Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER XIX Alleyn Looks for a Flat

M. de Ravigne greeted them with a suavity so nicely tempered that it could not be called condescension. He looked very grand seigneur, standing with one long white hand on the piano, grave, polite, completely at his ease.

“Will you be seated, messieurs? You come to pursue your inquiries about this tragedy?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn in his most official voice, “we followed you here in the hopes that we might have a word or two in private. It is an unfortunate necessity in these affairs that the police must constantly make nuisances of themselves and most continually bring the realisation of an unhappy occurrence before those who would prefer to forget it.”

“One understands that very readily. For myself I am only too anxious to be of any assistance, however slight, in bringing this animal to justice. What can I do for you, messieurs?

“You are extremely courteous, M. de Ravigne. First I would like to bring this letter to your notice.”

De Ravigne held out his hand. Alleyn gave him his own letter, written to Cara Quayne the preceding Friday. De Ravigne glanced at it, read a word or two and then laid it on the arm of the chair. Fox took out his notebook.

“You are correct,” said de Ravigne, “when you say that much unpleasantness attends the activities of the police. I have a profound distaste for having my correspondence handled by those whom it does not concern.”

“Unhappily, the police are concerned in every scrap of evidence, relevant or irrelevant, which comes into their hands. Perhaps you can assure us of the irrelevance of this letter.”

“I do so most emphatically. It has no bearing on the case.”

Alleyn picked it up and looked through it.

“Against what danger did you warn her so earnestly?” he asked quietly.

“It was a personal matter, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“Make that quite clear to us, monsieur, and it will be treated as such. You will see, I am sure, that a letter warning Miss Quayne against some unknown peril cannot be passed over without inquiry.”

De Ravigne inclined his head slightly.

“I see your argument, of course. The danger to which I refer had nothing to do with physical injury.”

“You did not anticipate this tragedy?”

“A thousand times, no. I? How should I?”

“Then what was threatened?”

“Her virtue, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“I see,” said Alleyn.

De Ravigne eyed him for a moment and then got up. He moved restlessly about the room, as though he was trying to come to some decision. At last he fetched up in front of Alleyn and began to speak in French rapidly and with a certain suppressed vehemence. Inspector Fox breathed heavily and leant forward slightly in his chair.

“Judge of my position, monsieur. I loved her very much. I have loved her very much for so many years. Even since she was a dark jeune fille at a convent with my sister. At one time I thought that she would consent to a betrothal. It was in France when she had first made her début. Her guardian, Madame de Verne, approved. It was in every way suitable. My own family, too. Then — I do not know how it came about, but perhaps it was her temperament to change as it was mine to remain constant — but she grew colder and — but this is of no importance. She came to London where we met again after a year. I found myself still her slave. She allowed me to see her. We became, after your English fashion, ‘friends.’ It was to amuse her, to interest her, that I myself introduced her to this accursed temple. I did not know then what I know now of the character of Father Garnette.”

“How long did it take you to find him out?” asked Alleyn.

De Ravigne lifted his shoulders very slightly and returned to English.

“I do not know. I was not interested in his morals. It was the ceremonies, the ritual, the bizarre but intriguing form of paganism, that appealed to me. If I became aware that he amused himself, that he had his mistresses, it did not at all disconcert me. It was not inconsistent with the pagan doctrine. One lives one’s own life. I cannot say when I first realised that the role of Chosen Vessel held a certain significance for this priest. But I am not blind. Dagmar was elected, and — in short, monsieur, I am a man of the world and I saw, accepted, and disregarded l’affaire Candour. It was none of my business.”

“Precisely,” said Alleyn, “but when Miss Quayne became a candidate—”

“Ah, then, monsieur, I was in agony. Again, judge of my position. I had introduced her to this place, forgetting her temperament, her enthusiasms, her — what is your word? — her whole-heartedness. I myself was responsible. I was revolted, remorseful, distracted. I wrote the letter you hold in your hand.”

“And continued,” said Alleyn, “to draw your dividends?”

“Sacre nom!” said de Ravigne. “So you know of that also?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then it will be difficult to persuade you that it was my intention yesterday and is doubly so today, to withdraw my capital from this affair.”

“Five hundred, — isn’t it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes. If I did not make this gesture before, M. l’Inspecteur, it was because I was unwilling to bring about a fracas which would have involved more persons than Father Garnette himself. When I first attended the little temple in Great Holland Road I found it in need of funds. I could not afford to give this sum, but I could afford to lend it. Mr. Ogden was also willing, and on a larger scale, to invest money. I left the business arrangements to Father Garnette and Mr. Ogden, who is a man of commerce. Myself, I have not the business temperament. But rest assured I shall withdraw. One cannot suffer oneself to become financially associated with such canaille.”

