“The only things people want,” he explained, “are the things you haven’t got.”
“Too bad,” said Bobby, a little absently, for his eye had caught two photogravure reproductions prominently displayed. “Mr Stone hasn’t been here long, has he?”
“Took over,” said the other, “three weeks before the war. Quite sure there wasn’t going to be a war, he was, even though that’s why he got it cheap. And now,” said the shopman, not without a certain relish, “wishes he hadn’t.”
“Oh, well, war does upset things, doesn’t it?” Bobby observed vaguely, though guessing both from this and from certain signs of dust and neglect he was beginning to notice, that ‘boosting’ a business, especially a business of this type, a picture framer’s and dealer’s, was no easy task in days of war. Nor was he much inclined to think that Mr Stone had made himself greatly beloved by his employee. Facts it might be useful to remember, he supposed, and nodding at the two photogravures he had noticed, he said: “What are those? I’ve seen something like them somewhere—same sort of style.”
The depressed looking shopman showed for the first time signs of animation.
“About here?” he asked. “Anywhere in Midwych?”
Then he looked depressed again when Bobby shook his head.
“In a picture gallery abroad, I think,” Bobby said. “El Grecos, aren’t they?”
“That’s right,” the shopman answered, evidently surprised at such knowledge.
“Sell well?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, they aren’t put there to sell,” the shopman explained. “Just as well, too, because if they were, they wouldn’t. Not every one’s taste, they aren’t.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Bobby. “Only what are you showing them for, if they’re not for sale?”
“Gent asked me to,” replied the other, and seemed inclined to think that answer sufficient.
“Was the gent,” Bobby asked, “a tallish, darkish, youngish man with a big nose? Name of Smith?”
“That’s right,” the shopman agreed, looking surprised again. “You know him? Aren’t hunting ’em, too, are you?”
“Hunting them,” Bobby repeated. “Why hunting them?”
“Well, that’s what Mr Smith’s doing,” the shopman explained. “He told me he was the art critic of the Morning Announcer, and he’s writing a book about El Greco and his pictures he wants to make a complete List of. He says there are two have got lost but he’s heard they may be somewhere round here so he’s trying to find them, so he can put them in his book. Willing to hand out a pound note or two to any one who can tell him anything about them, and another pound or so if he’s let take photos for his book—that is, if they’re good specimens in good condition, which he says isn’t likely, or they wouldn’t have got lost so completely. I expect he’s right about that, but you never know. He asked me to show those prints on the chance of someone seeing them and saying they knew of two like them. No one can mistake an El Greco. I thought at first that’s what you meant.”
And in these last words sounded a faint accent of hope, the shopman evidently still thinking that possibly Bobby really did know something about the lost paintings. In which case some portion at least of the promised pound or two might, the shopman hoped, find its way to his own pocket.
“Very interesting,” Bobby murmured. “How do pictures get lost?”
This was an academic question to which he neither expected nor received an answer. He hesitated whether to enter into further explanations or not. He decided it was not necessary. On the face of it, neither the lost El Grecos nor the somewhat mysterious activities of Mr Smith, had any connection either with the disappearance of Mr Crayfoot or with the attack on Sir Alfred Rawdon, the only two matters with which he, as an officer of police, was concerned. Nothing wrong or suspicious in trying to locate lost paintings, not even on the part of a gentleman who washed his hands mysteriously in forest streams and fled at speed on the approach of strangers. All the same, Bobby was not much surprised on returning to his office and ringing up the Morning Announcer, which, as a ‘national’ newspaper had an office in the town, to be informed with some asperity that the art critic of the Announcer was not ‘Mr Smith,’ but, as everyone knew, the celebrated Henry St Kitts, whose real name might possibly not be St Kitts but was certainly not Smith. These were facts, the Announcer suggested, known to all, or at least to all no longer in daily attendance at a kindergarten. So Bobby apologised humbly for an ignorance the Announcer evidently felt beyond pardon, hung up, and decided that steps would have to be taken to try to get in touch with this illusive Mr Smith who was neither the representative of a Bond Street firm of art dealers nor the art critic of the Morning Announcer.
