“Well?” said the inspector.
“I’ve had a feeling ever since you talked with Slade, Inspector, that he wasn’t quite working along with you in everything. I don’t mean in things about himself, but other things. So I got talking with him just now. And I found something out.” He gave his chair a hitch forward. “It’s something that’s not down here,” he said, indicating the paper, “and it’s got the sound of real stuff. I got talking with him, as I say; I didn’t have any particular idea, just asked a question here and there as they came up in my mind. I says to him, what did he do after he locked the front door? And he says he sat down and read the paper till Marsh came along and was let out. And, I says, what did he do then, after that? Read the paper again? And he says yes. And then I says, did anything happen while he sat there? Did he see anything? He says no. And then I says—this was a lucky one!—I says, did he hear anything? And he says, yes, he did!”
Moore waited; he saw the interest in the two faces and the attentive attitudes of the two figures; he nodded to both Duddington and the inspector, highly approving of himself, and proceeded:
“He says, yes, he did: he says he was reading his newspaper, and then he thought he heard a sound. Someone was upstairs—at the back. The sound was footsteps. Then they were plainer; they were on the iron stairs, he says, and he could hear them click, click, click as they came down, he says. Then suddenly they stopped. Completely. There was a pause. Then he heard something else. He heard somebody cry out! Not like somebody was hurt. I asked him that. No: like somebody that was astonished—surprised. You know what I mean,” Moore gestured, looking at the inspector and then at Duddington. “Then Slade says there was a whispering, like as if somebody was shouting under their breaths. Then this stopped, too; the footsteps started again. Then this young fellow Gregory came along the corridor, and Slade let him out.”
Lynch’s face was set; there was a look of exultation in his eyes.
“Get Gregory,” he said.
“I thought you’d want him,” said Moore, “One of my men’s got him just outside.”
The precinct detective went to the door and beckoned; and Billy Gregory came in. At the first mention of the footsteps on the stairs Duddington saw the young man go white; then the pause, the whispering, came in direct thrusts from Lynch.
“I didn’t stop on the stairs,” said Billy, his eyes startled, and his voice shaking a little. “At least, I have no recollection of having done so. I am quite sure I spoke to no one and heard no one speak.”
“That’ll do,” said Lynch. Billy was taken out, and the inspector looked at Duddington. “Well, there it is,” he said quietly. “There is the one outstanding thing I just now spoke of. When young Gregory leaves this building tonight he will be in custody.”
XI
ALMOST at once Moore put his head into the room; his face was full of expectation.
“Inspector,” he said, “I think things have begun to break right for us. The man you sent out after Haviz has just brought him in. Want to see him?”
“Just a moment.” Lynch read from his notes. “Haviz. One of the trustees. Painter by profession. Came here with Chalmers by appointment at four-thirty. Left before closing time. Appears to be a person whom Custis disliked. Oh, yes, here’s what I want! He read some parts of Mona Rogers’s statement attentively and then looked at Duddington. “What, in particular, did Haviz have against Custis—or vice versa?”
Duddington shook his head.
“I haven’t enough real knowledge of their affairs to venture a reply to that, at such a time,” he said.
“This thing of how Custis stood in the outer office grinning at the closed door while Haviz sat waiting for him to return seems to indicate a condition that might bear looking into. And then to turn and go out, apparently for the mere pleasure of keeping the man waiting! That fact would make me pay some attention to Haviz, even if there were nothing else.”
“It would easily be possible to attach too much importance to such acts of Custis’s,” said Duddington. “They were common with him; he was a kind of imp: what the Germans call poltergeist.”
“Are MacQuarrie and Marsh well acquainted with Haviz?” asked the inspector.
“Rather well so,” said Duddington, but with no enthusiasm.
“Hold Haviz in the corridor,” said Lynch to Moore. “Let me have MacQuarrie now and Marsh afterward.”
When the picture dealer came in he was anxious of face and perspiring. Under the strong overhead lights he looked whiter than ever; his second chin trembled.
