Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“I know it’s tricky,” he said. “Curtis — how long would he take to die?”

“Difficult to say. Fourteen hours. Might be more, might be less.”

“Fourteen hours! Damn and blast! That blows the whole thing sky-high.”

“Wait a moment, Alleyn. Have we any idea how much of the stuff he took?”

“The bottle was full. Miss Troy and Miss Bostock said it was full on Friday morning. Allowing for the amount that splashed over, it must have been quite a cupful.”

“This is the most shocking affair,” said little Curtis. “I — never in the whole course of my experience have I — however. My dear chap, if a stream of the stuff was poured into his mouth while his head was held back, he may have died in a few minutes of a particularly unspeakable form of asphyxiation. Actually, we may find he got some of it down his larynx, in which case death would be essentially from obstruction to breathing and would take place very quickly unless relieved by tracheotomy. You notice that the portions of the face that are not discoloured by acid are bluish. That bears out this theory. If you are right, I suppose that’s what we shall find. We’d better clear up here and get the body away. We’ll have the autopsy as soon as possible.”

It was almost dark when they got back to the Yard. Alleyn went straight to his room, followed by Fox and by a completely silent Nigel. Alleyn dropped into an arm-chair. Fox switched on the light.

“You want a drink, sir,” he said, with a look at Alleyn.

“We all do. Bathgate, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but if you are going to be ill, you can get out. We’ve had enough of that sort of thing.”

“I’m all right now,” said Nigel. “What shall I do about this? The late edition— ”

“A hideous curse on the late edition! All right. Tell them we’ve found him and where, and suggest suicide. That’s all. Go away, there’s a good chap.”

Nigel went.

“For pity’s sake, Fox,” said Alleyn violently, “why do you stand there staring at me like a benevolent bullock? Is my face dirty?”

“No, sir, but it’s a bit white. Now, you have that drink, Mr. Alleyn, before we go any further. I’ve got my emergency flask here.”

“I poured most of mine down McCully’s gullet,” said Alleyn. “Very well, Fox. Thank you. Have one yourself and let’s be little devils together. Now then, where do we stand? You were very silent in that place of horror. Do you agree with my theory?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ve been turning it over in my mind and I don’t see how any other theory will fit all the facts, more especially the tuft of hair torn from the scalp and found, as you might say, for the greater part on the floor.”

Fox briefly sucked in his short moustache and wiped his hand across his mouth.

“He must have jerked about very considerably,” he said, “and have been held on to very determinedly.”

“Very.”

“Yes. Now, sir, as we know only too well, it’s one thing to have a lot of circumstantial evidence and another to tie somebody up in it. As far as times go, we’re all over the shop here, aren’t we? Some time late Friday night or early Saturday morning’s the nearest we can get to when Garcia left Tatler’s End House. All we can say about the time the caravan was returned is that it was probably before it was light on Saturday morning. Now, which of this crowd could have got away for at least two hours— ”

“At the very least.”

“Yes. Two hours between seven-thirty on Friday evening, when Sadie Welsh heard Garcia speak, and before anybody was about — say, five o’clock — on Saturday morning. Do you reckon any of the lot that were up in London may have met him here?”

“Murdered him, taken the caravan to Tatler’s End House and returned here — how?”

“That’s true.”

“And I repeat, Fox, that I cannot believe a man in Garcia’s condition could have gone through all the game with the caravan and the transport. We don’t even know if he could drive and I should not be at all surprised if we find he couldn’t. It would take a tolerably good driver to do all this. If it was one of the London lot, he went to Tatler’s End House by means unknown, brought Garcia here and murdered him, returned the caravan and came back here, again by means unknown. You’ve seen the alibis. Pretty hopeless to fit anything on to any single one of them, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Except, perhaps, Malmsley. Could Malmsley have stayed behind and not caught the six o’clock bus? Where’s the stuff about Malmsley?”

Fox got a file from the desk and thumbed it over.

“Here we are, sir. I saw the conductor of the six o’clock this morning. He says four people got on at Bossicote corner on Friday evening. One woman and three men. He’s a dull sort of chap. I asked him if any of the men had beards and he said he couldn’t rightly remember, but he thinks one had a very wide-brimmed hat and wore a muffler, so he might have had a beard. Silly sort of chap. We did see a wide-brimmed affair in Malmsley’s wardrobe, too, but we’ll have to try and get closer to it than that.”

“Yes. If Malmsley did it, what about his dinner at the Savoy and his late night with his friend? I suppose he could have driven the caravan, killed Garcia and left the body here at about seven to eight-thirty, come back after he’d seen his friend to bed, and done all the rest of it. But how the devil did he get back from the studio to London after returning the caravan?”

“That’s right.” Fox licked his thumb and turned a page. “Now, here’s Miss Troy and Miss Bostock. Their alibis are the only ones we seem to have a chance of breaking among the London push. They’ve been checked up all right and were both seen by the club night porter when they came in, Miss Bostock at about one o’clock and Miss Troy at two-twenty. I’ve seen Miss Troy’s friend, Mr. Bellasca, and he says he took her back to the club at two-twenty or thereabouts. So that fits.”

“Is he a reliable sort of fellow?”

“I think so, sir. He’s very concerned on Miss Troy’s behalf. He’s been ringing her up, but apparently she didn’t exactly encourage him to go down there. He’s a very open sort of young gentleman and said she always treated him as if he was a schoolboy. However, the time at the club’s all right. The porter says definitely he let Miss Troy in at two-twenty. She exclaimed at the time, he says, so he remembered that. He says neither she nor Miss Bostock came out again, but he sits in a little cubby-hole by the lift, and may have dozed off. The garage is open all night. Their car was by the door. The chap there admits he slipped out to the coffee stall at about three o’clock.” Fox glanced up from the notes, looked fixedly at Alleyn’s white face, and then cleared his throat. “Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything in that,” he said.

“Go on,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sir, we may still admit there’s a possibility in the cases of these two ladies and Malmsley. On the evidence in this file I’d say all the others are wash-outs. That leaves us with what you might call a narrowed field. The Hon. Basil Pilgrim, Miss Seacliff, Miss Troy, Miss Bostock, and Mr. Malmsley.”

“Yes. Oh Lord, Fox, I forgot to ask Bathgate if he had any success with Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. I must be sinking into a detective’s dotage. I’d better go along and tell the A.C. about this afternoon. Then I’ll write up my report and I think this evening we’d better go broody on the case.”

Alleyn had a long interview with his Assistant Commissioner, a dry man with whom he got on very well. He then wrote up his report and took Fox off to dine at his own flat in a cul-de-sac off Coventry Street. After dinner they settled down over the fire to a systematic review of the whole case.