Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 3: Death in a White Tie, Overture to Death, Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh
Alleyn turned and saw a flat white finger pointed at his face.
‘If you think,’ said Captain Withers, ‘that I had anything to do with the death of this buffoon you’re wasting your time. I didn’t. I’m not a murderer and if I was I’d go for big game – not domestic pigs.’
Alleyn said: ‘You are fortunate. In my job we often have to hunt the most unpleasant quarry. A matter of routine. Good morning.’
CHAPTER 12 Report from a Waiter
In the street outside Alleyn met Detective-Sergeant Thompson, who did not look like a detective-sergeant. As Captain Withers’s windows enjoyed an uninterrupted view of Sling Street Alleyn did not pause to speak to Thompson, but he remarked to the air as they passed:
‘Don’t lose him.’
Fox was waiting outside the post office.
‘He’s a nasty customer, I should say,’ he remarked as they fell into step.
‘Who? Withers? I believe you, my old –’
‘You were pretty well down on him, Mr Alleyn.’
‘I was in a fix,’ said Alleyn. ‘I’d have liked to raid this place at Leatherhead without giving him any warning, but the wretched Donald is sure to let him know what he told us and Withers will close down his gambling activities. The best we can hope for in that direction is that our man will find something conclusive if he gets into the house. We’d better take a taxi to Dimitri’s. What time was he to be at the Yard?’
‘Midday.’
‘It’s a quarter to twelve. He ought to have left. Come on.’
They got a taxi.
‘How about Withers?’ asked Fox, staring solemnly at the driver’s back.
‘For a likely suspect? He’s the right height to within an inch. Good enough in the cloak and hat to diddle the taxi-man. By the way, there’s nowhere in the bedroom where he could have stowed them. I saw inside the wardrobe and had a quick look under the bed and in the cupboard while he was on the telephone. Anyway, he said I could crawl over the flat with a microscope if I liked and he wasn’t calling my bluff either. If he’s got anything to hide it’s at the house at Leatherhead.’
‘The motive’s not so hot,’ said Fox.
‘What is the motive?’
‘He knew Lord Robert had recognized him and thought he was on his trail. He wants to get hold of the money and knows young Potter is the heir.’
‘That’s two of his motives. But well? Damn,’ said Alleyn, ‘nearly a quotation! Bunchy warned me against ’em. Associating with the peerage, that’s what it is. There’s a further complication. Mrs Halcut-Hackett may think Bunchy was a blackmailer. From his notes Bunchy seems to have got that impression. He was close to her when her bag was taken and had stuck to her persistently. If Withers is having an affair with the woman, she probably confided the blackmail stunt to him. Withers is possibly the subject of the Halcut-Hackett blackmail. The letter the blackmailer has got hold of may be one from Mrs H-H to Withers or t’other way round. If she told him she thought Lord Robert was the blackmailer –’
‘That’s three of his motives,’ said Fox.
‘You may say so. On the other hand Withers may be the blackmailer. It’s quite in his line.’
‘Best motive of all,’ said Fox, ‘if he thought Lord Robert was on to him.’
‘How you do drone on, you old devil. Well, if we want to, we can pull him in for having dirty novels in his beastly flat. Look at this.’
Alleyn pulled the book jacket out of his pocket. It displayed in primary colours a picture of a terrible young woman with no clothes on, a florid gentleman and a lurking harridan. It was entitled: The Confessions of a Procuress.
‘Lor’!’ said Fox. ‘You oughtn’t to have taken it.’
‘What a stickler you are to be sure.’ Alleyn pulled a fastidious grimace. ‘Can’t you see him goggling over it in some bolt-hole on the Cote d’Azur! I’ve got his nasty flat prints on my own cigarette-case. We’ll see if he’s handled Donald Potter’s “Taylor”. Particularly the sections that deal with suffocation and asphyxia. I fancy, Fox, that a Captain Withers who was uninstructed in the art of smothering would have made the customary mistake of using too much violence. We’ll have to see if he’s left any prints in this telephone room at Marsdon House.’
‘The interruption,’ said Fox thoughtfully. ‘As I see it, we’ve got to get at the identity of the individual who came in while Lord Robert was talking to you on the telephone. If the party’s innocent, well, there’ll be no difficulty.’
‘And contrariwise. I tried to bounce Withers into an admission. Took it for granted he was the man.’
‘Any good?’
‘Complete wash-out. He never batted an eyelid. Seemed genuinely astonished.’
‘It may have been Dimitri. At least,’ said Fox, ‘we know Dimitri collects the boodle. What we want to find out is whether he’s on his own or working for someone else.’
‘Time enough. Which brings us back to Bunchy’s broken sentence. “And he’s working with –” With whom? Or is it with what? Hullo, one arrives.’
The taxi pulled up at a respectable old apartment house in the Cromwell Road. On the opposite pavement sat a young man mending the seat of a wicker chair.
‘That’s Master James D’Arcy Carewe, detective-constable,’ said Alleyn.
‘What him!’ cried Fox in a scandalized voice. ‘So it is. What’s he want to go dolling himself up in that rig for?’
‘He’s being a detective,’ Alleyn explained. ‘His father’s a parson and he learnt wicker-work with the Women’s Institute or something. He’s been pining to disguise himself ever since he took the oath.’
‘Silly young chap,’ said Fox.
‘He’s quite a bright boy really, you know.’
‘Why’s he still there, anyway?’
‘Dimitri hasn’t left yet, evidently. Wait a moment.’
Alleyn slid back the glass partition of the taxi and addressed the driver:
‘We’re police officers. In a minute or two a man will come out of this house and want a cab. Hang about for him. He will probably ask you to drive him to Scotland Yard. If he gives any other address I want you to write it quickly on this card while he is getting into the cab. Drop the card through the gear lever slit in the floor. Here’s a pencil. Can you do this?’
‘Right you are, governor,’ said the taximan.
‘I want you to turn your car and pass that fellow mending a chair seat. Go as slow as you can, drive two hundred yards up the road and let us out. Then wait for your man. Here’s your fare and all the rest of it.’
‘Thank you sir. OK, sir,’ said the taximan.
He turned, Alleyn lowered the window and, as they passed the wicker expert, leant out and said:
‘Carewe! Pick us up.’
The expert paid no attention.
‘I told you he’s not as silly as he looks,’ said Alleyn. ‘There we are.’
They got out. The taxi turned once more. They heard the driver’s hoarse: ‘Taxi, sir?’ heard him pull up, heard the door slam, heard the cab drive away. ‘He hasn’t dropped his card,’ said