Artists in Crime

CHAPTER XI Ormerin’s Nerves and Sonia’s Correspondence

“Well, really, Alleyn,” said Nigel, “I consider you were hard on that girl. You deliberately upset her lovely stomach.”

“How do you know her stomach’s lovely?”

“By inference. What did you do it for?”

“I was sick of that Cleopatra nonsense. She and her catgut nerves!”

“Well, but she is terrifically attractive. A really magnificent creature.”

“She’s as hard as nails. Still,” added Alleyn with satisfaction, “I did make her sick. She went through the whole story the first time almost without batting an eyelid. Each time we came back to it she was a little less confident, and the last time when I mentioned the words ‘death throes’ she turned as green as asparagus.”

“Well, wasn’t it natural?”

“Quite natural. Served her jolly well right. I dislike fatal women. They reek of mass production.”

“I don’t think you can say she’s as hard as nails. After all, she did feel ill. I mean she was upset by it all.”

“Only her lovely stomach. She’s not in the least sorry for that unfortunate little animal who died under her hands. All that psychological clap-trap! She’s probably nosed into a Freud Without Tears and picked out a few choice phrases.”

“I should say she was extremely intelligent.”

“And you’d be right. She’s sharp enough. What she said about Garcia rang true, I thought. What d’you say, Brer Fox?”

“You mean when she talked about Garcia’s coldbloodedness, don’t you, sir?”

“I do.”

“Yes. They all seem to agree about him. I think myself that it doesn’t do to ignore other people’s impressions. If you find a lot of separate individuals all saying so-and-so is a cold, unscrupulous sort of person, why then,” said Fox, “it usually turns out that he is.”

“True for you.”

“They might all be in collusion,” said Nigel.

“Why?” asked Alleyn.

“I don’t know.”

“‘More do I.”

“Well,” said Fox, “if this Garcia chap doesn’t turn up in answer to our broadcast and ads. and so on, it’ll look like a true bill.”

“He’s probably the type that loathes radio and never opens a paper,” said Nigel.

“Highly probable,” agreed Alleyn.

“You’ll have to arrest all hikers within a three-days’ tramp from Tatler’s End House. What a bevy of shorts and ruck-sacks.”

“He’ll have his painting gear if he’s innocent,” said Alleyn. “If he’s innocent, he’s probably snoring in a pub not twenty miles away. The police stations have all been warned. We’ll get him soon enough — if he’s innocent.”

“And if he’s guilty?”

“Then he’s thought out the neatest method of murder that I’ve come across for a very long time,” said Fox. “He knew that nobody would meddle with the throne, he knew he’d got two-days’ start before the event came off, and he very likely thought we’d have a tough job finding anything to pin on to him.”

“Those traces of modelling clay,” murmured Alleyn.

“He didn’t think of that,” said Fox. “If Bailey’s right they dropped off his overall while he fixed the knife.”

“What’s all this?” asked Nigel. Alleyn told him.

“We’ve got to remember,” said Alleyn, “that he’d got the offer of a good job. Marble statues of Comedy and Tragedy are not commissioned for a few pounds. It is possible, Fox, that a guilty Garcia might be so sure of himself that he would turn up in his London warehouse at the end of a week or so’s tramp and set to work. When we found him and hauled him up for a statement, he’d be all vague and surprised. When we asked how the traces of clay were to be accounted for, he’d say he didn’t know, but that he’d often sat on the throne, or stood on it, or walked across it, and the clay might have dropped off him at any moment. We’ll have to find out what sort of state his working smock was in. The bit of clay Bailey found is hardish. Modellers’ clay is wettish and kept so. When faced with Phillida Lee’s statement he’d say he’d had dozens of rows with Sonia, but hadn’t plotted to kill her. If we find she was going to have a child he’d very likely ask what of it?”

“What about the appointment he made with her for Friday night?” asked Fox.

“Did he make an appointment with her for Friday night?”

“Well, sir, you’ve got it there. Miss Lee said— ”

“Yes, I know, Fox. According to Miss Lee, Garcia said: ‘All right. On Friday night then.’ And Sonia answered: ‘Yes, if it’s possible.’ But that may not have meant that they arranged to meet each other on Friday night. It might have meant a thousand and one things, damn it. Garcia may have talked about leaving on Friday night. Sonia may have said she’d do something for him in London on Friday night. It is true that the young Lee person got the impression that they arranged to meet her, but she may have been mistaken.”

