Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 8: Death at the Dolphin, Hand in Glove, Dead Water

‘Desirée, my dear,’ he was saying, ‘I really don’t know what it is about you, but you have so got the gift of drawing one out. Here am I letting my back hair down in the naughtiest way and about poor old Hal, which is not at all the done thing, considering.’

‘Why not?’ she said propping her feet in their preposterously high heels above the fireplace. Mr Period, as she noticed with amusement, gazed tactfully at the flames. ‘Why not? I found Harold plain hell to live with and I don’t know why you should fare any better. Except that you’re nicer than me and have probably got more patience.’

‘It’s the little things. Every morning to tap on one’s door and say, “Bath’s empty for what it’s worth.” Every day to clear his throat before he opens his paper and say he may as well know the worst. And his dog, Desirée! The noise!’ Mr Period exclaimed, unconsciously plagiarizing. ‘And the smell! And the destruction!’

‘One of those mixed-up dogs that try to marry one’s foot, I’ve noticed.’

Mr Period gave a little cough and murmured: ‘Exactly. Moreover, every night, at one o’clock precisely, he takes it out of doors and it sets up the most hideous barking until, and indeed for some time after, he shuts it up. There have been complaints from all over the village. And now,’ he added, throwing up his hands, ‘this afternoon! This afternoon was too much.’

‘But do tell me, P.P., what happened? With Moppett and her flash friend and the car? I’ve heard Harold’s version, of course, but I’m having my own private war with him and was too angry to pay all that much attention.’

Mr Period told her the whole story.

‘And I do feel, darling Desirée, that you should be warned. It’s plain to be seen that this frightful person, the Leiss, is an out-and-out bad ‘un. And indeed, for your ear alone, we most strongly suspect –’ Mr Period looked about him as if the boudoir concealed microphones and began to whisper the story of the cigarette-case.

‘Oh, no!’ Desirée said with relish. ‘Actually a burglar! And is Moppett his con-girl, do you suppose?’

‘I fear, only too probably. And, my dear, here you are, in the kindness of your heart, asking them to your wonderful party.’

‘It wasn’t kindness. It was to spite Harold. He won’t give Andy his money. I can’t tell you how livid it makes me.’

She looked rather fixedly at Mr Period. ‘You’re a trustee, P.P. Have you discussed it with Hal, or with Andrew?’

Mr Period said uncomfortably: ‘Not really discussed it, my dear.’

‘Don’t tell me you disapprove, too!’

‘No, no, no!’ he said in a hurry. ‘Not disapprove, exactly. It’s just – leaving the Brigade and so on. For that rather outré world. Art … the Chelsea set … Not that Andrew … But there! ‘Nuff said.’

‘We’re not going to quarrel over it, I hope?’

‘My dear. Quarrel!’

‘Well,’ she said suddenly giving Mr Period a kiss. ‘Let’s talk about something more amusing.’

They embarked on a long gossip and Mr Period eased up. He was enjoying himself immensely, but he did not wish to stay until the return of the treasure-hunters. He looked at his watch, found it was eleven o’clock, and asked if he might telephone for the Bloodbath.

‘No need,’ Desirée said, ‘my car’s outside. I’d love to take you. Don’t fuss, P.P., I’d really like to. I can have a cast around the village and see how the hunt’s going. By the way, one of Bimbo’s clues leads to your sewage excavation. It says: “All your trouble and all your pain will only land you down the drain.” He’s not very good at poetry, poor sweet, but I thought that one of his neater efforts. Come on, darling. I can see you’re in a fever lest slick Len and his moll should get back with the first prize before you make your getaway.’

They went out to her car. Mr Period was a little apprehensive because of the amount of liqueur brandy Desirée had consumed but she drove with perfect expertise and all the way to Little Codling they talked about Mr Cartell. Presently they turned into Green Lane. A red lantern marked the end of the open ditch. They passed an elderly sports car parked in the rough grass on the opposite side.

‘Andy,’ said his mother, giving a long hoot on her horn. ‘He’s going to fall in love with your secretary, I can see.’

‘Already!’ ejaculated Mr Period.

‘Going to. Heavily, I fancy. I took to the girl, rather.’

‘Charming! A really nice gel. I’m delighted with her.’

‘P.P.,’ Desirée said, as they drew near the house, ‘there’s something extra Harold’s done to inflame you, isn’t there?’

There was a silence.

‘Don’t tell me if you’d rather not, of course.’

