“Any time,” said the man. “I am always at my shop. I am ready when you send.”
Lynch sat for some time after Moore and Curley had led the Pole from the office; and Duddington quietly observed him. Finally Lynch selected the sheet of paper holding Marsh’s statement from among the others and read it. He put it down and looked at Duddington.
“This is a development that has me stopped,” he confessed. “I hadn’t thought of Marsh at all.”
Duddington shook his head.
“Nor I. That is, I hadn’t thought of him much.”
The eyes of the inspector fixed themselves attentively upon the fat young man.
“But you have thought of him?” he said.
“Yes,” said Duddington. “As a matter of fact, since this thing broke I’ve given some attention to everyone concerned. Marsh is a shabby, furtive sort of character, with a vast memory, and a widespread, superficial knowledge. He knows thousands of people interested in the selling and purchasing of art objects, and as he gets his living through them he watches their movements and their likes and prejudices with a good deal of care. The fact that he was here this afternoon, after hours, and that a valuable picture was later found to be missing, at once fell together in my mind. However, that was all; I did not see any way in which he could be concerned.”
“What’s his history?” asked the inspector.
“He must be well on toward sixty, now,” said Duddington, “and when he was a young man, so I’m told, he kept a picture-frame shop downtown. He made all his own frames at a bench, was a good workman, and after a bit got together quite a trade. Artists came to him for special work; and by and by picture dealers got to know of him. Then the collectors. He dealt in paintings after a time; he read all the literature that was to be had on the arts and higher handicrafts; he pretended a good deal, and finally was accepted as a practical authority. One of the things that made him come into my thoughts when the painting was seen to be missing tonight was that he was concerned in the purchasing of it in Paris some years ago when it was bought in for the John Gregory Museum.”
“Ah!” There was a new light in the inspector’s eye. “Just how did he figure in that?”
“Custis engaged him. Marsh is known, as I’ve said, as a clever operator, with a thorough knowledge of the inside working of these matters. Custis was afraid, perhaps, if he appeared in the thing himself, Sheerness’s agents would suspect something. At any rate, his confidence in Marsh was not misplaced, for in the first day of the sale The Syndic’s Daughter was so manipulated that it appeared unexpectedly, and the price ran into the hundreds of thousands with such astonishing suddenness that Sheerness’s people were dazed. They put a message on cable and fought for a delay; but the sale went through, and Marsh, in Paris, had secured the painting before Sheerness, in New York, knew it was in danger.”
“That is interesting,” said Lynch; he frowned and looked at his nails. “It could easily have some bearing on tonight’s happenings. However, at this moment, I confess I don’t see just what the connection might be. But, wait: maybe after I’ve had another little talk with Marsh the thing may be clearer.”
Moore had been instructed to bring the man in, and now did so. Marsh had his coat pulled tightly about his spare frame in his usual, nervous way, and his light-colored eyes were quick and apprehensive.
“The police seem tireless,” he said to Duddington, with a tight-lipped smile. “Always something new. But,” and he suddenly shifted the smile to Lynch, “whatever trifling information I possess, Inspector, is at your service, I’m sure.”
“The things I desire to know are not important,” said Lynch, “but it is necessary to keep the record straight.” He looked at Marsh valuingly. “You’ve known Custis a long time, I understand?”
“Yes, a number of years.”
“And you know Mr. Haviz, and young Gregory, and Mr. Sheerness, and this man Slade, the watchman?”
“All of them.”
“How well do you know Sheerness?”
The man smiled in the same tight-lipped, mirthless way.
“No one knows Mr. Sheerness very well. He does not permit it. I undertook a number of commissions for him—very profitable—some years ago; but of late I’ve been out of favor with him.”
“I see,” said Lynch. “And, once more, what has your acquaintance been with Haviz?”
“Very slight. Mr. Haviz has never welcomed the advances of people in my line. He’s always said we were frauds; he’s said it openly, not caring who heard it.”
“You’ve resented that, I suppose?”
“Naturally.”
“Being on no sort of terms with Haviz, of course you cannot tell me how he stood with Sheerness.”
Marsh smiled bleakly.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I can. For I make it a point, Inspector, to keep myself well posted on matters within the limits of my operations. Haviz has never liked Sheerness. And Sheerness has always looked down upon him.”
“It wouldn’t occur to you they had business transactions of any kind?”
Marsh hesitated, his pale eyes going from the inspector to Duddington.
“No,” he said at last. “No.”
“Do you know anything of Haviz’s habits?”
“He is a moody kind of a man, a good painter, but one who refuses to conform. He has a reputation for argument.”
“Do you know anything about where he spends his leisure hours—his evenings?”
“No,” said Marsh. “I’ve never heard anything about him of that kind. And I’ve never seen him in the evening except once or twice.”
“Where was that?”
“One night I went to Mr. Custis’s rooms; I had a report on some things I’d been sent to Boston to look at, and which he desired immediate information upon. While I was there, Haviz came in. And though my report was barely half gone through, Custis got rid of me at once.”
“What other times have you seen Haviz in the evening?”
