Death in Ecstasy (24 page)

“I’m sure you’re right about all this,” said Nigel diffidently, “but it seems very much in the air. Without Pringle’s evidence could you ever bring the thing home to him? Isn’t it altogether too speculative?”

“It’s nailed down with one or two tin-tacks. Ogden and Garnette were the only two who could have concocted the sodium cyanide at what house-agents call the Home Fireside.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They are the only two who have open fires. The others, if you wash out Miss Jenkin’s gas-ring, all live in electrically heated, or central-heated, service-flats. The cooking of sodium cyanide is not the sort of thing one would do away from the Home Fireside, and anyway they have, none of them, been out of residence for the last six months. Then Elsie told me that two days after the party the servants all went on their holiday and Mr. Ogden, who was so kind, ‘did’ for himself. A dazzling chance for him to do for Cara Quayne at the same time. When Elsie returned from the night-life of Marine Parade, Margate, she no doubt found everything in perfect order. A little less washing-soda in the wooden box over the sink, perhaps, one new Fyrexo patent heatproof crock. Mr. Ogden had unfortunately dropped the old one and it was just too bad, but he had got her another. He didn’t say anything about it, but bright little Elsie spotted the difference. While she was away he had made his sodium cyanide.”

“Yes, but you don’t
know
—”

“Here’s another tin-tack.”

Alleyn went to his overcoat and took out a thin object wrapped in paper.

“I brought it to show you. I stole it from Ogden’s flat.”

He unwrapped the paper. A very short and extremely black iron poker was disclosed.

“Here’s where he got his iron filings. I noticed the corrugations on the tip. He had made it nice and black again, but pokers don’t wear away in minute ridges. Elsie agreed with me. It wasn’t like what it was before she went away, that it wasn’t.”

“And what, may I ask, was the meaning of the cable to Australia?”

“Do you remember another very intelligent remark you made on Sunday evening?”

“I made any number of intelligent remarks.”

“Possibly. This was to the effect that Ogden’s Americanese was too good to be true. It seemed to me no more exaggerated than the sounds that fill the English air in August, but after a bit I began to think you were right. I was sure of it when, under stress, he came out with a solecism. He said ‘Good-oh.’ Now ‘Good-oh’ is purest dyed-in-the-wool Australian. It is the Australian comment on every conceivable remark. If you say to an Australian: ‘I’m afraid your trousers are on fire,’ he replies ‘Good-oh.’ Mr. Ogden, on a different occasion, ejaculated ‘Too right!’ Another bit of undiluted Sydney. And yet when I asked him if he had been to Australia he denied the soft impeachment. So we’ve asked headquarters, Sydney, if it knows anything about a tall man with an American accent and skewbald eyes. It may be productive. One never knows. But the longest and sharpest tack is Madame la Comtesse de Barsac.

“From the fastness of her nursing home she has come out strong with a telegram that must have cost her a pretty sum. It is this sort of thing. ‘Madame la Contesse de Barsac has just learned of the death of Mademoiselle Cara Quayne. She believes that she has evidence of the utmost importance and urges that the officials in charge of the case apprehend one Samuel Ogden. Mademoiselle Quayne’s letter of December tenth follows and will explain more fully the reasons that commend this action.’ ”

“ ’Struth,” said Nigel, “that puts the
diamanté
clasp on it.”

“I rather fancy it does.”

“I suppose it’s the letter Cara Quayne wrote after she got back to the flat on Sunday afternoon.”

“That’s it. With the help of the bits we got from the blotting-paper I think we can make a pretty shrewd guess at what’s in it. Cara may describe her visit to the temple, her encounter with Ogden and her fears for the consequences. She had gone so far with the heroin habit that she cannot face the prospect of being done out of it. She implores her old friend to help her, perhaps asks if Madame de Barsac could put her on to an agent for the stinking stuff. I hope she’ll say he threatened her, specifically. If she does—”

“Yes,” said Nigel, “if she says that it’ll look murky for Mr. Ogden.”

“There’s another useful bit of information. Old Nanny Hebborn, as I think you heard her tell me, lurked in Mr. Garnette’s parlour on Sunday night and saw the beginning of the cup ceremony. She described the movements of the Initiates when they formed their circle. She said Ogden went up first. When Miss Wade and the Candour skirmished to get one on each side of Garnette, Ogden out-manœuvred them and himself got in on Garnette’s right hand. Nanny said he deliberately stopped Miss Wade and took her place. Of course he did. It was the only safe place for him.”

“I suppose Ogden’s counsel will go for Garnette?”

“Oh yes. I’ve no doubt Mr. Garnette’s trans-Atlantic origin and activities will all be brought out into the fierce light that beats upon the witness-box. I hope it will be the dock. Him and his heroin! Devil take me, but I swear he’s the nastier sample of the two.”

“Will he get the money?”

“Not if Mr. Rattisbon can help it.”

The telephone rang. Nigel answered it.

“It’s for you,” he said. “Fox, I think.”

Alleyn took the telephone from him. Nigel walked over to the window and stared out into the street.

“Hullo, Fox,” said Alleyn, “you’ve run me to earth. What is it?”

The telephone quacked industriously.

“I see,” said Alleyn. “That’s all very neat and handy. Thank you, Foxkin. Are you at the Yard? Well, go home to bed. It’s late. Good night.”

He hung up the receiver and swung round in his chair.

“Cable from Australia. ‘Sounds like S. J. Samuels, American sharp, convicted sale prohibited drugs. Two years. Involved Walla-Walla homicide case!’ ”

He paused. Nigel did not answer.

“And Mr. Garnette has decided to make a statement. He says he has had some interesting confidences from Ogden. Little charmer! What are you looking at?”

“I’m looking down into Knocklatcher Row. It’s very odd, but someone seems to be taking away the Sign of the Sacred Flame. Only it’s raining so hard I can scarcely see.”

“You’re quite right. It’s a man from the Yard. Crowds collect and gape at the thing. I told them to take it away.”

The End

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