Photo-Finish Page 10

  ‘Highly so. Mot juste, by the way.’

  ‘"A in sop" wouldn’t have the same charm.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps, simply “Top Note". Though why I should fuss about a title when I haven’t as yet clapped paint to canvas, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Has she seen the drawings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And won’t if you can help it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Troy.

  They settled down. Signor Lattienzo discoursed cosily, telling Troy of droll occurrences in the world of opera and of a celebrated company half-Italian and half-French of which the Sommita had been the star and in which internal feuding ran so high that when people asked at the Box Office what opera was on tonight the manager would intervene and say, ‘Wait till the curtain goes up, Madame,’ or (Dear Boy!) ‘Just wait till the curtain goes up.’ With this and further discourse he entertained Troy exceedingly. After some time Alleyn came in and said the launch had been sighted on its return trip and the last batch of travellers were getting ready to leave.

  ‘The wind is almost gale force,’ he said. ‘The telephone’s out of order – probably a branch across the line. Radio and television are cut off.’

  ‘Will they be all right?’ Troy asked. ‘The passengers?’

  ‘Reece says that Les knows his job and that he wouldn’t undertake the passage if he thought there was any risk. Hanley’s swanning about telling everyone that the launch is seaworthy, cost the earth and crossed the English Channel in a blizzard.’

  ‘How glad I am,’ Signor Lattienzo remarked, ‘that I am not on board her.’

  Alleyn opened the window-curtains. ‘She could be just visible from here,’ he said, and after a pause, ‘Yes, there she is. Down at the jetty.’

  Troy joined him. Beyond the half-blinded window lights, having no background, moved across the void, distorted by the runnels of water streaming down the pane. They rose, tilted, sank, rose again, vanished, reappeared and were gone.

  ‘They are going aboard,’ said Alleyn. ‘I wonder if Eru Johnstone is glad to have left the Island?’

  ‘One would have thought – ‘ Signor Lattienzo began and was cut short by a scream.

  It came from within the house and mounted like a siren. It broke into a gabble, resumed and increased in volume.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Signor Lattienzo irritably. ‘What now, for pity’s sake!’ A piercing scream answered him.

  And then he was on his feet. ‘That is not Bella’s voice,’ he said loudly.

  It was close. On their landing. Outside their door. Alleyn made for the door but before he could reach it, it opened and there was Maria, her mouth wide open, yelling at the top of her voice.

  ‘Soccorso! Soccorso!’

  Alleyn took her by the upper arms. ‘Che succede?’ he demanded. ‘Control yourself, Maria. What are you saying?’

  She stared at him, broke free, and ran to Signor Lattienzo, beat him with her clenched fists and poured out a stream of Italian.

  He held her by the wrists and shook her. ‘Taci!’ he shouted, and to Alleyn: ‘She is saying that Bella has been murdered.

  IV

  The Sommita lay on her back across a red counterpane. The bosom of her biblical dress had been torn down to the waist and under her left breast, irrelevantly, unbelievably, the haft of a knife stuck out. The wound was not visible, being masked by a piece of glossy coloured paper or card that had been pierced by the knife and transfixed to the body. From beneath this a thin trace of blood had slid down towards naked ribs like a thread of red cotton. The Sommita’s face, as seen from the room, was upside down. Its eyes bulged and its mouth was wide open. The tongue protruded as if at the moment of death she had pulled a gargoyle’s grimace at her killer. 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.

  Alleyn turned to Montague Reece who stood halfway between the door and the bed with Beppo Lattienzo holding his arm. The secretary, Hanley, had stopped short just inside the room, his hand over his mouth and looking as if he was going to be sick. Beyond the door Maria could be heard to break out afresh in bursts of hysteria. Alleyn said: ‘That doctor – Carmichael, isn’t it? – he stayed behind, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Reece. ‘Of course,’ and to Hanley: ‘Get him.’

  ‘And shut the door after you,’ said Alleyn. ‘Whoever’s out there on the landing, tell them to go downstairs and wait in the drawing room.’

