Killer Dolphin (24 page)

“My dear Jay, I really do apologize: of course he does. It’s no doubt the best role, outside Shakespeare, that he’ll ever play.”

“You think so? Really?”

“Indeed I do.”

Peregrine suddenly looked deeply happy. “Now, of course,” he said, “I’m completely wooed.”

“What can it matter what I think! You must know how good your play is.”

“Yes, but I like to be told. From which,” Peregrine said, “you may gather that I have a temperamental link with Marco Knight.”

“Were he and Destiny Meade lovers?”

“Oh yes. Going steady, it seemed, until Harry chucked poor Gertie and came rollicking in. We thought the casting was going to work out very cosily with Dessy and Marco as happy as Larry on the one hand and Gertie and Harry nicely fixed on the other. Maddening, this dodging round in a company. It always makes trouble. And with Marco’s capacity to cut up plug-ugly at the drop of a hat—anything might happen. We can only keep our fingers crossed.”

“Miss Meade is — she’s — I imagine, not an intellectual type.”

“She’s
so
stupid,” Peregrine said thoughtfully. “But so,
so
stupid it’s a kind of miracle. Darling Dessy. And yet,” he added, “there’s an element of cunning, too. Certainly, there’s an element of cunning.”

“What a problem for her director, in such a subtle role!”

“Not really. You just say: ‘Darling, you’re sad. You’re heartbroken. You can’t bear it,’ and up come the welling tears. Or: ‘Darling, you’ve been clever, don’t you see, you’ve been one too many for them,’ and she turns as shrewd as a marmoset. Or, simplest of all: ‘Darling, you’re sending him in a big way,’ and as she never does anything else it works like a charm.
She does
the things : the audience
thinks
them.”

“Temperamental?”

“Only for form’s sake when she fancies it’s about time she showed up. She’s quite good-natured.”

“Did she slap Knight back smartly or gradually?”

“Gradually. You could see it coming at rehearsals. In their love scenes. She began looking at her fingernails over his shoulder and pulling bits of mascara off her eyelashes. And then she took to saying could they just walk it because she was rethinking her approach. She talks like that but of course she never has an approach. Only an instinct backed up by superb techniques and great dollops of star-quality.”

“She divorced her second husband, I believe, and lives alone?”

“Well — yes. Officially.”

“Anything else about her?”

“She’s a terrific gambler, is Dessy. On the share-market, with the bookies and anything on the side that offers. That’s really what broke up the second marriage. He couldn’t do with all the roulette-party and poker-dice carry-on.”

“Is she a successful gambler?”

“I daresay she herself scarcely knows, so vague are her ways.”

“And Miss Bracey?”

“That’s a very different story. I don’t know anything about Gertie’s background but she really does bear out the Woman Scorned crack. She’s — she’s not all that charitably disposed at any time, perhaps, and this thing’s stirred her up like a wasp’s nest. She and Marco exhibit the heads-and-tails of despised love. Marco is a sort of walking example of outraged vanity and incredulous mortification. He can’t believe it and yet there it is. Rather touchingly,
I
think, he doesn’t until today seem to have taken against Dessy. But I’ve trembled lest he should suddenly rear back and have a wallop at Harry.”

“Hit him?”

“Yes. Bang-bang. Whereas Gertie doesn’t vent all she’s got on her rival but hisses and stings away at the faithless one.”

“And so Miss Meade is let off lightly at both ends and Grove is the object of a dual resentment?”

“And that’s throwing roses at it,” said Peregrine.

“Knight and Miss Bracey have a real, solid hatred for him? Is that putting it too high?”

“No, it’s not but—” Peregrine said quickly: “What is all this? What’s it matter how Marco and Gertie feel about Harry?”

“Nothing at all, I daresay. What about Random? Any comment on character?”

“Charlie? No trouble to anyone. Not, as you may have discerned, a hundred per cent he-man, but what of that? He doesn’t bring it into the theatre. It was quite all right to let him dress with the boy, for instance.”

“Hobbies?”

“Well, as you’ve heard: Ximenes-class crosswords. Cyphers. And old manuscripts. He’s quite an antiquarian, I’m told, is Charles. Jer says he’s one of those characters who possess an infallible nose for a rare item. He spends half his time among the sixpenny and shilling bins in Long Acre and the Charing Cross Road. Good, conscientious actor. Minor public school and drama academy.”

“Did all the members of the company know each other before this production?”

“Oh, yes. Except Emily. She’s at the beginning,” Peregrine said tenderly, “and doesn’t know many people in the West End yet.”

“Tell me, are you familiar with Harry Grove’s overcoats?”

“I caught sight of him going away the other night wearing a contraption that screamed its way up the lane like a fire-engine and heard a lot of carry-on about it among the company.”

