Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“Good evening, sir,” he said brightly in a cultured voice.

“May I speak to you for a moment — Mr —?”

The young man instantly looked very wary.

“Well — ah — I am the manager. My name is Cuthbert.”

Alleyn slid his card through the peep-hole. The young man looked at it, turned even more wary, and said:

“Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind walking round to the side door, Mr — Oh! — Inspector — ah! — Alleyn. Simmons!”

A cloakroom attendant appeared. On the way to the side door Alleyn tried his story again but neither the cloakroom attendant nor the commissionaire, who was recalled, knew Withers by sight. The attendant conducted Alleyn by devious ways into a little dim room behind the box-office. Here he found the manager.

“It’s nothing very momentous,” said Alleyn. “I want you to tell me, if you can, about what time Captain Maurice Withers arrived at this club last night — or rather this morning?”

He saw Mr Cuthbert glance quickly at an evening paper on which appeared a quarter-page photograph of Robert Gospell. During the second or two that elapsed before he replied, Alleyn heard again that heavy insistent thudding of the band.

“I’m afraid I have no idea at all,” said Mr Cuthbert at last.

“That’s a pity,” said Alleyn. “If you can’t tell me I suppose I’ll have to make rather a business of it. I’ll have to ask all your guests if they saw him and when and so on. I’m afraid I shall have to insist on seeing the book. I’m sorry. What a bore for you!”

Mr Cuthbert looked at him with the liveliest distaste.

“You can understand,” he began, “that in our position we have to be extremely tactful. Our guests expect it of us.”

“Oh, rather,” agreed Alleyn. “But there’s not going to be nearly such a fluster if you give me the information I want quietly, as there will be if I have to start asking all sorts of people all sorts of questions.”

Mr Cuthbert stared at his first finger-nail and then bit it savagely.

“But if I don’t know,” he said peevishly.

“Then we’re just out of luck. I’ll try your commissionaire and — Simmons, is it? If that fails we’ll have to start on the guests.”

“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Mr Cuthbert. “Well, he came in late. I do remember that.”

“How do you remember that, please?”

“Because we had a crowd of people who came from — from the Marsdon House Ball at about half-past three or a quarter to four. And then there was a bit of a lull.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, well, and then a good deal later Captain Withers signed in. He ordered a fresh bottle of gin.”

“Mrs Halcut-Hackett arrived with him, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know the name of his partner.”

“A tall, big, blonde woman of about forty to forty-five, with an American accent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind calling—”

“All right, then, all right. She did.”

“Was it as late as half-past four when they arrived?”

“I don’t — look here, I mean—”

“It’s quite possible you may hear no more of this. The more exact your information, you know, the less troublesome our subsequent enquiries.”

“Yes, I know, but we owe a DUTY to our guests.”

“Do you know actually to within say ten minutes when this couple arrived? I think you do. If so, I most strongly advise you to tell me.”

“Oh, all right. As a matter of fact it was a quarter-past four. There’d been such a long gap with nobody coming in — we were practically full anyway of course — that I did happen to notice the time.”

“That’s perfectly splendid. Now if you’ll sign a statement to this effect I don’t think I need bother you any more.”

Mr Cuthbert fell into a profound meditation. Alleyn lit a cigarette and waited with an air of amiability. At last Mr Cuthbert said:

“Am I likely to be called as a witness to anything?”

“Not very. We’ll spare you if we can.”

“I could refuse.”

“And I,” said Alleyn, “could become a member of your club. You couldn’t refuse that.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Mr Cuthbert unhappily. “All right. I’ll sign.”

Alleyn wrote out a short statement and Mr Cuthbert signed it. Mr Cuthbert became more friendly and offered Alleyn a drink, which he refused with the greatest amiability. Mr Cuthbert embarked on a long eulogistic account of the Matador and the way it was run and the foolishness of night-club proprietors who attempted to elude the lawful restriction imposed on the sale of alcoholic beverages.

“It never pays,” cried Mr Cuthbert. “Sooner or later they get caught. It’s just damn silly.”

A waiter burst into the room, observed something in Mr Cuthbert’s eye, and flew out again. Mr Cuthbert cordially invited Alleyn to accompany him into the dance-room. He was so insistent that Alleyn allowed himself to be ushered through the entrance-hall and down a plum-coloured tunnel. The sound of the band swelled into a rhythmic all-pervading rumpus. Alleyn was aware of more silver sunflowers; of closely ranked tables and faces dimly lit from below, of a more distant huddle of people ululating and sliding in time to the band. He stood just inside the entrance, trying to accustom his eyes to this scene, while Mr Cuthbert prattled innocently “Ruddigore”—“We only cut respectable capers.” He was about to turn away when he knew abruptly that someone was watching him. His eyes followed this intangible summons. He turned slowly to the left and there at a corner table sat Bridget O’Brien and Donald Potter.

They were both staring at him and with such intensity that he could not escape the feeling that they had wished to attract his attention. He deliberately met their gaze and returned it. For a second or two they looked at each other and then Bridget made a quick gesture, inviting him to join them.

He said: “I see some friends. Do you mind if I speak to them for a moment?”

Mr Cuthbert was delighted and melted away on a wave of tactfulness. Alleyn walked over to the table and bowed.

“Good evening.”

“Will you sit down for a minute?” said Bridget. “We want to speak to you.”

One of Mr Cuthbert’s waiters instantly produced a chair.

“What is it?” asked Alleyn.

“It’s Bridgie’s idea,” said Donald. “I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve said I’ll do whatever Bridgie says. I suppose I’m a fool but I give in. In a way I want to.”

“He’s got nothing to fear,” said Bridget. “I’ve told him—”

“Look here,” said Alleyn, “this doesn’t seem a particularly well-chosen spot for the kind of conversation that’s indicated.”

“I know,” said Bridget. “If Donna or Bart ever finds out I’ve been here there’ll be a row of absolutely horrific proportions. The Matador! Unchaperoned! With Donald! But we were desperate — we had to see each other. Bart has driven me stark ravers, he’s been so awful. I managed to ring Donald up from an outside telephone and we arranged to meet here. Donald’s a member. We’ve talked it all over and we were coming to see you.”

“Suppose you do so now. The manager here knows I’m a policeman so we’d better not leave together. Here’s my address. Come along in about fifteen minutes. That do?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Bridget, “won’t it, Donald?”

“All right, all right,” said Donald. “It’s your idea, darling. If it lands me in—”

“It won’t land you anywhere but in my flat,” said Alleyn. “You’ve both come to a very sensible decision.”

He rose and looked down at them. “Good Lord,” he thought, “they are young.” He said: “Don’t weaken. Au revoir ,” and walked out of the Matador.