Death At The Bar

Chapter XIII Miss Darragh Stands Firm

i

The summer sun shines early on the Coombe, and when Alleyn looked out of his window at half-past five, it was at a crinkled and sparkling sea. The roofs of Fish Lane were cleanly pale. A column of wood-smoke rose delicately from a chimney-pot. Someone walked, whistling, down Ottercombe Steps.

Alleyn had been dressed for an hour. He was waiting for Mr. Robert Legge. He supposed that the word “immediately” in the note for Miss Darragh might be interpreted as “the moment you read this,” which no doubt would be soon after Miss Darragh awoke.

Fox and Alleyn had been very industrious before they went to bed. They had poured iodine into a flat dish and they had put Mr. Legge’s letter into the dish but not into the iodine. They had covered the dish and left it for five minutes, and then set up an extremely expensive camera, by whose aid they could photograph the note by lamplight. They might have spared themselves the trouble. There were no fingerprints on Mr. Legge’s note. Fox had gone to bed in high dudgeon. Alleyn had refolded the note and pushed it under Miss Darragh’s door. Four minutes later he had slipped peacefully into sleep.

The morning smelt freshly. Alleyn leant over the window-sill and glanced to his left. At the same moment, three feet away, Fox leant over his window-sill and glanced to his right. He was fully dressed and looked solidly prepared to take up his bowler hat and go anywhere.

“Good morning, sir,” said Fox in a whisper, “pleasant morning. He’s just stirring, I fancy.”

“Good morning to you, Br’er Fox,” rejoined Alleyn. “A very pleasant morning. I’ll meet you on the stairs.”

He stole to the door of his room and listened. Presently the now familiar footsteps sounded in the passage. Alleyn waited for a few seconds and then slipped through the door. Fox performed a similar movement at the same time.

“Simultaneous comedians,” whispered Alleyn. “Come on.”

Keeping observation is one of the most tedious of a detective officer’s duties. Laymen talk of “shadowing.” It is a poetic term for a specialized drudgery. In his early days at Scotland Yard, Alleyn had hated keeping observation and had excelled at it, a circumstance which casts some light on his progress as a detective. There are two kinds of observation, in the police sense. You may tail a man in such a manner that you are within his range of vision but unrecognized or unremarked by him. You may also be obliged to tail a man in circumstances that forbid his seeing you at all. In a deserted hamlet, at half-past five on a summer’s morning, Mr. Legge could scarcely fail to recognize his tormentors of the previous evening. Alleyn and Fox wished to follow him without being seen.

They reached the entrance lobby of the pub as Mr. Legge stepped into the street. Alleyn moved into the private tap and Fox into a sort of office on the other side of the front entrance. Alleyn watched Mr. Legge go past the window of the private tap and signalled to Fox. They hurried down the side passage in time to see Mr. Legge pass the garage and make for the South Steps. Alleyn nodded to Fox who strolled across the yard, and placed himself in a position where he could see the South Steps, reflected handily in a cottage window. When the figure of Mr. Legge had descended the steps and turned to the left, Fox made decent haste to follow his example. Alleyn opened the garage and backed the police Ford into the yard. He then removed his coat and hat, let a good deal of air out of his spare tyre and began, in a leisurely manner, to pump it up again. He had inflated and replaced the spare tyre, and was peering into the engine, when Miss Darragh came out of the pub.

Alleyn had not questioned the superintendent at all closely about Miss Darragh, nor was her appearance dwelt upon in the files of the case. He was therefore rather surprised to see how fat she was. She was like a pouter-pigeon in lavender print. She wore an enormous straw hat, and carried a haversack and easel. Her round face was quite inscrutable but Alleyn thought she looked pretty hard at him. He dived further inside the bonnet of the car, and Miss Darragh passed down the South Steps.

Alleyn gave her a good start and then put on his coat and hat.

When he reached the foot of the steps he looked cautiously round the corner of the wall to the left. Miss Darragh had reached the south end of Fish Lane and now plodded along a stone causeway to the last of the jetties. Alleyn crossed Fish Lane and followed under lee of the houses. At the end of Fish Lane he behaved with extreme caution, manoeuvring for a vantage point. There was nobody about. The fishing fleet had gone out at dawn and the housewives of Ottercombe were either in bed or cooking breakfast. Alleyn paused at Mary Yeo’s shop on the corner of Fish Lane and the causeway. By peering diagonally through both windows at once, he had a distorted view of the jetty and of Miss Darragh. She had set up a camp stool and had her back to Ottercombe. Alleyn saw her mount her easel. A sketching block appeared. Presently Miss Darragh began to sketch.

