Artists in Crime (22 page)

“I suppose so.”

“Except, perhaps, Malmsley. Could Malmsley have stayed behind and not caught the six o’clock bus? Where’s the stuff about Malmsley?”

Fox got a file from the desk and thumbed it over.

“Here we are, sir. I saw the conductor of the six o’clock this morning. He says four people got on at Bossicote corner on Friday evening. One woman and three men. He’s a dull sort of chap. I asked him if any of the men had beards and he said he couldn’t rightly remember, but he thinks one had a very wide-brimmed hat and wore a muffler, so he might have had a beard. Silly sort of chap. We did see a wide-brimmed affair in Malmsley’s wardrobe, too, but we’ll have to try and get closer to it than that.”

“Yes. If Malmsley did it, what about his dinner at the Savoy and his late night with his friend? I suppose he could have driven the caravan, killed Garcia and left the body here at about seven to eight-thirty, come back after he’d seen his friend to bed, and done all the rest of it. But how the devil did he get back from the studio to London after returning the caravan?”

“That’s right.” Fox licked his thumb and turned a page. “Now, here’s Miss Troy and Miss Bostock. Their alibis are the only ones we seem to have a chance of breaking among the London push. They’ve been checked up all right and were both seen by the club night porter when they came in, Miss Bostock at about one o’clock and Miss Troy at two-twenty. I’ve seen Miss Troy’s friend, Mr. Bellasca, and he says he took her back to the club at two-twenty or thereabouts. So that fits.”

“Is he a reliable sort of fellow?”

“I think so, sir. He’s very concerned on Miss Troy’s behalf. He’s been ringing her up, but apparently she didn’t exactly encourage him to go down there. He’s a very open sort of young gentleman and said she always treated him as if he was a schoolboy. However, the time at the club’s all right. The porter says definitely he let Miss Troy in at two-twenty. She exclaimed at the time, he says, so he remembered that. He says neither she nor Miss Bostock came out again, but he sits in a little cubby-hole by the lift, and may have dozed off. The garage is open all night. Their car was by the door. The chap there admits he slipped out to the coffee stall at about three o’clock.” Fox glanced up from the notes, looked fixedly at Alleyn’s white face, and then cleared his throat. “Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything in that,” he said.

“Go on,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sir, we may still admit there’s a possibility in the cases of these two ladies and Malmsley. On the evidence in this file I’d say all the others are wash-outs. That leaves us with what you might call a narrowed field. The Hon. Basil Pilgrim, Miss Seacliff, Miss Troy, Miss Bostock, and Mr. Malmsley.”

“Yes. Oh Lord, Fox, I forgot to ask Bathgate if he had any success with Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. I must be sinking into a detective’s dotage. I’d better go along and tell the A.C. about this afternoon. Then I’ll write up my report and I think this evening we’d better go broody on the case.”

Alleyn had a long interview with his Assistant Commissioner, a dry man with whom he got on very well. He then wrote up his report and took Fox off to dine at his own flat in a cul-de-sac off Coventry Street. After dinner they settled down over the fire to a systematic review of the whole case.

At eleven o’clock, while they were still at it, Nigel turned up.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn, “I rather wanted to see you.”

“I guessed as much,” said Nigel complacently.

“Get yourself a drink. How did you hit it off with Bobbie O’Dawne? I see your extraordinary paper has come out strong with a simpering portrait.”

“Good, isn’t it? She liked me awfully. We clicked.”

“Anything to the purpose?”

“Ah, ah, ah!
Wouldn’t
you like to know!”

“We are not in the mood,” said Alleyn, “for comedy.”

“All right. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid from your point of view the visit was not a howling success. She said she wouldn’t have Sonia’s name blackened in print and gave me a lot of stuff about how Sonia was the greatest little pal and a real sport. I took her out to lunch and gave her champagne, for which I expect the Yard to reimburse me. She got fairly chatty, but nothing much to the purpose. I told her I knew all about Sonia’s little blackmailing games with Pilgrim and Malmsley, and she said that was just a bit of fun. I asked her if Sonia had the same kind of fun with anybody else, and she told me, with a jolly laugh, to mind my own business. I filled up her glass and she did get a bit unreserved. She said Garcia found out Sonia had told her about the Pilgrim game. Garcia was absolutely livid and said he’d do Sonia in if she couldn’t hold her tongue. Of course, Sonia told Bobbie all this and made her swear on a Bible and a rosary that she wouldn’t split to anyone. It was at this stage, Alleyn that Bobbie took another pull at her champagne and then said — I memorised her actual words—‘So you see, dear, with an oath like that on my conscience I couldn’t say anything about Friday night, could I?’ I said: ‘How d’you mean?’ and she said: ‘Never mind, dear. She oughtn’t to have told me. Now I’m scared. If he knows she told me, as sure as God’s above us he’ll do for me, too.’ And then, as there was no more champagne, the party broke up.”