“That’s so,” said Fox heavily. “We’ll have to get on to deceased’s movements from Friday afternoon till Sunday.”

“Did you get anything at all from the maids about Friday night?”

“Not a great deal, sir, and that’s a fact. There’s three servants living in the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin who do butler and cook, and a young girl called Sadie Welsh, who’s housemaid. They all went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge on Friday night and returned by the front drive. There’s another girl — Ethel Jones — who comes in as a daily from Bossicote. She leaves at five o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll get on to her tomorrow, but it doesn’t look promising. The Hipkins seem a very decent couple. Devoted to Miss Troy. They’ve not got much to say in favour of this crowd. To Mrs. Hipkin’s way of thinking they’re all out of the same box. She said she wasn’t surprised at the murder and expected worse.”

“What? Wholesale slaughter did she mean?”

“I don’t think she knew. She’s a Presbyterian — Auld Licht — maiden name McQumpha. She says painting from the figure is no better than living in open sin, and she gave it as her opinion that Sonia Gluck was fair soused in wickedness. That kind of thing. Hipkin said he always thought Garcia had bats in the belfry, and Sadie said he once tried to assault her and she gave him a smack in the chops. She’s rather a lively girl, Sadie is. They say Miss Seacliff’s no lady because of the way she speaks to the servants. The only one they seemed to have much time for was the Honourable Basil Pilgrim.”

“Good old snobs. What about Garcia’s evening meal on Friday?”

“Well, I did get something there, in a way. Sadie took it on a tray to the studio at seven-thirty. She tapped on the screen inside the door and Mr. Garcia called out to her to leave the tray there. Sadie said she didn’t know but what he had naked women exhibiting themselves on the platform, so she put it down. When she went to the studio on Saturday morning the tray was still there, untouched. She looked into the studio but didn’t do anything in the way of housework. She’s not allowed to touch anything on the throne and didn’t notice the drape. Garcia was supposed to make his own bed. Sadie says it’s her belief he just pulled the counterpane over it and that’s what we found, sir, isn’t it?”

“Garcia wasn’t there on Saturday morning?”

“No. Sadie says he’d gone and all his stuff as far as she could make out. She said the room smelt funny, so she opened the window. She noticed a queer smell there on Friday night, too. I wondered if it was the acid Bailey found the marks of, but she said no. She’s smelt the acid before, when they’ve been using it for etching, and it wasn’t the same.”

“Look here, Fox, I think I’d like a word with your Sadie. Be a good fellow and see if she’s still up.”

Fox went off and was away some minutes.

“He must have broken into the virgin fastness of Sadie’s bedroom,” said Nigel.

Alleyn wandered round the room and looked at the books.

“What’s the time?” he said.

“After twelve. Twelve-twenty-five.”

“Oh Lord! Here’s Fox.”

Fox came in shepherding an extraordinary little apparition in curling-pins and red flannel.

“Miss Sadie Welsh,” explained Fox, “was a bit uncomfortable about coming down, Mr. Alleyn. She’d gone to bed.”

“I’m so sorry to bring you out,” said Alleyn pleasantly. “We shan’t keep you here very long. Come over to the fire, won’t you?”

He threw a couple of logs on the fire and persuaded Miss Welsh to perch on the extreme edge of a chair with her feet on the fender. She was a girl of perhaps twenty-two, with large brown eyes, a button nose and a mouth that looked as though she constantly said: “Ooo.” She gazed at Alleyn as if he was a grand inquisitor.”

“You’re Miss Troy’s housemaid, aren’t you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes, sir.”

“Been with her long?”

“Ooo, yes, sir. I was a under-housemaid here when the old gentleman was alive; I was sixteen then, sir. And when Miss Troy was mistress I stayed on, sir. Of course, Miss Troy’s bin away a lot, sir, but when the house was opened up again this year, Miss Bostock asked me to come with Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin to be housemaid. I never was a real housemaid like before, sir, but Mr. Hipkin he’s training me now for parlourmaid. He says I’ll be called Welsh then, because Sadie isn’t a name for a parlourmaid, Mr. Hipkin says. So I’ll be ‘Welsh.’ ”

“Splendid. You like your job?”

