Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2: Death in Ecstasy, Vintage Murder, Artists in Crime. Ngaio Marsh

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       CHAPTER 13 Nannie

      When Nigel woke on the morning after his visit to the House of the Sacred Flame, it was with a vague sense of disquietude as though he had been visited by nightmare. As the memory of the night’s adventure came back to him it still seemed unreal. He could scarcely believe that, only a few hours ago, he had knelt under a torch among images of Nordic gods, that he had seen a woman, who seemed to be possessed of an evil spirit, drink and die horribly. He closed his eyes and the faces of the Initiates appeared again. There was Miss Wade with prim lips, Pringle talking, talking, Ogden perspiring gently, M. de Ravigne who seemed to bow his head with grotesque courtesy, Janey Jenkins, and Mrs Candour who opened her mouth wider and wider –

      He jerked himself back from sleep, got out of bed, and went to his window. The rain still poured down on the roofs. Wet umbrellas bobbed up and down Chester Terrace. A milkman’s cart with a dejected and irritated pony was drawn up at the corner of Knocklatchers Row. Nigel looked down Knocklatchers Row. Perhaps he would not have been very surprised if there had been no Sign of the Sacred Flame, but there it was, swinging backwards and forwards in the wind, and underneath it he could just see the narrow entry.

      He bathed, breakfasted, opened his paper and found no reference to the tragedy. So much the better. He rang up his office, got out his notes, sat down to the typewriter and worked solidly for an hour. Then he rang up Scotland Yard. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was in his room and would speak to Mr Bathgate.

      ‘Hullo!’ said Nigel with extreme cordiality.

      ‘What do you want?’ asked Alleyn guardedly.

      ‘How are you?’

      ‘In excellent health, thank you. What do you want?’

      ‘It’s just a matter of my copy –’

      ‘I knew it.’

      ‘I want to put it in as soon as possible.’

      ‘I’m seeing the A.C. in half an hour, and then I’m going out.’

      ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

      ‘Come, birdie, come,’ said Alleyn.

      Nigel gathered up his copy and hurried out.

      He found Alleyn in his office, writing busily. The inspector grinned at Nigel.

      ‘You persistent devil,’ he said, ‘sit down. I won’t be five minutes.’

      Nigel coyly laid the copy before him and subsided into a corner. Alleyn presently turned to the copy, read it, blue-pencilled a word or two, and then handed it back.

      ‘You are learning to behave quite prettily,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’ll take that straight along to Fleet Street.’

      ‘I’d better,’ agreed Nigel, ‘It’s front-page stuff. They’ll pull the old rag to bits for me this time. What are you up to this morning, Inspector?’

      ‘I’m going to Shepherd Market when I’ve seen the boss-man.’

      ‘Cara Quayne’s house? I’ll meet you there.’

      ‘Will you indeed?’

      ‘Don’t you want me?’

      ‘I’ll be very glad to see you. Don’t let any of your brother bloodsuckers in.’

      ‘I can assure you there is no danger of that. I’ll sweep past like a May Queen.’

      ‘You’d better have my card. Give it back to me – I remember your previous performances, you see.’ He flipped a card across to Nigel, ‘I feel like a form master who goes in for favourites.’

      ‘Oh, sir, thanks most horribly, sir. It’s frightfully decent of you, sir,’ bleated Nigel.

      ‘For the honour of the Big Dorm., Bathgate.’

      ‘You bet, sir.’

      ‘Personally,’ said Alleyn, ‘I consider schoolboys were less objectionable when they did talk like that.’

      ‘When cads were cads and a’ that?’

      ‘Yes. They talk like little men nowadays. They actually take refuge in irony, a commodity that should be reserved for the middle-aged. However, I maunder. Meet me at the Château Quayne in half an hour.’

      ‘In half an hour.’

      Nigel hurried to his office where he made an impressive entry with his copy and had the intense satisfaction of seeing sub-editors tear their hair while the front page was wrecked and rewritten. A photographer was shot off to Knocklatchers Row and another to Shepherd Market. Nigel accompanied the latter expert, and in a few minutes rang the bell at Cara Quayne’s front door.

      It was opened by a gigantic constable whom he had met before, PC Allison.

      ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in, sir,’ began this official very firmly.

      ‘Do you know, you are entirely mistaken?’ said Nigel, ‘I have the entrée. Look.’

      He produced Alleyn’s card.

      ‘Quite correct, Mr Bathgate,’ said PC Allison. ‘Now you move off there, sir,’ he added to a frantic young man who had darted up the steps after Nigel and now endeavoured to follow him in.

      ‘I’m representing –’ began the young man.

      ‘Abandon hope,’ said Nigel over his shoulder. The constable shut the door.

      Nigel found Alleyn in Cara Quayne’s drawing-room. It was a charming room, temperately, not violently, modern. The walls were a stippled green, the curtains striped in green and cerise, the chairs deep and comfortable and covered in dyed kid. An original Van Gogh hung over the fireplace, vividly and almost disconcertingly alive. A fire crackled in the grate. Alleyn sat at a pleasantly shaped writing-desk. His back was turned towards Nigel, but his face was reflected СКАЧАТЬ