channel packet, if that’s what it is, dressed up to kill with leather suitcases and bound for St Pierre-des-Roches.’
‘There now!’ cried the AC. ‘Splendid fellow, your son. Jolly good! Super!’ He occasionally adopted the mannerisms of an effusive scout-master.
‘Has anything been said by the appropriate branch about a painter called Jones?’ Alleyn asked.
‘A house-painter?’
‘No, though you might make the mistake. A picture painter.’
‘Jones. Jones. Jones. No. No Joneses. Why?’
‘He travels in artists’ materials for a firm called Jerome et Cie with a factory in St Pierre-des-Roches. Makes frequent visits to London.’
‘Artists’ materials?’
‘In half-pound tubes. Oil colours.’
There was a longish silence.
‘Oh yes?’ said the AC in a new voice. The strange preliminaries evidently were over and they were down to the hard stuff.
‘First name?’ snapped the AC.
‘Sydney.’
‘Living?’
‘In Deep Cove. The firm’s handing out free colour to one or two leading painters, including Troy. He called on us here, with an introduction from Rick. I’d say he was getting over a hang-up.’
‘They don’t like that. The bosses. It doesn’t work out – pusher into customer.’
‘Of course not. But I wouldn’t think he was a habitual. There’d been a party the night before. My guess would be that he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, but on what Ricky says of him, he doesn’t seem to be hooked. Yet. It may amount to nothing.’
‘Anything else about him?’
Alleyn told him about the roadside incident when Ricky trod on the vermilion.
‘Got into a stink, did he?’
‘Apparently.’
‘It’s worth watching.’
‘I wondered.’
‘We haven’t got anyone on the island so far. The lead on St Pierre’s only just come through. What’s the young chap doing there, Rory?’
Alleyn said very firmly: ‘He’s writing a book, sir. He went over there to put himself out of the way of distraction and has set himself a time limit.’
‘Writing!’ repeated the AC discontentedly. ‘A book!’ And he added: ‘Extraordinary what they get up to nowadays, isn’t it? One of mine runs a discotheque.’
Alleyn was silent.
‘Nothing official, of course, but you might suggest he keeps his eyes open,’ said the AC.
‘They’ll be down on his book, I hope.’
‘All right. All right. Oh, by the way, there’s something else come through. About an hour ago. Another coincidence in a way, I suppose one might call it. From this island of yours.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. The sergeant at Montjoy rang up. Sergeant Plank he is. There’s been a riding fatality. A fortnight ago. Looked like a straight-forward accident but they’re not satisfied. Inquest adjourned. Thing is: his Super’s been inconsiderate enough to perforate his appendix and they want us to move in. Did you say anything?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a funny noise.’
‘It may be my teeth. Grinding.’
The AC gave a high whinnying laugh.
‘You can take Fox with you, of course,’ he said. ‘And while you’re at it you may find –’
His voice, edgy and decisive, continued to issue unpalatable instructions.
IV
After posting his long letter to his parents, Ricky thought that now, perhaps, he could push the whole business of Dulcie Harkness intothe background and get on with his work. The answer couldn’t reach him for at least three days, and when it came it might well give half a dozen good suggestions why there should be fresh scars, as of wire, on the posts of the broken-down fence and why the wire that might have made them had been removed and why there was a gash that the vet couldn’t explain on a sorrel mare’s near foreleg and why there was a new-looking cut end to a coil of old wire in the coach-house. And perhaps his father would advise him to refrain from teaching his grandmother, in the unlikely person of Sergeant Plank, to suck eggs.
Tomorrow was the day when the Island Belle made her dawn
‘There now!’ cried the AC. ‘Splendid fellow, your son. Jolly good! Super!’ He occasionally adopted the mannerisms of an effusive scout-master.
‘Has anything been said by the appropriate branch about a painter called Jones?’ Alleyn asked.
‘A house-painter?’
‘No, though you might make the mistake. A picture painter.’
‘Jones. Jones. Jones. No. No Joneses. Why?’
‘He travels in artists’ materials for a firm called Jerome et Cie with a factory in St Pierre-des-Roches. Makes frequent visits to London.’
‘Artists’ materials?’
‘In half-pound tubes. Oil colours.’
There was a longish silence.
‘Oh yes?’ said the AC in a new voice. The strange preliminaries evidently were over and they were down to the hard stuff.
‘First name?’ snapped the AC.
‘Sydney.’
‘Living?’
‘In Deep Cove. The firm’s handing out free colour to one or two leading painters, including Troy. He called on us here, with an introduction from Rick. I’d say he was getting over a hang-up.’
‘They don’t like that. The bosses. It doesn’t work out – pusher into customer.’
‘Of course not. But I wouldn’t think he was a habitual. There’d been a party the night before. My guess would be that he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, but on what Ricky says of him, he doesn’t seem to be hooked. Yet. It may amount to nothing.’
‘Anything else about him?’
Alleyn told him about the roadside incident when Ricky trod on the vermilion.
‘Got into a stink, did he?’
‘Apparently.’
‘It’s worth watching.’
‘I wondered.’
‘We haven’t got anyone on the island so far. The lead on St Pierre’s only just come through. What’s the young chap doing there, Rory?’
Alleyn said very firmly: ‘He’s writing a book, sir. He went over there to put himself out of the way of distraction and has set himself a time limit.’
‘Writing!’ repeated the AC discontentedly. ‘A book!’ And he added: ‘Extraordinary what they get up to nowadays, isn’t it? One of mine runs a discotheque.’
Alleyn was silent.
‘Nothing official, of course, but you might suggest he keeps his eyes open,’ said the AC.
‘They’ll be down on his book, I hope.’
‘All right. All right. Oh, by the way, there’s something else come through. About an hour ago. Another coincidence in a way, I suppose one might call it. From this island of yours.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. The sergeant at Montjoy rang up. Sergeant Plank he is. There’s been a riding fatality. A fortnight ago. Looked like a straight-forward accident but they’re not satisfied. Inquest adjourned. Thing is: his Super’s been inconsiderate enough to perforate his appendix and they want us to move in. Did you say anything?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a funny noise.’
‘It may be my teeth. Grinding.’
The AC gave a high whinnying laugh.
‘You can take Fox with you, of course,’ he said. ‘And while you’re at it you may find –’
His voice, edgy and decisive, continued to issue unpalatable instructions.
IV
After posting his long letter to his parents, Ricky thought that now, perhaps, he could push the whole business of Dulcie Harkness intothe background and get on with his work. The answer couldn’t reach him for at least three days, and when it came it might well give half a dozen good suggestions why there should be fresh scars, as of wire, on the posts of the broken-down fence and why the wire that might have made them had been removed and why there was a gash that the vet couldn’t explain on a sorrel mare’s near foreleg and why there was a new-looking cut end to a coil of old wire in the coach-house. And perhaps his father would advise him to refrain from teaching his grandmother, in the unlikely person of Sergeant Plank, to suck eggs.
Tomorrow was the day when the Island Belle made her dawn
Similar Books
