A Wreath for Rivera (21 page)

“You’d better remind yourself of your police code, old boy.”

“It’ll be the same story,” Fox muttered. “Breezy won’t know how Rivera got it. He won’t know.”

“He hasn’t been long on the injection method,” Alleyn said. “Curtis had a look for needle marks and didn’t find so very many.”

“He’ll be fretting for it, though,” said Fox, and after a moment’s pondering, “Oh, well. It’s a homicide we’re after.”

Nothing more of interest had been found in Breezy’s flat and Alleyn turned to the last of the men. “How did you get on with Skelton, Sallis?”

“Well, sir,” said Sallis, in a loud public-school voice, “he didn’t like me much to begin with. I picked up a search-warrant on the way and he took a very poor view of that. However, we talked sociology for the rest of the journey and I offered to lend him
The Yogi and the Commissar
, which bent the barriers a little. He’s Australian by birth, and I’ve been out there so that helped to establish a more matey attitude.”

“Get on with your report now,” Fox said austerely. “Don’t meander. Mr. Alleyn isn’t concerned to know how much Syd Skelton loves you.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Use your notes and get on with it,” Fox counselled.

Sallis opened his notebook and got on with it. Beyond a quantity of communistic literature there was little out of the ordinary to be found in Skelton’s rooms, which were in the Pimlico Road. Alleyn gathered that Sallis had conducted his search during a lively exchange of ideas and could imagine Skelton’s guarded response to Sallis’s pinkish, facile and consciously ironical observations. Finally, Skelton, in spite of himself, had gone to sleep in his chair and Sallis then turned his attention stealthily to a table which was used as a desk.

“I’d noticed that he seemed rather uneasy about this table, sir. He stood by it when we first came in and shuffled the papers about. I had the feeling there was something there that he wanted to destroy. When he was safely off, I went through the stuff on the table and I found this. I don’t know if it’s much cop, really, sir, but here it is.”

He gave a sheet of paper to Alleyn, who opened it up. It was an unfinished letter to Rivera, threatening him with exposure if he continued to supply Breezy Bellairs with drugs.

The other men had gone and Alleyn invited Fox to embark upon what he was in the habit of calling “a hag.” This involved the ruthless taking-to-pieces of the case and a fresh attempt to put the bits together in their true pattern. They had been engaged upon this business for about half an hour when the telephone rang. Fox answered it and announced with a tolerant smile that Mr. Nigel Bathgate would like to speak to Mr. Alleyn.

“I was expecting this,” Alleyn said. “Tell him that for once in a blue moon I want to see him. Where is he?”

“Down below.”

“Hail him up.”

Fox said sedately: “The Chief would like to see you, Mr. Bathgate,” and in a few moments Nigel Bathgate of the
Evening Chronicle
appeared, looking mildly astonished.

“I must say,” he said, shaking hands, “that this is uncommonly civil óf you, Alleyn. Have you run out of invectives or do you at last realize where the brains lie?”

“If you think I asked you up with the idea of feeding you with banner headlines you’re woefully mistaken. Sit down.”

“Willingly. How are you, Mr. Fox?”

“Nicely, thank you, sir. And you?”

Alleyn said: “Now, you attend to me. Can you tell me anything about a monthly called
Harmony
?”

“What sort of things? Have you been confiding in G.P.F., Alleyn?”

“I want to know who he is.”

“Has this got anything to do with the Rivera case?”

“Yes, it has.”

“I’ll make a bargain with you. I want a nice meaty bit of stuff straight from the Yard’s mouth. All about old Pastern and how you happened to be there and the shattered romance…”

“Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Charwomen, night porters, chaps in the band. And I ran into Ned Manx, a quarter of an hour ago.”

“What had he got to say for himself?”

“He hung out on me, blast him. Wouldn’t utter. And he’s not on a daily, either. Unco-operative twerp.”

“You might remember he’s the chief suspect’s cousin.”

“Then there’s no doubt about it being old Pastern?”

“I didn’t say so and you won’t suggest it.”

“Well, hell, give me a story.”

“About this paper.
Do
you know G.P.F.? Come on?”

