Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER VIII The Temperament of M. de Ravigne

After Maurice had been searched and sent home Nigel approached Alleyn with a certain air of imbecile fractiousness that he assumed whenever he wished to annoy the inspector.

“Will somebody,” asked Nigel plaintively, “be good enough to explain that young man’s behaviour to me?”

“What?” asked Alleyn absently.

“I want to know your explanation for Pringleism. Why did Pringle ask you to look at him? Why did you look at him? What did you say to Pringle? And why did Pringle cry?”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you take Form One for this evening?”

“Very good,” said Fox, returning from his god. “What is it you were inquiring about, Mr. Bathgate?”

“Pringleism.”

“Meaning the young gentleman’s behaviour, sir? Well, it was rather unusual I must say. My idea is he takes something that isn’t good for him.”

“What do you mean, Inspector Fox? Something dietetically antagonistic? Oysters and whisky?”

“Heroin and hot air,” snapped Alleyn. “Oh, Mr. Garnette, Mr. Garnette, it shall go hard if I do not catch you bending.”

“I say!” said Nigel. “Do you think Garnette—”

“Let us have the French gentleman, please, Bailey,” interrupted Alleyn.

Monsieur de Ravigne emerged with an air of sardonic aloofness. He was a good-looking man, tall for a Frenchman and extremely well groomed. He saw Alleyn and walked quickly down towards him.

“You wish to speak to me, Inspector Alleyn?”

“If you please, M. de Ravigne. Will you sit down?”

“After you, monsieur.”

“No, no, monsieur, please.”

They murmured and skirmished while Fox gazed at them in mild enchantment. At last they both sat down. M. de Ravigne crossed his legs and displayed an elegant foot.

“And now, sir?” he inquired.

“You are very obliging, monsieur. It is the merest formality. A few questions that we are obliged to ask in our official capacity. I am sure you understand.”

“Perfectly. Let us discharge this business.”

“Immediately. First, were you aware of any unusual or peculiar odour during the ceremony of the cup?”

“You allude, of course, to the odour of prussic acid,” said M. de Ravigne.

“Certainly. May I ask how you realise the poison used was a cyanide?”

“I believe you yourself mentioned it, monsieur. If you did not it is no matter. I understood immediately that Cara was poisoned by cyanide. No other poison is so swift, and after she fell—” he broke off, became a little paler and then went on composedly “—after she fell, I bent over her and then — and then — I smelt it.”

“I see. But not until then?”

“Not until then — no. The odour of the incense — sweet almond the acolyte tells me — was overpowering and, strangley enough, similar.”

De Ravigne turned stiffly towards Alleyn.

“My Cara was murdered. That I know well. It is possible, Mr. Inspector, that this similarity is a little too strange?”

“It is a point I shall remember, monsieur. You have used the expression ‘My Cara.’ Am I to understand that between you and Miss Quayne—”

“But yes. I adored her. I asked her many times to do me the honour of becoming my wife. She was, unhappily, indifferent to me. She was devout, you understand, altogether dedicated to the religious life. I see you look fixedly at me, monsieur. You are thinking perhaps that I am too calm. You have the idea of the excitable Frenchman. I should wave my hands and weep and roll about my eyes and even have a hysteric, like that little animal of a Claude.”

“No, Monsieur de Ravigne. Those were not my thoughts.”

“N’importe,” murmured de Ravigne.

“On n’est pas dupe de son caeur—” began Alleyn.

“I see I misjudged you, M. l’Inspecteur. You have not the conventional idea of my countrymen. Also you speak with a charming and correct accent.”

“You are too kind, monsieur. Has the possibility of suicide occurred to you?”

“Why should she wish to die? She was beautiful and — loved.”

“And not poor?”

“I believe, not poor.”

“Did you notice her movements when she held the cup?”

“No. I did not watch,” said de Ravigne.

“You are religious yourself, of course, or you would not be here?” remarked Alleyn after a pause.

M. de Ravigne delicately moved his shoulders: “I am intrigued with this church and its ceremonial. Also the idea of one godhead embracing all gods appeals to my temperament. One must have a faith, I find. It is not in my temperament to be an atheist.”

“When did you first attend the services?”

“It must be — yes, I think about two years ago.”

“And you became an Initiate — when?”

“Three months ago, perhaps.”

“Are you a subscriber to the organisation? We must ask these questions, as I am sure you understand.”

“Certainly, monsieur, one must do one’s job. I subscribe a little, yes. Five shillings in the offertory always and at special times a pound. Fifty pounds when I first came. This temple was then recently established. I presented the goblet — an old one in my own family.”

“A beautiful piece. Baroque at its best,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. It has its history, that cup. Also I gave a statuette. In the shrine on your right, monsieur.”

Alleyn looked at the wall and found M. de Ravigne’s statuette. It was cast in bronze with a curious plucked technique and represented a nebulous nude figure wearing a winged helmet from which there emerged other and still more nebulous forms.

“Ah yes,” said Alleyn, “most interesting. Who is the artist?”

“Myself in ecstasy, monsieur,” replied M. de Ravigne coolly.

Alleyn glanced at his shrewd, dark face and murmured politely.

“My temperament,” continued M. de Ravigne, “is artistic. I am, I fear, a dilettante. I model a little, comme ci, comme ça, I write a little, trifles of elegance. I collect. I am not rich, M. l’Inspecteur, but I amuse myself.”

“A delightful existence. I envy you, monsieur. But we must get back to business.”

