Artists in Crime by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page A

can’t — hear.”
    ‘The victim is an artist’s model. I’ll send Fox down with the other people and your usual kit. Much obliged. Sorry to drag you back before Monday.“
    “That’s all right, sir.”
    “Splendid. I’ll expect your report. Nice to see you again. Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye, sir.”
    Alleyn went back to the drawing-room.
    “Well?” began his mother. She looked up at him, and in a moment was at his side. “What’s the matter, old man?”
    “Nothing, ma’am. It was the Yard. They want me to take a case near here. It’s at Tatler’s End House.”
    “But what is it?”
    “Murder, it seems.”
    “Roderick!”
    “No, no. I thought that, too, for a moment. It’s the model. I’ll have to go at once. May I have the car?”
    “Of course, darling.” She pressed a bell-push, and when Clibborn came, said: “Mr. Roderick’s overcoat at once, Clibborn, and tell French to bring the car round quickly.” When Clibborn had gone she put her hand on Alleyn’s. “Please tell Miss Troy that if she would like to come to me— ”
    “Yes, darling. Thank you. But I must see what it’s all about first. It’s a case.”
    “Well, you won’t include Agatha Troy among your suspects, I hope?”
    “If there’s a question of that,” said Alleyn, “I’ll leave the service. Good night. Don’t sit up. I may be late.”
    Clibborn came in with his overcoat.
    “Finish your sherry,” ordered his mother. He drank it obediently. “And, Roderick, look in at my room, however late it is.”
    He bowed, kissed her lightly, and went out to the car.
    It was a cold evening with a hint of frost on the air. Alleyn dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself at breakneck speed towards Tatler’s End House. On the way, three vivid little pictures appeared, one after another, in his mind. The wharf at Suva. Agatha Troy, in her old smock and grey bags, staring out over the sea while the wind whipped the short hair back from her face. Agatha Troy saying good-bye at night on the edge of the St. Lawrence.
    The headlights shone on rhododendrons and tree-trunks, and then on a closed gate and the figure of a constable. A torch flashed on Alleyn’s face.
    “Excuse me, sir— ”
    “All right. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn from the Yard.”
    The man saluted.
    ‘They’re expecting you, sir.“
    The gate swung open, and Alleyn slipped in his clutch. It was a long winding drive, and it seemed an age before he pulled up before a lighted door. A second constable met him and showed him into a pleasant hall where a large fire burned.
    “I’ll tell the superintendent you’ve arrived, sir,” said the man, but as he spoke, a door on Alleyn’s left opened and a stout man with a scarlet face came out.
    “Hullo, hullo! This is very nice. Haven’t seen you for ages.”
    “Not for ages,” said Alleyn. They shook hands. Blackman had been superintendent at Bossicote for six years, and he and Alleyn were old acquaintances. “I hope I haven’t been too long.”
    “You’ve been very quick indeed, Mr. Alleyn. We only rang the Yard half an hour ago. They told us you were staying with her ladyship. Come in here, will you?”
    He led the way into a charming little drawing-room with pale-grey walls and cerise-and-lemon-striped curtains.
    “How much did they tell from the Yard?”
    “Only that a model had been knifed.”
    “Yes. Very peculiar business. I don’t mind telling you I’d have liked to tackle it myself, but we’ve got our hands full with a big burglary case over at Ranald’s Cross, and I’m short-staffed just now. So the chief constable thought, all things considered, and you being so handy, it’d better be the Yard. He’s just gone. Sit down, and I’ll give you the story before we look at the body and so on. That suit you?”
    “Admirably,” said Alleyn.
    Blackman opened a fat pocket-book, settled his chins, and began.
    “This property, Tatler’s End house, is owned and occupied by Miss Agatha Troy, R.A., who