thing, Perhaps. She said that I must not be surprised if I learn soon of another engagement.”
“What engagement was that?”
“She would not tell me. She became retenue — espiègle — in English, sly-boots. Sonia was very sly-boots on the subject of this engagement. I received the impression, however, that it would be to Garcia.”
“I see. She did not talk about Garcia’s movements on Friday?”
“But I think she did!” exclaimed Ormerin, after a moment’s consideration. “Yes, it is quite true, she did speak of him. It was after I had begun to get sleepy. She said Garcia would start for his promenade through this country on Saturday morning, and return to work in London in a week’s time.”
“Did she say where his work-room was in London?”
“On the contrary, she asked me if I could tell her this. She said: ‘I do not know what his idea is, to make such a mystery of it.’ Then she laughed and said: ‘But that is Garcia — I shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’ She spoke with the air of a woman who has certain rights over a man. It may, of course, have been an assumption. One cannot tell. Very often I have noticed that it is when a woman begins to lose her power with a man that she assumes these little postures of the proprietress.”
“What did you think of Sonia Gluck, M. Ormerin?”
Ormerin’s sharp black eyes flashed in his sallow face and his thin mouth widened.
“Of Sonia? She was a type, Mr. Alleyn. That is all one can say of her. The gamine that so often drifts towards studio doors, and then imperceptibly, naturally, into the protection of some painter. She had beauty, as you have seen. She was very difficult. If she had lived, she would have had little work when her beauty faded. While she was still good for our purpose we endured her temperament, her caprice, for the sake of her lovely body, which we might paint when she was well-behaved.”
“Had you so much difficulty with her?”
“It was intolerable. Never for one minute would she remain in the same position. I myself began three separate drawings of the one pose. I cannot paint in such circumstances, my nerves are lacerated and my work is valueless. I had made my resolution that I would leave the studio.”
“Really! It was as bad as that?”
“Certainly. If this had not happened, I would have told Troy I must go. I should have been very sorry to do this, because I have a great admiration for Troy. She is most stimulating to my work. In her studio one is at home. But I am very greatly at the mercy of my nerves. I would have returned when Bostock and Pilgrim had completed their large canvases, and Troy had rid herself of Sonia.”
“And now, I suppose, you will stay?”
“I do not know.” Ormerin moved restlessly in his chair. Alleyn noticed that there was a slight tic in his upper-lip, a busy little cord that flicked under the dark skin. As if aware of Alleyn’s scrutiny, Ormerin put a thin crooked hand up to his lip. His fingers were deeply stained by nicotine.
“I do not know,” he repeated. “The memory of this morning is very painful. I am bouleversé. I do not know what I shall do. I like them all here at Troy’s — even this clumsy, shouting Australian. I am en rapport with them well enough, but I shall never look towards the throne without seeing there the tableau of this morning. That little unfortunate with her glance of astonishment. And then when they moved her — the knife — wet and red.”
“You were the first to notice the knife, I think?”
“Yes. As soon as they moved her I saw it.” He looked uneasily at Alleyn.
“I should have thought the body would still have hidden it.”
“But no. I knelt on the floor. I saw it. Let us not speak of it. It is enough that I saw it.”
“Did you expect to see the blade, Mr. Ormerin?”
Ormerin was on his feet in a flash, his face ashen, his lips drawn back. He looked like a startled animal.
“What do you say? Expect! How should I expect to see the knife? Do you suspect me—me—of complicity in this detestable affair?” His violent agitation came upon him so swiftly that Nigel was amazed, and gaped at him, his notes forgotten.
“You are too sensitive,” Alleyn said quietly, “and have read a meaning into my words that they were not intended to convey. I wondered if the memory of your experiment with the knife came into your mind before you saw it. I wondered if you guessed that the model had been stabbed.”
“Never!” exclaimed Ormerin, with a violent gesture of repudiation. “Never! Why should I think of anything so horrible?”
“Since you helped in the experiment, it would not be so astonishing if you should remember it,” said Alleyn. But Ormerin continued to expostulate, his English growing more uncertain as his agitation mounted. At last Alleyn succeeded in calming him a little, and he sat down again.
“I must ask you to pardon my agitation,” he said, his stained fingers at his lips. “I am much distressed by this crime.”
“That is very natural. I shall not keep you much longer. I spoke just now of the experiment with the dagger. I understand that you and Mr. Hatchett did most of the work on the day you made this experiment?”
“They were all interested to see if it could be done. Each one as much as another.”
“Quite so,” agreed Alleyn patiently. “Nevertheless you and Mr. Hatchett actually tipped up the throne and drove the dagger through the crack.”
“And if we did! Does that prove us to be— ”
“It proves nothing at all, M. Ormerin. I was about to ask you if Mr. Garcia had any hand in the experiment?”
“Garcia?” Ormerin looked hard at Alleyn, and then an expression of great relief came upon him and he relaxed. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not believe that he came near us. He stood in the window with Sonia and watched. But I will tell you one more thing, Mr. Alleyn. When it was all over and she went back to the pose, Malmsley began to mock her, pretending the dagger was still there. And Garcia laughed a little to himself. Very quietly. But I noticed him, and I thought to myself that was a very disagreeable little laugh. That is what I thought!” ended Ormerin with an air of great significance.
