Death in a White Tie (23 page)

“Really, mama!”

“I mean in a very rarified sense. A touch of arrogance. There’s nothing like it, my dear. If you’re too delicately considerate of a woman’s feelings she may begin by being grateful, but the chances are she’ll end by despising you.”

Alleyn made a wry face. “Treat ’em rough?”

“Not actually, but let them think you
might
. It’s humiliating but true that ninety-nine women out of a hundred like to feel their lover is capable of bullying them. Eighty of them would deny it. How often does one not hear a married woman say with a sort of satisfaction that her husband won’t let her do this or that? Why do abominably written books with strong silent heroes still find a large female public? What do you suppose attracts thousands of women to a cinema actor with the brains of a mosquito?”

“His ability as a cinema actor.”

“That, yes. Don’t be tiresome, Roderick. Above all, his arrogant masculinity. That’s what attracts ninety-nine out of a hundred, you may depend upon it.”

“There is, perhaps fortunately, always the hundredth woman.”

“And don’t be too sure of her. I am
not
, I hope, one of those abominable women who cries down her own sex. I’m by way of being a feminist, but I refuse to allow the ninety-nine (dear me, this begins to sound like a hymn) to pull the wool over the elderly eyes.”

“You’re an opinionated little party, mama, and you know it. But don’t suppose you can pull the wool over my eyes either. Do you suggest that I go to Miss Agatha Troy, haul her about her studio by her hair, tuck her under my arrogant masculine arm, and lug her off to the nearest registry office?”

“Church, if you please. The Church knows what I’m talking about. Look at the marriage service. A direct and embarrassing expression of the savagery inherent in our ideas of mating.”

“Would you say the season came under the same heading?”

“In a way I would say so. And why not? As long as one recognizes the more savage aspects of the season, one keeps one’s sense of proportion and enjoys it. As I do. Thoroughly. And as Bunchy Gospell did. When I think of him,” said Lady Alleyn, her eyes shining with tears, “when I think of him this morning, gossiping away to all of us, so pleased with Evelyn’s ball, so gay and — and
real
, I simply cannot realize—”

“I know.”

“I suppose Mrs Halcut-Hackett comes into the picture, doesn’t she? And Withers?”

“What makes you think so?”

“He had his eye on them. Both there and at the Halcut-Hacketts’ cocktail-party. Bunchy knew something about Captain Withers, Roderick. I saw that and I remarked on it to him. He told me not to be inquisitive, bless him, but he admitted I was right. Is there anything more in it than that?”

“A good deal. Withers has a bad record and Bunchy knew it.”

“Is that a motive for murder?” asked Lady Alleyn.

“It might be. There are several discrepancies. I’ve got to try to settle one of them tonight.”

“Tonight? My dear, you’ll fall asleep with the customary warning on your lips.”

“Not I. And I’m afraid there’s no occasion as yet for the customary warning.”

“Does Evelyn Carrados come into the picture at all?”

Alleyn sat up.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because I could see that Bunchy had his eye on her too.”

“We’d better change jobs, darling. You can go into the Yard and watch people having their eyes on each other and I’ll sit in chaperones’ corner, pounce at young men for Sarah, and make conversation with Lady Lorrimer. I’ve got to see her some time soon, by the way.”

“Lucy Lorrimer! You don’t mean to tell me she’s in this business. I can well understand somebody murdering
her
, but I don’t see her on the other side of the picture. Of course she
is
mad.”

“She’s got to supply half an alibi for Sir Daniel Davidson.”

“Good heavens, who next! Why Davidson?”

“Because he was the last man to leave before Bunchy.”

“Well, I hope it’s not Sir Daniel. I was thinking of showing him my leg. Roderick, I suppose I can’t help you with Lucy Lorrimer. I can easily ring her up and ask her to tea. She must be seething with excitement and longing to talk to everybody. Bunchy was to dine with her tonight.”

“Why?”

“For no particular reason. But she kept saying she knew he wouldn’t come, that he’d forget. I can easily ring her up and she shouts so loudly you need only sit beside me to hear every word.”

“All right,” said Alleyn, “let’s try. Ask her if she saw anything of Bunchy as she was leaving. You sit in the chair here, darling, and I’ll perch on the arm. We can have the receiver between us.”

Lady Lorrimer’s telephone was persistently engaged but at last they got through. Her ladyship, said a voice, was at home.

