Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ echoed a small man who sat in an attitude of profound dejection on the annexe step. This was Albie Black, the rouseabout.

      ‘A couple more brands to be snatched from the burning,’ the cook continued, catching sight of Alleyn and Fabian, and gesturing wildly towards them. ‘A couple more sheep to be cut out from the mob and baled up in the pens of salvation. A couple more dirty two-tooths for the Lord to shear. Shall we gather at the river?’ He and the rouseabout broke into a hymn, the melody of which was taken up by an accordion player inside the bunkhouse. Fabian indicated to the men that he and Alleyn would like to be left alone with the cook and Albie Black. Ben Wilson, who was quietly smoking his pipe and looking at the cook with an air of detached disapproval, jerked his head at him and said, ‘He’s fixed all right.’ He led the way into the bunkhouse, the accordion stopped abruptly, and Alleyn was left face to face with the cook, who was still singing, but half-heartedly and in a melancholy key.

      ‘Pretty hopeless, isn’t it?’ Alleyn muttered, eyeing him dubiously.

      ‘It’s now or never,’ Fabian rejoined. ‘He’ll be dead to the world tomorrow and we’re supposed to ship him down-country the next day. Unless, of course, you exercise your authority and keep him here. Perce!’ he said loudly, placing himself in front of the cook. ‘Come down off that. Here’s somebody wants to speak to you.’

      The cook stepped incontinently off his box into mid-air and was caught like an unwieldy ballerina by Alleyn.

      ‘Open up your bowels of compassion,’ he said mildly and allowed them to seat him on the box.

      ‘Shall I leave you?’ asked Fabian.

      ‘You stay where you are,’ said Alleyn. ‘I want a witness.’

      The cook was a large man with pale eyes, an unctuous mouth and bad teeth. ‘Bare your bosom,’ he invited Alleyn. ‘Though it’s as black as pitch it shall be as white as snow. What’s your trouble?’

      ‘Whisky,’ said Alleyn.

      The cook laid hold of his coat lapels and peered very earnestly into his face. ‘You’re a pal,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

      ‘But I haven’t got any,’ Alleyn said. ‘Have you?’

      The cook shook his head mournfully and, having begun to shake it, seemed unable to leave off. His eyes filled with tears. His breath smelt of beer and of something that at the moment Alleyn was unable to place.

      ‘It’s not so easily come by these days, is it?’ Alleyn said.

      ‘I ain’t seen a drop,’ the cook whispered, ‘not since …’ he wiped his mouth and gave Alleyn a look of extraordinary cunning, ‘not since you know when.’

      ‘When was that?’

      ‘Ah,’ said the cook profoundly, ‘that’s telling.’ He looked out of the corners of his eyes at Fabian, leered, and with a ridiculously Victorian gesture laid his finger alongside his nose. Albie Black burst into loud meaningless laughter. ‘Oh, dear!’ he said and buried his head in his arms. Fabian moved behind the cook and pointed suggestively in the direction of the house.

      ‘Haven’t they got some of the right stuff down there?’ Alleyn suggested.

      ‘Ah,’ said the cook.

      ‘How about it?’

      The cook began to shake his head again.

      Alleyn took a deep breath and fired point-blank. ‘How about young Cliff,’ he suggested. ‘Any good?’

      ‘Him!’ said the cook, and with startling precision uttered a stream of obscenities.

      ‘What’s the matter with Cliff?’ Alleyn asked.

      ‘Ask him,’ the cook said and looked indignantly at Albie Black. ‘They’re cobbers, them two –’

      ‘You shut your face,’ said Albie Black, suddenly furious. He broke into a storm of abuse to which the cook listened sadly. ‘You shut your face, or I’ll knock your bloody block off. Didn’t I tell you to forget it? Haven’t you got any sense?’ He pointed a shaking finger at Alleyn. ‘Don’t you pick what he is? D’you want to land us both in the cooler?’

      The cook sighed heavily. ‘I thought you said you’d got the fine work in with young Cliff,’ he said. ‘You know. What you seen that night. I thought you’d fixed him. You know.’

      ‘You come away,’ said Albie in great alarm, ‘I’m not as sozzled as what you are and I’m telling you. You come away.’

      ‘Wait a minute,’ said Alleyn, but the cook had taken fright. ‘Change and decay in all around I see,’ he said, and rising with some difficulty flung one arm about the neck of his friend. ‘See the hosts of Midian,’ he shouted, waving the other arm at Alleyn. ‘How they prowl around. It’s a lousy life. Let’s have a little wee drink, Albie.’

      ‘No, you don’t!’ Alleyn began, but the cook turned until his face was pressed into the bosom of his friend, and by slow degrees slid to the ground.

      ‘Now see what you done,’ said Albie Black.

       CHAPTER NINE ATTACK

      I

      The cook being insensible and, according to Fabian, certain to remain so for many hours, Alleyn suffered him to be moved and concentrated on Albert Black.

      There had been a certain spaciousness about the cook but Albert, he decided, was an abominable specimen. He disseminated meanness and low cunning. He was drunk enough to be truculent and sober enough to look after himself. The only method, Alleyn decided, was that of intimidation. He and Fabian withdrew with Albert into the annexe.

      ‘Have you ever been mixed up in a murder charge before?’ Alleyn began, with the nearest approach to police station truculence of which he was capable.

      ‘I’m not mixed up in one now,’ said Albert, showing the whites of his eyes. ‘Choose your words.’

      ‘You’re withholding information in a homicidal investigation, aren’t you? D’you know what that means?’

      ‘Here!’ said Albert. ‘You can’t swing that across me.’

      ‘You’ll be lucky if you don’t get a pair of bracelets swung across you. Haven’t you been in trouble before?’ Albert looked at him indignantly. ‘Come on, now,’ Alleyn persisted. ‘How about a charge of theft?’

      ‘Me?’ said Albert. ‘Me, with a clean sheet all the years I bin ’ere! Accusing me of stealing! ’Ow dare yer?’

      ‘What about Mr Rubrick’s whisky? Come on, Black, you’d better make a clean breast of it.’

      Albert looked at the piano. His dirty fingers pulled at his underlip. He moved closer to Alleyn and peered into his face. ‘It’s methylated spirits they stink of,’ Alleyn thought.

      ‘Got СКАЧАТЬ