“Well, sir,” said Sadie primly. “I like Miss Troy very much, sir.”

“Not so sure about the rest of the party?”

“No, I am not, sir, and that’s a fact. I was telling Mr. Fox, sir. Queer! Well, I mean to say! That Mr. Garcia, sir. Ooo! Well, I dare say Mr. Fox has told you. I complained to Miss Troy, sir. I asked Mrs. Hipkin what would I do and she said: ‘Go straight to Miss Troy,’ she said, ‘I would,’ she said. ‘I’d go straight to Miss Troy.’ Which I did. There was no trouble after that, sir, but I must say I didn’t fancy taking his dinner down on Friday.”

“As it turned out, you didn’t see Mr. Garcia then, did you?”

“No, sir. He calls out in a sort of drawly voice: ‘Is that you, Sadistic?’ which was what he had the nerve to call me, and Mr. Hipkin says he didn’t ought to have because Mr. Hipkin is very well educated, sir.”

“Astonishingly,” murmured Alleyn.

“And then I said: ‘Your dinner, Mr. Garcia,’ and he called out — excuse me, sir — he called out: ‘Oh Gawd, eat it yourself.’ I said: ‘Pardon?’ and he said ‘Put it down there and shove off.’ So I said: ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘Mr. Garcia,’ I said. And I put down the tray and as I told Mrs. Hipkin, sir, I said: ‘There’s something peculiar going on down there,’ I said, when I got back to the hall.”

“What made you think that?”

“Well, sir, he seemed that anxious I wouldn’t go in, and what with the queer perfume and one thing and another— well!”

“You noticed an odd smell?”

“Yes, I did that, sir.”

“Ever smelt anything like it before?”

“Ooo well, sir, that’s funny you should think of that because I said to myself: ‘Well, if that isn’t what Mr. Marziz’s room smells like of a morning sometimes.’”

“Mr. Malmsley?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a kind of — well, a kind of a bitterish sort of smell, only sort of thick and sour.”

“Not like whisky, for instance?”

“Oh no, sir. I didn’t notice the perfume of whisky till I went down next morning.”

“Hullo!” said Fox genially, “you never told me it was whisky you smelt on Saturday morning, young lady.”

“Didn’t I, Mr. Fox? Well, I must of forgotten, because there was the other smell, too, mixed up with it. Anyway, Mr. Fox, it wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed whisky in the studio since Mr. Garcia’s been there.”

“But you’d never noticed the other smell before?”asked Alleyn.

“Not in the studio, sir. Only in Mr. Marziz’s room.”

“Did you make the bed on Saturday morning?”

Sadie turned pink.

“Well, no, I didn’t, sir. I opened the window to air the room, and thought I’d go back later. Mr. Garcia’s supposed to make his own bed. It looked fairly tidy so I left it.”

“And on Saturday morning Mr. Garcia’s clay model and all his things were gone?”

“That queer-looking mud thing like plasticine? Ooo yes, sir, it was gone on Saturday.”

“Right. I think that’s all.”

“May I go, sir?”

“Yes, off you go. I’ll ask you to sign your name to a statement later on. You’ll do that, won’t you? It will just be what you’ve told us here?”

“Very good, sir.”

“Good night, Welsh,” said Alleyn smiling. “Thank you.”

“Good night, sir. I’m sure I’m sorry to come in, such a fright. I don’t know what Mr. Hipkin would say. It doesn’t look very nice for ‘Welsh,’ the parlourmaid, does it, sir?”

“We think it was quite correct,” said Alleyn.

Fox, with a fatherly smile, shepherded Sadie to the door.

“Well, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’d better get on with it. Let’s have Mr. Francis Ormerin. How’s the French, by the way?”

“I’ve mastered the radio course, and I’m on to Hugo’s Simplified now. I shouldn’t fancy an unsimplified, I must say. I can read it pretty steadily, Mr. Alleyn, and Bob Thompson, the super at number three, has lent me one or two novels he picked up in Paris, on the understanding I translate the bits that would appeal to him. You know Bob.” Fox opened his eyes wide and an expression of mild naughtiness stole over his healthy countenance. “I must say some of the passages are well up to expectation. Of course, you don’t find all those words in the dictionary, do you?”

