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 him 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 XXI
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 topped 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 Cyril 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.”