“Anyone would think,” said Parish, “that you were trying to protect Legge. I thought it was all damned odd.”
“I’m not trying to protect Legge, but I’ve no particular wish to make him sound like a man of mystery. ‘Who is Mr. X?’ As far as we know, Mr. X is a rather dreary little Soviet-fan who combines philately with communism, and is pretty nippy with the darts. And what’s more, I don’t see how he could have infected the dart. In fact, I’m prepared to swear he didn’t. I was watching his hands. They’re ugly hands and he’s a clumsy mover. Have you noticed he always fumbles and drops his money when he pays for his drinks? He’s certainly quite incapable of doing any sleight-of-hand stuff with prussic acid.”
Alleyn looked at Fox. “That answers your question,” he said.
“What question?” asked Cubitt. “Or aren’t we supposed to know?”
“Fox wondered if Mr. Legge could be an expert at legerdemain,” said Alleyn.
“Well, you never know. That’s not impossible,” said Parish. “He might be.”
“I’ll stake my oath he’s not,” said Cubitt. “He’s no more likely to have done it than you are—”
Cubitt caught his breath and, for the first time, looked profoundly uncomfortable.
“Which is absurd,” he added.
Parish turned on Cubitt. His poise had gone and for a moment he looked as though he both hated Cubitt and was afraid of him.
“You seem very sure of yourself, Norman,” he said. “Apparently my opinion is of no value. I won’t waste any more of Mr. Alleyn’s time.”
“My dear old Seb—” Cubitt began.
Alleyn said: “Please, Mr. Parish! I’m sure all this business of questions that seem to have neither rhyme nor reason is tedious and exasperating to a degree. But you may be sure that we shall go as carefully as we go slowly. If there is any link between this man and your cousin I think I may promise you that we shall discover it.”
“I suppose so,” said Parish, not very readily. “I’m sorry if I’m unreasonable, but this thing has hit me pretty hard.”
“Oh dear,” thought Alleyn; “he will speak by the book!” And aloud he said: “Of course it has. I’ve nearly done for the moment. There are one or two more points. I think you looked at the new darts before they were handed to Mr. Legge.”
Parish froze at that. He stood there on the dappled hearthrug and stared at Alleyn. He looked like a frightened schoolboy.
“I only picked them up and looked at them,” he said. “Anyone will tell you that.” And then with a sudden spurt of temper: “Damnation, you’ll be saying I killed my cousin, next!”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Alleyn peacefully. “I was going to ask you to tell me who handled the darts before and after you did.”
Parish opened his mouth and shut it again. When he did speak it was with a kind of impotent fury.
“If you’d said at first — you’ve got me all flustered.”
Cubitt said: “I think I can tell you that, Alleyn. Abel unpacked the darts and laid them on the counter. Parish simply picked two or perhaps three of them up and poised them. That’s right, isn’t it, Seb?”
“I don’t know,” said Parish sullenly. “Have it your own way. I don’t know. Why should I remember?”
“No reason in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.
“Well,” said Cubitt, “Sebastian put them down and Will Pomeroy took them up. I remember that Will turned away and held them nearer the light. He said something about the way they were made, with the weight in the brass point and not in a lead band. He said that the card flights were better than feathers. Abel fitted the darts with card flights.” Cubitt hesitated and then added: “I don’t suppose it’s relevant but I’m prepared to say, definitely, that Parish did nothing more than pick them up and put them down.”
“Thank you, Norman,” said Parish. “Is that all, Mr. Alleyn?”
“My last question for the moment — did you see Miss Moore pour out the brandy for Mr. Watchman?”
Dead silence. And then Parish, wrinkling his forehead, looking half-peevish, half-frightened, said: “I didn’t watch her, but you needn’t go on probing into all that. Decima Moore had nothing to do with—”
“Seb,” interrupted Cubitt quietly, “you would do better to answer these questions as they are put to you. Mr. Alleyn will meet Decima. He will find out for himself that, as far as this affair is concerned, she is a figure of no importance. You must see that he’s got to ask about these things.” He turned to Alleyn with his pleasant lop-sided grin. “I believe the word is ‘routine,’ ” said Cubitt. “You see, I know my detective fiction.”
“Routine it is,” said Alleyn. “And you’re perfectly correct. Routine is the very fibre of police investigation. Your novelist too has now passed the halcyon days when he could ignore routine. He reads books about Scotland Yard, he swots up police manuals. He knows that routine is deadly dull and hopelessly poor material for a thriller; so, like a wise potboiler, he compromises. He heads one chapter ‘Routine,’ dismisses six weeks of drudgery in as many phrases, cuts the cackle and gets to the ’osses. I wish to the Lord we could follow his lead.”
“I’ll be bound you do,” said Cubitt. “Well, if it’s any help, I didn’t notice much when Decima poured out the brandy, except that she was very quick about it. She stood with the rest of us round the settle; someone suggested brandy, she said something about his glass being empty, and went to the bar for the bottle. I got the impression that she simply slopped some brandy in the glass and brought it straight to Watchman. If I may, I should like to add that she was on the best of terms with Watchman and, as far as I know, had no occasion in the world to wish him dead.”
“Good God!” said Parish in a hurry, “of course not. Of course not.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I see. Thank you so much. Now then: Mr. Parish, until the accident, stood by the table where Mr. Watchman had left his empty glass. I take it that Mr. Parish would have noticed, would have been bound to notice, if anyone came near enough to interfere with the glass. He tells me that the rest of the party were grouped behind Legge. Do you agree to that, Mr. Cubitt?”
“Yes. Except Will. Will was in the corner beyond the dart board. He couldn’t have got at the glass. Nobody—” Again Cubitt caught his breath.
“Yes?”
“In my opinion,” said Cubitt, “nobody touched the glass, could have touched it; either before or after Decima fetched the brandy bottle. Nobody.”
“Thank you very much,” said Alleyn. “That’s all for the moment.”
ii
“What’s the time, Fox?” asked Alleyn, looking up from his notes.
“Half-past nine, sir.”
“Has Legge come in yet?”
“Not yet, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox. He stooped slightly and closed the parlour door. Fox always closed doors like that, inspecting the handle gravely as if the turning of it were a delicate operation. He then straightened up and contemplated his superior.
“Legge,” said Fox, advancing slowly, “is only here on sufferance as you might put it. I’ve just had one in the public tap. They’re not opening the Private till tomorrow. So I had one in the Public.”
“Did you, you old devil!”
“Yes. This chap Nark’s in there and I must say he suits his name.”
“In the Australian sense? A fair nark?”
“That’s right, sir. I don’t wonder old Pomeroy hates the man. He wipes out his pint-pot with a red cotton handkerchief before they draw his beer. To be on the safe side, so he says. And talk!”
“What’s he talk about?”