Ngaio Marsh - Spinsters in Jeopardy

On the way to the Rue des Violettes he said: “I’m going to stop the car a little way from the house, Troy, and I’m going to ask you to wait in it while I go indoors.”

“Are you? But why? Ricky’s there, isn’t he? We saw him.”

“Yes, we saw him. But I’m not too keen for other people to see us. Cousin Garbel seems to be known, up at the Chèvre d’Argent.”

“But Robin Herrington said he didn’t know him and anyway, according to the card on the flowers, Cousin Garbel’s gone away. That must be what the concierge was trying to tell me. She said he was ‘ pas chez elle. ’ ”

“ ‘ Pas chez soi ’ surely?”

“All right. Yes, of course. I couldn’t really understand her. I don’t understand anything,” Troy said desperately. “I just want to get Ricky.”

“I know, darling. Not more than I do.”

“He didn’t look as if he was in one of his panics. Did he?”

“No.”

“I expect we’ll have a reaction and be furiously snappish with him for frightening us, don’t you?”

“We must learn to master our ugly tempers,” he said, smiling at her.

“Rory, he will be there still? He won’t have gone?”

“It’s only ten minutes ago that we saw him on a sixth floor balcony.”

“Was she a fat shiny woman who led him in?”

“I hadn’t got the glasses. I couldn’t spot the shine with the naked eye.”

“I didn’t like the concierge. Ricky would hate her.”

“That is the street, Monsieur,” said Raoul. “At the intersection.”

“Good. Draw up here by the kerb. I don’t want to frighten Madame, but I think all may not be well with the small one whom we have seen on the balcony at Number 16. If anyone were to leave by the back or side of the house, Raoul, would they have to come this way from that narrow side-street and pass this way to get out of Roqueville?”

“This way, Monsieur, either to go east or west out of Roqueville. For the rest there are only other alley-ways with flights of steps that lead nowhere.”

“Then if a car should emerge from behind Number 16 perhaps it may come about that you start your car and your engine stalls and you block the way. In apologizing you would no doubt go up to the other car and look inside. And if the small one were in the car you would not be able to start your own though you would make a great disturbance by leaning on your horn. And by that time, Raoul, it is possible that M. le Commissaire will have arrived in his car. Or that I have come out of Number 16.”

“Aren’t you going, Rory?”

“At once, darling. All right, Raoul?’

“Perfectly, Monsieur.”

Alleyn got out of the car, crossed the intersection, turned right and entered Number 16.

The hall was dark and deserted. He went at once to the lift-well, glanced at the index of names and pressed the call-button.

“Monsieur?” said the concierge, partly opening the door of her cubby-hole.

Alleyn looked beyond the ringed and grimy hand at one beady eye, the flange of a flattened nose and half a grape-coloured mouth.

“Madame,” he said politely and turned back to the lift.

“Monsieur desires?”

“The lift, Madame.”

“To ascend where. Monsieur?”

“To the sixth floor, Madame.”

“To which apartment on the sixth floor?”

“To the principal apartment. With a balcony.”

The lift was wheezing its way down.

“Unfortunately,” said the concierge, “the tenant is absent on vacation. Monsieur would care to leave a message?”

“It is the small boy for whom I have called. The small boy whom Madame has been kind enough to admit to the apartment.”

“Monsieur is mistaken. I have admitted no children. The apartment is locked.”

“Can Nature have been so munificent as to lavish upon us a twin-sister of Madame? If so she has undoubtedly admitted a small boy to the principal apartment on the sixth floor.”

The lift came into sight and stopped. Alleyn opened the door.

“One moment,” said the concierge. He paused. Her hand was withdrawn from the cubby-hole door. She came out, waddling like a duck and bringing a bunch of keys.

“It is not amusing,” she said, “to take a fool’s trip. However, Monsieur shall see for himself.”

They went up in the lift. The concierge quivered slightly and gave out the combined odours of uncleanliness, frangipani, garlic and hot satin. On the sixth floor she opened a door opposite the lift, waddled through it and sat down panting and massively triumphant on a high chair in the middle of a neat and ordered room whose French windows gave on to a balcony.

Alleyn completely disregarded the concierge. He stopped short in the entrance of the room and looked swiftly round it at the dressing-table, the shelf above the wash-basin, the gown hanging on the bed-rail and at the three pairs of shoes set out against the wall. He moved to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Inside it were three sober dresses and a couple of modestly trimmed straw hats. An envelope was lying on the floor of the wardrobe. He stooped down to look at it. It was a business envelope and bore the legend “Compagnie Chimique des Alpes Maritimes.” He read the superscription:

A Mile. Penelope E. Garbel,

16 Rue des Violettes,

Roqueville-de-Sud,

Côte d’Azur

He straightened up, shut the wardrobe door with extreme deliberation and contemplated the concierge, still seated like some obscene goddess, in the middle of the room.

“You disgusting old bag of tripes,” Alleyn said thoughtfully in English, “you little know what a fool I’ve been making of myself.”

And he went out to the balcony.

ii

He stood where so short a time ago he had seen Ricky stand and looked across the intervening rooftops to one that bore a large sign: Hotel Royal. Troy had left the bed-cover hanging over the rail of their balcony.

“A few minutes ago,” Alleyn said, returning to the immovable concierge, “from the Hôtel Royal over there I saw my son who was here, Madame, on this balcony.”

“It would require the eyes of a hawk to recognize a little boy at that distance. Monsieur is mistaken.”

“It required the aid of binoculars and those I had.”

“Possibly the son of the laundress who was on the premises and has now gone.”

“I saw you, Madame, take the hand of my son, who like yourself was clearly recognizable, and lead him indoors.”

“Monsieur is mistaken. I have not left my office since this morning. Monsieur will be good enough to take his departure. I do not insist,” the concierge said magnificently, “upon an apology”

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, taking a mille franc note from his pocket-book, “you will accept this instead.”

He stood well away from her, holding it out. The eyes glistened and the painted lips moved, but she did not rise. For perhaps four seconds they confronted each other. Then she said, “If Monsieur will wait downstairs I shall be pleased to join him. I have another room to visit.”

Alleyn bowed, stooped and pounced. His hand shot along the floor and under the hem of the heavy skirt. She made a short angry noise and tried to trample on the hand. One of her heels caught his wrist.

“Calm yourself, Madame. My intentions are entirely honourable.”

He stepped back neatly and extended his arm, keeping the hand closed.

“A strange egg, Madame Blanche,” Alleyn said, “for a respectable hen to lay.”

He opened his hand. Across the palm lay a little clay goat, painted silver.

iii

From that moment the proceedings in Number 16 Rue des Violettes were remarkable for their unorthodoxy.

Alleyn said: “You have one chance. Where is the boy?”