‘Your lordship having been kind enough,’ said Inspector Winterbottom, emptying his glass rather too rapidly for true connoisseurship, ‘to suggest I should look you up in Town, I made so bold to give you a call in passing. Thank you, I won’t say no. Well, as you’ve seen in the papers by now, we found that car, all right.’
Wimsey expressed his gratification at this result.
‘And very much obliged I was to your lordship for the hint,’ went on the Inspector generously, ‘not but what I wouldn’t say but I should have come to the same conclusion myself, given a little more time. And, what’s more, we’re on the track of the man.’
‘I see he’s supposed to be foreign-looking. Don’t say he’s going to turn out to be a Camorrist, after all!’
‘No, my lord.’ The Inspector winked. ‘Our friend in the corner had got his magazine stories a bit on the brain, if you ask me. And you were a bit out, too, my lord, with your bicyclist idea.’
‘Was I? That’s a blow.’
‘Well, my lord, these here theories sound all right, but half the time they’re too fine-spun altogether. Go for the facts—that’s our motto in the Force—facts and motive, and you won’t go far wrong.’
‘Oh, you’ve discovered the motive, then?’
The Inspector winked again.
‘There’s not many motives for doing a man in,’ said he. ‘Women or money—or women and money—it mostly comes down to one or the other. This fellow Plant went in for being a bit of a lad, you see. He kept a little cottage down Felpham way, with a nice little skirt to furnish it and keep the love-nest warm for him—see?’
‘Oh! I thought he was doing a motor tour.’
‘Motor tour your foot!’ said the Inspector, with more energy than politeness. ‘That’s what the old (epithet) told ’em at the office. Handy reason, don’t you see, for leaving no address behind him. No, no. There was a lady in it all right. I’ve seen her. A very taking piece, too, if you like ’em skinny, which I don’t. I prefer ’em better upholstered, myself.’
‘That chair is really more comfortable with a cushion,’ put in Wimsey, with anxious solicitude. ‘Allow me.’
‘Thanks, my lord, thanks. I’m doing very well. It seems that this woman—by the way, we’re speaking in confidence, you understand. I don’t want this to go further till I’ve got my man under lock and key.’
Wimsey promised discretion.
‘That’s all right, my lord, that’s all right. I know I can rely on you. Well, the long and the short is, this young woman had another fancy man—a sort of an Italiano, whom she’d chucked for Plant, and this same dago got wind of the business, and came down to East Felpham on the Sunday night looking for her. He’s one of these professional partners in a Palais de Dance up Cricklewood way, and that’s where the girl comes from, too. I suppose she thought Plant was a cut above him. Anyway, down he comes, and busts in upon them Sunday night when they were having a bit of supper—and that’s when the row started.’
‘Didn’t you know about this cottage and the goings-on there?’
‘Well, you know, there’s such a lot of these week-enders nowadays. We can’t keep tabs on all of them, so long as they behave themselves and don’t make a disturbance. The woman’s been there—so they tell me—since last June, with him coming down Saturday to Monday; but it’s a lonely spot, and the constable didn’t take much notice. He came in the evenings, so there wasn’t anybody much to recognise him, except the old girl who did the slops and things, and she’s half-blind. And of course, when they found him, he hadn’t any face to recognise. It’d be thought he’d just gone off in the ordinary way. I dare say the dago fellow reckoned on that. As I was saying, there was a big row, and the dago was kicked out. He must have lain in wait for Plant down by the bathing-place, and done him in.’
‘By strangling?’
‘Well, he was strangled.’
‘Was his face cut up with a knife, then?’
‘Well, no—I don’t think it was a knife. More like a broken bottle, I should say, if you ask me. There’s plenty of them come in with the tide.’
‘But then we’re brought back to our old problem. If this Italian was lying in wait to murder Plant, why didn’t he take a weapon with him, instead of trusting to the chance of his hands and a broken bottle?’
