Death in Ecstasy (18 page)

“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:

“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?”

“I think so, sir. And I know how you feel about homicide cases. I’d put it down to your imagination. You’re a very imaginative man, I’d say. I’m not at all fanciful myself, but it does seem queer to me sometimes, how calm-like we get to work, grousing about the routine, pull out because our meals don’t come regular, and all the time there’s a trap and a rope and a broken neck at the end if we do our job properly. Well, there it is. It’s got to be done.”

“With which comfortable reflection,” said Alleyn, “let us consult Mr. Abberley on the subject of sodium cyanide.”

He picked the book out of his bag which had been brought back from the church, and once again it opened at the discourse on sodium cyanide.

“You see, Fox, it’s quite an elaborate business. List, list, oh list. You take equal weights of wool and dried washing-soda and iron filings. Sounds like Mrs. Beaton gone homicidal. Cook at red heat for three or four hours. Allow to cool. Add water and boil for several more hours. Tedious! Pour off clear solution and evaporate same to small volume. When cool, yellow crystals separate out. And are these sodium cyanide? They are not. To the crystals add a third of their weight of dried washing-soda. Heat as before for an hour or two. While still hot, pour off molten substance from black residue. It will solidify, on cooling to a white cake.
Alley Houp
! Sodium cyanide as ordered. Serve
a la Garnette
with Invalid Port to taste.
Loud
cheers and
much
laughter. This man is clever.”

He re-read the passage and then shut the book.

“As far as one can see this could all be done without the aid of laboratory apparatus. That makes it more difficult, of course. A house-to-house campaign is indicated, and then we may not get much further. Still it will have to be done. I think this is an occasion for Mr. Bathgate, Fox. You tell me he went off with Pringle and Miss Jenkins.”

“That’s right. I saw them walk down Knocklatchers Row and go into his flat in Chester Terrace.”

“I wonder if I’d be justified — He can’t get into trouble over this. It’s so much better than going ourselves. He’s an observant youth, and if they’ve got all matey — What d’you think, Fox?”

“What are you driving at, sir?”

“Wait and see.”

He thought for a moment and then reached for his telephone. He dialled a number and waited, staring abstractedly at Fox. A small tinny quack came from the telephone. Alleyn spoke quietly.

“Is that you, Bathgate? Don’t say my name. Say ‘Hullo, darling.’ That’s right. Now just answer yes and no in a loving voice if your guests are still with you. Are they? Good. It’s Angela speaking.”

“Hullo, darling,” quacked the little voice.

“Is your telephone the sort that shouts or whispers? Does it shout?”

“No, my sweet. It’s too marvellous to hear your voice,” said Nigel in Chester Terrace. Without covering the receiver he addressed somebody in the room: “It’s Angela — my — I’m engaged to her. Excuse the raptures.”

“Are you sure it’s all right for me to talk?” continued Alleyn.

“Angela, darling. I can hardly hear you. This telephone is almost dumb.”

“That’s all right then. Now attend to me. Have you got very friendly?”

“Of
course
I have,” said Nigel rapturously.

“Well. Get yourself invited to either or both of their flats. Can you do that?”

“But Angel, I did all that ages ago. When am I going to see you?”

“Do you mean you have already been to their flats?”

“No, no. Of course not. How are you?”

“Getting bloody irritable. What
do
you mean?”

“Well, at the moment I am sitting looking at your photograph. As a matter of fact I’ve been showing it to somebody else.”

“Blast your eyes.”

“No, my sweet, nobody you know. I hope you will soon. They’re engaged like us. We’re all going to a show. Angela, where are you?”

“At the Yard.”

“Darling, how expensive! Yarborough! A toll call. Never mind. When are you coming to London? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is. If you’re going to a show, can you engineer a round trip to their flats afterwards?”

“Rather! As a matter of fact I’d thought of doing that. Darling—”

“Shut up. Listen carefully now.”

“At Harrods? Must it be pink, my sweet?”

“Now don’t you be too clever. Miss Angela would cast you off for ever if you mooed at her like that. Pay attention. When you are there I want you to observe certain things.”

“All right, darling, I was only being facetious. Let me know the worst.”

“I will. This is what I want you to look for—” Alleyn talked on. Fox listened solemnly. Nigel, over in Chester Terrace, blew kisses into the receiver and smiled apologetically at Janey Jenkins and Maurice Pringle.

“It annoys Angela beyond endurance if I hold modern conversations with her on the telephone,” said Nigel hanging up the receiver on a final oath from Alleyn.

