Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 9: Clutch of Constables, When in Rome, Tied Up in Tinsel. Ngaio Marsh

      ‘We shall do nothing of the sort and I must say I think that’s a pretty cool suggestion. I invite you to dine, tête-à-tête and –’

      Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed.

      It was a positive, abrupt and piercing scream and it brought everybody on deck.

      She was leaning over the after-taffrail, her wrapper in wild disarray. She gesticulated and exclaimed and made strange grimaces.

      ‘My diary! Oh stop! Oh please! My diary!’ cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick.

      Somehow or another she had dropped it overboard. She made confused statements to the effect that she had been observing the depths, had leant over too far, had lost her grip. She lamented with catarrhal extravagance, she pointed aft where indeed the diary was to be seen, open and fairly rapidly submerging. Her nose and eyes ran copiously.

      The Tretheways behaved with the greatest address. The Skipper put the Zodiac into slow-astern, Tom produced a kind of long-handled curved hook used for clearing river-weed and Mrs Tretheway, placidity itself, emerged from below and attempted to calm Miss Rickerby-Carrick.

      The engine was switched off and the craft, on her own momentum came alongside Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s diary. Tom climbed over the taffrail, held to it with his left hand and with his right, prepared to angle.

      ‘But no!’ screamed Miss Rickerby-Carrick. ‘Not with that thing! You’ll destroy it! Don’t, don’t, don’t! Oh please. Oh please.’

      ‘Stone the crows!’ Mr Lazenby astonishingly ejaculated. With an air of hardy resignation he rose from his Li-lo, turned his back on the company, removed his spectacles and placed them on the deck. He then climbed over the taffrail and neatly dived into The River.

      Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed again, the other passengers ejaculated and, with the precision of naval ratings, lined the port side to gaze at Mr Lazenby. He was submerged but quickly re-appeared with his long hair plastered over his eyes and the diary in his hand.

      The Skipper instructed him to go ashore and walk a couple of chains downstream where it was deep enough for the Zodiac to come alongside. He did so, holding the diary clear of the water. He climbed the bank and squatted there, shaking the book gently and separating and turning over the leaves. His hair hung to one side like a caricature of a Carnaby Street fringe, completely obscuring the left eye.

      Miss Rickerby-Carrick began to give out plaintive little cries interspersed with gusts of apologetic laughter and incoherent remarks upon the waterproof nature of her self-propelling pen. She could not wait for Mr Lazenby to come aboard but leant out at a dangerous angle to receive the book from him. The little lump of leather, Troy saw, still dangled from her neck.

      ‘Oh ho, ho!’ she laughed, ‘my poor old confidante. Alas, alas!’

      She thanked Mr Lazenby with incoherent effusion and begged him not to catch cold. He reassured her, accepted his dark glasses from Troy who had rescued them and turned aside to put them on. When he faced them all again it really seemed as if in some off-beat fashion and without benefit of dog-collar, he had resumed his canonicals. He even made a little parsonic noise: ‘N’yer I’ll just get out of my wet bathers,’ he said. ‘There’s not the same heat in the English sun: not like Bondi.’ And retired below.

      ‘Well!’ said Caley Bard. ‘Who says the Church is effete?’

      There was a general appreciative murmur in which Troy did not join.

      Had she or had she not seen for a fractional moment, in Mr Lazenby’s left hand, a piece of wet paper with the marks of a propelling pencil across it?

      While Troy still mused over this, Miss Rickerby-Carrick who squatted on the deck examining with plaintive cries the ruin of her journal, suddenly exclaimed with much greater emphasis.

      The others broke off and looked at her with that particular kind of patient endurance that she so pathetically inspired.

      This time, however, there was something in her face that none of them had seen before: a look, not of anxiety or excitement but, for a second or two Troy could have sworn, of sheer panic. The dun skin had bleached under its freckles and round the jawline. The busy mouth was flaccid. She stared at her open diary. Her hands trembled. She shut the drenched book and steadied them by clutching it.

      Miss Hewson said: ‘Miss Rickerby-Carrick, are you OK?’

      She nodded once or twice, scrambled to her feet and incontinently bolted across the deck and down the companion-way to the cabins.

      ‘And now,’ Troy said to herself. ‘What about that one? Am I still imagining?’

      Again she had sensed a kind of stillness, of immense constraint and again she was unable to tell from whom it emanated.

      ‘Like it or lump it,’ Troy thought, ‘Superintendent Tillottson’s going to hear about that lot and we’ll see what he makes of it. In the meantime –’

      In the meantime, she went to her cabin and wrote another letter to her husband.

      Half an hour later the Zodiac tied up for the afternoon and night at Crossdyke.

       CHAPTER 4

       Crossdyke

      ‘As I told you,’ Alleyn said. ‘I rang up the Yard from San Francisco. Inspector Fox, who was handling the Andropulos Case, was away, but after inquiries I got through to Superintendent Tillottson at Tollardwark. He gave me details of his talks with my wife. One detail worried me a good deal more than it did him.’

      Alleyn caught the inevitable glint of appreciation from the man in the second row.

      ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘As a result I talked to the Yard again and was told there was no doubt that Foljambe had got himself to England and that he was lying doggo. Information received suggested that Andropulos had tried a spot of blackmail and had been fool enough to imply that he’d grass on the Jampot if the latter didn’t come across with something handsome. Andropulos had in fact talked to one of our chaps in the way they do when they can’t make up their minds to tell us something really useful. It was pretty obvious he was hinting at the Jampot.

      ‘So he was murdered for his pains.

      ‘The method used had been that of sudden and violent pressure on the carotids from behind and that method carries the Jampot’s signature. It is sometimes preceded by a karate chop which would probably do the trick anyway, but it’s his little fancy to make assurance double-sure.’

      The Scot in the second row gave a smirk to indicate his recognition of the quotation. ‘If I’m not careful,’ Alleyn thought, ‘I’ll be playing up to that chap.’

      ‘There had,’ he said, ‘been two other homicides, one in Ismalia and one in Paris where undoubtedly Foljambe had been the expert. But not a hope of cracking down on him. The latest line suggested that he had lit off for France. An envelope of the sort used by a well-known travel-agency had been dropped on the floor near Andropulos’s body and it had a note of the price of tickets and times of departure from London scribbled on the back. It had, as was afterwards realized, been planted by the Jampot and had successfully decoyed Mr Fox across the Channel. A typical stroke. I’ve already talked about his talent – it amounts to genius – for type-casting himself. I don’t think I mentioned that when he likes to turn it on he has a strong attraction for many, but not all, women. His ear for dialects of every description is phenomenal, of course, but he not only speaks whatever it may be – Oxbridge, superior grammar, Australasian, barrow-boy or Bronx, but he really seems to think along the appropriate wave-lengths. Rather as an actor gets behind the thought-pattern of the character he plays. He can act stupid, by the way, like nobody’s business. He is no doubt a great loss to the stage.