Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER XXIV Maurice Speaks

On a stormy evening of December last year, five days after the murder of Cara Quayne, Nigel Bathgate stood at the window of his flat in Chester Terrace and looked across the street into Knocklatchers Row. It was blowing a gale and the rain made diagonal streamers of tinsel against the wet black of the houses. The sign of the Sacred Flame swung crazily out and back. A faint light shone from the concealed entry and ran in a gleaming streak down the margin of a policeman’s cape. The policeman had just arrived, relieving a man who had been on duty there all the afternoon. As Nigel looked down through the rain Miss Wade’s umbrella appeared from the direction of Westbourne Street. He knew it was Miss Wade’s umbrella because of its colour, a dejected sap-green, and because Miss Wade’s goloshes and parts of herself were revealed as she struggled against the wind. The goloshes turned in at Knocklatchers Row just as a taxi came up from the opposite direction. It stopped at the House of the Sacred Flame. Mr. Ogden got out, paid his fare, threw away his cigar and, nodding to the policeman, disappeared down the entry. Then Maurice Pringle came down Chester Terrace, the collar of his mackintosh turned up and the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. Another taxi followed Mr. Ogden’s. It overtook and passed Maurice Pringle and a man who came from the same direction as Maurice. There was an interval, and then Lionel and Claude appeared under one umbrella. Then two more taxis and at last a closed car that whisked round the corner and drew up stylishly under the Sign of the Sacred Flame. Two men got out of this car. The first was large and solid, the second tall with a good figure, and a certain air of being well-dressed.

When Nigel saw this last figure he turned from the window, picked up his hat and umbrella, and went out into the rain.

In Chester Terrace the wind blew as violently as it had done on the night of the murder. The whole scene was a repetition so exact that Nigel had a curious sensation of suspended time, as though everything that had happened since Sunday evening was happening still. Even as he lowered his umbrella to meet the veering wind, Cara Quayne raised the cup to her lips, Garnette drank brandy and rectified spirit in the room behind the altar, his face veiled by the smoke of Maurice Pringle’s cigarette. De Ravigne stood with the book in his hand, and Ogden stared at him with his mouth open. Mrs. Candour, Miss Wade and the two acolytes nodded like mandarins in the background, and the doorkeeper repeated incessantly: “I’m afraid you’re too late. May I draw your attention to our regulations?”

“It would be fun to write it all up on those lines,” thought Nigel, “but not precisely what the Press-lord ordered.”

This reflection brought him to the entry and the end of his fancies.

The torch in the wire frame was unlit. A large constable stood in the doorkeeper’s place and beside him were Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and Detective-Inspector Fox.

“They’re all in, sir,” said the constable.

“Ah,” answered Alleyn. “We’ll give them a minute to get comfortably settled and then we shall gatecrash.”

“Good evening,” said Nigel.

“Hullo. Here’s Public Benefactor No. 1. Well, Bathgate, your information was correct and we’re all much obliged. How did you find out?”

“Through Janey Jenkins. I rang up to see if she was all right after our ghastly night out with Pringle, and she told me they were meeting at Garnette’s flat this afternoon. It’s Ogden’s idea. He thought they ought to get together like regular fellows and figure things out.”

“Americans are a gregarious race,” said Alleyn. “Did you get the eavesdropper fixed up, Fox?”

“We did, sir. The Reverend went for a constitutional this afternoon and we fixed it all up nice and quiet while he was away. It’s a small room and everything ought to come through very clear.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nigel composedly.

“A cunning devise, Bathgate, a cunning device. We shall sit among pagan gods and listen, like a Sforza in a Renaissance palace, to tales of murder. It will probably be inexpressibly tedious, but we may pick up a bit here and there.”

“You mean, I suppose, that you have installed a dictaphone.”

“Not quite that. We have installed a microphone with wires leading to a small loud-speaker. What a pity Leonardo is not alive to-day. I believe he is the only man of his time who would not be disconcerted by modern contraptions.”