Strange, Bobby thought, as he began to make the necessary arrangements for trying to accomplish this, strange how his attempt to pursue what he was beginning to call the ‘chocolates’ theme, should have led him back once more, back to this El Greco trail.
“Only,” he asked himself, “can it be even possible that they come together in some way to explain the missing Mr Crayfoot, the disappearance of the hermit? If Crayfoot means chocolates, does the hermit mean El Grecos? If you add together the chocolates and the two El Greco pictures—” But then he paused, shaking a puzzled head at the abysmal incongruity of associating two things so utterly diverse. “The ‘Diabolic Candelabra,’ too,” he mused, “and what does it all add up to?”
His thoughts went back to the wrecked hut in the lonely forest the missing hatchet that should have been there and was not, to the bloodstains on the earthen floor, and then he told himself again, as so often before, that it was no good wasting time in vain speculation till he had more facts to build upon.
“Even if I’m right in believing that there’s been murder done and that already there’s a pretty clear pointer to the guilty person,” he mused, “I’ve got to know a lot more before I can even so much as hint a suspicion.”
He left the routine machinery he had set in motion for the identification and production of the mysterious Mr Smith, to do its work, and got out his own small car he generally used now on official errands, since its consumption of petrol was small. For he had a strong idea that Dr Maskell would be anything but willing to come to the police and so the police had better go to him.
CHAPTER XXVI
DR MASKELL’S SUGGESTION
BOBBY WAS LUCKY enough to find Dr Maskell at home, just returned from a morning round of visits. In answer to Bobby’s inquiry he said that Sir Alfred was still in a critical condition. It might well be a day or two before it would be possible to feel confident of the issue. Certainly there was little likelihood of it being possible to question him for even a longer period.
“I suppose you haven’t found out anything yet?” Maskell asked; managing to convey in his manner how unlikely he thought it that police in general, and Bobby in particular, would ever find out anything.
“Nothing of much value,” Bobby admitted. “One can guess there was a burglar in the house and that Sir Alfred interrupted him, but that’s about all.”
“I suppose Sir Alfred knocked at the front before he went round to the back, if that’s what he did,” the doctor remarked. “If there really was a burglar in the house, why didn’t he clear out when he heard knocking?”
“Knocking might only have meant a visitor,” Bobby answered, “someone likely to go away again. It’s the sound of the key in the lock scares burglars. Or it might not have been heard, if the burglar chap had his head in one of those cupboards he was searching so carefully, or in one of the packing cases in the attic he was overhauling. Whoever was there wasn’t an ordinary burglar, he was looking for something special he was keen on finding.”
“What?” the doctor asked sharply, but Bobby only shrugged his shoulders and the doctor gave him a quick and doubtful look. Then he said: “It was Crayfoot’s house. Any connection with Crayfoot’s being missing?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby answered. “I wish I di
d.”
“Could it have been Crayfoot himself, do you think?” Maskell asked. “I mean, was it Crayfoot Sir Alfred interrupted?”
“Crayfoot burgling his own house?” Bobby asked. “Why should he? And if it was, why shoot Sir Alfred?”
The doctor laughed uneasily. His manner had less assurance now. He seemed to regret what he had said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not a detective. It was only an idea. Funny business, altogether. Aren’t you going to call in Scotland Yard to help? You were there yourself, weren’t you, though?”
“I transferred here from the Yard,” Bobby agreed. “I don’t expect they would be awfully pleased if I asked for assistance just now. They’re like the rest of us in war-time—work doubled, staff halved. I expect I shall just have to try to worry it out by myself.”
“Well, I suppose you know best,” Maskell remarked; an unusual admission for him to make since his general attitude was that no one knew best, except himself.
“By the way,” Bobby said, “I believe a Mr Stone asked you to analyze a flavouring for him?”
Dr Maskell favoured Bobby with a hard stare, as if wondering what that had to do with him. Then he said:
“Yes. Well? What about it? Some stuff of that vagabond quack’s they call a hermit. Less deadly than most of his brews.”
“Did Mr Stone tell you why he wanted it analyzed?”
