A Wreath for Rivera

Alleyn said: “You’re gloating over this, aren’t you? Very well. They did a damn’ silly turn, revolving umbrellas and parasols like a bunch of superannuated chorus girls, and I noticed that one parasol, a very pansy Frenchified affair of black and white lace, seemed to be giving trouble. The chap had to shove his hand up to hold it.”

“Is that so?” Fox looked at Thompson. “You might get hold of the umbrella.” Thompson went out. Bailey moved forward with an insufflator and bent over the weapon.

“I’d better describe the final turn, I suppose,” said Alleyn and did so. His voice moved on quietly and slowly. Thompson returned with the black and white parasol. “This is it, sure enough, sir,” he said. “A section of the shaft’s gone. Look here! No clip anywhere to keep it shut.” He laid it beside the dart.

“Good enough,” Fox said. “Get your shots, will you.”

Thompson, having taken three further photographs of the weapon, folded it in the handkerchief and put it in Fox’s case. “I’ll fix it up with proper protection when we’re finished, Mr. Fox,” he said. On a nod from Fox, he and Bailey went out with their gear.

“… when the shot was fired,” Alleyn was saying, “he had swung round, facing Lord Pastern, with his back half turned to the audience and fully turned to the conductor. He was inclined backwards at a grotesque angle, with the instrument raised. He was directly under the point of the metronome, which was motionless. After the report he swung around still further and straightened up a bit. The piano-accordion, if that’s what it is, ran down the scale and let out an infernal bleat. His knees doubled and he went down on them, sat on his heels and then rolled over, fetching up on his back with his instrument between himself and the audience. At the same time one of the bandsmen aped being hit. I couldn’t see Rivera clearly because the spot light had switched to old Pastern, who, after a moment’s hesitation, loosed off the other rounds. Three more of the band chaps did comic staggers as if he’d hit them. Something seemed a bit out of joint here. They all looked as if they weren’t sure what came next. However, Pastern gave his gun to Bellairs, who pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. The last round had been used, so there was only a click. Bellairs registered disgust, broke the revolver, pocketed it and gestured as much as to say: ‘I’ve had it. Carry on,’ and Lord Pastern then went to market in a big way and generally raised hell. He looked extraordinary. Glazed eyes, sweating, half-smiling and jerking about over his drums. An unnerving exhibition from a middle-aged peer but of course he’s as mad as a March hare. Troy and I were snobbishly horrified. It was then that the metronome went into action in a blaze of winking lights. It’d been pointing straight down at Rivera before. A waiter chucked a wreath to the conductor, who knelt down by this chap Rivera and dumped it on his chest. He felt his heart and then looked closely at Rivera and bent over his body, groping inside the wreath. He turned in a startled sort of way to old Pastern. He said something to the blokes with the stretcher. The wreath hid the face and the accordion was half across the stomach. Bellairs spoke to the pianist and then to Lord Pastern, who went out with him when they finished their infernal din. I smelt trouble, saw a waiter speak to Allington and stop a chap in Lady Pastern’s party. I had a long argument with myself, lost it and came out here. That’s all. Have you looked at the revolver?”

“I’ve taken it off Bellairs. It’s in my pocket.” Fox put his glove on, produced the revolver and laid it on the table. “No known make,” he said.

“Probably been used for target-shooting,” Alleyn muttered. He laid the dart beside it. “It’d fit, Fox. Look. Had you noticed?”

“We haven’t got very far.”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t know quite what line to take about all the folk in there.” Fox jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant.

“Better get names and addresses. The waiters can do it. They’ll know a lot of them already. They can say it’s a new police procedure on extension nights. It’s our good fortune, Br’er Fox, that the public will believe any foolishness if they are told we are the authors of it. The Pastern party had better be held.”

“I’ll fix it,” Fox said. He went out, revealing for a moment the assembly in the outer office “… hang about kickin’ my heels all night…” Lord Pastern’s voice protested and was shut off abruptly.