“First of all,” roared the intemperate man, “I intimated that I wished to communicate with Chief Superintendent Alleyn. You do not sound like the Chief Superintendent.”
“This is his room, sir, but I am not the Chief Superintendent. He is unable to come to the telephone and authorizes me to speak for him. What seems to be the trouble, sir?”
“Nothing seems to be the trouble. The trouble is. I demand — repeat demand — the instant return of my claidheamh-mor under police armed guard, to my personal address. Today. Now.”
“If you’ll hold on for a minute, sir, I’ll just write a note to that effect and leave it here in a prominent position on his desk.”
Fox clapped his enormous paw over the receiver and said: “Sears.”
“So I supposed.”
“Here we are, sir. What was the message?”
“Odds bodkins, fellow —”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
A stream of abuse, or what seemed to be abuse, followed by a deathly silence and then a high-pitched female voice.
“Master not velly well, please. Sank you. Good-bye,” and the telephone was disconnected.
The Jay boys were returning to school. Crispin left by train in a dignified manner with a number of young men of equal status, an array of noisy smaller boys, and a little group of white-faced new ones. Robin and Richard behaved with the eccentricity that the household had come to expect of them on these occasions, even though they frequently returned home on Sundays and gorged themselves. Peregrine came to bid them good-bye. Fishing in his pocket for some coins to give them for spending money, he found the toy crusader, which Alleyn had returned to him.
“I forgot about you,” he said and took it out and stared at it for a moment.
“May I have him back?” asked Robin. He took the mannikin and went to the telephone.
“Whom are you ringing up?” asked Peregrine.
“A boy.”
He consulted the list and dialed the number. “Hullo, Horrible,” he said. “What d’you think I’ve got? Three guesses. No… No… Yes. Hooray. Clever old you. What are you doing?… Oh, Daddy’s play? Well, I thought you’d like to know we’re going back to school today so we’ll be half-starved. Oh, well. Bung-ho.”
He hung up and immediately dialed again.
“It’s me again,” he said. “I forgot to mention that I knew all along the fighter wasn’t Macbeth. I’ll give you three guesses who… One. No… Two. No… Three. No. I’ll give you till next Sunday.” He replaced the receiver.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” muttered Peregrine. “Robin! Come here. You must tell me. How did you know?”
Robin looked at his father and saw that he meant business. He adopted a defiant attitude: feet apart, hands on hips, slightly nervous smile. “Three guesses?” he invited.
But Peregrine needed only one.
He rang up Alleyn at the Yard.
The company of Dolphins at the Swan was diminished but Rangi and Ross and Lennox were still regulars and they met there for lunch. Rangi was quiet and withdrawn. His dark eyes and brilliant teeth dominated his face and it struck the others that he looked more “native” than he had before. But he was pleased with his new part, Mr. W.H., an ambiguous gentleman from Italy, overdressed and wearing a single earring.
“We start rehearsals tomorrow,” said Ross. “Thank God, without the ineffable Sears or dreary old Banquo. The whole tragedy as far as the Dolphin’s concerned is finished.” He made a dismissive gesture with both hands.
“It won’t be finished, my dear chap,” said Lennox, “until somebody’s under lock and key. Well, ask yourself. Will it?”
“No,” said Rangi. “The stigma remains. It must.”
“I looked in this morning. It’s as clean as a whistle and smells of disinfectant everywhere.”
“No policemen?”
“Not then, no. Just the offices clicking over merrily. There’s a big notice out in front saying people can use their tickets for the new play or get their money back at the box office. And a board with nothing but rave notices from the former production of The Glove.”
“Any reasons given?”
“There’s a piece in the papers. I suppose you saw.”
Lennox said yes, he had read it.
“I haven’t seen the papers,” said Rangi.
“It just says that Dougal died on Saturday night very suddenly in the theatre. And there’s the usual obituary: half a column and photographs. The Macbeth one’s very good,” said Ross.
“It said that ‘as a mark of respect’ the theatre would be dark for three weeks,” Ross added.
“It’s been an honor to play in it. It’ll be remembered,” said Lennox.
“Yes,” said Ross.
Rangi said, as if the words were dragged out of him, “It’s tapu. We are all tapu and will be until the murderer is found. And who will whakamana?”
There was an awkward silence.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lennox said.
“Better that you don’t,” said Rangi. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what?” asked Lennox.
“Maoritanga. ”
“Maori how much?”
“Shut up, old boy,” said Ross and kicked him underneath the table.
“Why?” Lennox looked at Rangi and found something in his face that made him say hurriedly: “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all,” said Rangi. He stood up. “I must get back. I’m late. Excuse me.”
He went to the counter, paid his bill, and left.
“What’s biting him?” Lennox said.
“Lord knows. Something to do with the case, I imagine. He’ll get over it, whatever it is.”
After a pause Lennox muttered, “I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. Well, I wasn’t, was I? I apologized.”
“Perhaps you said something that upset his mana.”
“Oh, to hell with him and his mana. Where did you pick up that word, anyway?”
“In conversation with him. It means all sorts of things but pride is the principal one.”
They ate their lunch in silence. Rangi had left a copy of The Stage on the bench. Ross looked at it. A small paragraph at the bottom of the page caught his eye. “Hi,” he said. “This would interest Barrabell. This is the lot he went abroad with. Take a look.”
Lennox bent over the table. He read:
“The Leftist Players are repeating their successful tour of Soviet Russia. They are now about to go into rehearsal with three contemporary plays. Ring club number for auditions.”
“That’s the gang he went with before,” said Ross.
“He wouldn’t be let go. Not while nobody’s been caught.”
“I suppose not.”
“I wonder if he’s seen this,” said Ross without interest.
They finished their lunch without much conversation.
Barrabell had seen it. He read it carefully and consulted his notebook for the club number.
His bed-sitting room carried the absolute negation of any personal characteristics whatever. It was on the large side, tidy and clean. Its two windows looked across an alley at the third-story shutters of an equally anonymous building.
He opened his wardrobe and took out the battered suitcase with the old Russian airways labels on it. Opened, some tidily folded garments — pajamas, underclothes and shirts — were revealed and under these a package of press cuttings and the glossy photograph of a good-looking young woman.