“If that was a sample, I’m not surprised,” said Janey Jenkins. “I absolutely forbid Maurice to call me his sweet. Don’t I, Blot?”

“Yes,” said Maurice unresponsively. He got up and moved restlessly about the room, fetching up at the window where he stood and stared out into the street, biting his finger.

“What is your Angela’s other name?” asked Janey.

“North. She’s darkish with a big mouth and thin.”

“When are you going to be married?”

“In April. When are you?”

Janey looked at Maurice’s back. “It’s not settled yet.”

“I’d better do something about getting seats for a show,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go? It’s such fun your coming here like this. We must make it a proper party. Have you seen ‘Fools Step In’ at the Palace?”

“No. We’d love to, but look here, we’re not dressed for a party.”

“Oh. No, you’re not, are you? Wait a moment. Let’s make it a real gala. I’ll change now and then we’ll take a taxi and go to your flat and then to Pringle’s. We’ll have a drink here first. Pringle, would you make drinks while I change? The things are all in that cupboard there. It’s only half-past five. I’ll have a quick bath — won’t be ten minutes. Do you mind? Will it amuse you? Not my bath, but everything else?”

“Of course it will,” said Janey.

Maurice swung around from the window and faced Nigel.

“Look here,” he said, “aren’t you rather rash to rush into parties with people that are suspected of murder?”

“Don’t, Maurice!” whispered Janey.

“My good ass,” said Nigel, “you embarrass me. You may of course be a homicidal maniac, but personally I imagine Alleyn had definitely ruled you out.”

“I suppose he’s told you to say that. You seem to be very thick with him.”

“Maurice, please!”

“My dear Jane, it’s not impossible.”

“No,” said Nigel calmly, “of course it’s not. Alleyn is by way of being my friend. I think your suspicions are perfectly reasonable, Pringle.”

“Oh, God, you are a little gentleman. I suppose you think I’m bloody unpleasant.”

“As a matter of fact I do, at the moment, but you’ll be better when you’ve had a cocktail. Get to work, there’s a good chap. And you might ring up the Palace for seats.”

“Look here, I’m damned sorry. I’m not myself. My nerves are all to hell. Janey, tell him I’m not entirely bogus. I can’t be if you say so.”

Janey went to him and held him firmly by one ear.

“Not entirely bogus,” she told Nigel.

“That’s all right then,” said Nigel hurriedly. “Look after yourselves.”

As he bathed he thought carefully about his instructions. In effect Alleyn had told him to cultivate these two with a view to spying on them. Nigel winced. Stated baldly it sounded unpleasant. He had had
this
sort of thing out with Alleyn on former occasions. The Chief Inspector had told him roundly that his scruples had merely pointed to a wish to have the ha’pence without the kicks, to follow round with the police, write special articles from first-hand experience, and turn squeamish when it came to taking a hand. Alleyn was right of course. If Maurice and Janey were innocent he would help to prove it. If they were guilty — But Nigel was quite sure neither Janey nor Maurice, for all his peculiar behaviour, was guilty of Cara Quayne’s death. He dressed hurriedly and went out into the little hall to get his overcoat. He dived into the cupboard. It was built in to the drawing room wall and the partition was thin. He heard Janey Jenkins’ voice, muffled and flat but distinct:

“But
why
can’t you tell me? I know quite well there’s something. Maurice, this
can’t
go on.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to turn me down? I don’t blame you.”

“You know I won’t turn you down. But why can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you. I trust you to stick to what we’ve said.”

“About yesterday afternoon—?”

“Sst!”

“Maurice, is it anything to do with — with your cigarettes? You’re smoking one of them now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t start nagging.”

“But—”

“When this is over I’ll give it up.”

“ ‘When.’ ‘When.’ It’s always ‘when.’ ”

“Will you shut up, Jane! I tell you I can’t stand it.”

“Ssh! He’ll hear you.”

Silence. Nigel stole out and back to his bedroom. In three minutes he rejoined them in the drawing room. Maurice had mixed their drinks, and Janey had turned on the radio. With an effort Nigel managed to sustain his role of cheerful host. Maurice suddenly became more friendly, mixed a second cocktail and began to talk loudly of modern novelists. It appeared that he was himself engaged on a first novel. Nigel was not surprised to learn that it was to be a satire on the upper middle classes. At six o’clock they took a taxi to Janey’s studio flat in Yeoman’s Row, and while she changed Maurice made more cocktails. Janey, it seemed, was at the Slade. Nigel found the studio very cold though they had put a match to the gas-heater. Shouting at them from the curtained-off recess that served as bedroom Janey explained that she meant to seek warmer quarters. Even the kitchenette-bathroom was cold, she said. She did her cooking over a gas-ring, and you couldn’t warm yourself at a bath-geyser. Some of her drawings were pinned up on the walls. She used an austere and wiry line, defined everything with uncompromising boundaries, and went in extensively for simplified form. The drawings had quality. Nigel wandered round the studio and into the kitchenette. Everything was very tidy, and rather like Janey herself.

