A Wreath for Rivera

At ten-thirty in the Chief-Inspector’s room at New Scotland Yard, routine procedure following a case of homicide was efficiently established. Alleyn sat at his desk taking reports from Detective-Sergeants Gibson, Watson, Scott and Sallis. Mr. Fox, with that air of good-humour crossed with severity which was his habitual reaction to reports following observation, listened critically to his juniors, each of whom held his official notebook. Six men going soberly about their day’s work. Earlier that morning, in other parts of London, Captain Entwhistle, an expert on ballistics, had fitted a dart made from a piece of a parasol into a revolver and had fired it into a bag of sand; Mr. Carrick, a government analyst, had submitted a small cork to various tests for certain oils; and Sir Grantly Morton, the famous pathologist, assisted by Curtis, had opened Carlos Rivera’s thorax, and, with the greatest delicacy, removed his heart.

“All right,” Alleyn said. “Get yourselves chairs and smoke if you want to. This is liable to be a session.”

When they were settled, he pointed the stem of his pipe at a heavy-jawed, straw-coloured detective-sergeant with a habitually startled expression. “You searched the deceased’s rooms, didn’t you Gibson? Let’s take you first.”

Gibson thumbed his notebook open, contemplating it in apparent astonishment, and embarked on a high-pitched recital.

“The deceased man, Carlos Rivera,” he said, “lived at 102 Bedford Mansions, Austerly Square S.W.I. Service flats. Rental £500 a year.”

“Why don’t we all play piano-accordions?” Fox asked of nobody in particular.

“At 3 a.m. on the morning of June 1st,” Gibson continued in a shrill — ish voice, “having obtained a search-warrant, I effected entrance to above premises by means of a key on a ring removed from the body of the deceased. The flat consists of an entrance lobby, six-by-eight feet, a sitting-room, twelve-by-fourteen feet, and a bedroom nine-by-eleven feet. Furnishings. Sitting-room: Carpet, purple, thick. Curtains, full length, purple satin.”

“Stay me with flagons!” Alleyn muttered. “Purple.”

“You might call it morve, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Well, go on.”

“Couch, upholstered green velvet, three armchairs ditto, dining table, six dining chairs, open fireplace. Walls painted fawn. Cushions: Seven. Green and purple satin.” He glanced at Alleyn. “I beg pardon, Mr. Alleyn? Anything wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Go on.”

“Bookcase. Fourteen books. Foreign. Recognized four as on police lists. Pictures: four.”

“What were they like?” Fox asked.

“Never you mind, you dirty old man,” said Alleyn.

“Two were nude studies, Mr. Fox, what you might call heavy pinups. The others were a bit more so. Cigarette boxes: four. Cigarettes, commercial product. Have taken one from each box. Wall safe. Combination lock but found note of number in deceased’s pocket-book. Contents — ”

“Half a minute,” Alleyn said. “Have all the flats got these safes?”

“I ascertained from inquiries, sir, that deceased had his installed.”

“Right. Go on.”

“Contents. I removed a number of papers, two ledgers or account-books and a locked cash-box containing three hundred pounds in notes of low denomination, and thirteen shillings in silver.” Here Gibson paused of his own accord.

“There now!” said Fox. “Now we may be on to something.”

“I left a note of the contents of the safe in the safe and I locked the safe,” said Gibson, on a note of uncertainty, induced perhaps by misgivings about his prose style. “Shall I produce the contents now, sir, or go on to the bedroom?”

“I doubt if I can take the bedroom,” Alleyn said. “But go on.”

“It was done up in black, sir. Black satin.”

“Do you put all this in your notes?” Fox demanded suddenly. “All this about colours and satin?”

“They tell us to be thorough, Mr. Fox.”