“Sure, I’m alive to the spiritual dope,” interrupted Mr. Ogden. “I thought it was sure-fire honest-to-God uplift. Otherwise I’d never have backed it. It looked good-oh to me.”
Alleyn gave a curious little exclamation.
“But,” the voice went on, “Now I think different. And right here is where I hand out the inside stuff. Listen.”
He then gave them an account of the financial basis on which the House of the Sacred Flame was built. It agreed in every detail with the statement he had made to Alleyn. Mr. Ogden backed the organisation, paid for the building in which they now sat, and held the bulk of the shares. M. de Ravigne was a much smaller shareholder, Father Garnette received twenty per cent of the profits and a salary.
When Mr. Ogden finished speaking there was a silence so long that Nigel wondered if the microphone had broken down. Suddenly someone began to laugh. It was Maurice Pringle. He sounded as though he would never stop. At last he began to splutter out words.
“All this time — thank-offerings — self-denials— Oh, God! It’s too screechingly funny!”
A babel of voices broke out.
“Quite appalling—”
“Business arrangement—”
“All so sordid and worldly, I never thought—”
“I don’t pretend to understand business. My only care is for my flock—”
“If Father says it is—”
“Oh, shut up!”
“Lionel, do be quiet. I must say—”
“Cut it out,” shouted Mr. Ogden.
Silence.
“This is no way to act,” continued Mr. Ogden firmly, “I said this was to be a regular well-conducted meeting, and by heck, I’m going to have it that way. There’s the copies of our agreement. Pass them round. Read them. They’re the goods. They’ve been okayed by a lawyer and they’re law. Laugh that off!”
A rustle, a clearing of throats, and then a murmur.
“Now,” said Ogden, “get this. The profits of this outfit belong legally to me, Garnette and Monsieur de Ravigne. In that order. Any money coming in is ours. In that order. We kept up the temple and handed out the goods. Cara Quayne’s donation of five thousand pounds in bearer bonds was our property—”
“No, it wasn’t,” interrupted Maurice. “Cara gave that money to a building fund, and it should have been used for nothing else.”
“It wouldn’t have been used any other way, Pringle, if I’d had the say-so. But it was ours to administer. Yeah, that’s so. Well, someone here present got a swell idea about that packet of stuff and lifted it. After that, it was just too bad about Cara.”
“You think,” de Ravigne spoke for the first time, “that whoever stole this money also murdered my poor Cara. I incline to agree with you.”
“Sure. And these Ritzy cops think so too. Something happened in this room around two-thirty on Sunday. Cara came here then. Alleyn may talk queeny, but he’s doped that out. Yeah, he seems like he was too refined to get busy, but he’s got busy. Too right he has. Well, I guess I know what his idea is. He reckons Cara came here Sunday to add to those bonds and caught the double-crosser red-handed. I don’t know just how you folks respond to this idea, but it looks good to me. Find the man or woman who was in this room at two-thirty on Sunday and you’ve got the killer.”
“Certainly,” said de Ravigne smoothly.
“But, I don’t see—” began Father Garnette.
“Just a moment, Garnette,” interrupted Mr. Ogden. “I’m coming to you. Who was in Cara’s confidence? Who lifted my book on poisons. Oh, yeah, it was my book.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked Janey.
“Because I thought you all knew. I reckon M. de Ravigne remembered looking at that book the night of my party and was too white to say so. It was swell, and I’m surely grateful.”
“It was nothing,” said de Ravigne.
“But I reckoned I hadn’t a thing to conceal and I came clean about the book to Alleyn. But who lifted that book and put a brown paper wrapper on it? Who put it way back behind that shelf where it wouldn’t be seen? Who got the book that way it opened itself up like it was tired, at the straight dope on sodium cyanide?”
“It does not always open in this manner,” said de Ravigne.
“Practically, it does,” interrupted either Lionel or Claude. “When I tried it—”
“Wait a moment. Wait a moment. Lemme get on with my whosits. Who had control of the keys after Cara’s bonds were parked in the safe? Who lifted the bonds? Who kidded Cara into leaving them enough to re-christen himself Rockefeller?”
“What do you say?” cried Garnette suddenly. “She left the money to the temple not to me.”
“How the blazing hell do you know?”
“She told me, poor soul, she told me.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Candour’s voice sounded shrilly. “She told me herself weeks ago — well, about three weeks ago — when she first knew she was chosen. And she left her house and everything in it to Raoul de Ravigne. Ask him! He knows. Ask him! There are pictures worth hundreds. Ask him!”
“I do not wish to discuss it,” said de Ravigne. “If she did this, and it is true she spoke of it, I am most grateful. But I will not discuss it.”
“Because you know—”
“Quit it, Dagmar. Where do you get that stuff?”
“What stuff?” cried Mrs. Candour in alarm. “What stuff? Do you mean—?”
“He only means: ‘What are you talking about,’ ” said Pringle hurriedly.
“I thought you meant the stuff. That detective, Alleyn; I’m sure he suspects. Sammy, can they—?”
“Shut up,” said Maurice violently.
“Stick to the point,” begged Mr. Ogden. “I’m interested in Garnette.”
“I, too,” said de Ravigne. “It seems to me that you make the argument very clear against this priest, M. Ogden.”
“A murderer! Father Garnette, this is infamous.” That was Miss Wade.
“It’s a fact. Listen, you, Garnette—”
“Stop!”
Maurice Pringle’s voice rose above the others. Nigel could picture him on his feet, confronting them.
“Sit down, Pringle,” said Mr. Ogden angrily.
“I won’t. I’m going to—”
“That’s my cue,” whispered Alleyn. “Come on.”
Nigel followed him out of the little shrine and up the aisle. The voices of the Initiates sounded confusedly from behind the altar. Alleyn led the way up the hall to Father Garnette’s door. He motioned to Nigel. They stood one on each side of the door. Very stealthily Alleyn turned the handle and pulled it ajar. The curtain inside was bunched a little towards the centre and by squinting slantways they were able to see into the room beyond. Nigel glued his eye to the crevice beneath the thing. He was reminded, ridiculously, of Brighton pier. He found himself looking across the top of Miss Wade’s purple toque straight into Maurice Pringle’s eyes.
Maurice stood on the far side of the table. His face was ashen. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked impossibly melodramatic. He seemed to have come to the end of a speech, interrupted perhaps by the hubbub that had broken out among the other Initiates. Miss Wade’s hat bobbed and bobbed. A dark object momentarily hid this picture. Someone was standing just on the other side of the door. It was on this person Maurice had fixed his gaze. Whoever it was moved again and the picture reappeared in a flash. Mr. Ogden’s voice sounded close to Nigel’s ear.
“The kid’s crazy. Sit down, Pringle.”
“Go on, Maurice,” said Janey clearly from somewhere.
“Courage, my dear lad,” boomed Father Garnette with something of his old unctuousness.
Maurice jerked his head as though he had been struck.
“For God’s sake don’t start that stuff again or I’ll let them hang you. Don’t imagine I still worship at your shrine. I know what you’re like now; I think I’ve known for a long time. A little bit of bloody Brummagen. I’ve let myself be ruined aesthetically and, if you like, morally, for a plaster reproduction that wouldn’t take in a housemaid. If I let them get you I’d be helping at a bit of spring-cleaning. God knows why I’m doing this. That’s not true, either. I’m doing it because I can’t help myself.”