“These letters,” said Fox, tapping them with a stubby forefinger, “were all written before they came down here. They’ve evidently been engaged in a manner of speaking for about a month.”
“Very possibly.”
“Well,” said Fox, “there’s nothing in these letters of Mr. Pilgrim’s to contradict any ideas we may have about Garcia, is there?”
“Nothing. What about Pilgrim’s clothes?”
“Nothing there. Two overcoats, five suits, two pairs of odd trousers and an odd jacket. Nothing much in the pockets. His week-end suit-case hasn’t been unpacked. He took a dinner suit, a tweed suit, pyjamas, dressing-gown, and toilet things.”
“Any aspirin?”
“No.”
“I fancy I found his bottle in one of Miss Seacliff’s pockets. Come on. Let’s get on with it.”
They got on with it. Presently Bailey said: “Here’s one from Garcia.”
“Let me see, will you?”
Like the note to Sonia, this was written in pencil on an odd scrap of paper. It was not dated or addressed, and the envelope was missing.
Dear Valmai,
I hear you’re going to Troy’s this term. So am I. I’m broke. I haven’t got the price of the fare down, and I want one or two things — paints, mostly. I’m going to paint for a bit. I took the liberty of going into Gibson’s, and getting a few things on your account. I told old Gibson it would be all right, and he’d seen me in the shop with you, so it was. Do you think Basil Pilgrim would lend me a fiver? Or would you? I’ll be O.K. when Troy gets back, and I’ve got a good commission, so the money’s all right. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll ask Pilgrim. I can’t think of anyone else. Is it true you’re going to hitch up with Pilgrim? You’d much better try a spot of free love with me.—G.
“Cool,” said Fox.
“Does this bloke live on women?” asked Bailey.
“He lives on anyone that will provide the needful, I’d say,” grunted Fox.
“That’s about it,” said Alleyn. “We’ll keep this and any other Garcia letters we find, Fox. Well, that’s all, isn’t it? Either of you got any more tender missives? All right then, we’ll pack up. Fox, you might tell them all they may turn in now. My compliments and so on. Miss Troy has gone to her room. The others, I suppose, will still be in the dining-room. Come on, Bathgate.”
A few minutes later they all met in the hall. Tatler’s End House was quiet at last. The fires had died down in all the grates, the rooms had grown cold. Up and down the passages the silence was broken only by the secret sounds made by an old house at night, small expanding noises, furtive little creaks, and an occasional slow whisper as though the house sighed at the iniquity of living men. Alleyn had a last look round and spoke to the local man who was to remain on duty in the hall. Bailey opened the door and Fox turned out the last of the lights. Nigel, huddled in an overcoat, stowed his copy away in a pocket and lit a cigarette. Alleyn stood at the foot of the stairs, his face raised, as if he listened for something.
“Right, sir?” asked Fox.
“Coming,” said Alleyn. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” said the local man.
“By the way — where’s the garage?”
“Round the house to the right, sir.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
The front door slammed behind them.
“Blast that fellow!” said Alleyn. “Why the devil must he wake the entire household?”
It was a still, cold night, with no moon. The gravel crunched loudly under their feet.
“I’m just going to have a look at the garage,” said Alleyn. “I’ve got the key from a nail in the lobby. I won’t be long. Give me my case, Bailey. Bathgate — you drive on.”
He switched on his torch and followed the drive round the house to an old stable-yard. The four loose-boxes had been converted into garages, and his key fitted all of them. He found an Austin, and a smart super charged sports car—“Pilgrim’s,” thought Alleyn — and in the last garage a small motor caravan. Alleyn muttered when he saw this. He examined the tyre-treads, measured the distance between the wheels and took the height from the ground to the rear doorstep. He opened the door and climbed in. He found a small lamp on a battery in the ceiling, and switched it on. It was not an elaborate interior, but it was well planned. There were two bunks, a folding table, a cupboard and plenty of lockers. He looked into the lockers and found painting gear and one or two canvases. He took one out. “Troy’s,” he said. He began to look very closely at the board floor. On the doorstep he found two dark indentations. They were shiny and looked as though they had been made by small wheels carrying a heavy load. The door opened outwards. Its inner surface had been recently scored across. Alleyn looked through a lens at the scratches. The paint had frilled up a little and the marks were clean. The floor itself bore traces of the shiny tracks, but here they were much fainter. He looked at the petrol gauge and found it registered only two gallons. He returned to the floor and crawled over it with his torch. At last he came upon a few traces of a greenish-grey substance. These he scraped off delicately and put in a small tin. He went into the driver’s cabin, taking an insufflator with him, and tested the wheel. It showed no clear prints. On the floor of the cabin Alleyn found several Player’s cigarette-butts. These he collected and examined carefully. The ray from his torch showed him a tiny white object that had dropped into the gear-change slot. He fished it out with a pair of tweezers. It was the remains of yet another cigarette and had got jammed and stuck to the inside of the slot. A fragment of red paper was mixed with the flattened wad of tobacco strands. One of Troy’s, perhaps. An old one. He had returned to the door with his insufflator, when a deep voice said:
“Have they remembered your hot-water bottle, sir, and what time would you wish to be called?”
“Fox!” said Alleyn, “I am sorry. Have I been very long?”
“Oh no, sir. Bert Bailey’s in his beauty sleep in the back of our car, and Mr. Bathgate has gone off in his to her ladyship’s. Mr. Bathgate asked me to tell you, sir, that he proposed to make the telephone wires burn while the going was good.”
“I’d like to see him try. Fox, we’ll seal up this caravan and then we really will go home. Look here, you send Bailey back to London and stay the night with us. My mother will be delighted. I’ll lend you some pyjamas, and we’ll snatch a few hours’ sleep and start early in the morning. Do come.”
“Well, sir, that’s very kind of you. I’d be very pleased.”
“Splendid!”
Alleyn sealed the caravan door with tape, and then the door of the garage. He put the key in his pocket.
“No little jaunts for them to-morrow,” he said coolly. “Come along, Fox. Golly, it’s cold.”
They saw Bailey, arranged to meet him at the Yard in the morning, and drove back to Danes Lodge.
“Well have a drink before we turn in,” said Alleyn softly, when they were indoors. “In here.”
Fox tiptoed after him towards Lady Alleyn’s boudoir. At the door they paused and looked at each other. A low murmur of voices came from the room beyond.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Alleyn, and walked in. A large fire crackled in the open fireplace. Nigel sat before it cross-legged on the heathrug. Curled up in a wing-backed chair was Lady Alleyn. She wore a blue dressing-gown and a lace cap and her feet were tucked under her.