Death in a White Tie by Ngaio Marsh

of blackmail. R.G.”
     
    Fox’s voice came through the receiver.
    “Hullo, sir?”
    “Hullo, Fox. Have you seen the room where he telephoned to me?”
    “Yes. It’s a room on the top landing. One of Dimitri’s waiters saw him go in. The room hasn’t been touched.”
    “Right. Anything else?”
    “Nothing much. The house is pretty well as it was when the guests left. You saw to that, sir.”
    “Is Dimitri there?”
    “No.”
    “Get him, Fox. I’ll see him at the Yard at twelve o’clock. That’ll do him for the moment. Tell Bailey to go all over the telephone room for prints. We’ve got to find out who interrupted that call to the Yard. And, Fox—”
    “Sir?”
    “Can you come round here? I’d like a word with you.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “Thank you,” said Alleyn, and hung up the receiver.
    He looked again at the document he had found in the central drawer of Lord Robert’s desk. It was his will. A very simple little will. After one or two legacies he left all his possessions and the life interest on £40,000 to his sister, Lady Mildred Potter, to revert to her son on her death and the remainder of his estate, £20,000, to that same son, his nephew, Donald Potter. The will was dated January 1st of that year.
    “His good deed for the New Year,” thought Alleyn.
    He looked at the two photographs in leather frames that stood on Lord Robert’s desk. One was of Lady Mildred Potter in the presentation dress of her girlhood. Mildred had been rather pretty in those days. The other was of a young man of about twenty. Alleyn noted the short Gospell nose and wide-set eyes. The mouth was pleasant and weak, the chin one of those jutting affairs that look determined and are too often merely obstinate. It was rather an attractive face. Donald had written his name across the corner with the date, January 1st.
    “I hope to God,” thought Alleyn, “that he can give a good account of himself.”
    “Good morning,” said a voice from the doorway.
    He swung round in his chair and saw Agatha Troy. She was dressed in green and had a little velvet cap on her dark head and green gloves on her hands.
    “Troy!”
    “I came in to see if there was anything I could do for Mildred.”
    “You didn’t know I was here?”
    “Not till she told me. She asked me to see if you had everything you wanted.”
    “Everything I wanted,” repeated Alleyn.
    “If you have,” said Troy, “that’s all right. I won’t interrupt.”
    “Please,” said Alleyn, “could you
not
go just for a second?”
    “What is it?”
    “Nothing. I mean, I’ve no excuse for asking you to stay, unless, if you will forgive me, the excuse of wanting to look at you and listen for a moment to your voice.” He held up his hand. “No more than that. You liked Bunchy and so did I. He talked about you the last time I saw him.”
    “A few hours ago,” said Troy. “I was dancing with him.”
    Alleyn moved to the tall windows… They looked out over the charming little garden to the Chelsea reaches of the Thames.
    “A few hours ago” — he repeated her words slowly — “the river was breathing mist. The air was threaded with mist and as cold as the grave. That was before dawn broke. It was beginning to get light when I saw him. And look at it now. Not a cloud. The damned river’s positively sparkling in the sunlight. Come here, Troy.”
    She stood beside him.
    “Look down there into the street. Through the side window. At half-past three this morning the river mist lay like a pall along Cheyne Walk. If anybody was awake at that mongrel hour or abroad in the deserted streets they would have heard a taxi come along Cheyne Walk and stop outside this gate. If anybody in this house had had the curiosity to look out of one of the top windows they would have seen the door of the taxi open and a quaint figure in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat get out.”
    “What do you mean?
He got out
?”
    “The watcher would have seen this figure wave a gloved