The Inspector shook his head.
‘Flighty,’ he said. ‘All these foreigners are flighty. No headpiece. But there’s our man, and there’s our motive, plain as a pikestaff. You don’t want more.’
‘And where is the Italian fellow now?’
‘Run away. That’s pretty good proof of guilt in itself. But we’ll have him before long. That’s what I’ve come to Town about. He can’t get out of the country. I’ve had an all-stations call sent out to stop him. The dance-hall people were able to supply us with a photo and a good description. I’m expecting a report in now any minute. In fact, I’d best be getting along. Thank you very much for your hospitality, my lord.’
‘The pleasure is mine,’ said Wimsey, ringing the bell to have the visitor shown out. ‘I have enjoyed our little chat immensely.’
Sauntering into the Falstaff at twelve o’clock the following morning, Wimsey, as he had expected, found Salcombe Hardy supporting his rather plump contours against the bar. The reporter greeted his arrival with a heartiness amounting almost to enthusiasm, and called for two large Scotches immediately. When the usual skirmish as to who should pay had been honourably settled by the prompt disposal of the drinks and the standing of two more, Wimsey pulled from his pocket the copy of last night’s Evening Views.
‘I wish you’d ask the people over at your place to get hold of a decent print of this for me,’ he said, indicating the picture of East Felpham beach.
Salcombe Hardy gazed limpid inquiry at him from eyes like drowned violets.
‘See here, you old sleuth,’ he said, ‘does this mean you’ve got a theory about the thing? I’m wanting a story badly. Must keep up the excitement, you know. The police don’t seem to have got any further since last night.’
‘No; I’m interested in this from another point of view altogether. I did have a theory—of sorts—but it seems it’s all wrong. Bally old Homer nodding, I suppose. But I’d like a copy of the thing.’
‘I’ll get Warren to get you one when we come back. I’m just taking him down with me to Crichton’s. We’re going to have a look at a picture. I say, I wish you’d come, too. Tell me what to say about the damned thing.’
‘Good God! I don’t know anything about commercial art.’
‘’Tisn’t commercial art. It’s supposed to be a portrait of this blighter Plant. Done by one of the chaps in his studio or something. Kid who told me about it says it’s clever. I don’t know. Don’t suppose she knows, either. You go in for being artistic, don’t you?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t use such filthy expressions, Sally. Artistic! Who is this girl?’
‘Typist in the copy department.’
‘Oh, Sally!’
‘Nothing of that sort. I’ve never met her. Name’s Gladys Twitterton. I’m sure that’s beastly enough to put anybody off. Rang us up last night and told us there was a bloke there who’d done old Plant in oils, and was it any use to us? Drummer thought it might be worth looking into. Make a change from that everlasting syndicated photograph.’
‘I see. If you haven’t got an exclusive story, an exclusive picture’s better than nothing. The girl seems to have her wits about her. Friend of the artist’s?’
‘No—said he’d probably be frightfully annoyed at her having told me. But I can wangle that. Only I wish you’d come and have a look at it. Tell me whether I ought to say it’s an unknown masterpiece or merely a striking likeness.’
‘How the devil can I say if it’s a striking likeness of a bloke I’ve never seen?’
‘I’ll say it’s that, in an
y case. But I want to know if it’s well painted.’
‘Curse it, Sally, what’s it matter whether it is or not? I’ve got other things to do. Who’s the artist, by the way? Anybody one’s ever heard of?’
‘Dunno. I’ve got the name here somewhere.’ Sally rooted in his hip-pocket, and produced a mass of dirty correspondence, its angles blunted by constant attrition. ‘Some comic name like Buggle or Snagtooth—wait a bit—here it is. Crowder. Thomas Crowder. I knew it was something out of the way.’
‘Singularly like Buggle or Snagtooth. All right, Sally. I’ll make a martyr of myself. Lead me to it.’
‘We’ll have another quick one. Here’s Warren. This is Lord Peter Wimsey. This is on me.’