“You said in the dining-room that we might be sure this was a crime passionnel. Why are you so sure of this?”
“But it is apparent — it protrudes a mile. This girl was a type. One had only to see her. It declared itself. She was avid for men.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” murmured Alleyn.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Please go on, M. Ormerin.”
“She was not normal. You shall find, I have no doubt, that she was enciente. I have been sure of it for some time. Even at the beginning women have an appearance, you understand? Her face was a little”—he made an expressive movement with his hand down his own thin face— “dragged down. And always she was looking at Garcia. Mr. Alleyn, I have seen him return her look, and there was that in his eyes that made one shudder. It was not at all pretty to see him watching her. He is a cold young man. He must have women, but he is quite unable to feel any tenderness for them. It is a type.”
Ormerin’s distress had apparently evaporated. He had become jauntily knowing.
“In a word,” said Alleyn, “you consider he is responsible for this tragedy?”
“One draws one’s own conclusions, of necessity, Mr. Alleyn. Who else can it be?”
“She was on rather uncertain terms with most of you, it appears?”
“Ah yes, yes. But one does not perform murders from exasperation. Even Malmsley— ”
Ormerin hesitated, grimaced, wagged his head sideways and was silent.
“What about Mr. Malmsley?” asked Alleyn lightly.
“It is nothing.”
“By saying it is nothing, you know, you leave me with an impression of extreme significance. What was there between the model and Mr. Malmsley?”
“I have not
been able to discover,” said Ormerin rather huffily.
“But you think there was something?”
“She was laughing at him. On the morning of our experiment when Malmsley began to tease Sonia, pretending that the knife was still there, she entreated him to leave her alone, and when he would not she said: ‘I wouldn’t be too damn’ funny. Where is it that you discover your ideas, is it in books or pictures?‘ He was very disconcerted and allowed his dirty brush to fall on his drawing. That is all. You see, I was right when I said it was nothing. Have you finished with me, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I think so, thank you. There will be a statement later on,” said Alleyn vaguely. He looked at Ormerin, as though he wasn’t there, seemed to recollect himself, and got to his feet.
“Yes, I think that’s all,” he repeated.
“I shall wish you good night then, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Good night,” said Alleyn, coming to himself. “Good night, M. Ormerin.”
But when Ormerin had gone, Alleyn wandered about the room, whistled under his breath, and paid no attention at all to Fox or Nigel.
“Look here,” said Nigel at last, “I want to use a telephone.”
“You?”
“Yes. Don’t look at me as though I was a fabulous monster. I want to use the telephone, I say.”
“What for?”
“Ring up Angela.”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“That’s no matter. She’ll be up and waiting.”
“You’re burning to ring up your odious newspaper.”
“Well — I thought if I just said— ”
“You may say that there has been a fatal accident at Tatler’s End House, Bossicote, and that an artist’s model has died as the result of this accident. You may add that the authorities are unable to trace the whereabouts of the victim’s relatives and are anxious to communicate with Mr. W. Garcia who is believed to be on a walking tour and may be able to give them some information about the model’s family. Something on those lines.”
“And a fat lot of good-” began Nigel angrily.
“If Garcia is not our man,” continued Alleyn to Fox, “and sees that, he may do something about it.”
“That’s so,” said Fox.
“And now we’ll deal with the last of this collection, if you please, Fox. The languishing Malmsley.”
“I’ll go to the telephone,” said Nigel.
“Very well. Don’t exceed, now. You may tell them that there will be a further installment to-morrow.”
“Too kind,” said Nigel haughtily.
“And Bathgate — you might ring my mamma up and say we won’t be in until after midnight.”
“All right.”
Nigel and Fox collided in the doorway with Bailey, who looked cold and disgruntled.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. Wait a moment, Fox. Let’s hear what Bailey’s been up to.”
“I’ve been over deceased’s room,” said Bailey.
“Any good?”
“Nothing much, sir. It’s an attic-room at the front of the house.”
He paused, and Alleyn waited, knowing that “nothing much” from Bailey might mean anything from a vacuum to a phial of cyanide.
“There’s deceased’s prints,” continued Bailey, “and one that looks like this Garcia. It’s inside the door where the maid’s missed with the duster, and there’s another print close beside it that isn’t either of em. Broad. Man’s print, I’d say. And of course there are the maid’s all over the show. I’ve checked those. Nothing much about the clothes. Note from Garcia in the pocket. She was in the family way all right. Here it is.”
He opened his case, and from a labelled envelope drew out a piece of paper laid between two slips of glass.
“I’ve printed it and taken a photo.”
Alleyn took the slips delicately in his fingers and laid them on the desk. The creases in the common paper had been smoothed out and the scribbled black pencil lines were easy to read:
Dear S. — What do you expect me to do about it? I’ve got two quid to last me till I get to Troy’s. You asked for it, anyway. Can’t you get somebody to fix things? It’s not exactly likely that I should want to be saddled with a wife and a kid, is it? I’ve got a commission for a big thing, and for God’s sake don’t throw me off my stride. I’m sorry but I can’t do anything. See you at Troy’s. Garcia.
