Spinsters in Jeopardy (26 page)

And then, in the glare from the sun-burst, where, like an illustration from La Vie Parisienne, Mr. Oberon’s victim should have been discovered; there stood Raoul in his underpants, black slippers and Ginny Taylor’s gloves.

A complete surprise is often something of an anti-climax and so, for a moment or two, was this. It is possible that Annabella Wells and Carbury Glande were too fuddled with marihuana to get an immediate reaction. Miss Garbel, of course, had been prepared. As for Oberon and Baradi, they faced each other across the preposterous Thing they had unveiled and their respective jaws dropped like those of a pair of simultaneous comedians. Raoul himself merely cast a scandalized glance at Oberon and uttered in a loud apocalyptic voice the single word: “
Anathema
!”

It was then that Miss Garbel erupted in a single hoot of hysteria. It escaped from her and was at once cut off by her own hand clapped across her mouth. She squatted, heaving, in the corner of the pentacle, her terrified eyes staring over her knuckles at Baradi.

Baradi, in an unrecognizable voice and an unconscious quotation, said: “Which of you has done this?”

Oberon gave a bubbling cry: “I am betrayed!”

Raoul, hearing his voice, repeated: “Anathema!” and made the sign of the cross.

Oberon dragged Miss Garbel to her feet. He held her with his right hand; in his left was the dagger. She chattered in his face: “You can’t! You can’t! I’m protected. You can’t!”

Alleyn advanced until he was quite close to them. Glande and Annabella Wells were on their feet.

“Is this your doing?” Oberon demanded, lowering his face to Miss Garbel’s.

“Not mine!” she chattered. “Not this time. Not mine!”

He flung her off. Baradi turned on Raoul.

“Well!” Baradi said in French, “so I know you, now. Where’s your master?”

“Occupy yourself with your own affairs, Monsieur.”

“We are lost!” Oberon cried out in English.

His hand moved. The knife glinted.

“
Alors, Raoul
!” said Alleyn.

Raoul stooped and ran. He ran out of the pentacle and across the floor. The Egyptian darted out and was knocked sideways. His head struck the corner of the altar and he lay still. Raoul sped through the open door into Oberon’s room. Oberon followed him. Alleyn followed Oberon and caught him up on the far side of the great looking-glass. He seized his right hand as it was raised. “Not this time,” Alleyn grunted and jerked his arm. The dagger flew from Oberon’s hand and splintered the great glass. At the same moment Raoul kicked. Oberon gave a scream of pain, staggered across the room and lurched against the window. With a whirr and a clatter the blind flew up and Oberon sank on the floor moaning. Alleyn turned to find Baradi facing him with the knife in his left hand.

“You,” Baradi said. “I might have guessed.
You
!”

iv

From the moment that the affair began, as it were, to wind itself up in Oberon’s room, it became a straightout conflict between Alleyn and Baradi. Alleyn had guessed that it would be so. Even while he sweated to remember his police training in unarmed combat he found time to consider that Oberon, naked and despicable, had at last become a negligible element. Alleyn was even aware of Carbury Glande and Annabella Wells teetering uncertainly in the doorway, and of Miss Garbel, who hovered like a spinsterly half-back on the edge of the scrimmage.

But chiefly he was aware of Baradi’s dark infuriated body, smelling of sandalwood and sweat, and of the knowledge that he himself was the fitter man. They struggled together ridiculously and ominously, looking, in their white robes, like a couple of frenzied monks. There was, for Alleyn, a sort of pleasure in this fight. “I needn’t worry. For once, I needn’t worry,” he thought. “For once the final arbitrament is as simple as this. I’m fitter than he is.”

And when Raoul, absurd in his underpants and long gloves, suddenly hurled himself at Baradi and brought him down with a crash, Alleyn was conscious of a sort of irritation. He looked across the floor and saw that Raoul’s foot, in its ridiculous sandal, had pinned down Baradi’s left wrist. He saw Baradi’s fingers uncurl from the knife-handle. He shoved free, landed a short-arm jab on the point of Baradi’s jaw and felt him go soft. They had brought down the prayer wheel in their struggle. Alleyn reached for it and flung it at the window. It crashed through and he heard it fall with the broken glass on the railway line below. Oberon screamed out an oath. Alleyn fetched his breath and blew with all the wind he had on M. Dupont’s police whistle. It trilled shrilly, like a toy, and was answered and echoed and answered again outside.