Nigel lit a cigarette and settled down. “I don’t know him,” he said. “And I don’t know anyone who does. He’s a chap called G. P. Friend, I’m told, and he’s supposed to own the show. If he does, he’s on to a damn useful thing. It’s a mystery, that paper. It breaks all the rules and rings the bell. It first came out about two years ago with a great fanfare of trumpets. They bought out the old
Triple Mirror
, you know, and took over the plant and the paper and in less than no time trebled the sales. God knows why. The thing’s a freak. It mixes sound criticism with girly-girly chat and runs top-price serials alongside shorts that would bring a blush to the cheeks of
Pegs Weekly
. They tell me it’s G.P.F.’s page that does the trick. And look at it! That particular racket blew out before the war and yet he gets by with it. I’m told the personal letters at five bob a time are a gold mine in themselves. He’s said to have an uncanny knack of hitting on the things all these women want him to say. The types that write in are amazing. All the smarties. Nobody ever sees him. He doesn’t get about with the boys and the chaps who free-lance for the rag never get past a sub who’s always very bland and entirely uncommunicative. There you are. That’s all I can tell you about G.P.F.”

“Ever heard what he looks like?”

“No. There’s a legend he wears old clothes and dark glasses. They say he’s got a lock on his office door and never sees anybody on account he doesn’t want to be recognized. It’s all part of an act. Publicity. They play it up in the paper itself — ‘Nobody knows who G.P.F. is.’ ”

“What would you think if I told you he was Edward Manx?”

“Manx! You’re not serious.”

“Is it so incredible?”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “On the face of it, yes. Manx is a reputable and very able specialist. He’s done some pretty solid stuff. Leftish and fairly authoritative. He’s a coming man. He’d turn sick in his stomach at the sight of G.P.F., I’d have thought.”

“He does their dramatic reviews.”

“Yes, I know, but that’s where they’re freakish. Manx has got a sort of damn-your-eyes view about theatre. It’s one of his things. He wants state ownership and he’ll scoop up any chance to plug it. And I imagine their anti-vice parties wouldn’t be unpleasing to Manx. He wouldn’t go much for the style, which is tough and coloured, but he’d like the policy. They gave battle in a big way, you know. Names all over the place and a general invitation to come on and sue us for libel and see how you like it. Quite his cup of tea. Yes, I imagine
Harmony
runs Manx to give the paper
cachet
and Manx writes for
Harmony
to get at their public. They pay. Top prices.” Nigel paused and then said sharply: “But Manx as G.P.F.! That’s different. Have you actually good reason to suspect it? Are you on to something?”

“The case is fluffy with doubts at the moment.”

“The Rivera case? It ties up with that?”

“Off the record, it does.”

“By God,” said Nigel profoundly, “if Ned Manx spews up that page it explains the secrecy! By God, it does.”

“We’ll have to ask him,” Alleyn said. “But I’d have liked to have a little more to go on. Still, we can muscle in. Where’s the
Harmony
office?”

“Five Materfamilias Lane. The old
Triple Mirror
place.”

“When does this blasted rag make its appearance? It’s a monthly, isn’t it?”

“Let’s see. It’s the twenty-seventh today. It comes out in the first week of the month. They’ll be going to press any time now.”

“So G.P.F.’s likely to be on tap at the office?”

“You’d think so. Are you going to burst in on Manx with a brace of manacles?”

“Never you mind.”

“Come on,” Nigel said. “What do I get for all this?”

Alleyn gave him a brief account of Rivera’s death and a lively description of Lord Pastern’s performance in the band.

“As far as it goes, it’s good,” Nigel said, “but I could get as much from the waiters.”

“Not if Caesar Bonn knows anything about it.”

“Are you going to pull old Pastern in?”

“Not just yet. You write your stuff and send it along to me.”

“It’s pretty!” Nigel said. “It’s as pretty as paint. Pastern’s good at any time but like this he’s marvellous. May I use your typewriter?”

“For ten minutes.”

Nigel retired with the machine to a table at the far end of the room. “I can say you were there, of course,” he said hurriedly.

“I’ll be damned if you can.”

“Come, come, Alleyn, be big about this thing.”

“I know you. If we don’t ring the bell you’ll print some revolting photograph of me looking like a half-wit. Caption: ‘Chief Inspector who watched crime but doesn’t know whodunit.’ ”

Nigel grinned. “And would that be a story, and won’t that be the day! Still, as it stands, it’s pretty hot. Here we go, chaps.” He began to rattle the keys.