“He wouldn’t like the women,” said Nigel.

“He wouldn’t recognise them as such. I think we might go in, Fox, don’t you?”

They went quickly into the hall. Alleyn led the way to a recess on the right where Monsieur de Ravigne’s statuette stood above a small altar. The whole recess only held six rows of chairs and was like a miniature shrine. The entrance was framed with heavy curtains which Fox drew after them. They were thus completely hidden from the main body of the hall. Fox switched on his torch and pointed it at the far corner by the altar. Nigel saw a glint of metal. They moved forward. Fox stooped down. A tiny metallic sound broke the silence. It was like a minute telephone under a heap of cushions. At a sign from Alleyn they squatted on the ground. Nigel’s knees gave two stentorian cracks and Alleyn hissed at him. A Lilliputian Mr. Ogden remarked:

“O.K. by me. Well folks, there’s no cops listening in. The plain-clothes guy that’s been sticking around the back door came unglued this morning, and the dick at the front’s only there for show. I guess we’d better square up and make it a regular meeting. There’s no sense in sitting around and handing out hot air. The first thing to do is to appoint a chairman.”

“Oh, God!” said Pringle’s voice.

“But surely, Mr. Ogden,” said Father Garnette, “there is no neeessitah—”

“I agree with Mr. Ogden.” That was de Ravigne. “It is better to make this affair formal. Let us appoint a chairman. I propose Mr. Ogden should fill this office.”

“Aw say, I wasn’t putting out feelers—”

“I second that. Hem!” Miss Wade.

“Well, thanks a lot. I certainly appreciate—”

“Good Lord,” said Alleyn, “he’s going to make a speech!” And sure enough, make a speech Mr. Ogden did. He used every conceivable American business phrase, but what he said might be summed up as follows: They were all under suspicion of murder, and they all wished to clear themselves. No doubt each of them had his or her own theory. He thought it would be to their mutual benefit to share these theories. After the disaster of Sunday it was unlikely that their ceremonies should or could be continued. The House of the Sacred Flame was a business concern and therefore should be wound up in a businesslike manner. At this juncture there was a confused but energetic protest from Father Garnette, Mrs. Candour and Miss Wade. The word “spiritual” was used repeatedly.

“Sure, I’m alive to the spiritual dope,” interrupted Mr. Ogden. “I thought it was sure-fire honest-to-God uplift. Otherwise I’d never have backed it. It looked good-oh to me.”

Alleyn gave a curious little exclamation.

“But,” the voice went on, “Now I think different. And right here is where I hand out the inside stuff. Listen.”

He then gave them an account of the financial basis on which the House of the Sacred Flame was built. It agreed in every detail with the statement he had made to Alleyn. Mr. Ogden backed the organisation, paid for the building in which they now sat, and held the bulk of the shares. M. de Ravigne was a much smaller shareholder, Father Garnette received twenty per cent of the profits and a salary.

When Mr. Ogden finished speaking there was a silence so long that Nigel wondered if the microphone had broken down. Suddenly someone began to laugh. It was Maurice Pringle. He sounded as though he would never stop. At last he began to splutter out words.

“All this time — thank-offerings — self-denials— Oh, God! It’s too screechingly funny!”

A babel of voices broke out.

“Quite appalling—”

“Business arrangement—”

“All so sordid and worldly, I never thought—”

“I don’t pretend to understand business. My only care is for my flock—”

“If Father says it is—”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Lionel, do be quiet. I must say—”

“Cut it out,” shouted Mr. Ogden.

Silence.

“This is no way to act,” continued Mr. Ogden firmly, “I said this was to be a regular well-conducted meeting, and by heck, I’m going to have it that way. There’s the copies of our agreement. Pass them round. Read them. They’re the goods. They’ve been okayed by a lawyer and they’re law. Laugh that off!”

A rustle, a clearing of throats, and then a murmur.

