A Wreath for Rivera

“Would you say…” Fox began and was interrupted.

“I really wouldn’t say anything, Inspector. I’ve given you my opinion from the time I examined the poor devil… To go any further would be unprofessional and stupid. I simply wasn’t watching and therefore don’t remember. You’d better find somebody who did watch and does remember.”

Fox had raised his head and now looked beyond Dr. Allington to the door. His hand was poised motionless over his notebook. His jaw had dropped. Dr. Allington slewed round and was confronted with a very tall dark man in evening dress.

“I was watching,” said this person, “and I think I remember. Shall I try, Inspector?”

“Good Lor’!” Fox said heavily and rose. “Well, thank you, Dr. Allington,” he said. “I’ll have a typed statement sent round to you to-morrow. Would you be good enough to read it through and sign it if it’s in order? We’ll want you for the inquest, if you please.”

“All right. Thanks,” said Dr. Allington, making for the door, which the newcomer opened. “Thanks,” he repeated. “Hope you make a better fist of it than I did, what?”

“Most unlikely, I’m afraid,” the other rejoined pleasantly and closed the door after him. “You’re in for a party, Fox,” he said, and walked over to the body. Bailey, the finger-print expert, said, “Good evening, sir,” and moved away, grinning.

“If I may ask, sir,” said Fox, “how do you come to be in on it?”

“May I not take mine ease in mine restaurant with mine wife? Shall there be no more cakes and ale? None for you, at all events, you poor chap,” he said, bending over Rivera. “You haven’t got the thing out yet, I see, Fox.”

“It’s been dabbed and photographed. It can come out.”

Fox knelt down. His hand wrapped in his handkerchief closed round the object that protruded from Rivera’s chest. It turned with difficulty. “Tight,” he said.

“Let me look, may I?”

Fox drew back. The other knelt beside him. “But what is it?” he said. “Not an orthodox dart. There’s thread at the top. It’s been unscrewed from something. Black. Silver-mounted. Ebony, I fancy. Or a dark bronze. What the devil is it? Try again, Fox.”

Fox tried again. He twisted. Under the wet silk the wound opened slightly. He pulled steadily. With a jerk and a slight but horrible sound, the weapon was released. Fox laid it on the floor and opened out the handkerchief. Bailey clicked his tongue.

Fox said: “Will you look at that. Good Lord, what a set-up! It’s a bit of an umbrella shaft, turned into a dart or bolt.”

“A black and white parasol,” said his companion. Fox looked up quickly but said nothing. “Yes. There’s the spring clip, you see. That’s why it wouldn’t come out readily. An elaborate affair, almost a museum piece. The clip’s got tiny jewels in it. And, look, Fox.”

He pointed a long finger. Protruding from one end was a steel, about two inches long, wide at the base and tapering sharply to a point. “It looks like some awl or a stiletto. Probably it was originally sunk in a short handle. It’s been driven into one end of this bit of parasol shaft and sealed up somehow. Plastic wood, I fancy. The end of the piece of shaft, you see, was hollow. Probably the longer section of the parasol screwed into it and a knob or handle of some kind, in turn, was screwed on the opposite end.” He took out his notebook and made a rapid sketch which he showed to Fox. “Like this,” he said. “It’ll be a freak of a parasol. French, I should think. I remember seeing them in the enclosure at Longchamps when I was a boy. The shaft’s so thin that they have to put a separate section in to take the slip and groove. This is the section. But why in the name of high fantasy use a bit of parasol shaft as a sort of dagger?”

“We’ll have another shot of this, Thompson.” Fox rose stiffly and after a long pause said: “Where were you sitting, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Next door to the Pastern party. A few yards off the dais.”

“What a bit of luck,” said Fox simply.

“Don’t be too sure,” rejoined Chief Inspector Alleyn. He sat on the table and lit a cigarette. “This is no doubt a delicate situation, Br’er Fox. I mustn’t butt in on your job, you know.”

Fox made a short derisive noise. “You’ll take over, sir, of course.”

“I can at least make my report. I’d better warn you at the outset, I was watching that extraordinary chap Pastern most of the time. What a queer cup of tea it is, to be sure.”

“I suppose,” said Fox stolidly, “you’ll be telling me, sir, that you were his fag at Eton.”

Alleyn grinned at this jibe. “If I had been I should probably have spent the rest of my life in a lunatic asylum. No, I was going to say that I watched to the exclusion of the others. I noticed, for instance, that he really pointed his gun — a revolver of some sort — at this man and that he stood not more than seven feet off him when he did it.”

“This is more like it,” Fox said and reopened his book. “You don’t mind, Mr. Alleyn?” he added primly.