Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“To see Withers?”

“Yes. To see Captain Maurice Withers who, unless I’m much mistaken, has added a gambling hell to his list of iniquitous sources of livelihood. My God, Fox, as someone was out for blood, why the hell couldn’t they widen their field to include Captain Maurice Withers? Come on.”

The report on the post-mortem was ready. Fox took it down over the telephone and he and Alieyn discussed it on their way to Sling Street.

“Dr Curtis,” said Fox, “says there’s no doubt that he was suffocated. They’ve found” — and here Fox consulted his book — “Tardieu’s ecchymosis on the congested lungs and on the heart. There were signs of fatty degeneration in the heart. The blood was dark-coloured and very liquid—”

“All right,” said Alieyn violently. “Never mind that. Sorry, Fox. On you go.”

“Well, sir, they seem to think that the condition of the heart would make everything much more rapid. That’s what you might call a merciful thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Barring the scar on the temple, Dr Curtis says there are no marks on the face. The mucous membrane in the fore-part of the palate is slightly congested. Posteriorly it is rather bleached. But there are no marks of violence.”

“I noticed that. There was no struggle. He was unconscious after the blow on the temple,” said Alieyn.

“That’s what Dr Curtis thinks.”

“This murderer knew what he was about,” said Alieyn. “Usually your asphyxiating homicide merchant goes in for a lot of unnecessary violence. You get marks round the mouth. Has Curtis any idea what was used?”

“He says possibly a plug of soft material introduced into the mouth and held over the nostrils.”

“Yes. Not Bunchy’s handkerchief. That was quite uncreased.”

“Perhaps his own handkerchief.”

“I don’t think so, Fox. I found a trace of fine black woollen fluff in the mouth.”

“The cloak?”

“Looks like it. It might be. One of the reasons why the cloak was got out of the way. By the way, Fox, did you get a report from that PC in Belgrave Square last night?”

“Yes. Nothing suspicious.”

They plodded on, working out lines to take in the endless interviews. They correlated, sorted and discussed each fragment of information. “Finding the pattern of the case,” Alleyn called it. A five minutes’ walk brought them to Sling Street and to a large block of rather pretentious service flats. They took the lift up to 110 and rang the bell.

“I’m going to take some risks here,” said Alleyn.

The door was opened by Captain Withers himself.

He said: “Good morning. Want to see me?”

“Good morning, sir,” said Alleyn. “Yes. You had our message just now, I hope. May we come in?”

“Certainly,” said Withers and walked away from the door with his hands in his pockets.

Alleyn and Fox went in. They found themselves in a mass-production furnished sitting-room with a divan bed against one wall, three uniform armchairs, a desk, a table and built-in cupboards. It had started off by being an almost exact replica of all the other “bachelor flats” in Grandison Mansions, but since it is impossible to live in any place without leaving some print of yourself upon it, this room bore the impress of Captain Maurice Withers. It smelt of hairwash, cigars and whisky. On one wall hung a framed photograph of the sort advertised in magazines as “artistic studio studies from the nude”. On the bookshelves guides to the Turf stood between shabby copies of novels Captain Withers had bought on the Riviera and, for some reason, troubled to smuggle into England. On a table by the divan bed were three or four medical text-books. “Donald Potter’s,” thought Alleyn. Through a half-open door Alleyn caught a glimpse of a small bedroom and a second masterpiece that may have been a studio study but appeared to be an exercise in pornographic photography.

Captain Withers caught Fox’s bland gaze directed at this picture and shut the bedroom door.

“Have a drink?” he said.

“No, thank you,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sit down then.”

Alleyn and Fox sat down, Fox with extreme propriety, Alleyn with an air of leisurely fastidiousness. He crossed one long leg over the other, hung his hat on his knee, pulled off his gloves, and contemplated Captain Withers. They made a curious contrast. Withers was the sort of man who breathes vulgarity into good clothes. His neck was too thick, his fingers too flat and pale and his hair shone too much; his eyes were baggy and his eyelashes were white. Yet in spite of these defects he was a powerful dominant animal with a certain coarse arrogance that was effective. Alleyn, by contrast, looked fine-drawn, a cross between a monk and a grandee. The planes of Alleyn’s face and head were emphatically defined, the bony structure showed clearly. There was a certain austerity in the chilly blue of his eyes and in the sharp blackness of his hair. Albrecht Dürer would have made a magnificent drawing of him, and Agatha Troy’s sketch portrait of Alleyn is one of the best things she has ever done.

Withers lit a cigarette, blew the smoke down his nose and said:

“What’s it all about?”

Fox produced his official notebook. Captain Withers eyed the letters M.P. on the cover and then looked at the carpet.

“First, if I may,” said Alleyn, “I should like your full name and address.”

“Maurice Withers and this address.”

“May we have the address of your Leatherhead house as well, please?”

“What the hell d’you mean?” asked Withers quite pleasantly. He looked quickly at the table by the divan and then full in Alleyn’s face.

“My information,” lied Alleyn, “does not come from the source you suppose, Captain Withers. The address, please.”

“If you mean Shackleton House, it is not mine. It was lent to me.”

“By whom?”

“For personal reasons, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“I see. Do you use it much?”

“Borrow it for week-ends sometimes.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn, “Now, if you please, I want to ask you one or two questions about this morning. The early hours of this morning.”

“Oh, yes,” said Withers, “I suppose you’re thinking of the murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Why, Bunchy Gospell’s.”

“Was Lord Robert Gospell a personal friend of yours, Captain Withers?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“I see. Why do you think he was murdered?”

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“I think so. Evidently you think so. Why?”

“Judging from the papers it looks like it.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Won’t you sit down, Captain Withers?”

“No, thanks. What about this morning?”

“When did you leave Marsdon House?”

“After the ball was over.”

“Did you leave alone?”

Withers threw his cigarette with great accuracy into a tin waste-paper bin.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can you remember who was in the hall when you went away?”

“What? I don’t know that I can. Oh, yes. I bumped into Dan Davidson. You know. The fashionable quack.”

“Is Sir Daniel Davidson a friend of yours?”

“Not really. I just know him.”

“Did you notice Lord Robert in the hall as you left?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“You went out alone. Did you take a taxi?”

“No. I had my own car. It was parked in Belgrave Road.”

“So you turned to the left when you went away from Marsdon House. That,” said Alleyn, “is what the murderer, if there is, as you say, a murderer, must have done.”

“Better choose your words a bit more carefully, hadn’t you?” enquired Captain Withers.