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  Photo Finish

  ( Roderick Alleyn - 31 )

  Ngaio Marsh

  The Sommita lay spread-eagled on her back across a red counterpane. The bosom of her red biblical dress had been torn down to the waist and under her left breast, irrelevantly, unbelievably, the haft of a knife stuck out. The right arm, rigid as a branch, was raised in the fascist salute. She might have been posed for the jacket on an all-too-predictable shocker…

  Ngaio Marsh

  Photo Finish

  CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)

  Isabella Sommita (née Pepitene)

  Ben Ruby: Her manager

  Montague V. Reece: Her friend

  Rupert Bartholomew: Her protégé

  Maria: Her maid

  Chief Superintendent Roderick Alleyn, C.I.D.

  Troy Alleyn, R.A.: His wife

  His Assistant Commissioner, Scotland Yard

  Bert: A chauffeur

  Les: A launch man

  Marco: A manservant

  Ned Hanley: Mr. Reece’s secretary

  Signor Beppo Lattienzo: The Sommita’s Master of Singing

  Roberto Rodolfo: A tenor

  Sylvia Parry: A mezzo-soprano

  Hilda Dancy: A contralto

  Eru Johnstone: A bass

  Sir David Baumgartner: A critic

  Mrs. Bacon: Housekeeper

  Dr. John Carmichael, M.D.: A guest

  Inspector Hazelmere: Rivermouth Constabulary

  Detective Sergeant Franks: Rivermouth Constabulary

  Detective Sergeant Barker: Rivermouth Constabulary

  Dr. Winslow: Medical examiner

  Chapter one

  The Sommita

  i

  One of the many marvels of Isabella Sommita’s techniques was her breathing: it was totally unobservable. Even in the most exacting passages, even in the most staggering flights of coloratura, there was never the slightest disturbance of the corsage.

  “You could drop an ice cube down her cleavage,” boasted her manager, Ben Ruby, “and not a heave would you get for your trouble.”

  He had made this observation when sitting in a box immediately above the diva at the Royal Festival Hall and had spoken no more than the truth. Offstage when moved by one of her not infrequent rages, La Sommita’s bosom would heave with the best of them.

  It did so now, in her private suite at the Chateau Australasia in Sydney. She was en négligé and it was sumptuously evident that she was displeased and that the cause of her displeasure lay on the table at her elbow: a newspaper folded to expose a half-page photograph with a banner headline, “Cross-Patch?” and underneath, “La Sommita is not amused!”

  It had been taken yesterday in Double Bay, Sydney. The photographer, wearing a floppy white hat, a white scarf over his mouth, and dark spectacles, had stepped out from an alleyway and gone snap. She had not been quick enough to turn her back, but her jaw had dropped and her left eye had slewed, its habit when rage overtook her. The general effect was that of a gargoyle at the dentist’s: an infuriated gargoyle. The photograph was signed “Strix.”

  She beat on the paper with her largish white fist and her rings cut into it. She panted lavishly.

  “Wants horsewhipping,” Montague Reece mumbled. He was generally accepted as the Sommita’s established lover, and he filled this role in the manner commonly held to be appropriate, being large, rich, muted, pale, dyspeptic, and negative. He was said to wield a great deal of power in his own world.

  “Of course he needs horsewhipping,” shouted his dear one. “But where’s the friend who will go out and do it?” She laughed and executed a wide contemptuous gesture that included all present. The newspaper fluttered to the carpet.

  “Personally,” Ben Ruby offered, “I wouldn’t know one end of a horsewhip from the other.” She dealt him a glacial stare. “I didn’t mean to be funny,” he said.

  “Nor were you.”

  “No.”

  A young man of romantic appearance, in a distant chair behind the diva, clasped a portfolio of music to his midriff and said in a slightly Australian voice: “Can’t something be done? Can’t they be sued?”

  “What for?” asked Mr. Ruby.

  “Well — libel. Look at it, for God’s sake!” the young man brought out. “Well, I mean to say, look!”