“No. Some sort of new flavouring, he said. Wanted to be sure it was harmless. He asked me to have lunch with him at the Rawdon Arms to give him the result. I told him it wasn’t likely to hurt anyone. He asked a lot of questions about the ingredients and if it made any difference how they were mixed. I told him I didn’t know anything about that. I gave him the chemical formula, but I couldn’t say what special plants it all came from. Sugars—sucrose—occur in many plants, from trees to grasses.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily follow,” Bobby remarked, “that anyone possessing the formula would be able to get exactly the same result, the same flavour, I mean?”
“Might, might not, how should I know? I’m not a cook,” the doctor retorted. “Has this any connection with the Crayfoot affair? I thought Stone’s idea was to use the stuff for a new pickle or jam or something of the sort. Not that I cared. I didn’t ask. He paid my fee for the analysis, paid for my lunch, too. I knew why. Wanted to ask a lot of questions. Things I couldn’t tell him. I’m not a cook. I told him so and he didn’t like it. He struck me as a business man with a keen nose for possible profit. Crayfoot’s a business man, too. And you had asked me to do an analysis—earth on which blood had been spilt. I couldn’t help noticing.” He shrugged his shoulders but he was watching Bobby closely. “Then I heard about Mrs Crayfoot being worried over her husband and now there’s this affair at Crayfoot’s house. At a guess Crayfoot and Stone are both after the same thing.”
“It does look like that,” Bobby agreed.
“Seen the hermit? Asked him what he knows?”
“We’ve not been able to find him, either.”
“I rather wondered,” Maskell said slowly. “One of my patients, Mrs Morris, let out she was expecting him last Saturday and he never arrived. Not unusual in a way, I suppose, erratic, untrustworthy, no one could ever depend on him. Well, it probably saved old Mr Morris’s life. They were dosing him with some of the stuff that old humbug palms off on people. I suspected as much and it came out on Saturday. I tell you, inspector, if anything has happened to that old scoundrel, it means a good many people round here will have a better chance of life and health. Swilling down his filthy concoctions. Mind you, it’s quite true the immediate result was often a success—apparently. Suggestion, you know. But the fundamental trouble isn’t touched and back it comes worse than ever—seven diseases worse than the first. That man was a public danger. A public danger and nothing you people would do about it. Just let him go on. He was nothing more than a licensed murderer.”
“Have you any reason to think any harm has come to him?” Bobby asked.
The doctor glared.
“Think I’m a fool?” he demanded. “Mrs Crayfoot doesn’t know what’s become of her husband. You say you can’t find the hermit. Two business men trying to get from him some sort of fool recipe they believe might be worth money. Blood on the floor of his hut. What’s that add up to?”
“What do you think?” Bobby asked.
“Good lord, how should I know? I’m not a policeman. Thank God. But you have Stone and Crayfoot both after the stuff—the recipe. Stone gets it and Crayfoot gets angry and disappointed. Quite likely the old scamp promised it him and sold it to Stone. Crayfoot goes to find out what’s happened. There’s a quarrel when Crayfoot finds Stone has been beforehand. The hermit tries to chase Crayfoot away. Threatens him with the chopper he uses for cutting wood. He’s done that before. Crayfoot tries to take it from him. In the scuffle he succeeds and the hermit tries to get it back and Crayfoot hits out. He doesn’t mean to kill. My God, no. It’s really self-defence. Defending his own life. But who is to know that? Here’s a dead man and—and Crayfoot killed him. He can’t get away from that. What else can he do but try to hide the body? He has lost his nerve and he is afraid and there’s nothing else to do that he can see.” The doctor paused and stared and laughed, an odd, harsh, strangled laugh. “I’ve never killed a man,” he said, “but I expect it’s enough to make any man afraid—even if he never meant it, even if it was only self-defence, to save himself.”
“It might be like that,” Bobby agreed thoughtfully. “A quarrel. A struggle. One man killed. The other panics, hides the body, decides to run for it, returns to his house at night in secret for clothes and money. When he is interrupted he panics again and shoots and escapes.”
