Death in Ecstasy (21 page)

“I wish I knew,” said Alleyn.

“And Father Garnette?”

“He saw it too. For the matter of that they may all have glanced at it afterwards. But the question is—”

“Did any of them see enough of it to put ideas of sodium cyanide into their heads?”

“Exactly, Brer Fox, exactly. How did you get on with that remarkably frisky-looking soubrette who showed us in?”

“Oh, her! Rita’s her name. And the cook’s a Mrs. Bulsome. A very pleasant, friendly woman, the cook was. Made me quite welcome in the kitchen, and answered everything nice and straightforward. Rita took in the coffee at a quarter to two on Sunday. She went and got the cups about ten minutes later and Mrs.. Candour was then stretched out on the sofa, smoking and listening to the radio. She was still there when Rita took tea in at four-thirty and they heard the radio going all the afternoon.”

“Not exactly a cast-iron alibi. Did you pick up any gossip about that — that inexpressibly tedious lady?”

“Mrs. Candour? Well, she’s not very much liked in the hall, sir. Rita said it was her opinion the mistress was half-dopey most of her time, and Mrs. Bulsome, who’s a very plain-spoken woman, said the kitchen cat, a fine female tortoiseshell, had a better sense of decency. That was the way Mrs. Bulsome put it.”

“You have all the fun, Fox.”

“Rita says Mrs. Candour set her cap at monsieur and was always ringing him up and about three weeks ago she got him there and there was a scene. They heard her voice raised and after he’d gone Rita went in and she found Mrs. C. in a great state. She never rang up after that and monsieur never came back. About that time, they said, she left off visits to Miss Quayne.”

“As we saw by Miss Quayne’s appointment book. Here we are at the Château Ogden. Don’t let me forget any important questions, Fox. I’ll have to go carefully with Ogden. He’s feeling rather self-conscious about his book.”

“That’s not to be wondered at,” said Fox grimly.

“There’s a telephone-box. Pop in and ring up the Yard, Foxkin. I’d like to know if there’s an answer from Madame la Comtesse.”

Fox was away for some minutes. He returned looking more than usually wooden.

“There’s an answer. I’ve taken it down word for word; It’s in French, but as far as I can make it out the Countess is in a private hospital and can’t be disturbed.”

“Hell’s boots!” said Alleyn. “I’ll disturb her if I have to dress up as a French gynæcologist to do it!”

Mr. Ogden lived in an old-fashioned maisonette. His sitting room was on the street level and opened off a small hall from which a break-neck stair led up to his dining room and kitchen and then on to his bedroom and bathroom. He was served by a family who lived in the basement. He answered his own door and gave Alleyn and Fox a hearty, but slightly nervous, greeting.

“Hello! Hello! Look who’s here! Come right in.”

“You must be sick of the sight of us,” said Alleyn.

“Where d’you get that stuff?” demanded Mr. Ogden with somewhat forced geniality. “Say, when this darn business is through, maybe we’ll be able to get together like regular fellows.”

“But until then—?” suggested Alleyn with a smile.

Mr. Ogden grinned uncomfortably.

“Well, I won’t say nothing,” he admitted, “but I’ll try and act like I was a pure young thing. What’s new, Chief?”

“Nothing much. We’ve come to look at your house, Mr. Ogden.”

Mr. Ogden paled slightly.

“Sure,” he said. “What’s the big idea?”

“Don’t look so uncomfortable. We’re not expecting to find a body in the destructor.”

“Aw gee!” protested Mr. Ogden. “You make me nervous when you pull that grim British humour stuff.”

He showed them over the maisonette, which had the peculiarly characterless look of the ready-furnished dwelling. Mr. Ogden, however, appeared to like it.

“It’s never recovered from the shock it got when Queen Victoria okayed gas lighting,” he said. “It’s just kind of forgotten to disappear. Look at that grate. I reckon it would have a big appeal in the States as a museum specimen. Some swell apartment! When I first saw it I thought I’d side-slipped down time’s speedway. I asked the real estate agent if it was central heated and the old guy looked so grieved I just hadn’t the nerve to come at it again.”

“There are plenty of modern flats in London, sir,” said Inspector Fox rather huffily, as they went into the kitchen.

“Sure there are. Erected by Rip Van Winkle and Co. You don’t want to get sore, Inspector. I’m only kidding. I took this apartment
because
it’s old-world and British. I get a kick out of buying coal for this grate and feeling Florida in front and Alaska down the back.”

“It’s a very cosy little kitchenette, sir,” said Fox, still on the defensive. “All those nice modern Fyrexo dishes!”

“I’ve pepped it up some. There was no ice-chest and a line of genuine antiques for fixing the eats. And will you look at that hot-squat, coal-consuming range? I reckon that got George Whatsit Stevenson thinking about trains.”

Fox mumbled impotently.

They completed their tour of the maisonette and returned to the sitting room. Mr. Ogden drew armchairs up to the hearth and attacked the smoldering coals with a battered stump of a poker.

“How about a drink?” he asked.

“Thank you so much, not for me,” said Alleyn.

Mr. Ogden again looked nervous.