“Will you say it’s Lady Alleyn? Thank you.”

During the pause that followed Lady Alleyn eyed her son with a conspiratorial air and asked him to give her a cigarette. He did so and provided himself with pencil and paper.

“We’ll be
ages
,” she whispered, waving the receiver to and fro rather as if it were a fan. Suddenly it emitted a loud crackling sound and Lady Alleyn raised it gingerly to within four inches of her right ear.

“Is that you, Lucy?”

“My
dear
,” shouted the receiver, “I’m
so
glad. I’ve been
longing
to speak to you for, of course, you can tell us
everything
. I’ve always thought it was
such
a pity that good-looking son of yours turning himself into a policeman because, say what you will, it must be frightfully bad for them so long in the one position only moving their arms and the internal organs taking
all
the strain which Sir Daniel tells me is the cause of half the diseases of women, though I must own I think his practice is getting rather beyond him. Of course in the case of the Prime Minister everything must be excused.”

Lady Alleyn looked an inquiry at her son who nodded his comprehension of this amazing tarradiddle.

“Yes, Lucy?” murmured Lady Alleyn.

“Which brings me to this
frightful
calamity,” continued the telephone in a series of cracks and splutters. “Too awful! And you know he was to dine with me tonight. I put my brother off because I felt I could never accustom myself to the idea that there but for the Grace of God sat Bunchy Gospell. Not perhaps the Grace of God but His ways are inscrutable indeed and when I saw him come down the staircase humming to himself I little thought that he was going to his grave. I shall
never
forgive myself, of course, that I did not offer to drive him and as it turned out with the Prime Minister being so ill I might have done so.”

“Why do you keep introducing the Prime Minister into this story, Lucy?” asked Lady Alleyn. She clapped her hand over the mouthpiece and said crossly: “But
I
want to know, Roderick.”

“It’s all right,” said Alleyn. “Davidson pretended — do listen, darling, she’s telling you.”

“ — I can’t describe the agony, Helena,” quacked the telephone, “I really thought I should
swoon
with it. I felt Sir Daniel must examine me without losing a moment, so I told my chauffeur to look out for him because I promise you
I
was too ill to distinguish one man from another. Then I saw him coming out of the door. ‘Sir Daniel, Sir Daniel!’ He did not hear me and all would have been lost if one of the linkmen had not seen my distress and drawn Sir Daniel’s attention to me. He crossed the street and as a very old patient I don’t mind admitting to you, Helena, I
was
rather
disappointed
but of course with the country in the state it is one must make sacrifices. He was extremely agitated. The Prime Minister had developed some terrible complaint. Please tell nobody of this, Helena. I know you are as silent as the grave but Sir Daniel would no doubt be gravely compromised if it were ever to leak out. Under those conditions I could do nothing but bear my cross in silence and it was not until he had positively
run
away that I thought of driving him to Downing Street. By the time my fool of a chauffeur had started the car, of course, it was too late. No doubt Sir Daniel had raced to the nearest taxi-cab and, although I have rung up to inquire tactfully, he is continually engaged, so that one fears the worst.”

“Mad!” said Lady Alleyn to her son.

“ — I can’t tell you how much it has upset me but I hope I know my duty, Helena, and having just recollected that your boy was a constable I said to myself that he should learn of this extraordinary man whom I am firmly persuaded is an assassin. What other explanation can there be?”

“Sir Daniel Davidson!” exclaimed Lady Alleyn.

“Good heavens, Helena, are you mad! For pity’s sake tell your son to come and see me himself in order that there may be no mistake. How could it be my poor Sir Daniel, who was already on his way to Downing Street? I attribute my appalling condition at this moment to the shock I received. Do you remember a play called
The Face at the Window
? I was reminded of it. I assure you I screamed aloud — my chauffeur will bear witness. The nose was flat and white and the moustache quite frightful, like some hairy monster gummed to the window-pane. The eyes rolled, I could do nothing but clutch my pearls. ‘Go away!’ I screamed. My chauffeur, fool that he is, had seen nothing and by the time he roused himself it had disappeared.”

Alleyn held a sheet of paper before his mother’s nose. On it he had written: “Ask her who it was.”

“Have you any idea who it was, Lucy?” asked Lady Alleyn.

“There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind, Helena, and I should have thought little in yours. These appalling cases that have occurred! The papers are full of them. The Peeping Tom of Peckham, though how he has managed to go there every night from Halkin Street—”

Alleyn gave a stifled exclamation.

