Ngaio Marsh - A Wreath for Rivera

He had folded his overcoat neatly over the back of his chair. He now sat down, his knees apart, his spectacles adjusted, his notebook flattened out on the table. “If I may trouble you, Doctor,” he said. “In your own words, as we say.”

Dr. Allington fitted his glass in position and looked apologetic. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be a success,” he said. “To be quite frank, Inspector, I was more interested in my guest than in the entertainment. And, by the way, I’d like to make my apologies to her as soon as possible. She must be wondering where the devil I’ve got to.”

“If you care to write a note, sir, we’ll give it to one of the waiters.”

“What? Oh, all right,” said Dr. Allington fretfully. A note was taken out by Thompson. Through the opened door they caught a glimpse of a dejected group in the main office. Lord Pastern’s voice, caught midway in a sentence, said shrilly: “… entirely the wrong way about it. Making a mess, as usual…” and was shut off by the door.

“Yes, Doctor?” said Fox placidly.

“Oh God, they were doing some kind of idiotic turn. We were talking and I didn’t pay much attention except to say it was a pretty poor show, old Pastern making an ass of himself. This chap, here” — he looked distastefully at the body — “came out from the far end of the restaurant and made a hell of a noise on his concertina or whatever it is, and there was a terrific bang. I looked up and saw old Pastern with a gun of some sort in his hand. This chap did a fall, the conductor dropped a wreath on him and then he was carried out. About three minutes later they sent for me.”

“I’ll just get that down, if you please,” said Fox. With raised eyebrows and breathing through his mouth, he wrote at a steady pace. “Yes,” he said comfortably, “and how far, Doctor, would you say his lordship was from the deceased when he fired?”

“Quite close. I don’t know. Between five and seven feet. I don’t know.”

“Did you notice the deceased’s behaviour, sir, immediately after the shot was fired? I mean, did it strike you there was anything wrong?”

Dr. Allington looked impatiently at the door. “Strike me!” he repeated. “I wasn’t struck by anything in particular. I looked up when the gun went off. I think it occurred to me that he did a very clever fall. He was a pretty ghastly-looking job of work, all hair oil and teeth.”

“Would you say…” Fox began and was interrupted.

“I really wouldn’t say anything, Inspector. I’ve given you my opinion from the time I examined the poor devil… To go any further would be unprofessional and stupid. I simply wasn’t watching and therefore don’t remember. You’d better find somebody who did watch and does remember.”

Fox had raised his head and now looked beyond Dr. Allington to the door. His hand was poised motionless over his notebook. His jaw had dropped. Dr. Allington slewed round and was confronted with a very tall dark man in evening dress.

“I was watching,” said this person, “and I think I remember. Shall I try, Inspector?”

“Good Lor’!” Fox said heavily and rose. “Well, thank you, Dr. Allington,” he said. “I’ll have a typed statement sent round to you to-morrow. Would you be good enough to read it through and sign it if it’s in order? We’ll want you for the inquest, if you please.”

“All right. Thanks,” said Dr. Allington, making for the door, which the newcomer opened. “Thanks,” he repeated. “Hope you make a better fist of it than I did, what?”

“Most unlikely, I’m afraid,” the other rejoined pleasantly and closed the door after him. “You’re in for a party, Fox,” he said, and walked over to the body. Bailey, the finger-print expert, said, “Good evening, sir,” and moved away, grinning.

“ If I may ask, sir,” said Fox, “how do you come to be in on it?”

“May I not take mine ease in mine restaurant with mine wife? Shall there be no more cakes and ale? None for you, at all events, you poor chap,” he said, bending over Rivera. “You haven’t got the thing out yet, I see, Fox.”

“It’s been dabbed and photographed. It can come out.”

Fox knelt down. His hand wrapped in his handkerchief closed round the object that protruded from Rivera’s chest. It turned with difficulty. “Tight,” he said.

“Let me look, may I?”

Fox drew back. The other knelt beside him. “But what is it?” he said. “Not an orthodox dart. There’s thread at the top. It’s been unscrewed from something. Black. Silver-mounted. Ebony, I fancy. Or a dark bronze. What the devil is it? Try again, Fox.”

Fox tried again. He twisted. Under the wet silk the wound opened slightly. He pulled steadily. With a jerk and a slight but horrible sound, the weapon was released. Fox laid it on the floor and opened out the handkerchief. Bailey clicked his tongue.

Fox said: “Will you look at that. Good Lord, what a set-up! It’s a bit of an umbrella shaft, turned into a dart or bolt.”

“A black and white parasol,” said his companion. Fox looked up quickly but said nothing. “Yes. There’s the spring clip, you see. That’s why it wouldn’t come out readily. An elaborate affair, almost a museum piece. The clip’s got tiny jewels in it. And, look, Fox.”

He pointed a long finger. Protruding from one end was a steel, about two inches long, wide at the base and tapering sharply to a point. “It looks like some awl or a stiletto. Probably it was originally sunk in a short handle. It’s been driven into one end of this bit of parasol shaft and sealed up somehow. Plastic wood, I fancy. The end of the piece of shaft, you see, was hollow. Probably the longer section of the parasol screwed into it and a knob or handle of some kind, in turn, was screwed on the opposite end.” He took out his notebook and made a rapid sketch which he showed to Fox. “Like this,” he said. “It’ll be a freak of a parasol. French, I should think. I remember seeing them in the enclosure at Longchamps when I was a boy. The shaft’s so thin that they have to put a separate section in to take the slip and groove. This is the section. But why in the name of high fantasy use a bit of parasol shaft as a sort of dagger?”

“We’ll have another shot of this, Thompson.” Fox rose stiffly and after a long pause said: “Where were you sitting, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Next door to the Pastern party. A few yards off the dais.”

“What a bit of luck,” said Fox simply.

“Don’t be too sure,” rejoined Chief Inspector Alleyn. He sat on the table and lit a cigarette. “This is no doubt a delicate situation, Br’er Fox. I mustn’t butt in on your job, you know.”

Fox made a short derisive noise. “You’ll take over, sir, of course.”

“I can at least make my report. I’d better warn you at the outset, I was watching that extraordinary chap Pastern most of the time. What a queer cup of tea it is, to be sure.”

“I suppose,” said Fox stolidly, “you’ll be telling me, sir, that you were his fag at Eton.”

Alleyn grinned at this jibe. “If I had been I should probably have spent the rest of my life in a lunatic asylum. No, I was going to say that I watched to the exclusion of the others. I noticed, for instance, that he really pointed his gun — a revolver of some sort — at this man and that he stood not more than seven feet off him when he did it.”

“This is more like it,” Fox said and reopened his book. “You don’t mind, Mr. Alleyn?” he added primly.

Alleyn said: “You’re gloating over this, aren’t you? Very well. They did a damn’ silly turn, revolving umbrellas and parasols like a bunch of superannuated chorus girls, and I noticed that one parasol, a very pansy Frenchified affair of black and white lace, seemed to be giving trouble. The chap had to shove his hand up to hold it.”