“What’s the idea,” Skelton said, “keeping me back? I’ve got a home, same as everybody else. Though how the hell I’m going to get there’s nobody’s business.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a nuisance for you, I know, but it can’t be helped.”
“I don’t see why.”
The office door was opened from inside. Two constables came out with Breezy Bellairs hanging between them like a cumbersome puppet. His face was lividly pale, his eyes half open. He breathed stertorously and made a complaining noise like a wretched child. Dr. Curtis followed. Bonn and Hahn watched from inside the office.
“All right?” Alleyn said.
“He’ll do. We’ll just get him into his coat.”
They held Breezy up while Curtis, with difficulty, crammed him into his tight-fitting overcoat. During this struggle Breezy’s baton fell to the floor. Hahn came forward and picked it up. “You wouldn’t think,” Hahn said, contemplating it sadly, “how good he was. Not to look at him now.”
Dr. Curtis yawned. “These chaps’ll see him into his bed,” he said. “I’ll be off, if you don’t want me, Rory.”
“Right.” The dragging procession disappeared. Fox returned to the office and shut the door.
“That’s a nice way,” Skelton said angrily, “for a first-class band leader to be seen going home. Between a couple of flatties.”
“They’ll be very tactful,” Alleyn rejoined. “Shall we sit down?”
Skelton said he’d sat down for so long that his bottom was numb. “Let’s get cracking for God’s sake. I’ve had it. What’s the idea?”
Alleyn took out his notebook.
“The idea,” he said, “is further information. I think you can give it to us. By all means let’s get cracking.”
“Why pick on me? I know no more than the others.”
“Don’t you?” Alleyn said vaguely. He glanced up. “What’s your opinion of Lord Pastern as a tympanist?”
“Dire. What of it?”
“Did the others hold this opinion?”
“They knew. Naturally. It was a cheap stunt. Playing up the snob value.” He thrust his hands down in his pockets and began to walk to and fro, impelled, it seemed, by resentment. Alleyn waited.
“It’s when something like this turns up,” Skelton announced loudly, “that you see how rotten the whole set-up really is. I’m not ashamed of my work. Why the hell should I be? It interests me. It’s not easy. It takes doing and anybody that tells you there’s nothing to the best type of our kind of music talks through his hat. It’s got something. It’s clever and there’s a lot of hard thinking behind it.”
“I don’t know about music,” Alleyn said, “but I can imagine that from the technical point of view your sort can be almost purely intellectual. Or is that nonsense?”
Skelton glowered at him. “You’re not far out. A lot of the stuff we have to play is wet and corny, of course. They,” he jerked his head at the empty restaurant, “like it that way. But there’s other stuff that’s different. If I could pick my work I’d be in an oufit that went for the real McCoy. In a country where things were run decently I’d be able to do that. I’d be able to say: ‘This is what I can do and it’s the best I can do,’ and I’d be directed into the right channels. I’m a communist,” he said loudly.
Alleyn was suddenly and vividly reminded of Lord Pastern. He said nothing and after a pause Skelton went on.
“I realize I’m working for the rottenest section of a crazy society but what can I do? It’s my job and I have to take it. But this affair! Walking out and letting a dopey old dead beat of a lord make a fool of himself with my instruments, and a lot of dead beat effects added to them! Looking as if I like it! Where’s my self-respect?”
“How,” Alleyn asked, “did it come about?”
“Breezy worked it because…”
He stopped short and advanced on Alleyn. “Here!” he demanded. “What’s all this in aid of? What do you want?”
“Like Lord Pastern,” Alleyn said lightly, “I want the truth. Bellairs, you were saying, worked it because — of what?”
“I’ve told you. Snob value.”
“And the others agreed?”
“They haven’t any principles. Oh, yes. They took it.”
“Rivera, for instance, didn’t oppose the idea?”
Skelton flushed deeply. “No,” he said. Alleyn saw his pockets bulge as the hidden hands clenched. “Why not?” he asked.
“Rivera was hanging his hat up to the girl. Pastern’s stepdaughter. He was all out to make himself a hero with the old man.”
“That made you very angry, didn’t it?”
“Who says it made me angry?”
“Bellairs said so.”
“Him! Another product of our so-called civilization. Look at him.”
Alleyn asked him if he knew anything of Breezy’s use of drugs. Skelton, caught, as it seemed, between the desire of a zealot to speak his mind and an undefined wariness, said that Breezy was the child of his age and circumstances. He was a by-product, Skelton said, of a cynical and disillusioned social set-up. The phrases fell from his lips with the precision of slogans. Alleyn listened and watched and felt his interest stirring. “We all knew,” Skelton said, “that he was taking some kind of dope to keep him going. Even he knew — old Pastern. He’d nosed it out all right and I reckon he knew where it came from. You could tell. Breezy’s changed a hell of a lot. He used to be a nice sort of joker in a way. Bit of a wag. Always having us on. He got off-side with the Dago for that.”
“Rivera?”
“That’s right. Breezy used to be crazy on practical jokes. He’d fix a silly squeaker in one of the saxes or sneak a wee bell inside the piano. Childish. He got hold of Rivera’s p-a and fixed it with little bits of paper between the keys so’s it wouldn’t go. Only for rehearsal, of course. Rivera came out all glamour and hair oil and swung his p-a. Nothing happened. There was Breezy grinning like he’d split his face and the Boys all sniggering. You had to laugh. Rivera tore the place up: he went mad and howled out he’d quit. Breezy had a hell of a job fixing him. It was quite a party.
“Practical jokes,” Alleyn said. “A curious obsession, I always think.”
Skelton looked sharply at him. “Here!” he said. “You don’t want to get ideas. Breezy’s all right. Breezy wouldn’t come at anything like this.” He laughed shortly, and added with an air of disgust: “Breezy fix Rivera! Not likely.”
“About this drug habit — ” Alleyn began. Skelton said impatiently: “Well there you are! It’s just one of those things. I told you — we all knew. He used to go to parties on Sundays with some gang.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“No, I never asked. I’m not interested. I tried to tell him he was heading for a crash. Once. He didn’t like it. He’s my boss and I shut up. I’d have turned it up and gone over to another band but I’m used to working with these boys and they do better stuff than most.”
“You never heard where he got his drug, whatever it is?”
Skelton muttered, “I never heard. Naturally.”
“But you formed an opinion, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“Going to tell me about it?”
“I want to know what you’re getting at. I’ve got to protect myself, haven’t I? I like to get things straight. You’ve got some notion that because I looked at Pastern’s gun I might have shoved this silly umbrella what-have-you up the nuzzle. Why don’t you come to the point?”
“I shall do so,” Alleyn said. “I’ve kept you behind because of this circumstance and because you were alone with Lord Pastern for a short time after you left the platform and before he made his entrance. So far as I can see at the moment there is no connection between your possible complicity and the fact that Bellairs takes drugs. As a police officer I’m concerned with drug addicts and their source of supply. If you can help me with any information I’ll be grateful. Do you know, then, where Bellairs got whatever he took?”
Skelton deliberated, his brows drawn together, his lower lip thrust out. Alleyn found himself speculating about his background. What accumulation of circumstances, ill-adjustments or misfortunes had resulted in this particular case? What would Skelton have been if his history had been otherwise? Were his views, his truculence, his suspicions, rooted in honesty or in some indefinable sense of victimization? To what lengths would they impel him? And finally Alleyn asked himself the inevitable question: could this be a killer?