“A charming fellow,” said Alleyn.
“That was in a jacket pocket. Here’s a letter that was just kicking about at the back of the wardrobe. From somebody called Bobbie. Seems as if this Bobbie’s a girl.”
This letter was written in an enormous hand on dreadful pink paper:
The Digs,
4, Batchelors Gardens,
Chelsea.
Monday.
Dear Sonia,
I’m sorry you’re in for it dear I think it’s just frightful and I do think men are the limit but of course I never liked the sound of that Garcia too far upstage if you ask me but they’re all alike when it comes to a girl. The same to you with bells on and pleased to join in the fun at the start and sorry you’ve been troubled this takes me off when they know you’re growing melons. I’ve asked Dolores Duval for the address she went to when she had her spot of trouble but she says the police found out about that lady so it’s no go. Anyway I think your idea is better and if Mr. Artistic Garcia is willing O.K. and why not dear you might as well get it both ways and I suppose it’s all right to be married he sounds a lovely boy but you never know with that sort did I ever tell you about my boy friend who was a Lord he was a scream really but nothing ever came of it thank God. It will be O.K. if you come here on Friday and I might ask Leo Cohen for a brief but you know what managements are like these days dear they sweat the socks off you for the basic salary and when it comes to asking for a brief for a lady friend it’s just too bad but they’ve forgotten how the chorus goes in that number. Thank you very much good morning. I laughed till I sobbed over that story of the Seacliff woman’s picture it must have looked a scream when you’d done with it but all the same dear your tempreement will land you well in the consommy one of these days dear if you don’t learn to kerb yourself which God knows you haven’t done what with one thing and another. What a yell about Marmelade’s little bit of dirt. Well so long dear and keep smiling see you Friday. Hoping this finds you well as I am,
Cheerio. Ever so sincerely,
Your old pal,
Bobbie.
PS. — You want to be sure B.P. won’t turn nasty and say all right go ahead I’ve told her the story of my life anyhow so now what!
CHAPTER XII
Malmsley on Pleasure
Nigel returned while Alleyn was still chuckling over Miss O’Dawne’s letter.
“What’s up?” asked Nigel.
“Bailey has discovered a remarkably rich plum. Come and read it. I fancy it’s the sort of thing your paper calls a human document. A gem in its own way.” Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder.
“I like Dolores Duval and her spot of trouble,” he said.
“She got her pass from Leo Cohen for Sonia,” said Alleyn. “Sonia told Ormerin she’d seen the show. Fox, what do you make of the passage where she says Sonia might as well get it both ways if Garcia is willing? Then she goes on to say she supposes it’s all right to be married and he sounds a lovely boy.”
“The lovely boy seems to be the Hon. Pilgrim, judging by the next bit about her boy-friend that was a lord,” said Fox. “Do you think Sonia Gluck had an idea she’d get Mr. Pilgrim to marry her?”
“I hardly think so. No, I fancy blackmail was the idea there. Pilgrim confessed as much when he couldn’t get out of it. If Mr. Artistic Garcia was willing! Is she driving at the blackmail inspiration there, do you imagine? Her magnificent disregard for the convention that things that are thought of together should be spoken of together, is a bit baffling. I shall have to see Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. She may be the girl we all wait for. Anything else, Bailey?”
&nbs
p; “Well,” said Bailey grudgingly, “I don’t know if there’s anything in it but I found this.” He took out of his case a shabby blue book and handed it to Alleyn. “It’s been printed, Mr. Alleyn. There’s several of deceased’s prints and a few of the broad one I got off the door. Same party had tried to get into the case where I found the book.”
“The Consolations of a Critic,” Alleyn muttered, turning the book over in his long hands. “By C. Lewis Hind, 1911. Yes, I see. Gently select. Edwardian manner. Seems to be a mildly ecstatic excursion into aesthetics. Nice reproductions. Hullo! Hullo! Why stap me and sink me, there it is!”
He had turned the pages until he came upon a black and white reproduction of a picture in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows and turreted palaces.
“By gum and gosh, Bailey, you’ve found Mr. Malmsley’s secret. I knew I’d met those three nice little men before. Of course I had. Good Lord, what a fool! Yes, here it is. From Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, by Pol de Limbourge and his brothers. The book’s in the Musée Condé at Chantilly. I had to blandish for half an hour before the librarian would let me touch it. It’s the most exquisite thing. Well, I’ll be jiggered, and I can’t say fairer than that.”
“You can tell us what you’re talking about, however,” suggested Nigel acidly.
“Fox knows,” said Alleyn. “You remember, Fox, don’t you?”
“I get you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox. “That’s what she meant when she sauced him on the day of the experiment.”
“Of course. This is the explanation of one of the more obscure passages in the O’Dawne’s document. ‘What a yell about Marmelade’s bit of dirt.’ What a yell indeed! Fetch him in, Fox — any nonsense from Master Cedric Malmsley and we have him on the hip.” He put the book on the floor beside his chair.