‘On me,’ corrected the photographer, a jaded young man with a disillusioned manner. ‘Three large White Labels, please. Well, here’s all the best. Are you fit, Sally? Because we’d better make tracks. I’ve got to be up at Golders Green by two for the funeral.’
Mr Crowder of Crichton’s appeared to have had the news broken to him already by Miss Twitterton, for he received the embassy in a spirit of gloomy acquiescence.
‘The directors won’t like it,’ he said, ‘but they’ve had to put up with such a lot that I suppose one irregularity more or less won’t give ’em apoplexy.’ He had a small, anxious, yellow face like a monkey. Wimsey put him down as being in the late thirties. He noticed his fine, capable hands, one of which was disfigured by a strip of sticking-plaster.
‘Damaged yourself?’ said Wimsey pleasantly, as they made their way upstairs to the studio. ‘Mustn’t make a practice of that, what? An artist’s hands are his livelihood—except, of course for Armless Wonders and people of that kind! Awkward job, painting with your toes.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ said Crowder, ‘but it’s best to keep the paint out of surface scratches. There’s such a thing as lead-poisoning. Well, here’s this dud portrait, such as it is. I don’t mind telling you that it didn’t please the sitter. In fact, he wouldn’t have it at any price.’
‘Not flattering enough?’ asked Hardy.
‘As you say.’ The painter pulled out a four by three canvas from its hiding-place behind a stack of poster cartoons, and heaved it up on to the easel.
‘Oh!’ said Hardy, a little surprised. Not that there was any reason for surprise as far as the painting itself was concerned. It was a straightforward handling enough; the skill and originality of the brushwork being of the kind that interests the painter without shocking the ignorant.
‘Oh!’ said Hardy. ‘Was he really like that?’
He moved closer to the canvas, peering into it as he might have peered into the face of the living man, hoping to get something out of him. Under this microscopic scrutiny, the portrait, as is the way of portraits, dislimned, and became no more than a conglomeration of painted spots and streaks. He made the discovery that, to the painter’s eye, the human face is full of green and purple patches.
He moved back again, and altered the form of his question:
‘So that’s what he was like, was he?’
He pulled out the photograph of Plant from his pocket, and compared it with the portrait. The portrait seemed to sneer at his surprise.
‘Of course, they touch these things up at these fashionable photographers,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that’s not my business. This thing will make a jolly good eye-catcher, don’t you think so, Wimsey? Wonder if they’d give us a two-column spread on the front page? Well, Warren, you’d better get down to it.’
The photographer, bleakly unmoved by artistic or journalistic considerations, took silent charge of the canvas, mentally resolving it into a question of pan-chromatic plates and coloured screens. Crowder gave him a hand in shifting the easel into a better light. Two or three people from other departments, passing through the studio on their lawful occasions, stopped, and lingered in the neighbourhood of the disturbance, as though it were a street accident. A melancholy, grey-haired man, temporary head of the studio, vice Coreggio Plant, deceased, took Crowder aside, with a muttered apology, to give him some instructions about adapting a whole quad to an eleven-inch treble. Hardy turned to Lord Peter.
‘It’s damned ugly,’ he said. ‘Is it good?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Wimsey. ‘You can go all out. Say what you like about it.’
‘Oh, splendid! Could we discover one of our neglected British masters?’
‘Yes; why not? You’ll probably make the man the fashion, and ruin him as an artist, but that’s his pigeon.’
‘But, I say—do you think it’s a good likeness? He’s made him look a most sinister sort of fellow. After all, Plant thought it was so bad he wouldn’t have it.’
‘The more fool he. Ever heard of the portrait of a certain statesman that was so revealing of his inner emptiness that he hurriedly bought it up and hid it to prevent people like you from getting hold of it?’
Crowder came back.
‘I say,’ said Wimsey, ‘whom does that picture belong to? You? Or the heirs of the deceased, or what?’
