Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing

‘Get through?’ he asked.

‘They’re going to call me back.’

‘If you’re very very lucky. It’ll be some considerable time, at the best, if I know Toll. I’m going up to the workroom. Would you care to join me? You can hear the telephone from there.’

‘Right.’ Alleyn felt in his breast pocket. ‘Damn!’ he said.

‘What’s up?’

‘My cigarette case.’

‘Did you leave it in the drawing-room?’

‘I don’t think so.’ He returned to the drawing-room. Its four occupants who seemed to be about to go to bed, broke off what appeared to be a lively discussion and watched him. The case was not there. Douglas hunted about politely, and Mrs Aceworthy clucked. While they were at this employment there was a tap on the door and Cliff came in with a rolled periodical in his hand.

‘Yes?’ said Douglas.

‘Dad asked me to bring this in,’ said Cliff. ‘It came up with our mail by mistake. He says he’s sorry.’

‘Thank you, Cliff,’ they murmured. He shuffled his feet and said awkwardly, ‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight, Cliff,’ they said, and he went out.

‘Oh Lord!’ Alleyn said. ‘I’ve remembered. I left it in the annexe. I’ll run up there and fetch it.’

He saw Terence Lynne’s hands check at their work.

‘Shall I dodge up and get it?’ Douglas offered.

‘Not a bit of it, thanks, Grace. I’ll do my own tedious job. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get a coat and run up there.’

He returned to the hall. Cliff was in the passage leading to the kitchen. Fabian had gone. Alleyn ran upstairs. A flashlight bobbed in the long passage and came to rest on the workroom door. Fabian’s hand reached out to the lock. ‘Hi!’ Alleyn called down the passage, ‘you had it.’ The light shone in his eyes.

‘What?’

‘My cigarette case. You took it away from the unspeakable Albert.’

‘Oh, help! I put it on the piano. It’ll be all right.’

‘I think I’ll get it. It’s rather special. Troy – my wife – gave it to me.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Fabian said.

‘No, you’re going to work. It won’t take me a moment.’

He got his overcoat from his room. When he came out he found Fabian hovering uncertainly on the landing. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘you’d better let me – I mean –’

The telephone in the study gave two long rings. ‘There’s your call,’ Fabian said. ‘Away with you. Lend me your coat, will you, it’s perishing cold.’

Alleyn threw his coat to him and ran downstairs. As he shut the study door he heard the rest of the party come out of the drawing-room. A moment later the front door banged.

The telephone repeated its double ring.

‘There you are, Mr Losse,’ said the operator. ‘We’ve kept open for you. They’re waiting.’

It was PC Wetherbridge. ‘Message from the Sub-Inspector, sir. He’s left by car and ought to make it in four hours.’

‘Gemini!’

‘I beg pardon, Mr Alleyn?’

‘Great work, Wetherbridge. Hope I haven’t cried Wolf.’

‘I don’t get you too clear, sir. We’ve done that little job for you. I’ve got it noted down here. There are three likely stations.’

‘Good for you,’ said Alleyn warmly.

‘Do you want to write the programmes out, Mr Alleyn?’

‘No, no. Just read them to me.’

Wetherbridge cleared his throat and began: ‘Starting at 7.30, sir, and continuing till nine.’ His voice droned on through a list of items. ‘… Syd Bando and The Rhythm Kids … I got a Big Pink Momma … Garden Notes and Queries … Racing Commentary … News Summary … Half an Hour with the Jitterbugs … Anything there, Mr Alleyn?’

‘Nothing like it so far, but carry on. We’re looking for something a bit highbrow, Wetherbridge.’

‘Old Melodies Made New?’

‘Not quite. Carry on.’

‘There’s only one other station that’s likely to come through clearly, up where you are.’

Alleyn thought: ‘I hope to God we’ve drawn a blank.’

‘Here we go, sir. 7.30, Twenty-first instalment of: “The Vampire”. 7.45, Reading from Old Favourites. 8.5, An Hour with the Masters.’

Alleyn’s hand tightened on the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he said, ‘any details?’

‘There’s a lot of stuff in small print. Wait a jiffy, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m putting on my glasses.’ Alleyn waited. ‘Here we are,’ said Wetherbridge, and two hundred miles away a paper crackled. ‘8.25,’ said Wetherbridge, ‘Polonaise by Chopping but there’s a lot more. Back,’ said Wetherbridge uncertainly, ‘or would it be Bark? The initials are J.S. It’s a pianna solo.’

‘Go on, please.’

‘The Art of Fewje,’ said Wetherbridge. ‘I’d better spell that, Mr Alleyn. F for Freddy, U for Uncle, G for George, U for Uncle, E for Edward. Any good?’

‘Yes.’

‘It seems to have knocked off at 8.57.’

‘Yes.’