A dim bass rumble from the rear seemed to suggest that Inspector Fox had essayed: “Revenons a nos moutons,” and had got lost on the way.

“I understand,” said Alleyn, “that Miss Quayne has no relations in England. There must be someone surely?”

“On the contrary. She has told me that there are none. Cara was an only child and an orphan. She was educated abroad at a convent. Her guardians are both dead.”

“You met her abroad perhaps?”

“Yes. In France years ago at the house of a friend.”

“Did Miss Quayne introduce you to this hall?”

“No, monsieur. Alas, it was I who introduced her to the ceremonies.”

“Returning to her connections, monsieur. Is there no one with whom we should get in touch?”

“Her notary — her solicitor.”

“Of course. Do you know who that is?”

“I have heard. One moment. It is tiens! a name like Rats. No. Rattingtown. No.”

“Not Rattisbon by any chance?”

“That is it. You know him?”

“Slightly. Where will the money go, Monsieur de Ravigne?” M. de Ravigne hitched up his shoulders, elevated his brows, protruded his eyes and pursed his lips.

“I see,” said Alleyn.

“This I do know,” conceded M. de Ravigne. “Much will go to this church. Five thousand pounds are reposed in the safe here in bearer bonds to await a further subscription. But there will be more for this church. Once Cara told me she had altered her Will for the purpose. It was then I heard the name of this Mr. Rats.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn politely. “To go to another aspect of the case, do you know anything of the procedure for preparing the cup?”

“Nothing, monsieur. I am not interested in such affairs. To know the machinery of the service would damage my spiritual poise. Such is my temperament.”

“You do not choose to look behind the scenes?”

“Precisely. There must be certain arrangements. A flame does not make itself from nothing, one realises, but I do not wish to inquire into these matters. I enjoy the results.”

“Quite so,” said Alleyn. “I think that will be all, monsieur. Thank you a thousand times for your courtesy.”

“Not at all, monsieur! It is you who have displayed courtesy. If I can be of further use — it is perhaps a matter of some delicacy, but I assure you that anything I can do to help you — I shall not rest content until this animal is trapped. If there should be a question of expense — you understand?”

“You are very good—”

“Tout au contraire, monsieur.”

“—but it is for information we ask. Do you object to our searching you, monsieur?”

“I object very much, monsieur, but I submit.” Fox searched him and found nothing but money, a chequebook and a photograph.

“Mon Dieu!” said de Ravigne. “Must you paw it over in your large hands? Give it to me.”

“Pardon, monsoor,” said Fox hastily, and gave it to him.

“It is Cara Quayne,” said de Ravigne to Alleyn. “I am sorry if I was too hasty.”

“I am sure Inspector Fox understands. Good night, M. de Ravigne.”

“Good night, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“Well,” said Fox when the Frenchman was gone. “Well, that was a fair treat, sir. As soon as you spoke to the gentleman in his own tongue he came along like a lamb. There’s the advantage of languages. It puts you on an equal footing, so to speak. I wonder you didn’t carry on the rest of the interview in French.”

“Fox!” said Alleyn with the oddest look at him. “You make me feel a bloody fool sometimes.”

“Me?” exclaimed Fox, looking blandly astonished.

“Yes, you. Tell me, have you any comments to make on the Frenchman?”

Fox wiped his enormous paw slowly down his face.

“Well, no,” he said slowly, “except he seemed — well, sir, it’s a rum thing two of the gentlemen should offer money for the police investigations. An unheard-of idea. But of course they were both foreigners. As far as Mr. Ogden is concerned, well, we have heard of the word ‘racket,’ haven’t we?”

“Exactly,” agreed Alleyn dryly. “I imagine his proposal is not unusual in the States.”

“Ogden’s too good to be true,” interrupted Nigel. “You mark my words,” he added darkly, “he was trying to bribe you.”

“Bribe us to do what, my dear Bathgate? To catch a murderer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nigel loftily.

“And was M. de Ravigne also attempting to undermine the honour of the force?”

“Oh,” said Nigel, “de Ravigne’s a Frenchman. He is no doubt over-emotionalised and — and — oh, go to the devil.”

“It seems to me,” rumbled Fox, “that we ought to have a look at that little bottle in the cupboard — the one Mr. Wheatley talked about.”

“I agree. We’ll move into Mr. Garnette’s ‘little dwelling.’ By the way, where is Mr. Garnette? Is he still in the vestry being searched?”

As if in answer to Alleyn’s inquiry, the vestry door opened and the priest came out. He was now dressed in a long garment made of some heavy, dark-green material. The plain-clothes man who had escorted him into the vestry came to the door and stared after the priest with an air of disgusted bewilderment.

“Ah, Inspector!” cried Father Garnette with holy cheeriness. “Still hard at work! Still hard at work!”

“I’m most frightfully sorry,” said Alleyn. “There was no need for you to wait in there. You could have returned to your rooms.”

“Have I been long? I was engaged in an ecstatic meditation and had passed into the third portal where there is no time.”

“You were fortunate.”

Bailey came out of Father Garnette’s room and approached the inspector.

“That Miss Wade, sir,” he said, “is getting kind of resigned. I think she’s dropped off to sleep.”

Alleyn gazed at Fox and Fox at Alleyn.

“Cripes!” said Inspector Fox.

“Lummie!” said Inspector Alleyn, “I must be in ecstasy myself. I’d quite forgotten her. Lord, I am sorry! Show the lady down, Bailey.”

“Right oh, sir.”