“Do you call Mr. Ogden canaille, monsieur?”

“Monsieur, I refer rather to the priest. But Ogden, he is very much of the people. His perceptions are not acute. He is not fastidious. No doubt he will not feel any delicacy in accepting his interest from this investment. As for the priest — but I prefer not to discuss the priest.”

“Do you know that Mr. Garnette has been giving drugs to Pringle, Mrs. Candour and Miss Quayne?”

De Ravigne did not answer at one. He lit a cigarette and then with an apology offered the box.

“No?” he said. “Then perhaps your pipe?”

“Not just at the moment, thank you so much. About this drug business.”

“Ah, yes. Your information does not surprise me.”

“You knew, then?”

“Monsieur, I must repeat that the private affairs of the Initiates did not interest me.”

“But — Miss Quayne?”

“I cannot believe that she indulged in the vice.”

“Nevertheless—”

“I cannot believe it,” said de Ravigne violently, “and I will not discuss it.”

“Ah, well,” said Alleyn, “let us leave it then. Apropos of the letter, monsieur. Why did you emphasise your desire that she should destroy it?”

“I have already told you of my distaste for having my letters read. That old Hebborn! She has her nose in everything and she is antagonistic to me. I could not endure that she should intrude her nose into it.”

“Then why not write in French?”

“But I wished to impress her of my calmness and deliberation,” said M. de Ravigne smoothly. “If I wrote in French, allowing my emotion full scope, what would she think? She would think: ‘Ah, he has shot himself off at the deep ending. This Gallic temperament! Tomorrow he will be calm again.’ So I write coolly in English and request that she destroys the letter.”

“Ah, yes, that explains the postscript.” Alleyn got to his feet and then, as if it were an afterthought, he said:

“The book on chemistry. I understand you have seen it before?”

De Ravigne hesitated for the fraction of a moment before he replied: “It is strange you should say that. I myself received the impression that I had encountered the book. But where? I cannot recollect.”

“Was it in Mr. Ogden’s house?”

“But of course! In his house. He showed it to me. How could I have forgotten? The priest was there and looked at it too. And the others. It was too stupid of me to forget. I remember I upset a glass of whisky and soda near it. Ogden fancied the book might be of value, I think, but it was of no interest to me. That is why I did not remember it. So the book is the good Ogden’s book? That is interesting, monsieur, is it not?”

“Any information about the book is interesting. And speaking of books, M. de Ravigne, may I have the books of the Sacred Flame Company? I understand you’ve got them here.”

“The books? Ah, yes. The good Ogden insisted that I glance at them. They seem to be in order. Naturally the theft of the bonds would not appear. Perhaps the good Ogden himself has seen to that. Perhaps he and the priest together have arranged these little matters. You see I am bitter, monsieur. I am not easily made suspicious, but when my suspicions are aroused — But the books! You shall have them, certainly.”

He rang for his servant, who produced the books and gave them to Alleyn.

“There’s one other question, M. de Ravigne, and then I shall trouble you no further. Do you know anything of a Madame la Comtesse de Barsac?”

“My sister, monsieur,” said de Ravigne very frigidly.

“Forgive me. I really didn’t know. She was the confidante of Miss Quayne, I think? A very good friend?”

“That is so.”

Alleyn got up.

“A thousand thanks,” he said. “Is there anything else, Fox? Perhaps you—”

“No thank you, sir,” said Fox cheerfully. “I think you’ve covered the ground.”

“Then we will make our adieux, monsieur. You will have received notice of the inquest tomorrow?”

“At eleven jo’clock, yes. It will, I imagine, be purely formal.”

“One never knows with inquests, but I expect so. The terms of the Will may come out. You know them, I expect?”

“No, monsieur.”

“No? Come along. Fox. Where are those books?”

“You’ve got them under your arm, sir.”

“Have I? So I have. Au ’voir, Monsieur de Ravigne. I am afraid we have been a great nuisance.”

“Not at all, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. I am only too glad — though I am afraid I have been of little assistance—”

“Tout au contraire, monsieur.”

“Vraiment? Au ’voir, monsieur. Good afternoon, monsieur.”

“Ohreevor, monsieur,” said Fox very firmly.

