Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“You were. But the garage yard does not overlook the jetty.”

“Oh, no,” said Alleyn vaguely. “Now, Miss Darragh, may we get down to what I’m afraid will be, for you, a very boring business. It’s about the night of this affair. I’ve seen your statement to the police, and I’ve read the report of the inquest.”

“Then,” said Miss Darragh, “I’m afraid you’ll know all I have to tell you and that’s not much.”

“There are one or two points we’d like to go over with you if we may. You told the coroner that you thought the wound from the dart had nothing to do with Mr. Watchman’s death.”

“I did. And I’m positive it hadn’t. A little bit of a puncture no bigger than you’d take from a darning needle.”

“A little bigger than that surely?”

“Not to make any matter.”

“But the analyst found cyanide on the dart.”

“I’ve very little faith in ’um,” said Miss Darragh.

“In the analyst? It went up to London, you know. It was the very best analyst,” said Alleyn with a smile.

“I know ’twas, but the cleverest of ’um can make mistakes. Haven’t I read for myself how delicut these experiments are, with their fractions of a grain of this and that, and their acid tests, and their heat tests, and all the rest of it? I’ve always thought it’s blown up with their theories and speculations these fine chemists must be. When they’re told to look for prussic acid, they’ll be determined to find it. Ah, well, maybe they did find poison on the dart, but that makes no difference at all to me theory, Mr. Alleyn. If there was prussic acid or cyanide, or Somebody’s acid on the dart (and why for pity’s sake can’t they find one name for ut and be done with ut?), then ’twas put on in the factory or the shop, or got on afterwards, for ’twas never there at the time.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Alleyn apologetically. “I don’t quite—”

“What I mean is this, Mr. Alleyn. Not a soul there had a chance to play the fool with the darts, and why should they when nobody could foretell the future?”

“The future? You mean nobody could tell that the dart would puncture the finger?”

“I do.”

“Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn, “might have known, mightn’t he?”

“He might,” said Miss Darragh coolly, “but he didn’t. Mr. Alleyn, I never took my eyes off that ’un, from the time he took the darts till the time he wounded the poor fellow, and that was no time at all, for it passed in a flash. If it’s any help I’m ready to make a sworn statement — an affidavit isn’t it? — that Legge put nothing on the dart.”

“I see,” said Alleyn.

“Even Mr. Pomeroy, who is set against Mr. Legge, and Mr. Parish, too, will tell you he had no chance to infect the dart.”

Miss Darragh made a quick nervous movement with her hands, clasping them together and raising them to her chin.

“I know very well,” she said, “that there are people here will make things look black for Mr. Legge. You’ll do well to let ’um alone. He’s a delicut man and this affair’s racking his nerves to pieces. Let ’um alone, Mr. Alleyn, and look elsewhere for your murderer, if there’s murder in ut.”

“What’s your opinion of Legge?” asked Alleyn abruptly.

“Ah, he’s a common well-meaning little man with a hard life behind ’um.”

“You know something of him? That’s perfectly splendid. I’ve been trying to fit a background to him and I can’t.”

For the first time Miss Darragh hesitated, but only for a second. She said: “I’ve been here nearly three weeks and I’ve had time to draw my own conclusions about the man.”

“No more than that?”

“Ah, I know he’s had a hard time and that in the end he’s come into harbour. Let ’em rest there, Mr. Alleyn, for he’s no murderer.”

“If he’s no murderer he has nothing to fear.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t understand.”

“I think perhaps we are beginning to understand. Miss Darragh, last night I asked Mr. Legge if, as a matter of routine, he would let us take his fingerprints. He refused. Why do you suppose he did that?”

“He’s distressed and frightened. He thinks you suspect ’um.”

“Then he should welcome any procedure that is likely to prove our suspicions groundless. He should rather urge us to take his prints than burst into a fit of hysterics when we ask for them.”

A faint line appeared between Miss Darragh’s eyes. Her brows were raised and the corners of her mouth turned down. She looked like a disgruntled baby.

“I don’t say he’s not foolish,” she said. “I only say he’s innocent of murder.”

“There’s one explanation that sticks out a mile,” Alleyn said. “Do you know the usual reason for withholding fingerprints?”

“I do not.”

“The knowledge that the police already have them.”

Miss Darragh said nothing.

“Now if that should be the reason in this case,” Alleyn continued, “it is only a matter of time before we arrive at the truth. If, to put it plainly, Legge has been in prison, we shall very soon trace his record. But we may have to arrest him for manslaughter, to do it.”

“All this,” exclaimed Miss Darragh with spirit, “all this to prove he didn’t kill Watchman! All this disgrace and trouble! And who’s to pay the cost of ut? ’Twould ruin him entirely.”

“Then he would be well advised to make a clean breast and tell us of his record, before we find it out for ourselves.”

“How do you know he has a record?”

“I think,” said Alleyn, “I must tell you that I was underneath the south jetty at six o’clock this morning.”

She opened her eyes very wide indeed, stared at him, clapped her fat little hands together, and broke into a shrill cackle of laugher.

“Ah, what an old fule you’ve made of me,” said Miss Darragh.

iii

But although she took Alleyn’s disclosure in good part, she still made no admissions. She was amused and interested in his exploit of the morning, didn’t in the least resent it, and exclaimed repeatedly that it was no use trying to keep out of his clutches. But she did elude him, nevertheless, and he began to see her as a particularly slippery pippin, bobbing out of reach whenever he made a bite at it.

Alleyn was on difficult ground and knew it. The notes that he and Fox had made of the conversation on the jetty were full of gaps and, though they pointed in one direction, contained nothing conclusive.

Detective officers are circumscribed by rules which, in more than one case, are open to several interpretations. It is impossible to define exactly the degrees of pressure in questions put by the detective. Every time an important case crops up he is likely enough to take risks. If he is lucky, his departure from rule of thumb comes off, but at the end of every case, like a warning bogey, stands the figure of defending counsel, ready to pounce on any irregularity and shake it angrily before the jury.

Miss Darragh had not denied the suggestion that Legge had a police record and Alleyn decided to take it as a matter of course that such a record existed and that she knew about it.

He said: “It’s charming of you to let me down so lightly.”

“For what, me dear man?”

“Why, for lying on my back in a wet dinghy and listening to your conversation.”

“Isn’t it your job? Why should I be annoyed? I’m only afraid you’ve misinterpreted whatever you heard.”

“Then,” said Alleyn, “I shall tell you how I have interpreted it, and you will correct me if I am wrong.”

“So you say,” said Miss Darragh good-humoredly.

“So I hope. I think that Legge has been to gaol, that you know it, that you’re sorry for him, and that as long as you can avoid making a false statement you will give me as little information as possible. Is that right?”