“I forgot,” he mumbled, “I kinda asked for that.”

“Good Heavens,” protested Alleyn, “you mustn’t jump to conclusions like this, Mr. Ogden. We’re on duty. We don’t drink when we’re on duty. That’s all there is to it.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Ogden eyeing him doubtfully. “What can I do for you, Chief?”

“We’re still trying to untangle the business of the book. I think you can help us there, if you will. I take it that this is the room where you held your party?”

“Yup.”

“And there are your books,” continued Alleyn, pointing to where a dispirited collection of monthly journals and cheap editions propped each other up in an old bookcase.

“That’s the library. Looks world-weary, doesn’t it? I’m not crazy about literature.”

“I notice there are no red backs there, so the
Curiosities
must have showed up rather well.”

“That’s so. It looked like it was surprised at being there,” said Mr. Ogden with one of his imaginative flights.

“Well now, can you show me where it was on the night of your party?”

“Lemme see.”

He got up and walked over to the shelves.

“I reckon I can,” he said. “M. de Ravigne had parked his drink in that gap along by the stack of
Posts
and spilled it over. I remember that because it marked the shelf and he was very repentant about it. He called me over and apologised and I said: ‘What the hell’s it matter,’ and then I saw the old book. That’s how I come to show it to him.”

“You showed it to him. You’re positive of that? He did not find it for himself, and you didn’t see him with it before anything was said about it?”

Mr. Ogden thought that over. The significance of Alleyn’s question obviously struck him. He looked worried, but he answered with every appearance of complete frankness.

“No, sir. Raoul de Ravigne did no snooping around those books. I showed it to him. And get this, Chief. If I hadn’t showed it to him he’d never have seen it. He had turned away from the books and was telling Garnette how thoughtless he’d acted putting his glass down on the shelf.”

“But he would have seen it before, when he put his glass down.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s so. But even if that is so you can bet your suspenders Ravigne is on the level. See here, Chief, I get you with this book stuff and God knows I feel weak under my vest whenever I remember the
Curiosities
belonged to me. But if you’re thinking of Raoul de Ravigne for the quick hiccough, forget it. He worshipped Cara. He surely worshipped her.”

“I know, I know,” said Alleyn abstractedly.

Fox, who had examined the shelf, suddenly remarked:

“There’s the mark of the stuff there still. Spirit. It’s lifted the varnish.”

“So it has,” said Alleyn. “After you had shown him the book what happened to it?”

“Why, I don’t just remember. Wait a while. Yeah, I got it. He looked at it sort of polite but not interested, and handed it to Garnette.”

“And then?”

“I can’t remember. I guess we walked away or something.”

“Previous to the glass incident what had you all been doing?”

“Search me. Talking.”

“Had you been talking to Mrs. Candour, Miss Quayne and Mr. Garnette?”

“That’s so. Checking up, are you? Well, I reckon that’s right. We were here by the fire, I guess.”

“And you don’t remember seeing the book after that evening?”

“No. But I don’t remember
not
seeing it till the day that sissy stopped in for Garnette’s books. I’m dead sure it wasn’t here then. Dead sure.”

“That’s a most important point. It seems to show—”

Alleyn paused and then said: “Look here, Mr. Ogden, as far as I can see there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be perfectly frank with you. Tell me, is it your opinion the book disappeared on the night of your party?”

“Honest, Chief, I’m not sure. I don’t know. I can’t go any further except that I’d stake a couple of grand Ravigne doesn’t come into the picture.”

“Who looks after you here and does the housemaiding?”

“The girl Prescott. The daughter of the janitor.”

“Could we speak to her, do you think?”

“Sure! She’ll be down in the dungeon they call their apartment. I’ll fetch her.”

He went out into the little hall and they could hear him shouting:

“Hey! Elsie! Cm’ on up here, will you?”

A subterranean squeak answered him. He came back grinning.

“She’ll be right up. Her old man does the valeting and butling, her ma cooks, and Elsie hands out the cap and apron dope. The bell doesn’t work since they forgot to fix it way back eighteen-twenty-five.”

Elsie turned out to be a pleasant-faced young woman. She was neatly dressed, and looked intelligent.

“Listen, Elsie. These gentlemen want to ask you something.”

“It’s about a book of Mr. Ogden’s that was stolen,” said Alleyn. “It’s a valuable book and he wants us to trace it for him.”

Elsie looked alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” said Alleyn, “we rather think it was taken by a man who tried to sell him a wireless. Do you remember the night Mr. Ogden had a large party here? About three weeks ago?”

“Yes, sir. We helped.”

“Splendid. Did you do the tidying next day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose you dusted the bookshelves, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, sir. They were in a terrible mess. A gentleman had upset a glass. Just there it was, sir.”

She pointed to the shelf.

“Were any of the books damaged?”

“The one next the place was, sir. It was stained-like.”

“What book was that?”

“I never noticed the name, sir. It had brown paper on it. You couldn’t see.”

“Was there a red book there?”

“You mean the queer-looking old one. That hasn’t been there for a — well, for some time.”