“The house is surrounded,” Alleyn said, looking at Glande and Oberon. “I have a police authority. Anyone trying violence or flight will be dealt with out-of-hand. Stay where you are, all of you.”

The glare from the sun-burst streamed through the doorway on clouds of incense. Alleyn bound Baradi’s arms behind his back with the cord of his gown. Raoul tied his ankles together with the long gloves. Baradi’s head lolled drunkenly and he made uncouth noises.

“I want to make a statement,” Oberon said shrilly. “I am a British subject. I have my passport. I offer myself for Queen’s evidence. I have my passport.”

Annabella Wells, standing in the doorway, began to laugh. Carbury Glande said: “Shut up, for God’s sake. This is IT.”

Abruptly the room was lit. Wall-lamps, a bedside lamp and a standard lamp all came to life. By normal standards it was not a brilliant illumination, but it had the effect of reducing that unlikely interior to an embarrassing state of anti-climax. Glande, Annabella Wells and poor Miss Garbel, huddled in their robes, looked dishevelled and ineffectual. Baradi had a trickle of blood running from his nose into his moustache. The Egyptian servant staggered into the doorway, holding his head in his hands and wearing the foolish expression of a punch-happy pugilist. Oberon, standing before the cracked looking-glass as no doubt he had often done before: Oberon, naked, untactfully lit, was so repellent a sight that Alleyn threw the cover of the divan at him.

“You unspeakable monstrosity,” he said, “get behind that.”

“I offer a full statement. I am the victim of Dr. Baradi. I claim protection.”

Baradi opened his eyes and shook the blood from his moustache.

“I challenge your authority,” he said, blinking at Alleyn.

“Alleyn. Chief Detective-Inspector, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard. On loan to the Sûreté. My card and my authority are in my coat-pocket and my coat’s in young Herrington’s room.”

Baradi twisted his head to look at Annabella. “Did you know this?” he demanded.

“Yes, darling,” she said.

“You little—”

“Is that Gyppo for what, darling?”

“In a moment,” Alleyn said, “the Commissioner of Police will be here and you will be formally arrested and charged. I don’t know that I’m obliged to give you the customary warning but the habit’s irresistible. Anything you say—”

Baradi and Annabella entirely disregarded him.

“
Why
didn’t you tell me who he was?” Baradi said, “
Why
?”

“He asked me not to. He’s got something. I didn’t know he was here tonight. I didn’t think he’d come back.”

“Liar!”

“As you choose, my sweet.”

“—may be used in evidence.”

“You can’t charge
me
with anything,” Carbury Glande said. “I am an artist. I’ve formed the habit of smoking and I come to France to do it. I’m not mixed up in anything. If I hadn’t had my smokes tonight I’d bloody well fight you.”

“Nonsense,” said Alleyn.

“I desire to make a statement,” said Oberon, who was now wrapped in crimson satin and sitting on the divan.

“I wish to speak to you alone, Mr. Alleyn,” said Baradi.

“All in good time.”

“Garbel!” Baradi ejaculated.

“Shall I answer him, Roddy dear?”

“If you want to, Cousin Penelope.”

“
Cousin
!” Mr. Oberon shouted.

“Only by marriage. I informed you,” Miss Garbel reminded him, “of the relationship. And I think it only right to tell you that if it hadn’t been for all the Ginnys—”

“My God,” Carbury Glande shouted, “where are Ginny and Robin?”

“Ginny!” Oberon cried out. “Where is Ginny?”

“I hope!” rejoined Miss Garbel, “in no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find her.’ The quotation, cousin, is from
Macbeth
.”

“And couldn’t be more appropriate,” murmured Alleyn, bowing to her. He sat down at Mr. Oberon’s desk and drew a sheet of paper towards him.

“This woman,” Baradi said to Alleyn, “is not in her right mind. I tell you this professionally. She has been under my observation for some time. In my considered opinion she is unable to distinguish between fact and fantasy. If you base your preposterous behavior on any statement of hers—”

“Which I don’t, you know.”

“I am an Egyptian subject. I claim privilege. And I warn you, that if you hold me, you’ll precipitate a political incident.”

“My dear M. l’Inspecteur-en-Chef,” said M. Dupont, coming in from the passage, “do forgive me if I am a little unpunctual.”

