A Wreath for Rivera

At two o’clock the cleaners came in, five middle-aged women who were admitted by the police and who walked through the foyer into the restaurant with the tools of their trade. Caesar Bonn was greatly distressed by their arrival and complained that the pressmen, who had been sent away with a meager statement that Rivera had collapsed and died, would lie in wait for these women and question them. He sent the secretary, David Hahn, after the cleaners. “They are to be silenced at all costs. At all costs, you understand.” Presently the drone of vacuum-cleaners arose in the restaurant. Two of Alleyn’s men had been there for some time. They now returned to the foyer and, joining the policemen on duty there, glanced impassively at its inhabitants.

Most of the Boys were asleep. They were sprawled in ungainly postures on their small chairs. Trails of ash lay on their clothes. They had crushed out their cigarette butts on empty packets, on the soles of their shoes, on match boxes, or had pitched them at the floor containers. The smell of dead butts seemed to hang over the entire room.

Lady Pastern appeared to sleep. She was inclined backwards in her armchair and her eyes were closed. Purplish shadows had appeared on her face and deep grooves ran from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks sagged. She scarcely stirred when her husband, who had been silent for a considerable time, said: “Hi, Ned!”

“Yes, Cousin George?” Manx responded guardedly.

“I’ve got to the bottom of this.”

“Indeed?”

“I know who did it.”

“Really? Who?”

“I disagree entirely and emphatically with capital punishment,” Lord Pastern said, puffing out his cheeks at the group of police officials. “I shall therefore keep my knowledge to myself. Let ’em muddle on. Murder’s a matter for the psychiatrist, not the hangman. As for judges, they’re a pack of conceited old sadists. Let ’em get on with it. They’ll have no help from me. For God’s sake, Fée, stop fidgetin’.”

Félicité was curled up in the chair she had used earlier in the evening. From time to time she thrust her hands out of sight, exploring, it seemed, the space between the upholstered arms and seat. She did this furtively with sidelong glances at the others. Carlisle said: “What is it, Fée? What have you lost?”

“My hanky.”

“Here, take mine, for pity’s sake,” said Lord Pastern and threw it at her.

The searching had gone forward steadily. Carlisle, who liked her privacy, had found the experience galling and unpleasant. The wardress was a straw-coloured woman with large artificial teeth and firm pale hands. She had been extremely polite and uncompromising.

Now the last man to be searched, Syd Skelton, returned from the men’s cloak-room and at the same time Alleyn and Fox came out of the office. The Boys woke up. Lady Pastern opened her eyes.

Alleyn said: “As the result of these preliminary inquiries…” (“Preliminary!” Lord Pastern snorted.)… “I think we have got together enough information and may allow you to go home. I’m extremely sorry to have kept you here so long.”

They were all on their feet. Alleyn raised a hand. “There’s one restriction, I’m afraid. I think you’ll all understand and, I hope, respect it. Those of you who were in immediate communication with Rivera or who had access to the revolver used by Lord Pastern, or who seem to us, for sufficient reasons, to be in any way concerned in the circumstances leading to Rivera’s death, will be seen home by police officers. We shall provide ourselves with search-warrants. If such action seems necessary, we shall use them.”

“Of all the footlin’, pettifoggin’…” Lord Pastern began, and was interrupted.

“Those of you who come under this heading,” Alleyn said, “are Lord Pastern and the members of his party, Mr. Bellairs and Mr. Skelton. That’s all, I think. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I’m damned if I’ll put up with this. Look here, Alleyn…”

“I’m sorry, sir. I must insist, I’m afraid.”

“George,” said Lady Pastern. “You have tried conclusions with the law on more than one occasion and as often as you have done so you have made a fool of yourself. Come home.”

Lord Pastern studied his wife with an air of detachment. “Your hair-net’s loose,” he pointed out, “and you’re bulgin’ above your waist. Comes of wearin’ stays. I’ve always said…”

“I, at least,” Lady Pastern said directly to Alleyn, “am prepared to accept your conditions. So, I am sure, are my daughter and my niece. Félicité! Carlisle!”

“Fox,” said Alleyn.

She walked with perfect composure to the door and waited there. Fox spoke to one of the plain-clothes men, who detached himself from the group near the entrance. Félicité held out a hand towards Edward Manx. “Ned, you’ll come, won’t you? You’ll stay with us?”

After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand.

“Dearest Edward,” said Lady Pastern from the door. “We should be so grateful.”

“Certainly, Cousin Cécile. Of course.”

Félicité still held his hand. He looked at Carlisle. “Coming?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Good night, Mr. Alleyn,” said Carlisle.