“That’s the one we’re trying to trace, Elsie. You think it was not there that morning?”

“No, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t. You see that’s where it always stood, and I noticed it wasn’t there because I thought it was a pity because it wouldn’t have mattered if that old book had been marked because I didn’t know it was a valuable book, sir. I just laid the other one down by the fire to dry off and put it back again. I didn’t take the cover off because I didn’t like it. It was put on very neat with nice shiny paper.”

Alleyn glanced at Mr. Ogden, who turned bright pink.

“But it wasn’t the old book, sir. The old book was bigger and it hadn’t got a cover. Now I come to think of it, I remember I says to Mr. Ogden, I says: ‘Where’s the big red book?’ Didn’t I, sir? When you was looking through them to see the damage.”

“By heck, I believe she did,” shouted Mr. Ogden.

“Splendid, Elsie. So one way and another you’re absolutely certain there was no big red book?”

“Yes, sir, certain sure. There was just a row of five in brown paper covers and then the ones that are there now. I remember it all so distinct because that was the day before we went for our holidays, and I says I’d like to get things nice for a start off because Mr. Ogden was going to do for himself and get his meals out, and he’d been that kind, and it seemed such a pity like, anything should be missing, so I was quite anxious to make everything nice, so I did and so that’s how I remember.”

“Thank you very much indeed, Elsie.”

She went away in high feather.

“Just as well she didn’t look at the book, Mr. Ogden,” said Alleyn dryly. “Which was it?
Petronius
?”

“Ah, hell!” said Mr. Ogden.

“Well, Fox, we must go our ways.” Alleyn wandered over to the shelves. “M. de Ravigne certainly left his mark,” he said. “The stuff ran some way along. What was it?”

“A highball.”

“Ah, well,” said Alleyn, “we’ll have to find out what Mr. Garnette did with the
Curiosities
.”

“By God,” began Mr. Ogden violently, “if Garnette—”

He stopped short. “I ain’t saying a thing,” he added darkly.

“Come along, Fox,” said Alleyn. “We’ve kept Mr. Ogden too long already. I must present Elsie with the wherewithal for a new bonnet. She skipped away before I could do it. I’ll find her on the way down.”

They said good-bye. Elsie was hovering in the little hall. Alleyn winked at Fox who went on ahead. Alleyn joined him in the car five minutes later.

“Very talkative girl that,” said Fox dryly.

“She is. In addition to being swamped with thanks I’ve heard all about her sister’s miscarriage, the mystery of the drawing room poker (it seems Elsie suspects someone of chewing at the tip), her young man who is a terror for crime stories, how Mr. Ogden broke a Fyrexo pot and why Elsie likes policemen. She remembers the day Claude came for the books. She put them in his attaché-case for him. Ogden was out, as he said. Elsie says there were six, which is rum, as she spoke of five before that. What’s the time?”

“Five-thirty.”

“I made an appointment with young Pringle for six. I expect he’ll be in. Look here, Fox, I’ll drop you at Knocklatchers Row. If Garnette is in, ask him what he did with the book that night at Ogden’s. Go easy with him. It would be lovely to hear the truth for once from those perfect lips. He’ll swear he left it behind him, of course, but try and get some means of checking up on it. Then, if you’ve time, look up the unspeakable Claude. Ask him how many books he collected from Ogden for Garnette. He’ll probably say he’s forgotten, but ask him. Oh, and ask Garnette if he examined them when they came in. Will you do all that, Fox?”

“Right-oh, sir. What’s your view now? Things are a bit more shipshape, aren’t they?”

“They are, Fox, they are. It’s closing in. I’ve little doubt in my own mind now. Have you?”

“No. It looks as if you’re right.”

“We haven’t got enough for an arrest, of course. Still, the cable from Australia may bring forth fruits, and I’ll
have
to get in touch with Madame de Barsac. You were quite right. She’s in a nursing home. The telegram was from her housekeeper. I hope to heaven Cara Quayne’s letter has survived. I’ll ring up the Sûreté tonight. Old Sapineau is by way of being a pal of mine. Perhaps he can do something tactful for me. Here we are at Knocklatchers Row. In you go, Fox. It’s better I should see Pringle alone. I’ve got to convince him we know he came to this church on Sunday afternoon without giving away the source of information. I’ll have to bluff, and I can do that better without your eye on me. It may come to taking an extreme measure. Watkins and Bailey are meeting me there. I’ll be back at the Yard some time this evening. What a life, ye screeching kittens, what a life!”

Alleyn drove on to Lower Sloane Street, where he was joined by Detective-Sergeants Bailey and Watkins.

“Stay down opposite the door,” said Alleyn, “and try not to look like sleuths, there’s good fellows. If you see me come to the window, wander quietly upstairs. Hope it won’t be necessary.”

He went upstairs to the flat, where he found Maurice Pringle.

Maurice looked a pretty good specimen of a wreck. His face was the colour of wet cement, there were pockets of green plasticine under his eyes, and he had the general appearance of having spent the day on an unmade bed. Alleyn dealt roundly with him.

“Good evening, Mr. Pringle. You’re looking ill.”