There had been a tap at the door. It opened and Marco came in.
He was an unattractive shade of yellow but otherwise looked much as usual.
He said: “You rang, sir?”
“Yes,” Alleyn agreed. “I rang. I’ve one or two questions to ask you. First, about the photograph you took yesterday afternoon through the window of the concert chamber. Did you put the print in the letter-bag?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Yes, you do. You are Strix. You got yourself into your present job with the intention of following up your activities with the camera. Stop me if I’m wrong. But on second thoughts you’re more likely to stop me if I’m right, aren’t you? Did you see the advertisement for a personal servant for Mr. Reece in the paper? Did it occur to you that as a member of Mr. Reece’s entourage you would be able to learn a lot more about Madame Sommita’s programs for the day? On some occasion when she was accompanied by Mr. Reece or when Mr. Reece was not at home and you were not required, you would be able to pop out to a room you kept for the purpose, dress yourself up like a sore thumb, startle her, and photograph her with her mouth open looking ridiculous. You would hand the result in to the press and notch up another win. It was an impudently bold decision and it worked. You gave satisfaction as a valet and came here with your employer.”
Marco had assumed an air of casual insolence.
“Isn’t it marvelous,” he asked of nobody in particular and shrugged elaborately.
“You took yesterday’s photograph with the intention of sending it back to the Watchman and through them to the chain of newspapers with whom you’ve syndicated your productions. I know you did this. Your footprints are underneath the window. I fancy this was to be your final impertinence and that having knocked it off you would have given in your notice, claimed your money, retired to some inconspicuous retreat, and written your autobiography.”
“No comment,” said Marco.
“I didn’t really suppose there would be. Do you know where that photograph is now? Do you, Marco?”
“I don’t know anything about any — ing photograph,” said Marco, whose Italian accent had become less conspicuous and his English a good deal more idiomatic.
“It is skewered by a dagger to your victim’s dead body.”
“My victim! She was not my victim. Not—” He stopped.
“Not in the sense of your having murdered her, were you going to say?”
“Not in any sense. I don’t,” said Marco, “know what you’re talking about.”
“And I don’t expect there’ll be much trouble about finding your fingerprints on the glossy surface.”
Marco’s hand went to his mouth.
“Come,” Alleyn said, “don’t you think you’re being unwise? What would you say if I told you your room will be searched?”
“Nothing!” said Marco loudly. “I would say nothing. You’re welcome to search my room.”
“Do you carry the camera — is it a Strassman, by the way? — on you? How about searching you?”
“You have no authority.”
“That is unfortunately correct. See here, Marco. Just take a look at yourself. I shall tell the police what I believe to be the facts: that you are Strix, that you took the photograph now transfixed over Madame Sommita’s heart, that it probably carries your fingerprints. If it does not it is no great matter. Faced by police investigation, the newspapers that bought your photographs will identify you.”
“They’ve never seen me,” Marco said quickly and then looked as if he could have killed himself.
“It was all done by correspondence, was it?”
“They’ve never seen me because I’m not — I’ve never had anything to do with them. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Your Strix activities have come to an end. The woman you tormented is dead, you’ve made a packet and will make more if you write a book. With illustrations. The only thing that is likely to bother you is the question of how the photograph got from your camera to the body. The best thing you can do if you’re not the murderer of Isabella Sommita is help us find out who is. If you refuse, you remain a prime suspect.”
Marco looked from Troy to Dr. Carmichael and back to Troy again. It was as if he asked for their advice. Troy turned away to the studio window.
Dr. Carmichael said: “You’d much better come across, you know. You’ll do yourself no good by holding back.”
There was a long silence.
“Well,” said Marco at last and stopped.
“Well?” said Alleyn.
“I’m not admitting anything.”
“But suppose—?” Alleyn prompted.
“Suppose, for the sake of argument, Strix took the shot you talk about. What would he do with it? He’d post it off to the Watchman, at once, wouldn’t he? He’d put it in the mailbox to be taken away in the bag.”
“Or,” Alleyn suggested, “to avoid Mr. Hanley noticing it when he cleared the box, he might slip it directly into the mailbag while it was still unlocked and waiting in the study.”
“He might do that.”
“Is that what you’d say he did?”
“I don’t say what he did. I don’t know what he did.”
“Did you know the mailbag was forgotten last night and is still on the premises?”
Marco began to look very scared. “No,” he said. “Is it?”
“So if our speculation should turn out to be the truth: if you put the photograph, addressed to the Watchman, in the mailbag, the question is: who removed it? Who impaled it on the body? If, of course, you didn’t.”
“It is idiotic to persist in this lie. Why do you do it? Where for me is the motive? Suppose I were Strix? So. I kill the goose that lays the golden egg? Does it make sense? So: after all, the man who takes the photograph does not post it. He is the murderer and he leaves it on the body.”
“What is your surname?”
“Smith.”
“I see.”
“It is Smith,” Marco shouted. “Why do you look like that? Why should it not be Smith? Is there a law against Smith? My father was an American.”
“And your mother?”
“A Calabrian. Her name was Croce. I am Marco Croce Smith. Why?”
“Have you any Rossis in your family?”
“None. Again, why?”
“There is an enmity between the Rossis and Madame Sommita’s family.”
“I know nothing of it,” said Marco and then burst out, “How could I have done it? When was it done? I don’t even know when it was done, but all the time from when the opera is ended until Maria found her, I am on duty. You saw me. Everybody saw me. I wait at table. I attend in the hall. I go to and from the launch. I have alibis.”
“That may be true. But you may also have had a collaborator.”
“You are mad.”
“I am telling you how the police will think.”
“It is a trap. You try to trap me.”
“If you choose to put it like that. I want, if you didn’t do it, to satisfy myself that you didn’t. I want to get you out of the way. I believe you to be Strix, and as Strix I think your activities were despicable, but I do not accuse you of murder. I simply want you to tell me if you put the photograph in the postbag. In an envelope addressed to the Watchman.”
There followed a silence. The sun now shone in at the studio windows on the blank canvas and the empty model’s throne. Outside a tui sang: a deep lucid phrase, uncivilized as snow water and ending in a consequential clatter as if it cleared its throat. You darling, thought Troy, standing by the window, and knew that she could not endure to stay much longer inside this clever house with its arid perfections and its killed woman in the room on the landing.