Ormerin’s distress had apparently evaporated. He had become jauntily knowing.
“In a word,” said Alleyn, “you consider he is responsible for this tragedy?”
“One draws one’s own conclusions, of necessity, Mr. Alleyn. Who else can it be?”
“She was on rather uncertain terms with most of you, it appears?”
“Ah yes, yes. But one does not perform murders from exasperation. Even Malmsley— ”
Ormerin hesitated, grimaced, wagged his head sideways and was silent.
“What about Mr. Malmsley?” asked Alleyn lightly.
“It is nothing.”
“By saying it is nothing, you know, you leave me with an impression of extreme significance. What was there between the model and Mr. Malmsley?”
“I have not been able to discover,” said Ormerin rather huffily.
“But you think there was something?”
“She was laughing at him. On the morning of our experiment when Malmsley began to tease Sonia, pretending that the knife was still there, she entreated him to leave her alone, and when he would not she said: ‘I wouldn’t be too damn’ funny. Where is it that you discover your ideas, is it in books or pictures?‘ He was very disconcerted and allowed his dirty brush to fall on his drawing. That is all. You see, I was right when I said it was nothing. Have you finished with me, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I think so, thank you. There will be a statement later on,” said Alleyn vaguely. He looked at Ormerin, as though he wasn’t there, seemed to recollect himself, and got to his feet.
“Yes, I think that’s all,” he repeated.
“I shall wish you good night then, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Good night,” said Alleyn, coming to himself. “Good night, M. Ormerin.”
But when Ormerin had gone, Alleyn wandered about the room, whistled under his breath, and paid no attention at all to Fox or Nigel.
“Look here,” said Nigel at last, “I want to use a telephone.”
“You?”
“Yes. Don’t look at me as though I was a fabulous monster. I want to use the telephone, I say.”
“What for?”
“Ring up Angela.”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“That’s no matter. She’ll be up and waiting.”
“You’re burning to ring up your odious newspaper.”
“Well — I thought if I just said— ”
“You may say that there has been a fatal accident at Tatler’s End House, Bossicote, and that an artist’s model has died as the result of this accident. You may add that the authorities are unable to trace the whereabouts of the victim’s relatives and are anxious to communicate with Mr. W. Garcia who is believed to be on a walking tour and may be able to give them some information about the model’s family. Something on those lines.”
“And a fat lot of good-” began Nigel angrily.
“If Garcia is not our man,” continued Alleyn to Fox, “and sees that, he may do something about it.”
“That’s so,” said Fox.
“And now we’ll deal with the last of this collection, if you please, Fox. The languishing Malmsley.”
“I’ll go to the telephone,” said Nigel.
“Very well. Don’t exceed, now. You may tell them that there will be a further installment to-morrow.”
“Too kind,” said Nigel haughtily.
“And Bathgate — you might ring my mamma up and say we won’t be in until after midnight.”
“All right.”
Nigel and Fox collided in the doorway with Bailey, who looked cold and disgruntled.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. Wait a moment, Fox. Let’s hear what Bailey’s been up to.”
“I’ve been over deceased’s room,” said Bailey.
“Any good?”
“Nothing much, sir. It’s an attic-room at the front of the house.”
He paused, and Alleyn waited, knowing that “nothing much” from Bailey might mean anything from a vacuum to a phial of cyanide.
“There’s deceased’s prints,” continued Bailey, “and one that looks like this Garcia. It’s inside the door where the maid’s missed with the duster, and there’s another print close beside it that isn’t either of em. Broad. Man’s print, I’d say. And of course there are the maid’s all over the show. I’ve checked those. Nothing much about the clothes. Note from Garcia in the pocket. She was in the family way all right. Here it is.”
He opened his case, and from a labelled envelope drew out a piece of paper laid between two slips of glass.
“I’ve printed it and taken a photo.”
Alleyn took the slips delicately in his fingers and laid them on the desk. The creases in the common paper had been smoothed out and the scribbled black pencil lines were easy to read:
Dear S. — What do you expect me to do about it? I’ve got two quid to last me till I get to Troy’s. You asked for it, anyway. Can’t you get somebody to fix things? It’s not exactly likely that I should want to be saddled with a wife and a kid, is it? I’ve got a commission for a big thing, and for God’s sake don’t throw me off my stride. I’m sorry but I can’t do anything. See you at Troy’s. Garcia.
“A charming fellow,” said Alleyn.
“That was in a jacket pocket. Here’s a letter that was just kicking about at the back of the wardrobe. From somebody called Bobbie. Seems as if this Bobbie’s a girl.”
This letter was written in an enormous hand on dreadful pink paper:
The Digs,
4, Batchelors Gardens,
Chelsea.
Monday.
Dear Sonia,
I’m sorry you’re in for it dear I think it’s just frightful and I do think men are the limit but of course I never liked the sound of that Garcia too far upstage if you ask me but they’re all alike when it comes to a girl. The same to you with bells on and pleased to join in the fun at the start and sorry you’ve been troubled this takes me off when they know you’re growing melons. I’ve asked Dolores Duval for the address she went to when she had her spot of trouble but she says the police found out about that lady so it’s no go. Anyway I think your idea is better and if Mr. Artistic Garcia is willing O.K. and why not dear you might as well get it both ways and I suppose it’s all right to be married he sounds a lovely boy but you never know with that sort did I ever tell you about my boy friend who was a Lord he was a scream really but nothing ever came of it thank God. It will be O.K. if you come here on Friday and I might ask Leo Cohen for a brief but you know what managements are like these days dear they sweat the socks off you for the basic salary and when it comes to asking for a brief for a lady friend it’s just too bad but they’ve forgotten how the chorus goes in that number. Thank you very much good morning. I laughed till I sobbed over that story of the Seacliff woman’s picture it must have looked a scream when you’d done with it but all the same dear your tempreement will land you well in the consommy one of these days dear if you don’t learn to kerb yourself which God knows you haven’t done what with one thing and another. What a yell about Marmelade’s little bit of dirt. Well so long dear and keep smiling see you Friday. Hoping this finds you well as I am,
Cheerio. Ever so sincerely,
Your old pal,
Bobbie.
PS. — You want to be sure B.P. won’t turn nasty and say all right go ahead I’ve told her the story of my life anyhow so now what!
CHAPTER XII
Malmsley on Pleasure