  ‘And get rid of that cursed woman,’ Mr Reece ordered savagely. ‘No! Stop! Tell the housekeeper to take charge of her. I – ‘ he appealed to Alleyn. ‘What should we do? You know about these things. I – need a few moments.’

  ‘Monty, my dear! Monty,’ Lattienzo begged him, ‘don’t look. Come away. Leave it to other people. To Alleyn. Come with me.’ He turned on Hanley. ‘Well. Why do you wait? Do as you’re told, imbecile. The doctor!’

  ‘There’s no call to be insulting,’ Hanley quavered. He looked distractedly about him and his gaze fell upon the Sommita’s face. ‘God Almighty!’ he said and bolted.

  When he had gone, Alleyn said to Mr Reece: ‘Is your room on this floor? Why not let Signor Lattienzo take you there? Dr Carmichael will come and see you.’

  ‘I would like to see Ben Ruby. I do not require a doctor.’

  ‘We’ll find Ben for you,’ soothed Lattienzo. ‘Come along.’

  ‘I am perfectly all right, Beppo,’ Mr Reece stated. He freed himself and actually regained a sort of imitation of his customary manner. He said to Alleyn: ‘I will be glad to leave this to you. You will take charge, if you please. I will be available and wish to be kept informed.’ And then: ‘The police. The police must be notified.’

  Alleyn said: ‘Of course they must. When it’s possible. At the moment it’s not. We are shut off.’

  Mr Reece stared at him dully. ‘I had forgotten,’ he conceded. And then astonishingly: ‘That is extremely awkward,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

  ‘He is in trauma,’ said Lattienzo uncertainly. ‘He is in shock. Shall I stay with him?’

  ‘If you would. Perhaps when Mr Ruby arrives – ‘

  ‘Si, si, sicuro,’ said Signor Lattienzo. ‘Then I make myself scarce.’

  ‘Only if so desired,’ Alleyn rejoined in his respectable Italian.

  When he was alone he returned to the bed. Back on the job, he thought, and with no authority.

  He thought of Troy: of six scintillating drawings, of a great empty canvas waiting on the brand-new easel and he wished to God he could put them all thirteen thousand miles away in a London studio.

  There was a tap on the door. He heard Lattienzo say: ‘Yes. In there,’ and Dr Carmichael came in.

  He was a middle-aged to elderly man with an air of authority. He looked sharply at Alleyn and went straight to the bed. Alleyn watched him make the expected examination and then straighten up.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that nothing can be done,’ he said. ‘This is a most shocking thing. Who found her?’

  ‘It seems, her maid. Maria. She raised the alarm and was largely incoherent. No doubt you all heard her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She spoke Italian,’ Alleyn explained. ‘I understood a certain amount and Lattienzo, of course, much more. But even to him she was sometimes incomprehensible. Apparently after the performance Madame Sommita was escorted to her room by Mr Reece.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the doctor. ‘I was there. They’d asked me to have a look at the boy. When I arrived they were persuading her to go.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well. Maria was here expecting she would be needed. Her mistress, still upset by young Bartholomew’s collapse, ordered them to leave her alone. Maria put out one of her tablets, whatever they are. She also put out her dressing gown – there it is, that fluffy object still neatly folded over the chair – and she and Reece did leave. As far as I could make out she was anxious about Madame Sommit
a and after a time returned to the room with a hot drink – there it is untouched – and found her as you see her now. Can you put a time to the death?’

  ‘Not precisely, of course, but I would think not more than an hour ago. Perhaps much less. The body is still warm.’

  ‘What about the raised arm? Rigor mortis? Or cadaveric spasm?’

  ‘The latter, I should think. There doesn’t appear to have been a struggle. And that card or paper or whatever it is?’ said Dr Carmichael.

  ‘I’ll tell you what that is,’ said Alleyn, ‘it’s a photograph.’

  V

  Dr Carmichael, after an incredulous stare at Alleyn, stooped over the body.

  ‘It’d be as well not to touch the paper,’ said Alleyn, ‘but look at it.’ He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and used it to open out the creases. ‘You can see for yourself,’ he said.

  Dr Carmichael looked. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re right. It’s a photograph of her. With her mouth open. Singing.’

