Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 3: Death in a White Tie, Overture to Death, Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh
gambling club at Leatherhead.’
The coarse white hands made a convulsive movement which was immediately checked. Alleyn rose to his feet.
‘There is only one other point,’ he said. ‘I believe your telephone is disconnected. Inspector Fox will fix that. Fox, will you go out to the post office at the corner? Wait a second.’
Alleyn took out his notebook, scribbled: ‘Get Thompson to tail W at once,’ and showed it to Fox. ‘Give that message, will you, and see that Captain Withers’s telephone is reconnected immediately. As soon as it’s through, ring me here. What’s the number?’
‘Sloane 8405,’ said Withers.
‘Right. I’ll join you, Fox.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Fox. ‘Good morning, sir.’
Withers did not answer. Fox departed.
‘When your telephone is working again,’ Alleyn said, ‘I would be glad if you’d ring up Mr Donald Potter to suggest that as his mother is in great distress, you think it would be well if he stayed with her for the time being. You will send his property to Cheyne Walk in a taxi.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No. I am warning you. You are in rather uncertain country at the moment, you know.’
Alleyn walked over to the divan bed and looked at the books.
‘Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence,’ he murmured. ‘Is Mr Potter thinking of becoming a medical jurist?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
Alleyn ruffled the pages of a large blue volume.
‘Here we have the fullest information on asphyxia. Very interesting. May I borrow this book? I’ll return it to Mr Potter.’
‘I’ve no objection. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Splendid. Have you any objection to my looking at your dress clothes?’
‘None,’ said Withers.
‘Thank you so much. If you wouldn’t mind showing them to me.’
Withers walked into the bedroom and Alleyn followed him. While Withers opened his wardrobe and pulled open drawers Alleyn had a quick look round the room. Apart from the photograph, which was frankly infamous, the only item of interest was a row of paper-bound banned novels of peculiar indecency and no literary merit whatsoever.
Withers threw a tail coat, a white waistcoat and a pair of trousers on the bed. Alleyn examined them with great care, smelt the coat and turned out the pockets, which were empty.
‘Had you a cigarette-case?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘May I see it?’
‘It’s in the next room.’
Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn, with a catlike swiftness, looked under the bed and in at a cupboard door.
Withers produced a small, flat silver case. ‘Is this the only case you possess?’
‘It is.’
Alleyn opened it. The inside lid was inscribed: ‘Maurice from Estelle.’ He returned it and took another from his pocket.
‘Will you look at this case carefully, please, and tell me if you have seen it before?’
Withers took it. It was a thin, smooth, gold case, uninscribed, but with a small crest in one corner.
‘Open it, will you, please?’
Withers opened it.
‘Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t by any chance recognize the crest?’
‘No.’
‘It is not Mr Donald Potter’s crest, for instance?’
Withers made a quick movement, opened his mouth, shut it again and said:
‘It isn’t his. I’ve seen his. It’s on his links. They’re here somewhere.’
‘May I see them?’ said Alleyn, taking the case.
Withers crossed to the dressing-table. Alleyn rapidly wrapped his silk handkerchief round the case and put it in his pocket.
‘Here they are,’ said Withers.
Alleyn solemnly inspected Donald’s links and returned them.
The telephone rang in the next room.
‘Will you answer it, please?’ said Alleyn.
Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn whipped off the dust jacket from one of the banned novels and coolly slipped it in his overcoat pocket. He then followed Withers.
‘It’s for you,’ Withers said, ‘if you’re Alleyn.’
‘Thank you.’
It was Fox; to say in an extremely low voice that Thompson was well on his way.
‘Splendid,’ said Alleyn. ‘Captain Withers wanted to use it at once.’
He hung up the receiver and turned to Withers.
‘Now, please,’ he said. ‘Will you telephone Mr Potter? I’d be glad if you would not mention that it was my suggestion. It would come more gracefully from you.’
Withers dialled the number with as bad a grace as well might be. He got Donald, whose voice came over in an audible quack.
‘Hullo.’
‘Hullo, Don, it’s Wits.’
‘Oh, God, Wits, I’m most frightfully worried, I –’
‘You’d better not talk about your worries on the telephone. I rang up to say I thought it might be as well if you stayed with your mother for a bit. She’ll want you there with all this trouble. I’ll send your things round.’
‘Yes, but listen, Wits. About the house at –’
Captain Withers said: ‘You stay where you are,’ and rang off.
‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn. ‘That will do nicely. How tall are you, Captain Withers?’
‘Five foot eight and a half in my socks.’
‘Just about Lord Robert’s height,’ said Alleyn, watching him.
Withers stared blankly at him.
‘I suppose there must be some sense in a few of the things you say,’ he said.
‘I hope so. Can you remember what Lord Robert was saying on the telephone when you walked into the room at one o’clock this morning?’
‘What room?’
‘At Marsdon House.’
‘You’re talking through your hat. I never heard him on any telephone.’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Alleyn. ‘Were you on the top landing near the telephone-room round about one o’clock?’
‘How the devil should I know? I was up there quite a bit.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. I was there with Don sometime during the supper dances. We were in the first sitting-out room. Old Carrados was up there then.’
‘Did you hear anyone using a telephone?’
‘Fancy I did, now you mention it.’
‘Ah well, that’s the best we can do at the moment, I suppose,’ said Alleyn, collecting Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence. ‘By the way, would you object to my searching these rooms? Just to clear