A Man Lay Dead (4 page)

“Oh, hell, what’s it matter anyway? Come and let’s drink. This murder’s got to be done.”

Nigel glanced at him sharply.

“No, no,” laughed Rankin, “not by me… I didn’t mean that. By someone.”

“I’m not going to be left alone with anyone,” Mrs. Wilde was announcing.

“I wonder,” speculated Handesley, “if that’s true— or is it a bluff? Or am I bluffing?”

“I’m going to take my drink up with me,” said Rosamund. “No one will try to murder me in my bath, I hope, and I shan’t come down till I hear voices in the hall.”

“I’ll come up with you, Rosamund,” said Mrs. Wilde and Angela simultaneously.

“I also will make myself for the dining,” announced Doctor Tokareff.

“Wait a bit!” called Handesley. “I’m coming up. I won’t go down that passage alone!”

There was a concerted stampede upstairs, only Nigel, Rankin, and Wilde being left in the hall.

“Shall I bath first?” Nigel asked Wilde.

“Yes, do,” he agreed. “It’s safe enough for Charles and me to be left together. Whichever of us tries to do in the other would be accused by you as the last person to see the corpse alive. I claim the bath in ten minutes.”

Nigel ran upstairs, leaving the two men to finish their drinks. He bathed quickly and dressed at leisure. The Murder Game was distinctly amusing. For some reason he rather thought that Vassily had given the scarlet plaque to his compatriot. Nigel determined not to go down until he heard Doctor Tokareff’s voice. “After all,” he thought, “it would be easy enough for him to catch me as I opened my door and then go downstairs as if nothing had happened, choose his moment to put out the lights, sound the gong, and then move away in the darkness and stand still for the two minutes, asking at the top of his voice who had done it. That wouldn’t be a bad plan of action, by Jove.”

He heard the bathroom door opened. A moment later the taps were turned on, and Wilde’s voice called out to him.

“No bloodshed yet, Bathgate?”

“Not yet,” shouted Nigel; “but I’m much too frightened to go down.”

“Let’s wait till Majorie is ready,” suggested Wilde, “and all go down together. If you don’t agree, I’ll know you are the murderer.”

“All right, I’ll agree,” yelled Nigel cheerfully, and he heard Wilde laugh to himself and shout the suggestion through to his wife, who was presumably still dressing in the room beyond.

Nigel walked over to his bedside table and picked up the book he had been reading the night before. It was Joseph Conrad’s
Suspense
. He had just opened it at the title page when there was a light tap on the door.

“Come in,” shouted Nigel.

A rather flustered and extremely pretty housemaid appeared.

“Oh, please, sir,” she began, “I’m afraid I’ve forgot your shaving-water.”

“It’s all right,” said Nigel. “I managed with—”

Suddenly the room was completely blacked out.

He stood in thick darkness with the invisible book in his hand while the voice of the gong — primitive and threatening — surged up through the empty throat of the house. It filled the room with an intolerable clamour and then died away grudgingly. Silence flowed back again and, trickling through it, the noise of the bath water still running next door. Then Wilde’s voice shouting excitedly:

“I say… what’s all this—?”

“Pretty nippy, wasn’t it?” shouted Nigel. “What about the two minutes? Wait a bit. I’ve got a luminous wrist watch. I’ll keep time for both of us.”

“Yes, but look here — do I have to lie in this bath,” queried Wilde plaintively, “or do you imagine I may get out and dry myself?”

“Pull out the plug and reach for the towel. Did you leave Charles downstairs?”

“Yes, I did. Full of complaints about Tokareff. I say, do you think…” Wilde’s voice became muffled. Evidently he had found the towel.

“Time!” said Nigel. “I’m off.”

“Turn up the lights for heaven’s sake,” urged Wilde. “I’m going to miss all the fun if I can’t find my pants.”

His wife’s voice screeched excitedly from the far room.

“Arthur, wait for me!”

“Me wait for you—” began Wilde in an injured voice.

Nigel struck a match and made his way to the door. Out on the landing it was pitch dark, but further back along the passage he could see little points of match-light and the dramatic uncertainty of faces, dimly lit from below. Far down beneath him in the hall was the comfortable flicker of a fire. The house was alive with the voices of the guests, calling, laughing, questioning. Cosseting his match, he groped his way downstairs; it burnt out, but the firelight enabled him to round the bottom of the stairs and find the main switch.

For a second he hesitated. Obscurely, unaccountably, he did not want to wipe away the darkness. As he stood with his hand on the switch, time seemed to hang still.

From the stairs Handesley’s voice called out:

“Anyone find the switch?”

