Death in a White Tie (12 page)

“There!” he said, “if you’re innocent you’re safe. As for this other mess you’ve got yourself into, stick to the truth and we’ll do what we can for you. Tell your mama the house is rid of us for the time being. Now, march!”

He turned Donald round, shoved him through the door, and slammed it behind him.

“Come on, Fox,” he said. “Pack up those things — the will and the notes. Ring up the Yard and see if the post-mortem report is through, tell them to look Withers up in the record, and if one of my men is free, send him straight off to Shackleton House, Leatherhead. He’d better take a search-warrant, but he’s not to use it without ringing me up first. If the place is locked up he’s to stay there and report to me by telephone. Tell him we want evidence of a gambling hell. Fix that while I see the men outside and then we’ll be off.”

“To see Withers?”

“Yes. To see Captain Maurice Withers who, unless I’m much mistaken, has added a gambling hell to his list of iniquitous sources of livelihood. My God, Fox, as someone was out for blood, why the hell couldn’t they widen their field to include Captain Maurice Withers? Come on.”

The report on the post-mortem was ready. Fox took it down over the telephone and he and Alieyn discussed it on their way to Sling Street.

“Dr Curtis,” said Fox, “says there’s no doubt that he was suffocated. They’ve found” — and here Fox consulted his book — “Tardieu’s ecchymosis on the congested lungs and on the heart. There were signs of fatty degeneration in the heart. The blood was dark-coloured and very liquid—”

“All right,” said Alieyn violently. “Never mind that. Sorry, Fox. On you go.”

“Well, sir, they seem to think that the condition of the heart would make everything much more rapid. That’s what you might call a merciful thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Barring the scar on the temple, Dr Curtis says there are no marks on the face. The mucous membrane in the fore-part of the palate is slightly congested. Posteriorly it is rather bleached. But there are no marks of violence.”

“I noticed that. There was no struggle. He was unconscious after the blow on the temple,” said Alieyn.

“That’s what Dr Curtis thinks.”

“This murderer knew what he was about,” said Alieyn. “Usually your asphyxiating homicide merchant goes in for a lot of unnecessary violence. You get marks round the mouth. Has Curtis any idea what was used?”

“He says possibly a plug of soft material introduced into the mouth and held over the nostrils.”

“Yes. Not Bunchy’s handkerchief. That was quite uncreased.”

“Perhaps his own handkerchief.”

“I don’t think so, Fox. I found a trace of fine black woollen fluff in the mouth.”

“The cloak?”

“Looks like it. It might be. One of the reasons why the cloak was got out of the way. By the way, Fox, did you get a report from that PC in Belgrave Square last night?”

“Yes. Nothing suspicious.”

They plodded on, working out lines to take in the endless interviews. They correlated, sorted and discussed each fragment of information. “Finding the pattern of the case,” Alleyn called it. A five minutes’ walk brought them to Sling Street and to a large block of rather pretentious service flats. They took the lift up to 110 and rang the bell.

“I’m going to take some risks here,” said Alleyn.

The door was opened by Captain Withers himself.

He said: “Good morning. Want to see me?”

“Good morning, sir,” said Alleyn. “Yes. You had our message just now, I hope. May we come in?”

“Certainly,” said Withers and walked away from the door with his hands in his pockets.

Alleyn and Fox went in. They found themselves in a mass-production furnished sitting-room with a divan bed against one wall, three uniform armchairs, a desk, a table and built-in cupboards. It had started off by being an almost exact replica of all the other “bachelor flats” in Grandison Mansions, but since it is impossible to live in any place without leaving some print of yourself upon it, this room bore the impress of Captain Maurice Withers. It smelt of hairwash, cigars and whisky. On one wall hung a framed photograph of the sort advertised in magazines as “artistic studio studies from the nude”. On the bookshelves guides to the Turf stood between shabby copies of novels Captain Withers had bought on the Riviera and, for some reason, troubled to smuggle into England. On a table by the divan bed were three or four medical text-books. “Donald Potter’s,” thought Alleyn. Through a half-open door Alleyn caught a glimpse of a small bedroom and a second masterpiece that may have been a studio study but appeared to be an exercise in pornographic photography.

Captain Withers caught Fox’s bland gaze directed at this picture and shut the bedroom door.

“Have a drink?” he said.

“No, thank you,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sit down then.”

