“And if something we have not in the least anticipated turns up?”
Raoul laughed softly in the dark: “One must then use one’s wits, Monsieur.”
“Good, shall we start?”
They walked together up the steep incline to the platform.
A goods train came puffing up from Douceville. The glow from the engine slid across the lower walls and bastions of the Chèvre d’Argent. Behind the silk blind a dim light burned: a much fainter light than the one they had seen from the window of their own train. Higher up, at odd intervals in that vast façade, other windows glowed or flickered where candles had been placed or were carried from one room to another.
The train tooted and clanked into the tunnel.
It was quite cold on the platform. A mountain breeze cut across it and lent credibility to the turned-up collar of Alleyn’s raincoat and the scarf across his mouth. The passage was almost pitch dark but they thought it better not to use a torch. They slipped and stumbled on wet and uneven steps. The glow from old Marie’s door was a guide. As they passed by she shouted from behind the oil-lamp: “Hola, there! Is it still raining?”
Raoul said quietly: “The stars are out. Good night, Marie,” and they hurried into the shadows. They heard her shouting jovially after them: “Give her something to keep out the cold.”
“She speaks of Teresa,” Raoul whispered primly. “There is a hint of vulgarity in Marie.”
Alleyn stifled a laugh. They groped their way round a bend in the passage, brushing their hands against damp stone. Presently an elegant design of interlaced rosettes appeared against a background of reflected warmth. It was the wrought-iron gate of the Chèvre d’Argent.
“As quick as we dare,” Alleyn whispered.
The passage glinted wet before the doorway. The soles of his shoes were like glass. He poised himself and moved lightly forward. As he entered the patch of light he heard a slither and an oath. Raoul hurtled against him, throwing him off his balance. He clung to the gate while Raoul, in a wild attempt to recover himself, clutched at the nearest object.
It was the iron bell-pull.
The bell gave tongue with a violence that was refracted intolerably by the stone walls.
Three cabbages rolled down the steps. Raoul by some desperate effort still clung to the basket with one hand and to the bell-pull with the other.
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” he stammered.
“Go on,” Alleyn said. “Go on!”
Raoul let go the bell-pull and a single note fell inconsequently across the still-echoing clangour. He plunged forward and was lost in shadow.
Alleyn turned to face the door.
“Why, if it’s not Mr. Alleyn!” said Mr. Oberon.
ii
He stood on the far side of the door with his back to a lighted candelabrum that had been set down on a chest in the entry. Little could be seen of him but his shape, enveloped in his white gown with the hood drawn over his head. He moved towards the door and his hands emerged and grasped two of the iron bars.
Alleyn said: “I’m afraid we made an appalling din. My chauffeur slipped and grabbed your bell-pull.”
“Your chauffeur?”
“He’s taken himself off. I fancy he knows one of your maids. He had some message for her, it seems.”
Mr. Oberon said, as if to explain his presence at the door “I am waiting for someone. Have you seen—” He paused and shifted his hands on the bars. His voice sounded out of focus. “Perhaps you met Ginny. Ginny Taylor? And Robin Herrington? We are a little anxious about them.”
“No,” Alleyn said. “I didn’t see them. I came to ask about Miss Truebody.”
Mr. Oberon didn’t move. Alleyn peered at him. “How is she?” he asked.
Mr. Oberon said abruptly: “Our telephone has been out of order since yesterday afternoon. Do forgive me. I am a little anxious, you know.”
“How is Miss Truebody?”
“Alas, she is dead,” said Mr. Oberon.
They faced each other like actors in some medieval prison scene. The shadow of twisted iron was thrown across Alleyn’s face and chest.
“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “I may come in for a moment.”
“But, of course. How dreadful of me! We are all so distressed. Mahomet!”
Evidently the Egyptian servant had been waiting in the main hall. He unlocked the door, opened and stood aside. When Alleyn had come in he relocked the door.
With the air of having arrived at a decision, Mr. Oberon led the way into the great hall. Mahomet came behind them bringing the candelabrum, which he set down on a distant table. In that vast interior it served rather to emphasize the dark than relieve it.
“Monsieur,” said Mahomet in French, “may I speak?”
“Well?”
“There is a message brought by a peasant from Mr. Herrington. He has had trouble with his auto. He is getting a taxi. He and Mlle. Taylor will arrive in time for the ceremony.”
“Ah!” It was a long-drawn out sigh. “Who took the message?”
“The girl Teresa, who was on her way to catch the omnibus. The peasant would not wait so the girl returned with the message. Miss Taylor also sent a message. It was that Monsieur must not trouble himself. She will not fail the ceremony. She will go immediately to her room.”
“Is all prepared?”
“All is prepared, Monsieur.”
Mr. Oberon raised his hand in dismissal. Mahomet moved away into the shadows. Alleyn listened for the rattle of curtain rings but there was no other sound than that of Mr. Oberon’s uneven breathing. “Forgive me again,” he said, coming closer to Alleyn. “As you heard it was news of our young people.”
“I’m afraid my French is too rudimentary for anything but the most childish phrases.”
“Indeed? It appears they have had a breakdown but all is now well.”
Alleyn said: “When did Miss Truebody die?”
“Ah, yes. We are so sorry. Yesterday afternoon. We tried to get you at the hotel, of course, but were told that you had gone to St. Céleste for a few days.”
“We changed our plans,” Alleyn said. “May I speak to Dr. Baradi?”
“To Ali? I am not sure — I will enquire — Mahomet!”
“Monsieur?” said a voice in the shadows.
“Tell your master that the English visitor is here. Tell him the visitor knows that his compatriot has left us.”
“Monsieur.”
The curtain rings jangled together.
“He will see if our friend is at home.”
“I feel,” Alleyn said, “that I should do everything that can be done. In a way she is our responsibility.”
“That is quite wonderful of you, Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Oberon, who seemed to have made a return to his normal form. “But I already sensed in you a rare and beautiful spirit. Still, you need not distress yourself. We felt it our privilege to speed this soul to its new life. The interment is tomorrow at three o’clock. Anglican. I shall, however, conduct a little valedictory ceremony here.”
The curtain rings clashed again. Alleyn saw a large whiteness move towards them.
“Mr. Allen?” said Baradi, looming up on the far side of the candelabrum. He wore a white robe and his face was a blackness within the hood. “I am so glad you’ve come. We were puzzled what to do when we heard you had gone to St. Celeste.”
“Fortunately there was no occasion. We ran Ricky to earth, I’m glad to say.”
They both made enthusiastic noises. They were rejoiced. An atrocious affair. Where had he been found?
“In the chemical factory, of all places,” Alleyn said. “The police think the kidnappers must have got cold feet and dumped him there.” He allowed their ejaculations a decent margin and then said: “About poor Miss Truebody—”