“From Halkin Street?” repeated Lady Alleyn.

“There is no doubt that his wife’s appalling behaviour has turned his head. He suspected poor Robert Gospell. You must have heard, as I did, how he asked her to let him take her home. No doubt he was searching for them. The jury will bring in a strong recommendation for mercy or perhaps they will find him guilty but insane, as no doubt he is.”

“But, Lucy! Lucy, listen.
Whom are you talking about
?”

“Don’t be a fool, Helena, who should it be but George Halcut-Hackett?”

Well Roderick,” said Lady Alleyn when she had at last got rid of Lucy Lorrimer, “you may be able to make something of this but it seems to me that Lucy has at last gone completely insane. Do you for an instant suppose that poor old General Halcut-Hackett is the Peeping Tom of Peckham?”

“Some case the Press had made into a front-page story — no, of course, it’s completely irrelevant. But all the same it does look as though old Halcut-Hackett flattened his face against the window of Lucy Lorrimer’s car.”

“But Lucy stayed till the end, she says, and I know he took that unfortunate child away soon after midnight. What was the poor creature doing in Belgrave Square at half-past three?”

“He told me he went for a constitutional,” murmured Alleyn.

“Rubbish. One doesn’t peer into old ladies’ cars when one takes constitutionals at half-past three in the morning. The whole thing’s preposterous.”

“It’s so preposterous that I’m afraid it must be included in my dreary programme. Would you care to come to a night club with me, mama?”

“No thank you, Rory.”

“I thought not. I must go alone to the Matador. I imagine they open at about eleven.”

“Nobody goes until after midnight or later,” said Lady Alleyn.

“How do you know?”

“Sarah is forever pestering me to allow her to ‘go on to the Matador’. She now hopes to produce a chaperone, but I imagine it is scarcely the haunt of chaperones. I have no intention of letting her go.”

“It’s one of those places that offer the attractions of a tiny dancing-floor, a superlative band and a crowd so dense that you spend the night dancing cheek-to-cheek with somebody else’s partner. It is so dimly lit that the most innocent visitor takes on an air of intrigue and the guiltiest has at least a sporting chance of going unrecognized.”

“You seem to be remarkably familiar with its amenities,” said his mother dryly.

“We’ve had our eye on the Matador for some time. It will meet with one of three fates. The smartest people will get tired of it and it will try to hold them by relaxing its vigilance in the matter of drink; or the smartest people will get tired of it and it will gradually lose its prestige and continue to make money out of the less exclusive but equally rich; or the smartest people will get tired of it and it will go bust. We are interested in the first contingency and they know it. They are extremely polite to me at the Matador.”

“Shall you be long there?”

“No. I only want to see the commissionaire and the secretary. Then I’ll go home and to bed. May I use your telephone?”

Alleyn rang up Fox and asked him if he had seen the constable on night duty in Belgrave Square.

“Yes,” said Fox. “I’ve talked to him. He says he didn’t report having seen the General, you know who — double aitch — because he didn’t think anything of it, knowing him so well. He says he thought the General had been at the ball and was on his way home.”

“When was this?”

“About three-twenty when most of the guests were leaving Marsdon House. Our chap says he didn’t notice the General earlier in the evening when he took the young lady home. He says he still had his eye on the crowd outside the front door at that time and might easily have missed him. He says it’s right enough that the old gentleman generally takes a turn round the Square of an evening but he’s never noticed him as late as this before. I’ve told him a few things about what’s expected of him and why sergeants lose their stripes,” added Fox. “The fact of the matter is he spent most of his time round about the front door of Marsdon House. Now there’s one other thing, sir. One of these linkmen has reported he noticed a man in a black overcoat with a white scarf pulled up to his mouth, and a black trilby hat, standing for a long time in the shadow on the outskirts of the crowd. The linkman says he was tall and looked like a gentleman. Thinks he wore evening clothes under his overcoat. Thinks he had a white moustache. He says this man seemed anxious to avoid notice and hung about in the shadows, but he looked at him several times and wondered what he was up to. The linkman reckons this man was hanging about on the other side of the street in the shadow of the trees, when the last guests went away. Now, sir, I reckon that’s important.”

“Yes, Fox. Are you suggesting that this lurker was the General?”