Alleyn and Fox sat down, Fox with extreme propriety, Alleyn with an air of leisurely fastidiousness. He crossed one long leg over the other, hung his hat on his knee, pulled off his gloves, and contemplated Captain Withers. They made a curious contrast. Withers was the sort of man who breathes vulgarity into good clothes. His neck was too thick, his fingers too flat and pale and his hair shone too much; his eyes were baggy and his eyelashes were white. Yet in spite of these defects he was a powerful dominant animal with a certain coarse arrogance that was effective. Alleyn, by contrast, looked fine-drawn, a cross between a monk and a grandee. The planes of Alleyn’s face and head were emphatically defined, the bony structure showed clearly. There was a certain austerity in the chilly blue of his eyes and in the sharp blackness of his hair. Albrecht Dürer would have made a magnificent drawing of him, and Agatha Troy’s sketch portrait of Alleyn is one of the best things she has ever done.

Withers lit a cigarette, blew the smoke down his nose and said:

“What’s it all about?”

Fox produced his official notebook. Captain Withers eyed the letters M.P. on the cover and then looked at the carpet.

“First, if I may,” said Alleyn, “I should like your full name and address.”

“Maurice Withers and this address.”

“May we have the address of your Leatherhead house as well, please?”

“What the hell d’you mean?” asked Withers quite pleasantly. He looked quickly at the table by the divan and then full in Alleyn’s face.

“My information,” lied Alleyn, “does not come from the source you suppose, Captain Withers. The address, please.”

“If you mean Shackleton House, it is not mine. It was lent to me.”

“By whom?”

“For personal reasons, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“I see. Do you use it much?”

“Borrow it for week-ends sometimes.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn, “Now, if you please, I want to ask you one or two questions about this morning. The early hours of this morning.”

“Oh, yes,” said Withers, “I suppose you’re thinking of the murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Why, Bunchy Gospell’s.”

“Was Lord Robert Gospell a personal friend of yours, Captain Withers?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“I see. Why do you think he was murdered?”

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“I think so. Evidently you think so. Why?”

“Judging from the papers it looks like it.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Won’t you sit down, Captain Withers?”

“No, thanks. What about this morning?”

“When did you leave Marsdon House?”

“After the ball was over.”

“Did you leave alone?”

Withers threw his cigarette with great accuracy into a tin waste-paper bin.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can you remember who was in the hall when you went away?”

“What? I don’t know that I can. Oh, yes. I bumped into Dan Davidson. You know. The fashionable quack.”

“Is Sir Daniel Davidson a friend of yours?”

“Not really. I just know him.”

“Did you notice Lord Robert in the hall as you left?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“You went out alone. Did you take a taxi?”

“No. I had my own car. It was parked in Belgrave Road.”

“So you turned to the left when you went away from Marsdon House. That,” said Alleyn, “is what the murderer, if there is, as you say, a murderer, must have done.”

“Better choose your words a bit more carefully, hadn’t you?” enquired Captain Withers.

“I don’t think so. As far as I can see my remark was well within the rules. Did you see any solitary man in evening dress as you walked from Marsdon House to Belgrave Road? Did you overtake or pass any such person?”

Withers sat on the edge of the table and swung his foot. The fat on his thighs bulged through his plaid trouser leg.

“I might have. I don’t remember. It was misty.”

“Where did you go in your car?”

“To the Matador.”

“The night club in Sampler Street?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you meet anybody there?”

“About a hundred and fifty people.”

“I mean,” said Alleyn with perfect courtesy, “did you meet a partner there by arrangement?”

“Yes.”

“May I have her name?”

“No.”

“I shall have to find out by the usual routine,” murmured Alleyn. “Make a note of it will you, Fox?”

“Very good, Mr Alleyn,” said Fox.

“You can produce no witness to support your statement that you drove to the Matador from Marsdon House?”

The swinging foot was suddenly motionless. Withers waited a moment and then said: “No.”

“Perhaps your partner was waiting in your car, Captain Withers. Are you sure you did not drive her there? Remember there is a commissionaire at the Matador.”

“Is there?”

“Well?”

“All right,” said Withers. “I did drive my partner to the Matador but I shan’t give you her name.”

“Why not?”

“You seem to be a gentleman. One of the new breed at the Yard, aren’t you? I should have thought you’d have understood.”

“You are very good,” said Alleyn, “but I am afraid you are mistaken. We shall have to use other methods, but we shall find out the name of your partner. Have you ever studied wrestling, Captain Withers?”

