Artists in Crime ra-6 Read online

  But across the head where the paint was wet, someone had scrubbed a rag, and scratched with red paint an idiotic semblance of a face with a moustache.

  “Lor’,” said Fox, “is that a modern idea, too, sir?”

  “I hardly think so,” murmured Alleyn. “Good God, Fox, what a perfectly filthy thing to do. Don’t you see, somebody’s wiped away the face while the paint was wet, and then daubed this abortion on top of the smudge. Look at the lines of paint — you can see a kind of violence in them. The brush has been thrust savagely at the canvas so that the tip has spread. It’s as if a nasty child had done it in a fit of temper. A stupid child.”

  “I wonder who painted the picture, sir. If it’s a portrait of this girl Sonia Gluck, it looks as if there’s been a bit of spite at work. By gum, it’d be a rum go if the murderer did it.”

  “I don’t think this was Sonia,” said Alleyn. “There’s a smudge of blonde hair left. Sonia Gluck was dark. As for the painter—” He paused. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. The painter was Agatha Troy.”

  “You can pick the style, can you?”

  “Yes.”

  With a swift movement Alleyn turned the canvas to the wall. He lit a cigarette and squatted on his heels.

  “Let us take what used to be called a ‘lunar’ at the case. In a little while I must start interviewing people, but I’d like you fellows to get as clear an idea as possible of the case as we know it. At the moment we haven’t got so much as a smell of motive. Very well. Eight students, the model, and Miss Troy have used this studio every morning from Saturday the 10th until last Friday, the 16th. On Friday they used it until twelve-thirty, came away in dribbles, lunched at the house, and then, at different intervals, all went away with the exception of Wolf Garcia, a bloke who models and sculps. He stayed behind, saying that he would be gone when they returned on Sunday. The studio was not locked at any time, unless by Garcia, who slept in it. They reopened this morning with this tragedy. Garcia and his belongings had gone. That’s all. Any prints, Bailey?”

  “There’s a good many blue smears round the edge, sir, but it’s unplaned wood underneath, and we can’t do much with it. It looks a bit as if someone had mopped it up with a painty rag.”

  “There’s a chunk of paint-rag on the floor there. Is it dusty?”

  “Yes, thick with it.”

  “Possibly it was used for mopping up. Have a go at it.”

  Alleyn began to prowl round the back of the throne.

  “Hullo! More grist for the mill.” He pointed to a strip of wood lying in a corner of the studio. “Covered with indentations. It’s the ledge off an easel. That’s what was used for hammering. Take it next, Bailey. Let’s find an easel without a ledge. Detecting is so simple when you only know how. Mr. Hatchett has no ledge on his easel — therefore Mr. Hatchett is a murderer. Q.E.D. This man is clever. Oh, lawks-a-mussy-me, I suppose I’d better start off on the statements. How goes it, Bailey?”

  “This paint-rag’s a mucky bit of stuff,” grumbled Bailey. “It’s been used for dusting all right. You can see the smudges on the platform. Same colour. I thought I might get a print off some of the smears of paint on the rag. They’re still tacky in places. Yes, here’s something. I’ll take this rag back and have a go at it, sir.”

  “Right. Now the ledge.”

  Bailey used his insufflator on the strip of wood.

  “No,” he said, after a minute or two. “It’s clean.”

  “All right. We’ll leave the studio to these two now, Fox. Try to get us as full a record of footprints as you can, Bailey. Go over the whole show. I can’t tell you what to look out for. Just do your stuff. And, by the way, I want photographs of the area round the window and the tyre-prints outside. You’d better take a cast of them and look out for any other manifestations round about them. If you come across any keys, try them for prints. Lock the place up when you’ve done. Good sleuthing.”

  Fox and Alleyn returned to the house.

  “Well, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn on the way, “how goes it with everybody?”

  “The Yard’s still in the same old place, sir. Pretty busy lately.”

  “What a life! Fox, I think I’ll see Miss Valmai Seacliff first.

  “On the face of it she’s a principal witness.”

  “What about Miss Troy, sir?” asked Fox.

