Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“Why did you not tell Miss Troy what had happened?”

“I — Troy might not look at it — Troy is rather British in such matters. She would confess with wonderful enthusiasm that her own work is rooted in the aesthetics of the primitives, but for someone who was courageous enough to use boldly such material from the past as seemed good to him, she would have nothing but abuse. Women — English women especially — are the most marvellous hypocrites.”

“That will do,” said Alleyn. “What was Sonia’s motive in taking this book?”

“She simply wanted to be disagreeable and infuriating.”

“Did you offer her anything if she returned it?”

“She was preposterous,” muttered Malmsley, “preposterous.”

“How much did she ask?”

“I do not admit that she asked anything.”

“All right,” said Alleyn. “It’s your mess. Stay in it if you want to.”

“What am I to understand by that?”

“Think it out. I believe I need not keep you any longer, Mr. Malmsley. I am afraid I cannot return your book just yet. I shall need a specimen of your fingerprints. We can take them from the cigarette-box you picked up when you came in, or from objects in your room which I am afraid I shall have to examine. It would help matters if you allowed Sergeant Bailey to take an official specimen now.”

Malmsley consented to this with a very ill grace, and made a great fuss over the printer’s ink left on his thick white finger-tips.

“I fail to see,” he said, “why I should have been forced to go through this disgusting performance.”

“Bailey will give you something to clean up the ink,” said Alleyn. “Good evening, Mr. Malmsley.”

“One more job for you, Bailey, I’m afraid,” said Alleyn, when Malmsley had gone. “We’ll have to look through these rooms before we let them go to bed. Are they still boxed up in the dining-room, Fox?”

“They are that,” said Fox, “and if that young Australian talks much more, I fancy we’ll have a second corpse on our hands.”

“I’ll start off on Mr. Malmsley’s room, will I, sir?” asked Bailey.

“Yes. Then tackle the other men’s. We’ll be there in a jiffy. I don’t expect to find much, but you never know in our game.”

“Very good, Mr. Alleyn,” said Bailey. He went off with a resigned look.

“What do you make of this dope story, Mr. Alleyn?” said Fox. “We’ll have to have a go at tracing the source, won’t we?”

“Oh Lord, yes. I suppose so. Malmsley will say he got it from the friend who gave him the pretty little pipe and etceteras, and I don’t suppose even Malmsley will give his dope-merchant away. Not that I think he’s far gone. I imagine he spoke the truth when he said he’d only experimented — he doesn’t look like an advanced addict. I took a pot-shot on his eyes, his breath, and the colour of his beastly face. And I remembered Sadie noticed a smell. Luckily the shot went home.”

“Smoking,” ruminated Nigel. “That’s rather out of the usual in this country, isn’t it?”

“Fortunately, yes,” agreed Alleyn. “As a matter of fact it’s less deadly than the other methods. Much less pernicious than injecting, of course.”

“Do you think Garcia may have done his stuff with the knife while he was still dopey?” asked Nigel.

“It would explain his careless ways,” said Fox, “dropping clay about the place.”

“That’s true, Brer Fox. I don’t know,” said Alleyn, “if, when he woke at, say, seven-thirty, when Sadie banged on the screen, he’d feel like doing the job. We’ll have to have expert opinion on the carry-over from opium. I’m inclined to think he might wake feeling darned unpleasant and take a pull at his whisky bottle. Had it been handled recently, Bailey?”

“Yes, sir, I’d say it had. It’s very dusty in patches, but there’s some prints that were left after the dust had settled. Only a very light film over the prints. Not more than a couple of days’ deposit.”

“That’s fairly conclusive,” said Alleyn. “Taken with Sadie’s statement it looks as if Garcia’s Friday evening dinner was a jorum of whisky.”

“What beats me,” said Fox, “is when he got his stuff away.”

“Some time on Friday night.”

“Yes, but how ? Not by a local carrier. They’ve all been asked.”

“He must have got hold of a vehicle of some sort and driven himself,” said Nigel.

“Half doped and three-quarters tight, Mr. Bathgate?”

“He may not have been as tight as all that,” said Alleyn. “On the other hand— ”

“Well?” asked Nigel impatiently.

“On the other hand he may have,” said Alleyn. “Come on, we’ll see how Bailey’s got on, and then we’ll go home.”

When Fox had gone upstairs and Nigel had been left to write a very guarded story for his paper on one of Troy’s scribbling-pads, Alleyn went down the hall and into the dining-room. He found Troy and her class in a state of extreme dejection. Phillida Lee, Ormerin and Watt Hatchett were seated at the table and had the look of people who have argued themselves to a standstill. Katti Bostock, hunched on the fender, stared into the fire. Malmsley was stretched out in the only arm-chair. Valmai Seacliff and Basil Pilgrim sat on the floor in a dark corner with their arms round each other. Curled up on a cushion against the wall was Troy — fast asleep. The local constable sat on an upright chair inside the door.

Katti looked up at Alleyn and then across to Troy.

“She’s completely done up,” said Katti gruffly. “Can’t you let her go to bed?”

“Very soon now,” said Alleyn.

He walked swiftly across the room and paused, his head bent down, his eyes on Troy.

Her face looked thin. There were small shadows in the hollows of her temples and under her eyes. She frowned, her hands moved, and suddenly she was awake.

“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Troy. “Do you want me?”

“Please. Only for a moment, and then I shan’t bother you again to-night.”

Troy sat up, her hands at her hair, pushing it off her face. She rose but lost her balance. Alleyn put his arm out quickly. For a moment he supported her.

“My legs have gone to sleep,” said Troy. “Damn!”

Her hand was on his shoulder. He held her firmly by the arms and wondered if it was Troy or he who trembled.

“I’m all right now,” she said, after an hour or a second. “Thank you.” He let her go and spoke to the others.

“I am very sorry to keep you all up for so long. We have had a good deal to do. Before you go to your rooms we should like to have a glance at them. I hope nobody objects to this.”

“Anything, if we can only go to bed,” said Katti, and nobody contradicted her.

“Very well, then. If you—” he turned to Troy, — “wouldn’t mind coming with me— ”

“Yes, of course.”

When they were in the hall she said: “Do you want to search our rooms for something? Is that it?”

“Not for anything specific. I feel we should just—” He stopped short. “I detest my job,” he said; “for the first time I despise and detest it.”

“Come on,” said Troy.

They went up to a half-landing where the stairs separated into two short flights going up to their left and right.

“Before I forget,” said Alleyn, “do you know what has happened to the bottle of nitric acid that was on the top shelf in the junk-room?”

Troy stared at him.

“The acid? It’s there. It was filled up on Friday.”

“Bailey must have missed it. Don’t worry — we saw the stains and felt we ought to account for them. What about these rooms?”