Ngaio Marsh - Clutch of Constables

“You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you? Nobody to leave the Zodiac .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s your nearest support?”

“T’other bank, sir.”

“And then?”

This side, up beyond Wapentake Pot at th’ crossroads. T’other side, sir, above pub at main road crossing.”

“Yes. Well, you’d better keep well down by the craft, with this mist rising. The Skipper’s putting her in the lock before long. If there’s an attempt you should be able to spot it. If anyone tries to come ashore, order them back and if they try to bolt, get them.”

“Sir.”

“Watch it, now.”

“Sir.”

“A dull-sounding chap,” Alleyn muttered.

They climbed up to the road and crossed the main bridge below the lock to the left bank. The formless voice of the weir obliterated other sounds. Blown flecks of detergent mingled with the rising mist.

“We’ll have a bloody tiresome drive back to Toll’ark, if this is the form. Where’s that car? And where—oh—here you are.”

Thompson and Bailey loomed up. They’d completed their job along the riverside and were told to come back to Tollardwark. The London police car gave a discreet hoot and turned on its fog lamps. They piled into it. Alleyn called up Tollardwark on the sound system and spoke to Tillottson. ”

“They won’t talk,” Tillottson said. “Not a peep out of them.”

“We’re on our way. I hope. Over and out.”

The local man gave them a lead on his motor-bike. When they reached the crest of the hill they found the mist had not risen to that level. The man at the crossroads flashed his torch, they turned into the main road and in eight minutes arrived once again at Tollardwark.

In the office where Troy had first encountered Mr Tillottson, he sat behind his desk with a telephone receiver at his ear and a note pad under his hand. He repeated everything that was said to him, partly, it seemed for accuracy’s sake and partly for Alleyn’s information.

“Ta,” he said and signalled to Alleyn, “Yes, ta. Mind repeating that? Description tallies with that of ‘Dinky Dickson’, con man 1964. Sus. drug contact Kings Cross, Sydney. Place of origin unknown but claims to be Australian. Believed to be—Here! What’s that? Oh! Oh, I get you! Unfrocked clergyman. Australian police got nothing on him since May ’67 when heavy sus. drug racket but no hard proof. Very plausible type. Ta. And the US lot? Two hundred and seven left-ear-deficients on FBI records. No Hewsons. Might be Deafy Ed Moran, big-time fix, heroin, Chicago, undercover picture-dealing. Expatriated Briton but speaks with strong US accent. Sister works with him; homely, middle-aged, usually known as Sis. No convictions since 1960 but heavy sus., Foljambe—here, wait a sec. This is important — heavy sus., Foljambe-accomplice. Message ends. Ta. What about Pollock, then? Anything come through? Pardon?”

Mr Tillottson’s pen hovered anxiously. “Pardon?” he repeated. “Oh. Wait a wee, till I get it down. One time commercial artist. No present known occupation but owns property, is in the money and living well. Nothing in Records? O.K? And the other two? Natouche and Bard? Nothing. What’s that? Yes, we’ve got that stuff about his practice in Liverpool. What? Laurenson and Busby, London? Tutorial Service? Spends his vacations chasing butterflies. Known to who ? British Lepi — Oh. Given his name to what ? Spell it out. L.A.P.A.Z.B.A.R.D.I.I. What’s that when it’s at home? A butterfly ? Ta. Yes. Yes. Mr Alleyn’s come in. I’ll tell him, then. Thanks.”

Alleyn said: “Don’t hang up. Let me have a word.” He took the receiver. “Alleyn here,” he said. “Look, I heard all that but I’d like men to call immediately at all the addresses. Yes. Liverpool, too. Yes, I know. Yes, but nevertheless—right. And ring us back, will you? Yes.”

He hung up. “Well, Bert,” he said, “what have you got in your back parlour? Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Better see this first, hadn’t you?”

Tillottson unlocked a wall safe and from it took an object like a miniature pudding tied up in chamois leather and attached to a cord. “I haven’t opened it, ” he said.

Alleyn opened it, cautiously. “Good God!” he said.

There it lay, on a police officer’s desk in an English market town: an exotic if ever there was one: a turquoise enamel ovoid, starred with diamonds and girt with twelve minuscule figures decked out in emeralds and rubies and pearls, all dancing in order round their jewelled firmament. Aries, Taurus, Gemini—. “The old gang,” Alleyn said. “It’s an Easter egg by Fabergé, Fox, and the gift of an Emperor. And now—what a descent!—we’ve got to try it for dabs.” He looked at Thompson and Bailey. “Job for you,” he said.

“Do you mean to say she charged about the place with this thing hung round her neck!” Fox exclaimed. “It must be worth a fortune. And it’s uncommonly pretty,” he added. “Uncommonly so.”

“That, unless we’re on the wrong track altogether, is what the Jampot thought. Go ahead, you two. Dabs and pictures.”

They were about to leave the room when the telephone rang. Tillottson answered it. “You’d better report to Mr Alleyn,” he said. “Hold on.” He held out the receiver. “p.m. result,” he said.

Alleyn listened. “Thank you,” he said. “What we expected.” He hung up. “She didn’t drown, Fox. Pressure on the carotids and vagus nerve. The mixture as before and straight from the Jampot. All right, Bert. Show us your captives.”

They were in the little charge-room, lounging back on a couple of office chairs and chewing gum. They were as Natouche had described them and their behaviour was completely predictable: the quarter sneer, the drooped eyelid, the hunched shoulder and the perpetual complacent chew. The girl, Alleyn thought, looking at her hands, was frightened: the man hid his hands in his pockets and betrayed nothing but his own insolence.

“They’ve been charged,” Tillottson said, “with theft. They won’t make a statement.”

Alleyn said to the young man: “I’m going to put questions to you. You’ve been taken into custody and found to be in possession of a jewel belonging to a lady into whose death we are inquiring. Driving licence?” He looked at Tillottson who slightly nodded. The young man, sketching boredom and impertinence in equal parts, raised his eyebrows, dipped his fingers into a pocket and threw a licence on the table. He opened his mouth, accelerated his chewing and resumed his former pose.

The licence was made out in the name of Albert Bernard Smith and seemed to be in order. It gave an address in Soho. “This will be checked. The night before last,” Alleyn said, “you were on the tow-path at Crossdyke alongside the Zodiac wearing those boots. You had parked your bicycle under a hedge on the left-hand side of the road above the lock. Later that night you were here at Ramsdyke. You arrived here, with a passenger. Not:” he looked at the girl, “this lady. You carried your passenger—a dead weight—” For two seconds the slightly prognathic jaw noticed by Dr Natouche, stopped champing. The girl suddenly re-crossed her legs.

“—a dead weight,” Alleyn repeated, “down to the weir. Her pyjamas caught on a briar. You did what you’d been instructed to do and then picked up your present companion and made off for Carlisle where you arrived yesterday in time to send a telegram to the Skipper of the Zodiac . It was signed Hay Rickerby-Carrick which is not much like Albert Bernard Smith. Having executed this commission you turned south and were picked up by the police at Pontefract.”

The young man yawned widely, displaying the wad of gum on his tongue. He stretched his arms. The girl gave a scarey giggle and clapped her hand over her mouth.