Artists in Crime ra-6 Read online

  “Miss Van Maes,” said Alleyn, “do you know that you make me feel very middle-aged and inexpressibly foolish? I haven’t got the smallest idea what the right answer is to any one of your questions.”

  “Maybe I could teach you. Maybe I could teach you a whole lot of fun, honey.”

  “You’re very kind, but, do you know, I’m afraid I’m past the receptive age.”

  She widened her enormous eyes. The mascaraed lashes stuck out round them like black toothpicks. Her ash-fair hair was swept back from her very lovely face into a cluster of disciplined and shining curls. She had the unhuman good looks of a film star. Undoubtedly she was rather tight.

  “Well,” she said, “my bet with the boys is still good. Twenty-five’ll get anybody fifty you kiss me before we hit Honolulu. And I don’t mean maybe.”

  “I should be very much honoured— ”

  “Yeah? And I don’t mean the get-by-the-censor stuff, either. No, sir!”

  She stared at him, and upon her normally blank and beautiful face there dawned a look of doubt.

  “Say,” she said, “you’re not going to tell me you got a yen for that woman?”

  “I don’t know what a yen is,” Alleyn said, “but I’ve got nothing at all for Miss Troy, and I can assure you she has got even less than that for me.”

  CHAPTER II

  Five Letters

  From Miss Agatha Troy to her friend, Miss Katti Bostock, the well-known painter of plumbers, miners and Negro musicians:

  S.S. Niagara,

  August 1st.

  Dear Katti,

  I am breaking this journey at Quebec, so you’ll get this letter about a fortnight before I get home. I’m glad everything is fixed up for next term. It’s a bore in some ways having to teach, but now I’ve reached the giddy heights of picking and choosing I don’t find it nearly so irksome. Damn’ good of you to do all the arranging for me. If you can, get the servants into the house by Sept. 1st — I get back on the 3rd — they ought to have everything fixed up by the 10th, when we start classes. Your air-mail reached Suva the day we sailed. Yes, book Sonia Gluck for model. The little swine’s beautiful and knows how to pose as long as she behaves herself. You yourself might do a big nude for the Group Show on the 16th or thereabouts. You paint well from the nude and I think you shouldn’t remain wedded to your plumbers — your stuff will get static if you don’t look out. I don’t think I told you who is coming next term. Here is the list:

  (1) Francis Ormerin. He’s painting in Paris at the moment, but says the lot at Malaquin’s has come all over surrealist and he can’t see it and doesn’t want to. Says he’s depressed about his work or something.

  (2) Valmai Seacliff. That’s the girl that did those dabby Rex Whistlerish posters for the Board of Trade. She says she wants to do some solid work from the model. Quite true, she does; but I rather fancy she’s on the hunt.

  (3) Basil Pilgrim. If I’m not mistaken, Basil is Valmai’s quarry. He’s an Hon., you know, and the old Lord Pilgrim is doddering to the grave. He’s the “Peer that became a Primitive Methodist” a few years ago — you remember. The papers were full of it. He comes to light with the odd spot of hell-fire on the subject of birth-control, every now and then. Basil’s got six elder sisters, and Lady Pilgrim died when he was born, so we don’t know what she thought about it. I hardly think Valmai Seacliff will please the old gentleman. Basil’s painting nearly drove him into the Salvation Army, I fancy.

  (4) Watt Hatchett. This is new blood. He’s an Australian youth I found working in Suva. Very promising stuff. Simplified form and swinging lines. He’s as keen as mustard, and was practically living on bananas and cheek when I ran into him. His voice is like the crashing together of old tin cans, and he can talk of nothing but his work, his enthusiasms, and his dislikes. I’m afraid he’ll get on their nerves and they may put him on the defensive. Still, his work is good.

  (5) Cedric Malmsley. He’s got a job illustrating some de luxe edition of medieval romances, and wants to get down to it with a model handy. It ought to work in all right. I told him to get in touch with you. I hear he’s grown a blond beard that parts in the middle and wears sandals — Cedric, not the beard.

