Death in a White Tie by Ngaio Marsh Page B

you look like that before.”
    “What do you mean, Troy?”
    He turned to her a face so suddenly translated into gentleness that she could not answer him.
    “I — it’s gone now.”
    “When I look at you I suppose all other expression is lost in an effect of general besottedness.”
    “How can I answer that?” said Troy.
    “Don’t. I’m sorry. What
did
you mean?”
    “You looked savage.”
    “I feel it when I think of Bunchy.”
    “I can understand that.”
    “The hunt is up,” said Alleyn. “Have you ever read in the crime books about the relentless detective who swears he’ll get his man if it takes him. the rest of his life? That’s me, Troy, and I always thought it rather a bogus idea. It is bogus in a way, too. The real heroes of criminal investigation are Detective-Constables X, Y and Z — the men in the ranks who follow up all the dreary threads of routine without any personal feeling or interest, who swear no full round oaths, but who, nevertheless,
do
get their men in the end; and with a bit of luck and the infinite capacity for taking pains. Detective-Constables X, Y and Z are going to be kept damned busy until this gentleman is laid by the heels. I can promise them that.”
    “I don’t feel like that,” said Troy. “I mean, I don’t feel anything in particular about this murderer except that I think he must be mad. I know he should be found but I can’t feel savage about him. It’s simply Bunchy who did no harm in this world; no harm at all, lying dead and lonely. I must go now, and see what I can do for Mildred. Has Donald come in?”
    “Not yet. Do you know where he is staying?”
    “He wouldn’t tell Mildred because he thought she would tell Bunchy, and he wanted to be independent. She’s got the telephone number. I’ve seen it written on the memorandum in her room. I suppose you heard about the difference?”
    “Yes, from Mildred. It was his debts, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes. Mildred has always spoilt Donald. He’s not a bad child really. He will be terribly upset.” Alleyn looked at the photograph. “Did you see him at the dance?”
    “Yes. He danced a lot with Bridgie O’Brien.”
    “Did he stay until the end, do you know?”
    “I didn’t stay till the end myself. Mildred and I left at half-past one. She dropped me at my club. Bunchy — Bunchy — was seeing us home, but he came and asked us if we’d mind going without him. He said he was feeling gay.”
    “Did you see much of him, please?”
    “I danced three times with him. He
was
very gay.”
    “Troy, did you notice anything? Anything at all?”
    “What sort of things?”
    “Did there seem to be any hint of something behind his gaiety? As if, do you know, he was thinking in the back of his head?”
    Troy sat on the edge of the desk and pulled off her cap. The morning sun came through the window and dappled her short dark hair with blue lights. It caught the fine angle of her jaw and her cheek-bone. It shone into her eyes, making her screw them up as she did when she painted. She drew off her green gloves and Alleyn watched her thin intelligent hands slide out of their sheaths and lie delicately in the fur of her green jacket. He wondered if he would ever recover from the love of her.
    He said: “Tell me everything that happened last night while you were with Bunchy. Look back into your memory before it loses its edge and see if there is anything there that seemed a little out of the ordinary. Anything, no matter how insignificant.”
    “I’ll try,” said Troy. “There was nothing when we danced except — yes. We collided once with another couple. It was a Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Do you know her?”
    “Yes. Well?”
    “It’s a tiny thing, but you say that doesn’t matter. She was dancing with a tall coarse-looking man. Bunchy apologized before he saw who they were. He danced very bouncily, you know, and always apologized when there were collisions. Then we swung round and he saw them. I felt his hand tighten