“It is a very difficult night,” said he to Duddington. “I don’t recall ever going through a hotter.”
Lynch took MacQuarrie in hand easily; he began far enough from his real objective not to attract the man’s attention, and gradually approached.
“You are acquainted with the terms of John Gregory’s will, I suppose, Mr. MacQuarrie?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” said the dealer. “Oh, yes, Mr. Lynch. As a matter of fact, I have one of the printed copies of it and have read it carefully several times.”
“You know who the trustees of the museum are?”
“Oh, yes.” MacQuarrie mopped his face and nodded. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Custis was one, and Mr. Chalmers, here, and Mr. Haviz. There were just the three of them.”
“You’ve known Mr. Custis and Mr. Chalmers for a long time?”
“Yes; quite some years.”
“And Mr. Haviz?”
“Yes, Mr. Haviz, too.”
“Mr. Haviz is an artist, I believe?”
“A painter—yes. And I think quite a sound one. Fine talent.”
“Being fellow trustees, I suppose Mr. Custis and Mr. Haviz were on friendly terms?”
“Yes, quite friendly. Of course, Mr. Haviz was a little short tempered at times, but then, that was really nothing.”
“Short tempered? What was that about?”
“Oh, nothing much.” MacQuarrie smiled; he made an affable gesture. “Nothing at all. I think Mr. Haviz is of French or Spanish blood, and people of those countries are quicker to take offense than Americans of English stock. Anyway, Mr. Haviz always seemed to resent Mr. Custis’s humor.”
“I hadn’t heard Mr. Custis was given to humor.”
“He was quite a wit in his own peculiar way. I shouldn’t wonder if, when he was younger, he wasn’t a practical joker. That’s how he always seemed to me. It pleased him to make people ridiculous; he’d go a good distance out of his way to turn a laugh on someone.”
“I see.”
“Of course, Mr. Custis and Mr. Haviz were quite friendly. Their associations in art,” said MacQuarrie confidently, “would bring that about. For, Mr. Lynch, art is a bond. It brings people who are devoted to it very close together. Mr. Custis was a scholar and Haviz an artist. They couldn’t help but be attached to each other. Mr. Chalmers will bear me out in that.”
“Everything was genial and easy-going between them, then?”
“Oh, quite. Of course, as I’ve said, Mr. Custis would have his joke; and Mr. Haviz resented it. But that was nothing at all. What is a trifling jest between friends—two men devoted to creative work? Nothing.”
“Can you recall some instances of this jesting spirit? What direction did Custis’s humor usually take?”
“Why, sometimes it would be one thing; again, it would be another. But most times it would be something about Mr. Haviz’s painting. You see, Mr. Haviz is something of an original; his canvases are now of the modern-primitive school, and while they are much discussed they give him little profit. He was trained as a portrait painter, but his color and manner do not at present please people who desire portraits and have no knowledge of art. This was a favorite subject with Mr. Custis. He’d keep insinuating—if you know what I mean, Mr. Lynch. He wouldn’t say anything openly, for, of course,” gesturing, “that would be intolerable. But he’d keep poking fun and smiling.”
“I understand,” said Lynch dryly.
“Mr.
Haviz would stand it for some time, but he’d get angry at last.”
“What would he say?”
“Well, of course,” said MacQuarrie smoothly, “we can’t place any expressions he may have used at a time like that to his discredit. That would be absurd. He’d been teased into it, do you see? Being short tempered, he’d break out. Once, in my presence, when, I suppose, Mr. Custis had gone a trifle too far, Mr. Haviz tried to strike him. He leaned across a table and made a blow at him.”
“When was that?”
“Perhaps two weeks ago: I could verify it to the day by my books. Mr. Custis made some purchases that day, and they were set down in the museum’s account. But, Mr. Lynch, as I’ve said,” and MacQuarrie’s white, soft hand rubbed at his two chins, “it would be absurd to remember these things against Mr. Haviz. He regretted them himself. I’m sure, as soon as they were over.”
“In any matters of this sort that came up between Custis and Haviz, were they always caused by Custis making light of Haviz’s failure to prosper as an artist?”
