Ngaio Marsh - A Man Lay Dead

“Will you come, Nigel?” Angela asked.

“Of course I will,” said Nigel. “What are we to do when we get there?”

“If you will give me the pleasure of dining with me, both of you, I will explain myself then. Now, just one more question: you heard Mr. Rankin’s story of how he became possessed of the knife with which he was killed. Can either of you remember anything, anything at all, that Rankin said which would serve to describe the man who gave it to him?”

“What did Charles say, Nigel?” asked Angela after a pause.

Alleyn crossed to the windows and stood by the drawn curtains. He looked singularly alert.

“He told us,” said Nigel thoughtfully, “that a Russian whom he met in Switzerland gave it to him. He said it had been sent to him. It was sent in return for some service Charles did this Russian.”

“And that was—?” Alleyn moved back into the room.

“I think he said something about pulling him out of a crevasse.”

“That all?”

“I can’t remember anything else, can you, Angela?”

“I’m trying to think,” murmured Angela.

“Did you gather that they had become friends? Did Rankin describe the man?”

“No,” said Nigel.

“No-no, but he said something else,” Angela asserted.

“What could it have been? Think now. Was it something about the accident that led to this incident? Were either of them injured? What!” Angela had uttered a short exclamation.

“That’s it! The Russian lost two of his fingers with frost-bite.”

“The devil he did!” ejaculated Alleyn. “The devil he did!”

“Is that relevant?” asked Nigel.

“It is extremely important,” said Alleyn very loudly. “It links up the Russian evidence very prettily. Let me just explain precisely what I mean by the Russian evidence.” While he was speaking the detective had risen and was standing facing the other two with his back to the curtained windows. The lamp light fell strongly on his dark head and broad shoulders. “Let me tell you,” he said emphatically, “that on Saturday night a Pole was murdered in Soho. He was identified by his left hand.” Alleyn slowly raised his own left arm under the lamp and spread the thumb, index and little fingers of the hand. The two middle fingers he doubled over the palm.

For perhaps two seconds Nigel and Angela sat staring at him in silence. Then they realized that he was whispering urgently, his hand still raised.

“Bathgate!” he was murmuring, “Tokareff is outside watching us. In one minute I shall turn and make for the French window. Follow me and help me collar him. You, Miss Angela, go out of the door as if nothing had happened, speak to no one. Wrap yourself up quickly in the first coat you can find and wait for us in the Bentley.” Then aloud, and lowering his arm as Angela left the room, he added, “and now we are alone, Bathgate, let me tell you exactly what I know of these Russians—”

He had whirled round and was at the French windows before Nigel had got to his feet. The curtain was torn aside violently; Alleyn wrenched at the door.

“Blast!” he said. “Come on!”

There was a crash of splintered glass, a cold wind filled the warm room, Alleyn disappeared with Nigel close on his heels.

Outside on the frozen balcony two men struggled together bitterly and silently. The uncertain lamp light, broken by the billowing curtains, wavered across them. Nigel had a swift glimpse of Tokareff’s face, spectacled, strangely passive. He flung himself at the Russian, tackling him low, and was himself bowled over, striking his face against the icy, frost-smelling stones. A moment later he saw Alleyn stagger backwards, and as he himself scrambled up he was aware of a figure that melted away out into the dark.

“After him!” Alleyn grunted. A shrill whistle split the night air.

Nigel was running across the lawn, vaguely conscious of the rush of cold air on his eyes and lips. “The wood!” he thought, “he mustn’t reach the wood.” He could hear the dull rhythm of the Russian’s feet on the soft turf. With a stringent effort he quickened his pace, sprinted and then dived, bringing the unseen fugitive down with him.

“This is better,” thought Nigel, wrenching a wrist and arm across a writhing back, “I’ve got him.”

“Got him?” echoed Alleyn’s voice out of the darkness, and in a moment the detective knelt beside him, and a bull’s-eye lantern heralded the approach at the double of Bunce, P.C.

Tokareff uttered a short gasping sound, a sort of groan.

“Now then,” said Alleyn, “let’s have my torch.” A pencil of light shot out. Tokareff lay on his back with Alleyn sitting across him. “Get back to your post, Bunce, as quick as you came,” the detective ordered sharply. “Is Green still there?”

“Yessir,” breathed Bunce; “we heard your whistle.”

“Miss North, Mr. Bathgate, and I will come through in the Bentley in ten minutes. Have the gates open and don’t stop us. Keep a cat’s own watch for anything else. Now skedaddle!”

“Yessir,” blew Bunce in the dark, and the bull’s-eye retired.

“Now then, Doctor Tokareff. There’s a perfectly good revolver cuddled into your ribs here, and I think you will come quietly.”

“ Proklyatie! proklyatie! ” stuttered a furious voice. Something clicked sharply.

“Yes, I dare say. Come now, get up.”

The three stood facing each other in the darkness to which their eyes had grown accustomed.

“I don’t think he carries any deadly weapons,” said Alleyn; “but have a look, will you, Bathgate. Doctor Tokareff, you must consider yourself under arrest. Nothing in his hip pocket, or anywhere? Sure? Right. Now, this way quickly. Damn, too late! Here’s the hue and cry. Oh well, no matter.”

The sound of voices drifted across from the house. Two figures were silhouetted against the dishevelled warmth of the study windows.

“Alleyn! Bathgate!” called Sir Hubert.

“Here we are!” answered Alleyn. “Nothing’s the matter.”

“Nozzing ze matter!” bellowed the suddenly articulate Russian. “I greatly beg a difference. I am under an arrest. I am innocent of this murder! Sir Hubert! Mr. Ooilde!”

“Come on,” said Alleyn, and he and Nigel propelled their captive back towards the house.

Handesley and Wilde met them in the pool of light outside the windows.

“Just a little Russian touch,” explained Alleyn. “Manacles at midnight. A home away from home for the doctor.”

“Doctor Tokareff,” said Sir Hubert, “this is a terrible business.”

“Tokareff!” murmured Wilde to Nigel. “Tokareff, after all!” And Nigel wondered if there had crept into his voice a note of exquisite relief or only one of profound astonishment. The Russian was protesting vehemently, his manacled hands clasped in front of his face. Nigel felt an insane desire to giggle.

“Sir Hubert,” Alleyn continued, exactly as if the Russian was not speaking, “please do you and Mr. Wilde return indoors. You may explain briefly to the others what has happened.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We shall be away for some time. I shall get Miss Angela to drive us to the local police station. Doctor Tokareff—”

“I am innocent! Ask of the peasant Vassily, the butler! He knows — on the night of the crime — I must tell you.”

“I have to warn you,” interrupted Alleyn, and Nigel saw him glance inimicably at Wilde, “that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Later on, if you choose, you can make a statement. Now, Sir Hubert, and you too, Mr. Wilde, please go in. I shall communicate with you later.” The others turned silently towards the house.