Death in Ecstasy

  “Let me think. He went across and—What was the name of the book?” She gaped stupidly. “It wasn’t—! Oh, it was! You mean it was that book you showed us, on poisons. My God, is that what you mean?”

  “Don’t distress yourself. Don’t be alarmed. Yes, that was it. You see we want to trace the book.”

  “But if that was the one it belongs to Sammy Ogden. It’s his. And he never said so. When you showed it to us he simply sat there and—” Her eyes brightened; she was avid. “Don’t you see what that means? He didn’t own up.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Alleyn. Her excitement was horrible. “Oh, yes, he told us it was his book. He hadn’t missed it.”

  “But—Oh.” For a moment she looked disappointed. Then he could see an anticipation of deeper pleasure come into her eyes. Her lips trembled. “Then, of course, it was the Frenchman. Listen. I’ll tell you something. Listen.”

  Alleyn waited. She lowered her voice and hitched herself nearer to him.

  “He—Raoul de Ravigne I mean—made a fool of himself over Cara. She encouraged him. You know what foreigners are. If I had chosen to let him—” She laughed shrilly. “But I wasn’t having any. There was quite a scene once. I had a lot of bother with him. It was after that he turned to Cara. In pique, I always thought. And then—I hardly like to tell you. But Cara was dreadfully—you know. I’ve read quite a lot of psychoanalysis, and it was easy to see she was mad about Father Garnette. De Ravigne saw it. I watched him. I knew. He was furious. And when she got herself elected Chosen Vessel, he realised what that meant. You know what I mean?”

  Alleyn really couldn’t manage more than an inclination of his head.

  “Well, perhaps it was too much for him. He’s a very passionate sort of man. You know. The Celtic—I mean the Gallic temperament. Why didn’t he say he’d seen the book before? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m right. Don’t you think I am right?”

  “Did he take the book away with him?” asked Alleyn.

  She looked furtively at him.

  “I don’t know, but he was very interested in it. You could see. He was very interested. He asked Sammy Ogden where he got it. He fossicked about till he found it.”

  “Mr. Ogden said that he himself drew M. de Ravigne’s attention to the book and that M. de Ravigne showed little interest in it.”

  “He may have pretended not to be interested,” she said. “He would do that. He makes a pose of being uninterested, the dirty beast.”

  At this last vindictive descent into devastating vulgarity Alleyn must have shown some sort of distaste. A dull red showed through her make-up and for a moment she looked frightened.

  “I expect you think I’m awful,” she said, “but you see I know what he’s like.”

  “You tell me you had an unpleasant encounter with M. de Ravigne. May I hear a little more about that?”

  But she would not tell him more. She was very uneasy and began to talk about self-respect. The encounter had no bearing on the case. She would rather not discuss it. She would not discuss it. He pressed a little further and asked when it had happened. She could not remember.

  “Was it about the time you discontinued your visits to Miss Quayne?”

  That shot went home. She now turned so white that he wondered if she would collapse. She seemed to shrivel back into the cushions as though she was scorched.

  “What do you mean! Why are you talking like this? What are you thinking?”

  “You mustn’t distress yourself in this way,” said Alleyn.

  “How can I help it when you start—I’m not well. I told you I was ill. I must ask you to go.”

  “Certainly,” said Alleyn. He got up. “I am sorry. I had no idea my question would have such an unfortunate effect

  “It’s not that. It’s my nerves, I tell you. I’m a nervous wreck.”

  She stammered, clenched her hands, and burst into a storm of ungracious tears. With a word of apology Alleyn turned and walked to the door.

  “Stop!” cried Mrs. Candour. “Stop! Listen to me.” He turned.

  “No, no,” she said wildly. “I won’t say any more. I won’t. Leave me alone.”

  He went out.

  Fox waited for him outside.

  “Bit of a rumpus in there, seemingly,” said Fox.

  “Heavens, yes! There’s been a loathsome scene. I’ll have a bad taste in my mouth for weeks. I’ll tell you about it in the car. We go to Ogden’s house now.”

  On the way to York Square he related the details of his interview. “What do you make of all that?” he asked.

