A Wreath for Rivera

“How did it happen?” Edward asked.

“Look,” Lord Pastern said.

Edward crossed the room. “You must not touch him,” Caesar Bonn gabbled. “Excuse me, sir, forgive me. Dr. Allington has said at once, he must not be touched.”

“I’m not going to touch him.”

He bent down. Rivera lay on the floor. His long figure was stretched out tidily against the far wall. Near the feet lay the comic wreath of flowers and a little farther off, his piano-accordion. Rivera’s eyes were open. His upper lip was retracted and the teeth showed. His coat was thrown open and the surface of his soft shirt was blotted with red. Near the top of the blot a short dark object stuck out ridiculously from his chest.

“What is it? It looks like a dart.”

“Shut that door,” Bonn whispered angrily. Hahn darted to the communicating door and shut it. Just before he did so, Edward heard the man at the telephone say: “In the office. I’ll wait for you, of course.”

“This will ruin us. We are ruined,” said Bonn.

“They will think it an after-hours investigation, that is all,” said Hahn. “If we keep our heads.”

“It will all come out. I insist we are ruined.”

In a voice that rose to a weak falsetto, Breezy said: “Listen boys. Listen Caesar, I didn’t know it was that bad. I couldn’t see. I wasn’t sure. I can’t be blamed for that, can I? I passed the word something was wrong to the Boys. It wouldn’t have made any difference if I’d acted different, would it, Dave? They can’t say anything to me, can they?”

“Take it easy, old man.”

“You did right,” Bonn said, vigorously. “If you had done otherwise — what a scene! What a debacle! And to no purpose. No, no, it was correct.”

“Yes, but look, Caesar, it’s terrible, the way we carried on. A cod funeral march and everything. I knew it was unlucky. I said so when he told me he wanted the other routine. All the Boys said so!” He pointed a quivering finger at Lord Pastern. “It was your idea. You wished it on us. Look where it’s landed us. What a notion, a cod funeral march!”

His mouth sagged and he began to laugh, fetching his breath in gasps and beating on the table.

“Shut up,” said Lord Pastern, irritably. “You’re a fool.”

The door opened and the man with the eyeglass came in. “What’s all this noise?” he asked. He stood over Breezy. “If you can’t pull yourself together, Mr. Bellairs,” he said, “we shall have to take drastic steps to make you.” He glanced at Bonn. “He’d better have brandy. Can you beat up some aspirin?”

Hahn went out. Breezy sobbed and whispered.

“The police,” said the man, “will be here in a moment. I shall, of course, be required to make a statement.” He looked hard at Edward. “Who is this?”

“I sent for him,” said Lord Pastern. “He’s with my party. My cousin, Ned Manx, Dr. Allington.”

“I see.”

“I thought I’d like to have Ned,” Lord Pastern added wistfully.

Dr. Allington turned back to Breezy and picked up his wrist. He looked sharply at him. “You’re in a bit of a mess, my friend,” he remarked.

“It’s not my fault. Don’t look at me like that. I can’t be held responsible, my God.”

“I don’t suggest anything of the sort. Is brandy any good to you? Ah, here it is.”

Hahn brought it in. “Here’s the aspirin,” he said. “How many?” He shook out two tablets. Breezy snatched the bottle and spilt half a dozen on the table. Dr. Allington intervened and gave him three. He gulped them down with the brandy, wiped his face over with his handkerchief, yawned and shivered.

Voices sounded in the outer office. Bonn and Hahn moved towards Breezy. Lord Pastern planted his feet apart and lightly flexed his arms. This posture was familiar to Edward. It usually meant trouble. Dr. Allington put his glass in his eye. Breezy made a faint whispering.

Somebody tapped on the door. It opened and a thick-set man with grizzled hair came in. He wore a dark overcoat, neat, hard and unsmart, and carried a bowler hat. His eyes were bright and he looked longer and more fixedly than is the common habit at those he newly encountered. His sharp impersonal glance dwelt in turn upon the men in the room and upon the body of Rivera, from which they had stepped aside. Dr. Allington moved out from the group.

“Trouble here?” said the newcomer. “Are you Dr. Allington, sir? My chaps are outside. Inspector Fox.”

He walked over to the body. The doctor followed him and they stood together, looking down at it. Fox gave a slight grunt and turned back to the others. “And these gentlemen?” he said. Caesar Bonn made a dart at him and began to talk very rapidly.

“If I could just have the names,” said Fox and took out his notebook. He wrote down their names, his glance resting longer on Breezy than upon the others. Breezy lay back in his chair and gaped at Fox. His dinner-jacket with its steel buttons sagged on one side. The pocket was dragged down.

“Excuse me, sir,” Fox said, “are you feeling unwell?” He stooped over Breezy.

“I’m shot all to hell,” Breezy whimpered.

“Well, now, if you’ll just allow me…” He made a neat unobtrusive movement and stood up with the revolver in his large gloved hand.