“The description tallies, sir. I thought I’d arrange for this chap, who’s still here at the Yard, to get a look at the General and see if he can swear to him.”

“You do. Better take your linkman off to the Square. See if you can catch the General doing his evening march. He’ll be able to see him in the same light under the same conditions as last night’s.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to the Matador and then home. Ring me up if there’s anything.”

“Very good, Mr Alleyn. Good night.”

“Good night, Brer Fox.”

Alleyn turned from the telephone and stared at his mother.

“It looks as if Lucy Lorrimer isn’t altogether dotty,” he said. “Old Halcut-Hackett seems to have behaved in a very curious manner last night. If, indeed, it was the General, and I fancy it must have been. He was so remarkably evasive about his own movements. Do you know him at all well?”

“Not very, darling. He was a brother-officer of your father’s. I rather think he was one of those large men whom regimental humour decrees shall be called ‘Tiny’. I can’t remember ever hearing that he had a violent temper or took drugs or seduced his colonel’s wife or indeed did anything at all remarkable. He didn’t marry this rather dreadful lady of his until he was about fifty.”

“Was he rich?”

“I rather think he was fairly rich. Still is, I should have thought from that house. He’s got a country place too, I believe, somewhere in Kent.”

“Then why on earth does she bother with paying débutantes?”

“Well, you know, Rory, if she’s anxious to be asked everywhere and do everything she’s more likely to succeed with something young behind her. Far more invitations would come rolling in.”

“Yes. I rather think there’s more to it than that. Good night, darling. You are the best sort of mama. Too astringent to be sweet, thank God, but nevertheless comfortable.”

“Thank you, my dear. Come in again if you want to. Good night.”

She saw him out with an air of jauntiness, but when she returned to her drawing-room she sat still for a long time thinking of the past of her son, of Troy, and of her own fixed determination never to meddle.

Alleyn took a taxi to the Matador in Soho. The Matador commissionaire was a disillusioned giant in a plum-coloured uniform. He wore beautiful gloves, a row of medals, and an expression of worldly wisdom. He stood under a representation in red neon lights of a capering bull-fighter, and he paid the management twenty pounds a year for his job. Alleyn gave him good evening and walked into the entrance-hall of the Matador. The pulsation of saxophones and percussion instruments hung on the air, deadened in this ante-room by draperies of plum-coloured silk caught up into classic folds by rows of silvered tin sunflowers. A lounge porter came forward and directed Alleyn to the cloakroom.

“I wonder if you know Captain Maurice Withers by sight,” asked Alleyn. “I’m supposed to join his party and I’m not sure if I’ve come to the right place. He’s a member here.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve only just taken this job myself and I don’t know the members by sight. If you ask at the office, sir, they’ll tell you.”

With a silent anathema on this ill chance Alleyn thanked the man and looked for the box-office. He found it beneath a large sunflower and surrounded by richer folds of silk. Alleyn peered into it and saw a young man in a beautiful dinner-jacket, morosely picking his teeth.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn.

The young man abandoned the toothpick with lightning sleight-of-hand.

“Good evening, sir,” he said brightly in a cultured voice.

“May I speak to you for a moment — Mr —?”

The young man instantly looked very wary.

“Well — ah — I am the manager. My name is Cuthbert.”

Alleyn slid his card through the peep-hole. The young man looked at it, turned even more wary, and said:

“Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind walking round to the side door, Mr — Oh! — Inspector — ah! — Alleyn. Simmons!”

A cloakroom attendant appeared. On the way to the side door Alleyn tried his story again but neither the cloakroom attendant nor the commissionaire, who was recalled, knew Withers by sight. The attendant conducted Alleyn by devious ways into a little dim room behind the box-office. Here he found the manager.

“It’s nothing very momentous,” said Alleyn. “I want you to tell me, if you can, about what time Captain Maurice Withers arrived at this club last night — or rather this morning?”

He saw Mr Cuthbert glance quickly at an evening paper on which appeared a quarter-page photograph of Robert Gospell. During the second or two that elapsed before he replied, Alleyn heard again that heavy insistent thudding of the band.

“I’m afraid I have no idea at all,” said Mr Cuthbert at last.

“That’s a pity,” said Alleyn. “If you can’t tell me I suppose I’ll have to make rather a business of it. I’ll have to ask all your guests if they saw him and when and so on. I’m afraid I shall have to insist on seeing the book. I’m sorry. What a bore for you!”