“Well — I’ll pay for the champagne,” said Alleyn. “Damn this girl, Fox, she’s tiresome. Sink me if I don’t believe she knows who had the date with Garcia on Friday night. She’s proved that it wasn’t Sonia. Sonia spent the week-end with her. Well — who was it?”

The telephone rang. Alleyn picked up the receiver. “Hullo. Yes, Bailey? I see. He’s sure of that? Yes. Yes, I see. Thank you.”

He put down the receiver and looked at Fox.

“The hole on the cuff of Pilgrims’ coat was made by an acid. Probably nitric acid.”

“Is that so?” said Fox. He rose slowly to his feet.

“There’s your answer!” cried Nigel. “I don’t see how you can get away from it, Alleyn. You’ve got motive and opportunity. You’ve got evidence of a man who stood in the lane and looked in at the studio window. It might just have been Malmsley, but by God, I think it was Pilgrim.”

“In that case,” said Alleyn, “we’ll call on Captain and Mrs. Pascoe at Boxover, where Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff spent the night. Run along, Bathgate. I want to talk to Inspector Fox. I’m most grateful for your work with Bobbie O’Dawne, and I won’t tell your wife you spend your days with ladies of the chorus. Good evening.”

The inquest on the body of Sonia Gluck was held at Bossicote on the morning of Thursday, September 22nd. The court, as might have been expected, was jammed to the doors; otherwise the proceedings were as colourless as the coroner, a gentleman with an air of irritated incredulity, could make them. He dealt roundly with the witnesses and with the evidence, reducing everything by a sort of sleight-of-hand to a dead norm. One would have thought that models impaled on the points of poignards were a commonplace of police investigation. Only once did he appear to be at all startled and that was when Cedric Malmsley gave evidence. The coroner eyed Malmsley’s beard as if he thought it must be detachable, abruptly changed his own glasses, and never removed his outraged gaze from the witness throughout his evidence. The barest outline of the tragedy was brought out. Alleyn gave formal evidence on the finding of Garcia’s body, and the court was fraught with an unspoken inference that it was a case of murder and suicide. Alleyn asked for an adjournment, and the whole thing was over by eleven o’clock.

In the corridor Alleyn caught Fox by the arm.

“Come on, Brer Fox. We’re for Boxover. The first stop in the pilgrimage. I’ve got my mother’s car— looks less official. It’s over there — wait for me, will you?”

He watched Fox walk away and then turned quickly into a side lane where Troy sat in her three-seater. Alleyn came up to her from behind, and she did not see him. She was staring straight in front of her. He stood there with his hat in his hands, waiting for her to turn her head. When at last she woke from her meditation and saw him, her eyes widened. She looked at him gravely and then smiled.

“Hullo. It’s you,” said Troy. “I’m waiting for Katti.”

“I had to say a word to you,” said Alleyn.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Any word. Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m afraid it’s difficult for you,” said Alleyn, “having all these people still in the house. This second case made it necessary. We can’t let them go.”

“It’s all right. We’re doing some work out of doors when it’s fine, and I’ve moved everything round in the studio and got a man from the village to sit. Katti’s doing a life-size thing of the policeman at the front gate. It’s a bit — difficult — at times, but they seem to have made up their minds Garcia did it.”

“This last thing — about Garcia. It’s been a pretty bad shock to you.”

“In a way — yes,” said Troy. “It was kind of you to send me a telegram.”

“Kind! Oh, well, if it broke the news a bit, that’s something. You had no particular feeling about him, had you? It was his work, wasn’t it?”

“True enough. His work. That clay group was really good, you know. I think it would have been the best thing he ever did. Somebody will do the marble from the model, I suppose.” She looked directly into Alleyn’s eyes. “I’m — I’m horrified,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Nitric acid! It’s so beyond the bounds of one’s imagination that anyone could possibly — Please tell me — they seemed to suggest that Garcia himself — I
must
know. Did he kill her and then himself? I can’t believe he did. He would never do that. The first — all that business with the knife — I
can
imagine him suddenly deciding to kill Sonia like that. In a ghastly sort of way it might appeal to his imagination, but it’s just because his imagination was so vivid that I am sure he wouldn’t kill himself so horribly. Why — why, Ormerin once spilt acid from that bottle on his hand — Garcia was there. He knew. He saw the burn.”

“He was drugged at the time he died. He’d been smoking opium.”

