Enter a Murderer by Ngaio Marsh Page B

was ‘Mossburn,’ a village near Cambridge, and the postmark, noticed by the secretary, bore this out. A half-hearted attempt was made to trace the authorship, but in any case the ‘Mex,’ as I believe your journalists call it, was responsible. Mr. Saint was dreadfully annoyed, and, oh, so virtuous.”
    “What’s all this leading to?”
    “The postmark was of a village near Cambridge.”
    “Are you thinking of Felix?” said Nigel hotly.
    “Of Gardener? Where was he this time six years ago?”
    Nigel paused. He eyed Alleyn uncomfortably. “Well, since you must know,” he said at last, “he had just gone up to Cambridge. He was two years ahead of me.”
    “I see.”
    “Look here — what are you thinking?”
    “I’m only wondering. That article reads like undergraduate stuff. There’s an unmistakable flavour.”
    “Suppose there is? What are you driving at?”
    “Literally only this. Gardener may possibly be able to throw some light on the matter.”
    “Oh, if that’s all—” Nigel looked relieved. “I thought you meant he might have written it”
    Alleyn looked curiously at him.
    “That particular year,” he said, “Surbonadier was sent down from Cambridge.”
    “
Surbonadier
?” said Nigel slowly.
    “Yes,” said Alleyn. “Now do you see?”
    “You mean — you mean Surbonadier may have written the article and, therefore, knew too much about his uncle.”
    “That is possible.”
    “Yes.”
    “The catch in it is that all this happened six years ago.”
    “Surbonadier may have blackmailed Saint for six years.”
    “He may.”
    The telephone rang. Alleyn took off the receiver. “Yes. Who? Oh, send him up, will you?” He turned to Nigel. “This may help,” he said.
    “Who is it?”
    “Mr. Jacob Saint’s footman.”
    “The informer.”
    “Yes. I hate this sort of thing. He’s going to make me feel ashamed.”
    “Really? You don’t want me to go?”
    “Stay where you are. Have a cigarette, and look as if you belonged. Have you seen Gardener this morning?”
    “No, I’m going to ring him up. I’m afraid he’s not going to forget this business in a hurry.”
    “I don’t suppose so. Would you, in his place?”
    “Never. But I think I’d worry a bit more about whether the police thought me guilty. It’s the shock of having fired the revolver that seems to have got him down.”
    “Isn’t that what you’d expect in an innocent man?”
    “I’m glad to hear you call him that,” said Nigel warmly.
    “I talk a great deal too much,” declared Alleyn. “Come in!”
    The door opened to admit a tall, thin, and rather objectionably good-looking man. His face was a little too pale, his eyes were a little too large, and his mouth a little too soft. He closed the door tenderly, and stood quietly inside it.
    “Good morning,” said Alleyn.
    “Good morning, sir.”
    “You wanted to see me in reference to the murder of Mr. Arthur Surbonadier.”
    “I thought you might wish to see me, sir.”
    “Why?”
    The footman glanced at Nigel. Alleyn paid no attention to this indication of caution.
    “Well?” he said.
    “If I might inquire, sir, whether a little inside information about the late Mr. Surbonadier’s relationships with my employer—”
    “Oh,” Alleyn cut him short, “you want to make a statement.”
    “Oh, no, sir. I only wanted to inquire. I don’t want to mix myself up in anything unpleasant, sir. On the other hand, there was an incident that might be worth the police’s while.”
    “If you are withholding any evidence that may be of value to the police, you will get into quite serious trouble. If you are expecting a bribe, however—”
    “Oh, please, sir.”
    “You won’t get one. Should your information be relevant you’ll be called as a witness, and you’ll be paid for that.”
    “Well, sir,” said the man, with an angry smirk, “I must say you’re very outspoken.”
    “I should advise you to follow my example.”
    The footman thought for a moment,