“Now,” said Ogden, “get this. The profits of this outfit belong legally to me, Garnette and Monsieur de Ravigne. In that order. Any money coming in is ours. In that order. We kept up the temple and handed out the goods. Cara Quayne’s donation of five thousand pounds in bearer bonds was our property—”

“No, it wasn’t,” interrupted Maurice. “Cara gave that money to a building fund, and it should have been used for nothing else.”

“It wouldn’t have been used any other way, Pringle, if I’d had the say-so. But it was ours to administer. Yeah, that’s so. Well, someone here present got a swell idea about that packet of stuff and lifted it. After that, it was just too bad about Cara.”

“You think,” de Ravigne spoke for the first time, “that whoever stole this money also murdered my poor Cara. I incline to agree with you.”

“Sure. And these Ritzy cops think so too. Something happened in this room around two-thirty on Sunday. Cara came here then. Alleyn may talk queeny, but he’s doped that out. Yeah, he seems like he was too refined to get busy, but he’s got busy. Too right he has. Well, I guess I know what his idea is. He reckons Cara came here Sunday to add to those bonds and caught the double-crosser red-handed. I don’t know just how you folks respond to this idea, but it looks good to me. Find the man or woman who was in this room at two-thirty on Sunday and you’ve got the killer.”

“Certainly,” said de Ravigne smoothly.

“But, I don’t see—” began Father Garnette.

“Just a moment, Garnette,” interrupted Mr. Ogden. “I’m coming to you. Who was in Cara’s confidence? Who lifted my book on poisons. Oh, yeah, it was my book.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” asked Janey.

“Because I thought you all knew. I reckon M. de Ravigne remembered looking at that book the night of my party and was too white to say so. It was swell, and I’m surely grateful.”

“It was nothing,” said de Ravigne.

“But I reckoned I hadn’t a thing to conceal and I came clean about the book to Alleyn. But who lifted that book and put a brown paper wrapper on it? Who put it way back behind that shelf where it wouldn’t be seen? Who got the book that way it opened itself up like it was tired, at the straight dope on sodium cyanide?”

“It does not always open in this manner,” said de Ravigne.

“Practically, it does,” interrupted either Lionel or Claude. “When I tried it—”

“Wait a moment. Wait a moment. Lemme get on with my whosits. Who had control of the keys after Cara’s bonds were parked in the safe? Who lifted the bonds? Who kidded Cara into leaving them enough to re-christen himself Rockefeller?”

“What do you say?” cried Garnette suddenly. “She left the money to the temple not to me.”

“How the blazing hell do you know?”

“She told me, poor soul, she told me.”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Candour’s voice sounded shrilly. “She told me herself weeks ago — well, about three weeks ago — when she first knew she was chosen. And she left her house and everything in it to Raoul de Ravigne. Ask him! He knows. Ask him! There are pictures worth hundreds. Ask him!”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” said de Ravigne. “If she did this, and it is true she spoke of it, I am most grateful. But I will not discuss it.”

“Because you know—”

“Quit it, Dagmar. Where do you get that stuff?”

“What stuff?” cried Mrs. Candour in alarm. “What stuff? Do you mean—?”

“He only means: ‘What are you talking about,’ ” said Pringle hurriedly.

“I thought you meant the stuff. That detective, Alleyn; I’m sure he suspects. Sammy, can they—?”

“Shut up,” said Maurice violently.

“Stick to the point,” begged Mr. Ogden. “I’m interested in Garnette.”

“I, too,” said de Ravigne. “It seems to me that you make the argument very clear against this priest, M. Ogden.”

“A murderer! Father Garnette, this is infamous.” That was Miss Wade.

“It’s a fact. Listen, you, Garnette—”

“Stop!”

Maurice Pringle’s voice rose above the others. Nigel could picture him on his feet, confronting them.

“Sit down, Pringle,” said Mr. Ogden angrily.

“I won’t. I’m going to—”

“That’s my cue,” whispered Alleyn. “Come on.”

