Photo Finish

Alleyn made a thorough search of the surfaces under the bed, of the top of her dressing table, of an escritoire, on which he found the Sommita’s jewel box. This was unlocked and the contents were startling in their magnificence. The bedside table. The crimson coverlet. Nothing. Could it be under the body? Possible, he supposed, but he must not move the body.

The bathroom: all along the glass shelves, the floor, everywhere.

And yet Maria, if she was to be believed, had heard the key turned in the lock after she and Mr. Reece were kicked out. And when she returned she had used her own key. He tried to picture the Sommita, at the height, it seemed, of one of her rages, turning the key in the lock, withdrawing it, and then putting it — where? Hiding it? But why? There was no accommodation for it in the bosom of her Hebraic gown, which was now slashed down in ribbons. He uncovered the horror that was the Sommita, and with infinite caution, scarcely touching it, examined the surface of the counterpane round the body. He even slid his hand under the body. Nothing. He re-covered the body.

“When all likely places have been fruitlessly explored, begin on the unlikely and carry on into the preposterous.” This was the standard practice. He attacked the drawers of the dressing table. They were kept, by Maria, no doubt, in perfect order. He patted, lifted and replaced lacy undergarments, stockings, gloves. Finally, in the bottom drawer on the left he arrived at the Sommita’s collection of handbags. On the top was a gold mesh, bejeweled affair that he remembered her carrying on the evening of their arrival.

Using his handkerchief he gingerly opened it and found her key to the room lying on top of an unused handkerchief.

The bag would have to be fingerprinted, but for the moment it would be best to leave it undisturbed.

So what was to be concluded? If she had taken her bag downstairs and left it in her dressing room, then she must have taken it back to the bedroom. Mr. Reece was with her. There would have been no call for the key, for Maria was already in the room, waiting for her. She was, it must never be forgotten, in a passion, and the Sommita’s passions, he would have thought, did not admit of methodical tidying away of handbags into drawers. She would have been more likely to chuck the bag at Mr. Reece’s or Maria’s head, but Maria had made no mention of any such gesture. She had merely repeated that when they beat their retreat they heard the key turn in the lock and that when she came back with the hot drink she used her own key.

Was it then to be supposed that, having locked herself in, the Sommita stopped raging and methodically replaced her key in the bag and the bag in the drawer? Unlikely, because she must have used the key to admit her killer and was not likely to replace it. Being, presumably, dead.

Unless, of course, Maria was her killer. This conjured up a strange picture. The fanatically devoted Maria, hot drink in hand, reenters the bedroom, places the brimming cup in its saucer on the bedside table, and chloroforms her tigerish mistress, who offers no resistance, and she then produces the dagger and photograph and, having completed the job, sets up her own brand of hullabaloo and rushes downstairs proclaiming the murder? No.

Back to the Sommita, then. What had she done after she had locked herself in? She had not undressed. She had not taken her pill. How had she spent her last minutes before she was murdered?

And what, oh what about Rupert Bartholomew?

At this point there was a tap on the door and Dr. Carmichael returned.

“‘Safely stowed,’ ” he said. “At least, I hope so. Mrs. Bacon was still up and ready to cope. We escorted that tiresome woman to her room, she offering no resistance. I waited outside. Mrs. B. saw her undressed, be-nightied and in bed. She gave her a couple of aspirins, made sure she took them, and came out. We didn’t lock her up, by the way.”

“We’ve really no authority to do that,” said Alleyn. “I was making an idle threat.”

“It seemed to work.”

“I really am very grateful indeed for your help, Carmichael. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”

“To tell you the truth, in a macabre sort of way, I’m enjoying myself. It’s a change from general practice. What now?” asked Dr. Carmichael.

“Look here. This is important. When you went backstage to succor the wretched Bartholomew, the Sommita was still on deck, wasn’t she?”

“She was indeed. Trying to manhandle the boy.”

“Still in her Old Testament gear, of course?”

“Of course.”

“When they persuaded her to go upstairs — Reece and Lattienzo, wasn’t it? — did she take a gold handbag with her? Or did Reece take it?”

“I can’t remember. I don’t think so.”

“It would have looked pretty silly,” Alleyn said. “It wouldn’t exactly team up with the white samite number. I’d have thought you’d have noticed it.” He opened the drawer and showed Dr. Carmichael the bag.

“She was threshing about with her arms quite a bit,” the doctor said. “No, I’m sure she hadn’t got that thing in her hand. Why?” Alleyn explained.

Dr. Carmichael closed his eyes for some seconds. “No,” he said at last, “I can’t reconcile the available data with any plausible theory. Unless—”

“Well?”

“Well, it’s a most unpleasant thought but — unless the young man—”

“There is that, of course.”

“Maria is already making strong suggestions along those lines.”

“Is she, by George,” said Alleyn and after a pause, “but it’s the Sommita’s behavior and her bloody key that won’t fit in. Did you see anything of our host downstairs?”

“There’s a light under what I believe is his study door and voices beyond.”

“Come on then. It’s high time I reported. He may be able to clear things up a bit.”

“I suppose so.”

“Either confirm or refute la bella Maria, at least,” said Alleyn. “Would you rather go to bed?”

Dr. Carmichael looked at his watch. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “it’s a quarter to twelve.”

“As Iago said, ‘Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.’ ”

“Who? Oh. Oh, yes. No, I don’t want to go to bed.”

“Come on then.”

Again they turned off the lights and left the room. Alleyn locked the door.

Bert was on the landing.

“Was you still wanting a watch kept up,” he said, “I’ll take it on if you like. Only a suggestion.”

“You are a good chap,” Alleyn said. “But—”

“I appreciate you got to be careful. The way things are. But seeing you suggested it yourself before and seeing I never set eyes on one of this mob until I took the job on, I don’t look much like a suspect. Please yourself.”

“I accept with very many thanks. But—”

“If you was thinking I might drop off, I’d thought of that. I might, too. I could put a couple of them chairs in front of the door and doss down for the night. Just an idea,” said Bert.

“It’s the answer,” Alleyn said warmly. “Thank you, Bert.”

And he and Dr. Carmichael went downstairs to the study.

Here they found not only Mr. Reece but Signor Lattienzo, Ben Ruby, and Hanley, the secretary.

Mr. Reece, perhaps a trifle paler than usual, but he was always rather wan, sat at his trendy desk — his swivel chair turned toward the room as if he had interrupted his work to give an interview. Hanley drooped by the window curtains and had probably been looking out at the night. The other two men sat by the fire and seemed to be relieved at Alleyn’s appearance. Signor Lattienzo did, in fact, exclaim: “Ecco! At last!” Hanley, reverting to his customary solicitude, pushed chairs forward.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Alleyn,” said Mr. Reece in his pallid way. “Doctor!” he added with an inclination of his head toward Carmichael.

“I’m afraid we’ve little to report,” Alleyn said. “Doctor Carmichael is very kindly helping me, but so far we haven’t got beyond the preliminary stages. I’m hoping that you, sir, will be able to put us right on some points, particularly in respect of the order of events from the time Rupert Bartholomew fainted until Maria raised the alarm.”