was much as it had been the night before. The bed had not been slept in. Alleyn had learnt from Bunce that Nigel had been up all night, trying to get calls through to the family solicitor, to his own office, and, on behalf of the police, to Scotland Yard. He had been invaluable to Handesley and to Angela North, had succeeded in getting Tokareff to stop talking and go to bed, and had silenced Mrs Wilde’s hysterics when her husband had thrown up his hands in despair and left her to it. The inspector considered Ethel’s statement that she had actually seen Nigel in his room as the lights went out good enough proof of his integrity. However, he examined the room carefully.
Conrad’s Suspense lay on the bedside table. The butts of two Sullivan Powell cigarettes were in the ash-tray. An inquiry showed that these were the last in the cigarette box at seven-thirty the evening before, and Ethel, recalled, repeated that she had noticed the box empty and Mr Bathgate smoking the last on her dramatically terminated visit. Mr Bathgate’s own cigarettes were of a less expensive variety. ‘Exit Mr Bathgate,’ murmured the detective to himself. ‘He couldn’t smoke two cigarettes, commit a murder, and talk to a housemaid while he was doing it, in ten or twelve minutes.’ He had come to this conclusion when the door opened and in walked Nigel himself.
At the sight of the Yard man in his room Nigel immediately felt as guilty as he would have done if his hands had been metaphorically drenched in his cousin’s blood.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t realize you were here—I’ll push off.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Alleyn amiably. ‘I’m not going to put the handcuffs on you. I want to ask you a question. Did you by any chance hear anything outside in the passage while you were dressing last night?’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Nigel, overwhelmed with relief.
‘Well, what does one hear in passages? Any sound of a footfall, for instance?’
‘No, nothing. You see, I was talking to Wilde all the time and his bath was running, too—I wouldn’t have been able to hear anything.’
‘I understand Mrs Wilde was in her room all this time. Do you remember hearing her voice?’
Nigel considered this carefully.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘yes, I am positive I heard Mr Wilde call out to her and I heard her answer him.’
‘At what precise moment? Before or after the lights went out?’
Nigel sat on the bed with his head in his hands.
‘I can’t be certain,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll swear on oath I heard her voice, and I think it was before and after the lights went out. Is it important?’
‘Everything is important, but taken in conjunction with the icy Florence’s statement, your own is useful as a corroboration. Now, look here, show me Tokareff’s room, will you?’
‘I think I know where it is,’ said Nigel. He led the way down the passage into the back corridor and turned to the left. ‘Judging from my recollection of his vocal efforts, I should say this was it.’
Alleyn opened the door. The room was singularly tidy. The bed had been slept in, but was little disturbed. Dr Tokareff would have appeared to have passed a particularly tranquil night. On the bedside table lay a Webster’s Dictionary, and a well-thumbed copy of The Kreutzer Sonata in English.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Bathgate,’ said Alleyn; ‘I can carry on here.’
Nigel withdrew, thankful to leave the atmosphere of official investigation and yet, paradoxically, conscious of a sense of thwarted curiosity.
Inspector Alleyn opened the wardrobe and drawers and noted down the contents, then turned his attention to the suitcase that had been neatly bestowed under one of the cupboards. In this he found a small leather writing-case with a lock that responded at once to the attentions of a skeleton key. The case contained a number of documents typewritten in Russian, a few photographs, mostly of the doctor himself, and a small suede pouch in which he found a little seal set in a steel mount. Alleyn took it to the writing-table, inked it and pressed it down on a piece of paper. It gave a tolerably clear impression of a long-bladed dagger. The inspector whistled softly between his teeth and, referring to the documents, found a similar impression on many of the pages. He copied one or two sentences into his note-book, carefully cleaned the seal and replaced everything in the writing-case, snapping the lock home and restoring the suitcase to its former position. Then he wrote a note in his little book, ‘Communicate with Sumiloff in re above,’ and with a final glance round, returned to the passage.
Next he went into Angela’s bedroom, and then into Rosamund Grant’s. Finally he visited Sir Hubert Handesley’s bedroom, dressing-room, and bathroom. All these he subjected to a similar meticulous search, making a list of the clothes, going through the pockets, sorting, examining, and restoring every movable and garment. He found little to interest him, and had paused to light a cigarette in Handesley’s dressing-room, when a light rap on the door and a respectful murmur outside announced the presence of Detective-Sergeant Bailey.
Alleyn went out into the passage.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Bailey, ‘but I think I’ve got hold of something.’
‘Where?’
‘In the lady’s bedroom, sir. I’ve left it just as it is.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Alleyn.
They returned to Marjorie Wilde’s bedroom, passing Mary, all eyes, on the landing.
‘Now then, Mary,’ said Alleyn severely, ‘what are you doing up here? I thought I asked you all to stay in your own department for an hour.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m that sorry, sir, but the master’s asked for ‘is Norfick jacket wot’s got ‘is pipe in it, sir, and Mr Roberts ‘e sent me up for it.’
‘Tell Roberts I thought he understood my instructions. I will bring down the jacket myself for Sir Hubert.’
‘Yes, sir,’ murmured Mary plaintively, and scuttled downstairs again.
‘Well, Bailey, what is it?’ asked the inspector, shutting Mrs Wilde’s door behind him.
‘It’s this drawer-contraption here,’ said Bailey, with his slightly disparaging air of social independence.
The six drawers of a Georgian tallboy were laid out neatly on the floor.
‘You’ve no eye for antiques, Bailey,’ said Inspector Alleyn. ‘That’s a very nice piece indeed.’ He walked over to the empty carcass and stroked the top surface appreciatively.
‘It’s a bit the worse for wear, however,’ said Bailey. ‘The casing at the bottom’s hollow, and there’s a hole in the inside lining. See, sir? Well, it seems to me someone’s been scuffling about in that bottom drawer and pushed a small soft object over the end of it. It’s fallen into the bottom. You can just touch it.’
Alleyn went down on his knees and thrust his fingers into the gap in the bottom of the tallboy.
‘Give me that buttonhook on the table,’ he said quickly.
Bailey handed it to him. In