  Alleyn’s voice came quietly out of the darkness:

  “I’ve seen her. Just before you came.”

  ‘What sort of a lady is she?”

  “I like her,” said Alleyn. “Mind the step. Here’s the side door. I suppose we can use it. Hullo! Look here, Fox.”

  He paused, his hand on Fox’s arm. They were close by a window. The curtains had been carelessly drawn and a wide band of light streamed through the gap. Alleyn stood a little to one side of this light and looked into the room. Fox joined him. They saw a long refectory table at which eight people sat. In the background, half in shadow, loomed the figure of a uniformed constable. Seven of the people round the table appeared to listen to the eighth, who was Agatha Troy. The lamplight was full on her face. Her lips moved rapidly and incisively; she looked from one attentive face to the other. No sound of her voice came to Alleyn and Fox, but it was easy to see that she spoke with urgency. She stopped abruptly and looked round the table as if she expected a reply. The focus of attention shifted. Seven faces were turned towards a thin, languid-looking young man with a blond beard. He seemed to utter a single sentence, and at once a stocky woman with black straight hair cut in a bang, sprang to her feet to answer him angrily. Troy spoke again. Then nobody moved. They all sat staring at the table.

  “Come on,” whispered Alleyn.

  He opened the side door and went along the passage to a door on the left. He tapped on this door. The policeman answered it.

  “All right,” said Alleyn quietly, and walked straight in, followed by Fox and the constable. The eight faces round the table turned like automatons.

  “Please forgive me for barging in like this,” said Alleyn to Troy.

  “It’s all right,” said Troy. “This is the class. We were talking — about Sonia.” She looked round the table. “This is Mr. Roderick Alleyn,” she said.

  “Good evening,” said Alleyn generally. “Please don’t move. If you don’t mind, I think Inspector Fox and I will join you for a moment. I shall have to ask you all the usual sort of things, you know, and we may as well get it over. May we bring up a couple of chairs?”

  Basil Pilgrim jumped up and brought a chair to the head of the table.

  “Don’t worry about me, sir,” said Fox. “I’ll just sit over here, thank you.”

  He settled himself in a chair by the sideboard. Alleyn sat at the head of the table, and placed his notebook before him.

  “The usual thing,” he said, looking pleasantly round the table, “is to interview people severally. I think I shall depart from routine for once and see if we can’t work together. I have got your names here, but I don’t know which of you is which. I’ll just read them through, and if you don’t mind— ”

  He glanced at his notes.

  “Reminiscent of a roll-call, I’m afraid, but here goes. Miss Bostock?”

  “Here,” said Katti Bostock.

  “Thank you. Mr. Hatchett?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Miss Phillida Lee?”

  Miss Lee made a plaintive murmuring sound. Malmsley said: “Yes.” Pilgrim said: “Here.” Valmai Seacliff merely turned her head and smiled.

  “That’s that,” said Alleyn. “Now then. Before we begin I must tell you that in my opinion there is very little doubt that Miss Sonia Gluck has been deliberately done to death. Murdered.”

  They seemed to go very still.

  “Now, as you all must realise, she was killed by precisely the means which you discussed and worked out among yourselves ten days ago. The first question I have to put to you is this. Has any one of you discussed the experiment with the dagger outside th
is class? I want you to think very carefully. You have been scattered during the week-end, and it is possible, indeed very likely, that you may have talked about the pose, the model, and the experiment with the knife. This is extremely important, and I ask you to give me a deliberated answer.”

  He waited for quite a minute.

  “I take it that none of you have spoken of this matter, then,” said Alleyn.

  Cedric Malmsley, leaning back in his chair, said: “Just a moment.”

  “Yes, Mr. Malmsley?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure, if it’s of any interest,” drawled Malmsley, “but Garcia and I talked about it on Friday afternoon.”

  “After the others had gone up to London?”

  “Oh, yes. I went down to the studio, you see, after lunch. I did some work there. Garcia was messing about with his stuff. He’s usually rather sour when he’s working, but on Friday he babbled away like the brook.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh,” said Malmsley vaguely, “women and things. He’s drearily keen on women, you know. Tediously over-sexed.” He turned to the others. “Did you know he and Sonia were living together in London?”

  “I always said they were,” said Valmai Seacliff.

  “Well, my sweet, it seems you were right.”

  “I told you, Seacliff, didn’t I?” began Phillida Lee excitedly. “You remember?”

  “Yes. But I thought so long before that.”

  “Did you pursue this topic?” asked Alleyn.

  “Oh, no, we talked about you, Seacliff.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes. We discussed your engagement, and your virtue and so on.”

  “Very charming of you,” said Basil Pilgrim angrily.

  “Oh, we agreed that you were damned lucky and so on. Garcia turned all knowing, and said— ”

  “Is this necessary?” demanded Pilgrim, of Alleyn.

  “Not at the moment, I think,” said Alleyn. “How did you come to discuss the experiment with the dagger, Mr. Malmsley?”

  “Oh, that was when we talked about Sonia. Garcia looked at my drawing and asked me if I’d ever felt like killing my mistress just for the horror of doing it.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Sidelights on Sonia

  And was that all?” inquired Alleyn, after a rather deadly little pause.

  “Oh, yes,” said Cedric Malmsley, and lit a cigarette. “I just thought I’d better mention it.”

  “Thank you. It was just as well. Did he say anything else that could possibly have a bearing on this affair?”

  “I don’t think so. Oh, he did say Sonia wanted him to marry her. Then he began talking about Seacliff, you know.”

  “Couple of snotty little bounders,” grunted Katti Bostock unexpectedly.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Malmsley, with an air of sweet reasonableness. “Seacliff likes being discussed, don’t you, my angel? She knows she’s simply lousy with It.”

  “Don’t be offensive, please, Malmsley,” said Pilgrim dangerously.

  “Good heavens! Why so sour? I thought you’d like to know we appreciated her.”

  “That will do, Malmsley,” said Troy very quietly.

  Alleyn said: “When did you leave the studio on Friday afternoon, Mr. Malmsley?”

  “At five. I kept an eye on the time because I had to bathe and change and catch the six o’clock bus.”

  “You left Mr. Garcia still working?”

  “Yes. He said he wanted to pack up the clay miniature ready to send it up to London the next morning.”

  “He didn’t begin to pack it while you were there?”

  “Well, he got me to help him carry in a zinc-lined case from the junk-room. He said it would do quite well.”

  “He would,” said Troy grimly. “I paid fifteen shillings for that case.”

  “How would it be managed?” asked Alleyn. “Surely a clay model is a ticklish thing to transport?”

  “He’d wrap masses of damp cloths round it,” explained Troy.

  “How about lifting it? Wouldn’t it be very heavy?”

  “Oh, he’d thought all that out,” said Malmsley, yawning horribly. “We put the case on a tall stool in the window with the open end sideways, beside the tall stool he worked on. The thing was on a platform with wheels. He just had to wheel it into the case and fill the case with packing.”

  “How about getting it into the van?”

  “Dear me. Isn’t this all rather tedious?”

  “Extremely. A concise answer would enable us to move on to a more interesting narrative.”

  Troy gave an odd little snort of laughter.

  “Well, Mr. Malmsley?” said Alleyn.

  “Garcia said the lorry would back into the window from the lane outside. The sill is only a bit higher than the stools. He said they’d be able to drag the case on to the sill and get it in the lorry.”

  “Did he say anything about arranging for the lorry?”

  “He asked me if there was a man in the village,” said Troy. “I told him Burridge would do it.”

  The policeman at the door gave a deprecatory cough.

  “Hullo!” said Alleyn, slewing round in his chair. “Thought of something?”

  “The super asked Burridges’ if they done it, sir, and they says no.”

  “Right. Thank you. Now, Mr. Malmsley, did you get any idea when Mr. Garcia proposed to put the case on board the lorry?”

  “He said early next morning — Saturday.”

  “I see. There was no other mention of Miss Gluck, the pose, or Mr. Garcia’s subsequent plans?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t tell you where the clay model was to be delivered?”

  “No. He just said he’d got the loan of a disused warehouse in London.”