  “Well, it sounds as if Mrs. Candour had tried to do a line with the French gentleman and failed. Then I suppose she turned round and took a dislike to him like these sort of women do. She wouldn’t feel too friendly towards Miss Quayne either, seeing Miss Quayne pinched the monsieur and the Reverend as well. No, she wouldn’t feel very friendly in that quarter.”

  “No.”

  “The point is,” continued Fox with a sort of dogged argumentativeness, “did she tell you anything that supports our theory or sets us off on another lay? That’s the point.”

  “She said that de Ravigne found the book and that nobody drew his attention to it until Ogden asked him what it was worth. She was very emphatic about that.”

  “Was she telling the truth?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Alleyn.

  “And Father Garnette?”

  “He saw it too. For the matter of that they may all have glanced at it afterwards. But the question is—”

  “Did any of them see enough of it to put ideas of sodium cyanide into their heads?”

  “Exactly, Brer Fox, exactly. How did you get on with that remarkably frisky-looking soubrette who showed us in?”

  “Oh, her! Rita’s her name. And the cook’s a Mrs. Bulsome. A very pleasant, friendly woman, the cook was. Made me quite welcome in the kitchen, and answered everything nice and straightforward. Rita took in the coffee at a quarter to two on Sunday. She went and got the cups about ten minutes later and Mrs. Candour was then stretched out on the sofa, smoking and listening to the radio. She was still there when Rita took tea in at four-thirty and they heard the radio going all the afternoon.”

  “Not exactly a cast-iron alibi. Did you pick up any gossip about that—that inexpressibly tedious lady?”

  “Mrs. Candour? Well, she’s not very much liked in the hall, sir. Rita said it was her opinion the mistress was half-dopey most of her time, and Mrs. Bulsome, who’s a very plain-spoken woman, said the kitchen cat, a fine female tortoiseshell, had a better sense of decency. That was the way Mrs. Bulsome put it.”

  “You have all the fun, Fox.”

  “Rita says Mrs. Candour set her cap at monsieur and was always ringing him up and about three weeks ago she got him there and there was a scene. They heard her voice raised and after he’d gone Rita went in and she found Mrs. C. in a great state. She never rang up after that and monsieur never came back. About that time, they said, she left off visits to Miss Quayne.”

  “As we saw by Miss Quayne’s appointment book. Here we are at the Chateau Ogden. Don’t let me forget any important questions, Fox. I’ll have to go carefully with Ogden. He’s feeling rather self-conscious about his book.”

  “That’s not to be wondered at,” said Fox grimly.

  “There’s a telephone-box. Pop in and ring-up the Yard, Foxkin. I’d like to know if there’s an answer from Madame la Comtesse.”

  Fox was away for some minutes. He returned looking more than usually wooden.

  “There’s an answer. I’ve taken it down word for word. It’s in French, but as far as I can make it out the Countess is in a private hospital and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Hell’s boots!” said Alleyn. “I’ll disturb her if I have to dress up as a French gynaecologist to do it!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mr. Odgen at Home

  MR. OGDEN lived in an old-fashioned maisonette. His sitting room was on the street level and op
ened off a small hall from which a break-neck stair led up to his dining room and kitchen and then on to his bedroom and bath room. He was served by a family who lived in the basement. He answered his own door and gave Alleyn and Fox a hearty, but slightly nervous, greeting.

  “Hello! Hello! Look who’s here! Come right in.”

  “You must be sick of the sight of us,” said Alleyn.

  “Where d’you get that stuff?” demanded Mr. Ogden with somewhat forced geniality. “Say, when this darn business is through, maybe we’ll be able to get together like regular fellows.”

  “But until then—?” suggested Alleyn with a smile. Mr. Ogden grinned uncomfortably.

  “Well, I won’t say nothing,” he admitted, “but I’ll try and act like I was a pure young thing. What’s new, Chief?”

  “Nothing much. We’ve come to look at your house, Mr. Ogden.”

  Mr. Ogden paled slightly.

  “Sure,” he said. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Don’t look so uncomfortable. We’re not expecting to find a body in the destructor.”

