Death in Ecstasy

  “Your boy friend has a talent for quick changes,” he said to Janey and hailed a taxi. Janey spoke to Maurice in an urgent undertone. Out of the corner of his eye Nigel saw him shrug his shoulders and give a gloomy assent. When they were in the taxi Janey said:

  “Maurice is afraid he’s too much upset by last night to be much use to anybody, but I’ve decided to pay no attention to him. He’s coming.”

  “Splendid!” cried Nigel.

  “Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Maurice with a short laugh.

  He was very restless in the taxi, complained that the man should have gone down Pont Street instead of through Cadogan Square, thought they were going to be run over in Sloane Street, insisted on paying the fare, and had a row with the driver over the charge. He lived in a small service flat at the top of Harrow Mansions in Lower Sloane Street—sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. It was comfortable enough, but characterless.

  “At least it’s warm,” said Maurice, and switched on the heater. He opened a cupboard.

  “We don’t want more drinks, do we?” ventured Janey.

  “Isn’t this a party?” asked Maurice loudly, and dragged out half a dozen bottles.

  He left them as soon as he had made the cocktails, carrying his own with him. The bathroom door slammed and a tap was turned on. Janey leant forward.

  “There’s something I must tell you,” she said urgently. Nigel found nothing to say and she went on, speaking nervously and quickly:

  “It’s about Maurice. I know you must think him too impossible. He’s been poisonous”—She caught herself up with a gasp—“perfectly odious ever since you asked us up to your flat. It was nice of you to do that, and to take us out. But I want to tell you. Maurice can’t help himself. I suppose you know why?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s bad luck.”

  “It’s frightful. Not only the cigarettes, but—worse than that. He’s taking it now, I know he is. You’ll see. When he comes back he’ll be excited and—and dreadfully friendly. He’s turning into a horrible stranger. You don’t know what the real Maurice is like.”

  “How did he start?”

  “It’s Father Garnette. He’s responsible. I think he must be the wickedest foulest beast that ever lived. You can tell your friend Alleyn that if you like. But he knows. Maurice told him last night. Mr. Alleyn could help Maurice if—He doesn’t think Maurice did it, does he? He can’t.”

  “I honestly don’t believe he does. Honestly.”

  “I know Maurice is—is innocent. But there’s something else. Something he knows and he won’t tell Mr. Alleyn. He won’t tell. He’s made me promise. Oh, what am I to do?”

  “Break your promise.”

  “I can’t, I can’t. He’d never trust me again and, you see, I can’t help him as long as he trusts me.” Her voice trembled. “It’s a shame to bother you with it.”

  “Good Heavens, what nonsense. I’d like to help you both but—but look here, don’t tell me anything unless you want Alleyn to know. I ought to say that. I’m on his side, you see. But if you are hiding anything for Pringle’s sake—don’t, don’t, don’t. And if he’s hiding something for anybody else’s sake you must make him tell Alleyn. Do you remember the Unicorn Theatre case?”

  “Yes, vaguely. It’s queer how one reads every word of murder trials and then forgets them. I’ll never forget this one, will I? We must speak softly. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  “In the Unicorn case a man who knew and didn’t tell was—killed.”

  “I remember now.”

  “Is it something to do with this drug he’s taking?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Then it is Garnette!” said Nigel.

  “Ssh! No, for pity’s sake! Oh, what have I done!”

  “What are you two burbling about?” called Maurice.

  He sounded very much more cheerful. Janey looked up sharply and then made a despairing little gesture.

  “About you, good-looking,” she called out.

  Maurice laughed. “I must come out and stop that,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” whispered Janey. She suddenly gripped Nigel’s arm. “It’s not Garnette, it’s not, it’s not,” she said fiercely. “I must see you again.”

  “After the show,” murmured Nigel hurriedly. “I’ll come to the flat.”

  “But—no—it’s impossible.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow morning. About eleven.”

  “The inquest is at eleven.”

  “Earlier, then.”

