Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2: Death in Ecstasy, Vintage Murder, Artists in Crime

‘Well, I – well, you see – well, I’d finished and Father was out and I thought I’d wait till he came in and so I went into his room to put some things away.’

‘Where was the book?’

‘Well, it was in the shelves.’

‘Where you could see it?’

‘Not quite.’

‘It was behind the other books?’

‘Yes, if you must know, it was,’ said Claude turning an unattractive crimson. ‘As a matter of fact I had put all the books there myself – he stopped and looked nervously from Ogden to Garnette – ‘about a week before that. I was – I was tidying up in here. I didn’t look at them, then. The book on Chemistry wasn’t there that day. But it was there on the Sunday – a week later. You see I’d read most of the other books and I thought I’d try and find something else, and so –’

‘Did you handle it?’

‘I – I – just glanced at it.’

‘You touched it. You’re sure of that?’

‘Yes, I am. Because I remember I had my gloves on. The ones I do the polishing in. I like to keep my hands nice. I wondered if they’d marked it. Then I put it away and – and I read something else, you see.’

‘Petronius, perhaps.’

‘Yes, it was. I thought it marvellous.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ began Miss Wade.

‘Nor do I,’ interrupted Mrs Candour. ‘Why is such a fuss being made about this book?’

‘It’s a treatise on poisons,’ said Maurice. ‘Cara was poisoned. Find the owner of the book and there’s your murderer. Q.E.D. Our wonderful police!’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Mr Ogden with a curious inflection in his voice, ‘that it’s not just as simple as all that.’

‘Really?’ jeered Maurice. ‘You seem to know a damn’ sight too much to be healthy.’

‘Maurice, please!’ said Janey.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Jane.’

‘The interesting thing about the book,’ said Alleyn in his quietest voice, ‘is that if you handle it as Mr Garnette did, it falls open at a discourse on cyanide.’ He took the book and handed it to de Ravigne. ‘Like to try?’ he asked.

De Ravigne took the book, but he must have handled it differently. It fell open at another place. He examined it closely, a curiously puzzled expression in his eyes.

‘Let me see,’ said Lionel. ‘Do, please.’ With him the experiment worked successfully.

‘How too marvallous!’ said Claude.

‘Here,’ shouted Mr Ogden suddenly, ‘lemme see.’

Lionel handed him the book and he experimented with it while they all watched him. The book fell open repeatedly and each time at the same page

‘Well, for crying out loud!’ said Mr Ogden, and slammed it down on the table.

‘Now,’ Alleyn went on, ‘there’s one more exhibit. This box of cigarettes. Yours, isn’t it, Mr Garnette?’ He laid the Benares Box on the table.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Will you open it?’

‘Is this a sleight of hand act?’ asked Maurice Pringle. ‘No deception practised.’

‘None, on my part,’ replied Alleyn good-humouredly, ‘as I think you will agree, Mr Garnette.’

Garnette had opened the box. Cara Quayne’s note lay on the top of the cigarettes.

‘What is this?’ asked Garnette. And then: ‘My God, it’s her writing.’

‘Will you read it aloud?’

Garnette read slowly. The habit of the pulpit was so strong in him that he pitched his voice and read deliberately with round vowels and stressed final consonants.

‘Must see you. Terrible discovery. After service tonight.’

He put the paper down on the table and again looked at Alleyn. His lips twitched, but he did not speak. He moved his hands uncertainly. He looked neither guilty nor innocent but simply puzzled.

‘Where did this come from?’ he said at last.

‘It was found last night in that box,’ Alleyn said.

‘But – I did not know. I did not see it there.’

‘Does anyone,’ asked Alleyn, ‘know anything of this note?’ Nobody spoke.

‘Had Miss Quayne spoken to any of you of this terrible discovery she had made?’

‘When was it written?’ asked Maurice suddenly.

‘Yesterday.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because it is dated,’ answered Alleyn politely.

‘Oh, Maurice, my poor pet!’ said Janey, and for the first time that morning somebody laughed.

‘Shut up!’ exclaimed Maurice.