“No, nothing. You see, I was talking to Wilde all the time and his bath was running, too — I wouldn’t have been able to hear anything.”
“I understand Mrs. Wilde was in her room all this time. Do you remember hearing her voice?”
Nigel considered this carefully.
“Yes,” he said at last, “yes, I am positive I heard Mr. Wilde call out to her and I heard her answer him.”
“At what precise moment? Before or after the lights went out?”
Nigel sat on the bed with his head in his hands.
“I can’t be certain,” he said at last. “I’ll swear on oath I heard her voice and I think it was before and after the lights went out. Is it important?”
“Everything is important, but taken in conjunction with the icy Florence’s statement, your own is useful as a corroboration. Now, look here, show me Tokareff’s room, will you?”
“I think I know where it is,” said Nigel. He led the way down the passage into the back corridor and turned to the left. “Judging from my recollection of his vocal efforts, I should say this was it.”
Alleyn opened the door. The room was singularly tidy. The bed had been slept in, but was little disturbed. Dr. Tokareff would have appeared to have passed a particularly tranquil night. On the bedside table lay a Webster’s Dictionary and a well-thumbed copy of The Kreutzer Sonata in English.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn, “I can carry on here.”
Nigel withdrew, thankful to leave the atmosphere of official investigation and yet, paradoxically, conscious of a sense of thwarted curiosity.
Inspector Alleyn opened the wardrobe and drawers and noted down the contents, then turned his attention to the suitcase that had been neatly bestowed under one of the cupboards. In this he found a small leather writing case with a lock that responded at once to the attentions of a skeleton key. The case contained a number of documents typewritten in Russian, a few photographs, mostly of the doctor himself, and a small suède pouch in which he found a little seal set in a steel mount. Alleyn took it to the writing table, inked it and pressed it down on a piece of paper. It gave a tolerably clear impression of a long-bladed dagger. The Inspector whistled softly between his teeth and referring to the documents found a similar impression on many of the pages. He copied one or two sentences into his note-book, carefully cleaned the seal and replaced everything in the writing case, snapping the lock home and restoring the suitcase to its former position. Then he wrote a note in his little book, “Communicate with Sumiloff in re above” and with a final glance round, returned to the passage.
Next he went into Angela’s bedroom and then into Rosamund Grant’s. Finally he visited Sir Hubert Handesley’s bedroom, dressing-room, and bathroom. All these he subjected to a similar meticulous search, making a list of the clothes, going through the pockets, sorting, examining and restoring every movable and garment. He found little to interest him and had paused to light a cigarette in Handesley’s dressing-room, when a light rap on the door and a respectful murmur outside announced the presence of Detective-Constable Bailey.
Alleyn went out into the passage.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Bailey, “but I think I’ve got hold of something.”
“Where?”
“In the lady’s bedroom, sir. I’ve left it just as it is.”
“I’ll come,” said Alleyn.
They returned to Marjorie Wilde’s bedroom, passing Mary, all eyes, on the landing.
“Now then, Mary,” said Alleyn severely, “what are you doing up here? I thought I asked you all to stay in your own department for an hour.”
“Yes, sir. I’m that sorry, sir, but the master’s asked for ’is Norfick jacket wot’s got ’is pipe in it, sir, and Mr. Roberts ’e sent me up for it.”
“Tell Roberts I thought he understood my instructions. I will bring down the jacket myself for Sir Hubert.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Mary plaintively, and scuttled downstairs again.
“Well, Bailey, what is it?” asked the Inspector, shutting Mrs. Wilde’s door behind him.
“It’s this drawer-contraption here,” said Bailey, with his slightly disparaging air of social independence.
The six drawers of a Georgian tallboy were laid out neatly on the floor.
“You’ve no eye for antiques, Bailey,” said Inspector Alleyn. “That’s a very nice piece indeed.” He walked over to the empty carcass and stroked the top surface appreciatively.
“It’s a bit the worse for wear, however,” said Bailey. “The casing at the bottom’s hollow and there’s a hole in the inside lining. See, sir? Well, it seems to me someone’s been scuffling about in that bottom drawer and pushed a small soft object over the end of it. It’s fallen into the bottom. You can just touch it.”
Alleyn went down on his knees and thrust his fingers into the gap in the bottom of the tallboy.
“Give me that buttonhook on the table,” he said quickly.
Bailey handed it to him. In a few minutes the Inspector gave a grunt of satisfaction and fished up a soft smallish object. He dropped it on the floor and stared at it with extraordinary concentration. It was a woman’s yellow dogskin glove.
The Inspector took an envelope out of his pocket and from it he produced a discoloured and blistered press button to which a few minute particles of leather were still adhering. He laid it beside the fastening on their find and pointed his long finger at the floor.
The two buttons were identical.
“Not such a bad beginning, Bailey,” said Inspector Alleyn.
Chapter VII
Rankin Leaves Frantock
After a brief cogitation Alleyn went over to the writing-table and, laying the glove down, drew a chair up and sat in it, staring at his find as if it were some kind of puzzle for the correct solution of which a large prize was offered. He pursed his lips crookedly and twisted one long leg about the other. Finally, he took a rolled steel rule and a tape measure from his pocket and began to make elaborate measurements.
Bailey reassembled the tallboy, using methodical accuracy in the folding of each garment that it contained.
“Bring me one of the lady’s gloves, will you?” grunted Alleyn suddenly.
Bailey selected a delicate trifle of fawn-coloured suède and laid it on the writing-table.
“Looks several sizes smaller to me,” he said, and turned back to his job.
“It is smaller, but then it’s a different type,” rejoined the Inspector. “Your find is a sporting specimen. Mannish, tweeds-and-shooting-stick kind of thing. Indeed, a man with a moderate-sized hand could wear it.”
He smelt both the gloves, and looked for the makers’ names.
“Same shop,” he said, and fell to making further measurements and noting them down in his book.
“That’s that,” he said finally, and held out the suède glove to Bailey, who delicately replaced it.
“What about the other?” asked Bailey.
Alleyn deliberated.
“I think,” he said at last, “I think I’ll send it out to earn its keep. Have you finished in here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then carry on with the prints in the other rooms, will you? I’ll join you in Mr. Rankin’s room before lunch-time. Wait for me there.” He put the glove in his pocket and went downstairs.
The hall was deserted except for Mr. Bunce, who still kept watch and ward at the front door. Alleyn passed him and went into the entrance lobby. Mr. Bunce revolved and stared trance-like through the glass partition. What was the god up to now?
One or two outdoor coats hung in the lobby, together with a collection of sticks and a pair of goloshes. Alleyn examined all these depressing objects closely, feeling in the pockets, writing in his inevitable book. The breath of Mr. Bunce made a little mist upon the glass.