“May I not take mine ease in mine restaurant with mine wife? Shall there be no more cakes and ale? None for you, at all events, you poor chap,” he said, bending over Rivera. “You haven’t got the thing out yet, I see, Fox.”
“It’s been dabbed and photographed. It can come out.”
Fox knelt down. His hand wrapped in his handkerchief closed round the object that protruded from Rivera’s chest. It turned with difficulty. “Tight,” he said.
“Let me look, may I?”
Fox drew back. The other knelt beside him. “But what is it?” he said. “Not an orthodox dart. There’s thread at the top. It’s been unscrewed from something. Black. Silver-mounted. Ebony, I fancy. Or a dark bronze. What the devil is it? Try again, Fox.”
Fox tried again. He twisted. Under the wet silk the wound opened slightly. He pulled steadily. With a jerk and a slight but horrible sound, the weapon was released. Fox laid it on the floor and opened out the handkerchief. Bailey clicked his tongue.
Fox said: “Will you look at that. Good Lord, what a set-up! It’s a bit of an umbrella shaft, turned into a dart or bolt.”
“A black and white parasol,” said his companion. Fox looked up quickly but said nothing. “Yes. There’s the spring clip, you see. That’s why it wouldn’t come out readily. An elaborate affair, almost a museum piece. The clip’s got tiny jewels in it. And, look, Fox.”
He pointed a long finger. Protruding from one end was a steel, about two inches long, wide at the base and tapering sharply to a point. “It looks like some awl or a stiletto. Probably it was originally sunk in a short handle. It’s been driven into one end of this bit of parasol shaft and sealed up somehow. Plastic wood, I fancy. The end of the piece of shaft, you see, was hollow. Probably the longer section of the parasol screwed into it and a knob or handle of some kind, in turn, was screwed on the opposite end.” He took out his notebook and made a rapid sketch which he showed to Fox. “Like this,” he said. “It’ll be a freak of a parasol. French, I should think. I remember seeing them in the enclosure at Longchamps when I was a boy. The shaft’s so thin that they have to put a separate section in to take the slip and groove. This is the section. But why in the name of high fantasy use a bit of parasol shaft as a sort of dagger?”
“We’ll have another shot of this, Thompson.” Fox rose stiffly and after a long pause said: “Where were you sitting, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Next door to the Pastern party. A few yards off the dais.”
“What a bit of luck,” said Fox simply.
“Don’t be too sure,” rejoined Chief Inspector Alleyn. He sat on the table and lit a cigarette. “This is no doubt a delicate situation, Br’er Fox. I mustn’t butt in on your job, you know.”
Fox made a short derisive noise. “You’ll take over, sir, of course.”
“I can at least make my report. I’d better warn you at the outset, I was watching that extraordinary chap Pastern most of the time. What a queer cup of tea it is, to be sure.”
“I suppose,” said Fox stolidly, “you’ll be telling me, sir, that you were his fag at Eton.”
Alleyn grinned at this jibe. “If I had been I should probably have spent the rest of my life in a lunatic asylum. No, I was going to say that I watched to the exclusion of the others. I noticed, for instance, that he really pointed his gun — a revolver of some sort — at this man and that he stood not more than seven feet off him when he did it.”
“This is more like it,” Fox said and reopened his book. “You don’t mind, Mr. Alleyn?” he added primly.
Alleyn said: “You’re gloating over this, aren’t you? Very well. They did a damn’ silly turn, revolving umbrellas and parasols like a bunch of superannuated chorus girls, and I noticed that one parasol, a very pansy Frenchified affair of black and white lace, seemed to be giving trouble. The chap had to shove his hand up to hold it.”
“Is that so?” Fox looked at Thompson. “You might get hold of the umbrella.” Thompson went out. Bailey moved forward with an insufflator and bent over the weapon.
“I’d better describe the final turn, I suppose,” said Alleyn and did so. His voice moved on quietly and slowly. Thompson returned with the black and white parasol. “This is it, sure enough, sir,” he said. “A section of the shaft’s gone. Look here! No clip anywhere to keep it shut.” He laid it beside the dart.
“Good enough,” Fox said. “Get your shots, will you.”
Thompson, having taken three further photographs of the weapon, folded it in the handkerchief and put it in Fox’s case. “I’ll fix it up with proper protection when we’re finished, Mr. Fox,” he said. On a nod from Fox, he and Bailey went out with their gear.
“… when the shot was fired,” Alleyn was saying, “he had swung round, facing Lord Pastern, with his back half turned to the audience and fully turned to the conductor. He was inclined backwards at a grotesque angle, with the instrument raised. He was directly under the point of the metronome, which was motionless. After the report he swung around still further and straightened up a bit. The piano-accordion, if that’s what it is, ran down the scale and let out an infernal bleat. His knees doubled and he went down on them, sat on his heels and then rolled over, fetching up on his back with his instrument between himself and the audience. At the same time one of the bandsmen aped being hit. I couldn’t see Rivera clearly because the spot light had switched to old Pastern, who, after a moment’s hesitation, loosed off the other rounds. Three more of the band chaps did comic staggers as if he’d hit them. Something seemed a bit out of joint here. They all looked as if they weren’t sure what came next. However, Pastern gave his gun to Bellairs, who pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. The last round had been used, so there was only a click. Bellairs registered disgust, broke the revolver, pocketed it and gestured as much as to say: ‘I’ve had it. Carry on,’ and Lord Pastern then went to market in a big way and generally raised hell. He looked extraordinary. Glazed eyes, sweating, half-smiling and jerking about over his drums. An unnerving exhibition from a middle-aged peer but of course he’s as mad as a March hare. Troy and I were snobbishly horrified. It was then that the metronome went into action in a blaze of winking lights. It’d been pointing straight down at Rivera before. A waiter chucked a wreath to the conductor, who knelt down by this chap Rivera and dumped it on his chest. He felt his heart and then looked closely at Rivera and bent over his body, groping inside the wreath. He turned in a startled sort of way to old Pastern. He said something to the blokes with the stretcher. The wreath hid the face and the accordion was half across the stomach. Bellairs spoke to the pianist and then to Lord Pastern, who went out with him when they finished their infernal din. I smelt trouble, saw a waiter speak to Allington and stop a chap in Lady Pastern’s party. I had a long argument with myself, lost it and came out here. That’s all. Have you looked at the revolver?”
“I’ve taken it off Bellairs. It’s in my pocket.” Fox put his glove on, produced the revolver and laid it on the table. “No known make,” he said.
“Probably been used for target-shooting,” Alleyn muttered. He laid the dart beside it. “It’d fit, Fox. Look. Had you noticed?”
“We haven’t got very far.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t know quite what line to take about all the folk in there.” Fox jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant.
“Better get names and addresses. The waiters can do it. They’ll know a lot of them already. They can say it’s a new police procedure on extension nights. It’s our good fortune, Br’er Fox, that the public will believe any foolishness if they are told we are the authors of it. The Pastern party had better be held.”