“On the contrary, my dear M. le Commissaire, you come most punctually upon your cue.”

M. Dupont shook hands with Alleyn. He was in tremendous form, shining with leather and wax and metal: gloved, holstered and batoned. Three lesser officers appeared inside the door.

“And these,” said M. Dupont, touching his moustache and glancing round the room, “are the personages. You charge them?”

“For the moment, with conspiracy.”

“I am a naturalized British subject. I offer myself as Queen’s evidence. I charge Dr. Ali Baradi with murder.”

Baradi turned his head and in his own language shot a stream of very raw-sounding phrases at his late partner.

“All these matters,” said M. Dupont, “will be dealt with in an appropriate manner. In the meantime, Messieurs et Dames, it is required that you accompany my officers to the
Poste de Police
in Roqueville where an accusation will be formally laid.” He nodded to his men, who advanced with a play of handcuffs.

Annabella Wells held her robe about her with one practiced hand and swept back her hair with the other. She addressed herself in French to Dupont.

“M. le Commissaire, do you recognize me?”

“Perfectly, Madame. Madame is the actress Annabella Wells.”

“Monsieur, you are a man of the world. You will understand that I find myself in a predicament.”

“It is not necessary to be a man of the world to discover your predicament, Madame. It is enough to be a policeman. If Madame would care to make some adjustment to her toilette — a walking costume, perhaps — I shall be delighted to arrange the facilities. There is a
femme-agent de police
in attendance.”

She looked at him fora moment, seemed to hesitate, and then turned on Alleyn.

“What are you going to do with me?” she said. “You’ve trapped me finely, haven’t you? What a fool I was! Yesterday morning I might have guessed. And I kept faith! I didn’t tell them what you were. God,
what
a fool!”

“It’s probably the only really sensible thing you’ve done since you came here. Don’t regret it.”

“Is it wishful thinking or do I seem to catch the suggestion that I may be given a chance?”

“Give yourself a chance, why not?”

“Ah,” she said, shaking her head. “That’ll be the day, won’t it?”

She grinned at him and moved over to the door where Raoul waited. Raoul stared at her with a kind of incredulity. He had kicked off his sandals and wore only his pants and his St. Christopher medal and, thus arrayed, contrived to look godlike.

“What a charmer!” she said in English. “Aren’t you?”

“
Madame
?”

“
Quel charmeur vous êtes
!”

“
Madame
!”

She asked him how old he was and if he had seen many of her films. He said he believed he had seen them all. Was he a cinéphile, then? “
Madame,
” Raoul said, “
Je suis un fervent — de vous
!”

“When they let me out of gaol,” Annabella promised, “I shall send you a photograph.”

The wreckage of her beauty spoke through the ruin of her make-up. She made a good exit.

“Ah, Monsieur,” said Raoul. “What a tragedy! And yet it is the art that counts and she is still an artist.”

This observation went unregarded. They could hear Annabella in conversation with the
femme-agent
in the passage outside.

“My dear Dupont,” Alleyn murmured, “may I suggest that in respect of this woman we make no arrest. I feel certain that she will be of much greater value as a free informant. Keep her under observation, of course, but for the moment, at least—”

“But, of course, my dear Alleyn,” M. Dupont rejoined, taking the final plunge into intimacy. “I understand perfectly, but perfectly.”

Alleyn was not quite sure what Dupont understood so perfectly but thought it better merely to thank him. He said: “There is a great deal to be explained. May we get rid of the men first?”

Dupont’s policemen had taken charge of the four men. Oberon, still wrapped in crimson satin, was huddled on his bed. His floss-like hair hung in strands over his face. Above the silky divided beard the naked mouth was partly open. The eyes stared, apparently without curiosity, at Alleyn.

Dupont’s men had lifted Baradi from the floor, seated him on the divan and pulled his white robe about him. His legs had been unbound, but he was now handcuffed. He, too, watched Alleyn, but sombrely, with attentiveness and speculation.

Carbury Glande stood nearby, biting his nails. The Egyptian servant flashed winning smiles at anybody who happened to look at him. Miss Garbel sat at the desk with an air of readiness, like an eccentrically uniformed secretary.

Dupont glanced at the men. “You will proceed under detention to the
Commissariat de Police
at Roqueville. M. l’Inspecteur and I will later conduct an interrogation. The matter of your nationalities and the possibility of extradition will be considered. And now — forward.”