Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Very well, then,” said Alleyn placidly, “we won’t take them.”

Mr. Legge blew his nose violently and looked over the top of his handkerchief at Alleyn.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s all very well, but I know what tricks you’ll get up to. You’ll get them by stealth, I know. I’ve heard of the practices that go on in the police. I’ve studied the matter. It’s like everything else in a state governed by capitalism. Trickery and intimidation… You’ll give me photographs to identify and take my fingerprints from them.”

“Not now you’ve warned us,” said Alleyn.

“You’ll get them against my will and then you’ll draw false conclusions from them. That’s what you’ll do.”

“What sort of false conclusions?”

“About me,” cried Legge passionately, “about me.”

“You know that’s all nonsense,” said Alleyn quietly. “You will do yourself no good by talking like this.”

“I won’t talk at all. I will not be trapped into making incriminating statements. I will not be kept in here against my will!”

“You may go whenever you wish,” said Alleyn. “Fox, will you open the door?”

Fox opened the door. Legge backed towards it, but on the threshold he paused.

“If only,” he said with extraordinary intensity, “if only you’d have the sense to see that I couldn’t have done any thing, even if I’d wanted to. If only you’d realize that and leave me in peace. You don’t know what damage you may do, indeed you don’t. If only you would leave me in peace!”

He swallowed noisily, made a movement with his hands that was eloquent of misery and defeat, and went away.

Fox stood with his hand on the doorknob. “He’s gone back to the garage,” said Fox. “Surely he won’t bolt.”

“I don’t think he’ll bolt, Fox. Not in that car.” Fox stood and listened, looking speculatively at Alleyn.

“Well,” he said, “that was a rum go, Mr. Alleyn, wasn’t it?”

“Very rum indeed. I suppose you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

“He’s been inside,” said Fox. “I’ll take my oath that man’s done his stretch.”

“I think so, too, and what’s more he had that suit before he went in. It was made by a decent tailor about six years ago, or more, and it was made for Mr. Legge. It fits him well enough and he’s too odd a shape for reach-me-downs.”

“Notice his hands?”

“I did. And the hair, and the walk, and the eyes. I thought he was going to sob it all out on my bosom. Ugh!” said Alleyn. “It’s beastly, that furtive, wary look they get. Fox, ring up Illington and ask Harper to send the dart up to Dabs. It’s got his prints. Not very nice ones, but they’ll do to go on with.”

Fox went off to the telephone, issued cryptic instructions, and returned.

“I wonder,” said Fox, “who he is, and what they pulled him in for.”

“We’ll have to find out.”

“He behaved very foolish,” said Fox austerely. “All that refusing to have his prints taken. We’re bound to find out. We’ll have to get his dabs, sir.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “on the sly, as he foretold.”

“I wonder what he’s doing out there,” said Fox.

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn. “I’ll have a look.”

He stole into the passage. Legge had left the side door ajar and Alleyn could see the yard outside, flooded with moonshine. He slipped out and moved like a cat across the yard into the shadow of the garage door. Here he stopped and listened. From inside the garage came a rhythmic whisper, interrupted at intervals by low thuds, and accompanied by the sound of breathing. A metal door opened and closed stealthily, a boot scraped across stone. The rhythmic whisper began again. Alleyn stole away and recrossed the yard, his long shadow going fantastically before him.

When he rejoined Fox in the parlour he was grinning broadly.

“What’s he up to?” asked Fox.

“Being one too many for the infamous police,” said Alleyn. “He’s polishing his car.”

“Well, I’ll be blooming well blowed,” said Fox.

“He must have nearly finished. Switch off the light, Fox. It’d be a pity to keep him waiting.”

Fox switched off the light. He and Alleyn sat like shadows in the parlour. The Ottercombe town clock struck twelve and a moment later, the same dragging footsteps sounded in the yard. The side door was shut and the steps went past the parlour. The staircase light clicked and a faint glow showed underneath the door.

“Up he goes,” whispered Alleyn.

Legge went slowly upstairs, turned the light off, and moved along the passage above their heads. A door closed.

“Now then,” said Alleyn.

They went upstairs in the dark and slipped into Alleyn’s room, the first on the top landing. The upstairs passage was bright with moonlight.

“His is the end one,” murmured Alleyn. “He’s got his light on. Do you suppose he’ll set to work and wipe all the utensils in his room?”

“The thing’s silly,” whispered Fox. “I’ve never known anything like it. What’s the good of it? We’ll get his blasted dabs.”

“What do you bet me he won’t come down to breakfast in gloves?”

“He’s capable of anything,” snorted Fox.

“ Sssh ! He’s coming out.”

“Lavatory?”

“Possibly.”

Alleyn groped for the door and unlatched it.

“What are you doing, sir?” asked Fox rather peevishly.

“Squinting through the crack,” Alleyn whispered. “Now he’s come out of the lavatory.”

“I can hear that.”

“He’s in his pyjamas. He doesn’t look very delicious. Good Lord.”

“What?”

“He’s crossed the passage,” breathed Alleyn, “and he’s stooping down at another door.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Can’t see — shadow. Now he’s off again. Back to his own room. Shuts the door. Light out. Mr. Legge, finished for the night.”

“And not before it was time,” grumbled Fox. “They’ve got a nice sort of chap as Secretary and Treasurer for their society. How long’ll we give him, Mr. Alleyn? I’d like to have a look what he’s been up to.”

“I’ll give him ten minutes and then go along the passage.”

“Openly?”

“Yes. Quickly, but not stealthily, Fox. It’s the room on the right at the end. It looked almost as if he was shoving a note under the door. Very odd.”

“What age,” asked Fox, “is the Honourable Violet Darragh?”

“What a mind you have! It was probably young Pomeroy’s door.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, sir. Probably.”

Alleyn switched on the light and began to unpack his suit-case. Whistling soundlessly, he set his room in order, undressed, and put on his pyjamas and dressing-gown.

“Now then,” he said. He picked up his towel and spongebag and went out.

Fox waited, his hands on his knees. He heard a tap turned on. Water-pipes gurgled. In a distant room, someone began to snore in two keys. Presently Fox heard the pad of feet in the passage and Alleyn returned.

His towel was round his neck. His hair was rumpled and damp and hung comically over his eyes. He looked like a rather distinguished faun who had chosen to disguise himself in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. Between thumb and forefinger he held a piece of folded paper.

“Crikey, Fox!” said Alleyn.

“What have you got there, sir?”

“Lord knows! A threat? A billet-doux? Find my case, please, Fox, and get out a couple of tweezers. We’ll open it carefully. At least it may have his prints. Thank the Lord I brought that camera.”

Fox produced the tweezers. Alleyn dropped his paper on the glass top of the wash-stand. Using the tweezers, he opened it delicately. Fox looked over his shoulder and read ten words written in pencil.