“Why, I think so.”
“You are not sure?”
“No, Inspector, I’m not. I will admit there sometimes did seem to be something else. I didn’t know what it could be, but there seemed to be something.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“The way they spoke, sometimes. Not what they said, mind you: the way they said it. And the way they looked. But it never lasted long; it was all over in a little while; so I made up my mind, whatever it was, it couldn’t be much.”
When MacQuarrie went out of the office. Marsh was brought in.
“I trust you are making progress, Inspector,” said the man, his light-colored eyes going here and there. “It is really a dreadful thing; the more I think of it, the more horrified I am. I suppose the newspapers will be full of it in the morning.”
“You’ve been occupied in your present work for a good many years, I believe, Mr. Marsh,” said Lynch.
“Oh, yes,” said Marsh. “More than twenty, I should say—that is, independently. I was employed by an antique and picture dealer some years before that.”
“How long have you known Mr. Haviz?” asked the inspector.
“As a matter of fact, Inspector, I have never what you might call known Mr. Haviz. He has always been quite distant with me. Even from the first. And, of course, seeing that—and he made it quite plain—I never made any approaches.”
“But in spite of that you knew of him?”
“Oh, yes. I recall when he first came here. He set up a little studio on the West Side and went to a night class at an art school. He was quite a good painter even then; they told me he’d studied with Spanish and Italian masters at Rio Janeiro, where he came from. Custis kept an art shop in Irving Place at that time and handled pictures for young painters who were coming along. He took some from Haviz and sold them. They became quite close friends.”
“I see,” said Lynch.
“I remember Haviz was greatly pleased. I sat near him at restaurants and other public places at times, and he talked quite excitedly. Custis was a great man to him. He felt he couldn’t do better than tie up with him—to put himself unreservedly at his disposal. It was a path that would lead to fortune. Two—three years with Custis, then Paris, Rome, Madrid; the great galleries; a studio in the heart of things. Then work and life. And fame!”
“Custis had impressed him, it seems.”
“Custis could always impress people when he wanted to, and it seems he wanted to in Haviz’s case. Custis knew human nature.” Marsh looked at Duddington. “You have always seen the repellent side of him, Mr. Chalmers, but he had another: he could attract, as well.”
“Why,” asked the police inspector, “should he go out of his way to impress an unknown young painter?”
Marsh shook his head.
“I never knew. Though,” and the light-colored eyes fixed themselves upon Lynch’s face for a moment, “I heard rumors at the time. There were people who disliked Custis at that time also, and some of them talked.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t recall the words; but here is the body of their remarks: Custis was clever; he knew pictures, and many wealthy people had confidence in his judgment and knowledge. But he held these people in contempt. He said they were stupid. However, they had money, and he was willing to profit by their ignorance. He was skilled in restoring old paintings; he could take dim, moldy canvases and make them glow with their original colors. And—here was the thing people whispered—in devising clever ways for taking years from old paintings, he’d discovered equally clever ways of adding years to new ones.”
“What had that to do with gaining the good will of Haviz?”
Marsh smiled in a thin sort of way; he stood with his coat drawn about him, apparently full of regrets.
“It has always been a sort of outlaw desire among the more unscrupulous art dealers and picture restorers,” he said, “to have contacts that could produce skilful imitations, to be sold as the authentic work of certain masters, I have no doubt,” the dim smile still persisting, “the wish has carried on in some places and exists even now. At any rate, Custis was then supposed to be one who had this desire; it was hinted he coveted a painter who’d work with him, a painter with a sense of imitation, in touch, line, color, texture. If he could get the confidence of such a one, why, then—who knows?—masterpieces might be discovered! Ancient, lost work, hidden by dirt and varnish, painted over, but now restored, might appear.”
“And did they?”
Marsh nodded.
“Within three years, two!” he said. “One of them is a Reubens that now hangs in the palace of a cattle king somewhere in the Argentine. The other is a Murillo, now in Chicago, and the gem of a private collection.”