“I’m there,” answered Nigel, and his hand jerked it down.

The sudden blaze from the chandelier was blinding. On the stairs Wilde, his wife, Tokareff, Handesley, and Angela all shrank back from it. Nigel, blinking, came round the stairs. Facing him was the cocktail tray, and beside him the great Assyrian gong.

A man was lying on his face alongside the table. He was lying at right angles to the gong.

Nigel, still blinking, turned his face towards the others.

“I say,” he said, peering at them and shading his eyes. “I say, look… here he is.”

“It’s Charles,” exclaimed Mrs. Wilde shrilly.

“Poor old Charles!” said Handesley jovially.

They were all pushing and shouting. Only Rankin did not move.

“Don’t touch him… don’t touch him, anybody,” said Angela; “you must never disturb the body, you know.”

“A moment, please.” Doctor Tokareff put her gently aside. He came downstairs, glanced at Nigel, who stood transfixed, staring at his cousin, and bent down slowly.

“This young lady speaks with wisdom,” said Doctor Tokareff. “Undoubtedly, let us not touch.”

“Charles!” screamed Mrs. Wilde suddenly. “My God, Charles!.. Charles!”

But Rankin lay heavily silent and, their eyes having grown accustomed to the light, they all saw the hilt of his Russian dagger jutting out like a little horn between his shoulder blades.

Chief Inspector-Detective Alleyn was accosted by Inspector-Detective Boys in the corridor outside his office.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Inspector Boys. “Has someone found you a job?”

“You’ve guessed my boyish secret. I’ve been given a murder to solve — aren’t I a lucky little detective?”

He hurried out into the main corridor, where he was met by Detective-Sergeant Bailey who carried a fingerprint apparatus, and by Detective-Sergeant Smith who was burdened with a camera. A car was waiting for them, and in two hours’ time they were standing in the hall at Frantock.

P.C. Bunce of the local constabulary eyed the Inspector cautiously.

“A very narsty business, sir,” he said with relish. “The superintendent being took very bad with the ’flu and no one else here to handle the case except the sergeant, we rang up the Yard immediate. This is Doctor Young, the divisional surgeon who made the examination.” A sandy-coloured, palish man had stepped forward.

“Good morning,” said Inspector Alleyn. “No doubt about the medical verdict, I suppose?”

“None whatever, I’m grieved to say,” said the doctor, whose accent had a smack of Scots in it. “I was called in immediately after the discovery. Life had been extinct about thirty minutes. There is no possibility of the injury being self-inflicted. The superintendent here has an acute attack of gastric influenza and is really quite unfit to do anything. I gave definite instructions that he was not to be worried about the case. In view of the most extraordinary circumstances and also of Sir Hubert’s position, the local office decided to approach Scotland Yard.” Doctor Young stopped talking suddenly as if someone had turned his voice off at the main. He then made a deep uncomfortable noise in his throat, a noise that sounded like “Kaahoom.”

“The body?” queried Inspector Alleyn.

The constable and the doctor began to speak together.

“Beg pardon, doctor,” said P. C. Bunce.

“It has been moved into the study,” explained the doctor, “it had already been greatly disturbed. I could see no point in leaving it here — in the hall — very difficult.”

“Greatly disturbed? By whom? But let me have the whole story. Shall we sit down, Doctor Young? I really know nothing of the case.”

They sat down before the great fireplace, where only twelve hours ago Rankin had warmed himself as he told one of his “pre-prandial” stories.

“The victim’s name,” began Doctor Young in a businesslike voice, “was Rankin. He was one of a party of five guests spending the week-end with Sir Hubert Handesley and his niece. They had been playing one of these new-fangled games, one called”—he paused for a second—“called ‘Murders.’ You may have heard of it.”

“Don’t play it myself,” said Inspector Alleyn. “I’m not frightfully keen on busman’s holidays. But I think I know what you mean. Well?”

“Well, I gather they were all dressing for dinner— you will hear all the details from the guests of course — when the signal agreed upon was sounded and on coming down they found not a sham but a real victim.”

“Where was he lying?”

“Over here.” The Doctor crossed the hall and Inspector Alleyn followed him. The floor in front of the gong had been newly washed and smelt of disinfectant.

“On his face?”

“In the first instance, yes, but as I say, the body had been moved. A dagger, Russo-Chinese and his own property, had been driven in between the shoulders at such an angle that it had pierced the heart. Instantaneous.”

“I see. It’s no good my making a song and dance about the moving of the body and washing the floor— now. The damage is done. You should never have allowed it, Doctor Young. Never, no matter how much the original position had been lost.”