“You naughty old scoundrel,” said Alleyn. “Go and get M. Ormerin.”

“Toot sweet,” said Fox. “There you are.”

“And you’d better inquire after the Seacliff. ” Fox went out. “This case seems to be strewn with upheavels,” said Alleyn. “Garcia was sick when he saw the defaced portrait. Sonia was sick in the mornings, and Miss Seacliff is heaving away merrily at this very moment, or I’m much mistaken.”

“I begin to get an idea of the case,” said Nigel, who had gone through his notes. “You’re pretty certain it’s Garcia, aren’t you?”

“Have I said so? All right, then, I do feel tolerably certain he laid the trap for this girl, but it’s purely conjectural. I may be quite wrong. If we are to accept the statements of Miss Troy and Watt Hatchett, the knife was pushed through the boards some time after three o’clock on Friday afternoon, and before Saturday afternoon. Personally I am inclined to believe both these statements. That leaves us with Garcia and Malmsley as the most likely fancies.”

“There’s— ”

“Well?”

“Of course if you accept her statement it doesn’t arise,” said Nigel nervously.

Alleyn did not answer immediately, and for some reason Nigel found that he could not look at him. Nigel ruffled the pages of his notes and heard Alleyn’s voice: “I only said I was inclined to believe Hatchett’s statement — and hers. I shall not regard them as inviolable.”

Fox returned with Francis Ormerin and once again they settled down to routine. Ormerin had attended the private view of the Phoenix Group Show on Friday night, and had spent the week-end with a French family at Hampstead. They had sat up till about two o’clock on both nights and had been together during the day-time.

“I understand that during the bus drive back from London yesterday, the model sat beside you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes. That is so. This poor girl, she must always have her flirt in attendance.”

“And you filled the role on this occasion?”

Ormerin pulled a significant grimace.

“Why not? She makes an invitation with every gesture. It is a long and tedious drive. She is not unattractive. After a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything about her movements in London?”

“Certainly. She told me that she stayed with another girl who is in the chorus of a vaudeville show at the Chelsea Theatre. It is called ‘Snappy.’ Sonia shared this girl’s room. She went to ‘Snappy’ on Friday evening, and on Saturday she went to a studio party in Putney where she became exceedingly drunk, and was driven home by a young man, not so drunk, to the room of this girl whose name is—tiens! — ah yes — Bobbie is the name of the friend. Bobbie O’Dawne. All this she told me, and for a while I was complacent, and held her hand in the bus. Then after a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything at all that could possibly be of any help to us?”

“Ah! Any help? I do not think so. Except one thing, Perhaps. She said that I must not be surprised if I learn soon of another engagement.”

“What engagement was that?”

“She would not tell me. She became retenue — espiègle — in English, sly-boots. Sonia was very sly-boots on the subject of this engagement. I received the impression, however, that it would be to Garcia.”

“I see. She did not talk about Garcia’s movements on Friday?”

“But I think she did!” exclaimed Ormerin, after a moment’s consideration. “Yes, it is quite true, she did speak of him. It was after I had begun to get sleepy. She said Garcia would start for his promenade through this country on Saturday morning, and return to work in London in a week’s time.”

“Did she say where his work-room was in London?”

“On the contrary, she asked me if I could tell her this. She said: ‘I do not know what his idea is, to make such a mystery of it.’ Then she laughed and said: ‘But that is Garcia — I shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’ She spoke with the air of a woman who has certain rights over a man. It may, of course, have been an assumption. One cannot tell. Very often I have noticed that it is when a woman begins to lose her power with a man that she assumes these little postures of the proprietress.”

“What did you think of Sonia Gluck, M. Ormerin?”

Ormerin’s sharp black eyes flashed in his sallow face and his thin mouth widened.

“Of Sonia? She was a type, Mr. Alleyn. That is all one can say of her. The gamine that so often drifts towards studio doors, and then imperceptibly, naturally, into the protection of some painter. She had beauty, as you have seen. She was very difficult. If she had lived, she would have had little work when her beauty faded. While she was still good for our purpose we endured her temperament, her caprice, for the sake of her lovely body, which we might paint when she was well-behaved.”

“Had you so much difficulty with her?”

