“What was the business with the hot drink?”
The old man described it carefully. Until the rise of Sonia Orrincourt, Millamant had always prepared the drink. Miss Orrincourt had taken over this routine. The milk and ingredients were left in her room by the housemaid, who turned down her bed. She brewed the drink over a heater, put it in a Thermos flask, and, half an hour after he had retired, took it to his room. He slept badly and sometimes would not drink it until much later in the night.
“What happened to the Thermos flask and the cup and saucer?”
“They were taken away and washed up, sir. They’ve been in use since.”
“Had he drunk any of it?”
“It had been poured into the cup, sir, at all events, and into the saucer for that cat, as was always done, and the saucer set on the floor. But the cup and the flask and the medicine bottle had been overturned and there was milk and medicine soaked into the carpet.”
“Had he taken his medicine?”
“The glass was dirty. It had fallen into the saucer.”
“And has, of course, been washed,” said Alleyn. “What about the bottle?”
“It had been knocked over, sir, as I mentioned. It was a new bottle. I was very much put out, sir, but I tried to tidy the room a bit, not knowing exactly what I was doing. I remember I took the dirty china and the bottle and Thermos downstairs with me. The bottle was thrown out, and the other things cleared up. The medicine cupboard has been cleaned out thoroughly. It’s in the bathroom, sir, through that door. The whole suite,” said Barker conscientiously, “has been turned out and cleaned.”
Fox mumbled inarticulately.
“Well,” said Alleyn. “To go back to the message you took to Miss Orrincourt that night. Did you actually see her?”
“No, sir. I tapped on the door and she answered.” He moved uneasily.
“Was there anything else?”
“It was a queer thing—” His voice faded.
“What was a queer thing?”
“She must have been alone,” Barker mused, “because, as I’ve said, sir, the others were downstairs, and afterwards, just afterwards, when I took in the grog-tray, there they all were. But before I knocked on her door, sir, I could have sworn that she was laughing.”
iii
When Barker had gone, Fox sighed gustily, put on his spectacles and looked quizzically through them at the naked end of the bell-cord.
“Yes, Br’er Fox, exactly,” said Alleyn, and went to the dressing-table. “That’ll be the lady,” he said.
A huge photograph of Sonia Orrincourt stood in the middle of the dressing-table.
Fox joined Alleyn. “Very taking,” he said. “Funny, you know, Mr. Alleyn. That’s what they call a pin-up girl. Plenty of teeth and hair and limbs. Sir Henry put it in a silver frame, but that, you might say, is the only difference. Very taking.”
Alleyn opened the top drawer on the left.
“First pop,” Fox remarked.
Alleyn pulled on a glove and gingerly took out a pear-shaped wooden bell-push. “One takes these pathetic precautions,” he said, “and a hell of a lot of use they are. Now then.” He unscrewed the end of the bell-push and looked into it.
“See here, Fox. Look at the two points. Nothing broken. One of the holding-screws and its washer are tight. No bits of wire. The other screw and washer are loose. Got your lens? Have a look at that cord again.”
Fox took out a pocket lens and returned to the bed. “One of the wires is unbroken,” he said presently. “No shiny end, and it’s blackened like they do get with time. The other’s different, though. Been dragged through and scraped, I’d say. That’s what must have happened. He put his weight on it and they pulled through.”
“In that case,” Alleyn said, “why is one of the screws so tight, and only one wire shiny? We’ll keep this bell-push, Fox.”
He had wrapped his handkerchief round it and dropped it in his pocket, when the door was opened and Sonia Orrincourt walked in.
iv
She was dressed in black, but so dashingly that mourning was not much suggested. Her curtain of ashen hair and her heavy fringe were glossy, her eyelids were blue, her lashes incredible and her skin sleek. She wore a diamond clasp and bracelet and ear-rings. She stood just inside the room.
“Pardon the intrusion,” she said, “but am I addressing the police?”
“You are,” said Alleyn. “Miss Orrincourt?”
“That’s the name.”
“How do you do? This is Inspector Fox.”
“Now listen!” said Miss Orrincourt, advancing upon them with a professional gait. “I want to know what’s cooking in this icehouse. I’ve got my rights to look after, same as anybody else, haven’t I?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Thank you. Very kind I’m sure. Then perhaps you’ll tell me who asked you into my late fiancé’s room and just what you’re doing now you’ve got there.”
“We were asked by his family and we’re doing a job of work.”
“Work? What sort of work? Don’t tell me the answer to that one,” said Miss Orrincourt angrily. “I seem to know it. They’re trying to swing something across me. Is that right? Trying to pack me up. What is it? That’s what I want to know. Come on. What is it?”
“Will you first of all tell me how you knew we were here and why you thought we were police officers?”
She sat on the bed, leaning back on her hands, her hair falling vertically from her scalp. Behind her was spread the crimson counterpane. Alleyn wondered why she had ever attempted to be an actress while there were magazine artists who needed models. She looked in a leisurely manner at Fox’s feet. “How do I know you’re police? That’s a scream! Take a look at your boy friend’s boots.”
“Yours, partner,” Alleyn murmured, catching Fox’s eye.
Fox cleared his throat. “Er—touché,” he said carefully. “Not much good me trying to get by with a sharp-eyed young lady, is it, sir?”
“Well, come on,” Miss Orrincourt demanded. “What’s the big idea? Are they trying to make out there’s something funny in the Will? Or what? What are you doing, opening my late fiancé’s drawers? Come on?”
“I’m afraid,” said Alleyn, “you’ve got this situation the wrong way round. We’re on a job, and part of that job is asking questions. And since you’re here, Miss Orrincourt, I wonder if you’d mind answering one or two?”
She looked at him, he thought, as an animal or a completely unselfconscious child might look at a stranger. It was difficult to expect anything but perfect sounds from her. He experienced a shock each time he heard the Cockney voice with its bronchial overtones, and the phrases whose very idiom seemed shoddy, as if she had abandoned her native dialect for something she had half-digested at the cinema.
“All upstage and county?” she said. “Fancy! And what were you wanting to know?”
“About the Will, for instance.”
“The Will’s all right,” she said quickly. “You can turn the place inside out. Crawl up the chimney if you like. You won’t find another Will. I’m telling you, and I know.”
“Why are you so positive?”
She had slipped back until she rested easily on her forearm. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I’ll tell you. When I came in here last thing that night, my fiancé showed it to me. He’d had old Rattisbon up and a couple of witnesses and he’d signed it. He showed me. The ink was still wet. He’d burnt the old one in the fireplace there.”
“I see.”
“And he couldn’t have written another one even if he’d wanted to. Because he was tired and his pain was bad and he said he was going to take his medicine and go to sleep.”