Vintage Murder (2 page)
Authors: Ngaio Marsh
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #det_classic, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #Police, #Mystery fiction, #Alleyn; Roderick (Fictitious character), #Police - New Zealand, #New Zealand, #New Zealand fiction
“What about Miss Dacres? Or should I say Mrs. Meyer? I never know with married stars.”
“She’s Carolyn Dacres all the time. Except in hotel registers, of course. Carolyn is a great actress. Please don’t think I’m using the word ‘great’ carelessly. She is a great actress. Her father was a country parson, but there’s a streak of the stage in her mother’s family, I believe. Carolyn joined a touring company when she was seventeen. She was up and down the provinces for eight years before she got her chance in London. Then she never looked back.” Hambledon paused and glanced apologetically at his companion. “In a moment you will accuse me of talking shop.” ‘
“Why not? I like people to talk shop — I can never understand the prejudice against it.”
“You don’t do it, I notice.”
The tall man raised one eyebrow.
“I’m on a holiday. When did Miss Dacres marry Mr. Alfred Meyer?”
“About ten years ago,” said Hambledon, shortly. He turned in his seat and looked down the carriage. The Carolyn Dacres Company had settled down for the night. George Mason and Gascoigne had given up their game of two-handed whist and had drawn their rugs up to their chins. The comedian had spread a sheet of newspaper over his head. Young Courtney Broadhead was awake, but Mr. Liversidge’s mouth was open and those rolls of flesh, so well disciplined by day, were now subtly predominant. Except for Broadhead they were all asleep. Hambledon looked at his watch.
“It’s midnight,” he said.
Midnight. Outside their hurrying windows this strange country slept. Farm houses, lonely in the moonlight, sheep asleep or tearing with quick jerks at the short grass, those arching hills that ran in curves across the window-panes, and the white flowering trees that made old Susan dab her eyes. They were all there, outside, but remote from the bucketing train with its commercial travellers, its tourists and its actors.
The fascination of a train journey, thought the tall man, lies in this remoteness of the country outside, and in the realisation that it is so close. At any station one may break the spell of the train and set foot on the earth. But as long as one stays in the train, the outside is a dream country. A dream country. He closed his eyes again and presently was fast asleep and troubled by long dreams that were half broken by a sense of discomfort. When he woke again he felt cold and stiff. Hambledon, he saw, was still awake.
Their carriage seemed to be continually turning. His mind made a picture of a corkscrew with a gnat-sized train twisting industriously. He looked at his watch.
“Good Lord,” he said. “It’s ten past two. I shall stay awake. It’s a mistake to sleep in these chairs.”
“Ten past two,” said Hambledon. “The time for indiscreet conversation. Are you sure you do not want to go to sleep?”
“Quite sure. What were we speaking of before I dozed off. Miss Dacres?”
“Yes. You asked about her marriage. It is difficult even to guess why she married Alfred Meyer. Not because he is the big noise in Incorporated Playhouses. Carolyn had no need of that sort of pull. She had arrived. Perhaps she married him because he was so essentially commonplace. As a kind of set-off to her own temperament. She has the true artistic temperament.”
The tall man winced. Hambledon had made use of a phrase that he detested.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Hambledon continued very earnestly. “Alf is a good fellow. He’s very much liked in the business. But — well, he has never been a romantic figure. He lives for the firm, you know. He and George Mason built it between them. I’ve played in I.P. productions for twelve years now. Eight pieces in all and in five of them I’ve played opposite Carolyn.”
He had the actor’s habit of giving full dramatic value to everything he said. His beautiful voice, with its practised inflexions, suggested a romantic attachment.
“She’s rather a wonderful person,” he said.
“He means that,” thought his companion. “He is in love with her.”
His mind went back to the long journey in the ship with Carolyn Dacres very much the star turn, but not, he had to admit, aggressively the great actress. She and her pale, plump, rather common, rather uninteresting husband, had sat in deck chairs, he with a portable typewriter on his knees and she with a book. Very often Hambledon had sat on the other side of her, also with a book. They had none of them joined in the all-night poker parties with young Courtney Broadhead, Liversidge and Valerie Gaynes. Thinking of these three he turned to look up the dim carriage. There was young Broadhead, still awake, still staring at the blind window-pane with its blank reflections. As if conscious of the other’s gaze he jerked his head uneasily and with an abrupt movement rose to his feet and came down the carriage. As he passed them he said:
“Fresh air. I’m going out to the platform.”
“Young ass,” said Hambledon when he had gone through the door. “He’s been losing his money. You can’t indulge in those sorts of frills, on his salary.”
