Killer Dolphin by Ngaio Marsh

The Presence.”
    In a matter of seconds Mr. Meyer and the secretary had gone to lunch.
    “Will you sit down, sir?”
    “No, thank you. I shall not be long. In reference to the glove and documents: I am told that their authenticity is established.”
    “Yes.”
    “You have based your piece upon these objects?”
    “Yes.”
    “I have gone into the matter of promotion with Greenslade and with two persons of my acquaintance who are conversant with this type of enterprise.” He mentioned two colossi of the theatre. “And have given some thought to preliminary treatment. It occurs to me that, properly manipulated, the glove and its discovery and so on might be introduced as a major theme in promotion.”
    “Indeed it might,” Peregrine said fervently.
    “You agree with me? I have thought that perhaps some consideration should be given to the possibility of timing the release of the glove story with the opening of the theatre and of displaying the glove and documents, suitably protected and housed, in the foyer.
    Peregrine said with what he hoped was a show of dispassionate judgment that surely, as a piece of pre-production advertising, this gesture would be unique. Mr. Conducis looked quickly at him and away again. Peregrine asked him if he felt happy about the security of the treasure. Mr. Conducis replied with a short exegesis upon wall safes of a certain type in which, or so Peregrine confusedly gathered, he held a controlling interest
    “Your public relations and press executive,” Mr. Conducis stated in his dead fish voice, “is a Mr. Conway Boome.”
    “Yes. It’s his own name,” Peregrine ventured, wondering for a moment if he had caught a glint of something that might be sardonic humour, but Mr. Conducis merely said: “I daresay. I understand,” he added, “that he is experienced in theatrical promotion, but I have suggested to Greenslade that having regard for the somewhat unusual character of the type of material we propose to use, it might be as well if Mr. Boome were to be associated with Maitland Advertising, which is one of my subsidiaries. He is agreeable.”
    “I’ll be bound he is,” Peregrine thought.
    “I am also taking advice on the security aspect from an acquaintance at Scotland Yard, a Superintendent Alleyn.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Yes. The matter of insurance is somewhat involved, the commercial worth of the objects being impossible to define. I am informed that as soon as their existence is made known there is likely to be an unprecedented response. Particularly from the United States of America.”
    There followed a short silence.
    “Mr. Conducis,” Peregrine said, “I can’t help asking you this. I know it’s no business of mine but I really can’t help it. Are you—have you—I mean, would you feel at all concerned about whether the letters and glove stay in the country of their owner or not?”
    “In my country?” Mr. Conducis asked as if he wasn’t sure that he had one.
    “I’m sorry, no. I meant the original owner.”
    Peregrine hesitated for a moment and then found himself embarked upon an excitable plea for the retention of the documents and glove. He felt he was making no impression whatever and wished he could stop. There was some indefinable and faintly disgusting taint in the situation.
    With a closed face Mr. Conducis waited for Peregrine to stop and then said: “That is a sentimental approach to what is at this juncture a matter for financial consideration. I cannot speak under any other heading: historical, romantic, nationalistic or sentimental. I know,” Mr. Conducis predictably added, “nothing of such matters.”
    He then startled Peregrine quite shockingly by saying with an indefinable change in his voice: “I dislike pale gloves. Intensely.”
    Far one moment Peregrine thought he saw something like anguish in this extraordinary man’s face and at the next that he had been mad to suppose anything of the sort. Mr. Conducis made a slight movement