  (6) Wolf Garcia. I had a letter from Garcia. No money, but a commission to do Comedy and Tragedy in marble for the new cinema in Westminster, so will I let him stay with me and do the clay model? No stamp on the envelope and written in conte chalk on lavatory paper. He will probably turn up long before you get this letter. Let him use the studio, will you, but look out, if you’ve got Sonia there. Garcia’s got the use of someone’s studio in London after the 20th, and hopes to have a cast ready by then, so it won’t be for long. Now don’t bully me, Katti. You know the creature is really — Heaven save the mark — a genius; and the others all pay me through the nose, so I can afford to carry a couple of deadheads. Yes, you’re quite right. Hatchett is the other.

  (7) One Phillida Lee. Just left the Slade. Rich father. She sent me some of her stuff and a rather gushing little request to work under me “because she has always longed,” etc. etc. I wrote back asking the earth in fees and she snapped at it.

  (8) You, bless you. I’ve told them all to fix up with you. Malmsley, Ormerin and Pilgrim can have the dormitory; Garcia one attic, and Hatchett the other. You have the yellow room as usual, and put Valmai Seacliff and the Lee child in the blue. The great thing is to segregate Garcia. You know what he is, and I won’t have that sort of thing — it’s too muddly. On second thoughts it might be better to put him in the studio and the model in the attic. I rather think they were living together in London. By the way, I’m going to do a portrait of Valmai Seacliff. It’ll do for Burlington House and the Salon, drat them. She’ll be good enough to paint in the slap-up grand manner.

  I’m scratching this off in the writing-room on my first night out from Suva. Did a small thing looking down in the wharf before we sailed. Came off rather well. I was interrupted by a man whom I thought was a fool, and who turned out to be intelligent, so I felt the fool. There’s an American ex-cinema actress running about this ship half tight. She looks like one of their magazine covers and behaves like the wrath of God. The man seems to be her property, so perhaps he is a fool, after all.

  If anything amusing happens, I’ll add to this. It’s been an interesting holiday, and I’m glad I did it. Your letters have been grand. Splendid the work goes on so well. I look forward to seeing it. Think about a nude for the Group. You don’t want to be called the Plumber’s Queen.

  Later. We get into Vancouver to-morrow. It’s been a peaceful trip since Honolulu, where the Ship’s Belle left us. Before that it was rather hellish. Unfortunately someone had the number of The Palette that ran a special supplement of my show. The Belle got hold of it and decided I must be a real artist after all. When she saw the reproduction of the Royal portrait she laid her ears back and settled down to a steady pursuit. Wouldn’t it be just wonderful if I did a portrait of her before we got to Honolulu? Her poppa would be tickled to death. She changed her clothes six times a day and struck a new attitude whenever she caught my eye. I had to pretend I’d got neuritis in my hand, which was a curse, as I rather wanted to do a head of one of the other passengers — a very paintable subject with plenty of good bone. However, I got down to it after Honolulu. The subject is a detective and looks like a grandee. Sounds like it, too — very old-world and chivalrous and so on. Damn! that looks like a cheap sneer, and it’s not meant to. I’m rather on the defensive about this sleuth — I was so filthily rude to him, and he took it like a gent and made me feel like a bounder. Very awkward. The head is fairly successful.

  Well, Katti, old lady, we meet on the 3rd. I’ll come straight to Tatler’s End. Best Love.

  Your ever,

  Troy.

  P.S. — Perhaps you’d better give Garcia a shakedown in the studio and lock him in. We’ll hope he’ll have gone by the 20th.

  Katti Bostock to Agatha Troy.

  Tatler’s End House,
>
  Bossicote,

  Bucks.

  August 14th.

