Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“Some case the Press had made into a front-page story — no, of course, it’s completely irrelevant. But all the same it does look as though old Halcut-Hackett flattened his face against the window of Lucy Lorrimer’s car.”

“But Lucy stayed till the end, she says, and I know he took that unfortunate child away soon after midnight. What was the poor creature doing in Belgrave Square at half-past three?”

“He told me he went for a constitutional,” murmured Alleyn.

“Rubbish. One doesn’t peer into old ladies’ cars when one takes constitutionals at half-past three in the morning. The whole thing’s preposterous.”

“It’s so preposterous that I’m afraid it must be included in my dreary programme. Would you care to come to a night club with me, mama?”

“No thank you, Rory.”

“I thought not. I must go alone to the Matador. I imagine they open at about eleven.”

“Nobody goes until after midnight or later,” said Lady Alleyn.

“How do you know?”

“Sarah is forever pestering me to allow her to ‘go on to the Matador’. She now hopes to produce a chaperone, but I imagine it is scarcely the haunt of chaperones. I have no intention of letting her go.”

“It’s one of those places that offer the attractions of a tiny dancing-floor, a superlative band and a crowd so dense that you spend the night dancing cheek-to-cheek with somebody else’s partner. It is so dimly lit that the most innocent visitor takes on an air of intrigue and the guiltiest has at least a sporting chance of going unrecognized.”

“You seem to be remarkably familiar with its amenities,” said his mother dryly.

“We’ve had our eye on the Matador for some time. It will meet with one of three fates. The smartest people will get tired of it and it will try to hold them by relaxing its vigilance in the matter of drink; or the smartest people will get tired of it and it will gradually lose its prestige and continue to make money out of the less exclusive but equally rich; or the smartest people will get tired of it and it will go bust. We are interested in the first contingency and they know it. They are extremely polite to me at the Matador.”

“Shall you be long there?”

“No. I only want to see the commissionaire and the secretary. Then I’ll go home and to bed. May I use your telephone?”

Alleyn rang up Fox and asked him if he had seen the constable on night duty in Belgrave Square.

“Yes,” said Fox. “I’ve talked to him. He says he didn’t report having seen the General, you know who — double aitch — because he didn’t think anything of it, knowing him so well. He says he thought the General had been at the ball and was on his way home.”

“When was this?”

“About three-twenty when most of the guests were leaving Marsdon House. Our chap says he didn’t notice the General earlier in the evening when he took the young lady home. He says he still had his eye on the crowd outside the front door at that time and might easily have missed him. He says it’s right enough that the old gentleman generally takes a turn round the Square of an evening but he’s never noticed him as late as this before. I’ve told him a few things about what’s expected of him and why sergeants lose their stripes,” added Fox. “The fact of the matter is he spent most of his time round about the front door of Marsdon House. Now there’s one other thing, sir. One of these linkmen has reported he noticed a man in a black overcoat with a white scarf pulled up to his mouth, and a black trilby hat, standing for a long time in the shadow on the outskirts of the crowd. The linkman says he was tall and looked like a gentleman. Thinks he wore evening clothes under his overcoat. Thinks he had a white moustache. He says this man seemed anxious to avoid notice and hung about in the shadows, but he looked at him several times and wondered what he was up to. The linkman reckons this man was hanging about on the other side of the street in the shadow of the trees, when the last guests went away. Now, sir, I reckon that’s important.”

“Yes, Fox. Are you suggesting that this lurker was the General?”

“The description tallies, sir. I thought I’d arrange for this chap, who’s still here at the Yard, to get a look at the General and see if he can swear to him.”

“You do. Better take your linkman off to the Square. See if you can catch the General doing his evening march. He’ll be able to see him in the same light under the same conditions as last night’s.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to the Matador and then home. Ring me up if there’s anything.”

“Very good, Mr Alleyn. Good night.”

“Good night, Brer Fox.”

Alleyn turned from the telephone and stared at his mother.

“It looks as if Lucy Lorrimer isn’t altogether dotty,” he said. “Old Halcut-Hackett seems to have behaved in a very curious manner last night. If, indeed, it was the General, and I fancy it must have been. He was so remarkably evasive about his own movements. Do you know him at all well?”

“Not very, darling. He was a brother-officer of your father’s. I rather think he was one of those large men whom regimental humour decrees shall be called ‘Tiny’. I can’t remember ever hearing that he had a violent temper or took drugs or seduced his colonel’s wife or indeed did anything at all remarkable. He didn’t marry this rather dreadful lady of his until he was about fifty.”

“Was he rich?”

“I rather think he was fairly rich. Still is, I should have thought from that house. He’s got a country place too, I believe, somewhere in Kent.”

“Then why on earth does she bother with paying débutantes?”

“Well, you know, Rory, if she’s anxious to be asked everywhere and do everything she’s more likely to succeed with something young behind her. Far more invitations would come rolling in.”

“Yes. I rather think there’s more to it than that. Good night, darling. You are the best sort of mama. Too astringent to be sweet, thank God, but nevertheless comfortable.”

“Thank you, my dear. Come in again if you want to. Good night.”

She saw him out with an air of jauntiness, but when she returned to her drawing-room she sat still for a long time thinking of the past of her son, of Troy, and of her own fixed determination never to meddle.

Alleyn took a taxi to the Matador in Soho. The Matador commissionaire was a disillusioned giant in a plum-coloured uniform. He wore beautiful gloves, a row of medals, and an expression of worldly wisdom. He stood under a representation in red neon lights of a capering bull-fighter, and he paid the management twenty pounds a year for his job. Alleyn gave him good evening and walked into the entrance-hall of the Matador. The pulsation of saxophones and percussion instruments hung on the air, deadened in this ante-room by draperies of plum-coloured silk caught up into classic folds by rows of silvered tin sunflowers. A lounge porter came forward and directed Alleyn to the cloakroom.

“I wonder if you know Captain Maurice Withers by sight,” asked Alleyn. “I’m supposed to join his party and I’m not sure if I’ve come to the right place. He’s a member here.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve only just taken this job myself and I don’t know the members by sight. If you ask at the office, sir, they’ll tell you.”

With a silent anathema on this ill chance Alleyn thanked the man and looked for the box-office. He found it beneath a large sunflower and surrounded by richer folds of silk. Alleyn peered into it and saw a young man in a beautiful dinner-jacket, morosely picking his teeth.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn.

The young man abandoned the toothpick with lightning sleight-of-hand.