Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“Sure?”

“Nobody disturbed me,” Mr. Period said, and looked perfectly wretched.

Alleyn took him back through the day. It was with reluctance that he was brought to admit that Mr. Cartell had entertained his sister and two acquaintances at luncheon. As an afterthought he remarked that Lady Bantling and her son, Andrew Bantling, had been there for drinks.

“Who,” Alleyn asked, “were the acquaintances?” He was told, sketchily, about Mary Ralston, Miss Cartell’s ward, and her friend, Leonard Leiss. At the Yard, Alleyn was often heard to lament the inadequacy of his memory, an affectation which was tolerantly indulged by his colleagues. His memory was in fact like any other senior detective officer’s, very highly trained, and in this instance it at once recalled the paragraph in the Police Gazette of some months ago in which the name and portrait-parlé of Leonard Leiss had appeared, together with an account of his activities — which were varied and dubious. He had started life in Bermondsey, shown some promise, achieved grammar school status and come under the protection of a benevolent spinster whom he subsequently robbed and deserted. This episode was followed by an association with a flick-knife gang and an interval of luxury spent with a lady of greater wealth than discretion and employment as a chauffeur with forged-references. There had been two convictions. Passes himself off , the Police Gazette had concluded, as a person of superior social status .

“Is Mr. Leiss,” Alleyn asked, “a young man of about twenty-seven? Dark, of pale complexion, rather too smartly dressed, and wearing a green ring on the signet finger?”

“Oh, dear!” Mr. Period said helplessly. “I suppose Noakes has told you. Yes. Alas, he is!”

After that it was not hard to induce a general lament upon the regrettability of Leonard. Although Sergeant Noakes had in fact not yet reported the affair of the Scorpion sports car, Mr. Period either took it for granted that he had done so or recognized the inevitability of coming round to it before long. He said enough for Alleyn to get a fair idea of what had happened. Leonard, Mr. Period concluded, was a really rather dreadful young person whom it would be the greatest mistake to encourage.

“When I tell you, my dear fellow, that he leant back in his chair at luncheon and positively whistled! Sang even! I promise. And the girl joined in! A terrible fellow. Poor Connie should have sent him packing at the first glance.”

“Mr. Cartell thought so too, I daresay?”

“Oh, yes!” said Mr. Period, waving it away. “Yes, indeed. Oh, rather!”

“To your knowledge, had he any enemies? That sounds melodramatic, but had he? Or, to put it another way, do you know of anyone to whom he might have done any damage if he had lived?”

There was a long pause. From the lane came the sound of a car in low gear. Alleyn could see through the window that a canvas screen had been erected. His colleagues, evidently, had arrived.

“I’m just trying to think,” said Mr. Period. He turned sheet-white. “Not in the sense you mean. No. Unless — but, no.”

“Unless?”

“You see, Alleyn, one does follow you. One does realize the implication.”

“Naturally,” Alleyn said. “It’s perfectly obvious, I’m sure. If a trap was laid for Mr. Cartell last night, I should like to know if there’s anyone who might have had some motive in laying it.”

“A booby-trap, for instance?” He stared at Alleyn, his rather prominent front teeth closed over his under-lip. “Of course I don’t know what you’ve found. I–I—had to go out there and — and identify him; but frankly, it distressed me very much and I didn’t notice…But — had, for instance, the planks over the ditch — had they been interfered with?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“Oh, my God! I see. Well, then: might it not all have been meant for a joke? A very silly, dangerous one, but still no more than a booby-trap? Um? Some of those young people in the treasure hunt. Yes!” Mr. Period ejaculated. “Now, isn’t that a possibility? Someone had moved the planks and poor Harold fell, you know, and perhaps he knocked himself out and then, while he was lying unconscious, may not a couple — they hunted in couples — have come along and — and inadvertently dislodged the drainpipe?”

“You try dislodging one of those pipes,” Alleyn said. “It could scarcely be done inadvertently, I think.”

“Then — then: even done deliberately out of sheer exuberance and not knowing he was there. A prank! One of those silly pranks. They were a high-spirited lot.”

“I wonder if you can give me their names?”

As most of them had come from the County, Mr. Period was able to do this. He got up to twenty-four, said he thought that was all, and then boggled.

“Was there somebody else?”

“In point of fact — yes. By a piece of what I can only describe, I’m afraid, as sheer effrontery, the wretched Leiss and that tiresome gel, Mary Ralston, got themselves asked. Désirée is quite too hopelessly good-natured. Now he ,” Mr. Period said quickly, “in my opinion, would certainly be capable of going too far— capable de tout . But I shouldn’t say that. No. All the same, Alleyn, an accident resulting from some piece of comparatively innocent horseplay would not be as appalling as — as—”

“As murder?”

Mr. Period flung up his hands. “Alas!” he said. “Yes. Of course, I’ve no real knowledge of how you go to work, but you’ve examined the ground, no doubt. One reads of such astonishing deductions. Perhaps I shouldn’t ask.”

“Why not?” Alleyn said amiably. “The answer’s regrettably simple. At the moment, there are no deductions, only circumstances. And in point of fact there’s nothing, as far as we’ve gone, to contradict your theory of a sort of double-barrelled piece of hooliganism. Somebody gets the enchanting idea of rearranging the planks. Somebody else gets the even more amusing idea of dislodging a main sewer pipe. The victim of the earlier jeu d’esprit , by an unfortunate coincidence, becomes the victim of the second.”

“Of course, if you put it like that…”

“Coincidences do happen with unbelievable frequency. I sometimes think they’re the occupational hazards of policework. So far, for all we’ve seen, there’s no reason to suppose that Mr. Cartell has not been the victim of one of them. Unless,” Alleyn said, “you count this.”

He had a very quick, dexterous way of using his hands. With the least possible amount of fuss he had produced, laid upon Mr. Period’s writing desk and lightly unfolded from his handkerchief, the gold case with a jewelled clasp. “I’m afraid,” he said, “I shall have to keep it for the time being. But can you identify it?”

Mr. Period gave a stifled ejaculation and got to his feet.

At the same moment there was a tap on the door, which at once opened to admit a girl and a tall young man.

“I’m so sorry,” Nicola said, “the front door was open and we thought — I’m awfully sorry.” She stopped short, catching sight of the gold case lying on the handkerchief. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I am glad. Your lovely cigarette case! You’ve found it!”

“Ah — yes,” Mr. Period said with a little gasp. “Yes. It — it would appear so.” He pulled himself’ together. “Nicola, my dear,” he said, “may I introduce—”

“But we’ve met!” Nicola cried. “Often. Haven’t we? I was talking about you only yesterday. Bless my soul,” she added gaily. “Who, to coin a phrase, would have thought of meeting you?”

“To coin another,” Alleyn said mildly, “it’s quite coincidence, isn’t it? Hullo, Nicola.”