“Only once more. He was with Custis that time, too. I happened to be coming down the street leading to the museum and saw them standing on the steps, outside. They entered; and afterward I saw lights go up in the office, and Custis pulled down the shades. They were quarreling,” said Marsh, with his tight-lipped smile. “I saw their silhouettes every now and then upon one or the other of the shades. Haviz seemed violent; he shook his fist and gestured.”
“Where were you when you saw that?”
Again there was a moment’s hesitation.
“In the side street; the windows of the office open upon it. I often go through that way, because it is my shortest way home.”
“You live somewhere hereabouts, then?”
“Within a half dozen blocks. In Henry Street.”
“You never saw Haviz here at night but the once?”
“No.”
“What about Custis?”
Marsh shook his head.
“I’ve seen lights in the office window now and then. And I’ve heard he worked at night, sometimes. But the night I’ve mentioned is the only time I’ve seen him.”
“You say you use this side street often on your way home?”
“Yes.”
“When did you use it last?”
“I don’t know,” said Marsh. “I’m not sure.”
“Could you say if it was last week? Or was it last night?”
“No,” said Marsh.
“Was it any time lately?”
“No, not lately.”
“Not within several weeks?”
“No; not within several weeks.”
“All right.” Lynch sat back in his chair. “That’ll be all for now.”
And Marsh went out of the office.
XXII
INSPECTOR LYNCH offered Duddington a cigarette; they smoked and talked.
“Marsh is cagey,” said Lynch. “Cagey and tight-mouthed. What he knows he’ll tell nobody; and he’ll do no more than indicate what he suspects.”
“He’s always reminded me of a weasel,” said Duddington.
“He means to keep his watch at the bakehouse window a secret and, I’m sure, has his own reasons for so doing. Each night he’s been there he’s been expecting something—perhaps something having to do with Haviz, or, maybe, Haviz in combination with someone else.”
“With Custis?”
“I’d say perhaps Slade or Gregory. But Custis seems incredible.”
“Why so? Marsh’s own talk was about Haviz and Custis. He saw them together twice. At night. And once with Haviz in his usual rage. I will say, though, if an association between these two could be shown, it would be quite an astonishing stroke. And fatal to your theory of a few minutes ago—the Haviz-Sheerness-Slade-Gregory affiliation.”
Lynch smiled good-humouredly.
“As I’ve said more than once tonight, there are a number of things I’m not sure of. At this stage of the game I’m glancing here and there, and I realize I’m trying to put matters together that don’t join and never could join. But hooking them roughly together is customary police. I must take cognizance of them as they come up. By midnight, if you are still here, you’ll find most of these things shifted into their proper places or discarded altogether as of no consequence.”
Moore came into the office just then. He leaned against the desk and wiped his face.
“The men have been all over the place,” he said; “upstairs and down. We saw lots of pictures, but no trace of the one we want. There’s nothing left now but the offices, Inspector, and the storeroom.”
“All right,” said Lynch. “Suppose you try them right away.” He arose and spoke to Duddington. “I think a word or two with Haviz wouldn’t be out of place at this time. What do you say?”
“Good work,” said Duddington willingly. “Somehow, I think the poor chap’s been neglected too long.”
They found Haviz seated at a window, smoking a pipe; he was tilted back in one chair and had his feet upon another. He seemed to Duddington to be in a vastly improved frame of mind and spoke to them quietly.
“I’ve been expecting you for the last little while,” he said to Lynch. “I’m afraid I gave you very indifferent help when you spoke to me some time ago. But I’m rather clearer now.” He nodded to Duddington. “I’ve had another shower and a policeman got me a fine dousing of cold water at a barber’s. The fumes of all that rotten drink I’d taken have gone; and I’ve been getting my wits together here with a little smoke.”
Lynch, much pleased, pulled up a chair, and Duddington did likewise. The inspector studied Haviz for a space, and then he said:
“I’ve asked some questions about you tonight, Mr. Haviz, all hinging upon matters I felt it was necessary for the police to know. But there was not a great deal to any of the replies I got; all I was told left something suspended; things had happened, so it seemed, but no one offered an explanation.”
“I am forty-five years old,” said Haviz, “and everything I’ve ever attempted is still suspended—still without result—still unexplained. That the police have found this out so readily is a proof of their discernment.”
There was a flippancy about this reply that Duddington did not like; and out of the tail of his eye he noted a look of resentment upon the face of the inspector.
“When you were in the museum this afternoon,” said Lynch, “you were alone for a space with Custis—in his private office. What happened during that time?”
“We talked. Custis and I always talked. And, as usual, we did not agree.”
“What did you talk about?”
“About pictures. About patrons of art. Also about the great sums of money sometimes spent by collectors. He went out of the office while I was still there, saying he would be back.”
“And you waited for him?”
“Yes, for quite some time. I heard him talking to someone in the outer office; the voices were high-pitched and excited. Since then I’ve heard it was Billy Gregory he was talking with, though at the time the voice was so choked with excitement and rage I did not recognize it. When this interview had ended I waited again; then I could remain no longer, and left.”
