Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“In the Unicorn case a man who knew and didn’t tell was — killed.”

“I remember now.”

“Is it something to do with this drug he’s taking?”

“How did you guess?”

“Then it is Garnette!” said Nigel.

“Ssh! No, for pity’s sake! Oh, what have I done!”

“What are you two burbling about?” called Maurice.

He sounded very much more cheerful. Janey looked up sharply and then made a despairing little gesture.

“About you, good-looking,” she called out.

Maurice laughed. “I must come out and stop that,” he said.

“Oh, God,” whispered Janey. She suddenly gripped Nigel’s arm. “It’s not Garnette, it’s not, it’s not,” she said fiercely. “I must see you again.”

“After the show,” murmured Nigel hurriedly. “I’ll come to the flat.”

“But — no — it’s impossible.”

“Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow morning. About eleven.”

“The inquest is at eleven.”

“Earlier, then.”

“What can you do, after all?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Janey got up and went to the gramophone. The theme song from “Fools Step In” blared out.

You’re no angel, I’m no saint,

You’ve a modern body with a super coat of paint.

My acceleration’s speedy,

You’ve broken every rule,

You may say that I am greedy,

You may call me just a fool.

You’re no angel and I sometimes lost my head,

But fools step in where angels fear to tread.

“The tune’s all right,” said Maurice, emerging from the bedroom, “but the words are fatuous, as usual.”

Nigel gazed at him in. astonishment. His eyes were very bright. He had an air of spurious gaiety. He was like a mechanical figure that had been overwound and might break. He talked loudly and incessantly, and laughed at everything he said. He kept repeating that they had plenty of time.

“Loads of time. Fifty gallons of time. Time, the unknown quantity in the celestial cocktail. Time, Like an ever-rolling drunk. Jane, you’re looking very seductive, my angel. ‘You’re no angel and I’m no saint’.”

He sat on the arm of her chair and began to stroke her neck. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her shoulder.

“ ‘And I sometimes lose my head.’ Don’t move.”

She sat quite still, staring miserably at Nigel.

“I think we’d better dine,” said Nigel. “It’s after seven.”

Maurice had slid down behind Janey and now pulled her to him. He slipped his arms round her and pressed his face against her bare shoulder.

“Shall we go with him, Janey? Or shall we stay here and step in where angels fear to tread?”

“Don’t do that, Blot. And don’t be rude about Mr. Bathgate’s party. No, get up, do.”

He laughed uproariously and pushed her away from him.

“Come on, then,” he said, “come on. I’m all for a party.”

They dined at the Hungaria. Maurice was very gay and rather noisy. He drank a good deal of champagne and ate next to nothing. Nigel was thankful when they got away. At the theatre Maurice seemed to quieten down. Toward the end of the second act he suddenly whispered that he had a splitting headache and leant forward in his stall with his head between his hands. The people round them obviously thought he was drunk. Nigel felt acutely uncomfortable. When the lights went up for the final curtain Maurice was leaning back again, his eyes half-closed and his face lividly white.

“Are you all right?” asked Nigel.

“Perfectly, thank you,” he said very clearly. “Is it all over?”

“Yes,” said Janey quickly, “stand up Maurice. They’re playing The King.”

He got up as though he was exhausted, but he was quiet enough as he followed them out into the street. In the taxi he sat absolutely still, his hands lying palm upwards on the seat. In the reflected light from the streets Nigel saw that his eyes were open. The pupils were the size of pin-points. Nigel looked questioningly at Janey. She nodded slightly. “I’ll see you in, Pringle,” said Nigel.

“No, thank you,” he said loudly.

“But, Maurice—”

“No, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you . Damn you, for —’s sake leave me alone, will you.”

He had got out and now slammed the door shut, and without another look at them went quickly up the steps to the flats.

“Let him go,” said Janey.

Nigel said “99, Yeoman’s Row” to the man, and they drove away.

Janey began to laugh.

“Charming guest you’ve had for your party. Has anyone ever been quite so rude to you before? You must have enjoyed it.”

“Don’t!” said Nigel. “I didn’t mind. I’m only so sorry for you both.”

“You are nice about it. I won’t have hysterics; don’t look so nervous. Your Angela’s a lucky wench. Tell her I said so. No, don’t. Don’t talk to me, please.”

They finished the short journey in silence. As he saw her into her door Nigel said:

“I’m coming in the morning. Not early, so don’t get up too soon. And please remember you’d much better tell Alleyn.”

“Ah, but you don’t know,” said Janey.

When Nigel got home it was half-past eleven. He rang Alleyn up.

“Were you in bed?” asked Nigel.

“In bed! I’ve just got back from the Yard.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Routine work.”

“That is merely the name you give to the activities you keep a secret from me.”

“Think so? What have you been up to yourself?”

“Cultivating a pair of fools.”

“That’s your opinion of them, is it?”

“It’ll be yours when I reveal all. She’s a nice fool and he’s inexpressibly unpleasant. Look here, Alleyn, Pringle’s keeping something up his sleeve. Yesterday afternoon—”

“Hi! No names over the telephone. Your landlady may be lying on her stomach outside the door.”

“Shall I come round to your flat?”

“Certainly not. Go to bed and come to the Yard in the morning.”

“You might be grateful. I’ve endured a frightful party and paid for a lot of champagne, all in the cause of justice. Really, Alleyn, it’s been a ghastly evening. Pringle’s soaked to the back teeth in drugs and—”

“ No names over the telephone . I am grateful. What would we do without our Mr. Bathgate? Can you get to my office by nine?”

“I suppose so. But I want you to come with me to Janey Jenkins’ flat. I think if you tackle her she may tell you about Mau—”

“ Not over the telephone .”

“But why not? Who do you think is listening? What about your own conversations? Has Miss Wade swarmed up a telegraph pole and topped the wires?”

“Good night.” said Alleyn.

Nigel wrote an article on the beauty and charm of Cara Quayne. The article was to be illustrated with two photographs he had picked up in her flat. Then he cursed Alleyn and went to bed.

The next morning he went down to the Yard at nine and found Alleyn in his room.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Sit down and smoke. I won’t be a minute. I’ve just been talking to New York. Mr. Ogden seems to be as pure as a lily as far as they can tell. We rang them up yesterday and they’ve been pretty nippy. The Ogden-Schultz Gold Refining Company seems to be a smallish but respectable concern. It did well during the gold fever of ’31, but not so well since then. Of Mr. Garnette they know nothing. They are going to have a stab at tracing the revivalist joint that was such a success way down in Michigan in ’14. The wretched creature has probably changed his name half a dozen times since then.”

He pressed his desk-bell and to the constable who answered it he gave an envelope and a telegram form.