Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“And did you tell him to watch his step?”

“Why,” asked Désirée, “don’t we just let you tell me what I said and leave it at that?”

“Did you tackle him about that boy of yours?”

“All right,” she said, “yes, I did!” And then: “ They didn’t tell you? Andy and the girl? Have you needled it out of them, you cunning fellow?”

“I’m afraid,” Alleyn prevaricated, “they were too far up the lane and much too concerned with each other to be reliable witnesses.”

“So P.P. — ” She leant forward and touched him. “Look,” she said, “I honestly don’t remember what I said to Hal. I’d had one or two little drinks and was a morsel high.” She waited for a moment and then, with a sharpness that she hadn’t exhibited before, said: “If it was a booby-trap, I hadn’t a chance to set it, had I? Not in full view of those two lovebirds.”

“Who told you about the booby-trap?”

“P.P. told Andy, and Andy told me.…And I drove straight here, to Baynesholme, arriving at twenty-five to twelve. The first couple got back soon afterwards. From then on, I was under the closest imaginable observation. Isn’t that what one calls a watertight alibi?”

“’I shall be glad,” Alleyn said, “to have it confirmed. How do you know you got back at 11:35?”

“The clock in the hall. I was watching the time because of the treasure hunt.”

“Who won?”

“Need you ask? The Moppett and her bully. They probably cheated in some way.”

“Really? How, do you suppose?”

“They heard us plotting about the clues in the afternoon. The last one led back to the loo tank in the downstairs cloakroom.”

“Here?”

“That’s right. Most of the others finally guessed it, but they were too late. Andrew and Nicola didn’t even try, I imagine.”

“Any corroborative evidence, do you remember?”

“Of my alibi?”

“Of your alibi,” Alleyn agreed sedately.

“I don’t know. I think I called out something to Bimbo. He might remember.”

“So he might.… About last night’s serenade to your second husband: did you introduce the subject of your son’s inheritance?”

She burst out laughing; she had a loud, formidable laugh like a female Duke of Wellington. “Do you know,” she said, “I believe I did. Something of the sort. Anything to get a rise.”

“He called on you yesterday afternoon, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “About Flash Len and a car. He was in a great taking-on, poor pet.”

“And on that occasion,” Alleyn persisted, “did you introduce the subject of the inheritance?”

“Did we? Yes, so we did. I told Hal I thought he was behaving jolly shabbily, which was no more than God’s truth.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He was too fussed to take proper notice. He just fumed away about the car game.…Your spies have been busy,” she added. “Am I allowed to ask who told you? Wait a bit, though. It must have been Sergeant Noakes. What fun for him.”

“Why was Cartell so set against the picture-gallery idea?”

“My dear, because he was what he was. Fuddy-duddy-plus. It’s a bore, because he’s Andy’s guardian.”

“Any other trustees?”

“Yes. P.P.”

“What does he think?”

“He thinks Andy might grow a beard and turn beat, which he doesn’t dig. Still, I can manage my P.P.…Boo wouldn’t have minded.”

“Boo?”

“Bobo Bantling. My first. Andy’s papa. You knew Boo. Don’t be so stuffy.”

Alleyn, who did in fact remember this singularly ineffectual peer, made no reply.

“ And I may add,” Lady Bantiing said, apparently as an afterthought, “Bimbo considered it a jolly good bet. And he’s got a flair for that sort of thing, Bimbo has. As a matter of fact Bimbo offered—” She broke off and seemed to cock an ear. Alleyn had already heard steps in the hall. “Here, I do believe, he is!” Désirée exclaimed and called out loudly: “Bimbo!”

“Hullo!” said a distant voice, rather crossly.

“Come in here, darling.”

The door opened and Bimbo Dodds came in. Alleyn now remembered where he had seen him.

The recognition, Alleyn felt sure, was mutual, though Bimbo gave no sign of this. They had last met on the occasion of a singularly disreputable turn-up in a small but esoteric night club. There had been a stabbing, subsequent revelations involving a person of consequence, and a general damping-down process ending in a scantily publicized conviction. Benedict Arthur Dodds, Alleyn recollected, had been one of a group of fashionable gentlemen who had an undercover financial interest in the club which had come to an abrupt and discreditable end and an almost immediate reincarnation under another name. Bimbo had appeared briefly in court, stared at coldly by the magistrate, and was lucky to escape the headlines. At the time, Alleyn recollected, Bimbo was stated to be an undischarged bankrupt. It was before his marriage to Désirée.

She introduced them. Bimbo, who had the slightly mottled complexion of a man who has slept heavily in the afternoon, nodded warily and glanced at the tray. His right hand was neatly bandaged and he did not offer it to Alleyn.

“The Super and I, darling,” Désirée said, “are boy-and-girl chums. He was starving and I’ve given him a snack. He’s jolly famous nowadays, so isn’t it nice to have him grilling us?”

“Oh, really?” said Bimbo. “Ha-ha. Yes.”

“You must answer all his questions very carefully because it seems as if Hal was murdered. Imagine!”

Interpreting this speech to be in the nature of a general warning, Alleyn said: “I wonder if I may have a word with you, Mr. Dodds.” And to Désirée: “Thank you so much for my delicious luncheon-without-prejudice.”

For a split second she looked irritated, and then she said: “Not a bit. Do I gather that you want to go into a huddle with my husband?”

“Just a word,” Alleyn said equably, “if we may. Perhaps somewhere else…?”

“Not at all. I’ll go and snip the deadheads off roses- except that there aren’t any roses and it’s the wrong time of the year.”

“Perhaps you could get on with your embroidery,” said Alleyn, and had the satisfaction of seeing her blink.

“Suppose,” she suggested, “that you adjourn to Bimbo’s study. Why not?”

“Why not?” Bimbo echoed, without cordiality.

As Alleyn passed her on his way out, she looked full in his face. It was impossible to interpret her expression, but he’d have taken a long bet that she was worried.

Bimbo’s study turned out to be the usual sporting-print job with inherited classics on the shelves, together with one or two paperbacks looking like Long Acre in its more dubious reaches. Bimbo, whose manner was huffy and remote, said: “This is a very unpleasant sort of thing to happen.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“Anything we can do, of course.”

“Thank you very much. There are one or two points,” Alleyn said without refurbishing the stock phrases, “that I’d like to clear up. It’s simply a matter of elimination, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Naturally,” said Bimbo.

“Well, then. You’ll have heard that Mr. Cartell’s body was found in a trench that has been dug in Green Lane, the lane that runs past Mr. Period’s garden. Did you drive down Green Lane at any time last evening?”

“Ah—” Bimbo said. “Ah — let me think. Yes, I did. When going round the clues.”

He paused while Alleyn reflected that this was a fair enough description of his own preoccupation.

“The clues for the treasure hunt?” he said. “When?”

“That’s right. Oh, I don’t know. About half-past ten. Might be later. I simply drove over the territory to see how they were all getting on.”