“Garcia! But — All right. It’s not fair to ask you questions.”

“I’m so sorry. I think we’re nearly at an end. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall know.”

“Don’t look so — so worried,” said Troy suddenly.

“I wonder if it has ever entered your head,” said Alleyn, “that it is only by wrenching my thoughts round with a remarkable effort that I can keep them on my job and not on you.”

She looked at him without speaking.

“Well,” he said. “What have you got to say to that, Troy?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’d better go.”

“A woman never actually objects to a man getting into this state of mind about her, does she? I mean — as long as he behaves himself?”

“No. I don’t think she does.”

“Unless she happens to associate him with something particularly unpleasant. As you must me. Good God, I’m a pretty sort of fellow to shove my damned attentions on a lady in the middle of a job like this.”

“You’re saying too much,” said Troy. “You must stop. Please.”

“I’m extremely sorry. You’re perfectly right — it was unpardonable. Good-bye.”

He stood back. Troy made a swift movement with her hands and leant towards him.

“Don’t be so ‘pukka sahib,’ ” she said. “It is quite true — a woman doesn’t mind.”

“Troy!”

“Now I’m saying too much. It’s her vanity. Even mixed up with horrors like these she rather likes it.”

“We seem to be an odd pair,” said Alleyn. “I haven’t the smallest idea of what you think of me. No, truly, not the smallest idea. But even in the middle of police investigations we appear to finish our thoughts. Troy, have you ever thought of me when you were alone?”

“Naturally.”

“Do you dislike me?”

“No.”

“That will do to go on with,” said Alleyn. “Good morning.”

With his hat still in his hand he turned and walked away quickly to his mother’s car.

“Off we go, Fox,” he said. “Alley houp! The day is ours.”

He slipped in the clutch and in a very few minutes they were travelling down a fortunately deserted road at fifty miles an hour. Fox cleared his throat.

“What’s that, Brer Fox?” asked Alleyn cheerfully.

“I didn’t speak, Mr. Alleyn. Are we in a hurry?”

“Not particularly. I have a disposition of speed come upon me.”

“I see,” said Fox dryly. Alleyn began to sing.

Trees and hedges flew past in a grey blur. From the back of the car a muffled voice suddenly chanted:

Alleyn took his foot off the accelerator. Fox slewed round and stared into the back of the car. From an upheaval of rugs Nigel’s head emerged.

“Rude is never funny,” said Alleyn. “When did you hide in my mother’s car?”

“Immediately after the old gentleman pronounced the word ‘adjournment.’ Where are we bound for?”

“I shan’t tell you. Alley houp! Away we go again.”

“Mr. Fox,” said Nigel, “what has overtaken your chief? Is he mad, drunk, or in love?”

“Don’t answer the fellow, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn. “Let him burst in ignorance. Sit down, behind, there.”

They arrived at Boxover and drew up outside a rather charming Georgian house on the outskirts of the village.

“Twenty minutes,” said Alleyn, looking from his watch to the speedometer. “Twenty minutes from Bossicote and twelve miles. It’s two miles from the studio to Bossicote. Fourteen miles and a straightish road. We slowed down once on Bathgate’s account and once to ask the way. At night you could do the whole trip in a quarter of an hour or less. Now then. A certain amount and yet not too much finesse is indicated. Come on, Fox.”

“May I come?” asked Nigel.

“You? You have got the most colossal, the most incredible, the most appalling cheek. Your hide! Your effrontery! Well, well, well. Come along. You are a Yard typist. Wait by the car until I give you a leery nod, both of you.”

He rang the front-door bell and whistled very sweetly and shrilly.

“What is the matter with him, Fox?” asked Nigel.

“Search me, Mr. Bathgate. He’s been that worried over this case ever since we found Garcia, you’d think he’d never crack a joke again, and then he comes out from this inquest, crosses the road to have a word with Miss Troy and comes back, as you might say, with bells on.”

“Oh ho!” said Nigel. “Say you so, Fox. By gum, Fox, do you suppose— ”

The door was opened by a manservant. Alleyn spoke to him and gave him a card. The man stood back and Alleyn, with a grimace at them over his shoulder, stepped inside, leaving the door open.

“Come on, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “That means us.”

They joined Alleyn in a little hall that was rather overwhelmed with the horns, masks, and hides of dead animals.

“Mrs. Pascoe is away,” whispered Alleyn, “but the gallant captain is within. Here he comes.”

Captain Pascoe was short, plump and vague-looking. He had prominent light blue eyes and a red face. He smelt of whisky. He looked doubtfully from Alleyn to Fox.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Pascoe,” said Alleyn.

“That’s all right. You’re from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This business over at Bossicote, what?”