  “Aw gee!” protested Mr. Ogden. “You make me nervous when you pull that grim British humour stuff.”

  He showed them over the maisonette, which had the peculiarly characterless look of the ready-furnished dwelling. Mr. Ogden, however, appeared to like it.

  “It’s never recovered from the shock it got when Queen Victoria okayed gas lighting,” he said. “It’s just kind of forgotten to disappear. Look at that grate. I reckon it would have a big appeal in the States as a museum specimen. Some swell apartment! When I first saw it I thought I’d side-slipped down time’s speedway. I asked the real estate agent if it was central heated and the old guy looked so grieved I just hadn’t the nerve to come at it again.”

  “There are plenty of modern flats in London, sir,” said Inspector Fox rather huffily, as they went into the kitchen.

  “Sure there are. Erected by Rip Van Winkle and Co. You don’t want to get sore, Inspector. I’m only kidding. I took this apartment because it’s old-world and British. I get a kick out of buying coal for this grate and feeling Florida in front and Alaska down the back.”

  “It’s a very cosy little kitchenette, sir,” said Fox, still on the defensive. “All those nice modern Fyrexo dishes!”

  “I’ve pepped it up some. There was no ice-chest and a line of genuine antiques for fixing the eats. And will you look at that hot-squat, coal-consuming range? I reckon that got George Whatsit Stevenson thinking about trains.”

  Fox mumbled impotently.

  They completed their tour of the maisonette and returned to the sitting room. Mr. Ogden drew armchairs up to the hearth and attacked the smouldering coals with a battered stump of a poker.

  “How about a drink?” he asked.

  “Thank you so much, not for me,” said Alleyn.

  Mr. Ogden again looked nervous.

  “I forgot,” he mumbled, “I kinda asked for that.”

  “Good Heavens,” protested Alleyn, ‘‘you mustn’t jump to conclusions like this, Mr. Ogden. We’re on duty. We don’t drink when we’re on duty. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Maybe,” said Mr. Ogden eyeing him doubtfully. “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  “We’re still trying to untangle the business of the book. I think you can help us there, if you will. I take it that this is the room where you held your party?”

  “Yup.”

  “And there are your books,” continued Alleyn, pointing to where a dispirited collection of monthly journals and cheap editions propped each other up in an old bookcase.

  “That’s the library. Looks world-weary, doesn’t it? I’m not crazy about literature.”

  “I notice there are no red backs there, so the Curiosities must have showed up rather well.”

  “That’s so. It looked like it was surprised at being there,” said Mr. Ogden with one of his imaginative flights.

  “Well now, can you show me where it was on the night of your party?”

  “Lemme see.”

  He got up and walked over to the shelves.

  “I reckon I can,” he said. “M. de Ravigne had parked his drink in that gap along by the stack of Posts and spilled it over. I remember that because it marked the shelf and he was very repentant about it. He called me over and apologised and I said: ‘What the hell’s it matter,’ and then I saw the old book. That’s how I come to show it to him.”

  “You showed it to him. You’re positive of that? He did not find it for himself, and you didn’t see him with it before anything was said about it?”

  Mr. Ogden thought that over. The significance of Alleyn’s question obviously struck him. He looked worried, but he answered with every appearance of complete frankness.

  “No, sir. Raoul de Ravigne did no snooping around those books. I showed it to him. And get this, Chief. If I hadn’t showed it to him he’d never have seen it. He had turned away from the books and was telling Garnette how thoughtless he’d acted putting his glass down on the shelf.”

  “But he would have seen it before, when he put his glass down.”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s so. But even if that is so you can bet your suspenders Ravigne is on the level. See here, Chief, I get you with this book stuff and God knows I feel weak under my vest whenever I remember the Curiosities belonged to me. But if you’re thinking of Raoul de Ravigne for the quick hiccough, forget it. He worshipped Cara. He surely worshipped her.”

  “I know, I know,” said Alleyn abstractedly.

  Fox, who had examined the shelf, suddenly remarked: “There’s the mark of the stuff there still. Spirit. It’s lifted the varnish.”