  “What can you do, after all?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

  Janey got up and went to the gramophone. The theme song from “Fools Step In” blared out.

  You’re no angel, I’m no saint,

  You’ve a modern body with a super coat of paint.

  My acceleration’s speedy,

  You’ve broken every rule,

  You may say that I am greedy,

  You may call me just a fool.

  You’re no angel and I sometimes lost my head,

  But fools step in where angels fear to tread.

  “The tune’s all right,” said Maurice, emerging from the bedroom, “but the words are fatuous, as usual.”

  Nigel gazed at him in astonishment. His eyes were very bright. He had an air of spurious gaiety. He was like a mechanical figure that had been overwound and might break. He talked loudly and incessantly, and laughed at everything he said. He kept repeating that they had plenty of time.

  “Loads of time. Fifty gallons of time. Time, the unknown quantity in the celestial cocktail. Time, like an ever-rolling drunk. Jane, you’re looking very seductive, my angel. ‘You’re no angel and I’m no saint’.”

  He sat on the arm of her chair and began to stroke her neck. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her shoulder.

  “‘And I sometimes lose my head.’ Don’t move.”

  She sat quite still, staring miserably at Nigel.

  “I think we’d better dine,” said Nigel. “It’s after seven.”

  Maurice had slid down behind Janey and now pulled her to him. He slipped his arms round her and pressed his face against her bare shoulder.

  “Shall we go with him, Janey? Or shall we stay here and step in where angels fear to tread?”

  “Don’t do that, Blot. And don’t be rude about Mr. Bathgate’s party. No, get up, do.”

  He laughed uproariously and pushed her away from him. “Come on, then,” he said, “come on. I’m all for a party.”

  They dined at the Hungaria. Maurice was very gay and rather noisy. He drank a good deal of champagne and ate next to nothing. Nigel was thankful when they got away. At the theatre Maurice seemed to quieten down. Toward the end of the second act he suddenly whispered that he had a splitting headache and leant forward in his stall with his head between his hands. The people round them obviously thought he was drunk. Nigel felt acutely uncomfortable. When the lights went up for the final curtain Maurice was leaning back again, his eyes half-closed and his face lividly white.

  “Are you all right?” asked Nigel.

  “Perfectly, thank you,” he said very clearly. “Is it all over?”

  “Yes,” said Janey quickly, “stand up Maurice. They’re playing ‘The King’.”

  He got up as though he was exhausted, but he was quiet enough as he followed them out into the street. In the taxi he sat absolutely still, his hands lying palm upwards on the seat. In the reflected light from the streets Nigel saw that his eyes were open. The pupils were the size of pin-points. Nigel looked questioningly at Janey. She nodded slightly.

  “I’ll see you in, Pringle,” said Nigel.

  “No, thank you,” he said loudly.

  “But, Maurice—”

  “No, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you. Damn you, for—’s sake leave me alone, will you.”

  He had got out and now slammed the door shut, and without another look at them went quickly up the steps to the flats.

  “Let hi
m go,” said Janey.

  Nigel said “99, Yeoman’s Row” to the man, and they drove away.

  Janey began to laugh.

  “Charming guest you’ve had for your party. Has anyone ever been quite so rude to you before? You must have enjoyed it.”

  “Don’t!” said Nigel. “I didn’t mind. I’m only so sorry for you both.”

  “You are nice about it. I won’t have hysterics; don’t look so nervous. Your Angela’s a lucky wench. Tell her I said so. No, don’t. Don’t talk to me, please.”

  They finished the short journey in silence. As he saw her into her door Nigel said:

  “I’m coming in the morning. Not early, so don’t get up too soon. And please remember you’d much better tell Alleyn.’’

  “Ah, but you don’t know,” said Janey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Janey Breaks a Promise

  wHEN NIGEL GOT HOME it was half-past eleven. He rang Alleyn up.

  “Were you in bed?” asked Nigel.

  “In bed! I’ve just got back from the Yard.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Routine work.”

  “That is merely the name you give to the activities you keep a secret from me.”