“What? What the hell has that got to do with it?”

“I should be obliged if you would answer.”

“I’ve never taken it up. Seen a bit out East.”

“Ju-jitsu?”

“Yes.”

“Do they ever use the side of the hand to knock a man out? On one of the vulnerable points or whatever you call them? Such as the temple?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Have you any medical knowledge?”

“No.”

“I see some text-books over there by the bed.”

“They don’t belong to me.”

“To Mr Donald Potter?”

“That’s right.”

“He is living here?”

“You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you? You must be a bloody bad detective if you haven’t nosed that out.”

“Do you consider that you have a strong influence over Mr Potter?”

“I’m not a bear leader!”

“You prefer fleecing lambs, perhaps?”

“Is that where we laugh?” asked Withers.

“Only, I am afraid, on the wrong side of our faces. Captain Withers, do you recollect the Bouchier-Watson drug-running affair of 1924?”

“No.”

“You are fortunate. We have longer memories at the Yard. I am reminded of it this morning by certain notes left in his private papers by Lord Robert Gospell. He mentions the case in connection with recent information he gleaned about an illicit gambling club at Leatherhead.”

The coarse white hands made a convulsive movement which was immediately checked. Alleyn rose to his feet.

“There is only one other point,” he said. “I believe your telephone is disconnected. Inspector Fox will fix that. Fox, will you go out to the post office at the corner? Wait a second.”

Alleyn took out his notebook, scribbled: “Get Thompson to tail W at once,” and showed it to Fox. “Give that message, will you, and see that Captain Withers’s telephone is reconnected immediately. As soon as it’s through, ring me here. What’s the number?”

“Sloane 8405,” said Withers.

“Right. I’ll join you, Fox.”

“Very good, sir,” said Fox. “Good morning, sir.”

Withers did not answer. Fox departed.

“When your telephone is working again,” Alleyn said, “I would be glad if you’d ring up Mr Donald Potter to suggest that as his mother is in great distress, you think it would be well if he stayed with her for the time being. You will send his property to Cheyne Walk in a taxi.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I am warning you. You are in rather uncertain country at the moment, you know.”

Alleyn walked over to the divan bed and looked at the books.

“Taylor’s
Medical Jurisprudence
,” he murmured. “Is Mr Potter thinking of becoming a medical jurist?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Alleyn ruffled the pages of a large blue volume.

“Here we have the fullest information on asphyxia. Very interesting. May I borrow this book? I’ll return it to Mr Potter.”

“I’ve no objection. Nothing to do with me.”

“Splendid. Have you any objection to my looking at your dress clothes?”

“None,” said Withers.

“Thank you so much. If you wouldn’t mind showing them to me.”

Withers walked into the bedroom and Alleyn followed him. While Withers opened his wardrobe and pulled open drawers Alleyn had a quick look round the room. Apart from the photograph, which was frankly infamous, the only item of interest was a row of paper-bound banned novels of peculiar indecency and no literary merit whatsoever.

Withers threw a tail coat, a white waistcoat and a pair of trousers on the bed. Alleyn examined them with great care, smelt the coat and turned out the pockets, which were empty.

“Had you a cigarette-case?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“It’s in the next room.”

Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn, with a cat-like swiftness, looked under the bed and in at a cupboard door.

Withers produced a small, flat silver case.

“Is this the only case you possess?”

“It is.”

Alleyn opened it. The inside lid was inscribed: “Maurice from Estelle.” He returned it and took another from his pocket.

“Will you look at this case carefully, please, and tell me if you have seen it before?”

Withers took it. It was a thin, smooth, gold case, uninscribed, but with a small crest in one corner.

“Open it, will you, please?”

Withers opened it.

“Do you know it?”

“No.”

“You don’t by any chance recognise the crest?”

“No.”

“It is not Mr Donald Potter’s crest, for instance?”

Withers made a quick movement, opened his mouth, shut it again and said:

“It isn’t his. I’ve seen his. It’s on his links. They’re here somewhere.”

“May I see them?” said Alleyn, taking the case.

Withers crossed to the dressing-table. Alleyn rapidly wrapped his silk handkerchief round the case and put it in his pocket.

“Here they are,” said Withers.

Alleyn solemnly inspected Donald’s links and returned them.

The telephone rang in the next room.

“Will you answer it, please?” said Alleyn.