“That’s it. We’re checking up everybody’s movements on the night in question — you’ll understand it has to be done.”

“Oh quite. Routine, what?”

“Exactly. Inspector Fox and Mr. Bathgate are with me.”

“Oh ya’,” said Captain Pascoe. “H’ are y’. H’ are y’. Have a drink.”

“Thank you so much, but I think we’ll get on with the job.”

“Oh. Right-ho. I suppose it’s about Valmai — Miss Seacliff — and Pilgrim, isn’t it? I’ve been followin’ the case. Damn’ funny, isn’t it? They’re all right. Spent Friday here with us. Slept here and went on to old Pilgrim’s place next day.”

“So they told us. I’m just going to ask you to check up the times. It won’t take a moment.”

“Oh, quite. Right-ho. Sit down.”

Alleyn led him through the week-end from the moment when Valmai Seacliff and Pilgrim arrived, up to the time they all sat down to dinner. Captain Pascoe said nothing to contradict the information given by the other two. Alleyn complimented him on his memory and on the crispness of his recital, which was anything but crisp. The little man expanded gratefully.

“And now,” said Alleyn, “we come to the important period between ten o’clock on Friday night and five the following morning. You are a soldier, sir, and you understand the difficulties of this sort of thing. One has to be very discreet—” Alleyn waved his hands and looked respectfully at Captain Pascoe.

“By Jove, ya’. I ’member there was a feller in my reg’ment”—the anecdote wound itself up into an impenetrable tangle—“and, by Jove, we nearly had a court martial over it.”

“Exactly. Just the sort of thing we want to avoid. So you see, if we can account, now, for every second of their time during Friday evening they will be saved a lot of unpleasantness later on. You know yourself, sir— ”

“Oh, quite. All for it. Damned unpleasant. Always flatter myself I’ve got the faculty of observing detail.”

“Yes. Now, I understand that during dinner Miss Seacliff complained of a headache?”

“No, no. Not till after dinner. Minor point, but we may’s well be accurate, Inspector.”

“Certainly, sir. Stupid of me. Was it about the time you had coffee that she first spoke of it?”

“No. Wait a bit, though. Tell you what — just to show you — what I was saying about my faculty for tabulatin’ detail— ”

“Yes.”

“I ‘member Valmai made a face over her coffee. Took a swig at it and then did a sort of shudder and m’wife said: ‘What’s up?’ or words to the same effect, and Val said the coffee was bitter, and then Pilgrim looked a bit sheepish and I said: ‘Was yours bitter?’ and he said: ‘Matter of fact it was!’ Funny — mine was all right. But my idea is that Val was feeling a bit off colour then, and he just agreed the coffee was bitter to keep her in countenance. In my opinion the girl had a liver. Pilgrim persuaded her to have a glass of port after champagne, and she said at the time it would upset her. Damn’ bad show. She’s a lovely thing. Damn’ good rider to hounds. Lovely hands. Goes as straight and as well as the best of ’em. Look at that.” He fumbled in a drawer of his writing-desk and produced a press photograph of Valmai Seacliff looking magnificent on a hunter. Captain Pascoe gloated over it, handed it to Alleyn, and flung himself back in his chair. He appeared to collect his thoughts. “But to show you how one notices little things,” he resumed. “Not till after dinner that she talked about feeling under the weather. Matter of fact, it was when I took her empty cup. Precise moment. There you are.” And he laughed triumphantly.

“Splendid, sir. I wish everyone was as clear-minded. I remember a case where the whole thing hinged on just such an incident. It was a question of who put sugar in a cup of tea, and do you think we could get anyone who remembered? Not a bit of it. It’s only one witness in a hundred who can give us that sort of thing.”

“Really? Well, I’ll lay you a tenner, Inspector, I can tell you about the coffee on Friday night. Just for the sake of argument.”

“I’m not betting, sir.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Now then. M’wife poured out our coffee at that table over there. Pilgrim handed it round for her. He put Val’s down beside her with his own, told her he’d put sugar in it, and went back to the table for mine. There you are, Inspector. Val complained her coffee was bitter. She asked Pilgrim if his tasted funny and he said it did, and—” He stopped short and his eyes bulged. “Look here,” he said, “ ’way I’m talking anybody might think this was a case of hanky-panky with the coffee. Good Lord, Inspector. Here! I say, I hope you don’t— ”

“Don’t let that bother you, sir. We’re only taking a sample case and I congratulate you. We don’t get our information as lucidly as that very often, do we, Fox?”

“Very nice, indeed, sir,” agreed Fox, wagging his head.

“And then,” said Alleyn, “I believe you played bridge?”