Ngaio Marsh - Last Ditch

There was no message. Ricky’s manuscript, weighted by a stone, was on his table. A photograph of his parents stared past his father at the empty room. The smell of Ricky, a tweed and shaving-soap smell mixed with his pipe, hung on the air.

“She was lying,” he thought. “He hasn’t gone to Bon Accord. What the hell did he say was the name of that pub, where they lunched?”

“Fisherman’s Rest” clicked up in his police-drilled memory. He returned to the worktable. On a notepad Ricky had written a telephone number and after it L’E.

“He’d not go there,” Alleyn thought. “Or would he? If Julia rang him up? Not without letting me know. But he couldn’t let me know.”

There was more writing — a lot of it — on an underleaf of the notepad. Alleyn saw that it was a quite exhaustive breakdown of the circumstances surrounding Ricky’s experiences before and during his visit to Saint Pierre-des-Roches.

Alleyn momentarily closed his eyes. “Madame F.,” he thought, “has no doubt enjoyed a good read.”

He took down the L’Espérance number and left a message under the stone. “Sorry I missed you, Cid.”

“She’ll read it, of course,” he thought and went downstairs. The kitchen door was ajar and the television silent.

“ Bon soir, madame ,” he called out cheerfully and let himself out.

Back at the police station he rang the Fisherman’s Rest at Bon Accord and to a background of bar conviviality was told that Ricky was not, and had not been, there. Fox, who had yielded to Mrs. Plank’s renewed hospitality, listened with well-controlled consternation.

Alleyn then rang L’Espérance. He was answered by a voice that he recognized as Bruno’s.

“Hullo,” he said. “Alleyn, here. I’m sorry to bother you but is Rick by any chance with you?”

“No, sir, we haven’t seen him since—”

He faded out. Alleyn heard his own name and then, close and unmistakable, Julia’s voice.

“It’s you! What fun. Have you mislaid your son?”

“I seem to have, for the moment.”

“We’ve not seen him since this morning. Could he be hunting you down in your smart hotel? Perhaps he’s met Louis and they’re up to no good in Montjoy.”

“Is Louis in Montjoy?”

“I think so. Carlotta ,” cried Julia musically, “is Louis in Montjoy?” And after a pause, into the receiver: “She doesn’t seem to know.”

“I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“You needn’t be. Quite to the contrary. Hope you find him.”

“I expect I shall,” he said quite gaily. “Good-bye and thank you.”

When he had hung up, he and Fox looked steadily at each other.

Fox said: “There’ll be a simple explanation, of course.”

“If there is,” Alleyn said, “I’ll knock his block off,” and contrived to laugh. “You think of one, Fox,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Such as gone for a walk and sprained an ankle?”

“All right. Yes. That.”

“He wouldn’t be up at Leathers? No. Plank would have said.”

The telephone rang.

“That’ll be Plank,” said Fox and answered it. “Fox here. Yes. Nothing, eh? I’ll ask the Chief.” He looked at Alleyn who, with a most uncharacteristic gesture, passed his hand across his eyes.

“Tell him to — no, wait a moment. Tell them to knock off and report back here. And — you might just ask—”

Fox asked and got the expected reply.

“By God,” said Alleyn. “I wish this hadn’t happened. Damn the boy, I ought to have got him out of it to begin with.”

After a longish pause, Fox said: “I’m not of that opinion, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I don’t mind, Br’er Fox. I hope you’re right.”

“It’ll just turn out he’s taken an extra long walk.”

“You didn’t hear Mrs. Ferrant. I think she knows something.”

“About the young chap?”

“Yes.”

Fox was silent.

“We must, of course, do what we’d do if someone came into the station and reported it,” Alleyn said.

“Tell them to wait,” Fox said promptly. “Give him until it gets dark and then if he hadn’t turned up we’d — well—”

“Set up a search.”

“That’s right,” said Fox uncomfortably.

“In the meantime we’ve got the official search on hand. Did Plank say what he’d beaten up in the way of help?”

“The chaps he’s got with him. A couple of coppers from the Montjoy factory,” said Fox, meaning the police station.

“We’ll take them with us. After all, we don’t know what we’ll find there, do we?” said Alleyn.

i

The thing they got wrong in the gangster films, Ricky thought, was what it did to you being tied up. The film victims, once they were released, did one or two obligatory staggers and then became as nimble as fleas and started fighting again. He knew that when, if ever, he was released, his legs would not support him, his arms would be senseless, and his head so compounded of pain that it would hang down and wobble like a wilted dahlia.

He could not guess how long it was since they gagged him. Jones had made a pad out of rag and Ferrant had forced it between his teeth and bound it with another rag. It tasted of turpentine and stung his cut lip. They had done this when Syd said he’d heard something outside. Ferrant had switched off the light and they were very still until there was a scratching at the door.

“It’s the kid,” Ferrant said.

He opened the door a little way and after a moment shut it again very quietly. Syd switched on the light. Young Louis was there. He wore a black smock like a French schoolboy and a beret. He had a satchel on his back. His stewed-prune eyes stared greedily at Ricky out of a blackened face.

Ferrant held out his hand and Louis put a note in it. Ferrant read it — it was evidently very short — and gave it to Syd.

Louis said: “Papa, he asked me if I could row the boat.”

“Who did?”

“The fuzz. He asked if I was afraid to go out in her at night.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said I wasn’t. I didn’t say anything else, Papa. Honest.”

“By God, you better not.”

“Maman says he’s getting worried about him .” Louis pointed to Ricky. “You got him so he can’t talk, haven’t you, Papa? Have you worked him over? His face looks like you have. What are you going to do with him, Papa?”

“ Tais-toi donc . Keep your tongue behind your teeth. Passe-moi la boustifaille .”

Louis gave him the satchel.

“Good. Now, there is more for you to do. Take this envelope. Do not open it. You see it has his name on it. The detective’s name. Listen carefully. You are to push it under the door at the police station and nobody must see you. Do not put it through the slot. Under the door. Then push the bell and away home quick and silent before the door is opened. Very quick. Very silent. And nobody to see you. Repeat it.”

He did, accurately.

“That is right. Now go.”

“I’ve blacked my face. Like a gunman. So’s nobody can see me.”

“Good. The light, Syd.”

Syd switched it off, and on again when the door was shut.

“Is he safe?” Syd asked.

“Yes. Get on with it.”

“We can’t take—” Syd stopped short and looked at Ricky. “Everything,” he said.

They had paid no attention to him for a long time. It was as if by trussing him up they had turned him into an unthinking as well as an inanimate object.

They had been busy. His chair had been turned away from the table and manhandled excruciatingly to bring him face to the wall. There had been some talk of a blindfold, he thought, but he kept his eyes shut and let his head flop and they left him there, still gagged, and could be heard moving purposefully about the room.