  “Think so? What have you been up to yourself?”

  “Cultivating a pair of fools.”

  “That’s your opinion of them, is it?”

  “It’ll be yours when I reveal all. She’s a nice fool and he’s inexpressibly unpleasant. Look here, Alleyn, Pringle’s keeping something up his sleeve. Yesterday afternoon—”

  “Hi! No names over the telephone. Your landlady may be lying on her stomach outside the door.”

  “Shall I come round to your flat?”

  “Certainly not. Go to bed and come to the Yard in the morning.”

  “You might be grateful. I’ve endured a frightful party and paid for a lot of champagne, all in the cause of justice. Really, Alleyn, it’s been a ghastly evening. Pringle’s soaked to the back teeth in drugs and—”

  “No names over the telephone. I am grateful. What would we do without our Mr. Bathgate? Can you get to my office by nine?”

  “I suppose so. But I want you to come with me to Janey Jenkins’ flat. I think if you tackle her she may tell you about Mau—”

  “Not over the telephone.”

  “But why not? Who do you think is listening? What about your own conversations? Has Miss Wade swarmed up a telegraph pole and tapped the wires?”

  “Good night,” said Alleyn.

  Nigel wrote an article on the beauty and charm of Cara Quayne. The article was to be illustrated with two photographs he had picked up in her flat. Then he cursed Alleyn and went to bed.

  The next morning he went down to the Yard at nine and found Alleyn in his room.

  “Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Sit down and smoke. I won’t be a minute. I’ve just been talking to New York. Mr. Ogden seems to be as pure as a lily as far as they can tell. We rang them up yesterday and they’ve been pretty nippy. The Ogden-Schultz Gold Refining Company seems to be a smallish but respectable concern. It did well during the gold fever of ’31, but not so well since then. Of Mr. Garnette they know nothing. They are going to have a stab at tracing the revivalist joint that was such a success way down in Michigan in ’14. The wretched creature has probably changed his name half a dozen times since then.”

  He pressed his desk-bell and to the constable who answered it he gave an envelope and a telegram form.

  “Deferred cable for Australia,” he said, “and urgent to France. Read out the telegram, will you?”

  The constable, with many strange sounds, spelt out a long message in French to the Comtesse de Barsac. As far as Nigel could make out, it broke the news of Miss Quayne’s death, said that a letter would follow, and gave an earnest assurance that the entire police force of Great Britain would be infinitely grateful if Madame la Comtesse would refrain from destroying any letters she received from Miss Cara Quayne. The constable went out looking baffled but impressed.

  “What’s all that for?” asked Nigel.

  Alleyn told him about the letter to Madame de Barsac and also about the new Will.

  “I’ve got it here,” said Alleyn. “With the exception of the three hundred pounds a year to Nannie and the house to de Ravigne—everything to the glowing Garnette.”

  “And it was done on Sunday?”

  “Yes. At three-thirty. She actually has put the time.”

  “That’s very significant,” pronounced Nigel.

  “Very,” agreed Alleyn dryly.

  “She had been back from the mysterious visit to the temple about half an hour,” continued Nigel with the utmost importance, “and had evidently made up her mind to alter the Will as a result of whatever had taken place in Garnette’s room.”

  “True for you.”

  “Had she learned about the commercial basis on which the House of the Sacred Flame was established? Or had she heard something derogatory about Garnette himself and wished to make a gesture that would illustrate her faith in Garnette? Doesn’t the note in the cigarette-box seem to point to that?”

  “Am I supposed to answer these questions or are they merely rhetorical?”

  “What do you think yourself? About the new Will?”

  “If we are right in supposing the interview with the unknown at two-forty-five on Sunday afternoon has got a definite bearing on the case and if the unknown was the murderer, then I think the alteration in the Will is the direct outcome of the interview. If this is so, then I believe the case narrows down to one individual. But all this is still in the air. Miss Quayne may have found Claude swigging Invalid Port and written the note to let Garnette know about it. She may have altered the will simply because she wished to shower everything on Garnette. The whole of Sunday afternoon may be irrelevant. ’Morning, Fox.”