“It was intolerable. Never for one minute would she remain in the same position. I myself began three separate drawings of the one pose. I cannot paint in such circumstances, my nerves are lacerated and my work is valueless. I had made my resolution that I would leave the studio.”

“Really! It was as bad as that?”

“Certainly. If this had not happened, I would have told Troy I must go. I should have been very sorry to do this, because I have a great admiration for Troy. She is most stimulating to my work. In her studio one is at home. But I am very greatly at the mercy of my nerves. I would have returned when Bostock and Pilgrim had completed their large canvases, and Troy had rid herself of Sonia.”

“And now, I suppose, you will stay?”

“I do not know.” Ormerin moved restlessly in his chair. Alleyn noticed that there was a slight tic in his upper-lip, a busy little cord that flicked under the dark skin. As if aware of Alleyn’s scrutiny, Ormerin put a thin crooked hand up to his lip. His fingers were deeply stained by nicotine.

“I do not know,” he repeated. “The memory of this morning is very painful. I am bouleversé. I do not know what I shall do. I like them all here at Troy’s — even this clumsy, shouting Australian. I am en rapport with them well enough, but I shall never look towards the throne without seeing there the tableau of this morning. That little unfortunate with her glance of astonishment. And then when they moved her — the knife — wet and red.”

“You were the first to notice the knife, I think?”

“Yes. As soon as they moved her I saw it.” He looked uneasily at Alleyn.

“I should have thought the body would still have hidden it.”

“But no. I knelt on the floor. I saw it. Let us not speak of it. It is enough that I saw it.”

“Did you expect to see the blade, Mr. Ormerin?”

Ormerin was on his feet in a flash, his face ashen, his lips drawn back. He looked like a startled animal.

“What do you say? Expect! How should I expect to see the knife? Do you suspect me—me—of complicity in this detestable affair?” His violent agitation came upon him so swiftly that Nigel was amazed, and gaped at him, his notes forgotten.

“You are too sensitive,” Alleyn said quietly, “and have read a meaning into my words that they were not intended to convey. I wondered if the memory of your experiment with the knife came into your mind before you saw it. I wondered if you guessed that the model had been stabbed.”

“Never!” exclaimed Ormerin, with a violent gesture of repudiation. “Never! Why should I think of anything so horrible?”

“Since you helped in the experiment, it would not be so astonishing if you should remember it,” said Alleyn. But Ormerin continued to expostulate, his English growing more uncertain as his agitation mounted. At last Alleyn succeeded in calming him a little, and he sat down again.

“I must ask you to pardon my agitation,” he said, his stained fingers at his lips. “I am much distressed by this crime.”

“That is very natural. I shall not keep you much longer. I spoke just now of the experiment with the dagger. I understand that you and Mr. Hatchett did most of the work on the day you made this experiment?”

“They were all interested to see if it could be done. Each one as much as another.”

“Quite so,” agreed Alleyn patiently. “Nevertheless you and Mr. Hatchett actually tipped up the throne and drove the dagger through the crack.”

“And if we did! Does that prove us to be— ”

“It proves nothing at all, M. Ormerin. I was about to ask you if Mr. Garcia had any hand in the experiment?”

“Garcia?” Ormerin looked hard at Alleyn, and then an expression of great relief came upon him and he relaxed. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not believe that he came near us. He stood in the window with Sonia and watched. But I will tell you one more thing, Mr. Alleyn. When it was all over and she went back to the pose, Malmsley began to mock her, pretending the dagger was still there. And Garcia laughed a little to himself. Very quietly. But I noticed him, and I thought to myself that was a very disagreeable little laugh. That is what I thought!” ended Ormerin with an air of great significance.

“You said in the dining-room that we might be sure this was a crime passionnel. Why are you so sure of this?”

“But it is apparent — it protrudes a mile. This girl was a type. One had only to see her. It declared itself. She was avid for men.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” murmured Alleyn.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Please go on, M. Ormerin.”

“She was not normal. You shall find, I have no doubt, that she was enciente. I have been sure of it for some time. Even at the beginning women have an appearance, you understand? Her face was a little”—he made an expressive movement with his hand down his own thin face— “dragged down. And always she was looking at Garcia. Mr. Alleyn, I have seen him return her look, and there was that in his eyes that made one shudder. It was not at all pretty to see him watching her. He is a cold young man. He must have women, but he is quite unable to feel any tenderness for them. It is a type.”