  “He told me he was going on a sketching-tramp for a week before he started work,” said Valmai Seacliff.

  “To me also, he said this.” Francis Ormerin leant forward, glancing nervously at Alleyn. “He said he wished to paint landscape for a little before beginning this big work.”

  “He painted?” asked Alleyn.

  “Oh, yes,” said Troy. “Sculping was his long suit, but he painted and etched a bit as well.”

  “Very interesting stuff,” said Katti Bostock.

  “Drearily representational though, you must own,” murmured Malmsley.

  “I don’t agree,” said Ormerin.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Basil Pilgrim, “we’re not here to discuss aesthetics.”

  “Does anyone here,” Alleyn cut in firmly, “know who lent this warehouse to Garcia, where it was, when he proposed to go there, or in what direction he has supposedly walked away?”

  Silence.

  “He is possibly the most uncommunicative young man in England,” said Troy suddenly.

  “It would seem so, indeed,” agreed Alleyn.

  “There’s this, though,” added Troy. “He told me the name of the man who commissioned the ‘Comedy and Tragedy.’ It’s Charleston, and I think he’s secretary to the board of the New Palace Theatre, Westminster. Is that any help?”

  “It may be a lot of help.”

  “Do you think Garcia murdered Sonia?” asked Malmsley vaguely. “I must say I don’t.”

  “The next point is this,” said Alleyn, exactly as though Malmsley had not spoken. “I want to arrive at the order in which you all left the studio on Friday at midday. I believe Miss Troy and Miss Bostock came away together as soon as the model got down. Any objection to that?”

  There were none apparently.

  “Well, who came next?”

  “I–I think I did,” said Phillida Lee, “and I think I ought to tell you about an extraordinary thing that I heard Garcia say to Sonia one day— ”

  “Thank you so much, Miss Lee. I’ll come to that later, if I may. At the moment we’re talking about the order in which you left the studio on Friday at noon. You followed Miss Troy and Miss Bostock?”

  “Yes,” said Mis
s Lee restlessly.

  “Good. Are you sure of that, Miss Lee?”

  “Yes. I mean I know I did because I was absolutely exhausted. It always takes it out of me most frightfully when I paint. It simply drains every ounce of my energy. I even forget to breathe.”

  “That must be most uncomfortable,” said Alleyn gravely. “You came out to breathe, perhaps?”

  “Yes. I mean I felt I must get away from it all. So I simply put down my brushes and walked out. Miss Troy and Bostock were just ahead of me.”

  “You went straight to the house?”

  “Yes, I think so. Yes, I did.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Watt Hatchett loudly. “You came straight up here because I was just after you, see? I saw you through the dining-room window. This window here, Mr. Alleyn. That’s right, Miss Lee. You went up to the sideboard and began eating something.”

  “I–I don’t remember that,” said Miss Lee in a high voice. She darted an unfriendly glance at Hatchett.

  “Well,” said Alleyn briskly, “that leaves Miss Seacliff, Messrs. Ormerin, Pilgrim, Malmsley and Garcia, and the model. Who came next?”

  “We all did — except Garcia and Sonia,” said Valmai Seacliff. “Sonia hadn’t dressed. I remember I went into the junk-room and washed my brushes under the tap. Ormerin and Malmsley and Basil followed me there.”

  She spoke with a slight hesitation, the merest shadow of a stutter, and with a markedly falling inflexion. She had a trick of uttering the last words of a phrase on an indrawn breath. Everything she looked and did, Alleyn felt, was the result of a carefully concealed deliberation. She managed now to convey the impression that men followed her inevitably, wherever she went.

  “They were in the way,” she went on. “I told them to go. Then I finished washing my brushes and came up to the house.”

  “Garcia was in the junk-room, too, I think,” said Ormerin.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Seacliff softly. “He came in, as soon as you’d gone. He would, you know. Sonia was glaring through the door — furious, of course.” Her voice died away and was caught up on that small gasp. She looked through her eyelashes at Alleyn. “I walked up to the house with the other three.”

  “That is so,” agreed Ormerin.