“What was it?”

“I wasn’t close enough to—” Peregrine’s voice faded. He gaped at Alleyn. “Oh
no
!” he cried. “It can’t be. It’s not possible.”

“What?”

“On — on Henry Jobbins?”

“Grove gave his overcoat to Jobbins on Friday evening. He said nobody seemed to like it. Didn’t you know?”

Peregrine shook his head.

“I can’t imagine,” he said slowly, “I simply cannot imagine why I didn’t recognize it on poor Jobbins. I actually cracked a joke about it and he said it was a present.”

“Perhaps the scarf made a difference.”

“Scarf? I dont think he had a scarf on.”

“Did he not? A bright yellow scarf?”

“Wait. Yes,” said Peregrine, looking sick, “of course. I — I remember. Afterwards.”

“But not before? When you spoke to him?”

“I don’t remember it then. It wasn’t showing.”

“Please say nothing about the overcoat, Jay. It’s of the first importance that you don’t. Not even,” Alleyn said with a friendly air, “to your Emily.”

“Very well. May I know why it matters so much?”

Alleyn told him.

“Yes, I see. But it won’t really get you much further, will it?”

“If nobody knows of the transfer—”

“Yes, of course. Stupid of me.”

“And that really is all. I’m sorry to have kept you such an unconscionable time.”

Peregrine went to the door, hesitated and turned back.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, “to write down my Conduciae or should it be Conducii?”

“Or Conduciosis? Never mind. I’m glad you’ve decided to help. Thank you. Could you let me have it as soon as it’s ready?”

“Yes. All right. Where will you be?”

“Here for another hour I should think. And then wherever developments send me. We’ll leave a P.C. on duty in the theatre. If I’ve gone he’ll take a message. Do you really mind doing this?”

“No. Not if it’s remotely useful.”

“There now!” said Alleyn. “Goodbye for the moment, then. On your way out, would you ask Mr. Knight to come in?”

“Certainly. It’s half past twelve,” Peregrine said. “He’ll have got a bit restive, I daresay.”

“Will he indeed?” said Alleyn. “Send him in.”

Marcus Knight was not so much restive as portentous. He had the air of a man who is making enormous concessions. When Alleyn apologized for keeping him waiting so long, he waved his hand as if to say: “Think no more of it. Nevertheless—”

“One can’t tell,” Alleyn said, “in our job, how long any given interview will last.”

“It didn’t escape my notice,” Knight said, “that you were honoured with an earlier visit.”

“From Hartly Grove? Yes. He had,” Alleyn said, “thought of something.”

“He thinks of a number of things, most of them highly offensive.”

“Really? This was quite harmless. I wonder if you’ve noticed his overcoat.”

Mr. Knight had noticed Mr. Grove’s overcoat and said so briefly and with immeasurable distaste. “One is not surprised, however,” he said. “One recognizes the form. It is entirely consistent. My God, what a garment! How he dares!”

It became evident that he did not know that the coat had been given to Jobbins.

Alleyn briefly re-checked Knight’s movements. He had driven his Jaguar from the theatre to his house in Montpelier Square where he was given supper as usual by the Italian couple who looked after him. He thought it was probably about ten past eleven when he got in. He did not go out again but could not absolutely prove it

Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.

Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr. W.H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.

Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than-life manner that Alleyn associated with persons of his profession. It was more like a series of bows.

“Unique,” he said, on two mellifluous notes. “U-nique!”

Alleyn wondered what he would say if he knew of Jeremy’s substitution.

“Well,” he said lightly. “At least Mr. Conducis and the American purchaser can breathe again. I can’t help wondering who she may be.”

“
She
?”

“Now, why did I say ‘she’?” Alleyn ejaculated. “I suppose I must have been thinking of Mrs. Constantia Guzmann?”

It was formidable to see how rapidly, with what virtuosity, Knight changed colour from deepest plum to parchment and back again. He drew his brows together. He retracted his upper lip. It crossed Alleyn’s mind that it was a pity the role of William Shakespeare didn’t offer an opportunity for a display of these physical demonstrations of fury.

“What,” he asked, rising and looming over Alleyn, “has that person—Grove—said to you? I demand an answer. What has he said?”

“About Mrs. Constantia Guzmann, do you mean? Nothing. Why?”

“You lie!”

“I don’t, you know,” Alleyn said composedly. “Grove didn’t mention her to me. Really. She’s an extremely well-known collector. What’s the matter?”

Knight glowered at him in silence for some time. Fox cleared his throat

“Do you swear,” Knight began in the lowest register of his voice, building up a crescendo as he went on. “Do you swear the name of Guzmann has not — ah — has not been — ah — mentioned to you in connection with My Own. Here in this room. Today. Do you swear to this? Hah?”