Alleyn walked down an alley toward the jetty, and took cover in an angle of one of the ramshackle cottages that sprawl about the waterfront. This is the rough quarter of Ottercombe. Petronella Broome has a house of ill-repute, four rooms, on the south waterfront; and William Glass’s tavern was next door until Superintendent Harper made a fuss and had the license cancelled. This stretch of less than two hundred yards is called the South Front. At night it takes on a sort of glamour. Its lamps are reflected redly in the water. Petronella’s gramophone advertises her hospitality, bursts of laughter echo over the harbour, and figures move dimly to and fro across the lights. But at ten to six in the morning it smells of fish and squalor.

Alleyn waited for five minutes before Legge appeared from behind a bollard at the far end of the jetty. Legge crossed the end of the jetty and stood behind Miss Darragh, who continued to sketch.

“Damn,” said Alleyn.

The tide was out and three dinghies were beached near the jetty. A fourth was made fast to the far end and seemed to lie, bobbing complacently, directly under Miss Darragh. Alleyn thought the water looked fairly shallow for at least halfway down the jetty. He groaned and, with caution, moved towards the front

Miss Darragh did not turn, but from time to time Legge glanced over his shoulder. Alleyn advanced to the foreshore under cover of boats, fishing gear, and the sea wall. To an observer from one of the windows, he would have seemed to be hunting for lost property. He reached the jetty.

For halfway along the jetty, the water was about two feet deep. Alleyn, cursing inwardly, rolled up his trousers and took to it, keeping under the jetty. The water was cold and the jetty smelt. Abruptly the bottom shelved down. Alleyn could now hear the faintest murmur of voices and knew that he was not so very far from his objective. The dinghy was hidden by posts but he could hear the glug-glug of its movement and the hollow thud it made when it knocked against the post to which it was made fast. Just beyond it was a flight of steps leading up to the jetty. Alleyn mounted a crossbeam. It was slimy and barnacled but he found handholds at the end. If he could reach the dinghy! His progress was hazardous, painful, and maddeningly slow, but at last he grasped the post. He embraced it with both arms, straddled the crossbeams and wriggled round until he reached the far side.

Underneath him was the dinghy and lying full length in the dinghy was Inspector Fox. His note-book lay open on his chest.

Fox winked at his superior and obligingly moved over. Alleyn pulled the dinghy closer, and, not without difficulty, lowered himself into the bows.

“Two minds with but a single thought” he whispered. “Simultaneous comedy again.”

He took out his note-book and cocked his ears.

From the jetty above, the voices of Miss Darragh and Mr. Legge sounded disembodied and remote. For a second or two Alleyn could hear nothing distinctly but, as his concentration sharpened, words and phrases began to take form. Miss Darragh was speaking. She spoke in little bursts of eloquence broken by pauses that fell oddly until he realized that while she talked, she painted.

“… And haven’t I gone sufficiently far, coming down here, to meet you? I go no farther at all. I’m sorry for the nasty pickle you’re in… terribly cruel the way… haunts you… compromised myself… can’t expect…” Her voice died into a mysterious murmur. Alleyn raised his eyebrows and Fox shook his head. Miss Darragh droned on. Suddenly she said very distinctly: “It’s no good at all asking, for I’ll not do ut.”

Legge began to mumble, quite inaudibly. She interrupted him with a staccato: “Yes, yes, I realize all that.” And a moment later: “Don’t think I’m not sorry. I am.” And then, incisively: “Of course, I know you’re innocent of ut, but I can’t—”

For the first time Mr. Legge became intelligible.

“My blood be on your head,” said Mr. Legge loudly.

“Ah, don’t say that. Will you be quiet, now? You’ve nothing to fear.”

Legge’s voice dropped again but Alleyn’s hearing was now attuned to it. He heard isolated phrases. “Hounded to death… just when I was… expiated my fault… God knows… never free from it.”

Footsteps plodded across the beams overhead and when Miss Darragh spoke, it was from a different place. She had moved, perhaps to look at the sketch, and now stood near the edge of the jetty. Her voice, seeming very close, was startlingly clear.

“I promise you,” she said, “that I’ll do my best, but I’ll not commit perjury—”

“Perjury!” said Legge irritably. He had followed her.