  ‘And the knife has been pushed through the photograph at the appropriate place – the heart.’

  ‘It’s – grotesque. When – where could it have been taken?’ ‘This afternoon, in the concert chamber,’ said Alleyn. ‘Those are the clothes she wore. She stood in a shaft of sunlight. My wife made a drawing of her standing as she is here. The photograph must have been taken from outside a window. One of those instant self-developing jobs.’

  Dr Carmichael said: ‘What should we do? I feel helpless.’

  ‘So, believe me, do I! Reece tells me I am to “take charge", which is all very well but I have no real authority.’

  ‘Oh – surely!’

  ‘I can only assume it until the local police take over. And when that will be depends on this blasted “Rosser” and the telephone breakdown.’

  ‘I heard the young man who seems to be more or less in charge – I don’t know his name – ‘

  ‘Hanley.’

  ‘ – say that if the lake got rougher the launchman would stay on the mainland and sleep on board or in the boatshed. He was going to flash a lamp when they got there from the second trip to show they were all right. I think Hanley said something about him ringing a bell, though how they could expect anyone to hear it through the storm I can’t imagine.

  ‘Eru Johnstone said the “Rosser” usually lasts about twenty-four hours.’

  ‘In the meantime – ?’ Dr Carmichael motioned with his head, indicating the bed and its occupant. ‘What should be the drill? Usually?’

  ‘An exhaustive examination of the scene. Nothing moved until the crime squad have gone over the ground: photographer, dabs – fingerprints – pathologist’s first report. See any self-respecting whodunit,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘So we cover her up and maintain a masterly inactivity?’

  Alleyn waited for a moment or two. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I have got my working camera with me. My wife has a wide camel-hair watercolour brush. Talc powder would work all right. It’s a hell of a time since I did this sort of field work but I think I can manage. When it’s done the body can be covered.’

  ‘Can I be of help?’

  Alleyn hesitated for a very brief moment and then said: ‘I’d be very glad of your company and of your help. You will of course be asked to give evidence at the inquest and I’d like to have a witness to my possibly irregular activities.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So if you don’t mind I’ll leave you here while I collect what I need and see my wife. And I suppose I’d better have a word with Hanley and the hangovers in the drawing room. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Good.’

  An onslaught of wind shook the window frames.

  ‘Not much letting-up out there,’ Alleyn said. He parted the heavy curtains. ‘By George!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s signalling! Have a look.’

  Dr Carmichael joined him. Out in the blackness a pinpoint of light appeared, held for a good second and went out. It did this three times. A pause followed. The light reappeared for a full second, was followed by a momentary flash and then a long one. A pause and the performance was repeated.

  ‘Is that Morse?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Yes, it reads “OK",’ said Alleyn. ‘Somewhat ironically, under the circumstances. It was to let us know they’d made it in the launch.’

  The signals were repeated.

  ‘Here!’ Alleyn said. ‘Before he goes. Quick. Open up.’

  They opened the curtains wide. Alleyn ran to the group of light switches on the wall and threw them all on.

  The Sommita, gaping on her bed, was as she had always demanded she should be, fully lit.

  Alleyn blacked out. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he begged the doctor, ‘or I’ll muck it up. Do you know Morse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, for a tiny boy scout. Here goes, then.’

  Using both hands on the switches, he began to signal. The Sommita flashed up and out, up and out. The storm lashed the windows, the switches clicked: ‘Dot-dot-dot. Dash-dash-dash and Dot-dot-dot.’

  He waited. ‘If he’s still watching,’ he said. ‘He’ll reply.’

  And after a daunting interval, he did. The point of light reappeared and vanished.

  Alleyn began again: slowly, laboriously. ‘SOS. Urgent. Contact. Police. Murder.’ And again: ‘SOS. Urgent. Contact. Police. Murder.’

  He did it three times and waited an eternity.

  And at last the acknowledgement: ‘Roger.’

  Alleyn said: ‘Let’s hope it works. I’ll be off. If you’d rather leave the room, get her key from the housekeeper. Lock it from the outside and wait for me on the landing. There’s a chair behind a screen. Half a minute. I’d better just look round here before I go.’

