“Were any of the books damaged?”
“The one next the place was, sir. It was stained-like.”
“What book was that?”
“I never noticed the name, sir. It had brown paper on it. You couldn’t see.”
“Was there a red book there?”
“You mean the queer-looking old one. That hasn’t been there for a — well, for some time.”
“That’s the one we’re trying to trace, Elsie. You think it was not there that morning?”
“No, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t. You see that’s where it always stood, and I noticed it wasn’t there because I thought it was a pity because it wouldn’t have mattered if that old book had been marked because I didn’t know it was a valuable book, sir. I just laid the other one down by the fire to dry off and put it back again. I didn’t take the cover off because I didn’t like it. It was put on very neat with nice shiny paper.”
Alleyn glanced at Mr. Ogden, who turned bright pink.
“But it wasn’t the old book, sir. The old book was bigger and it hadn’t got a cover. Now I come to think of it, I remember I says to Mr. Ogden, I says: ‘Where’s the big red book?’ Didn’t I, sir? When you was looking through them to see the damage.”
“By heck, I believe she did,” shouted Mr. Ogden.
“Splendid, Elsie. So one way and another you’re absolutely certain there was no big red book?”
“Yes, sir, certain sure. There was just a row of five in brown paper covers and then the ones that are there now. I remember it all so distinct because that was the day before we went for our holidays, and I says I’d like to get things nice for a start off because Mr. Ogden was going to do for himself and get his meals out, and he’d been that kind, and it seemed such a pity like, anything should be missing, so I was quite anxious to make everything nice, so I did and so that’s how I remember.”
“Thank you very much indeed, Elsie.”
She went away in high feather.
“Just as well she didn’t look at the book, Mr. Ogden,” said Alleyn dryly. “Which was it? Petronius?”
“Ah, hell!” said Mr. Ogden.
“Well, Fox, we must go our ways.” Alleyn wandered over to the shelves. “M. de Ravigne certainly left his mark,” he said. “The stuff ran some way along. What was it?”
“A highball.”
“Ah, well,” said Alleyn, “we’ll have to find out what Mr. Garnette did with the Curiosities.”
“By God,” began Mr. Ogden violently, “if Garnette—”
He stopped short. “I ain’t saying a thing,” he added darkly.
“Come along, Fox,” said Alleyn. “We’ve kept Mr. Ogden too long already. I must present Elsie with the wherewithal for a new bonnet. She skipped away before I could do it. I’ll find her on the way down.”
They said good-bye. Elsie was hovering in the little hall. Alleyn winked at Fox who went on ahead. Alleyn joined him in the car five minutes later.
“Very talkative girl that,” said Fox dryly.
“She is. In addition to being swamped with thanks I’ve heard all about her sister’s miscarriage, the mystery of the drawing room poker (it seems Elsie suspects someone of chewing at the tip), her young man who is a terror for crime stories, how Mr. Ogden broke a Fyrexo pot and why Elsie likes policemen. She remembers the day Claude came for the books. She put them in his attaché-case for him. Ogden was out, as he said. Elsie says there were six, which is rum, as she spoke of five before that. What’s the time?”
“Five-thirty.”
“I made an appointment with young Pringle for six. I expect he’ll be in. Look here, Fox, I’ll drop you at Knocklatchers Row. If Garnette is in, ask him what he did with the book that night at Ogden’s. Go easy with him. It would be lovely to hear the truth for once from those perfect lips. He’ll swear he left it behind him, of course, but try and get some means of checking up on it. Then, if you’ve time, look up the unspeakable Claude. Ask him how many books he collected from Ogden for Garnette. He’ll probably say he’s forgotten, but ask him. Oh, and ask Garnette if he examined them when they came in. Will you do all that, Fox?”
“Right-oh, sir. What’s your view now? Things are a bit more shipshape, aren’t they?”
“They are, Fox, they are. It’s closing in. I’ve little doubt in my own mind now. Have you?”
“No. It looks as if you’re right.”
“We haven’t got enough for an arrest, of course. Still, the cable from Australia may bring forth fruits, and I’ll have to get in touch with Madame de Barsac. You were quite right. She’s in a nursing home. The telegram was from her housekeeper. I hope to heaven Cara Quayne’s letter has survived. I’ll ring up the Sûreté tonight. Old Sapineau is by way of being a pal of mine. Perhaps he can do something tactful for me. Here we are at Knocklatchers Row. In you go, Fox. It’s better I should see Pringle alone. I’ve got to convince him we know he came to this church on Sunday afternoon without giving away the source of information. I’ll have to bluff, and I can do that better without your eye on me. It may come to taking an extreme measure. Watkins and Bailey are meeting me there. I’ll be back at the Yard some time this evening. What a life, ye screeching kittens, what a life!”
Alleyn drove on to Lower Sloane Street, where he was joined by Detective-Sergeants Bailey and Watkins.
“Stay down opposite the door,” said Alleyn, “and try not to look like sleuths, there’s good fellows. If you see me come to the window, wander quietly upstairs. Hope it won’t be necessary.”
He went upstairs to the flat, where he found Maurice Pringle.
Maurice looked a pretty good specimen of a wreck. His face was the colour of wet cement, there were pockets of green plasticine under his eyes, and he had the general appearance of having spent the day on an unmade bed. Alleyn dealt roundly with him.
“Good evening, Mr. Pringle. You’re looking ill.”
“I’m feeling bloody if it’s of any interest,” said Maurice. “Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” Alleyn sat down and proceeded to look calmly and fixedly at Maurice.
“Well, what’s the matter?” demanded Maurice. “I suppose you haven’t come here to memorise my face, have you?”
“Partly,” said Alleyn coolly.
“What the devil do you mean? See here, Inspector Alleyn, if that’s your name, I’m about fed up with your methods. You’re one of the new gentlemen-police, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Alleyn.
“Well, what the hell are you?”
“Just police.”
“I’d be obliged,” said Maurice loftily, “if you’d get your business done as quickly as possible. I’m busy.”
“So am I, rather,” said Alleyn. “I should be delighted to get it over. May I be brief, Mr. Pringle?”
“As brief as you like.”
“Right. Who supplies you with heroin?”
“None of your cursed business. You’ve no right to ask questions of that sort. I’ll damn’ well report you.”
“Very good,” said Alleyn.
Maurice flung himself down in his chair, bit his nails and glowered.
“I wish to God I hadn’t told you,” he said.,
“Your behaviour and your looks sold me long before you did,” rejoined Alleyn.
Maurice suddenly flung his hands up to his face.
“If my manner is discourteous I must apologise,” Alleyn went on, “but this is a serious matter. You have deliberately lied to me. Please let me go on. You informed me that you spent Sunday afternoon with Miss Jenkins in Yeoman’s Row. That was a lie. You were seen in Knocklatchers Row on Sunday afternoon. You went into the House of the Sacred Flame. Am I right?”
“I won’t answer.”
“If you persist in this course I shall arrest you.”
“On what charge?”