Doctor Young looked extremely uncomfortable.

“I am very sorry. Sir Hubert was most anxious;—it was, it
was
very difficult. The body had been moved some considerable distance.”

“Do you think I could have a word with Sir Hubert?” asked Alleyn. “Before we go any further I mean?”

“I’m sure you can presently. He is very much shocked, of course, and I have suggested his trying to rest for a couple of hours. His niece, Miss Angela North, is expecting you, and is to let him know of your arrival. I’ll just find her.”

“Thank you. By the way, where are the rest of the house party?”

“They’ve bin warned not to leave the house,” said Mr. Bunce capably, “and in addition they bin kept away from the hall and the drawing-room and asked particular to only frequent the library. Except for the floor being cleaned up nothing here’s bin touched, sir, nothing. And the drawing-room’s left just as it was too — just in case.”

“Excellent; aren’t our policemen wonderful? And so they are — where?”

“One of the ladies is in bed and the rest of the bunch is in the library,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “a-solving of the mystery.”

“That should prove very interesting,” said the Inspector without any taint of irony in his pleasant voice. “If you would get Miss North, Doctor Young.”

The doctor hurried upstairs and the Law was left in possession.

Inspector Alleyn held a brief colloquy with his two subordinates.

“If there has really been no interference, there ought to be something for you here, Bailey,” he said to the finger-print expert. “From information received we’ll want prints of the entire household. While I am seeing the people, get busy in here. And you, Sergeant Smith, get me a picture of the area where the body was found, and of course a photo of the body itself.”

“Certainly, sir.”

P.C. Bunce listened appreciatively.

“Ever had any dealings with a case of this sort before, constable?” asked the Inspector absent-mindedly.

“Never, sir. Petty larceny’s the best they can do in these parts, with a smack of furious driving, and one haryplane smash three years ago. Bit of an ad. for the village if looked on in the right light. We’ve got a special reporter on the spot, too.”

“Really? How do you mean?”

“A Mr. Bathgate, sir, of the
Clarion
. He’s staying here, sir.”

“Singularly fortunate,” said Inspector Alleyn dryly.

“Yes, sir. Here he is, sir.”

Angela came downstairs with the doctor and with Nigel. She was extremely white and had about her the pathetic dignity of the very young when they meet disaster with fortitude. Inspector Alleyn met her at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,” he said, “but I understand from Doctor Young…”

“Not a bit,” said Angela. “We were expecting you. This is Mr. Bathgate, who has been very kind about telegraphing and helping us. He is — he is Mr. Rankin’s cousin.”

Nigel shook hands. Since he had seen Charles lying — empty, unmeaning, coldly remote — at his feet, he could feel neither sorrow, nor horror — not even pity; and yet he supposed he had been fond of Charles.

“I’m very sorry,” said Inspector Alleyn, “this must have been distressing for you. May we go and talk somewhere?”

“There’s no one in the drawing-room,” said Angela. “Shall we go in there?”

They sat in the drawing-room where Charles Rankin had danced a tango with Mrs. Wilde the previous afternoon. Between them Angela and Nigel recounted to the Inspector the history of the Murder Game.

Angela had time for a good long stare at her first detective. Alleyn did not resemble a plain-clothes policeman she felt sure, nor was he in the romantic manner — white-faced and gimlet-eyed. He looked like one of her Uncle Hubert’s friends, the sort that they knew would “do” for house-parties. He was very tall, and lean, his hair was dark, and his eyes grey with corners that turned down. They looked as if they would smile easily but his mouth didn’t. “His hands and his voice are grand,” thought Angela, and subconsciously she felt less miserable.

Angela told Nigel afterwards that she approved of Inspector Alleyn. He treated her with a complete absence of any show of personal interest, an attitude that might have piqued this modern young woman under less tragic circumstances. As it was, she was glad of his detachment. Little Doctor Young sat and listened, repeating every now and then his inarticulate consolatory noise. Alleyn made a few notes in his pocket-book.

“The parlour-game, you say,” he murmured, “was limited to five and a half hours — that is to say, it began at five-thirty, and should have ended before eleven— ended with the mock trial. The body was found at six minutes to eight. Doctor Young arrived some thirty minutes later. Just let me get that clear — I’ve a filthy memory.”

At this unorthodox and slightly unconvincing statement Doctor Young and Angela started.

“And now, if you please,” said the Inspector, “I should like to see the other members of the household, one by one, you know. In the meantime Doctor Young can take me into the study. Perhaps you and Miss North will find out if Sir Hubert is feeling up to seeing me.”