“No, I don’t do that, either. It has.”

“
All
!” he bellowed suddenly. “
The lot. The whole pack of them
! He’s lunched and bloody dined on it. Don’t attempt to contradict me. He’s betrayed a deeply,
deeply
regretted confidence. A moment of weakness. On my part. Before I knew him for what he is: a false,
false
man.” He pointed at Alleyn. “Has he—has he told—her? Miss Meade? Destiny? You need not answer. I see it in your face. He has.”

“I’ve not spoken with Miss Meade,” Alleyn said.

“They’ve laughed together,” he roared. “At Me!”

“Perfectly maddening for you if they have,” Alleyn said, “but, if you’ll forgive me, it isn’t, as far as I know, entirely relevant to the business under discussion.”

“Yes, it is,” Knight passionately contradicted. “By God it is and I’ll tell you why. I’ve put a restraint upon myself. I have not allowed myself to speak about this man. I have been scrupulous lest I should be thought biased. But now —
now
!
I
tell you this and I speak from absolute conviction: if, as you hold, that appalling boy is not guilty and recovers his wits, and if he was attacked by the man who killed Jobbins, and if he
remembers who attacked him
, it will be at W. Hartly Grove he points his finger.
Now
!”

Alleyn, who had seen this pronouncement blowing up for the past five minutes, allowed himself as many seconds in which to be dumbfounded and then asked Marcus if he had any reasons, other, he hastily added, than those already adduced, for making this statement about Harry Grove. Nothing very specific emerged. There were dark and vague allusions to reputation and an ambiguous past. As his temper abated, and it did seem to abate gradually, Knight appeared to lose the fine edge of his argument. He talked of Trevor Vere and said he couldn’t understand why Alleyn dismissed the possibility that the boy had been caught out by Jobbins, overturned the dolphin and then run so fast down the circle aisle that he couldn’t prevent himself diving over the balustrade. Alleyn once again advanced the logical arguments against this theory.

“And there’s no possibility of some member of the public’s having hidden during performance?”

“Jay assures me not. A thorough routine search is made and the staff on both sides of the curtain confirm this. This is virtually a ‘new’ theatre. There are no stacks of scenery or properties or neglected hiding places.”

“You are saying,” said Knight, beginning portentously to nod again, “that this thing must have been done by One of Us.”

“That’s how it looks.”

“I am faced,” Knight said, “with a frightful dilemma.” He immediately became a man faced with a frightful dilemma and looked quite haggard. “Alleyn: what can one do? Idle for me to pretend I don’t feel as I do about this man. I
know
him to be a worthless, despicable person. I know him—”

“One moment. This is still Harry Grove?”

“Yes.” (Several nods.) “Yes. I am aware that the personal injuries he has inflicted upon me must be thought to prejudice my opinion.”

“I assure you—”

“And
I
am assuring
you—oh
with such deadly certainty—that there is only one among us who is capable of the crime.”

He gazed fixedly into Alleyn’s face. “I studied physiognomy,” he surprisingly said. “When I was in New York”—for a moment he looked hideously put out but instantly recovered—“I met a most distinguished authority—Earl P. Van Smidt—and I became seriously interested in the science. I have studied and observed and I have proved, my conclusions. Over and again. I have completely satisfied myself—but com-pletely—that when you see a pair of unusually round eyes, rather wide apart, very light blue and without depth—look out.
Look out
!” he repeated and flung himself into the chair he had vacated.

“What for?” Alleyn inquired.

“Treachery. Shiftiness. Utter unscrupulousness. Complete lack of ethical values. I quote from Van Smidt.”

“Dear me.”

“As for Conducis! But no matter. No matter.”

“Do you discover the same traits in Mr. Conducis?”

“I — I — am not familiar with Mr. Conducis.”

“You have met him, surely?”

“Formal meeting. On the opening night.”

“But never before that?”

“I may have done so. Years ago. I prefer—” Knight said surprisingly—“to forget the occurrence.” He swept it away.

“May I ask why?”

There was an appreciable pause before he said: “I was once his guest, if you can call it that, and I was subjected to an insolent disregard which I would have interpreted more readily if I had at that time been acquainted with Smidt. In my opinion,” Knight said, “Smidt should be compulsory reading for all police forces. You don’t mind my saying this?” he added in a casual, lordly manner.

“Indeed no.”

“Good. Want me any more, dear boy?” he asked, suddenly gracious.

“I think not. Unless — and believe me I wouldn’t ask if the question was irrelevant to the case — unless you care to tell me if Mrs. Constantia Guzmann really confided to you that she is a buyer of hot objects d’art on the intercontinental black market.”

