Alleyn made her a bow. She tossed her head and went off down the alley-way at a brisk trot.

He stood there and looked thoughtfully after her, his hat in his hand. At last, with a shrug, he went out to where Inspector Fox waited for him in a police car.

“What’s wrong with the old lady?” asked Fox.

“Nothing much. She just felt chatty.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Merely that she overheard Cara Quayne telling her murderer she’d speak to Garnette about him or her as the case may be.”

“Lor’!” said Fox. “When, for Gawd’s sake?”

“At about quarter to three yesterday afternoon.”

“In the hall?”

“Naturally,” said Alleyn promptly. “Listen.”

He repeated Miss Wade’s statement. Fox stared solemnly out of the window.

“Well, that’s very interesting, sir,” he said when Alleyn had finished. “That’s very interesting indeed. Do you think she caught him red-handed with the bonds?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Or else he (or she, you know, Fox) refused to let her see them. There’s been some talk of her adding to those bonds. She may have wanted to do so on the eve of her first innings as Chosen Vessel.”

“That’s right, sir. D’you think she was poisoned to keep her quiet?”

“I think she was killed, in the end, to keep her quiet. But he meant to do it anyway.”

“How do you make that out?”

“If it’s sodium cyanide he couldn’t make it between three and eight o’clock. He must have had it ready.”

“Then what was the motive?”

“Same as before, Fox. Why are we sitting in this car?”

“I dunno, sir.”

“Tell him to drive yes, tell him to drive to M. de Ravigne’s house.”

Fox gave the order.

“What happened to Mr. Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.

“He went up to his flat, sir. I think he took Miss Jenkins and Mr. Pringle with him.”

“He’s a great hand at cultivating suspects,” said Alleyn.

“It’s been useful before now.”

“So it has.”

They relapsed into silence. At a telephone-box Alleyn stopped for a moment to ring the Yard. A message had come through from Bailey who was at Cara Quayne’s house. The blotting-paper in her bedroom desk had proved to be interesting. Lots of writing but in some foreign lingo. Alleyn could hear Bailey’s disparagement in this phrase. They had made out yesterday’s date and an address: “Madame la Comtesse de Barsac, Chateau Barsac, La Loupe, E. et L., France.” This had been checked up from an address book. They had also found evidence on the blotting-paper and on a crumpled sheet in the wastepaper basket of something that looked very much like a Will. Mr. Rattisbon had rung up and would ring again.

“So put that on your needles and knit it,” said Alleyn when he had told Fox.

The car turned into Lowndes Square and drew up by M. de Ravigne’s flat.

Branscombe Chambers proved to be a set of small bachelor flats, and M. de Ravigne appeared to live in the best of them. This was on the fourth floor. They went up in the lift.

“Any flats vacant here?” asked Alleyn of the liftman.

“Yes, sir. One. Top floor.”

“How many rooms?”

“Three recep., one bed, one servant’s bed, bath and the usual, sir,” said the liftman. “These are service flats you know. Food all sent up.”

“Ah, yes. Central heating throughout the building, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t do without an open fire,” said Alleyn.

“No, sir? These electric grates are very convincing though. There’s a blazing log effect in No. 5.”

“Really? That’s not M. de Ravigne’s, is it?”

“No, sir. He’s just got the usual heaters. Here you are, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Thank you.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

A discreet dark man with a bluish chin opened the door to them. The voice of a piano came softly from within the flat. Monsieur was at home? He would inquire. He took Alleyn’s card and returned in a moment. Monsieur was at home and would they come in? The flat proved to be, if anything, overheated. The little hall where they left their hats was as warm as a conservatory and smelt like one. An enormous bowl of freesias stood on a very beautiful Louis Seize table. From here the servant showed them into a long low drawing room panelled in cream and very heavily carpeted. It was not overfurnished, indeed, the general effect was one of luxurious restraint. The few pieces were “period” and beautiful. Three Tang ceramics stood alone in a magnificent lacquer cabinet. The only modern note was struck by the pictures — a Van Gogh, a Paul Nash and a Gerald Brockhurst. Seated at a baby grand piano was M. Raoul de Ravigne.

CHAPTER XIX

Alleyn Looks for a Flat

M. de Ravigne greeted them with a suavity so nicely tempered that it could not be called condescension. He looked very grand seigneur, standing with one long white hand on the piano, grave, polite, completely at his ease.

“Will you be seated, messieurs? You come to pursue your inquiries about this tragedy?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn in his most official voice, “we followed you here in the hopes that we might have a word or two in private. It is an unfortunate necessity in these affairs that the police must constantly make nuisances of themselves and most continually bring the realisation of an unhappy occurrence before those who would prefer to forget it.”

“One understands that very readily. For myself I am only too anxious to be of any assistance, however slight, in bringing this animal to justice. What can I do for you, messieurs?

“You are extremely courteous, M. de Ravigne. First I would like to bring this letter to your notice.”

De Ravigne held out his hand. Alleyn gave him his own letter, written to Cara Quayne the preceding Friday. De Ravigne glanced at it, read a word or two and then laid it on the arm of the chair. Fox took out his notebook.

“You are correct,” said de Ravigne, “when you say that much unpleasantness attends the activities of the police. I have a profound distaste for having my correspondence handled by those whom it does not concern.”

“Unhappily, the police are concerned in every scrap of evidence, relevant or irrelevant, which comes into their hands. Perhaps you can assure us of the irrelevance of this letter.”

“I do so most emphatically. It has no bearing on the case.”

Alleyn picked it up and looked through it.

“Against what danger did you warn her so earnestly?” he asked quietly.

“It was a personal matter, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“Make that quite clear to us, monsieur, and it will be treated as such. You will see, I am sure, that a letter warning Miss Quayne against some unknown peril cannot be passed over without inquiry.”

De Ravigne inclined his head slightly.

“I see your argument, of course. The danger to which I refer had nothing to do with physical injury.”

“You did not anticipate this tragedy?”

“A thousand times, no. I? How should I?”

“Then what was threatened?”

“Her virtue, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“I see,” said Alleyn.

De Ravigne eyed him for a moment and then got up. He moved restlessly about the room, as though he was trying to come to some decision. At last he fetched up in front of Alleyn and began to speak in French rapidly and with a certain suppressed vehemence. Inspector Fox breathed heavily and leant forward slightly in his chair.

“Judge of my position, monsieur. I loved her very much. I have loved her very much for so many years. Even since she was a dark jeune fille at a convent with my sister. At one time I thought that she would consent to a betrothal. It was in France when she had first made her début. Her guardian, Madame de Verne, approved. It was in every way suitable. My own family, too. Then — I do not know how it came about, but perhaps it was her temperament to change as it was mine to remain constant — but she grew colder and — but this is of no importance. She came to London where we met again after a year. I found myself still her slave. She allowed me to see her. We became, after your English fashion, ‘friends.’ It was to amuse her, to interest her, that I myself introduced her to this accursed temple. I did not know then what I know now of the character of Father Garnette.”