‘I suppose it’s back on my hands,’ said the painter. ‘Plant—well, he more or less commissioned it, you see, but—’
‘How more or less?’
‘Well, he kept on hinting, don’t you know, that he would like me to do him, and, as he was my boss, I thought I’d better. No price actually mentioned. When he saw it, he didn’t like it, and told me to alter it.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘Oh—well, I put it aside, and said I’d see what I could do with it. I thought he’d perhaps forget about it.’
‘I see. Then presumably it’s yours to dispose of.’
‘I should think so. Why?’
‘You have a very individual technique, haven’t you?’ pursued Wimsey. ‘Do you exhibit much?’
‘Here and there. I’ve never had a show in London.’
‘I fancy I once saw a couple of small seascapes of yours somewhere. Manchester, was it? Or Liverpool? I wasn’t sure of your name, but I recognised the technique immediately.’
‘I dare say. I did send a few things to Manchester about two years ago.’
‘Yes—I felt sure I couldn’t be mistaken. I want to buy the portrait. Here’s my card, by the way. I’m not a journalist; I collect things.’
Crowder looked from the card to Wimsey, and from Wimsey to the card a little reluctantly.
‘If you want to exhibit it, of course,’ said Lord Peter, ‘I should be delighted to leave it with you as long as you liked.’
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ said Crowder. ‘The fact is, I’m not altogether keen on the thing. I should like to—that is to say, it’s not really finished.’
‘My dear man, it’s a bally masterpiece.’
‘Oh, the painting’s all right. But it’s not altogether satisfactory as a likeness.’
‘What the devil does the likeness matter? I don’t know what the late Plant looked like, and I don’t care. As I look at the thing it’s a damn’ fine bit of brushwork, and if you tinker about with it you’ll spoil it. You know that as well as I do. What’s biting you? It isn’t the price, is it? You know I shan’t boggle about that. I can afford my modest pleasures, even in these thin and piping times. You don’t want me to have it? Come, now—what’s the real reason?’
‘There’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t have it if you really want it, I suppose,’ said the painter, still a little sullenly. ‘If it’s really the painting that interests you.’
‘What do you suppose it is? The notoriety? I can have all I want of that commodity, you know, for the asking—or even without asking. Well, anyhow, think it over, and when you’ve decided, send me a line and name your price.’
Crowder nodded without speaking, and the photographer having by this time finished his job, the party took their leave.
As they left the b
uilding, they became involved in the stream of Crichton’s staff going out to lunch. A girl, who seemed to have been loitering in a semi-intentional way in the lower hall, caught them as the lift descended.
‘Are you the Evening Views people? Did you get your picture all right?’
‘Miss Twitterton?’ said Hardy interrogatively. ‘Yes, rather—thank you so much for giving us the tip. You’ll see it on the front page this evening.’
‘Oh, that’s splendid! I’m frightfully thrilled. It has made an excitement here—all this business. Do they know anything yet about who murdered Mr Plant? Or am I being horribly indiscreet?’
‘We’re expecting news of an arrest any minute now,’ said Hardy. ‘As a matter of fact, I shall have to buzz back to the office as fast as I can to sit with one ear glued to the telephone. You will excuse me, won’t you? And, look here—will you let me come round another day, when things aren’t so busy, and take you out to lunch?’
‘Of course. I should love to.’ Miss Twitterton giggled. ‘I do so want to hear about all the murder cases.’
‘Then here’s the man to tell you about them, Miss Twitterton,’ said Hardy, with mischief in his eye. ‘Allow me to introduce Lord Peter Wimsey.’
Miss Twitterton offered her hand in an ecstasy of excitement which almost robbed her of speech.
‘How do you do?’ said Wimsey. ‘As this blighter is in such a hurry to get back to his gossip-shop, what do you say to having a spot of lunch with me?’
‘Well, really—’ began Miss Twitterton.
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