On their way down the liftman extolled the virtues of the flats, and Alleyn warmly agreed with him, but still insisted that he preferred the solace of an open fire. Inspector Fox listened gravely to this conversation, occasionally uttering a profound noise in his throat. As they got into the car his good-natured face wore the nearest approach to a sardonic smile of which it was capable.

“The Yard,” said Alleyn to the driver. “You’ll be able to improve your French if we see much more of that gentleman,” he added with a smile at Fox.

“It’s a rum thing,” said Inspector Fox, “that I can follow that radio bloke a fair treat, and yet when the monsieur gets under way it sounds like a collection of apostrophes. What do we do when we get back to the office?”

“We send a cable to Australia.”

“To Australia?”

“Yes, Brer Fox.”

“What’s that in aid of?”

“You’ve never been to Australia?”

“I have not.”

“I have. Let me tell you about it.”

Alleyn discoursed at some length about Australia. They got back to the Yard at five o’clock. The fingerprint people reported that they had been unable to find any of the Sacred Flame prints in the records. Mr. Rattisbon had sent a letter round for Alleyn. The report from Cara Quayne’s house together with the blotting-paper and crumpled sheet from the wastepaper basket awaited him in his room. He went there, accompanied by Fox, and tackled Mr. Rattisbon’s letter first.

“Let’s smoke a pipe apiece,” he said. “I’m longing for one.”

They lit up, and Fox watched him gravely while he opened the long envelope. Alleyn’s eyebrows rose as he read the enclosures. Without a word he handed them across to his subordinate. Mr. Rattisbon wrote to say that the morning mail had brought a new Will from Miss Quayne. She had evidently written it some time yesterday afternoon. It was witnessed by Ethel Parker and May Simes. As regards the bequests to de Ravigne and Laura Hebborn it was a repetition of the old Will. For the rest it was startingly changed. The entire residue was left to Mr. Jasper Garnette of Knocklatchers Row, Eaton Place. Miss Quayne had written to say she hoped that the new Will was in order, and that if it was not, would Mr. Rattisbon please draw up a fresh document to the same effect. The alteration was so straightforward that she believed this to be unnecessary. She had urgent reasons for making the alteration, reasons connected with a “terrible discovery.” She would call and explain. Her dear Father Garnette, she said, was the victim of an unholy plot. In his covering letter Mr. Rattisbon explained that at the time Alleyn called he had not looked at his morning post. He added that he found the whole affair extremely distressing; an unexpectedly human touch.

“By gum!” said Fox, putting the papers down, “it looks as if you’re right, sir.”

“Gratifying, isn’t it? But how the devil are we going to ram it home? And what about our Jasper? Oh, Garnette, my jewel, my gem above price, you will need your lovely legacy before we’ve done with you. Where’s the report on those cigarettes, Fox? Has it come in? Where’s my pad? Here we are. Yes. Oh excellent priest! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee. All the top cigarettes as innocent as the wild woodbine, but underneath, in a vicious little mob, ten doped smokes. A fairly high percentage of heroin was found, from one-tenth to as much as one-seventh of a grain per cigarette. Is it possible that the cigarette tobacco has been treated with a solution of diamorphine? Oh, Jasper, my dear, my better half, have I caught my heavenly jewel?”

“Come off it, sir,” said Fox with a grin.

“How right you are, my Foxkin. Is there any reason why we should not prise the jewel from its setting?”

“Do you mean you’d like to arrest Garnette?”

“Would I like to? And how! as Mr. Ogden would say. And how, my old foxglove, my noxious weed. Has anyone ever written a poem to you, Fox?”

“Never, sir.”

“I wish I had the art:

“Very feeble, I’m afraid. What about the analyst? Autopsy on body of Miss Cara Quayne. Here we are: He’s been very quick about it. ‘External appearances: blue nails, fingers clenched, toes contracted, jaws firmly closed.’ We know all that. ‘Internally’— This is it. ‘On opening the stomach the odour of hydrocyanic acid was clearly distinguishable.’ How beastly for him. He found the venous system gorged with liquid blood, bright red and arterial in character. The stomach and intestines appeared to be in their natural state. The mucous membrane of the stomach — How he does run on, to be sure. Let’s see. The silver test was carried out. The precipitate gave the characteristic reactions—”

Alleyn read on in silence. Then he dropped the report on his desk and leant back.

“Yes,” he said flatly, “it’s sodium cyanide. I do well, don’t I, to sit here being funny-man, and not so damn’ funny either, while a beautiful woman turns into a cadaver, an analyst’s exercise, and her murderer—? Fox, in many ways ours is a degrading job-of-work. Custom makes monsters of us all. Do you ever feel like that about it, Fox? No, I don’t think you do. You are too nice-minded. You are always quite sane. And such a wise old bird, too. Damn you, Fox, do you think we’re on the right lay?”

