A Wreath for Rivera

“Yes, I know, but that’s where they’re freakish. Manx has got a sort of damn-your-eyes view about theatre. It’s one of his things. He wants state ownership and he’ll scoop up any chance to plug it. And I imagine their anti-vice parties wouldn’t be unpleasing to Manx. He wouldn’t go much for the style, which is tough and coloured, but he’d like the policy. They gave battle in a big way, you know. Names all over the place and a general invitation to come on and sue us for libel and see how you like it. Quite his cup of tea. Yes, I imagine Harmony runs Manx to give the paper cachet and Manx writes for Harmony to get at their public. They pay. Top prices.” Nigel paused and then said sharply: “But Manx as G.P.F.! That’s different. Have you actually good reason to suspect it? Are you on to something?”

“The case is fluffy with doubts at the moment.”

“The Rivera case? It ties up with that?”

“Off the record, it does.”

“By God,” said Nigel profoundly, “if Ned Manx spews up that page it explains the secrecy! By God, it does.”

“We’ll have to ask him,” Alleyn said. “But I’d have liked to have a little more to go on. Still, we can muscle in. Where’s the Harmony office?”

“Five Materfamilias Lane. The old Triple Mirror place.”

“When does this blasted rag make its appearance? It’s a monthly, isn’t it?”

“Let’s see. It’s the twenty-seventh today. It comes out in the first week of the month. They’ll be going to press any time now.”

“So G.P.F.’s likely to be on tap at the office?”

“You’d think so. Are you going to burst in on Manx with a brace of manacles?”

“Never you mind.”

“Come on,” Nigel said. “What do I get for all this?”

Alleyn gave him a brief account of Rivera’s death and a lively description of Lord Pastern’s performance in the band.

“As far as it goes, it’s good,” Nigel said, “but I could get as much from the waiters.”

“Not if Caesar Bonn knows anything about it.”

“Are you going to pull old Pastern in?”

“Not just yet. You write your stuff and send it along to me.”

“It’s pretty!” Nigel said. “It’s as pretty as paint. Pastern’s good at any time but like this he’s marvellous. May I use your typewriter?”

“For ten minutes.”

Nigel retired with the machine to a table at the far end of the room. “I can say you were there, of course,” he said hurriedly.

“I’ll be damned if you can.”

“Come, come, Alleyn, be big about this thing.”

“I know you. If we don’t ring the bell you’ll print some revolting photograph of me looking like a half-wit. Caption: ‘Chief Inspector who watched crime but doesn’t know whodunit.’ ”

Nigel grinned. “And would that be a story, and won’t that be the day! Still, as it stands, it’s pretty hot. Here we go, chaps.” He began to rattle the keys.

Alleyn said: “There’s one thing, Fox, that’s sticking out of this mess like a road sign and I can’t read it. Why did that perishing old mountebank look at the gun and then laugh himself sick? Here! Wait a moment. Who was in the study with him when he concocted his dummies and loaded his gun? It’s a thin chance but it might yield something.” He pulled the telephone towards him. “We’ll talk once more to Miss Carlisle Wayne.”

Carlisle was in her room when the call came through and she took it there, sitting on her bed and staring aimlessly at a flower print on the wall. A hammer knocked at her ribs and her throat constricted. In some remote part of her mind she thought: “As if I was in love, instead of frightened sick.”

The unusually deep and clear voice said: “Is that you, Miss Wayne? I’m sorry to bother you again so soon but I’d like to have another word with you.”

“Yes,” said Carlisle. “Would you? Yes.”

“I can come to Duke’s Gate or, if you would rather, can see you here at the Yard.” Carlisle didn’t answer at once and he said: “Which would suit you best?”

“I–I think — I’ll come to your office.”

“It might be easier. Thank you so much. Can you come at once?”

“Yes. Yes, I can, of course.”

“Splendid.” He gave her explicit instructions about which entrance to use and where to ask for him. “Is that clear? I shall see you in about twenty minutes then.”

“In about twenty minutes,” she repeated and her voice cracked into an absurd cheerful note as if she were gaily making a date with him. “Right-ho,” she said and thought with horror: “But I never say ‘right-ho.’ He’ll think I’m demented.”

“Mr. Alleyn,” she said loudly.

“Yes? Hullo?”

“I’m sorry I made such an ass of myself this morning. I don’t know what happened. I seem to have gone extremely peculiar.”

“Never mind,” said the deep voice easily.

“Well — all right. Thank you. I’ll come straight away.”

He gave a small, polite, not unfriendly sound and she hung up the receiver.

“Booking a date with the attractive Inspector, darling?” said Félicité from the door.

At the first sound of her voice Carlisle’s body had jerked and she had cried out sharply.

“You are jumpy,” Félicité said, coming nearer.

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously.”

Carlisle opened her wardrobe. “He wants to see me. Lord knows why.”