Ormerin’s distress had apparently evaporated. He had become jauntily knowing.

“In a word,” said Alleyn, “you consider he is responsible for this tragedy?”

“One draws one’s own conclusions, of necessity, Mr. Alleyn. Who else can it be?”

“She was on rather uncertain terms with most of you, it appears?”

“Ah yes, yes. But one does not perform murders from exasperation. Even Malmsley— ”

Ormerin hesitated, grimaced, wagged his head sideways and was silent.

“What about Mr. Malmsley?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“It is nothing.”

“By saying it is nothing, you know, you leave me with an impression of extreme significance. What was there between the model and Mr. Malmsley?”

“I have not been able to discover,” said Ormerin rather huffily.

“But you think there was something?”

“She was laughing at him. On the morning of our experiment when Malmsley began to tease Sonia, pretending that the knife was still there, she entreated him to leave her alone, and when he would not she said: ‘I wouldn’t be too damn’ funny. Where is it that you discover your ideas, is it in books or pictures?‘ He was very disconcerted and allowed his dirty brush to fall on his drawing. That is all. You see, I was right when I said it was nothing. Have you finished with me, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I think so, thank you. There will be a statement later on,” said Alleyn vaguely. He looked at Ormerin, as though he wasn’t there, seemed to recollect himself, and got to his feet.

“Yes, I think that’s all,” he repeated.

“I shall wish you good night then, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Good night,” said Alleyn, coming to himself. “Good night, M. Ormerin.”

But when Ormerin had gone, Alleyn wandered about the room, whistled under his breath, and paid no attention at all to Fox or Nigel.

“Look here,” said Nigel at last, “I want to use a telephone.”

“You?”

“Yes. Don’t look at me as though I was a fabulous monster. I want to use the telephone, I say.”

“What for?”

“Ring up Angela.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“That’s no matter. She’ll be up and waiting.”

“You’re burning to ring up your odious newspaper.”

“Well — I thought if I just said— ”

“You may say that there has been a fatal accident at Tatler’s End House, Bossicote, and that an artist’s model has died as the result of this accident. You may add that the authorities are unable to trace the whereabouts of the victim’s relatives and are anxious to communicate with Mr. W. Garcia who is believed to be on a walking tour and may be able to give them some information about the model’s family. Something on those lines.”

“And a fat lot of good-” began Nigel angrily.

“If Garcia is not our man,” continued Alleyn to Fox, “and sees that, he may do something about it.”

“That’s so,” said Fox.

“And now we’ll deal with the last of this collection, if you please, Fox. The languishing Malmsley.”

“I’ll go to the telephone,” said Nigel.

“Very well. Don’t exceed, now. You may tell them that there will be a further installment to-morrow.”

“Too kind,” said Nigel haughtily.

“And Bathgate — you might ring my mamma up and say we won’t be in until after midnight.”

“All right.”

Nigel and Fox collided in the doorway with Bailey, who looked cold and disgruntled.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. Wait a moment, Fox. Let’s hear what Bailey’s been up to.”

“I’ve been over deceased’s room,” said Bailey.

“Any good?”

“Nothing much, sir. It’s an attic-room at the front of the house.”

He paused, and Alleyn waited, knowing that “nothing much” from Bailey might mean anything from a vacuum to a phial of cyanide.

“There’s deceased’s prints,” continued Bailey, “and one that looks like this Garcia. It’s inside the door where the maid’s missed with the duster, and there’s another print close beside it that isn’t either of em. Broad. Man’s print, I’d say. And of course there are the maid’s all over the show. I’ve checked those. Nothing much about the clothes. Note from Garcia in the pocket. She was in the family way all right. Here it is.”

He opened his case, and from a labelled envelope drew out a piece of paper laid between two slips of glass.

“I’ve printed it and taken a photo.”

Alleyn took the slips delicately in his fingers and laid them on the desk. The creases in the common paper had been smoothed out and the scribbled black pencil lines were easy to read:

“A charming fellow,” said Alleyn.

“That was in a jacket pocket. Here’s a letter that was just kicking about at the back of the wardrobe. From somebody called Bobbie. Seems as if this Bobbie’s a girl.”

This letter was written in an enormous hand on dreadful pink paper: