Ngaio Marsh - Died in the Wool

“Eh?”

“I said, that’ll be jake.” The operator’s voice cut in omnipotently. “There you are, Mr. Losse. They’re waiting.”

Sub-Inspector Jackson was not there but P.C. Wetherbridge, who had been detailed to the case in town, answered the telephone and was helpful. “The radio programs for the last week in January, ’42, Mr. Alleyn? I think we can do that for you.”

“For the evening of Thursday the 29th,” Alleyn said, “between eight and nine o’clock. Only stations with good reception in this district.”

“It may take us a wee while, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Of course. Would you tell the exchange at the Pass to keep itself open and call me back?”

“That’ll be O.K., sir.”

“And Wetherbridge. I want you to get hold of Mr. Jackson. Tell him it’s a very long chance, but I may want to bring someone in to the station. I’d very much like a word with him. I think it would be advisable for him to come up here. He asked me to let him know if there were developments. There are. If you can find him, he might come in on the line when you call me back.”

“He’s at home, sir. I’ll ring him. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble over the other call.”

The voice faded, and Alleyn caught only the end of the sentence… “a cobber of mine… all the back numbers… quick as I can make it.”

“Three minutes, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “Will I extend the call?”

“Yes — no! All right, Wetherbridge. Splendid. I’ll wait.”

“Working?” demanded a new voice.

“Like a black,” said Alley crossly, and hung up.

He found Fabian sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, a cigarette in his mouth. He hummed a dreary little air to himself.

“Get through?” he asked.

“They’re going to call me back.”

“If you’re very very lucky. It’ll be some considerable time, at the best, if I know Toll. I’m going up to the workroom. Would you care to join me? You can hear the telephone from there.”

“Right.” Alleyn felt in his breast pocket. “Damn!” he said.

“What’s up?”

“My cigarette case.”

“Did you leave it in the drawing-room?”

“I don’t think so.” He returned to the drawing-room. Its four occupants, who seemed to be about to go to bed, broke off what appeared to be a lively discussion and watched him. The case was not there. Douglas hunted about politely, and Mrs. Aceworthy clucked. While they were at this employment there was a tap on the door and Cliff came in with a rolled periodical in his hand.

“Yes?” said Douglas.

“Dad asked me to bring this in,” said Cliff. “It came up with our mail by mistake. He says he’s sorry.”

“Thank you, Cliff,” they murmured. He shuffled his feet and said awkwardly, “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Cliff,” they said and he went out.

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn said. “I’ve remembered. I left it in the annex. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”

He saw Terence Lynne’s hands check at their work.

“Shall I dodge up and get it?” Douglas offered.

“Not a bit of it, thanks Grace. I’ll do my own tedious job. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get a coat and run up there.”

He returned to the hall. Cliff was in the passage heading to the kitchen. Fabian had gone. Alleyn ran upstairs. A flashlight bobbed in the long passage and came to rest on the workroom door. Fabian’s hand reached out to the lock. “Hi,” Alleyn called down the passage, “you had it.” The light shone in his eyes.”

“What?”

“My cigarette case. You took it away from the unspeakable Albert.”

“Oh, help! I put it on the piano. It’ll be all right.”

“I think I’ll get it. It’s rather special. Troy — my wife — gave it to me.”

“I’ll get it,” Fabian said.

“No, you’re going to work. It won’t take me a moment.”

He got his overcoat from his room. When he came out he found Fabian hovering uncertainly on the landing. “Look here,” he said, “you’d better let me — I mean—”

The telephone in the study gave two long rings. “There’s your call,” Fabian said. “Away with you. Lend me your coat, will you, it’s perishing cold.”

Alleyn threw his coat to him and ran downstairs. As he shut the study door he heard the rest of the party come out of the drawing-room. A moment later the front door banged.

The telephone repeated its double ring.

“There you are, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “We’ve kept open for you. They’re waiting.”

It was P.C. Wetherbridge. “Message from the Sub-Inspector, sir. He’s left by car and ought to make it in four hours.”

“Gemini!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Great work, Wetherbridge. Hope I haven’t cried Wolf.”

“I don’t get you too clear, sir. We’ve done that little job for you. I’ve got it noted down here. There are three likely stations.”

“Good for you,” said Alleyn warmly.

“Do you want to write the programs out, Mr. Alleyn?”

“No, no. Just read them to me.”

Wetherbridge cleared his throat and began: “Starting at seven-thirty, sir, and continuing till nine.” His voice droned on through a list of items. “… Syd Bando and the Rhythm Kids… I Got a Big Pink Momma… Garden Notes and Queries… Racing Commentary… News Summary… Half an Hour with the Jitterbugs… Anything there, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Nothing like it so far, but carry on. We’re looking for something a bit high-brow, Wetherbridge.”

“Old Melodies Made New?”

“Not quite. Carry on.”

“There’s only one other station that’s likely to come through clearly, up where you are.”

Alleyn thought: “I hope to God we’ve drawn a blank.”

“Here we go, sir. Seven-thirty, Twenty-first instalment of ‘The Vampire.’ Seven forty-five, Reading from Old Favourites. Eight-five, An Hour with the Masters.”

Alleyn’s hand tightened on the receiver. “Yes?” he said. “Any details?”

“There’s a lot of stuff in small print. Wait a jiffy, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m putting on my glasses.” Alleyn waited. “Here we are,” said Wetherbridge, and two hundred miles away a paper crackled. “Eight twenty-five,” said Wetherbridge, “ ‘Polonaise’ by Chopping but there’s a lot more. Back,” said Wetherbridge uncertainly, “or would it be Bark? The initials are J. S. It’s a pianna solo.”

“Go on please.”

“ ‘The Art of Fewje,’ ” said Wetherbridge. “I’d better spell that, Mr. Alleyn. F for Freddy, U for Uncle, G for George, U for Uncle, E for Edward? Any good?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to have knocked off at eight fifty-seven.”

“Yes.”

“Last on the list,” said Wetherbridge. “Will that be the article we’re looking for, sir?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Alleyn.

After they’d rung off he sat on for a minute or two, whistling dolefully. His hand went automatically to the pocket where he kept his cigarette case. It was quite ten minutes since Fabian went out. Perhaps he was waiting in the hall.

But the hall was empty and very still. An oil lamp, turned low, burnt on the table. Alleyn saw that only two candles remained from the nightly muster of six. The drawing-room party had evidently gone to bed. Fabian must be upstairs. Using his torch, Alleyn went quietly up to the landing. Light showed under the doors of the girls’ rooms, and farther down the passage, under Douglas’. There was none under Fabian’s door. Alleyn moved softly down the passage to the workroom. No light in there. He waited, listening, and then moved back towards the landing. A board creaked under his feet.

“Hullo!” called Douglas. “That you, Fab?”