Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“But if the opium’s to blame? Not to mention the whisky?”

“If they’re to blame I don’t think he’s responsible for the rest of the business with the caravan. He’d either sleep it off there in the studio or wander away without taking any particular pains to cover his tracks. In that case we’d have found him by now.”

“Then do you think there’s any likelihood of someone else driving him up to London and hiding him in this blasted warehouse? What about the man Ethel and her boy saw in the lane? Say it wasn’t Garcia but someone else. Could he have found Garcia under the weather and offered to drive him up to London with the stuff and return the caravan?”

“Leaving the knife where it was?” said Alleyn. “Yes, that’s possible, of course. He may not have noticed the knife, this lurker in the lane. On the other hand— ”

Alleyn and Fox stared thoughtfully at each other.

“As soon as I got here this morning,” said Fox at last, “I looked up this Mr. Charleson, the secretary to the board of the New Palace Theatre in Westminster. Had a bit of luck, he was on the premises and answered the telephone. He’s coming in at eleven-thirty, but beyond confirming the business about this statue he can’t help us. Garcia was to order the marble and start work on next Monday. They offered him two hundred pounds and they were going to pay for the marble after he’d chosen it. Mr. Charleson says they’d never get anyone else at that price whose work is as good as Garcia’s.”

“Bloodsucker,” grunted Alleyn.

“But he’s no idea where the work was to be done.”

“Helpful fellow. Well, Fox, we’d better get a move on. We’re going to spend a jolly day checking up alibis. I’ll take Miss Troy’s and Miss Bostock’s to begin with. You start off with young Hatchett and Phillida Lee. To your lot will fall the breaded intelligentsia of the Vortex Experimental Studio theatre, the Lee aunt, and the Hatchett boardinghouse keeper. To mine Sir Arthur Jaynes, Cattcherley’s hairdressing establishment, Mr. Graham Barnes, and the staff of the United Arts Club.”

“And this Mr. John Bellasca, sir, Miss Troy’s friend.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Me too.”

“And then what?”

“If we get done to-day we’ll run down to Boxover in the morning and see the people with whom Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff stayed on Friday night.”

He opened a drawer in his desk and took out the photograph of the group at Tatler’s End House.

“How tall is Garcia?” he asked. “Five foot nine according to the statement Blackman gave us. Yes. Pilgrim looks about two and a half inches taller in this photograph, doesn’t he? You get a very good idea of the comparative heights. Ormerin, Hatchett and Garcia are all within an inch of each other. Miss Bostock, Miss Seacliff and Miss Lee are much shorter. The model is a little taller than Miss Bostock, but not so tall as the others. Miss Troy is taller than the first batch, but about two inches shorter than Pilgrim. Pilgrim is the tallest of the lot. Alas, alas, Fox, how little we know about these people! We interview them under extraordinary circumstances and hope to get a normal view of their characters. We ask them alarming questions and try to draw conclusions from their answers. How can we expect to discover them when each must be secretly afraid that his most innocent remark may cast suspicion upon himself? How would you or I behave if we came within the range of conjecture in a murder case? Well, damn it, let’s get on with the job.”

The desk telephone rang and he answered it.

“It’s me,” said Nigel’s voice winningly.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to come and see you, Alleyn.”

“Where are you?”

“In a call-box about five minutes away.”

“Very well, come up. I’ve got a job for you.”

“I’ll be there.”

Alleyn hung up the receiver.

“It’s Bathgate. I’ll send him round to get an exclusive story from Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. There’s just a remote hope she may become less discreet under the influence of free publicity. I’m damn’ well positive she’s keeping something up her sleeve about the blackmailing activities. She’s rather an attractive little creature, Fox. Hard as nails and used to the seamy side of life, but a curious mixture of simplicity and astuteness. She knew we’d find out about the child and had no qualms in talking about it, but as soon as the word blackmail cropped up she doubled up like a hedgehog. I don’t think it had occurred to her that Sonia’s gentle art of extracting money was in any sense criminal. And I — blundering booby that I was — must needs enlighten her. She’s terrified of Garcia. She’s convinced he murdered Sonia and I honestly think she believes he’d go for her if she informed against him.”

He moved restlessly about the room.

“There’s something missing,” he said. “I’m positive there’s something missing.”

“Garcia,” said Fox. “He’s missing all right.”

“No, blast you, not Garcia. Though Lord knows, we’ll have to get him. No, there was something else that the O’Dawne had on the tip of her tongue. By gum, Fox, I wonder — Look here.”

Alleyn was still talking when the telephone rang to say Nigel Bathgate had arrived.

“Send him up,” said Alleyn. And when Nigel appeared Alleyn talked about Bobbie O’Dawne and suggested that Nigel should get a special interview.

“This is extraordinarily decent of you, Alleyn,” said Nigel.

“It’s nothing of the sort. You’re the tool of the Yard, my boy, and don’t you forget it. Now listen carefully and I’ll tell you what line you’re to take. You must impress upon her that you are to be trusted. If she thinks you’ll publish every word she utters, she’ll say nothing to the point. If you can, write the interview there and then and read it to her. Assure her that you will print nothing without her permission. Photograph the lady in every conceivable position. Then get friendly. Let her think you are becoming indiscreet. You may say that you have had instructions from the Yard to publish a story about Sonia’s blackmailing activities unless we can hear, privately, exactly what they were. You may say that we think of publishing an appeal through the paper to any of her victims, asking them to come forward and tell us without prejudice what they paid her. We hope that this will lead to the arrest of Garcia. Emphasise this. It’s Garcia we’re after, but we can’t lay it home to him without the evidence of the people Sonia blackmailed. We think Sonia refused to give him any more of the proceeds and he killed her to get them. It’s a ridiculous tarradiddle, but I think if you are low and cunning she may believe you. She’ll tell you about Pilgrim and Malmsley, I fancy, because she knows we have already got hold of that end of the stick. If, however, she thinks she may save Sonia’s name by going a bit farther, there’s just a chance she may do it. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“If you fail, we’ll be no worse off than we were before. Off you go.”

“Very well,” Nigel hesitated, his hand in his coat pocket.

“What is it?” asked Alleyn.

“Do you remember that I made a sort of betting list on the case last time you allowed me to Watson for you?”

“I do.”

“Well — I’ve done it again,” said Nigel modestly.

“Let me have a look.”

Nigel took a sheet of foolscap from his pocket and laid it before Alleyn with an anxious smile.

“Away you go,” said Alleyn. “Collect your cameraman and use your wits.”

Nigel went out and Alleyn looked at his analysis of the case.

“I’d half a mind to do something of the sort myself, Fox.” he said. “Let us see what he makes out.”