False Scent (ra-2) by Ngaio Marsh

Author:Ngaio Marsh [Marsh, Ngaio]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: det_classic

“I e ck to y at it w u d e o se my te ding I n’t n ven a rible shock that I tget t rted t tl’m sure t ll e ter if we do t me t. I c t hin clea now ut at ast I now. I’ll n for e your tr ment of An d this after on I ould ave been told everything from the beginning. R.”

Alleyn copied this fragmentary message on a second sheet of paper, carried the blotter back to the desk and very carefully removed the sheet in question.

“We’ll put the experts on to this,” he said, “but I’m prepared to take a sporting chance on the result, Br’er Fox. Are you?”

“I’d give it a go, Mr. Alleyn.”

“See if you can find Florence, will you? I’ll take a flying jump while you’re at it.”

Fox went out. Alleyn put his copy of the message on the desk and looked at it.

The correct method of deciphering and completing a blotting-paper impression is by measurement, calculation and elimination but occasionally, for persons with a knack, the missing letters start up vividly in the mind and the scientific method is thus accurately anticipated. When he was on his game, Alleyn possessed this knack and he now made use of it. Without allowing himself any second thoughts, he wrote rapidly within the copy and stared with disfavour at the result. He then opened Richard Daker’s dispatch case and found it contained a typescript of a play, Husbandry in Heaven. He flipped the pages over and came across some alterations in green ink and in the same hand as the letter.

“Miss Florence Johnson,” said Fox, opening the door and standing aside with something of the air of a large sporting dog retrieving a bird. Florence, looking not unlike an apprehensive fowl, came in.

Alleyn saw an unshapely little woman, with a pallid, tear-stained face and hair so remorselessly dyed that it might have been a raven wig. She wore that particular air of disillusionment that is associated with the Cockney and she reeked of backstage.

“The Superintendent,” Fox told her, “just wants to hear the whole story like you told it to me. Nothing to worry about.”

“Of course not,” Alleyn said. “Come and sit down. We won’t keep you long.”

Florence looked as if she might prefer to stand, but compromised by sitting on the edge of the chair Fox had pushed forward.

“This has been a sad business for you,” Alleyn said.

“That’s right,” Florence said woodenly.

“And I’m sure you must want to have the whole thing cleared up as soon and as quietly as possible.”

“Clear enough, isn’t it? She’s dead. You can’t have it much clearer than that.”

“You can’t indeed. But you see it’s our job to find out why.”

“Short of seeing it happen you wouldn’t get much nearer, would you? If you can read, that is.”

“You mean the tin of Slaypest?”

“Well, it wasn’t perfume,” Florence said impertinently. “They put that in bottles.” She shot a glance at Alleyn and seemed to undergo a slight change of temper.

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