Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 3: Death in a White Tie, Overture to Death, Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh
by contrast, looked fine-drawn, a cross between a monk and a grandee. The planes of Alleyn’s face and head were emphatically defined, the bony structure showed clearly. There was a certain austerity in the chilly blue of his eyes and in the sharp blackness of his hair. Albrecht Dürer would have made a magnificent drawing of him, and Agatha Troy’s sketch portrait of Alleyn is one of the best things she has ever done.
Withers lit a cigarette, blew the smoke down his nose and said:
‘What’s it all about?’
Fox produced his official notebook. Captain Withers eyed the letters MP on the cover and then looked at the carpet.
‘First, if I may,’ said Alleyn, ‘I should like your full name and address.’
‘Maurice Withers and this address.’
‘May we have the address of your Leatherhead house as well, please?’
‘What the hell d’you mean?’ asked Withers quite pleasantly. He looked quickly at the table by the divan and then full in Alleyn’s face.
‘My information,’ lied Alleyn, ‘does not come from the source you suppose, Captain Withers. The address, please.’
‘If you mean Shackleton House, it is not mine. It was lent to me.’
‘By whom?’
‘For personal reasons, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘I see. Do you use it much?’
‘Borrow it for weekends sometimes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn, ‘Now, if you please, I want to ask you one or two questions about this morning. The early hours of this morning.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Withers, ‘I suppose you’re thinking of the murder.’
‘Whose murder?’
‘Why, Bunchy Gospell’s.’
‘Was Lord Robert Gospell a personal friend of yours, Captain Withers?’
‘I didn’t know him.’
‘I see. Why do you think he was murdered?’
‘Well, wasn’t he?’
‘I think so. Evidently you think so. Why?’
‘Judging from the papers it looks like it.’
‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ said Alleyn. ‘Won’t you sit down, Captain Withers?’
‘No, thanks. What about this morning?’
‘When did you leave Marsdon House?’
‘After the ball was over.’
‘Did you leave alone?’
Withers threw his cigarette with great accuracy into a tin wastepaper bin.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Can you remember who was in the hall when you went away?’
‘What? I don’t know that I can. Oh, yes. I bumped into Dan Davidson. You know. The fashionable quack.’
‘Is Sir Daniel Davidson a friend of yours?’
‘Not really. I just know him.’
‘Did you notice Lord Robert in the hall as you left?’
‘Can’t say I did.’
‘You went out alone. Did you take a taxi?’
‘No. I had my own car. It was parked in Belgrave Road.’
‘So you turned to the left when you went away from Marsdon House. That,’ said Alleyn, ‘is what the murderer, if there is, as you say, a murderer, must have done.’
‘Better choose your words a bit more carefully, hadn’t you?’ enquired Captain Withers.
‘I don’t think so. As far as I can see my remark was well within the rules. Did you see any solitary man in evening dress as you walked from Marsdon House to Belgrave Road? Did you overtake or pass any such person?’
Withers sat on the edge of the table and swung his foot. The fat on his thighs bulged through his plaid trouser leg.
‘I might have. I don’t remember. It was misty.’
‘Where did you go in your car?’
‘To the Matador.’
‘The night club in Sampler Street?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you meet anybody there?’
‘About a hundred and fifty people.’
‘I mean,’ said Alleyn with perfect courtesy, ‘did you meet a partner there by arrangement?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I have her name?’
‘No.’
‘I shall have to find out by the usual routine,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘Make a note of it will you, Fox?’
‘Very good, Mr Alleyn,’ said Fox.
‘You can produce no witness to support your statement that you drove to the Matador from Marsdon House?’
The swinging foot was suddenly motionless. Withers waited a moment and then said: ‘No.’
‘Perhaps your partner was waiting in your car, Captain Withers. Are you sure you did not drive her there? Remember there is a commissionaire at the Matador.’
‘Is there?’
‘Well?’
‘All right,’ said Withers. ‘I did drive my partner to the Matador but I shan’t give you her name.’
‘Why not?’
‘You seem to be a gentleman. One of the new breed at the Yard, aren’t you? I should have thought you’d have understood.’
‘You are very good,’ said Alleyn, ‘but I am afraid you are mistaken. We shall have to use other methods, but we shall find out the name of your partner. Have you ever studied wrestling, Captain Withers?’
‘What? What the hell has that got to do with it?’
‘I should be obliged if you would answer.’
‘I’ve never taken it up. Seen a bit out East.’
‘Ju-jitsu?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do they ever use the side of the hand to knock a man out? On one of the vulnerable points or whatever you call them? Such as the temple?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Have you any medical knowledge?’
‘No.’
‘I see some text-books over there by the bed.’
‘They don’t belong to me.’
‘To Mr Donald Potter?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He is living here?’
‘You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you? You must be a bloody bad detective if you haven’t nosed that out.’
‘Do you consider that you have a strong influence over Mr Potter?’
‘I’m not a bear leader!’
‘You prefer fleecing lambs, perhaps?’
‘Is that where we laugh?’ asked Withers.
‘Only, I am afraid, on the wrong side of our faces. Captain Withers, do you recollect the Bouchier-Watson drug-running affair of 1924?’