Mr Cuthbert looked at him with the liveliest distaste.

“You can understand,” he began, “that in our position we have to be extremely tactful. Our guests expect it of us.”

“Oh, rather,” agreed Alleyn. “But there’s not going to be nearly such a fluster if you give me the information I want quietly, as there will be if I have to start asking all sorts of people all sorts of questions.”

Mr Cuthbert stared at his first finger-nail and then bit it savagely.

“But if I don’t know,” he said peevishly.

“Then we’re just out of luck. I’ll try your commissionaire and — Simmons, is it? If that fails we’ll have to start on the guests.”

“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Mr Cuthbert. “Well, he came in late. I do remember that.”

“How do you remember that, please?”

“Because we had a crowd of people who came from — from the Marsdon House Ball at about half-past three or a quarter to four. And then there was a bit of a lull.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, well, and then a good deal later Captain Withers signed in. He ordered a fresh bottle of gin.”

“Mrs Halcut-Hackett arrived with him, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know the name of his partner.”

“A tall, big, blonde woman of about forty to forty-five, with an American accent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind calling—”

“All right, then, all right. She did.”

“Was it as late as half-past four when they arrived?”

“I don’t — look here, I mean—”

“It’s quite possible you may hear no more of this. The more exact your information, you know, the less troublesome our subsequent enquiries.”

“Yes, I know, but we owe a DUTY to our guests.”

“Do you know actually to within say ten minutes when this couple arrived? I think you do. If so, I most strongly advise you to tell me.”

“Oh, all right. As a matter of fact it was a quarter-past four. There’d been such a long gap with nobody coming in — we were practically full anyway of course — that I
did
happen to notice the time.”

“That’s perfectly splendid. Now if you’ll sign a statement to this effect I don’t think I need bother you any more.”

Mr Cuthbert fell into a profound meditation. Alleyn lit a cigarette and waited with an air of amiability. At last Mr Cuthbert said:

“Am I likely to be called as a witness to anything?”

“Not very. We’ll spare you if we can.”

“I could refuse.”

“And I,” said Alleyn, “could become a member of your club. You couldn’t refuse that.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Mr Cuthbert unhappily. “All right. I’ll sign.”

Alleyn wrote out a short statement and Mr Cuthbert signed it. Mr Cuthbert became more friendly and offered Alleyn a drink, which he refused with the greatest amiability. Mr Cuthbert embarked on a long eulogistic account of the Matador and the way it was run and the foolishness of night-club proprietors who attempted to elude the lawful restriction imposed on the sale of alcoholic beverages.

“It never pays,” cried Mr Cuthbert. “Sooner or later they get caught. It’s just damn silly.”

A waiter burst into the room, observed something in Mr Cuthbert’s eye, and flew out again. Mr Cuthbert cordially invited Alleyn to accompany him into the dance-room. He was so insistent that Alleyn allowed himself to be ushered through the entrance-hall and down a plum-coloured tunnel. The sound of the band swelled into a rhythmic all-pervading rumpus. Alleyn was aware of more silver sunflowers; of closely ranked tables and faces dimly lit from below, of a more distant huddle of people ululating and sliding in time to the band. He stood just inside the entrance, trying to accustom his eyes to this scene, while Mr Cuthbert prattled innocently “Ruddigore”—“We only cut respectable capers.” He was about to turn away when he knew abruptly that someone was watching him. His eyes followed this intangible summons. He turned slowly to the left and there at a corner table sat Bridget O’Brien and Donald Potter.

They were both staring at him and with such intensity that he could not escape the feeling that they had wished to attract his attention. He deliberately met their gaze and returned it. For a second or two they looked at each other and then Bridget made a quick gesture, inviting him to join them.

He said: “I see some friends. Do you mind if I speak to them for a moment?”

Mr Cuthbert was delighted and melted away on a wave of tactfulness. Alleyn walked over to the table and bowed.

“Good evening.”

“Will you sit down for a minute?” said Bridget. “We want to speak to you.”

One of Mr Cuthbert’s waiters instantly produced a chair.

“What is it?” asked Alleyn.

“It’s Bridgie’s idea,” said Donald. “I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve said I’ll do whatever Bridgie says. I suppose I’m a fool but I give in. In a way I want to.”

“He’s got nothing to fear,” said Bridget. “I’ve told him—”