Photo Finish

“No?”

“Oh, no. She made all the ru

This chimed, Alleyn thought, with Dr. Carmichael’s speculation.

“Yes, I see,” he said lightly. “Has Mr. Reece any business relationships with Hoffman-Beilstein?”

“He pulled out. Like I said, we didn’t fancy the way things shaped up. There were very fu

“I see. And now — about the servants.”

“I suppose you mean Marco and Maria, don’t you? Straight out of grand opera, the two of them. Without the voice for it, of course.”

“Did they come into the household before your time?”

“Maria was with Madame, of course, at the time I made my paltry entrance. I understand the Boss Man produced her. From the Italian Embassy or somewhere rather smooth. But Marco arrived after me.”

“When was that?”

“Three years ago. Third Australian tour. The Boss Man wanted a personal servant. I advertised and Marco was easily the best bet. He had marvelous references. We thought that being Italian he might understand Maria and the Lady.”

“Would that be about the time when Strix began to operate?”

“About then, yes,” Hanley agreed and then stared at Alleyn. “Oh, no!” he said. “You’re not suggesting? Or are you?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Naturally I would like to hear more about Strix. Can you give me any idea of how many times the offensive photographs appeared?”

Hanley eyed him warily. “Not precisely,” he said. “There had been some on her European tour, before I joined the circus. About six, I think. I’ve filed them and could let you know.”

“Thank you. And afterwards. After you and Marco had both arrived on the scene?”

“Now you’ll be making me feel awkward. No, of course you won’t. I don’t mean that. Let me think. There was the one in Double Bay when he bounced round a corner in dark glasses with a scarf over his mouth. And the stage-door débâcle when he was in drag and the one in Melbourne when he came alongside in a car and shot off before they could see what he was like. And of course the really awful one on the Opera House steps. There was a rumor then that he was a blond. That’s only four!” Hanley exclaimed. “With all the hullabaloo it seemed more like the round dozen. It certainly did the trick with Madame. The scenes!” He finished his brandy.

“Did Madame Sommita keep in touch with her family, do you know?”

“I don’t think there is any family in Australia. I think I’ve heard they’re all in the States. I don’t know what they’re called or anything, really, about them. The origins, one understood, were of the earth, earthy.”

“In her circle of acquaintances, are there many — or any— Italians?”

“Well—” Hanley said warming slightly to the task. “Let’s see. There are the ambassadorial ones. We always make V.I.P. noises about them, of course. And I understand there was a big Italian fan mail in Australia. We’ve a considerable immigrant population over there, you know.”

“Did you ever hear of anybody called Rossi?”

Hanley shook his head slowly. “Not to remember.”

“Or Pepitene?”

“No. What an enchanting fun-name. Is he a fan? But, honestly, I don’t have anything to do with the Lady’s acquaintances or correspondents or ongoings of any sort. If you want to dig into her affairs,” said Hanley, and now a sneer was clearly to be heard, “you’d better ask the infant phenomenon, hadn’t you?”

“Bartholomew?”

“Who else? He’s supposed to be her secretary. Secretary! My God!”

“You don’t approve of Bartholomew?”

“He’s marvelous to look at, of course.”

“Looks apart?”

“One doesn’t want to be catty,” said Hanley, succeeding in being so pretty well, nevertheless, “but what else is there? The opera? You heard that for yourself. And all that carry-on at the curtain call! I’m afraid I think he’s a complete phony. And spiteful with it.”

“Really? Spiteful? You surprise me.”

“Well, look at him. Take, take, take. Everything she could give. But everything. All caught up with the opera nonsense and then when it flopped, turning round and making a public fool of himself. And her. I could see right through the high tragedy bit, don’t you worry: it was an act. He blamed her for the disaster. For egging him on. He was getting back at her.” Hanley had spoken rapidly in a high voice. He stopped short, swung round, and stared at Alleyn.

“I suppose,” he said, “I shouldn’t say these things to you. For Christ’s sake don’t go reading something awful into it all. It’s just that I got so bored with the way everyone fell for the boy beautiful. Everyone. Even the Boss Man. Until he chickened out and said he wouldn’t go on with the show. That put a different complexion on the affaire, didn’t it? Well, on everything, really. The Boss Man was livid. Such a change!”

He stood up and carefully replaced his glass on the tray. “I’m a trifle tiddly,” he said, “but quite clear in the head. Is it true or did I dream it that the British press used to call you the Handsome Sleuth? Or something like that?”

“You dreamt it,” said Alleyn. “Good night.”

ii

At twenty to three Alleyn had finished his notes. He locked them away in his dispatch case, looked around the studio, turned out the lights, and, carrying the case, went out into the passage, locking the door behind him.

And now how quiet was the Lodge. It smelled of new carpets, of dying fires, and of the aftermath of food, champagne, and cigarettes. It was not altogether silent. There were minuscule sounds suggestive of its adjusting to the storm. As he approached the landing there were Bert’s snores to be heard, rhythmic but not very loud.

Alleyn had, by now, a pretty accurate knowledge, acquired on the earlier search, of the Lodge and its sleeping quarters. The principal bedrooms and the studio were all on this floor and opened onto two passages that led off, right and left, from the landing, each taking a right-angled turn after three rooms had been passed. The guests’ names were inserted in neat little slots on their doors: à la Versailles, thought Alleyn; they might as well have gone the whole hog while they were about it and used the discriminating pour. It would be “Pour Signor Lattienzo.” But he suspected merely “Dr. Carmichael.”

He crossed the landing. Bert had left the shaded table lamp on, and it softly illuminated his i

Alleyn entered the now dark passage on the right of the landing, passed his own bedroom door and thought how strange it was that Troy should be in there and that soon he would be able to join her. He paused for a moment and as he did so heard a door open somewhere beyond the turn of the passage.

The floor, like all floors in this padded house, was thickly carpeted, but nevertheless he felt rather than heard somebody walking toward him.

Realizing that he might be silhouetted against the dimly glowing landing, he flattened himself against the wall and slid back to where he remembered seeing a switch for the passage lights. After some groping his hand found it. He turned it on and there, almost within touching distance, was Rupert Bartholomew.

For a moment he thought Rupert would bolt. He had jerked up his hands as if to guard his face. He looked quickly behind him, hesitated, and then seemed to pull himself together.