They both looked at the glass door. Broadhead’s back was against it.
“I’m worried about that boy,” Hambledon went on. “No business of mine, of course, but one doesn’t like to see that kind of thing.”
“They were playing high, certainly.”
“A fiver to come in, last night I believe. I looked into the smoke-room before I went to bed. Liversidge had won a packet. Courtney looked very sick. Early in the voyage I tried to tip him the wink, but he’d got in with that bear-leader and his cub.”
“Weston and young Palmer, you mean?”
“Yes. They’re on the train. The cub’s likely to stick to our heels all through the tour, I’m afraid.”
“Stage-struck?”
“What they used to call ‘shook on the pros.’ He hangs round Carolyn, I suppose you’ve noticed. She tells me his father — he’s a Sir Something Palmer and noisesomely rich — has packed him off to New Zealand with Weston in the hope of teaching him sense. Weston’s his cousin. The boy was sacked from his public school, I believe. Shipboard gossip.”
“It is strange,” said the tall man, “how a certain type of Englishman still regards the dominions either as a waste-paper basket or a purge.”
“You are not a colonial, surely?”
“Oh, no. I speak without prejudice. Hullo, I believe we’re stopping.”
A far-away whistle was followed by the sound of banging doors and a voice that chanted something indistinguishable. These sounds grew louder. Presently the far door of their own carriage opened and the guard came down the corridor.
“Five minutes at Ohakune for refreshments,” he chanted, and went out at the near door. Broadhead moved aside for him.
“Refreshments!” said Hambledon. “Good Lord!”
“Oh, I don’t know. A cup of coffee perhaps. Anyway a gulp of fresh air.”
“Perhaps you’re right.
What
did he say was the name of the station?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like a rune or incantation.”
“O — ah — coo — nee,” said Susan Max, unexpectedly.
“Hullo, Susie, you’ve come up to breathe, have you?” asked Hambledon.
“I haven’t been to sleep, dear,” said Susan. “Not really asleep, you know.”
“I’d forgotten you were an Australian.”
“I am not an Australian. I was born in New Zealand. Australia is a four days’ journey from—”
“I know, I know,” said Hambledon with a wink at the tall man.
“Well, it
is
provoking, dear,” said Miss Max huffily. “We don’t like to be called Australian. Not that I’ve anything against the Aussies. It’s the ignorance.”
A chain of yellow lights travelled past their windows. The train stopped and uttered a long steamy sigh. All along the carriage came the sound of human beings yawning and shuffling.
“I wish my father had never met my mother,” grumbled the comedian.
“Come on,” said Hambledon to the tall man.
They went out through the door. Courtney Broadhead was standing on the narrow iron platform of their carriage. His overcoat collar was turned up and his hat jammed over his eyes. He looked lost and miserable. The other two men stepped down on to the station platform. The cold night air smelt clean after the fug of the train. There was a tang in it, salutary and exciting.
“It smells like the inside of a flower shop,” said Hambledon. “Moss, and cold wet earth, and something else. Are we very high up in the world, I wonder?”
“I think we must be. To me it smells like mountain air.”
“What about this coffee?”
They got two steaming china baths from the refreshment counter and took them out on to the platform.
“Hailey! Hailey!”
The window of one of the sleepers had been opened and through it appeared a head.
“Carolyn!” Hambledon walked swiftly to the window. “Haven’t you settled down yet? It’s after half-past two, do you know that?”
The murky lights from the station shone on that face, finding out the hollows round the eyes and under the cheek bones. The tall man had never been able to make up his mind about Carolyn Dacres’s face. Was it beautiful? Was it faded? Was she as intelligent as her face seemed to promise? As he watched her he realised that she was agitated about something. She spoke quickly, and in an undertone. Hambledon stared at her in surprise and then said something. They both looked for a moment at the tall man. She seemed to hesitate.
“Stand clear, please.”
A bell jangled. He mounted the platform of his carriage where Courtney Broadhead still stood hunched up in his overcoat. The train gave one of those preparatory backward clanks. Hambledon, still carrying his cup, hurriedly mounted the far platform of the sleeper. They were drawn out of the station into the night. Courtney Broadhead, after a sidelong glance at the tall man, said something inaudible and returned to the carriage. The tall man remained outside. The stern of the sleeping-carriage in front swayed and wagged, and the little iron bridge that connected the two platforms jerked backwards and forwards. Presently Hambledon came out of the sleeper and, holding to the iron rails, made towards him over the bridge. As soon as they were together he began to shout:
“… very upset… most extraordinary… wish you’d…” The wind snatched his voice away.
“I can’t hear you.”
“It’s Meyer — I can’t make it out. Come over here.”
He led the way across the little bridge and drew his companion into the entrance lobby of the next carriage.
“It’s Meyer,” said Hambledon. “He says someone tried to murder him.”
MR. MEYER IN JEOPARDY
The tall man merely stared at Hambledon who came to the conclusion that his astonishing announcement had not been heard.
“Someone has tried to murder Alfred Meyer,” he bawled.
“All right,” said the tall man. He looked disgusted and faintly alarmed.
“Carolyn wants you to come along to their sleeper.”
“You haven’t told her—?”
“No, no. But I wish you’d let me—”
The inside door of the little lobby burst open, smacking Hambledon in the rear. The pale face of Mr. Alfred Meyer appeared round the side.
“Hailey — do come along. What are you — oh!” He glanced at the tall man.
“We are both coming,” said Hambledon.
They all lurched along the narrow corridor off which the two sleepers opened. They passed the first door and Meyer led them in at the second. The “de-luxe” sleeper was a small cabin with two narrow bunks and a wash-basin. Carolyn Dacres, wearing some sort of gorgeous dressing-robe, sat on the bottom bunk. Her arms were clasped round her knees. Her long reddish-brown hair hung in a thick twist over her shoulder.
“Hullo!” she said, looking at the tall man. “Hailey says he thinks you’d better hear all about it.”
“I’m sure you’d rather talk over whatever has happened among yourselves. I assure you I’ve no desire to butt in.”
“Look here,” said Hambledon, “
do
let me explain — about you, I mean.”
“Very well,” said the tall man, looking politely resigned.
“We all knew him as ‘Mr. R. Allen’ on board,” began Hambledon. “That’s what he was in the passenger list. It was only to-night, in the train, that I realised he was Roderick Alleyn — E.Y.N. — Chief Detective-Inspector, C.I.D., and full musical honours with a salute of two sawn-off shotguns.”
“My God!” said Mr. Meyer plaintively. It was his stock expression.
“Why—” said Carolyn Dacres, “why then you’re — yes, of course. ‘The Handsome Inspector.’ Don’t you remember, Pooh? The Gardener case? Our photographs were side by side in the
Tatler
that week, Mr. Alleyn.”
“The only occasion,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, “on which I have felt there was any compensation for newspaper publicity.”
“Any
compensation
?” broke in Mr. Meyer. “My God! Well now, as you are an expert, will you listen to this? Sit down for God’s sake. Move up, Carol.”
Alleyn sat on a trunk, Hambledon on the floor, and Meyer plumped down beside his wife. His large face was very white and his fat hands shook slightly.
“I’m all upset,” he said.
“I’ll try to explain,” said Miss Dacres. “You see Hailey darling — and Mr. Alleyn — Alfie-Pooh sat up late. He had a lot of correspondence to get through, and he brought his typewriter in here. Some time before we got to the last station he thought he would go out to that shocking little platform for a breath of fresh air. Didn’t you, darling?”
Mr. Meyer nodded gloomily.
“We were at that time travelling up or down a thing that I think they call the corkscrew. The guard, who is an exceedingly nice man, and so, so well informed, told us all about it. It appears that this corkscrew—”
“Spiral,” corrected Mr. Meyer.
“Yes, darling. This spiral is quite remarkable as railway lines go. One is continually catching one’s own tail and the guard’s wagon is quite often in front of the engine.”
“Really, Carolyn!” expostulated Hambledon.
“Something of the sort, darling. However, that is of no real importance as far as this story goes. The only thing we must all remember is that when it is corkscrewing the train keeps on turning round and round.”
“What can you mean?”
“Cut out the comedy, Carolyn,” begged Mr. Meyer. “This is serious.”
“Darling,
of course
it is. You see, Mr. Alleyn, Alfie went out on the little platform and stood there and all the time the train kept turning corners very fast and it was all rather impressive. Alfie was very excited and thrilled with the view, although it was so dark he could not see much, except the other parts of the train corkscrewing above and below him. He heard a door bang, but he did not look round because he thought it was just someone going along the train. He was holding on very tight with both hands. Luckily. Because otherwise when this person pushed him he would have—”
“Here!” said Mr. Meyer firmly, “I’ll tell them. I was on the platform facing outwards. I noticed the iron door to the steps was opened back and there was nothing between me and God knows all. It was blowing a gale. I kind of knew people were going past me on their way through the train, but I didn’t look round. We came to one of these hairpin bends and as we swung round someone kicked me on the behind. Hard. By God, I nearly went over. As nearly as damn it. I tell you I lurched out over the step. I grabbed at the door with my left hand but I must have pulled it away from the catch on the wall as if I was going through and shutting it after me. See what I mean? I clutched the platform rail with my right hand — just caught it close to the iron stanchion by the steps. It seemed to last a lifetime, that hanging outwards. Then the train swung round the opposite way and I got back. Of course when I was all right again and turned round the man had gone. God, I’m all to pieces. Look in that case there, Hailey. There’s a bottle of brandy.” He turned pale bulging eyes on Alleyn.
“What the hell do you make of that?”
“Extremely unpleasant,” said Alleyn.
“Unpleasant! Listen to him, will you!”
“My poor Alfie,” said his wife. “You shall have quantities of brandy. Pour it out, Hailey. There are glasses there, too. We shall all have brandy while Mr. Alleyn tells us who tried to assassinate my poor Pooh. Don’t spill it, Hailey. There! Now, Mr. Alleyn?”
She looked up with an air of encouragement at the chief inspector. “Is she being deliberately funny?” Alleyn wondered. “She’s not really one of those vague women who sound like fools and are as deep as you make them. Or is she? No, no, she’s making a little ‘cameo-part’ of herself, for us to look at. Perhaps she has done it for so long that she can’t stop.”
“What I want to know is, what do I do?“ Meyer was saying.
“Stop the train and tell the guard?” suggested Carolyn, sipping her brandy. “You pull the communication cord and pay five pounds and then some woman comes forward and says you attempted to—”
“Carolyn, do be quiet,” begged Hambledon, smiling at her. “What do you think, Alleyn?”
“You are quite sure that you were deliberately kicked?” asked Alleyn. “It wasn’t someone staggering along the train who lost his balance and then his head, when he thought he’d sent you overboard?”
“I tell you I was kicked. I bet you anything you like I’ve got a black and blue behind.”
“Darling! We must put you in a cage and take you on tour.”
“What ought I to do, Alleyn?”
“My dear Mr. Meyer, I — really I don’t quite know. I suppose I ought to tell you to inform the guard, and telegraph the police from the next station. There are some very tight footballers farther along the train. I wonder—”
“Of
course
,” said Carolyn with enthusiasm. “How brilliant of you, Mr. Alleyn. It was a drunken footballer. I mean, it all fits in so splendidly, doesn’t it? He would know how to kick. Think of the All Blacks.”
Mr. Meyer listened solemnly to this. Hambledon suddenly began to laugh. Alleyn hurriedly lit a cigarette.
“It’s all very well for you to laugh,” said Mr. Meyer. He felt his stern carefully, staring at Alleyn. “I don’t know about the police,” he said. “That’d mean the Press and we’ve never gone in for that sort of publicity. What do you think, Hailey? ‘Attempted Murder of Well-known Theatrical Manager.’ It’s not too good. It isn’t as if it had been Carolyn.”
“I should think not indeed,” agreed Hambledon with difficulty.
“So should I think not indeed,” said Carolyn.
“Mr. Meyer,” said Alleyn, “have you any enemies in your own company?”
“Good God, no. We’re a happy little family. I treat my people well and they respect me. There’s never been a word.”
“You say that several people went past you while you were on the platform,” said Alleyn. “Did you notice any of them in particular?”
“No. I stood with my back to the gangway.”
“Do you remember,” asked Alleyn after a pause, “if there was anyone standing on the opposite platform, the one at this end of our carriage that was linked to yours by the iron bridge?”
“I don’t think so. Not when I went out. Someone might have come out later. You know how it is — all dark and noisy and windy. I had my hat pulled down and my scarf up to my eyes. I simply stood with my back half turned to that platform looking out at the side.”
“How long was it before we got to the last station— Ohakune?”
“I should think about half an hour.”
“What time was it,” Alleyn asked Hambledon, “when I woke up and we began to talk? I looked at my watch, do you remember?”
“It was ten past two. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. We got to Ohakune at two-forty-five.”
Hambledon glanced sharply at Alleyn. Carolyn yawned extensively and began to look pathetic.
“I’m sure you are longing for your beds,” said Alleyn. “Come on, Hambledon.”
He got up and was about to say good night when there was a bang at the door.
