Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“Was it in Mr. Ogden’s house?”

“But of course! In his house. He showed it to me. How could I have forgotten? The priest was there and looked at it too. And the others. It was too stupid of me to forget. I remember I upset a glass of whisky and soda near it. Ogden fancied the book might be of value, I think, but it was of no interest to me. That is why I did not remember it. So the book is the good Ogden’s book? That is interesting, monsieur, is it not?”

“Any information about the book is interesting. And speaking of books, M. de Ravigne, may I have the books of the Sacred Flame Company? I understand you’ve got them here.”

“The books? Ah, yes. The good Ogden insisted that I glance at them. They seem to be in order. Naturally the theft of the bonds would not appear. Perhaps the good Ogden himself has seen to that. Perhaps he and the priest together have arranged these little matters. You see I am bitter, monsieur. I am not easily made suspicious, but when my suspicions are aroused — But the books! You shall have them, certainly.”

He rang for his servant, who produced the books and gave them to Alleyn.

“There’s one other question, M. de Ravigne, and then I shall trouble you no further. Do you know anything of a Madame la Comtesse de Barsac?”

“My sister, monsieur,” said de Ravigne very frigidly.

“Forgive me. I really didn’t know. She was the confidante of Miss Quayne, I think? A very good friend?”

“That is so.”

Alleyn got up.

“A thousand thanks,” he said. “Is there anything else, Fox? Perhaps you—”

“No thank you, sir,” said Fox cheerfully. “I think you’ve covered the ground.”

“Then we will make our adieux, monsieur. You will have received notice of the inquest tomorrow?”

“At eleven jo’clock, yes. It will, I imagine, be purely formal.”

“One never knows with inquests, but I expect so. The terms of the Will may come out. You know them, I expect?”

“No, monsieur.”

“No? Come along. Fox. Where are those books?”

“You’ve got them under your arm, sir.”

“Have I? So I have. Au ’voir , Monsieur de Ravigne. I am afraid we have been a great nuisance.”

“Not at all, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. I am only too glad — though I am afraid I have been of little assistance—”

“ Tout au contraire, monsieur. ”

“ Vraiment? Au ’voir, monsieur . Good afternoon, monsieur.”

“Ohreevor, monsieur,” said Fox very firmly.

On their way down the liftman extolled the virtues of the flats, and Alleyn warmly agreed with him, but still insisted that he preferred the solace of an open fire. Inspector Fox listened gravely to this conversation, occasionally uttering a profound noise in his throat. As they got into the car his good-natured face wore the nearest approach to a sardonic smile of which it was capable.

“The Yard,” said Alleyn to the driver. “You’ll be able to improve your French if we see much more of that gentleman,” he added with a smile at Fox.

“It’s a rum thing,” said Inspector Fox, “that I can follow that radio bloke a fair treat, and yet when the monsieur gets under way it sounds like a collection of apostrophes. What do we do when we get back to the office?”

“We send a cable to Australia.”

“To Australia?”

“Yes, Brer Fox.”

“What’s that in aid of?”

“You’ve never been to Australia?”

“I have not.”

“I have. Let me tell you about it.”

Alleyn discoursed at some length about Australia. They got back to the Yard at five o’clock. The fingerprint people reported that they had been unable to find any of the Sacred Flame prints in the records. Mr. Rattisbon had sent a letter round for Alleyn. The report from Cara Quayne’s house together with the blotting-paper and crumpled sheet from the wastepaper basket awaited him in his room. He went there, accompanied by Fox, and tackled Mr. Rattisbon’s letter first.

“Let’s smoke a pipe apiece,” he said. “I’m longing for one.”

They lit up, and Fox watched him gravely while he opened the long envelope. Alleyn’s eyebrows rose as he read the enclosures. Without a word he handed them across to his subordinate. Mr. Rattisbon wrote to say that the morning mail had brought a new Will from Miss Quayne. She had evidently written it some time yesterday afternoon. It was witnessed by Ethel Parker and May Simes. As regards the bequests to de Ravigne and Laura Hebborn it was a repetition of the old Will. For the rest it was startingly changed. The entire residue was left to Mr. Jasper Garnette of Knocklatchers Row, Eaton Place. Miss Quayne had written to say she hoped that the new Will was in order, and that if it was not, would Mr. Rattisbon please draw up a fresh document to the same effect. The alteration was so straightforward that she believed this to be unnecessary. She had urgent reasons for making the alteration, reasons connected with a “terrible discovery.” She would call and explain. Her dear Father Garnette, she said, was the victim of an unholy plot. In his covering letter Mr. Rattisbon explained that at the time Alleyn called he had not looked at his morning post. He added that he found the whole affair extremely distressing; an unexpectedly human touch.

“By gum!” said Fox, putting the papers down, “it looks as if you’re right, sir.”

“Gratifying, isn’t it? But how the devil are we going to ram it home? And what about our Jasper? Oh, Garnette, my jewel, my gem above price, you will need your lovely legacy before we’ve done with you. Where’s the report on those cigarettes, Fox? Has it come in? Where’s my pad? Here we are. Yes. Oh excellent priest! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee. All the top cigarettes as innocent as the wild woodbine, but underneath, in a vicious little mob, ten doped smokes. A fairly high percentage of heroin was found, from one-tenth to as much as one-seventh of a grain per cigarette. Is it possible that the cigarette tobacco has been treated with a solution of diamorphine? Oh, Jasper, my dear, my better half, have I caught my heavenly jewel?”

“Come off it, sir,” said Fox with a grin.

“How right you are, my Foxkin. Is there any reason why we should not prise the jewel from its setting?”

“Do you mean you’d like to arrest Garnette?”

“Would I like to? And how! as Mr. Ogden would say. And how, my old foxglove, my noxious weed. Has anyone ever written a poem to you, Fox?”

“Never, sir.”

“I wish I had the art:

“Hercules or Hector? Ah, no!

This is our Inspector Fox,

Mens sana in corpore sano ,

Standing in the witness-box.

“Very feeble, I’m afraid. What about the analyst? Autopsy on body of Miss Cara Quayne. Here we are: He’s been very quick about it. ‘External appearances: blue nails, fingers clenched, toes contracted, jaws firmly closed.’ We know all that. ‘Internally’— This is it. ‘On opening the stomach the odour of hydrocyanic acid was clearly distinguishable.’ How beastly for him. He found the venous system gorged with liquid blood, bright red and arterial in character. The stomach and intestines appeared to be in their natural state. The mucous membrane of the stomach — How he does run on, to be sure. Let’s see. The silver test was carried out. The precipitate gave the characteristic reactions—”

Alleyn read on in silence. Then he dropped the report on his desk and leant back.

“Yes,” he said flatly, “it’s sodium cyanide. I do well, don’t I, to sit here being funny-man, and not so damn’ funny either, while a beautiful woman turns into a cadaver, an analyst’s exercise, and her murderer—? Fox, in many ways ours is a degrading job-of-work. Custom makes monsters of us all. Do you ever feel like that about it, Fox? No, I don’t think you do. You are too nice-minded. You are always quite sane. And such a wise old bird, too. Damn you, Fox, do you think we’re on the right lay?”