It was no good. Back in a flash came the empurpled visage and the flashing eye. Back, too, came an unmistakable background of sheepishness and discomfort

“No comment,” said Marcus Knight

“No? Not even a tiny hint?”

“You are mad to expect it,” he said, and with that they had to let him go.

“Well, Br’er Fox, we’ve caught a snarled up little job this time, haven’t we?”

“We have that,” Fox agreed warmly. “It’d be nice,” he added wistfully, “if we could put it down to simple theft, discovery and violence.”

“It’d be lovely but we can’t, you know. We can’t. For one thing the theft of a famous object is always bedevilled by the circumstance of its being indisposable through the usual channels. No normal high-class fence, unless he’s got very special contacts, is going to touch Shakespeare’s note or his son’s glove.”

“So, for a start you’ve got either a crank who steals and gloats or a crank of the type of young Jones who steals to keep the swag in England or a thorough wised-up, high grade professional in touch with the top international racket And at the receiving end somebody of the nature of this Mrs. Guzmann, who’s a millionaire crank in her own right and doesn’t care how she gets her stuff.”

“That’s right. Or a kidnapper who holds the stuff for ransom. And you
might
have a non-professional thief who knows all about Mrs. G. and believes she’ll play and he’ll make a pocket.”

“That seems to take in the entire boiling of this lot, seeing Mr. Grove’s broadcast the Guzmann-Knight anecdote for all it’s worth. I tell you what, Mr. Alleyn; it wouldn’t be the most astonishing event in my working life if Mr. Knight took to Mr. Grove. Mr. Grove’s teasing ways seem to put him out to a remarkable degree, don’t you think?”

“I think,” Alleyn said, “we’d better, both of us, remind ourselves about actors.”

“You do? What about them?”

“One must always remember that they’re trained to convey emotion. On or off the stage, they make the most of everything they feel. Now this doesn’t mean they express their feelings up to saturation point. When you and I and all the rest of the non-actors do our damnedest to understate and be ironical about our emotional reflexes, the actor, even when he underplays them, does so with such expertise that he convinces us laymen that he’s
in extremis
. He isn’t. He’s only being professionally articulate about something that happens offstage instead of in front of an official audience.”

“How does all this apply to Mr. Knight, then?”

“When he turns purple and roars anathemas against Grove it means A: that he’s hot-tempered, pathologically vain and going through a momentary hell and B: that he’s letting you know up to the nth degree just
how
angry and dangerous he’s feeling. It doesn’t necessarily mean that once his present emotion has subsided he will do anything further about it, and nor does it mean that he’s superficial or a hypocrite. It’s his job to take the micky out of an audience, and even in the throes of a completely genuine emotional crisis, he does just that thing if it’s only an audience of one.”

“Is this what they call being an extrovert?”

“Yes, Br’er Fox, I expect it is. But the interesting thing about Knight, I thought, was that when it came to Conducis he turned uncommunicative and cagey.”

“Fancied himself slighted over something, it seemed. Do you reckon Knight believes all that about Grove? Being a homicidal type? All that stuff about pale eyes etcetera. Because,” Fox said with great emphasis, “it’s all poppycock: there aren’t any facial characteristics for murder. What’s that you’re always quoting about there being no art to find the mind’s construction in the face? I reckon it’s fair enough where homicide’s concerned. Although,” Fox added, opening his own eyes very wide, “I always fancy there’s a kind of look about sex offenders of a certain type. That I will allow.”

“Be that as it may it doesn’t get us much further along our present road. No news from the hospital?”

“No. They’d ring through at once if there was.”

“I know. I know.”

“What do we do about Mr. Jeremy Jones?”

“Oh, blast! What indeed! I think we take delivery of the glove and documents, give him hell and go no further. I’ll talk to the A.C. about him and I rather
think
I’ll have to tell Conducis as soon as possible. Who’ve we got left here? Only little Meyer. Ask him into his own office, Br’er Fox. We needn’t keep him long, I think.”

Winter Meyer came in quoting Queen Mary. “This,” he said wearily, “is a pretty kettle of fish. This is a carry-on. I’m not complaining, mind, and I’m not blaming anybody but what, oh what, has set Marco off again? Sorry. Not your headache, old boy.”

Alleyn uttered consolatory phrases, sat him at his own desk, checked his alibi, which was no better and no worse than anyone else’s in that after he left the theatre with Knight he drove to his house at Golders Green where his wife and family were all in bed. When he wound up his watch he noticed it said ten to twelve. He had heard the Knight-Guzmann story. “I thought it bloody sad,” he said. “Poor woman. Terrible, you know, the problem of the plain, highly sexed woman. Marco ought to have held his tongue. He ought never to have told Harry. Of course Harry made it sound a bit of a yell, but I didn’t like Marco telling about it. I don’t think that sort of thing’s funny.”