“I had a great-aunt who left all her money to a muffin-man with coloured blood,” said Alleyn. “She was undoubtedly bats. Otherwise I have nothing to tell you, Dr. Roberts.”
Roberts listened to this gravely and continued his harangue. By the time it was over Alleyn felt that he had heard most of the theories propounded at the International Congress on Sex Reform and then some more. They were interrupted by the man-servant, who came in to announce dinner.
“Inspector Alleyn will dine,” said Roberts impatiently.
“No — really,” said Alleyn. “Thank you so much, but I must go. I’d love to, but I can’t.” The man went out.
“Why not?” asked Roberts rather huffily.
“Because I’ve got a murder to solve.”
“Oh,” he said, rather nonplussed and vexed. Then as this remark sank in, his former manner returned to him. He eyed Alleyn nervously, blinked, and got to his feet.
“I am sorry. I become somewhat absorbed when my pet subject is under discussion.”
“I too have been absorbed,” Alleyn told him. “You must forgive me for staying so long. I may have to reconstruct the operation — perhaps if I do you will be very kind and help me by coming along?”
“I — yes, if it is necessary. It will be very distasteful.”
“I know. It may not be necessary, but if it is— ”
“I shall do my part, certainly.”
“Right. I must bolt. This has been an unpropitious sort of introduction, Dr. Roberts, but I hope I may be allowed to renew our talk without prejudice some time. The average bloke’s ignorance of racial problems is deplorable.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Roberts crisply. “It’s lamentable — criminal. I should have thought in your profession it was essential to understand at least the rudiments of the hereditary problem. How can you expect— ” He scolded on for some time. The servant looked in, cast up his eyes in pious resignation and waited. Roberts gave Alleyn his book. “It’s the soundest popular work on the subject, though I do not pretend to cover a fraction of the ground. You’d better come back here when you’ve read it.”
“I will. Thank you a thousand times,” murmured the inspector and made for the door. He waited until the servant had gone into the hall and then turned back.
“Look here,” he said quietly. “Can I take it you think the man committed, suicide?”
Again Roberts turned into a rather frightened little man.
“I can’t say — I–I sincerely hope so. In view of his history, I think it’s quite possible — but, of course, the drug — hyoscine — it’s very unusual.” He stopped and seemed to think deeply for a moment, Then he gave Alleyn a very earnest and somehow pathetic look. “I hope very much indeed that it may be found to be suicide,” he said quietly. “The alternative is quite unthinkable. It would cast the most terrible slur conceivable upon a profession of which I am an insignificant unit, but which I deeply revere. I would hold myself in part responsible. Self-interest is at the bottom of most motives, they say, but something more than self-interest, I think, prompts me to beg most earnestly that you explore the possibility of suicide to its utmost limit. I have kept you too long. Good night, Inspector Alleyn.”
“Good night, Dr. Roberts.”
Alleyn walked, slowly down Wigmore Street. He reflected that in some ways his last interview had been one of the oddest in his experience. What a curious little man! There had been no affectation in that scientific outburst. The inspector could recognise genuine enthusiasm when he met it. Roberts was in a blue funk over the O’Callaghan business, yet the mere mention of his pet subject could drive any feeling of personal danger clean out of his head. “He’s very worried about something, though,” thought Alleyn, “and it rather looks as thought it’s Phillips. Phillips! Damn. I want my Boswell. Also, I want my dinner.”
He walked to Frascati’s and dined alone, staring so fixedly at the tablecloth that his waiter grew quite nervous about it. Then he rang up Fox and gave him certain instructions, after which he took a taxi to Chester Terrace to call on his Boswell.
“And I suppose the young ass will be out,” thought Alleyn bitterly.
But Nigel Bathgate was at home. When the front door opened Alleyn heard the brisk patter of a typewriter. He walked sedately upstairs, pushed open the sitting-room door and looked in. There was Nigel, seated bloomily at his machine, with a pile of copy-paper in a basket beside it.
“Hullo, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Busy?”
Nigel jumped, turned in his chair, and then grinned.
“You!” he said happily. “I’m glad to see you, inspector. Take a pew.”
He pushed forward a comfortable chair and clapped down a cigarette-box on the broad arm. The telephone rang. Nigel cursed and answered it. “Hullo!” A beatific change came over him. “Good evening, darling.” Alleyn smiled. “Who do you imagine I’ve got here? An old friend of yours. Inspector Alleyn. Yes. Why not hop into a taxi and pay us a visit? You will? Splendid. He’s probably in difficulties and wants our help. Yes. Right.” He hung up the receiver and turned, beaming, to Alleyn.
“It’s Angela,” he said. Miss Angela North was Nigel’s betrothed.
“So I imagined,” remarked the inspector. “I shall be delighted to see the minx again.”
“She’s thrilled at the prospect herself,” Nigel declared. He made up the fire, glanced anxiously at his desk and made an effort to tidy it
“I’ve just been writing you up,” he informed Alleyn.
“What the devil do you mean? What have I got to do with your perverted rag?”
“We’re hard up for a story and you’ve got a certain news value, you know. ‘The case is in the hands of Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn, the most famous crime expert of the C.I.D. Inspector Alleyn is confident— ’ Are you confident, by the way?”
“Change it to ‘inscrutable.’ When I’m boxed I fall back on inscrutability.”
“Are you boxed?” asked Nigel. “That, of course, is why you’ve come to me. What can I do for you, inspector?”
“You can take that inordinately conceited look off your face and compose it into its customary mould of startled incredulity. I want to talk and I can think of no one who would really like to listen to me. Possibly you yourself are too busy?”
“I’ve finished, but wait until Angela comes.”
“Is she to be trusted? All right, all right.”
Nigel spent the next ten minutes telling Alleyn how deeply Miss Angela North was to be trusted. He was still in full swing when the young woman herself arrived. She greeted Alleyn as an old friend, lit a cigarette, sat on the hearth, and said:
“Now — what have you both been talking about?”
“Bathgate has talked about you, Miss Angela. I have not talked.”
“But you will. You were going to, and I can guess what about. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Can Bathgate manage that?”
“He’ll have to.”
“I won’t look at her,” said Nigel.
“You’d better not,” said Angela. “Please begin, Inspector Alleyn.”
“Speak!” said Nigel.
“I will. List, list, oh list.”
“I will.”
“Don’t keep interrupting. I am engaged on a murder case in which the victim is not a relation of yours, nor yet, as far as I know, is the murderer your friend. In view of our past experiences, this is very striking and remarkable.” [See Enter a Murderer and A Man Lay Dead.]
“Come off the rocks. I suppose you mean the O’Callaghan business?”
“I do. The man was murdered. At least three persons assisting at his operation had sufficient motive. Two of them had actually threatened him. No, that is not for publication. No, don’t argue. I’ll let you know when it is. I have reached that stage in the proceedings when, like heroines in French dramas, I must have my confidante. You are she. You may occasionally roll up your eyes and exclaim ‘Hélas, quelle horreur!’ or, if you prefer it, ‘Merciful Heaven, can I believe my ears?’ Otherwise, beyond making sympathetic noises, don’t interrupt.”