Ngaio Marsh - Color Scheme

“My luck all over,” Smith said lugubriously as soon as he saw Dikon. “I land a permanent job with good money and the boss fades out on me. Is it tough or is it tough?”

“You’ll be O.K., Bert,” said Simon. “Dad’ll keep you on. I told you.”

“Yeah, but what a prospect. I’m not saying anything against your dad, Sim, but he’s onto a good thing with me and he knows it. If I liked to squeal on him your dad’d be compelled by law to give me hotel wages. I’m not complaining, mind, but that’s the strength of it. I’d have done good with Questing.”

Dikon said: “I find it difficult to reconcile your disappointment with your former statement that Questing tried to run a train over you.”

Smith stared owlishly at him. “He satisfied me about that,” he said. “It wasn’t like he said at the time. The signal was working O.K. but his car’s got one of them green talc sun-screens. He was looking through it and never noticed the light turn red. He took me along and showed me. I went crook at the time. Him and me hadn’t hit it off too well and I taped it out he’d tried to fix me up for keeps but I had to hand it to him when he showed me. He was upset, you know. But I said I’d overlook it.”

“With certain stipulations, I fancy,” said Dikon drily.

“Why not!” cried Smith indignantly. “He owed it to me, didn’t he? I was suffering from shock and abrasions. You ask the Doc. My behind’s like one of them monkeys’, yet. I’d got a lot to complain about, hadn’t I, Sim?” he added with an air of injury.

“I’ll say.”

“Yeh, and what’s Mr. Bell’s great idea talking as if it was me that acted crook?”

“Not a bit of it, Mr. Smith,” said Dikon soothingly. “I only admire your talents as an opportunist.”

“Call a bloke names,” said Smith darkly, “and never offer him a drink even though he is supposed to be a blasted guest.” He brooded, Dikon understood, on Gaunt’s bottle of whisky.

“All the same, Bert,” said Simon abruptly, “I reckon you were pretty simple to believe Questing. He was only trying to keep you quiet. You wouldn’t have seen your good money, don’t you worry.”

“I got it in writing,” shouted Smith belligerently. “I’m not childish yet. I got it in writing while he was still worried I’d turn nasty over the train. Far-sighted. That’s me.”

Dikon burst out laughing.

“Aw, turn it up and get to hell,” roared Smith. “I’m a disappointed man. I’m going to bed.” He gave an indignant belch and left them.

“He’d be all right,” said Simon apologetically, “if he kept off the booze.”

“Have you told him about your own views on Questing?”

“Not more than I could help. You can’t be sure he won’t talk when he’s got one or two in. He still reckons Questing went up to the Peak for curios. I didn’t say anything. You want to keep quiet about the signals.”

“Yes,” agreed Dikon and rubbed his nose. “On that score I’m afraid you’re not going to be very pleased with me.” And he explained that he had told the whole story to the Colonel and Dr. Ackrington. Simon took this surprisingly well, reserving his indignation for Mr. Falls’s behaviour at Taupo-tapu which Dikon now revealed to him. In Simon’s opinion Falls had no right, however suspicious the circumstances, to exceed the limit that he himself had set. “I don’t like that joker,” he said. “He’s a darned sight too plausible.”

“He’s no fool.”

“I reckon he’s a crook. You can’t get away from those signals.”

Rather apprehensively Dikon advanced Dr. Ackrington’s views on the signals. “And I must confess,” he added, “that to me it seems a likely explanation. After all, why on earth should Falls take such an elaborate and senseless means of introducing himself to Questing? All he had to do was to take Questing on one side and present his credentials. Why run the danger of someone spotting the signal? It doesn’t make sense.”

Unable to answer this objection, Simon angrily reiterated his own views. “And if you think I’m dopey,” he stormed, “there are others that don’t. You may be interested to hear I went to the police station this afternoon.” He observed Dikon’s astonishment with an air of satisfaction. “Yes,” he said, “after you’d told me it was Falls tapped out the signal, I hopped on my bike and got going. I know the old sergeant and I got onto him. He started off by acting as if I was a kid but I convinced him. Well, anyway,” Simon amended, “I stuck to it until he let me in to see the Super.”

“Well done,” Dikon murmured.

“Yes,” Simon continued, stroking the back of his head, “I was an hour in the office. Talking all the time, too. And they were interested. They didn’t say much, you know, but they took a lot of it down in writing and I could see they were impressed. They’re going to make inquiries about this Falls. If Uncle James and Dad reckon they know better than the authorities why should I worry? Wait till the police pull in their net. That’ll be the day. They’re not as dumb as I thought they were. I’m satisfied.”

“Splendid,” said Dikon. “I congratulate you. By the way, I was to ask you to go and see your father and I may as well warn you that you’re going to be bound over to secrecy about your theory of Falls’s signals with the pipe. And now I think I shall go to bed.”

He had reached the door when Simon stopped him. “I forgot to tell you,” said Simon. “I asked them the name of this big pot out from Home. They looked a bit funny on it and I thought they weren’t going to tell me but they came across with it in the end. It’s Alleyn. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”

Dikon’s notions as to the legal proceedings arising out of the circumstances of Questing’s disappearance were exceedingly vague. Half-forgotten phrases about presumption of death after a lapse of time occurred to him. He had speculated briefly about Questing’s nationality and next-of-kin. He had never anticipated that on the following morning he would wake to find several large men standing about the Claires’ verandah, staring at their boots, mumbling to each other, and exuding the unmistakable aroma of plain-clothes policemen.

This, however, was what he did find. The drone of voices awakened him; the light was excluded from his room by a massive back which actually bulged through the open window. Dikon put on his dressing gown and went to see his employer. He had looked in on Gaunt before going to bed and had discovered him to be in a state of nervous prostration, undergoing massage from Colly. Dikon, having been told for God’s sake to let him alone, had left the room followed by Colly. “Oh, my aunt!” Colly had whispered, jerking his thumb at the door. “High strikes with bells on. A fit of the flutters with musical honours. We’re in for a nice helping of ter-hemperament, sir, and no beg pardons. Watch out for skids, and count your collars. We’ll be out on tour again to-morrow.” He turned down his thumbs. “Colly!” Gaunt had yelled at this juncture. “Colly! Damnation! Colly !” And Colly had darted back into the bedroom.

Remembering this episode, Dikon approached his employer with some misgivings. He listened at the door, caught a whiff of Turkish tobacco, heard Gaunt’s cigarette cough, tapped and walked in. Gaunt, wearing a purple dressing gown, was propped up in bed, smoking. When Dikon asked how he had slept he laughed bitterly and said nothing. Dikon attempted one or two other little opening gambits all of which were received in silence. He was about to make an uncomfortable exit when Gaunt said: “Ring up that hotel in Auckland and book rooms for to-night.”

With a feeling of the most utter desolation Dikon said: “Then we are leaving, sir?”