  Dear Troy,

  You are a gump to collect these bloodsuckers. Yes, I know Garcia is damn’ good at sculping, but he’s a nasty little animal, and thinks everyone else is born to keep him. God knows how much he’s got out of you already. All right, I’ll shut him up in the studio, but if he’s after Sonia or anyone else, he’ll crawl out by the ventilator. And if you imagine you’ll get rid of him before the 20th, you’re wandering. And who in the name of Bacchus is this Australian blight? You’re paying his fare Home, of course. Well, I suppose I can’t talk, as you’ve given me the run of your house for twelve months. It’s been a godsend, and I’ve done my best work here. Been working on a thing of two negro saxophonists, worm’s-eye view of, with cylindrical background. Not bad, I fancy. It’s finished now. I’ve started on a big thing, using that little devil Sonia Gluck. It’s a standing pose and she’s behaving abominably, blast her! However, she agreed to come next term for the usual exorbitant fee, as soon as she heard Garcia and Pilgrim were to be in the class. Malmsley arrived to-day. The beard is there all right, and looks like the Isle of Patmos gone decadent. He’s full of the book-illustration job, and showed me some of the sketches — quite good. I’ve met Pilgrim several times, and like him and his work. I hear he’s always to be seen with the Seacliff blight, so I suppose she’s after the title. That girl’s a nymphomaniac, and a successful one at that. Funny this “It” stuff. I’ve never inspired a thought that wasn’t respectable, and yet I get on with men all right. You’re different. They’d fall for you if you’d let them, only you’re so unprovocative they never know where they are, and end by taking you at your own valuation. The Seacliff and Pilgrim arrive to-morrow. I’ve seen Miss Phillida Lee. She’s very would-be Slade. Wears hand-printed clothes with high necks, and shudders and burbles alternately. She comes on the 9th, and so does Ormerin, who writes from Paris and sounds very depressed. Nice bloke. I don’t know whether it’s struck you what a rum brew the class will be this term. It’s impossible to keep Sonia in her place, wherever a model’s place may be. Garcia, if he’s here, will either be in full cry after her, which will be unpleasant, or else sick of her, which will be worse. Valmai Seacliff will naturally expect every male on the premises to be hot on her trail, and if that comes off, Sonia will got the pip. Perhaps with Basil Pilgrim on the tapis, the Seacliff will be less catholic, but I doubt it. Oh, well, you know your own business best, and I suppose will float through on the good old recipe of not noticing. You are such a bloody aristocrat. Your capacity for ignoring the unpleasant is a bit irritating to a plebeian like myself.

  The servants are all right. The two Hipkins and Sadie Welsh from the village. They only tolerate me and are thrilled over your return. So am I, actually. I want your advice over the big thing of Sonia, and I’m longing to see your own stuff. You say don’t forward any more letters, so I won’t. Your allusions to a detective are quite incomprehensible, but if he interrupted you in your work, you had every right to bite his head off. What had you been up to, anyway?

  Well, so long until the 3rd.

  Katti.

  PS. — Garcia has just sent a case of clay and a lot of material — carriage forward, of course—so I suppose I may expect to be honoured with his company any time now. We’ll probably get a bill for the clay.

  PPS. — Plumber’s Queen yourself.

  PPPS. — The bill for Garcia’s material has come.

  Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn, C.I.D., to Mr. Nigel Bathgate, journalist.

  S.S. Niagara (At Sea).

  August 6th

  Dear Bathgate,

  How is it with Benedict, the married man? I was extremely sorry to be away for the wedding, and thought of you both on my mountain vastness in New Zealand. What a perfect place that would have been for a honeymoon. A primitive but friendly back-country pub, a lovely lake, tall mountains and nothing else for fifty miles. But I suppose you and your Angela were fashionably on the Riviera or somewhere. You’re a lucky young devil, and I wish you both all the happiness in the world, and send you my blessing. I’m glad my offering met with Mrs. Angela’s approval.

  We get to Vancouver in no time now, and leave the same day on the C.P.R. Most of the passengers are going on. I am breaking my journey at Quebec, a place I have always wanted to see. That will still give me fifteen days in England before I climb back into the saddle. My mother expects me to spend a fortnight with her, and if I may, I’ll come on to you about the 21st?

  The passengers on this ship are much like all passengers on all ships. Sea voyages seem to act as rather searching reagents on character. The essential components appear in alarming isolation. There is the usual ship’s belle, this time a perfectly terrific American cinema lady who throws me into a fever of diffidence and alarm, but who exhibits the close-up type of loveliness to the nth degree of unreality. There is the usual sprinkling of pleasant globe-trotters, bounders, and avid women. The most interesting person is Miss Agatha Troy, the painter. Do you remember her one-man show? She has done a miraculous painting of the wharf at Suva. I long to ask what the price will be, but am prevented by the circumstances of her not liking me very much. She bridles like a hedgehog (yes, they do) whenever I approach her, and as I don’t believe I suffer from any of those things in the strip advertisements, I’m rather at a loss to know why. Natural antipathy, perhaps. I don’t share it. Oddly enough, she suddenly asked me in a very gruff standoffish voice if she might paint my head. I’ve never been took a likeness of before — it’s a rum sensation when they get to the eyes; such a searching impersonal sort of glare they give you. She even comes close sometimes and peers into the pupils. Rather humiliating, it is. I try to return a stare every bit as impersonal, and find it tricky. The painting seems to me to be quite brilliant, but alarming.

