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 Château 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 gynæcologist to do it!”
CHAPTER XXIII
Mr. Ogden at Home
Mr. Ogden lived in an old-fashioned maisonette. His sitting room was on the street level and opened 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 bathroom. 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?”