He was not in the habit of accepting invitations, and not much of a man for drinking-parties. But it is a good thing for a man in Turpin’s business to see a little of everything. Everything was experience, and experience sharpened the wits. The world was a great whirling grindstone upon which Turpin unostentatiously ground himself keener and keener like a headsman’s axe. ft was interesting, a Bohemian party like this: you never knew what you might find.
He was saying: ‘If it’s all the same to you, Miss, I think I’d just as soon have a glass of beer. If it’s not putting you to any inconvenience.’
Asta poured out a bottle of Bass, filling a glass with froth so that Turpin, wishing her good health and taking a polite sip, appeared for a moment to have become vulnerable yet dandified, with a neat little white moustache such as used to be worn by Mr Lewis Stone. Then she took him aside and whispered:
‘You know, I think the man who killed little Sonia Sabbatani must be here tonight.’
Detective-Inspector Turpin said: ‘Oh yes? Is that a fact?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘I’ve been working things out. Practically every man here tonight is a suspect. Practically everyone.’
Smiling, Turpin glanced at the crowd. At least sixty people were drinking great glasses of Schiff’s cloudy orange-coloured mixture.
‘While you’re about it, you might have invited the rest of London,’ said Turpin.
‘Why be more of an idiot than God made you, for God’s sake? Do you take me for a fool? The man who killed poor little Sonia was one of the Bar Bacchus crowd.’
‘You know that for a fact, I dare say?’
‘I’m absolutely sure of it.’
‘Well, no doubt you’ve got your very good reasons.’
‘Look here, Turpin, work it out for yourself —’
‘I wish I could work it out for myself, Miss Thundersley, but it isn’t my department. All the same, I’d like to hear what I’ve got to work out for myself, if you know what I mean.’
‘That poor little girl was enticed — lured — inveigled into the filthy coal-cellar of that horrible house. I’ve been a little girl myself. You’ve never been a little girl, Dick, so let me tell you. There isn’t one girl in a million who’d go with a stranger into a deserted house. So she must have known him. Well, how could she have known him? Through her father’s shop. Sam Sabbatani is one of those homely little tradesmen: his wife and kid were always in and out of the shop. Everyone who set foot in the place was one of the family. Poor Mrs Sabbatani is for ever bringing in cups of tea. She’s made that way. You know the type of person I mean. Well, as it happens, Sam made a bit of a connexion at the Bar Bacchus. He’s still got a little advertisement hung up there — done in red and black lettering, in a little brown frame. You know Gonger the barman? Well, Sam Sabbatani made an arrangement with him — Gonger displayed Sam’s showcard, and Sam pressed Gonger’s suits and kept him in white jackets. You ask Gonger, you ask Sam Sabbatani. Most of Sam’s customers came from the Bar Bacchus. Work it out, Turpin, work it out!’
‘There isn’t anything to work out,’ said Turpin, smiling.
It was then that Cigarette, looking hostile, spoke of Dicks, or detectives.
A waiter, observing that her glass was empty, paused with a tray of full glasses. Cigarette took one and put back the glass she had emptied, saying: ‘There’s more in this stuff than meets the eye, comrade.’
Then she gulped about a quarter of a pint of Schiff’s Form ule, and became angry. She strode over to Detective-Inspector Turpin, knocking down a little three-legged table on her way, and cried:
‘How dare you come here? You copper’s nark, you dirty little bogey! What are you doing in the company of decent human beings! You filthy bloodhound, why aren’t.you out? Why aren’t you out hunting; why aren’t you out hunting better men to death, you stinking dirty wolf? You murdered Chicken Eyes Emerald. You murdered him! You dirty coward! You wouldn’t have dared to meet him face to face as man to man — no, no, you had to be mob-handed, you beast, with thousands of coppers behind you, all hunting down one man. You hound! And I suppose you’ve come here to gloat, to show off! You —’
‘— Cigarette, shut up,’ said Asta.