  Fox has written regularly. He seems to have done damn’ well over that arson case. I rather dread getting back into the groove, but suppose it won’t be so bad when it comes. Hope I don’t have to start off with anything big — if Mrs. Angela thinks of putting rat’s-bane in your Ovaltine, ask her to do it out of my division.

  I look forward to seeing you both, my dear Bathgate, and send you my salutations the most distinguished.

  Yours ever,

  Roderick Alleyn.

  Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Lady Alleyn, Danes Lodge, Bossicote, Bucks.

  C.P.R.

  August 15th.

  My Dearest Mamma,

  Your letter found me at Vancouver. Yes, please — I should like to come straight to you; We arrive at Liverpool on the 7th, and I’ll make for Bucks as fast as may be. The garden sounds very attractive, but don’t go doing too much yourself, bless you. No, darling, I did not lose my heart in the Antipodes. Would you have been delighted to welcome a strapping black Fijian lady? I might have got one to regard me with favour at Suva, perhaps, but they smell of coco-nut oil, which you would not have found particularly delicious. I expect if I ever do get it in the neck, she’ll think me no end of a dull dog and turn icy. Talking of Suva, which I was not, do you know of a place called Tatler’s End House, somewhere near Bossicote? Agatha Troy, who painted that picture we both liked so much, lives there. She joined this ship at Suva, and did a lovely thing of the wharf. Look here, mamma, if ever a Virginia Van Maes writes and asks you to receive her, you must be away, or suffering from smallpox. She’s an American beauty who looks people up in Kelly’s and collects scalps. She looked me up and — Heaven knows why — she seemed inclined to collect ours. It’s the title, I suppose. Talking of titles, how’s the blasted Baronet? She was on to him like a shot. “Gee, Mr. Alleyn, I never knew your detective force was recruited from your aristocracy. I’m crazy to know if this Sir George Alleyn is your only brother.” You see? She threatens to come to England and has already said she’s sure you must be the cutest old-world mother. She’s quite capable of muscling in on the strength of being my dearest girl-friend. So you look
out, darling. I’ve told her you’re a horrid woman, but I don’t think she cares. You’ll be sixty-five on or about the day this arrives.

  In thirty years I shall be nearly ten years older than you are now, and you’ll still be trying to bully me. Do you remember how I found out your real age on your thirty-fifth birthday? My first really good bit of investigation, nasty little tick that I was. Well, little mum, don’t flirt with the vicar, and be sure to have the red carpet out on the 7th.

  Your dutiful and devoted son,

  Roderick.

  PS. — Miss Troy has done a sketch of your son which he will purchase for your birthday if it’s not too expensive.

  From Lady Alleyn, Danes Lodge, Bossicote, to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, Chateau Frontenac, Quebec.

  Dear Roderick,

  Your ingenuous little letter reached me on my birthday, and I was delighted to receive it. Thank you, my dear. It will be a great joy to have you for nearly a fortnight, greedily to myself. I trust I am not one of those avaricious mammas — clutch, clutch, clutch — which, after all, is only a form of cluck, cluck, cluck.

  It will be delightful to have a Troy version of you, and I hope it was not too expensive — if it was, perhaps you would let me join you, my dear. I should like to do that, but have no doubt you will ruin yourself and lie to your mother about the price. I shall call on Miss Troy, not only because you obviously wish me to do so, but because I have always liked her work, and should be pleased to meet her, as your Van Maes would say. George is with his family in Scotland. He talks of standing for Parliament, but I am afraid he will only make a fool of himself, poor dear. It’s a pity he hasn’t got your brains. I have bought a hand-loom and am also breeding Alsatians. I hope the bitch — Tunbridge Tessa — does not take a dislike to you. She is very sweet really. I always feel, darling, that you should not have left the Foreign Office, but at the same time, I am a great believer in everybody doing what he wants to, and I do enjoy hearing about your cases.