Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Ah now, Mr. Parish,” said Miss Darragh, “you must not let this tragedy make the bitter man of you. Sure, you’re talking like the Count of Monte Cristo if ’twas he was the character I call to mind.”

“Do I sound bitter?” asked Parish in his beautiful voice. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I am.”

A shadow of something that might have been a twinkle flitted across Miss Darragh’s face.

“A little too bitter,” she said, and it was impossible to tell whether or not she spoke ironically.

On the floor above them there was a sudden commotion. A man’s voice spoke urgently. They heard a scuffle of feet and then someone ran along the upstairs passage.

“What’s wrong with the sleuths?” asked Parish.

No one answered. Miss Darragh took up her knitting. Mr. Nark picked his teeth. Parish finished his beer.

“We all want to see the man caught,” said Legge suddenly. He spoke in his usual querulous, muffled voice. He looked ill and he seemed extremely nervous. Miss Darragh glanced at him and said soothingly:

“Of course.”

“Their behaviour,” said Legge, “is abominable. Abominable! I intend writing a letter to the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. It is disgraceful.”

Parish planted his feet apart, put his head on one side, and looked at Legge with the expression he used in films of the Bulldog Drummond type. His voice drawled slightly.

“Feelin’ nervous, Legge?” he asked. “Now isn’t that a pity.”

“Nervous! I am not nervous, Mr. Parish. What do you mean by—”

“Gentlemen,” said old Abel.

There was a brief silence broken by an urgent clatter of footsteps on the stairs.

The door into the private tap swung open. Alleyn stood on the threshold. When Miss Darragh saw his face she uttered a sharp cry that was echoed, oddly, by Parish.

Alleyn said —

“Nobody is to move from this room. Understand? What’s Dr. Shaw’s telephone number?”

Abel said: “Illington 579, sir.”

Alleyn kicked the door wide open and moved to the wall telephone just outside. He dialled a number and came into the doorway with the receiver at his ear.

“You understand,” he said, “none of you is to move. Where’s Cubitt?”

“He’s gone out,” said Parish. “What’s the matter, Mr. Alleyn, for God’s sake?”

Alleyn was speaking into the receiver:

“Dr. Shaw? At once, please, it’s the police.” He eyed them all as he waited.

“There has been an accident,” he said. “Where’s that decanter of sherry?”

“Here, sir,” said Abel.

“Take it by the end of the neck, lock it in the cupboard behind you, and bring the key to me. That you, Shaw? Alleyn. Come at once. Same trouble as last time. I’ve given an emetic. It’s worked, but he’s half-collapsed. I’ll do artificial respiration. For God’s sake be quick.”

He clicked the receiver and took the key Abel brought him. He dialled another number and spoke to Abel as he dialled it.

“Lock the shutters and all the doors. Both bars. Bring the keys here. Illington Police Station? Oates? Inspector Alleyn. I want Mr. Harper and yourself at once at the Plume of Feathers. Jump to it.”

He hung up the receiver. Abel was clattering round the public bar. Alleyn slammed the shutters in the private bar.

“If anyone opens these shutters or tries to leave this room,” he said, “there will be an arrest on a charge of attempted murder. Bring those others through here.”

“But, look here—” said Parish.

“Quiet!” said Alleyn and was obeyed. Abel shepherded a couple of astonished fishermen into the private bar. Will Pomeroy followed. Abel slammed down the bar shutter and locked it. He came to Alleyn and gave him the keys. Alleyn pushed him outside, slammed the door and locked it.

“Now,” he said, “come up here.”

He ran up the stairs, taking three at a stride. Abel followed, panting. The door of Alleyn’s room was open. Fox sat on the bed with the wash-hand basin at his feet. His face was curiously strained and anxious. When he saw Alleyn he tried to speak, but something had gone wrong with his mouth. He kept shutting his jaw with a sharp involuntary movement and his voice was thick. He jerked his hand at the bowl.

“Thank God,” said Alleyn. “Can you do another heave, old thing?”

Fox jerked his head sideways and suddenly pitched forward. Alleyn caught him.

“Move that basin,” he ordered. “I want to get him on the floor.”

Abel moved the basin and together he and Alleyn moved Fox. Alleyn had wrenched open Fox’s collar and tie. He now loosened his clothes. Somewhere in the background of his conscious thoughts was an impression that it was strange to be doing these things to Fox whom he knew so well. He began the movements of resuscitation, working hard and rhythmically. Abel quietly cleared an area round Fox.

“When you’m tiring, sir,” said Abel, “I’ll take a turn.”

But Alleyn scarcely knew he had a body of his own. His body and breath, precariously and dubiously, belonged to Fox. His thoughts were visited by hurrying pictures. He saw a figure that shoved and sweated and set the wheels of a great vehicle in motion. A figure turned and turned again at a crank handle. He was aware, at moments most vividly, of his own glass of untouched sherry on the dressing-table. Fox’s arms were heavy and stiff. Presently his eyes opened. The pupils had widened almost to the rim of the iris, the eyes had no expression. Alleyn’s own eyes were half-blinded with sweat. Suddenly the body on the floor heaved.

“That’s better,” said Abel, stooping to the basin, “he’m going to vomit again.”

Alleyn turned Fox on his side. Fox neatly and prolifically made use of the basin.

“Brandy,” said Alleyn. “In a bag in the wardrobe.”

He watched Abel fetch the flask. Alleyn unscrewed the top, smelt at the contents, and took a mouthful. He squatted on his haunches with the brandy in his mouth. The brandy was all right. He swallowed it, poured some into the cap of the flask, and gave it to Fox.

Downstairs the telephone was pealing.

“Go and answer it,” said Alleyn.

Abel went out.

“Fox,” said Alleyn. “Fox, my dear old thing.”

Fox’s lips moved. Alleyn took his handkerchief and wiped that large face carefully.

“Very inconvenient,” said a voice inside Fox. “Sorry.”

“You b — old b—,” said Alleyn softly.

i

“I’m better,” said Fox presently. “I’d like to sit up.”

Alleyn propped him against the bed.

A car pulled up outside and in a moment Alleyn heard a clatter of steps and the sound of voices. Abel came in.

“Yurr be doctor,” Abel said, “and Nick Harper with police. And Colonel’s on telephone roaring like proper grampus.”

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn ejaculated. “Abel, tell him what’s happened. He’ll probably want to come over here. Apologize for me. Where’s the doctor?”

“Here,” said Dr. Shaw, and walked in. “What’s the trouble? Hullo!”

He went to Fox.

“I’m better, Doctor,” said Fox. “I’ve vomited.”

Dr. Shaw took his pulse, looked at his eyes and nodded.

“You’ll do,” he said, “but we’ll make a job of it. Come into the bathroom. You’d better keep that matter in the basin, Alleyn.”

He opened his bag, took out a tube, and jerked his head at Fox.

“Here!” said Fox resentfully, eyeing the tube.

“How did it happen?” asked Dr. Shaw.

Harper came in.

“I’ve left Oates and another man downstairs,” said Harper. “What’s up?”

“Fox drank a glass of sherry,” said Alleyn. “There’s the glass. We’ll detain all the crowd downstairs. You too, Mr. Pomeroy. Go down and join them.”