‘It’s very painful to me. Something he said. One shouldn’t,’ Mr Period added in a constrained and unnatural voice, ‘let such things upset one but – No, dearest Desirée, I shan’t bore you with it. It was nothing. I prefer to forget it.’

‘Fair enough,’ she said and pulled up.

Mr Period did not immediately get out of the car. He made another little speech of thanks for his entertainment and then with many hesitations and apologetic noises hinted obscurely at bereavement.

‘I haven’t said anything, my dear,’ he murmured, ‘because I felt you preferred not. But I wouldn’t like you to think – but never mind, I only wanted you to know –’ He waved his hands and was silent.

‘Do you mean about Ormsbury?’ she said in her direct way. Mr Period made a small confirmatory sound. ‘You didn’t say anything,’ he added. ‘So, of course –’

‘There are some sorrows,’ Desirée said and it was impossible to catch any overtones in her voice, ‘that go too deep for words.’

Mr Period gave a little groan of sympathy, kissed her hand, and left her.

He went in by the side gate. She watched him, by the light of her headlamps, pick his way in a gingerly fashion over the planks that had been laid across the ditch. He was safely inside his house and Desirée was about to drive away when she caught sight of a figure in an upper window. She stopped her engine and got out of the car.

V

By midnight the winning pair had presented themselves with their prize, a magnum of champagne. They were inevitably, Moppett and Leonard, all smiles, but with a curious tendency to avoid looking at each other. Leonard was effulgent in the matter of cuff-links and lapels and his tie was large and plum-coloured. Bimbo looked upon him with loathing, gave them both drinks and put a jazz record on the machine. Leonard with ineffable grace extended his hands towards Desirée. ‘May we?’ he said and in a moment was dancing with her. He was a superb dancer. ‘Much too good,’ she said afterwards. ‘Like the really expensive gigolos used to be. He smells like them too: it quite took me back. I adored it.’

Bimbo, sulking, was then obliged to dance with Moppett who made business-like passes at him. These exercises were interrupted by the arrival in straggling pairs of the rest of the treasure-hunters, Nicola and Andrew being the last to come in: looking radiantly pleased with themselves.

Desirée had a talent for parties. Sometimes they began presentably and ended outrageously, sometimes they were presentable almost all the time and sometimes they began, continued and ended outrageously. It was for the last sort that she had gained her notoriety. This one was, at the moment, both gay and decorous, possibly because Andrew had unexpectedly said he hoped it would be.

They were all dancing, and the time was a quarter past one, when a rumpus broke out on the drive. Bimbo was changing records, so the noise established itself readily; it was that of a multiple dog fight. Growls, yaps, full-blooded barking and strangulated cries of anguish mounted in a ragged crescendo.

Desirée said: ‘A rival show, it seems,’ and then, ‘Bimbo! Ours! They must have got out!’

Bimbo swore, pulled back the curtains and went through French windows to the terrace, followed by Andrew, Desirée and most of the other men.

Nicola found herself on the terrace in a group composed of all the ladies and Leonard.

The combat was joined among parked cars at the head of the drive and was illuminated by lights from the house. All was confusion. Some six or seven contestants bit at each other in a central engagement, others rolled together under cars. One very large, isolated dog sat on its haunches howling dispassionately, and one could be discerned belting down the drive screaming its classic cry of ‘pen-and-ink’.

Bimbo, Andrew and an advance guard went down into the arena and at first added greatly to the confusion. They shouted, swore, grabbed and kicked. Desirée suddenly joined them, was momentarily hidden, but emerged carrying an outraged poodle by the scruff of its neck. Servants ran out, offering hunting-crops and umbrellas. Expressions of human as well as canine anguish were now perceptible. Andrew detached himself, dragging two frenzied Aberdeens by their collars. They were Baynesholme dogs and were thrust with the poodle into a cloakroom where they got up a half-hearted row on their own account.

Bimbo now appeared carrying an air-gun. He waved the other men aside and presented his weapon at the central mélée. There was a mild explosion, followed by cries of distress and suddenly the arena had emptied and the night was plangent with the laments of rapidly retreating dogs.

Only one remained. Exhausted, gratified, infamous and complacent, her tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth, and her lead trailing from her collar, sat a boxer bitch: Mr Cartell’s Pixie, the Helen of the engagement. When Bimbo approached her she gathered herself together and bit him.

VI

The next morning Connie Cartell woke slowly from a heavy sleep. She experienced that not unusual sensation during half-consciousness, in which the threat of something unpleasant anticipates the recollection of the thing itself. She lay, blinking and yawning for a second or two. She heard her Austrian maid stump along the passage and knock on a door.