“Well, whatever it is. I’ll do my best. I’ve no fear at all of their suspecting you, for they’ll have their wits about them and will soon see it’s impossible.”

“But don’t you see… They’ll think… they’ll tell everyone…”

“I can see it’s going to be hard on you and I’ve got my… You know well enough why I feel bound to help you. That’ll do now. Rest easy, and we’ll hope for the best.”

“Don’t forget how I came to my trouble.”

“I do not and I will not. Be off, now, for it’s getting late. I’ve finished me little peep and it’s nothing better than a catastrophe; me mind was not on ut. We’d best not be seen walking back together.”

“I’m at your mercy,” said Legge. And they heard him walk away.

ii

Alleyn and Fox breakfasted in the dining-room. Cubitt and Parish were nowhere to be seen but Miss Darragh sat at a corner table and gave them good morning as they came in. Alleyn knew that from behind the paper she watched them pretty closely. He caught her at it twice, but she did not seem to be at all embarrassed and, the second time, twinkled and smiled at him.

“I see you’ve no paper,” said Miss Darragh. “Would you like to have a look at the Illington Courier?”

“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn, and crossed over to the table.

“You’re Mr. Roderick Alleyn, are ye not?”

Alleyn bowed.

“Ah, I knew you from your likeness to your brother George,” said Miss Darragh.

“I am delighted that you knew me,” said Alleyn, “but I’ve never thought that my brother George and I were much alike.”

“Ah, there’s a kind of a family resemblance. And then, of course I knew you were here, for the landlord told me. You’re a good deal better-looking than your brother George. He used to stay with me cousins, the Sean O’Darraghs, for Punchestown. I met ’um there. I’m Violet Darragh, so now you know who ’tis that’s so bold with you.”

“Miss Darragh,” said Alleyn, “would you spare us a moment when you have finished your breakfast?”

“I would. Is it about this terrible affair?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be delighted. I’m a great lover of mysteries, myself, or I was before this happened. They’re not such grand fun when you’re in the middle of ’um. I’ll be in the private tap-room when you want me. Don’t hurry, now.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. Miss Darragh rose and squeezed past the table. Alleyn opened the door. She nodded cheerfully and went out.

“Cool,” said Fox, when Alleyn joined him. “You’d never think she had anything up her sleeve, sir, now would you?”

“No, Fox, you wouldn’t. I wonder what line I’d better take with her. She’s as sharp as a needle.”

“I’d say so,” agreed Fox.

“I think, Fox, you had better ask her, in your best company manners, to walk into our parlour. It looks more official. I must avoid that friend-of-the-family touch—” Alleyn stopped short and rubbed his nose. “Unless, indeed, I make use of it,” he said. “Dear me, now, I wonder.”

“What’s the friend-of-the-family touch, sir?”

“Didn’t you hear? She has met my brother George who is physically as unlike me as may be. Mentally, too, I can’t help hoping. But perhaps that’s vanity. What do you think?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Sir George, Mr. Alleyn.”

“He’s rather an old ass, I’m afraid. Have you finished?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Then I shall remove to the parlour. My compliments to Miss Darragh, Foxkin, and I shall be grateful if she will walk into my parlour. Lord, Lord, I hope I don’t make a botch of this.”

Alleyn went to the parlour. In a minute or two, Fox came in with Miss Darragh.

Ever since he entered the detective service, Alleyn has had to set a guard against a habit of instinctive reactions to new acquaintances. Many times has he repeated to himself the elementary warning that roguery is not incompatible with charm. But he has never quite overcome certain impulses towards friendliness, and his austerity of manner is really a safeguard against this weakness; a kind of protective colouring, a uniform for behaviour.

When he met Violet Darragh he knew that she would amuse and interest him, that it would be easy to listen to her and pleasant to strike up a sort of friendship. He knew that he would find it difficult to believe her capable of double-dealing. He summoned the discipline of a system that trains its servants to a high pitch of objective watchfulness. He became extremely polite.

“I hope you will forgive me,” he said, “for suggesting that you should come in here. Mr. Pomeroy has given us this room as a sort of office, and as all our papers—”

“Ah, don’t worry yourself,” said Miss Darragh. She took the armchair that Fox wheeled forward, wriggled into the deep seat, and tucked her feet up.

“It’s more comfortable here,” she said, “and I’m a bit tired. I was out at the crack of dawn at me sketching. Down on the front, ’twas, and those steps are enough to break your heart.”