“Mercy!” said Carolyn. “What now? Surely they can’t want to punch more holes in our tickets. Come in!” Valerie Gaynes burst into the little sleeper. She was dressed in a shiny trousered garment, covered with a brilliant robe, and looked like an advertisement for negligées in an expensive magazine. She made a little rush at Carolyn, waving her hands.
“I heard you talking and I simply
had
to come in. Please forgive me, darling Miss Dacres, but something rather awful has happened.”
“I know,” said Carolyn promptly, “you have been kicked by a drunken footballer.”
Miss Gaynes stared at her.
“But why—? No. It’s something rather awkward. I’ve — I’ve been robbed.”
“Robbed? Pooh darling, this is a most extraordinary train. Do you hear what she says?”
“Isn’t it too frightful? You see, after I had gone to bed—”
“Valerie,” interrupted Carolyn. “You do know Mr. Alleyn, don’t you? It appears he is a famous detective so he will be able to recover your jewels when he has caught Pooh’s murderer. Really, it is very lucky you decided to come to New Zealand, Mr. Alleyn.”
“I am glad you think so,” said Alleyn tonelessly. “I’d be extremely grateful,” he added, “if you kept my occupation a secret. Life’s not worth living if one’s travelling companions know one is a C.I.D. man.”
“Of course we will. It will be so much easier for you to discover Valerie’s jewels if you’re incog, won’t it?”
“It’s not jewels, it’s money,” began Miss Gaynes. “It’s quite a lot of money. You see, daddy gave me some English notes to change when I got to New Zealand because of the exchange, and I kept some of them out for the ship, and gave some of them to the purser, and the night before we landed I got them from the purser and — and — they were all right, and I–I—”
“Have some brandy?” invited Carolyn suddenly.
“Thank you. Daddy will be simply livid about it. You see, I can’t remember when I last noticed I still had them. It’s all terribly confusing. I put them in a leather folder thing in my suit-case when I got them from the purser.”
“That was a damn’ silly thing to do,” said Mr. Meyer gloomily.
“I suppose it was, but I’m awful about money.
Such
a fool. And, you see, this morning, before I shut the suit-case, I felt the folder and it rustled, so I thought, well, that’s all right. And then, just now, I couldn’t sleep in this frightful train so I thought I’d write a letter, and I got out the folder and it was full of paper.”
“What sort of paper?” asked Carolyn, sleepily.
“Well, that’s what makes me wonder if it’s just a low joke someone’s played on me.”
“Why?” asked Alleyn.
“Oh!” said Miss Gaynes impatiently, “you must be
too
pure and clean-minded at Scotland Yard.”
Hambledon murmured something to Alleyn who said: “Oh, I see.”
“It was the brand they had in the ship. I noticed that. I call that pretty good, don’t you? I mean, to notice that. Do you think I’d make a sleuthess, Mr. Alleyn? No, but really, isn’t it a bore?
What
ought I to do? Of course I’ve got a letter of credit for Middleton, but after all one doesn’t like being burgled.”
“Did you look at your folder, or whatever it was, after breakfast this morning?” asked Meyer suddenly.
“Er — no. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Why?”
“How much was in it?”
“I’m not sure. Let me think. I used four — no, five pounds, for tips and then I paid Frankie ten that I lost at—”
She stopped short, and a kind of blankness came into her eyes.
“Oh, what’s the use, anyway,” she said. “I suppose it was about ninety pounds. It’s gone. And that’s that. I mustn’t keep you up, darling Miss Dacres.”
She made for the door. Alleyn opened it.
“If you would like to let me see the leather case—” he said.
“Too sweet of you, but honestly I’m afraid the money’s gone for good.”
“Well, I should let him see it,” said Carolyn, vaguely. “He may be able to trace it directly to the murderous footballer.”
“
What
murderous footballer?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning, Valerie. Good night. I’m so sorry about your money, but Mr. Alleyn will find it for you as soon as he has time. We’ve all had quite enough excitement for one night. Let us curl up in our horrid little sleepers.”
“Good night,” said Miss Gaynes and went out.
Alleyn looked at Carolyn Dacres. She had shut her eyes as soon as Valerie Gaynes had gone. She now opened one of them. It was a large, carefully made-up eye, and it was fixed on Alleyn.
“Good night, Carol,” said Hambledon. “ ’Night, Alf. Hope you get some sleep. Not much of the night left for it. Don’t worry too much about your adventure.”
“Sleep!” ejaculated Mr. Meyer. “Worry! We get to Middleton in an hour. Scarcely worth trying. I can’t lie down with any hope of comfort and
you’d
worry if someone tried to kick you off a train on the top of a mountain.”