  There was another door in the Sommita’s enormous bedroom: it opened into her bathroom, an extraordinarily exotic apartment carpeted in crimson with a built-in dressing table and a glass surrounded by lights and flanked by shelves thronged with flasks, atomizers, jars, boxes and an arrangement of crystal flowers in a Venetian vase.

  Alleyn looked at the hand basin. It was spotless but damp, and the soap wet. Of the array of scarlet towels on heated rails, one was wet but unstained.

  He returned to the bedroom and had a quick look round. On the bedside table was a full cup of some milky concoction. It was still faintly warm and a skin had formed on top. Beside this was a glass of water and a bottle of sleeping tablets of a well-known proprietary brand. One had been laid out beside the water. Dr Carmichael waited with his back to the bed.

  They left the room together. At Dr Carmichael’s suggestion Alleyn took charge of the key.

  ‘If it’s all right,’ said the doctor, ‘I thought I’d have a look at the young chap. He was rather under the weather after that faint.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘So I gathered. Did you look after him?’

  ‘Reece asked me to. The secretary came round to the front in a great taking-on. I went backstage with him.’

  ‘Good. What did you find?’

  ‘I found Bartholomew coming to, Madame Sommita shaking him like a rabbit and that Italian singing master of hers – Lattienzo – ordering her to stop. She burst out crying and left. Reece followed her. I suppose it was then that she came upstairs. The ingénue – little Miss Parry – had the good sense to bring a glass of water for the boy. We got him to a seat and from there, when he was ready for it, to his room. Lattienzo offered to give him one of his own sleeping pills and put him to bed, but he wanted to be left to himself. I returned to the drawing room. If it’s OK by you I think I’ll take a look-see at him.’

  ‘Certainly. I’d like to come with you.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Dr Carmichael, surprised. And then: ‘I see. Or do I? You’re checking up. Right?’

  ‘Well – sort of. Hold on a jiffy, will you?’

  Below in the hall a door had shut and he caught the sound of a bolt being pushed home. He went to the head of the stairs and looked down. There
was the unmistakable, greatly foreshortened figure of their driver: short ginger hair and heavy shoulders. He was coming away from the front door and had evidently been locking up. What was his name? Ah yes. Bert.

  Alleyn gave a not too loud whistle between his teeth. ‘Hi! Bert!’ he said. The head tilted back and the dependable face was presented. Alleyn beckoned and Bert came upstairs.

  ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘This is no good. Murder, eh?’

  Alleyn said: ‘Look, do you feel like lending a hand? Dr Carmichael and I have got a call to make but I don’t want to leave this landing unguarded. Would you be a good chap and stay here? We won’t be too long. I hope.’

  ‘She’ll be right,’ said Bert. And then, with a motion of his head towards the bedroom door: ‘Would that be where it is?’

  ‘Yes. The door’s locked.’

  ‘But you reckon somebody might get nosey?’

  ‘Something like that. How about it?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Bert. ‘Got it all on your own, eh?’

  ‘With Dr Carmichael. I would be grateful. Nobody, no matter who, is to go in.’

  ‘Good as gold,’ said Bert.

  So they left him there, lounging in the chair behind the screen.

  ‘Come on,’ Alleyn said to Dr Carmichael. ‘Where’s his room?’

  ‘This way.’

  They were passing the studio door. Alleyn said: ‘Half a second, will you?’ and went in. Troy was sitting on the edge of the throne looking desolate. She jumped to her feet.

  He said: ‘You know about it?’

  ‘Signor Lattienzo came and told me. Rory, how terrible!’

  ‘I know. Wait here. All right? Or would you rather go to bed?’

  ‘I’m all right. I don’t think I really believe it has happened.’

  ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. I’m OK. Rory, Signor Lattienzo seems to think it was Strix – the photographer. Is that possible?’

  ‘Remotely, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t quite believe in the photographer.’

  ‘If you want to talk about it, we will. In the meantime could you look me out my camera, a big sable brush and a squirt-thing of talc powder?’