“There must be some very pleasant subjects down there,” murmured Alleyn. “At the end of the jetty, for instance.”

“You’ve a good eye for a picture,” said Miss Darragh. “That’s where I was. Or perhaps you saw me there?”

“I think,” said Alleyn, “that you passed me on your way out. I was in the garage yard.”

“You were. But the garage yard does not overlook the jetty.”

“Oh, no,” said Alleyn vaguely. “Now, Miss Darragh, may we get down to what I’m afraid will be, for you, a very boring business. It’s about the night of this affair. I’ve seen your statement to the police, and I’ve read the report of the inquest.”

“Then,” said Miss Darragh, “I’m afraid you’ll know all I have to tell you and that’s not much.”

“There are one or two points we’d like to go over with you if we may. You told the coroner that you thought the wound from the dart had nothing to do with Mr. Watchman’s death.”

“I did. And I’m positive it hadn’t. A little bit of a puncture no bigger than you’d take from a darning needle.”

“A little bigger than that surely?”

“Not to make any matter.”

“But the analyst found cyanide on the dart.”

“I’ve very little faith in ’um,” said Miss Darragh.

“In the analyst? It went up to London, you know. It was the very best analyst,” said Alleyn with a smile.

“I know ’twas, but the cleverest of ’um can make mistakes. Haven’t I read for myself how delicut these experiments are, with their fractions of a grain of this and that, and their acid tests, and their heat tests, and all the rest of it? I’ve always thought it’s blown up with their theories and speculations these fine chemists must be. When they’re told to look for prussic acid, they’ll be determined to find it. Ah, well, maybe they did find poison on the dart, but that makes no difference at all to me theory, Mr. Alleyn. If there was prussic acid or cyanide, or Somebody’s acid on the dart (and why for pity’s sake can’t they find one name for ut and be done with ut?), then ’twas put on in the factory or the shop, or got on afterwards, for ’twas never there at the time.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Alleyn apologetically. “I don’t quite—”

“What I mean is this, Mr. Alleyn. Not a soul there had a chance to play the fool with the darts, and why should they when nobody could foretell the future?”

“The future? You mean nobody could tell that the dart would puncture the finger?”

“I do.”

“Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn, “might have known, mightn’t he?”

“He might,” said Miss Darragh coolly, “but he didn’t. Mr. Alleyn, I never took my eyes off that ’un, from the time he took the darts till the time he wounded the poor fellow, and that was no time at all, for it passed in a flash. If it’s any help I’m ready to make a sworn statement — an affidavit isn’t it? — that Legge put nothing on the dart.”

“I see,” said Alleyn.

“Even Mr. Pomeroy, who is set against Mr. Legge, and Mr. Parish, too, will tell you he had no chance to infect the dart.”

Miss Darragh made a quick nervous movement with her hands, clasping them together and raising them to her chin.

“I know very well,” she said, “that there are people here will make things look black for Mr. Legge. You’ll do well to let ’um alone. He’s a delicut man and this affair’s racking his nerves to pieces. Let ’um alone, Mr. Alleyn, and look elsewhere for your murderer, if there’s murder in ut.”

“What’s your opinion of Legge?” asked Alleyn abruptly.

“Ah, he’s a common well-meaning little man with a hard life behind ’um.”

“You know something of him? That’s perfectly splendid. I’ve been trying to fit a background to him and I can’t.”

For the first time Miss Darragh hesitated, but only for a second. She said: “I’ve been here nearly three weeks and I’ve had time to draw my own conclusions about the man.”

“No more than that?”

“Ah, I know he’s had a hard time and that in the end he’s come into harbour. Let ’em rest there, Mr. Alleyn, for he’s no murderer.”

“If he’s no murderer he has nothing to fear.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t understand.”

“I think perhaps we are beginning to understand. Miss Darragh, last night I asked Mr. Legge if, as a matter of routine, he would let us take his fingerprints. He refused. Why do you suppose he did that?”

“He’s distressed and frightened. He thinks you suspect ’um.”

“Then he should welcome any procedure that is likely to prove our suspicions groundless. He should rather urge us to take his prints than burst into a fit of hysterics when we ask for them.”

A faint line appeared between Miss Darragh’s eyes. Her brows were raised and the corners of her mouth turned down. She looked like a disgruntled baby.

“I don’t say he’s not foolish,” she said. “I only say he’s innocent of murder.”