“You put it very clearly,” Maskell muttered, the first time he had seemed willing to admit that Bobby might possibly possess any shreds of intelligence. He got out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, on which beads of sweat were showing, for the picture he had drawn had evidently moved him deeply. He went to a small cupboard and got out whisky and a syphon of soda. “Have one?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Bobby answered. Then he said: “There were no fingerprints on the window that was forced. Only smudges.”
“Gloves,” retorted Maskell. “They all do, don’t they? Obvious surely,” and it was plain that mentally he now withdrew his acknowledgement of the possibility of Bobby possessing any intelligence. He poured himself out a liberal allowance of the spirit and added little soda. “Well, here’s how,” he said and drank. “Yes, you put it very clearly,” he admitted then, more genial now under the influence of the spirit.
“If I did,” Bobby said, “it was because you made it all sound so real and dramatic.”
“It just struck me perhaps that’s how it was,” Maskell said. “You can’t help guessing, thinking, imagining things. Can you?”
He poured himself out another drink and Bobby wondered if Maskell, who had not much the air of a drinking man, often took spirits so freely so early, for it was not yet quite time for lunch.
“If it was like that,” Bobby said, “Crayfoot would be wise to come forward and explain.”
“Confess, you mean?” the doctor asked, and gave again that odd, harsh laugh of his that had in it so little of mirth, so much of scorn. “Confession’s the last resort of weakness,” he said. “Go down with your flag flying if you must, not whining for mercy.” He looked again at the whisky bottle, seemed to hesitate, then with sudden firmness picked it up and restored it to the cupboard where it was kept. “Very likely I’m all wrong,” he said. “Only guesswork. Very likely when you find Crayfoot you’ll find he has a perfectly good explanation.” He went across to the window and stared out at the distant mass of the forest that from here, as indeed from almost every other viewpoint near, dominated all the scene. “A dangerous place,” he said. “Trees and men are enemies. Primitive man knew that. They’re conquered now but they’re still there—dark places, hidden places, damp
and secret and dangerous, places where you can die and no one ever know. Crayfoot’s been in there—how long? Saturday, was it? He may have met with some accident if nothing else.”
“We are arranging for a search,” Bobby said. “Boy scouts. Home Guards. Police. Everyone we can get hold of.”
“Ah, yes,” the doctor said. “A thorough search, eh?”
“Of course it would take an army weeks to make a really thorough search,” Bobby agreed. “And then you couldn’t be sure.”
“No,” Maskell said and made a gesture towards the forest. “Anyone who had a secret to hide—well, the forest would hide it well,” he said.
CHAPTER XXVII
STORY OF A STRANGER
IT WAS IN thoughtful mood that Bobby drove away from Dr Maskell’s house. The suggestion he had just listened to was, he had to admit, not unreasonable. It would account for much of what had happened. Dr Maskell, too, in putting it forward, had described the imagined scene with a vividness of insight and emotion, as of a thing actually seen, that had been impressive. One seemed to be aware of the old recluse’s sudden burst of anger, of the threatening and flourished hatchet, of the other man’s reaction, of the brief, fierce scuffle, of the angry blow struck in the heat of passion and bearing swift death with it, then of the panic-stricken concealment by the survivor of the dead man’s body.
Only, if it had been like that, and the doctor’s dramatic recital had almost persuaded Bobby to belief, which was the survivor? Who the dead man?
One merit the theory had was that of simplicity. It explained much and explained it credibly and neatly. But there were gaps. It did not account, for instance, for the odd behaviour of the Rawdons, uncle and nephew, or what piece of knowledge or information they were holding back. For that there was something they knew or believed or suspected that they had not told him, Bobby remained convinced.
His next destination was the small local police station where he was told that nothing had recently been seen or heard of the recluse of the forest. Not that there was anything very surprising in that in itself, for he often vanished for long periods at a time. But it was certainly not his custom to wreck the contents of his hut before his departure. There was also the fact that he had not kept his promise to visit the Morris farm. Uncertain as were both his moods and his temper, he had never been known to break a promise. The difficulty had been to get him to give his word, but once given, it was invariably and strictly kept. This was the first time so far as was known, when a clearly made promise of his had remained unfulfilled. ‘A point of honour’ he had been heard to say.
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