  The other two men glanced at him, but the Sommita, without turning her head, said, “Thank you, darling,” and extended her arm. The intention was unmistakable: an invitation, nay, a command. The young man’s beautiful face crimsoned, he rose, and, maintaining a precarious hold on his portfolio, advanced crouchingly to imprint a kiss upon the fingers. He lost control of his portfolio. Its contents shot out of their confine and littered the carpet: sheet upon sheet of music in manuscript.

  He fell on his knees and scrabbled about the floor. “I’m so sorry,” he gabbled. “Oh hell, I’m so bloody sorry.”

  The Sommita had launched a full-scale attack upon the Australian press. Rupert, she said, indicating the young man, was absolutely right. The press should be sued. The police should be called in. The photographer should be kicked out of the country. Was he to be suffered to wreck her life, her career, her sanity, to make her the laughingstock of both hemispheres? (She was in the habit of instancing geographical data.) Had she not, she demanded, consented to the Australian appearances solely as a means of escape from his infamy?

  “You are sure, I suppose,” said Mr. Reece in his pallid manner, “that it’s the same man? Strix?”

  This produced a tirade. “Sure! Sure!” Had not the detested Strix bounced out of cover in all the capitals of Europe as well as in New York and San Francisco? Had he not shot her at close quarters and in atrocious disarray? Sure! She drew a tempestuous breath. Well, she shouted, what were they going to do about it? Was she to be protected or was she to have a breakdown, lose her voice, and spend the rest of her days in a straitjackct? She only asked to be informed.

  The two men exchanged deadpan glances.

  “We can arrange for another bodyguard,” Montague Reece offered without enthusiasm.

  “She didn’t much fancy the one in New York,” Mr. Ruby pointed out.

  “Assuredly I did not,” she agreed, noisily distending her nostrils. “It is not amusing to be closely followed by an imbecile in unspeakable attire who did nothing, but nothing to prevent the outrage on Fifth Avenue. He merely goggled. As, by the way, did you all.”

  “Sweetheart, what else could we do? The fellow was a passenger in an open car. It was off like a bullet as soon as he’d taken his picture.”

  “Thank you, Benny. I remember the circumstances.”

  “But why?” asked the young man called Rupert, still on his knees assembling his music. “What’s got into him? I mean to say, it doesn’t make sense and it must cost a lot of money to follow you all over the globe. He must be bonkers.”

  He recognized his mistake as soon as it escaped his lips and began to gabble. Perhaps because he was on his knees and literally at her feet the Sommita, who had looked explosive, leaned forward and tousled his blond hair. “My poorest!” she said. “You are quite, quite ridiculous and I adore you. I haven’t introduced you,” she added as an afterthought. “I’ve forgotten your surname.”

  “Bartholomew.”

  “Really? Very well. Rupert Bartholomew,” she proclaimed, with an introductory wave of her hand.

  “… d’you do,” he muttered. The others nodded.

  “Why does he do it? He does it,” Montague Reece said impatiently, reverting to the photographer, “for money. No doubt the idea arose from the Jacqueline Kennedy affair. He’s carried it so much further and he’s been successful. Enormously so.”

  “That’s right,” Ruby agreed. “And the m
ore he does it the more”—he hesitated—“outrageous the results became.”

  “He retouches,” the Sommita intervened. “He distorts. I know it.”

  They all hurriedly agreed with her.

  “I’m going,” she said unexpectedly, “to dress. Now. And when I return I wish to be given an intelligent solution. I throw out, for what they are worth, my suggestions. The police. Prosecution. The Press. Who owns this?”—she kicked the offending newspaper and had some difficulty in disengaging her foot—“this garbage? Who is the proprietor? Attack him.” She strode to the bedroom door. “And I warn you, Monty. I warn you, Benny. This is my final word. Unless I am satisfied that there is an end to my persecution, I shall not sing in Sydney. They can,” said the Sommita, reverting to her supposed origins, “stuff their Sydney Opera House.”

  She made her exit and did not neglect to slam the door.

  “Oh dear,” said Benjamin Ruby quietly.