“There’s one explanation that sticks out a mile,” Alleyn said. “Do you know the usual reason for withholding fingerprints?”

“I do not.”

“The knowledge that the police already have them.”

Miss Darragh said nothing.

“Now if that should be the reason in this case,” Alleyn continued, “it is only a matter of time before we arrive at the truth. If, to put it plainly, Legge has been in prison, we shall very soon trace his record. But we may have to arrest him for manslaughter, to do it.”

“All this,” exclaimed Miss Darragh with spirit, “all this to prove he didn’t kill Watchman! All this disgrace and trouble! And who’s to pay the cost of ut? ’Twould ruin him entirely.”

“Then he would be well advised to make a clean breast and tell us of his record, before we find it out for ourselves.”

“How do you know he has a record?”

“I think,” said Alleyn, “I must tell you that I was underneath the south jetty at six o’clock this morning.”

She opened her eyes very wide indeed, stared at him, clapped her fat little hands together, and broke into a shrill cackle of laugher.

“Ah, what an old fule you’ve made of me,” said Miss Darragh.

iii

But although she took Alleyn’s disclosure in good part, she still made no admissions. She was amused and interested in his exploit of the morning, didn’t in the least resent it, and exclaimed repeatedly that it was no use trying to keep out of his clutches. But she did elude him, nevertheless, and he began to see her as a particularly slippery pippin, bobbing out of reach whenever he made a bite at it.

Alleyn was on difficult ground and knew it. The notes that he and Fox had made of the conversation on the jetty were full of gaps and, though they pointed in one direction, contained nothing conclusive.

Detective officers are circumscribed by rules which, in more than one case, are open to several interpretations. It is impossible to define exactly the degrees of pressure in questions put by the detective. Every time an important case crops up he is likely enough to take risks. If he is lucky, his departure from rule of thumb comes off, but at the end of every case, like a warning bogey, stands the figure of defending counsel, ready to pounce on any irregularity and shake it angrily before the jury.

Miss Darragh had not denied the suggestion that Legge had a police record and Alleyn decided to take it as a matter of course that such a record existed and that she knew about it.

He said: “It’s charming of you to let me down so lightly.”

“For what, me dear man?”

“Why, for lying on my back in a wet dinghy and listening to your conversation.”

“Isn’t it your job? Why should I be annoyed? I’m only afraid you’ve misinterpreted whatever you heard.”

“Then,” said Alleyn, “I shall tell you how I have interpreted it, and you will correct me if I am wrong.”

“So you say,” said Miss Darragh good-humoredly.

“So I hope. I think that Legge has been to gaol, that you know it, that you’re sorry for him, and that as long as you can avoid making a false statement you will give me as little information as possible. Is that right?”

“It’s right in so far as I’ll continue to hold me tongue.”

“Ugh!” said Alleyn with a rueful grin. “You are being firm with me, aren’t you? Well, here we go again. I think that if Mr. Legge had not been to gaol, you would laugh like mad and tell me what a fool I was.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. And what’s more I do seriously advise you to tell me what you know about Legge. If you won’t do that, urge Legge to come out of the thicket, and tell me himself. Tell him that we’ve always got the manslaughter charge up our sleeves. Tell him that his present line of behaviour is making us extremely suspicious.” Alleyn paused and looked earnestly at Miss Darragh.

“You said something to this effect this morning, I know,” he added. “Perhaps it’s no good. I don’t see why I should finesse. I asked Legge to let me take impressions of his fingerprints. Good prints would have been helpful but they’re not essential. He picked up the dart, it had been tested and we’ve got results. I asked him for impressions because I already suspected he had done time and I wanted to see how he’d respond. His response convinced me that I was right. We’ve asked the superintendent at Illington to send the dart to the Fingerprint Bureau. Tomorrow they will telephone the result.”

“Let ’um,” said Miss Darragh cheerfully.

“You know, you’re withholding information. I ought to be very stiff with you.”

“It’s not meself, I mind,” she said. “I’m just wishing you’d leave the poor fellow alone. You’re wasting your time and you’re going to do ’um great harm in the end. Let ’um alone.”

“We can’t,” said Alleyn. “We can’t let any of you alone.”

She began to look very distressed and beat the palms of her hands together.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she said. “I’ll accuse no one; but look further and look nearer home.”

And when he asked her what she meant she only repeated very earnestly: “Look further and look nearer home. I’ll say no more.”