“Certainly,” agreed Angela. She turned to Nigel, “afterwards, will you wait for me?”

“I’ll wait for you, Angela,” said Nigel.

In the study Inspector Alleyn bent over the silent heaviness of Rankin’s body. He stared at it for a full two minutes, his lips closed tightly and a sort of fastidiousness winging the corners of his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes. Then he stooped and turning the body on to its side closely examined, without touching, the dagger that had been left there, still eloquent of the gesture that had driven it through Rankin’s bone and muscle into the citadel of his heart.

“You can be no end of a help to me here,” said Alleyn. “The blow, of course, came from above. Looks beastly, doesn’t it? The point entered the body as you see — here. Surely something of an expert’s job.”

The little doctor, who had been greatly chastened by the official rebuke on the subject of the removal of the body, leapt at the chance of re-establishing himself.

“Great force and, I should have thought, a considerable knowledge of anatomy are indicated. The blade entered the body to the right of the left scapula and between the third and fourth ribs, avoiding the spine and the vertebral border of the scapula. It lies at an acute angle and the point has penetrated the heart.”

“Yes, I rather imagined it had done that,” said Alleyn sweetly, “but mightn’t this have been due to — shall we say luck, possibly?”

“Possibly,” said the doctor stiffly. “I think not!”

The faintest hint of a smile crept into Alleyn’s eyes.

“Come on, Doctor Young,” he said quietly, “you’ve got your own ideas I see. What are they?”

The little doctor looked down his little nose and a glint of mild defiance hardened his uneventful face.

“I realize, of course, that under such very grave circumstances one should put a guard upon one’s tongue,” he said, “nevertheless, perhaps in camera, as it were…”

“Every detective,” remarked Alleyn, “has to acquire something of the attitude of the priest. ‘In camera’ let it be, Doctor Young.”

“I have only this to say. Before I arrived last night the body had been turned over and — and — gone over by a Russian gentleman who appears to be a medico. This in spite of the fact,” here Doctor Young’s accent became more definitely Northern, “that I was summoned immediately after the discovery. Possibly in Soviet Russia the finer shades of professional etiquette are not considered.”

Inspector Alleyn looked at him. “A considerable knowledge of anatomy, you said,” he murmured vaguely. “Ah well, we shall see what we shall see. How extraordinary it is,” he went on, gently laying Rankin down, “his face is quite inscrutable. If only something could be written there. I should like to see Sir Hubert now if that is possible.”

“I will ascertain,” said Doctor Young formally, and left Rankin and Alleyn alone in the study.

Handesley was already waiting in the hall. Nigel and Angela were with him. Nigel was perhaps more shocked by the change in his host and more alive to it than to anything else that had happened since Rankin’s death. Handesley looked ghastly. His hands were tremulous and he moved with a kind of controlled hesitancy.

Alleyn came into the hall and was formally introduced by little Doctor Young, who seemed to be somewhat nonplussed by the Inspector’s markedly Oxonian voice.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Handesley, “I am quite ready to answer any questions that you would like to put to me.”

“There are very few at the moment,” returned Alleyn. “Miss North and Mr. Bathgate have given me a clear account of what happened since yesterday afternoon. Could we, do you think, go into some other room?”

“The drawing-room is just here,” answered Handesley. “Do you wish to see us there in turn?”

“That will do splendidly,” agreed Alleyn.

“The others are in the library,” said Nigel. Handesley turned to the detective. “Then shall we go into the drawing-room?”

“I think I can ask you the few questions I want to put immediately. The others can come in there afterwards. I understand, Sir Hubert, that Mr. Rankin was an old friend of yours?”

“I have known him all his life — I simply cannot take it in — this appalling tragedy. It is incredible. We — we all knew him so well. It must have been someone from outside. It must.”

“How many servants do you keep? I should like to see them later on. But in the meantime if I may have their names.”

“Yes, of course. It is imperative that everyone should — should be able to give an account of himself. But my servants! I have had them for years, all of them. I can think of no possible motive.”

“The motive is not going to be one of the kind that socks you on the jaw. If I may have a list.”

“My butler is a Little Russian. He was my servant twenty years ago in Petersburg, and has been with me ever since.”

“He was well acquainted with Mr. Rankin?”

“Very well acquainted. Rankin has stayed here regularly for many years and has always been on excellent terms with my servants.”

“They tell me the dagger is of Russian origin.”

“Its history is Russian, its origin Mongolian,” said Sir Hubert. He briefly related the story of the knife.

“H’m,” said Alleyn. “Scratch a Russian and you use a Mongolian knife. Had your servant seen this delightful museum piece?”