  “Quite,” said Montague Reece.

  The young man called Rupert Bartholomew, having reinstated his portfolio, got to his feet.

  “I reckon I’d better—?”

  “Yes?” said Mr. Reece.

  ‘Take myself off. I mean to say, it’s a bit awkward.“

  “What’s awkward?”

  “Well, you see, Madame — Madame Sommita asked me— I mean to say she said I was to bring this”—he indicated, precariously, his portfolio.

  “Look out,” said Ben Ruby. “You’ll scatter it again.” He did not try to suppress a note of resignation. “Is it something you’ve written?” he said. It was more a statement than an inquiry.

  “This is right. She said I could bring it.”

  “When,” Reece asked, “did she say it?”

  “Last night, well — this morning. About one o’clock. You were leaving that party at the Italian Embassy. You had gone back to fetch something — her gloves I think — and she was in the car. She saw me.”

  “It was raining.”

  “Heavily,” said the young man proudly. “I was the only one.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  “She beckoned me. She put the window down. She asked me how long I’d been there. I said three hours. She asked my name and what I did. I told her. I play the piano in a small orchestra and give lessons. And I type. And then I told her I had all her recordings and — well, she was so wonderful. I mean to me, there in the rain. I just found myself telling her I’ve written an opera — short, a one-acter — sort of dedicated to her, for her. Not, you know, not because I dreamt she would ever hear of it. Good God, no!”

  “And so,” Benjamin Ruby suggested, “she said you could show it to her.”

  “This is right. This morning. I think she was sorry I was so wet.”

  “And have you shown it to her?” asked Mr. Reece. “Apart from throwing it all over the carpet?”

  “No. I was just going to when the waiter came up with this morning’s papers and — she saw that thing. And then you came. I suppose I’d better go.”

  “It’s hardly the moment perhaps—” Mr. Reece began when the bedroom door opened and an elderly woman with ferociously black hair came into the room. She held up a finger at Rupert, rather in the manner of summoning a waiter.

  “She wanta you,” said the woman. “Also the music.”

  “All right, Maria,” said Mr. Ruby, and to the young man, “Maria is Madame’s dresser. You’d better go.”

  So Rupert, whose surname was Bartholomew, clutching his opera, walked into La Sommita’s bedroom like a fly, if he’d only known it, into a one-way web.

  “She’ll eat that kid,” Mr. Ruby said dispassionately, “in one meal.”

  “Halfway down her throat already,” her protector agreed.

  ii

  “I’ve wanted to paint that woman,” said Troy Alleyn, “for five years. And now look!”

  She pushed the letter across the breakfast table. Her husband read it and raised an eyebrow. “Remarkable,” he said.

  “I know. Especially the bit about you. What does it say, exactly? I was too excited to take it all in. Who’s the letter from, actually? Not from her, you’ll notice.“

  “It’s from Montague Reece, no less.”

  “Why ‘no less’? Who’s Montague Reece?”

  “I wish,” said Alleyn, “he could hear you ask.”

  “Why?” Troy repeated. “Oh, I know! Isn’t he very well off?”

  “You may say so. In the stinking-of-it department. Mr. Onassis Colossus, in fact.”

  “I remember, now. Isn’t he her lover?”

  “That’s it.”

  “All is made clear to me. I think. Do read it, darling. Aloud.”

  “All of it?”

  “Please.”

  “Here goes,” said Alleyn and read:

  Dear Mrs. Alleyn,

  I hope that is the correct way to address you. Should I perhaps have used your most celebrated soubriquet?

  I write to ask if from November 1st you and your husband will be my guests at Waihoe Lodge, an island retreat I have built on a lake in New Zealand. It is recently completed and I dare to hope it will appeal to you. The situation is striking and I think I may say that my guests will be comfortable. You would have, as your studio, a commodious room, well lit, overlooking the lake, with a view of distant mountains and, of course, complete freedom as to time and privacy.

  “He sounds like a land-and-estate agent — all mod. cons. and the usual offices. Pray continue,” said Troy.

