Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 1: A Man Lay Dead, Enter a Murderer, The Nursing Home Murder

Outside on the frozen balcony two men struggled together bitterly and silently. The uncertain lamplight, broken by the billowing curtains, wavered across them. Nigel had a swift glimpse of Tokareff’s face, spectacled, strangely passive. He flung himself at the Russian, tackling him low, and was himself bowled over, striking his face against the icy, frost-smelling stones. A moment later he saw Alleyn stagger backwards, and as he himself scrambled up he was aware of a figure that melted away out into the dark.

‘After him!’ Alleyn grunted. A shrill whistle split the night air.

Nigel was running across the lawn, vaguely conscious of the rush of cold air on his eyes and lips. ‘The wood!’ he thought, ‘he mustn’t reach the wood.’ He could hear the dull rhythm of the Russian’s feet on the soft turf. With a stringent effort he quickened his pace, sprinted and then dived, bringing the unseen fugitive down with him.

‘This is better,’ thought Nigel, wrenching a wrist and arm across a writhing back, ‘I’ve got him.’

‘Got him!’ echoed Alleyn’s voice out of the darkness, and in a moment the detective knelt beside him, and a bull’s-eye lantern heralded the approach at the double of Bunce, PC.

Tokareff uttered a short, gasping sound, a sort of groan.

‘Now then,’ said Alleyn, ‘let’s have my torch.’

A pencil of light shot out. Tokareff lay on his back with Alleyn sitting across him.

‘Get back to your post, Bunce, as quick as you can,’ the detective ordered sharply. ‘Is Green still there?’

‘Yessir,’ breathed Bunce; ‘we heard your whistle.’

‘Miss North, Mr Bathgate, and I will come through in the Bentley in ten minutes. Have the gates open and don’t stop us. Keep a cat’s own watch for anything else. Now skedaddle!’

‘Yessir,’ blew Bunce in the dark, and the bull’s-eye retired.

‘Now then, Doctor Tokareff. There’s a perfectly good revolver cuddled into your ribs here, and I think you will come quietly.’

‘Proklyatie! proklyatie!’ stuttered a furious voice. Something clicked sharply.

‘Yes, I dare say. Come now, get up.’

The three stood facing each other in the darkness to which their eyes had grown accustomed.

‘I don’t think he carries any deadly weapons,’ said Alleyn; ‘but have a look, will you, Bathgate? Doctor Tokareff, you must consider yourself under arrest. Nothing in his hip pocket, or anywhere? Sure? Right. Now this way quickly. Damn, too late! Here’s the hue and cry. Oh, well, no matter.’

The sound of voices drifted across from the house. Two figures were silhouetted against the dishevelled warmth of the study windows.

‘Alleyn! Bathgate!’ called Sir Hubert.

‘Here we are!’ answered Alleyn. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

‘Nozzing ze matter!’ bellowed the suddenly articulate Russian. ‘I greatly beg a difference. I am under an arrest. I am innocent of this murder! Sir Hubert! Mr Ooilde!’

‘Come on,’ said Alleyn, and he and Nigel propelled their captive back towards the house.

Handesley and Wilde met them in the pool of light outside the windows.

‘Just a little Russian touch,’ explained Alleyn. ‘Manacles at midnight. A home away from home for the doctor.’

‘Doctor Tokareff,’ said Sir Hubert, ‘this is a terrible business.’

‘Tokareff!’ murmured Wilde to Nigel. ‘Tokareff, after all!’ And Nigel wondered if there had crept into his voice a note of exquisite relief or only one of profound astonishment. The Russian was protesting vehemently, his manacled hands clasped in front of his face. Nigel felt an insane desire to giggle.

‘Sir Hubert,’ Alleyn continued, exactly as if the Russian was not speaking, ‘please do you and Mr Wilde return indoors. You may explain briefly to the others what has happened.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘We shall be away for some time. I shall get Miss Angela to drive us to the local police station. Doctor Tokareff—’

‘I am innocent! Ask the peasant Vassily, the butler! He knows—on the night of the crime—I must tell you.’

‘I have to warn you,’ interrupted Alleyn, and Nigel saw him glance inimically at Wilde, ‘that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Later on, if you choose, you can make a statement. Now, Sir Hubert, and you too, Mr Wilde, please go in. I shall communicate with you later.’ The others turned silently towards the house.

‘Lawyers!’ roared Tokareff after them. ‘Lawyers! judges! magistrates! How you call them? I must have them of the best.’

‘So you shall. Bless the boy. Come on,’ said Alleyn, as the others disappeared. ‘Come on, Bathgate, round the house to the garage, and, Doctor Tokareff, I really must insist—no more Deaths of Boris.’

He led them without hesitation to the back drive, where in a softly palpitating Bentley they found Angela.

‘Good girl!’ said Alleyn softly. ‘Doctor Tokareff will come with us, as you see. In you get, Doctor. Bathgate, you sit in front. To the local quod, please, miss.’

‘Streuth!’ whispered Angela, as the Bentley ate up the drive.

‘Streuth indeed!’ agreed Nigel. ‘Tokareff is under arrest.’

‘For the murder?’

‘For what else?’

‘But—he sang the Death of Boris all the time.’

‘Seems he couldn’t have.’

‘Well, here we are,’ commented Angela after an indecently brief interval. She slowed down and put on her brakes.

‘Will you wait for us?’ Alleyn asked her. ‘Come on, Doctor Tokareff.’

A police sergeant showed them into a brilliantly lit, white-washed room. A tall blue-uniformed officer greeted them.

‘Inspector Fisher—Mr Bathgate,’ said Alleyn by way of introduction. ‘This is Doctor Tokareff. I wish to charge him with—’

Tokareff, who had been perfectly silent for some time, broke in. ‘I am innocent of murder!’

‘Who said you weren’t?’ rejoined Alleyn wearily. ‘The charge is one of sedition and conspiracy, if that’s the correct phrase. I always get them wrong, don’t I, Fisher? This man is charged with complicity in connection with the operations of an association of Russians having its headquarters at 101 Little Racquet Street, Soho. He is charged with having caused to be published and circulated certain pamphlets containing treasonable utterances and incitements to sedition and—oh, damn it, anyway, that’s the charge.’

‘Righto,’ said Inspector Fisher, crossing to a desk and putting on his spectacles. ‘Let’s have it.’

A brief colloquy between the two policemen followed, interspersed by the scratching of the inspector’s pen. The sergeant came in and said cheerfully: ‘Now then, Doctor, we’ll just move next door.’

‘I wish to write, to make an announcement,’ said Doctor Tokareff suddenly.