Ngaio Marsh - A Wreath for Rivera

Carlisle, absorbed as usual with detail, watched the mannerisms of her companions through an increasing haze of sleepiness and was only half aware of what they said. Ned Manx listened sharply as if he tried to memorize all that he heard. Lord Pastern was never still. He would throw himself into a chair with an air of abandon and in a moment spring from it and walk aimlessly about the room. He looked with distaste at the speaker of the moment. He grimaced and interjected. At one side, removed from the two main groups, stood Caesar Bonn and the secretary, David Hahn. These two were watchful and pallid. Out of sight, in the main office, Dr. Curtis, having seen to the removal of Rivera’s body, jotted down notes for his report.

In the centre of the foyer, Inspector Fox sat at a small table with his notebook open before him and his spectacles on his nose. His feet rested side by side on the carpet and his large knees were pressed together. He contemplated his notes with raised eyebrows.

Behind Fox stood Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, and to him the attention of the company, in some cases fitfully, in others constantly, was drawn. He had been speaking for about a minute. Carlisle, though she tried to listen to the sense of his words, caught herself thinking how deep his voice was and how free from mannerisms his habit of speech. “A pleasant chap,” she thought, and knew by the small affirmative noise Ned Manx made when Alleyn paused that he agreed with her.

“… so you see,” Alleyn was saying now, “that a certain amount of ground must be covered here and that we must ask you to stay until it has been covered. That can’t be helped.”

“Damned if I see…” Lord Pastern began and fetched up short “What’s your name?” he said. Alleyn told him. “I thought so,” said Lord Pastern with an air of having found him out in something. “Point is: are you suggestin’ I dug a dart in the chap or aren’t you? Come on.”

“It doesn’t, at the moment, seem to be a question, as far as you are concerned, sir, of digging.”

“Well, shootin’ then. Don’t split straws.”

“One may as well,” Alleyn said mildly, “be accurate.”

He turned aside to Fox’s case, which lay on a table. From it he took an open box containing the weapon that had killed Rivera. He held the box up, tilting it towards them.

“Will you look at this?” They looked at it “Do any of you recognize it? Lady Pastern?”

She had made an inarticulate sound, but now she said indifferently: “It looks like part of a parasol handle.”

“A black and white parasol?” Alleyn suggested and one of the saxophonists looked up quickly.

“Possibly,” said Lady Pastern. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be an ass, C,” said her husband. “Obviously it’s off that French thing of yours. We borrowed it.”

“You had no right whatever, George…”

Alleyn interrupted. “We’ve found that one of the parasols used in the Umbrella Man number is minus a few inches of its shaft.” He glanced at the second saxophonist. “I think you had some difficulty in managing it?”

“That’s right,” the second saxophonist said. “You couldn’t shut it properly, I noticed. There wasn’t a clip or anything.”

“This is it: five inches of the shaft containing the clip. Notice that spring catch. It is jewelled. Originally, of course, it kept the parasol closed. The actual handle or knob on its own piece of shaft has been engaged with the main shaft of the parasol. Can you describe it?” He looked at Lady Pastern, who said nothing. Lord Pastern said: “Of course you can, G. A damn-fool thing like a bird with emeralds for eyes. French.”

“You’re sure of that, sir?”

“Of course I’m sure. Damn it, I took the thing to bits when I was in the ballroom.”

Fox raised his head and stared at Lord Pastern with a sort of incredulous satisfaction. Edward Manx swore under his breath, the women were rigidly horrified.

“I see,” Alleyn said. “When was this?”

“After dinner. Breezy was with me. Weren’t you, Breezy?” Breezy shied violently and then nodded.

“Where did you leave the bits, sir?”

“On the piano. Last I saw of ’em.”

“Why,” Alleyn asked, “did you dismember the parasol?”

“For fun.”

“ Mon dieu, mon dieu ,” Lady Pastern moaned.

“I knew it’d unscrew and I unscrewed it.”

“Thank you,” Alleyn said. “For the benefit of those of you who haven’t examined the parasol closely, I’d better describe it a little more fully. Both ends of this piece of shaft are threaded, one on the outer surface to engage with the top section, the other on the inner surface to receive the main shaft of the parasol. It has been removed and the outer sections screwed together. Now look again at this weapon made from the section that has been removed. You will see that a steel tool has been introduced into this end and sunk in plastic wood. Do any of you recognize this tool? I’ll hold it a little closer. It’s encrusted with blood and a little difficult to see.”

He saw Carlisle’s fingers move on the arms of her chair. He saw Breezy rub the back of his hand across his mouth and Lord Pastern blow out his cheeks. “Rather unusual,” he said, “isn’t it? Wide at the base and tapering. Keen pointed. It might be an embroidery stiletto. I don’t know. Do you recognize it, Lady Pastern?”

“No.”

“Anybody?” Lord Pastern opened his mouth and shut it again. “Well,” Alleyn murmured after a pause. He replaced the box containing the weapon and took up Lord Pastern’s revolver. He turned it over in his hands.

“If that’s the way you chaps go to work,” said Lord Pastern, “I don’t think much of it. That thing may be smothered with finger-prints, for all you know, and you go pawin’ it about.”

“It’s been printed,” Alleyn said without emphasis. He produced a pocket lens and squinted through it down the barrel. “You seem to have given it some rough usage,” he said.

“No, I haven’t,” Lord Pastern countered instantly. “Perfect condition. Always has been.”

“When did you last look down the barrel, sir?”

“Before we came here. In my study, and again in the ballroom. Why?”

“George,” said Lady Pastern. “I suggest for the last time that you send for your solicitor and refuse to answer any questions until he is here.”

“Yes, Cousin George,” Edward murmured. “I honestly think…”

“My solicitor,” Lord Pastern rejoined, “is a snufflin’ old ass. I’m perfectly well able to look after myself, C. What’s all this about my gun?”

“The barrel,” Alleyn said, “is, of course, fouled. That’s from the blank rounds. But under the stain left by the discharges there are some curious marks. Irregular scratches, they seem to be. We’ll have it photographed but I wonder if in the meantime you can offer an explanation?”

“Here,” Lord Pattern ejaculated. “Let me see.”

Alleyn gave him the revolver and lens. Grimacing hideously he pointed the barrel to the light and squinted down it. He made angry noises and little puffing sounds through his lips. He examined the butt through the lens and muttered indistinguishable anathemas. Most unexpectedly, he giggled. Finally he dumped it on the table and blew loudly. “Hanky-panky,” he said briefly and returned to his chair.

“I beg your pardon?”

“When I examined the gun in my study,” Lord Pastern said forcibly, “it was as clean as a whistle. As clean, I repeat, as a whistle. I fired one blank from it in my own house and looked down the barrel afterwards. It was a bit fouled and that was all. All right. There y’are!”

Carlisle, Félicité, Manx and Lady Pastern stirred uneasily. “Uncle George,” Carlisle said. “Please.”