  “So it has,” said Alleyn. “After you had shown him the book what happened to it?”

  “Why, I don’t just remember. Wait a while. Yeah, I got it. He looked at it sort of polite but not interested, and handed it to Garnette.”

  “And then?”

  “I can’t remember. I guess we walked away or something.”

  “Previous to the glass incident what had you all been doing?”

  “Search me. Talking.”

  “Had you been talking to Mrs. Candour, Miss Quayne and Mr. Garnette?”

  “That’s so. Checking up, are you? Well, I reckon that’s right. We were here by the fire, I guess.”

  “And you don’t remember seeing the book after that evening?”

  “No. But I don’t remember not seeing it till the day that sissy stopped in for Garnette’s books. I’m dead sure it wasn’t here then. Dead sure.”

  “That’s a most important point. It seems to show—” Alleyn paused and then said: “Look here, Mr. Ogden, as far as I can see there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be perfectly frank with you. Tell me, is it your opinion the book disappeared on the night of your party?”

  “Honest, Chief, I’m not sure. I don’t know. I can’t go any further except that I’d stake a couple of grand Ravigne doesn’t come into the picture.”

  “Who looks after you here and does the housemaiding?”

  “The girl Prescott. The daughter of the janitor.”

  “Could we speak to her, do you think?”

  “Sure! She’ll be down in the dungeon they call their apartment. I’ll fetch her.”

  He went out into the little hall and they could hear him shouting:

  “Hey! Elsie! Cm’ on up here, will you?”

  A subterranean squeak answered him. He came back grinning.

  “She’ll be right up. Her old man does the valeting and butling, her ma cooks, and Elsie hands out the cap and apron dope. The bell doesn’t work since they forgot to fix it way back eighteen-twenty-five.”

  Elsie turned out to be a pleasant-faced young woman. She was neatly dressed, and looked intelligent.

  “Listen, Elsie. These gentlemen want to ask you something.”

  “It’s about a book of Mr. Ogden’s that was stolen,” said Alleyn. “It’s a valuable book and he wants us to trace it for him.”

>   Elsie looked alarmed.

  “Don’t worry,” said Alleyn, “we rather think it was taken by a man who tried to sell him a wireless. Do you remember the night Mr. Ogden had a large party here? About three weeks ago?”

  “Yes, sir. We helped.”

  “Splendid. Did you do the tidying next day?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose you dusted the bookshelves, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. They were in a terrible mess. A gentleman had upset a glass. Just there it was, sir.”

  She pointed to the shelf.

  “Were any of the books damaged?”

  “The one next the place was, sir. It was stained-like.”

  “What book was that?”

  “I never noticed the name, sir. It had brown paper on it. You couldn’t see.”

  “Was there a red book there?”

  “You mean the queer-looking old one. That hasn’t been there for a—well, for some time.”

  “That’s the one we’re trying to trace, Elsie. You think it was not there that morning?”

  “No, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t. You see that’s where it always stood, and I noticed it wasn’t there because I thought it was a pity because it wouldn’t have mattered if that old book had been marked because I didn’t know it was a valuable book, sir. I just laid the other one down by the fire to dry off and put it back again. I didn’t take the cover off because I didn’t like it. It was put on very neat with nice shiny paper.”

  Alleyn glanced at Mr. Ogden, who turned bright pink.

  “But it wasn’t the old book, sir. The old book was bigger and it hadn’t got a cover. Now I come to think of it, I remember I says to Mr. Ogden, I says: ‘Where’s the big red book?’ Didn’t I, sir? When you was looking through them to see the damage.”

  “By heck, I believe she did,” shouted Mr. Ogden.

  “Splendid, Elsie. So one way and another you’re absolutely certain there was no big red book?”

  “Yes, sir, certain sure. There was just a row of five in brown paper covers and then the ones that are there now. I remember it all so distinct because that was the day before we went for our holidays, and I says I’d like to get things nice for a start off because Mr. Ogden was going to do for himself and get his meals out, and he’d been that kind, and it seemed such a pity like, anything should be missing, so I was quite anxious to make everything nice, so I did and so that’s how I remember.”