Killer Dolphin

Alleyn said: “You’ve been having a bad time. An awful time. But it will ease up. It won’t always be as bad as this.”

“Let me go. Please let me go.”

“Yes,” he said. “You may go now.”

And when she had gone, blowing her nose, squaring her shoulders and making, instinctively he supposed, quite an exit, he turned to Trevor and found him, with every sign of gratification, deep in his comics.

“Do I have to see the others?” he asked. “It’s getting a bit of a drag.”

“Are you tired?”

“No. I’m reading.” His eye lit on Gertrude Bracey’s parcel. “Might as well look it over,” he said and unwrapped a tie. “Where’d she dig that up?” he wondered and returned to his comic.

“You are a young toad, aren’t you?” Alleyn remarked. “How old are you, in Heaven’s name?”

“Eleven and three months,” Trevor said. He was helping himself to a crystallized plum.

A slight rumpus broke out in the passage. Peregrine put his head round the door. “Marco and Harry are both here,” he said and cast up his eyes.

When Alleyn joined him at the door he muttered: “Marco won’t wait. He didn’t want to come. And Harry says he got here first. He’s up to his usual game,” Peregrine said. “Knight-baiting.”

“Tell him to shut up and wait or I’ll run him in.”

“I wish to Heaven you would, at that.”

“Ask Knight to come along.”

“Yes. All right”

“No sign of Conducis as yet?”

“No.”

When Marcus Knight came in he did not exhibit his usual signs of emotional disturbance: the flashing eye, the empurpled cheek, the throbbing pulse and the ringing tone. On the contrary he was pale and as near to being subdued, Alleyn felt, as he could be. He laid his offering upon the now filled-to-capacity bed-tray. Fruit: in season and a gilded basket. He brusquely ran his fingers through Trevor’s curls and Trevor immediately responded with a look that successfully combined young Hamnet and Paul Dombey.

“Oh Mr. Knight,” he said, “You honestly shouldn’t. You are kind. Grapes! How fab!”

A rather stilted bedside conversation followed, during which Knight gave at least half his uneasy attention to Alleyn. Presently Trevor complained that he had slipped down in his bed and asked his illustrious guest to help him up. When Knight with an ill-grace bent over him, Trevor gazed admiringly into his face and wreathed his arms round his neck. “Just like the end of Act I come true,” he said, “isn’t it, Mr. Knight? I ought to be wearing the glove.”

Knight hurriedly extricated himself. A look of doubt crossed Trevor’s face. “The glove,” he repeated. “There’s something about the real one—Isn’t there? Something?”

Knight looked a question at Alleyn, who said: “Trevor doesn’t recall the latter part of his adventures in the theatre on Saturday night I think Jay has explained that we hope one of you may help to restore his memory.”

“I am remembering more,” Trevor said importantly. “I remember hearing Mr. Knight in the office with Mr. Meyer.”

Marcus Knight stiffened. “I believe you are aware, Alleyn, that I left with Meyer at about eleven.”

“He has told us so,” Alleyn said.

“Very well,” Knight stood over Trevor and imposed upon himself, evidently with difficulty, an air of sweet reasonableness. “If,” he said, “dear boy, you were spying about in front while I was with Mr. Meyer in his office, and if you heard our voices, you doubtless also saw us leave the theatre.”

Trevor nodded.

“Precisely,” Knight said and spread his hands at Alleyn.

“People come back,” said the treble voice. Alleyn turned to find Trevor, the picture of puzzled i

“What the hell do you mean by that!” Knight ejaculated.

“It’s part of what I can’t remember. Somebody came back.”

“I really ca

“I-don’t-think-I-want-to-remember.”

“There you are, you see. This is infamous. The boy will be harmed. I absolutely refuse to take part in a dangerous and unwarranted experiment. Don’t worry yourself, boy. You are perfectly right. Don’t try to remember.”

“Why?”

“Because I tell you,” Knight roared and strode to the door. Here he paused. “I am an artist,” he said, suddenly adopting a muted voice that was rather more awful than a piercing scream. “In eight hours’ time I appear before the public in a most exhausting role. Moreover I shall be saddled throughout a poignant, delicate and exacting scene with the incompetence of some revolting child-actor of whose excesses I am as yet ignorant. My nerves have been exacerbated. For the past forty-eight hours I have suffered the torments of hell. Slighted. Betrayed. Derided. Threatened. And now—this ludicrous, useless and important summons by the police. Very well, Superintendent Alleyn. There shall be no more of it. I shall lodge a formal complaint. In the meantime—Goodbye.”

The door was opened with violence and shut—not slammed—with well-judged temperance.

“Lovely eggzit,” said Trevor, yawning and reading his comic.

From outside in the corridor came the sound of applause, an oath, and rapidly retreating footsteps.

Alleyn reopened the door to disclose Harry Grove, gently clapping his hands, and Marcus Knight striding down the corridor.

Harry said, “Isn’t he superb? Honestly, you have to hand it to him.” He drew a parcel from his pocket. “Baby roulette,” he said. “Trevor can work out systems. It is true that this is a sort of identification parade?”

“You could put it like that I suppose,” Alleyn agreed.

“Do you mean,” Hairy said, changing colour, “that this unfortunate but nauseating little boy may suddenly point his finger at one of us and enunciate in ringing tones: ‘It all comes back to me. He du

“That, roughly, is the idea.”

“Then I freely confess it terrifies me.”

“Come inside and get it over.”

“Very well. But I’d have you know that he’s quite capable of putting on a false show of recovery smartly followed up by a still falser accusation. Particularly,” Harry said grimly, “in my case when he knows the act would draw loud cheers and much laughter from all hands and the cook.”

“We’ll have to risk it. In you go.”

Alleyn opened the door and followed Harry into the room.

Trevor had slithered down again in his bed and had dropped off into a convalescent cat-nap. Harry stopped short and stared at him.

“He looks,” he whispered, “as if he was quite a nice little boy, doesn’t he? You’d say butter wouldn’t melt. Is he really asleep or is it an act?”

“He dozes. If you just lean over him he’ll wake.”

“It seems a damn shame, I must say.”

“All the same I’ll ask you to do it, if you will. There’s a bruise on the cheekbone that mystifies us all. I wonder if you’ve any ideas. Have a look at it.”

A trolley jingled past the door and down the corridor. Outside on the river a barge hooted. Against the multiple, shapeless voice of London, Big Ben struck one o’clock.

Harry put his parcel on the tray.

“Look at the bruise on his face. His hair’s fallen across it. Move his hair back and look.”

Harry stooped over the boy and put out his left hand.

From behind the screen in the corner there rang out a single, plangent note. “Twang.”

Trevor opened his eyes, looked into Harry’s face and screamed.