“There were no more?”
“No.” Marsh shook his head. “I do not know why. Perhaps,” and the thin smile again lighted up his face, “Mr. Haviz’s falling out with Custis, going abroad, and setting himself up in Paris had something to do with it. He did not return for some years.”
There was a silence; then Duddington, who had been listening, spoke.
“I say, Marsh, don’t you think it a shabby kind of a thing to hint at Haviz being concerned in a matter like that when you have no proof?”
“I merely repeat, at the request of the inspector, what I heard at that time. I do not say the things are true. I have no idea of them, one way or the other.”
But there was a smirk on the man’s face as he spoke; and Duddington turned away, disgusted. But when Marsh had left the room, after more questioning by Lynch, the fat young man spoke again.
“Surely, Inspector, you can’t put any confidence in the sayings of a man like that. It’s plain enough he doesn’t like Haviz, and he’s taking this opportunity of showing it.”
“Well, it may be so. But we shall see,” said the inspector. “Of course the lead will need more work before we can do anything with it. But there is one thing I can call your attention to now, and that is the way what Marsh said fits in with what MacQuarrie said. Together they build up a situation. An ambitious young painter. A crooked art dealer. Temptation. The youth, dazzled, and having no experience to guide him, falls. At last realizes what he’s done and leaves the country. When he returns the crook holds the thing over him. Exasperated, the young artist, now a reputable trustee, kills him.”
“But Haviz had no opportunity to commit this crime, even if he desired to. He’d left the museum; he could not have got in again unless Slade admitted him.”
Lynch went out into the corridor, Duddington following him. Haviz stood with Moore, looking pale and nervous and quite disheveled. He shook hands with Duddington and spoke of the murder in a shaking voice.
“Call Edwards,” said Lynch to Moore.
The watchman was summoned and approached nervously.
“Edwards,” said the inspector, “do you know Mr. Haviz, here?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve k
nown him for a long time, sir.”
“Did you notice him going out today?”
“I did, sir. Just a little while before I turned things over to Slade. I remember very well saying good-afternoon to him as he left.”
“Thank you.” Lynch turned to Haviz. “Come in,” he said.
Haviz followed the inspector into the inner office.
“I was sitting in the Skillet Club when the detective told me of what’s happened,” Haviz said to Duddington. “Stabbed in the back! It gave me quite a turn.”
“The medical examiner will be here in a little while, I’m told, and then the body can be removed,” said Duddington. “In the meantime the police are trying to get at the bottom of the affair.”
“I spoke with Alma Rogers after I came in,” said Haviz, in a low tone. He bit at his thumb nail. “She tells me they suspect Billy Gregory. What damned nonsense is that?”
“This man Lynch, who is in charge, is quite keen,” whispered Duddington, nodding toward the inspector, who stood at the desk looking over his notes. “Nothing unusual in the way of method, but seems able to uncover things. I’ve been rather taken by him.”
Haviz put his hand on Duddington’s arm; and the young man felt it trembling.
“He can’t have any real thing against Billy!” said the man. “He’ll not arrest him?”
“From what he says, I’m afraid he will,” said Duddington gravely.
Haviz turned toward Lynch; he was pale and twitching and evidently highly excited.
“You’ve sent for me, Inspector,” he said, “and I’m here. I don’t know what you expect of me; but judging from all the trouble you took to locate me, it must be something important.”
“We always like to get people in for questioning at the earliest possible time,” said Lynch, looking up from his papers. “You were not at your apartment or your studio when we called: so we thought it best to hunt you up.”
“I haven’t been home since morning,” said Haviz. “And my studio has been closed since noon.” He rubbed at his jaws, and Duddington noted a marked slackening of his body; his hot eyes seemed to hold little meaning. “There was a great deal to do. There were people to see.” He paused and when he spoke again it was as though suddenly frightened. “Custis has been killed! It is a terrible thing to think of, and somewhere someone is going about with that man’s dirty blood upon him. On his clothes; on his hands.”
The Museum Murder Page 9