Alleyn said: “There’s one thing, Fox, that’s sticking out of this mess like a road sign and I can’t read it. Why did that perishing old mountebank look at the gun and then laugh himself sick? Here! Wait a moment. Who was in the study with him when he concocted his dummies and loaded his gun? It’s a thin chance but it might yield something.” He pulled the telephone towards him. “We’ll talk once more to Miss Carlisle Wayne.”

Carlisle was in her room when the call came through and she took it there, sitting on her bed and staring aimlessly at a flower print on the wall. A hammer knocked at her ribs and her throat constricted. In some remote part of her mind she thought: “As if I was in love, instead of frightened sick.”

The unusually deep and clear voice said: “Is that you, Miss Wayne? I’m sorry to bother you again so soon but I’d like to have another word with you.”

“Yes,” said Carlisle. “Would you? Yes.”

“I can come to Duke’s Gate or, if you would rather, can see you here at the Yard.” Carlisle didn’t answer at once and he said: “Which would suit you best?”

“I–I think — I’ll come to your office.”

“It might be easier. Thank you so much. Can you come at once?”

“Yes. Yes, I can, of course.”

“Splendid.” He gave her explicit instructions about which entrance to use and where to ask for him. “Is that clear? I shall see you in about twenty minutes then.”

“In about twenty minutes,” she repeated and her voice cracked into an absurd cheerful note as if she were gaily making a date with him. “Right-ho,” she said and thought with horror: “But I never say ‘right-ho.’ He’ll think I’m demented.”

“Mr. Alleyn,” she said loudly.

“Yes? Hullo?”

“I’m sorry I made such an ass of myself this morning. I don’t know what happened. I seem to have gone extremely peculiar.”

“Never mind,” said the deep voice easily.

“Well — all right. Thank you. I’ll come straight away.”

He gave a small, polite, not unfriendly sound and she hung up the receiver.

“Booking a date with the attractive Inspector, darling?” said Félicité from the door.

At the first sound of her voice Carlisle’s body had jerked and she had cried out sharply.

“You
are
jumpy,” Félicité said, coming nearer.

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously.”

Carlisle opened her wardrobe. “He wants to see me. Lord knows why.”

“So you’re popping off to the Yard. Exciting for you.”

“Marvellous, isn’t it,” Carlisle said, trying to make her voice ironical. Félicité watched her change into a suit. “Your face wants a little attention,” she said.

“I know.” She went to the dressing-table. “Not that it matters.”

When she looked in the glass she saw Félicité’s face behind her shoulder. “Stupidly unfriendly,” she thought, dabbing at her nose.

“You know, darling,” Félicité said, “I’m drawn to the conclusion you’re a dark horse.”

“Oh Fée!” she said impatiently.

“Well, you appear to have done quite a little act with my late best young man, last night, and here you are having a sly assignation with the dynamic Inspector.”

“He probably wants to know what kind of toothpaste we all use.”

“Personally,” said Félicité, “I always considered you were potty about Ned.”

Carlisle’s hand shook as she pressed powder into the tear stains under her eyes.

“You
are
in a state, aren’t you,” said Félicité.

Carlisle turned on her. “Fée, for pity’s sake come off it. As if things weren’t bad enough without your starting these monstrous hares. You
must
have seen that I couldn’t endure your poor wretched incredibly phony young man. You
must
see that Mr. Alleyn’s summons to Scotland Yard has merely frightened seven bells out of me. How you
can
!”

“What about Ned?”

Carlisle picked up her bag and gloves. “If Ned writes the monstrous bilge you’ve fallen for in
Harmony
I never want to speak to him again,” she said violently. “For the love of Mike pipe down and let me go and be grilled.”

But she was not to leave without further incident. On the first floor landing she encountered Miss Henderson. After her early morning scene with Alleyn on the stairs, Carlisle had returned to her room and remained there, fighting down the storm of illogical weeping that had so suddenly overtaken her. So she had not met Miss Henderson until now.

“Hendy!” she cried out. “What’s the matter?”

“Good morning, Carlisle. The matter, dear?”

“I thought you looked — I’m sorry. I expect we all look a bit odd. Are you hunting for something?”

“I’ve dropped my little silver pencil somewhere. It can’t be here,” she said as Carlisle began vaguely to look. “Are you going out?”

“Mr. Alleyn wants me to call and see him.”