Ngaio Marsh - Last Ditch

“Am I to hear what it is?”

“It’s a picture postcard of the Montjoy hotel. Someone has written in a teeny-weeny hand: ‘Picked up in street’ and it’s very grubby. It says ‘Everything OK. Writing. L.,’ and it’s addressed, of course, to Carla: Would you like to know how we interpret it?”

“Very much.”

“We think Louis has flown to Peru. I, for one, hope he stays there and so I bet, between you and me and the gatepost, does Carlotta. He was becoming altogether too difficile . But wasn’t it kind of whoever it was to fish the card out of some gutter and pop it in the post?”

“Very kind. Can you read the postmark? The time?”

“Wait a sec. No, I can’t. There’s muddy smudge all over it.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“Not,” said Julia promptly, “if it’ll help you haul him back. But we thought it only fair to let you know about it.”

“Thank you,” Alleyn said.

“So we’re all feeling relieved and in good heart for Mr. Harkness’s party tomorrow. I suppose poorest Ricky won’t attend, will he? How boring for him to be in hospital. We’re going to see him. After the party so as to tell him all about it. He’s allowed visitors, I hope?”

“Oh yes. His mother’s arriving today.”

“Troy! But how too exciting! Jasper ” screamed Julia. “Troy’s coming to see Ricky.” Alleyn heard Jasper exclaiming buoyantly in the background.

“I must go, I’m afraid,” Alleyn said into the receiver. “Thank you for telling me about the postcard.”

“You aren’t at all huffy, I suppose? You sound like Ricky when he’s huffy.”

“A fat lot of good it would do me if I was. Oh, by the way, does Mrs. Ferrant do your laundry?”

“The fine things. Tarty blouses. Frills and pleats. Special undies. She’s a wizard with the iron. Like Mrs. Tiggywinkle. Why?”

“Does she collect and deliver?”

“We usually drop and collect. Why?”

“I must fly. Thank you so much.”

“Wait a bit. Do you suppose Louis dropped the postcard on purpose so that we wouldn’t get it until he’d skedaddled?”

“The idea does occur, doesn’t it? Goodbye.” On the way to the cove he reflected that a great many people in the Pharamonds’ boots would be secretly enchanted to get rid of Louis but only the Pharamonds would loudly say so.

ii

“First stop, Madame Ferrant,” said Alleyn as they drove into Deep Cove. “I want you both to come in with me. I don’t fancy the lady is easily unseated but we’ll give it a go.”

She opened the door to them. Her head was neatly tied up in a black handkerchief. She was implacably aproned and her sleeves were rolled up. Her face, normally sallow, was perhaps more so than usual and this circumstance lent emphasis to her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said.

Alleyn introduced Fox and produced the ostensible reason for the call. He would pack up his son’s effects and, of course, settle his bill. Perhaps she would be kind enough to make it out.

“It is already prepared,” said Mrs. Ferrant and showed them into the parlor. She opened a drawer in a small bureau and produced her account. Alleyn paid and she receipted it.

“Madame will understand,” Alleyn said in French, “that under the circumstances it would regrettably be unsuitable for my son to remain.”

“ Parfaitement ,” said Mrs. Ferrant.

“Especially since the injuries from which he suffers were inflicted by madame’s husband.”

Not a muscle of her face moved.

“You have, of course,” Alleyn went on, changing to English, “been informed of his arrest. You will probably be required to come before the court on Monday.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Nevertheless, madame, you will be required to attend.”

She slightly inclined her head.

“In the meantime, if you wish to see your husband you will be permitted to do so.”

“I have no desire to see him.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I should perhaps explain that although he has been arrested on a charge of assault there may well follow a much graver accusation: trading in illicit drugs.”

“As to that, it appears to me to be absurd,” said Mrs. Ferrant.

“Oh, madame, I think not. May I remind you of your son’s errands last night? To and from the premises occupied by Sydney Jones? Where your husband and Jones handled a consignment of heroin and where, with your connivance, they planned their escape?”

“I know nothing of all this. Nothing. My boy is a mere child.”

“In years, no doubt,” said Alleyn politely.

She remained stony.

“Tell me,” Alleyn said, “how long have you known the real object of your husband’s trips to Marseilles and the Côte d’Azur?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are they for pleasure? Do you accompany him?”

She gave a slight snort.

“A little romance, perhaps?”

She looked disgusted.

“To take a job?”

She was silent.

“Plumbing?” Alleyn hinted, and after another fruitless pause: “Ah, well, at least he sends postcards. To let you know where he is to be found if anything urgent crops up, no doubt.”

She began to count the money he had put on the table.

“There is another small matter,” he said, “on which I think you can help us. Will you be so kind as to carry your memory back to the day on which Dulcie Harkness was murdered.”

She put her hands behind her back — suddenly, as if to hide them — and made to adjust her apron strings. “Murdered?” she said. “There has been no talk of murder.”

“There has, however, been talk. On that day, late in the morning, did you and your husband visit Leathers?”

Her mouth was a tight line, locked across her face.

“Madame,” said Alleyn, “why are you so unwilling to speak? It may be I should not have used the word you object to. It may be that the ‘accident’ was an accident. In order to settle it, either way, we welcome any information, however trivial, about the situation at Leathers on that morning. We understand you and your husband called there. Why should you make such a great matter of this visit? Was it connected with your husband’s business activities abroad?”

A metaphysician might, however fancifully, have said of Mrs. Ferrant that her body, at this moment, “thought,” so still did she hold it and so deeply did it breathe. Alleyn saw the pulse beating at the base of her neck. He wondered if there was to be a sudden rage.

But no: she unlocked her mouth and achieved composure.

“I am sorry,” she said. “You will understand that I have had a shock and am, perhaps, not quite myself. It is a matter of distress to me that my husband is in trouble.”

“But of course.”

“As for this other affair: yes, we called at Leathers on the morning you speak of. My husband had been asked to do a job there — a leaking pipe I think he said it was, and had called to say that he could not undertake it at that time.”

“You saw Mr. Harkness?”

“I remained in the car. My husband may have seen him. But I think not.”

“Did you see Sydney Jones?”

“Him! He was there. There was some talk about a quarrel between Harkness and the girl.” Her eyes slid around at him. “Perhaps it is Harkness to whom you should speak.”

“Do you remember if there were any horses in the stables?”

“I did not see. I did not notice the stables.”

“Or in the horse paddock? Or on the distant hillside?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“What time was it?”

“Possibly about ten-thirty. Perhaps later.”

“Had you been anywhere else that morning?”