  “Good morning, sir,” said Inspector Fox, who had come in during this speech. “What’s this about Sunday afternoon being irrelevant? Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”

  ‘Well, Fox, it’s possible, you know. We are still in the detestable realms of conjecture. I hope to heaven Mme de Barsac has not burned that letter. I wired to her last night and got no answer. I’ve just sent off another telegram. I could get on to the Sûreté, but I don’t want to do it that way. We badly needed that letter.”

  “You’ve got a certain amount from the blotting-paper, haven’t you?” asked Fox.

  “Bits and pieces. Luckily for us Miss Quayne used mediumsized sheets of notepaper and a thick nib. The result is lots of wet ink and good impressions on the blotting-paper. Here they are. No translation necessary for you, you old tower of Babel.”

  “May I see?” said Nigel.

  “Yes. But they’re not for publication.”

  Fox took out his spectacles and he and Nigel read the sentences from the blotting-paper.

  Raoul est tout-à-fait impitoyable—

  Une secousse électrique me bouleversa—

  Cette supposition me revoltait, mais que voul—

  Alarme en me voyant—

  —il pay—a—ses crimes.

  —le placerent en qualité d’administrateur d—’

  “What’s ‘sécousse’?” asked Fox.

  “A shock, a surprise.”

  “Does she mean she’s had an electric shock, sir?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Fox. She means she was much put out. The phraseology suggests a rather exuberant hysterical style. I do not advise you to adopt it.”

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Bathgate?” asked Fox.

  “It’s very exciting,” said Nigel. “The first bit is clear enough. Raoul—that’s de Ravigne—is completely indifferent—pitiless. She had a shock. Then she was horrified at her own—what’s the word?”

  “This hypothesis revolted me,” suggested Alleyn.

  “Yes. Then somebody took fright when he saw her. And somebody will—I suppose this was ‘payera’—will answer for his crimes. And somebody
was made a trustee. That’s the last bit. That’s Garnette,” continued Nigel in high feather. “He’s a trustee in the first Will. By gum, it looks as if she was talking about Garnette all along.”

  “Except when she wrote of de Ravigne?” said Alleyn mildly.

  “Oh, of course,” said Nigel. “Good Lord! Do you suppose she confided in de Ravigne?”

  “I refuse to speculate. But I don’t like your very free rendering of the last sentence. And now what’s all this about Miss Janey Jenkins?”

  Nigel launched into an account of his evening’s experiences. The two detectives listened in silence.

  “You did very well,” said Allen when Nigel came to a stop. “Thank you, Bathgate. Now let me be quite sure of what you overheard from the perfumed depths of your clothes cupboard. Pringle asked Miss Jenkins to stick to their story about Sunday afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she asked if it had anything to do with his cigarettes?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “Right! You arranged to visit her this morning?”

  “Yes. Before the inquest.”

  “Would you mind if I took your place?”

  “Not if you’ll swear you’ll tell me what happens.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “Half-past nine,” said Fox.

  “I’ll be off. See you at the inquest.”

  Alleyn took a taxi to Yeoman’s Row. Janey’s studio was at the far end. It was a sort of liaison office between Bohemia and slumland. Five very grubby little boys and a baby were seated on the steps.

  “Hullo,” said Alleyn. “What’s the game?”

  “Ain’t no game. Just talkun,” said the grubbiest and smallest of the little boys.

  “I know,” said Alleyn. “Who’s going to ring this bell for me?”

  There was a violent assault upon the bell.

  “I done it, Mister,” said the largest of the little boys. The baby rolled off the second step and set up an appalling yell.

  “Stan-lee!” screamed a voice from an upper window, “what are you doing to your little bruvver?”

  “’Snot me; it’s ’im,” said Stanley, pointing to Alleyn.

  “I’m frightfully sorry,” said Alleyn. “Here. Wait a moment. Is he hurt?”