Ngaio Marsh - Spinsters in Jeopardy

It contained rough notes, memoranda and a number of letters, and Alleyn would have given years of routine plodding for the right to put the least of them into his pocket. He found letters from distributors in New York, Cairo, London, Paris and Istanbul, letters that set out modes of conveyance, suggested suitable contacts, gave details of the methods used by other illicit traders and warnings of leakage. He found a list of the guests at the Chèvre d’Argent with Robin Herrington’s name scored under a query beside it.

“ Cette pratique abominable ,” boomed the voice of M. Dupont, warming to its subject, “ cette tache indéracinable sur l’honneur de notre communauté —”

“Boy,” Alleyn muttered in the manner of M. Callard, “you said it.”

He laid on the desk a letter from a wholesale firm dealing in cosmetics in Chicago. It suggested quite blandly that Crème Veloutée in tubes might be a suitable mode of conveyance for diacetylmorphine and complained that the last consignment of calamine lotion had been tampered with in transit and had proved on opening to contain nothing but lotion. It suggested that a certain customs official had set up in business on his own account and had better be dealt with pretty smartly.

Alleyn unshipped from his breast pocket a minute and immensely expensive camera. Groaning to himself he switched on M. Callard’s fluorescent lights.

“— et, Messieurs, Dames, ” thundered the voice of M. Dupont, “ parmi vous, ici, ici, dans cette usine, ce crime dégoûtant a élevé sa tête hideuse .”

Alleyn took four photographs of the letter, replaced it in the folder in its file, relocked the drawer and stowed away his Lilliputian camera. Then, with an ear to M. Dupont, who had evidently arrived at the point where he could not prolong the cackle but must come to the ’osses, Alleyn made notes, lest he should forget them, of points from the other documents. He returned his notebook to his pocket, switched off the loudspeaker and turned to the door.

He found himself face-to-face with M. Callard.

“And what the hell,” M. Callard asked rawly, “do you think you are doing?”

Alleyn took Troy’s gloves from his pocket. “My wife left these in your office. I hope you don’t mind.”

“She did not and I do. I locked this office.”

“If you did someone obviously unlocked it. Perhaps your secretary came back for something.”

“She did not,” said M. Callard punctually. He advanced à step. “Who the hell are you?”

“You know very well who I am. My boy was kidnapped and brought into your premises. You denied it until you were forced to give him up. Your behavior is extremely suspicious, M. Callard, and I shall take the matter up with the appropriate authorities in Paris. I have never,” continued Alleyn, who had decided to lose his temper, “heard such damned impudence in my life! I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt but in view of your extraordinary behavior I am forced to suspect that you are implicated personally in this business. And in the former affair of child-stealing. Undoubtedly in the former affair.”

M. Callard began to shout in French, but Alleyn shouted him down. “You are a child-kidnapper, M. Callard. You speak English like an American. No doubt you have been to America where child-kidnapping is a common racket.”

“ Sacré nom d’un chien —”

“It’s no use talking jargon to me, I don’t understand a bloody word of it. Stand aside and let me out.”

M. Callard’s face was not an expressive one, but Alleyn thought he read incredulity and perhaps relief in it.

“You broke into my office,” M. Callard insisted.

“I did nothing of the sort. Why the hell should I? And pray what have you got in your office,” Alleyn asked as if on a sudden inspiration, “to make you so damned touchy about it? Ransom money?”

“ Imbécile! Sale cochon !”

“Oh, get to hell!” Alleyn said, and advanced upon him. He stood, irresolute, and Alleyn with an expert movement neatly shouldered him aside and went back to the hall.

iv

Dupont saw him come in. Dupont, Alleyn considered, was magnificent. He must have had an appalling job spinning out a short announcement into a fifteen-minute harangue, but he wore the air of an orator in the first flush of his eloquence.

His gaze swept over Alleyn, and round his audience.

“ Eh bien, Messieurs, Dames, chacun à sa tâche. Défilez, s’il vous plaît, devant cette statue.… Rappelez-vous de mes instructions. Milano !”

He signalled magnificently to Raoul, who stationed himself below him, at the base of the statue. Raoul was pale and stood rigid like a man who faces an ordeal. M. Callard appeared through the double doors and watched with a leaden face.

The gendarmes, who had also reappeared, set about the crowd in a business-like manner, herding it to one side and then sending it across in single file in front of Raoul. Alleyn adopted a consequential air and bustled over to Dupont.

“What’s all this, Monsieur?” he asked querulously. “Is it an identification parade? Why haven’t I been informed of the procedure?”

Dupont bent in a placatory manner towards him and Alleyn muttered: “Enough to justify a search,” and then shouted: “I have a right to know what steps are being taken in this affair.”

Dupont spread his blunt hands over Alleyn as if he were blessing him.

“Calm yourself, Monsieur. Everything arranges itself,” he said magnificently and added in French for the benefit of the crowd: “The gentleman is naturally overwrought. Proceed, if you please.”

Black-coated senior executive officers and white-coated chemists advanced, turned and straggled past with dead-pan faces. They were followed by clerks, assistant stenographers and laboratory assistants. One or two looked at Raoul, but by far the greater number kept on without turning their heads. When they had gone past, the gendarmes directed them to the top of the hall where they formed up into lines.

Alleyn watched the thinning ranks of those who were yet to come. At the back, sticking together, were a number of what he supposed to be the lesser fry: cleaners, van-drivers, workers from the canteen and porters. In a group of women he caught sight of one a little taller than the rest. She stood with her back towards the statue and at first he could see only a mass of bronze hair with straggling tendrils against the opulent curve of a full neck. Presently her neighbor gave her a nudge and for a moment she turned. Alleyn saw the satin skin and liquid eyes of a Murillo peasant. She had a brilliant mouth and had caught her under-lip between her teeth. Above her upper lip was a pencilling of hair.

Her face flashed into sight and was at once turned away again with a movement that thrust up her shoulder. It was clad in a black material spattered with a whitish-grey pattern.

Behind the girls was a group of four or five men in labourer’s clothes: boiler-men, perhaps, or outside hands. As the girls hung back, the gendarme in charge of this group sent the men forward. They edged self-consciously past the girls and slouched towards Raoul. The third was a thick-set fellow wearing a tight-fitting short-sleeved vest and carrying a red beret. He walked hard on the heels of the men in front of him and kept his eyes on the ground. He had two long red scratches on the cheek nearest to Raoul. As he passed by, Alleyn looked at Raoul, who swallowed painfully and muttered: “ Voici le type .”

Dupont raised an eyebrow. The gendarme at the top of the room moved out quietly and stationed himself near the men. The girls came forward one by one and Alleyn still watched Raoul. The girl in the black dress with the whitish-grey pattern advanced, turned and went past with averted head. Raoul was silent.