“What are you doing?” called Janey. “You’re both very silent.”

“I’m looking at your bathkitchery,” said Nigel. “You haven’t got nearly enough saucepans.”

“I only have breakfast here. There’s a restaurant down below. One of ye olde brasse potte kind — all orange curtain and nut salads. Yes,” said Janey emerging in evening dress, “I must leave this place. The problem is, where to go.”

“Come to Chester Terrace and be neighbours. Angela and I are going to take a bigger flat in my building. It’s rather nice. You could have mine.”

“Your Angela might hate me at first sight.”

“Not she. Are we ready?”

“Yes. Come on, Blot.”

“I’m finishing my drink,” said Maurice. ”You’re right, Jane, this is an appalling place. I should go mad here. Come on.”

“We should have gone to you first,” said Janey. “He is in Lower Sloane Street, Mr. Bathgate. How silly! Maurice, why didn’t we go to you first?”

“You can drop me there now. I don’t think I’ll join the party.”

“Maurice! Why ever not?”

“I’m hopelessly inadequate,” he muttered. He looked childishly obstinate, staring straight in front of him and smiling sardonically. Nigel could have kicked him.

“Your boy friend has a talent for quick changes,” he said to Janey and hailed a taxi. Janey spoke to Maurice in an urgent undertone. Out of the corner of his eye Nigel saw him shrug his shoulders and give a gloomy assent. When they were in the taxi Janey said:

“Maurice is afraid he’s too much upset by last night to be much use to anybody, but I’ve decided to pay no attention to him. He’s coming.”

“Splendid!” cried Nigel.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Maurice with a short laugh.

He was very restless in the taxi, complained that the man should have gone down Pont Street instead of through Cadogan Square, thought they were going to be run over in Sloane Street, insisted on paying the fare, and had a row with the driver over the charge. He lived in a small service flat at the top of Harrow Mansions in Lower Sloane Street — sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. It was comfortable enough, but characterless.

“At least it’s warm,” said Maurice, and switched on the heater. He opened a cupboard.

“We don’t want more drinks, do we?” ventured Janey.

“Isn’t this a party?” asked Maurice loudly, and dragged out half a dozen bottles.

He left them as soon as he had made the cocktails, carrying his own with him. The bathroom door slammed and a tap was turned on. Janey leant forward.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said urgently.

Nigel found nothing to say and she went on, speaking nervously and quickly:

“It’s about Maurice. I know you must think him too impossible. He’s been poisonous”—She caught herself up with a gasp—“perfectly odious ever since you asked us up to your flat. It was nice of you to do that, and to take us out. But I want to tell you. Maurice can’t help himself. I suppose you know why?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s frightful. Not only the cigarettes, but — worse than that. He’s taking it now, I know he is. You’ll see. When he comes back he’ll be excited and — and dreadfully friendly. He’s turning into a horrible stranger. You don’t know what the real Maurice is like.”

“How did he start?”

“It’s Father Garnette. He’s responsible. I think he must be the wickedest foulest beast that ever lived. You can tell your friend Alleyn that if you like. But he knows. Maurice told him last night. Mr. Alleyn could help Maurice if — He doesn’t think Maurice did it, does he? He can’t.”

“I honestly don’t believe he does. Honestly.”

“I
know
Maurice is — is innocent. But there’s something else. Something he knows and he won’t tell Mr. Alleyn. He won’t tell. He’s made me promise. Oh,
what
am I to do?”

“Break your promise.”

“I can’t, I can’t. He’d never trust me again and, you see, I can’t help him as long as he trusts me.” Her voice trembled. “It’s a shame to bother you with it.”

“Good Heavens, what nonsense. I’d like to help you both but — but look here, don’t tell me anything unless you want Alleyn to know. I ought to say that. I’m on his side, you see. But if you are hiding anything for Pringle’s sake — don’t, don’t, don’t. And if he’s hiding something for anybody else’s sake you must
make
him tell Alleyn. Do you remember the Unicorn Theatre case?”

“Yes, vaguely. It’s queer how one reads every word of murder trials and then forgets them. I’ll never forget this one, will I? We must speak softly. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“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.

“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.