  I must confess that this invitation is the prelude to another and that is for you to paint a portrait of Madame Isabella Sommita, who will be staying with us at the time proposed. I have long hoped for this. In my opinion, and I am permitted to say in hers also, none of her portraits hitherto has given us the true “Sommita.”

  We are sure that a “Troy” would do so quite marvelously!

  Please say you approve the proposal. We will arrange transport, as my guest, of course, by air, and will settle details as soon as we hear, as I so greatly hope, that you will come. I shall be glad if you will be kind enough to inform me of your terms.

  I shall write, under separate cover, to your husband, whom we shall be delighted to welcome with you to the Lodge.

  I am, believe me, dear Mrs. Alleyn,

  Yours most sincerely,

  [in spiky writing] Montague Reece.

  After a longish pause Troy said: “Would it be going too far to paint her singing? You know, mouth wide open for a top note.”

  “Mightn’t she look as if she were yawning?”

  “I don’t think so,” Troy brooded and then with a sidelong grin at her husband, “I could always put a balloon coming out of her mouth with ‘A in alt’ written in it.”

  “That would settle any doubts, of course. Except that I fancy it refers to male singers.”

  “You haven’t looked at your letter. Do look.”

  Alleyn looked. “Here it is,” he said. “Overposh and posted in Sydney.” He opened it.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “The preamble’s much the same as yours and so’s the follow-up: the bit about him having to confess to an ulterior motive.”

  “Does he want you to paint his portrait, my poor Rory?”

  “He wants me to give them ‘my valued opinion as to the possibility of obtaining police protection in the matter of the persecution of Madame Sommita by a photographer, of which I am no doubt aware.’ Well, of all the damn cheek!” said Alleyn. ‘Travel thirteen thousand miles to sit on an island in the middle of a lake and tell him whether or not to include a copper in his house party.”

  “Oh! Yes. The penny’s dropped. All that stuff in the papers. I didn’t really read it.”

  “You must be the only English-speaking human being who didn’t.”

  “Well, I did, really. Sort of. But the photographs were so hideous they put me off. Fill me, as I expect they say in Mr. Reece’s circles, in.”

  “You remember how Mrs. Jacqueline Ke
nnedy, as she was then, was pestered by a photographer?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the same situation but much exaggerated. The Kennedy rumpus may have put the idea into this chap’s head. He signs himself ‘Strix.’ He’s actually followed the Sommita all over the world. Wherever she has appeared in opera or on the concert stage: Milan, Paris, Covent Garden, New York, Sydney. At first the photographs were the usual kind of thing with the diva flashing gracious smiles at the camera, but gradually differences crept in. They became more and more unflattering and he became more and more intrusive. He hid behind bushes. He trespassed on private ground and cropped up when and where he was least expected. On one occasion he joined the crowd round the stage door with the rest of the press, and contrived to get right up to the front.

  “As she came into the doorway and did her usual thing of being delighted and astonished at the size of the crowd, he aimed his camera and at the same time blew a piercingly loud whistle. Her jaw dropped and her eyes popped and in the resulting photograph she looked as if someone had thumped her between the shoulder blades.

  “From then on the thing ripened into a sort of war of attrition. It caught the fancy of her enormous public, the photos became syndicated, and the man is said to be making enormous sums of money. Floods of angry letters from her fans to the papers concerned. Threats. Unkind jokes in the worst possible taste. Bets laid. Preposterous stories suggesting he’s a cast-off lover taking his revenge or a tenor who fell out with her. Rumors of a nervous breakdown. Bodyguards. The lot.”

  “Isn’t it rather feeble of them not to spot him and manhandle him off?”

  “You’d have thought so, but he’s too smart for them. He disguises himself — sometimes bearded and sometimes not. Sometimes in the nylon stocking mask. At one time turned out like a city agent, at another like a Skid Row dropout. He’s said to have a very, very sophisticated camera.”

  “Yes, but when he’s done it, why hasn’t somebody grabbed him and jumped on the camera? And what about her celebrated temperament? You’d think she’d set about him herself.”