“It’s been said you looked disturbed as you went out.”
“I resented being treated as I had been,” said Haviz. “I know Custis and his impish tricks; he kept me waiting with the idea of irritating me.”
“When you left there, where did you go?”
“I walked the streets. I felt low and disheartened. I thought of the past, and of what the future might be. I was in quite a state of mind.”
“Why was that?”
Haviz shook his head.
“I don’t know. I get that way now and then. It’s a kind of sinking of the soul, maybe brought about by a glimpse of the futility of everything.”
“Did you go anywhere?”
“Yes, to the Skillet Club. I sat there for a while; and as I couldn’t get away from my thoughts any other way, I began to drink. Then I visited some other places; I drank in each of them. I visited several people.”
“Who were they?”
“The only important one was Sheerness.”
“Are you in the habit of visiting him?”
“No; it was the first time I’d ever been in his house, and I wouldn’t have gone then if it hadn’t been for the liquor I’d taken.”
“Do you mind telling me why you went there?”
“I was fuddled, I desired to protest, I think. And Sheerness must have seemed like the person who’d listen. What gave me that idea I can’t say. I’d never been in a condition of mind before where such a thought would have occurred to me.”
“You say you think you desired to protest. Had something happened something happened that made this seem necessary?”
“No. I was muddled, that’s all. I talked with Sheerness for a little while—I really don’t know what about—then I left.”
Duddington, as he watched, saw the inspector’s expression grow colder and colder, and after a few minutes more he got up, spoke a few words of apology to Haviz, and took Lynch into the corridor.
“I don’t want you to lose your patience,” said Duddington to the inspector. “And if you listened to a little bit more of that sort of thing, I’m afraid you’d do so. But, somehow, I’m confident Haviz wants to, and will, tell everything, though, I’m afraid, not to the police. He feels the authorities are unfriendly; he avoids any outspoken word because of that. Now, it may be asking a good deal, but let me take this part of the thing in hand. I’ll guarantee to have all he knows for you in half an hour. I’ll not trick him; I’ll not betray a confidence. He’ll understand from the first I mean to pass everything he tells on to you.”
Lynch hesitated a moment; then he said:
“Very well. See what you can do.”
And as the inspector walked away Duddington was about to return to Haviz when he saw Billy Gregory, white and drawn looking, coming down the corridor toward him.
XXIII
WHEN Billy Gregory reached Duddington he said: “Mona wants you. And she is in a pretty bad way. During the last half hour she’s been getting worse. She’ll lose control of herself altogether if something’s not done.”
“The drug she’s taken has died down,” said Duddington. “And the reaction has set in. She hasn’t asked for any more, has she?”
“No,” said Billy. “She’d not be likely to do that with Alma within hearing.”
But Duddington shook his head.
“Don’t be too sure,” he said. “When they reach the stage she’s probably in they are pretty desperate.”
“She began asking for you some time ago,” said Billy. “I thought you were closeted with Lynch and didn’t want to break in on you. Suppose you go in and see her. Alma can’t do anything with her.”
Duddington went into the alcove. He found Mona Rogers, white and hollow eyed, supported by some cushions; and Alma was seated beside her. The young man sat down and looked at the two girls with much concern.
“I say,” he said, “this won’t do. You’ll not be able to stand it, either of you. What say if I telephone for a doctor?”
“No!” Mona gestured, eager, frightened. “No, Mr. Chalmers. I am really all right. After I get a little rest I’ll be quite well. And Alma is worried about me, that’s all.”
“I’ve been wanting to have a doctor in for some time,” said Alma. “But she’ll not hear of it.”
“Some little kind of a nerve thing is what you need,” said Duddington to Mona. “You’re wrought up. A doctor would have you right in no time at all. You’d better have one.”
But Mona protested; she seemed almost frantic in her refusal. She’d be well enough in a very little while. Yes, she’d been frightened. She’d grown faint and weak; and the police had done her no good with their questioning; the whole air of the place was weighted with dread. She wanted to leave it; she wanted to get away; she wanted to forget it all!
“You will, Mona,” said her sister soothingly. “You will, dear. In a little while I’ll call a cab and we’ll go home. You’ll be quiet then. Nothing shall bother you.”
The girl looked at Duddington with great hollow eyes; dark, sick-looking eyes. She wanted to speak to him, she said. She had something to say to him of much importance. And she desired to speak to him alone. Alma must go out of the room.
“Please, Alma, forgive me!” Her pale hand held tightly to the younger girl’s. “I know this must seem odd to you; but, dear, it is necessary. Some time you will understand.”
Alma kissed her.
“Very well,” she said gently. “Whatever you wish, Mona.”
When Alma had gone out, Mona sat looking at Duddington; she seemed trying to find words to frame the thoughts that were in her mind.
“I tried to say to Alma what I must say. But I could not. I could not talk with Billy. And I am afraid of the police. I do not know you very well, Mr. Chalmers, but I do know you are good-natured and tolerant; and as I am in great trouble I feel sure you’ll tell me what you think is best for me to do.”
The Museum Murder Page 16