Death in a White Tie by Ngaio Marsh Page A

hand and heard him call to the driver in a shrill voice: “Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate.” He would have seen the taxi drive away into the mist — and then — what? What did the figure do? Did it run like a grotesque with flapping cloak towards the river to be swallowed up in vapour? Or did it walk off sedately into Chelsea? Did it wait for a moment, staring after the taxi? Did Bunchy’s murderer pull off his cloak, fold it and walk away with it over his arm? Did he hide his own tall hat under the cloak before he got out of the taxi, and afterwards change back into it? And where are Bunchy’s cloak and hat, Troy? Where are they?”
    “What did the taxi-driver say?” asked Troy. “There’s nothing coherent in the papers. I don’t understand.”
    “I’ll tell you. Fox will be here soon. Before he comes I can allow myself a few minutes to unload my mind, if you’ll let me. I’ve done that before — once — haven’t I?”
    “Yes,” murmured Troy. “Once.”
    “There is nobody in the world who can listen as you can. I wish I had something better to tell you. Well, here it is. The taxi-driver brought Bunchy to the Yard at four o’clock this morning, saying he was murdered. This was his story. He picked Bunchy up at three-thirty some two hundred yards from the doors of Marsdon House. There was a shortage of taxis and we suppose Bunchy had walked so far, hoping to pick one up in a side street, when this fellow came along. The unnatural mist that hung over London last night was thick in Belgrave Square. As the taximan drove towards Bunchy he saw another figure in an overcoat and top-hat loom through the mist and stand beside him. They appeared to speak together. Bunchy held up his stick. The cabby knew him by sight and addressed him:
    “ ‘ ’Morning, m’lord. Two hundred Cheyne Walk?”
    “ ‘Please,’ said Bunchy.
    “The two men got into the taxi. The cabby never had a clear view of the second man. He had his back turned as the taxi approached and when it stopped he stood towards the rear in shadow. Before the door was slammed the cabby heard Bunchy say: ‘You can take him on.’ The cabby drove to Cheyne Walk by way of Chesham Place, Cliveden Place, Lower Sloane Street and Chelsea Hospital and across Tite Street. He says it took about twelve minutes. He stopped here at Bunchy’s gate and in a few moments Lord Robert, as he supposed him to be, got out and slammed the door. A voice squeaked through a muffler: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate,’ and the cabby drove away. He arrived at Jobbers Row ten minutes later, waited for his fare to get out and at last got out himself and opened the door. He found Bunchy.”
    Alleyn waited for a moment, looked gravely at Troy’s white face. She said:
    “There was no doubt—”
    “None. The cabby is an obstinate, opinionated, cantankerous old oddity, but he’s no fool. He satisfied himself. He explained that he once drove an ambulance and knew certain,things. He headed as far as he could for the Yard. A sergeant saw him; saw everything; made sure it was — what it was, and got me. I made sure, too.”
    “What had been done to Bunchy?”
    “You want to know? Yes, of course you do. You’re too intelligent to nurse your sensibilities.”
    “Mildred will ask me about it. What happened?”
    “We think he was struck on the temple, stunned and then suffocated,” said Alleyn, without emphasis. “We shall know more when the doctors have finished.”
    “Struck?”
    “Yes. With something that had a pretty sharp edge. About as sharp as the back of a thick knife-blade.”
    “Did he suffer?”
    “Not very much. Hardly at all. He wouldn’t know what happened.”
    “His heart was weak,” said Troy suddenly.
    “His heart? Are you sure of that?”
    “Mildred told me the other day. She tried to persuade him to see a specialist.”
    “I wonder,” said Alleyn, “if that made it easier — for both of them.”
    Troy said:
    “I haven’t seen