Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew. Ngaio Marsh

for itself.’ Mr Ruby turned to Alleyn. ‘You’ve seen. You couldn’t miss it. She’s got the best twinset you’re likely to meet in a lifetime. Beautiful! Here! Take a look at this picture.’

      He turned to page 30 and flattened it out. The ‘picture’ was a photograph of the Sommita in profile with her head thrown back, her hands behind her resting on a table and taking the weight. She was in character as Carmen and an artificial rose was clenched between her teeth. She was powerfully décolletée and although at first glance there seemed to be no doubt of the authenticity of the poitrine, on closer examination there were certain curious little marks in that region suggestive of surgical scars. The legend beneath read ‘Seeing’s believing!’

      ‘She never liked that picture,’ Mr Ruby said moodily. ‘Never. But the press did, so we kept it in the handouts. Here!’ he exclaimed jamming a forefinger at it. ‘Here, take a look at this, will you? This has been interfered with. This has been touched up. This has been tinkered with. Those scars are phoney.’

      Alleyn examined it. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said and turned back to the front page.

      ‘Mr Hanley,’ he said, ‘do you think that typewriter could have been one belonging to anybody in Madame Sommita’s immediate circle? Can you tell that?’

      ‘Oh? Oh!’ said the secretary and stooped over the paper. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it wasn’t typed on my machine.’ He laughed uncomfortably. ‘I can promise you that much,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know about hers. How about it, Rupert?’

      ‘Bartholomew,’ explained Mr Reece in his flattened way, ‘is Madame’s secretary.’ He stood back and motioned Rupert to examine the page.

      Rupert who had a tendency to change colour whenever Mr Reece paid him any attention, did so now. He stooped over the paper.

      ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not our – I mean my – machine. The letter p is out of alignment in ours. And anyway it’s not the same type.’

      ‘And the signature? That looks convincing enough, doesn’t it?’ Alleyn asked his host.

      ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s Bella’s signature.’

      ‘Can any of you think of any cause Madame Sommita may have had to put her signature at the foot of a blank sheet of letter paper?’

      Nobody spoke.

      ‘Can she type?’

      ‘No,’ they all said and Ben Ruby added irritably, ‘Ah, for Chrissake, what’s the point of labouring at it? There’ve been no rumours about her bosom, pardon my candour, and, hell, she never wrote that bloody letter. It’s got to be a forgery and, by God, in my book it’s got to be that sodding photographer at the bottom of it.’

      The two young men made sounds of profound agreement.

      Mr Reece raised his hand and they were silenced. ‘We are fortunate enough,’ he announced, ‘to have Mr Alleyn, or rather Chief Superintendent Alleyn, with us. I suggest that we accord him our full attention, gentlemen.’

      He might have been addressing a board meeting. He turned to Alleyn and made a slight inclination. ‘Will you – ?’ he invited.

      Alleyn said: ‘Of course, if you think I can be of use. But I expect I ought just to mention that if there’s any idea of calling in the police it will have to be the New Zealand police. I’m sure you will understand that.’

      ‘Oh, quite so, quite so,’ said Mr Reece. ‘Let us say we will value, immensely, your unofficial expertise.’

      ‘Very well. But it won’t be at all startling.’

      The men took chairs round the table, as if, Alleyn thought, they were resigning themselves to some damned lecture. The whole scene, he thought, was out of joint. They might have arranged between themselves how it should be played but were not quite sure of their lines.

      He remembered his instructions from the AC. He was to observe, act with extreme discretion, fall in with the terms of his invitation and treat the riddle of the naughty photographer as he would any case to which he had been consigned in the ordinary course of his duties.

      He said: ‘Here goes then. First of all: if this was a police job one of the first things to be done would be to make an exhaustive examination of the letter which seems to be a reproduction in print of an original document. We would get it blown up on a screen, search the result for any signs of fingerprints or indications of what sort of paper the original might be. Same treatment for the photograph with particular attention to the rather clumsy faking of surgical scars.

      ‘At the same time someone would be sent to the offices of The Watchman to find out everything available about when the original letter was received and whether by post or pushed into the correspondence box at the entrance or wherever of The Watchman’s office. And also who dealt with it. The Watchman, almost certainly, would be extremely cagey about this and would, when asked to produce the original, say it had not been kept, which might or might not be true. Obviously,’ Alleyn said, ‘they didn’t ask for any authorization of the letter or take any steps to assure themselves that it was genuine.’

      ‘It’s not that sort of paper,’ said Ben Ruby. ‘Well, look at it. If we sued for libel it’d be nothing new to The Watchman. The scoop would be worth it.’

      ‘Didn’t I hear,’ Alleyn asked, ‘that on one occasion the photographer – “Strix” isn’t it? – dressed as a woman, asked for her autograph and then fired his camera at point-blank range and ducked out?’

      Mr Ruby slammed the table. ‘By God, you’re right,’ he shouted, ‘and he got it. She signed. He got her signature.’

      ‘It’s too much, I suppose, to ask if she remembers any particular book or whether she ever signed at the bottom of a blank page or how big the page was.’

      ‘She remembers! Too right she remembers!’ Mr Ruby shouted. ‘That one was an outsize book. Looked like something special for famous names. She remembers it on account it was not the usual job. As for the signature she’s most likely to have made it extra big to fill out the whole space. She does that.’

      ‘Were any of you with her? She was leaving the theatre, wasn’t she? At the time?’

      ‘I was with her,’ Mr Reece offered. ‘So were you, Ben. We always escort her from the stage door to her car. I didn’t actually see the book. I was looking to make sure the car was in the usual place. There was a big crowd.’

      ‘I was behind her,’ said Mr Ruby. ‘I couldn’t see anything. The first thing I knew was the flash and the rumpus. She was yelling out for somebody to stop the photographer. Somebody else was screaming “Stop that woman!” and fighting to get through. And it turned out afterwards, the screamer was the woman herself who was the photographer Strix if you can follow me.’

      ‘Just,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘He’s made monkeys out of the lot of us; all along the line he’s made us look like monkeys,’ Mr Ruby complained.

      ‘What does he look like? Surely someone must have noticed something about him?’

      But, no, it appeared. Nobody had come forward with a reliable description. He operated always in a crowd where everyone’s attention was focused on his victim and cameramen abounded. Or unexpectedly he would pop round a corner with his camera held in both hands before his face, or from a car that shot off before any action could be taken. There had been one or two uncertain impressions – he was bearded, he had a scarf pulled over his mouth, he was dark. Mr Ruby had a theory that he never wore the same clothes twice and always went in for elaborate make-ups but there was nothing to support this idea.

      ‘What action,’ Mr Reece asked Alleyn, ‘would you advise?’

      ‘To begin with: not an action