Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh

Author:Ngaio Marsh [Marsh, Ngaio]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: C429, Extratorrents, Kat
Published: 2010-01-22T13:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

Contents Of An Iron-Bound Box

How the devil did you know he had this?" asked Nigel.

Alleyn climbed down from his perch, put his hand in his pocket and produced a small key hanging on a long, very fine, steel chain.

"We found this round his neck. It suggested something of the sort to me. These boxes are made by one particular firm and the keys are rather individual. Now let us open it."

He inserted the little key and turned it twice. The lock gave a sharp click and opened. Alleyn lifted the lid.

"More paper," said Nigel.

"Yes. Wait a moment."

Alleyn put the box down on the glass top of the dressing-table. From his pocket he took two pairs of tweezers and, using them delicately, lifted out a sheet of blue notepaper. It was folded. He opened it up carefully, and bent over it. Nigel heard him draw in his breath.

"Don't touch it," he said, "but look."

And Nigel looked. On the paper two words were written over and over again:

"Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford."

Without a word Alleyn went out of the room, returning, followed by Fox, with the newspaper they had found in the trunk. He folded down the heading of the special article and laid it beside the paper on the dressing-table. The writing of the signature was identical.

"Why, in Heaven's name, did he keep it?" whispered Nigel.

"You may well ask," said Fox. "Human nature's very rum, sir, very rum indeed. Vanity, as like as not."

"Vanitas vanitatum, " Alleyn murmured. "But not this time, Fox."

The second paper proved to be another letter. It was signed H. J. M., and began: "Dear Mr. Saint."

"Hullo!" said Alleyn. "Here's the ex-footman coming out in a blaze of dubious glory. He mentioned this. It's from Mortlake. 'Please find enclosed my cheque for five hundred pounds in settlement of our little debt. The goods have all been disposed of, as per arrangement. The trade in Shantung silk is particularly satisfactory, but I have great hopes of celanese next June when our Mr. Charles comes over. Yours faithfully-- ' Oh, joy, oh rapture, my Foxkin, this is Mortlake himself! It's a relic of our last little catch. Do you remember? Please to remember, my Fox."

"I remember all right. Shantung was heroin and celanese was cocaine. We rounded 'em all up except Mortlake."

"And 'our Mr. Charles' was none other than Sniffy Quarles, who got five of the best, bless his little soul. This will just about settle Mr. Mortlake. So that's what Surbonadier had had up his sleeve for Jacob Saint."

"Well, sir, I must say it begins to look more as if Saint's our man. Although you've got to admit Trixie's letter still points my way."

"Aren't you both excited?" Nigel observed perkily.

"You must allow us our drab thrills. There's nothing more in the box."

Alleyn refolded the papers, using the utmost care not to touch the surfaces. He put them in a black japanned case that Fox produced. Then he shut the iron-bound box, returned it to the wardrobe shelf, and lit a cigarette.

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