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m your guest,’ said Cigarette. ‘But I won’t shut up! Christ Almighty, instead of hounding better men to death, why don’t these bastards go out and find out who killed that little girl?’
‘All right,’ said Detective-Inspector Turpin, ‘take it easy, just take it easy.’
He took a full glass from a passing waiter, handed it tc Cigarette, and said: ‘Let’s have a drink.’
She drank, and she melted. Looking sideways at Turpin through her eyelashes she said, in a different voice: ‘I’m sorry. I behaved like a perfect pig. You won’t believe me, but ordinarily I have quite good manners. I don’t know what came over me. Will you forgive me? Do, please, say you forgive me.’
‘Nothing to forgive, I’m sure.’
‘Call me Cigarette. Everybody calls me Cigarette. Do please forget what I said. I didn’t mean a word of it.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Do you know me?’
Turpin knew her; but he said: ‘I can’t say I’ve had the privilege.’
‘I was Chicken’s girl. Does that convey anything to you?’
‘Ah-ha?’
‘He was a rat, you know.’
‘So?’
‘But I loved him. I loved him, Turpin!’
‘It’s all over now,’ said Turpin. ‘Be sociable, eh?’
‘I like you, Turpin. Turpin, tell me all about yourself.’
‘_You’ve_ just told me.’
‘What’s your wife like?’
‘What makes you ask, miss?
‘Do you make love to her often, Turpin?’ asked Cigarette.
‘Why don’t you finish that nice drink?’
‘Oh, Turpin, Turpin, I do think you’re pretty terrific! You know, for a little while I hated you. But now I think you’re pretty damned fine. Do you know what? My father used to hunt silly little foxes. But you, you hunt real live men. My God, Turpin, it takes something to hunt down a man like the Chicken — it does! He was a man! … And you’re a better man …’ said Cigarette, with certain inward explosions that presaged hysterics. ‘You’re a — ha-hup, ha-hup —’
‘You can cut that out,’ said Detective-Inspector Turpin, in an undertone like cracked ice made articulate. ‘I’ve heard it all before. Have another drink and get properly drunk, and go home and sleep; and get up, and get drunk again to-morrow, and go to sleep again. But just for now be quiet. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Cigarette, quietly crying.
Turpin side-stepped like a boxer and disappeared into the thickening crowd.
‘Turp! … Turp!’ cried Cigarette, in a gulping voice. ‘Stand by me, Turp! Let’s play games, Turp — I’ll hide, and you’ve got to find me —’
A waiter was passing. She exchanged her half-empty glass for a full one. There was a numbness in her cheeks. None of Asta’s guests was quite sober now.
34
Oonagh Scripture was leaning upon Sinclair Wensday, who was caressing her shoulder and exchanging glances with a fat, towheaded girl whom nobody knew. His wife Avril was watching him with her right eye and ogling Alan Shakespeare with her left: from time to time they exchanged a look of quiet hate. Muriel, having recognized the Murderer, had rushed across the room to embrace him; but he was deep in conversation with Thea Olivia now, together with Hemmeridge, Graham Strindberg, and Mothmar Acord. Milton Catt intercepted her: they embraced. Tony Mungo clutched her wrist and kissed it; Geezle bowed. Roget, demonstrating a trick with a tray and three glasses, made a clang and a clash; and then Sir Storrington Thirst made noise and mess scraping up glass and drink with a fire-shovel. Ayesha Babbington had interested herself in the trapezius-muscies of Milton Catt, who at the same time was being palpated by Shocket the Bloodsucker, who was saying: ‘Train! Train! May my mother, God rest her dear soul, rot in hell — may my children, God bless them, be given to Narzy Degenerates — I’ll make you light-heavyweight champion. It’s an offer. May I go blind and paralysed if I die! May my wife and children go deaf and dumb and blind and paralysed! Would I say this if I didn’t mean it?’