“I think so, sir. And I know how you feel about homicide cases. I’d put it down to your imagination. You’re a very imaginative man, I’d say. I’m not at all fanciful myself, but it does seem queer to me sometimes, how calm-like we get to work, grousing about the routine, pull out because our meals don’t come regular, and all the time there’s a trap and a rope and a broken neck at the end if we do our job properly. Well, there it is. It’s got to be done.”

“With which comfortable reflection,” said Alleyn, “let us consult Mr. Abberley on the subject of sodium cyanide.”

He picked the book out of his bag which had been brought back from the church, and once again it opened at the discourse on sodium cyanide.

“You see, Fox, it’s quite an elaborate business. List, list, oh list. You take equal weights of wool and dried washing-soda and iron filings. Sounds like Mrs. Beaton gone homicidal. Cook at red heat for three or four hours. Allow to cool. Add water and boil for several more hours. Tedious! Pour off clear solution and evaporate same to small volume. When cool, yellow crystals separate out. And are these sodium cyanide? They are not. To the crystals add a third of their weight of dried washing-soda. Heat as before for an hour or two. While still hot, pour off molten substance from black residue. It will solidify, on cooling to a white cake. Alley Houp! Sodium cyanide as ordered. Serve a la Garnette with Invalid Port to taste. Loud cheers and much laughter. This man is clever.”

He re-read the passage and then shut the book.

“As far as one can see this could all be done without the aid of laboratory apparatus. That makes it more difficult, of course. A house-to-house campaign is indicated, and then we may not get much further. Still it will have to be done. I think this is an occasion for Mr. Bathgate, Fox. You tell me he went off with Pringle and Miss Jenkins.”

“That’s right. I saw them walk down Knocklatchers Row and go into his flat in Chester Terrace.”

“I wonder if I’d be justified — He can’t get into trouble over this. It’s so much better than going ourselves. He’s an observant youth, and if they’ve got all matey — What d’you think, Fox?”

“What are you driving at, sir?”

“Wait and see.”

He thought for a moment and then reached for his telephone. He dialled a number and waited, staring abstractedly at Fox. A small tinny quack came from the telephone. Alleyn spoke quietly.

“Is that you, Bathgate? Don’t say my name. Say ‘Hullo, darling.’ That’s right. Now just answer yes and no in a loving voice if your guests are still with you. Are they? Good. It’s Angela speaking.”

“Hullo, darling,” quacked the little voice.

“Is your telephone the sort that shouts or whispers? Does it shout?”

“No, my sweet. It’s too marvellous to hear your voice,” said Nigel in Chester Terrace. Without covering the receiver he addressed somebody in the room: “It’s Angela — my — I’m engaged to her. Excuse the raptures.”

“Are you sure it’s all right for me to talk?” continued Alleyn.

“Angela, darling. I can hardly hear you. This telephone is almost dumb.”

“That’s all right then. Now attend to me. Have you got very friendly?”

“Of course I have,” said Nigel rapturously.

“Well. Get yourself invited to either or both of their flats. Can you do that?”

“But Angel, I did all that ages ago. When am I going to see you?”

“Do you mean you have already been to their flats?”

“No, no. Of course not. How are you?”

“Getting bloody irritable. What do you mean?”

“Well, at the moment I am sitting looking at your photograph. As a matter of fact I’ve been showing it to somebody else.”

“Blast your eyes.”

“No, my sweet, nobody you know. I hope you will soon. They’re engaged like us. We’re all going to a show. Angela, where are you?”

“At the Yard.”

“Darling, how expensive! Yarborough! A toll call. Never mind. When are you coming to London? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is. If you’re going to a show, can you engineer a round trip to their flats afterwards?”

“Rather! As a matter of fact I’d thought of doing that. Darling—”

“Shut up. Listen carefully now.”

“At Harrods? Must it be pink, my sweet?”

“Now don’t you be too clever. Miss Angela would cast you off for ever if you mooed at her like that. Pay attention. When you are there I want you to observe certain things.”

“All right, darling, I was only being facetious. Let me know the worst.”

“I will. This is what I want you to look for—” Alleyn talked on. Fox listened solemnly. Nigel, over in Chester Terrace, blew kisses into the receiver and smiled apologetically at Janey Jenkins and Maurice Pringle.