Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

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      ‘Oh,’ said Alleyn. ‘When did you meet Mr Ogden?’

      ‘Crossing th’ ’Tlantic. He gave me a piece of gold. Ogden’s all right. Sassherated in simplicity.’

      ‘So it would appear.’

      ‘Listen,’ said Father Garnette. ‘You got me all wrong. I never did a thing to that dame. Is it likely? Little Cara! No, sir.’

      He looked so obscene as he made this statement that Nigel gave an involuntary exclamation.

      ‘Be quiet, Bathgate,’ ordered Alleyn very quietly.

      ‘Why can’t we get together?’ resumed Father Garnette. ‘I’ll talk.’

      ‘What with?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘With the right stuff. You lay off this joint and you won’t need to ask for the say-so. What’s it worth?’

      ‘What’s it worth to you?’

      ‘It’s your squeak,’ said Father Garnette obscurely.

      ‘You’re bluffing,’ said Alleyn, ‘you haven’t got tuppence.’

      Father Garnette was instantly thrown into a violent rage.

      ‘Is that so!’ he said, so loudly that Fox came back to listen. ‘Is that so! Listen, you poor simp. In my own line there’s no one to touch me. Why? Because I got brains sanimaginasshon and mor’n that – because I got one hundred per cent essay.’

      ‘What’s that?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘Essay! Ess-shay. “It.”’

      ‘So you say,’ grunted Alleyn most offensively.

      ‘So I say and what I say’s so I say,’ said Father Garnette with astounding rapidity, ‘If you don’t believe me – look f’yourself.’

      He made an effort to rise, fell back in his chair, fumbled in his pocket and produced a ring of keys.

      ‘Little leather box in desk,’ he said. ‘And not only that. Safe.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn. Father Garnette instantly fell asleep.

      Alleyn, without another glance at him, returned to the desk and pulled out the bottom drawer.

      ‘Lor, sir,’ said Fox, ‘you’ve doped the gentleman.’

      ‘Not I,’ Alleyn grunted. ‘He’s merely tight.’

      ‘Tight!’ ejaculated Nigel. ‘What was in the bottle?’

      ‘Proof spirit. Over-proof as like as not.’

      ‘Pure alcohol?’

      ‘Something of the sort. That or rectified spirit, I imagine. Have to be analysed. This is a very exotic case. Thorndyke stuff. Not my cup of tea at all.’

      ‘What,’ asked Nigel, ‘did you write on that paper you gave Fox?’

      ‘A suggestion that he should attract Mr Garnette’s attention.’

      ‘You bad old Borgia!’

      ‘Stop talking. Can’t you see I’m detecting. What’s the back door like, Fox?’

      ‘Ordinary key and bolts. Funny it was open.’

      ‘Very funny. Go through that waste-paper basket, will you? And the grate.’

      Fox knelt on the hearth-rug. The fire had almost burnt out. For some time the detectives worked in silence. Suddenly Fox grunted.

      ‘How now, brown cow?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘If you mean me, sir, here’s a bit of something.’

      ‘What?’

      Fox, using tweezers, drew two scraps of burnt paper from the ashtray and laid them before Alleyn. Nigel got up to look. They were the merest fragments of paper, but there were one or two words printed on them in green pencil:

      ‘Oh, Lord!’ said Alleyn, ‘what now! Let’s see. Same paper as this stuff on his desk? No. I can’t see a green pencil anywhere. We’ll have to find out when that thing was last cleaned out. Any more bits?’

      ‘That’s the lot,’ said Fox.

      ‘Put it away tenderly. We’ll have to brood over it. I want to get this desk cleaned up. Ah, here we are.’ He drew out a purple suède case and examined the keys. Father Garnette uttered a stertorous snore. Fox, still looking scandalized, walked over to him.

      ‘He’d be better in bed,’ said Fox.

      ‘So he would. Make it so, will you, Fox? Mr Bathgate will help you. And from his fair and unpolluted breath may violets spring. Ugh, you horrid old man!’ added Alleyn with sudden violence. He had taken a bundle of letters from the box and was reading one of them.

      Fox assisted by Nigel, heaved and hauled Father Garnette into the bedroom, which was draped in rose-coloured plush and satin. Here were more idols, more Nordic bijouterie, more cushions.

      ‘Very classy, isn’t it, sir?’ remarked Fox as he lowered Father Garnette on to the divan bed.

      ‘It’s villainous, Fox,’ said Nigel. He contemplated Father Garnette with distaste.

      ‘Must we undress this unpleasant old blot?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m afraid so, sir. Can you find his pyjamas?’

      From under a violently embroidered coverlet Nigel drew out a confection in purple silk.

      ‘Look, Inspector, look! Really, it’s too disgusting.’

      ‘Not quite my fancy, I will say, sir,’ conceded Fox who had attacked Father Garnette’s right boot. ‘I believe in wool next the skin, summer and winter. I’d feel kind of slippery in that issue.’

      Nigel tried to picture Inspector Fox in purple satin pyjamas, failed to do so and laughed himself into a good humour. They put Father Garnette to bed. He muttered a little, opened his eyes once, said: ‘Thank you, my son’ in faultless English, showed signs of feeling very ill, but appeared to get over it, and finally sank again into the deepest slumber.

      They rejoined Alleyn and found him poring over an array of letters.

      ‘Something doing, sir?’ asked Fox.

      ‘Much. Most of it odious. These are all letters from women.’

      ‘Any from the deceased?’

      ‘Yes.’ Alleyn grimaced. ‘There it is. Read it. A mixture of pseudo-mystic gibberish СКАЧАТЬ