Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

They walked in single file. Alleyn stopped short and held up his hand. He turned and laid his finger on his lips.

Ahead of them, hidden by the bush, someone was speaking.

The voice was so low, so very quiet that it was almost toneless and quite without a personality. It was impossible to catch what was said or guess at who said it.

Alleyn signaled to Troy to stay where she was and himself moved soundlessly along the path. He was drawing closer to the voice. He remembered that at a point opposite the first window of the concert chamber there was a garden seat, and he fancied the speaker might be sitting on it. He moved on and in another moment or two realized that he should be able to make out the sense of what was said and then that it was said in Italian. At first the phrases slid past incomprehensibly and then he began to tune in.

“— I have acted in this way because of what is being— hinted — suggested by you. All of you. And because when these policemen come you may try —”

Alleyn lost the next phrase or two. There were gaps as if the speaker paused for a reply and none was forthcoming. The voice was raised “— this is why — I have anticipated — I warn you — can go further and if necessary I will. Now. How do you answer? You understand, do you not? I mean what I say? I will act as I have said? Very well. Your answer? Speak up. I cannot hear you .”

Nor could Alleyn. There had been some sort of reply— breathy — short — incomprehensible.

“ I am waiting .”

Into the silence that followed a bell-bird, close at hand, dropped his clear remark ending with a derisive clatter. Then followed, scarcely perceptible, a disturbance, an intrusion, nowhere — somewhere— coming closer and louder: the commonplace beat of a helicopter.

Inside the house a man shouted. Windows were thrown open.

“ Il elicottero !” exclaimed the voice. There was a stifled response from his companion and sounds of rapid retreat.

“Here are the cops, darling!” said Alleyn.

“Rapture! Rapture! I suppose,” said Troy. “Will you go and meet them?”

“It may be a case of joining in the rush, but yes, I think I’d better.”

“Rory — what’ll be the drill?”

“Unusual, to say the least. I suppose I introduce them to Reece unless he’s already introduced himself, and when that’s effected I’ll hand over my file and remain on tap for questioning.”

“Will you use the studio?”

“I’d prefer the study, but doubt if we’ll get it. Look, my love, after lunch will you take to the studio if it’s available? Or if you can’t stand that anymore, our room? I know you must have had them both, but perhaps you might suffer them again, for a bit. Carmichael will look in and so will I, of course, but I don’t know—”

“I’ll be as right as rain. I might even try a few tentative notes—”

“Might you? Truly? Marvelous,” he said. “I’ll see you round to the front of the house.”

Their path took a right turn through the bush and came out beyond the garden seat. On the gravel walk in front of the house stood Maria with her arms folded, a black shawl over her head, staring up at the helicopter, now close overhead and deafening.

“Good morning, Maria,” Alleyn shouted, cheerfully. “Here are the police.”

She glowered.

“I have been meaning to speak to you: when they have completed their examination, I think you’ll be permitted to perform your office. I shall recommend that you are.”

She stared balefully at him from under her heavy brows. Her lips formed a soundless acknowledgment: “ Grazie tante .”

Hanley came running out of the house, pulling on a jacket over his sweater.

“Oh, hul- lo , Mr. Alleyn,” he cried. “Thank goodness. I’m the Official Welcome. The Boss Man told me to collect you and here you are. Ben’ troveto , if that’s what they say. You will come, won’t you? I thought he ought to be there in person but no, he’s receiving them in the library. You haven’t seen the library have you, Mrs. Alleyn? My dear, smothered in synthetic leather. Look! That contraption’s alighting! Do let us hurry.”

Troy went up the front steps to the house. Signor Lattienzo was there, having apparently stepped out of the entrance. Alleyn saw him greet her with his usual exuberance. She waved.

“Mr. Alleyn, please !” cried the distracted Hanley and led the way at a canter.

They arrived at the clearing as the helicopter landed and were raked with the unnatural gale from its propeller. Hanley let out an exasperated screech and clutched his blond hair. The engine stopped.

In the silence that followed, Alleyn felt as if he was involved in some Stoppard-like time slip and was back suddenly in the middle of a routine job. The three men who climbed out of the helicopter wore so unmistakably the marks of their calling, townish suits on large heavily muscled bodies, felt hats, sober shirts and ties. Sharp eyes and an indescribable air of taking over. Their equipment was handed down: cases and a camera. The fourth man who followed was slight, tweedy, and preoccupied. He carried a professional bag. Police surgeon, thought Alleyn.

The largest of the men advanced to Alleyn.

“Chief Superintendent Alleyn?” the large man said. “Hazelmere. Very glad indeed to see you, sir. Meet Dr. Winslow. Detective Sergeant Franks, Detective Sergeant Barker.”

Alleyn shook hands. The police all had enormous hands and excruciating grips and prolonged the ceremony with great warmth.

“I understand you’ve had a spot of bother,” said Inspector Hazelmere.

“If I may butt in,” Hanley said anxiously. “Inspector, Mr. Reece hopes—” and he delivered his invitation to the library.

“Very kind, I’m sure,” acknowledged Hazelmere. “You’ll be his secretary, sir? Mr. Hanley? Is that correct? Well now, if it’s all the same to Mr. Reece, I think it might be best if we took a look at the scene of the fatality. And if the Chief Superintendent would be kind enough to accompany us, he can put us in the picture, which will save a lot of time and trouble when we see Mr. Reece.”

“Oh,” said Hanley. “Oh, yes. I see. Well”—he threw a troubled glance at Alleyn—“if Mr. Alleyn will—”

“Yes, of course,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. Well, I’ll just convey your message to Mr. Reece. I’m sure he’ll understand,” said Hanley uneasily.

“I suggest,” said Alleyn, “that you might ask Dr. Carmichael to join us. I’m sure Dr. Winslow would be glad to see him.”

“Are you? Yes. Of course.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Hanley,” said Hazelmere, blandly dismissive.

Hanley hesitated for a second or two, said, “Yes, well—” again, and set off for the house.

Alleyn said: “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. You’ll understand what a tricky position I’ve been in. No official authority but expected to behave like everybody’s idea of an infallible sleuth.”

“Is that a fact, sir?” said Mr. Hazelmere. He then paid Alleyn some rather toneless compliments, fetching up with the remark that he knew nothing beyond the information conveyed by Les, the launch man, over a storm-battered telephone line, that a lady had been, as he put it, made away with and could they now view the remains and would Alleyn be kind enough to put them in the picture.

So Alleyn led them into the house and up to the first landing. He was careful, with suitable encomiums, to introduce Bert, who was laconic and removed his two armchairs from their barrier-like position before the door. Dr. Carmichael arrived and was presented, Alleyn unlocked the door, and they all went into the room.