Nigel followed him out of the little shrine and up the aisle. The voices of the Initiates sounded confusedly from behind the altar. Alleyn led the way up the hall to Father Garnette’s door. He motioned to Nigel. They stood one on each side of the door. Very stealthily Alleyn turned the handle and pulled it ajar. The curtain inside was bunched a little towards the centre and by squinting slantways they were able to see into the room beyond. Nigel glued his eye to the crevice beneath the thing. He was reminded, ridiculously, of Brighton pier. He found himself looking across the top of Miss Wade’s purple toque straight into Maurice Pringle’s eyes.

Maurice stood on the far side of the table. His face was ashen. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked impossibly melodramatic. He seemed to have come to the end of a speech, interrupted perhaps by the hubbub that had broken out among the other Initiates. Miss Wade’s hat bobbed and bobbed. A dark object momentarily hid this picture. Someone was standing just on the other side of the door. It was on this person Maurice had fixed his gaze. Whoever it was moved again and the picture reappeared in a flash. Mr. Ogden’s voice sounded close to Nigel’s ear.

“The kid’s crazy. Sit down, Pringle.”

“Go on, Maurice,” said Janey clearly from somewhere.

“Courage, my dear lad,” boomed Father Garnette with something of his old unctuousness.

Maurice jerked his head as though he had been struck.

“For God’s sake don’t start that stuff again or I’ll let them hang you. Don’t imagine I still worship at your shrine. I know what you’re like now; I think I’ve known for a long time. A little bit of bloody Brummagen. I’ve let myself be ruined aesthetically and, if you like, morally, for a plaster reproduction that wouldn’t take in a housemaid. If I let them get you I’d be helping at a bit of spring-cleaning. God knows why I’m doing this. That’s not true, either. I’m doing it because I can’t help myself.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Pringle? You’re dopey.”

“Dopey!” He turned to stare again at the hidden Ogden. “For the first time in six months I’m not more or less doped. For Christ’s sake let’s speak the truth. Dope! Half of us are soaked in it. Dagmar, Cara, Me! You two bloody little pansies. You’ve been experimenting, haven’t you? Just trying to see what it’s like. Dear Father Garnette’s been giving you cigarettes. And where does dear Father Garnette get his heroin? You none of you know. He doesn’t know himself. He knows it comes from Paris through an agent in Seven Dials. He doesn’t know who the agent is. I do.”

“He’s mad,” screamed Mrs. Candour.

“Sure, he’s crazy,” said Mr. Ogden soothingly. “You don’t want to get this way, Dagmar.”

A slight movement beside Nigel caused him to turn. Alleyn had opened the door a little wider and now slid in behind the curtain.

“I’m sane, and there’s one of you who knows it. Keep still, all of you. I’m going to tell you what happened here on Sunday afternoon.”

“By all means,” said de Ravigne softly, “let us hear.”

“I came here on Sunday afternoon to pick up a packet of stuff Garnette had arranged to let me have. Cigarettes aren’t good enough for me. I need more than the rest of you. This lot cost me ten pounds. Father Garnette has spiritual qualms about handing it over. Haven’t you, Father? It makes him feel self-conscious, you know. So he leaves it in his little bedside cupboard and I get it for myself and plant the cash. He says heroin helps to divorce the psyche from the body. I came here some time after half-past two. Jane and I had had a row and I needed the stuff. I came in at the front door and went through here into the bedroom. I’d just got the stuff and was going when I heard someone come out of the temple into this room. It wasn’t our spiritual father. I know his step.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake—”

“Go on, Maurice.”

“Yes, Jane. Let me alone. I didn’t quite like to reveal myself. It looked a bit queer my being there. I hesitated. Then I heard a click. Then two or three clicks. It dawned on me that someone was monkeying with the safe. The door wasn’t quite shut, I looked through and saw who it was. It was—”

“I’m chairman of this meeting and I’m not standing for this. It’s out of order. Sit down!”

“No.”

“Sit down!”

“By God, if you don’t shut up yourself I’ll make you.”

“Yeah? You and who else?”

“Me,” said Alleyn. “You’re covered, Mr. Ogden.”