“Well?” said Sheerness.
“You told the girl the picture belonged to you.”
Sheerness stood with tight-shut lips for a moment; then he said:
“Has she said that?”
“She didn’t have to say it,” said Duddington. “I already knew it. Yes, you told her it belonged to you.” The eyes fixed upon Sheerness were narrowed and bitter. “Did you believe that?”
“I did. And I do.”
“Why didn’t you take it yourself?”
But the sneer left Sheerness unmoved.
“We’ll not go into that now,” he said.
“Very well,” said Duddington, “if you won’t tell, I will. You hadn’t the insides. You were yellow. And you wheedled and tempted and bullied a sick girl into doing it for you. Isn’t that so?” Sheerness remained motionless; but there was a glint of cold anger in his eyes. “And yet,” continued Duddington, “the public thinks of you as a person of solid nerve and consequence. But there must be some mistake; on form, you don’t belong in the big class at all.”
“The opinions of a man like you are always interesting,” said Sheerness. “And now you’ve expressed them, what do you think of doing?”
“I can’t say—not yet.” Duddington shook his head. “I haven’t reached the place where I can put down a plan. I don’t know enough. An attempt to steal a picture could be made out as being no great offence—especially with a person like you mixed up in it. But murder is another thing. The taking of a man’s life is something even you can’t push aside, Mr. Sheerness.”
“She had nothing to do with that,” said Sheerness. “That was another matter.”
“I’d like to believe that for her sake,” said Duddington. “But I’m not sure.”
“A girl like that couldn’t do such a thing.”
“I say again I’m not sure. Furthermore, she’s not sure. She was in a daze, caused by the drug she’d taken. She had the dagger in her hand when she met Custis in the corridor near the stairs. She admitted that to me. He seized her; she was afraid and desperate. She is not sure she killed him. And she is not sure she did not.” There was a long space of silence. Sheerness, cold, insolent, granite-jawed, remained unmoved. Duddington nodded to him. “She may have to stand trial for this,” he said. “And don’t forget, if she does, you’ll be tried with her.”
XXV
UNDER a light in the lower hall Duddington saw MacQuarrie; the man was seated on a bench reading a newspaper.
“I like a newspaper of an evening,” he said, wiping his fat white face and readjusting his collar. “There are things in it I’m interested in—business things. I like to read of sales, and of art movements of a general kind. One never can tell what an obscure thing will do; it may mark a revival; the sale of an example of a man’s art may call public attention so strongly to him that he may become a favorite. I take all such things into consideration.”
“Good business,” said Duddington approvingly. “I see you keep your eyes open, MacQuarrie.”
“At any rate, I try to. My overhead is heavy, and things must be kept moving. And so I must be vigilant. I see in the papers that a man of means has purchased a new house, or he is remodeling his old one. Immediately that suggests art. A handsome stair rail. Paneling. Rugs. Silver. Pictures. A marble for a recess. Brass. You’d be surprised the sales I make by following up just such possibilities.”
Just then Marsh came down the corridor with Sergeant Brace; he saluted them in his pallid way.
“The police are still operating, you see,” he said. “They miss nothing.”
Duddington and MacQuarrie followed the man with their eyes until he disappeared into the office; and then MacQuarrie said:
“There is a man with an excellent talent. I would say, Mr. Chalmers, there are not a half dozen in New York who have his adaptable knowledge. But,” gesturing with one big white hand, “he has not progressed.”
“Perhaps he’s thought too sycophantic,” said Duddington. “Too servile for some tastes.”
“That is perhaps it,” said MacQuarrie. “He is too anxious. He sells his services too readily, first to one, then to another. I have seen the time,” shaking his bald head, “when he stood well in high places. People of consequence trusted him with rich commissions. But, by and by, they began to feel insecure in his hands. I have no desire to speak against him, mind you; indeed, I’d do anything I could to re-establish him. But I’m afraid it is too late. He is a ruined man.”
“I remember he was once employed by Sheerness,” said Duddington. “Sheerness would send him here and there to bid things in; he got to be an infernal nuisance to smaller collectors, finally; a man with all that money backing springing up in unexpected places would, you know.”
“That,” said MacQuarrie, “should have been a permanent position for him. Mr. Sheerness was then fairly new in the field; he was prepared to release large sums, and with a little care Marsh could have given him splendid service—and also could have profited largely. He had friends,” said MacQuarrie reproachfully, “who stood ready to aid him. I’m sure I would have rendered any assistance possible. My stock, my connections, were at his service. But he made mistakes; and he has suffered for them.”
“I wouldn’t call Marsh an adventurous character,” said Duddington; “and yet, what other term are we to use in speaking of the Parisian episode, in which he bid in The Syndic’s Daughter?”
“Quite right,” said MacQuarrie. “For that was the affair that really spoiled his prospects. Why he did it, I have never understood. Of course,” and the picture dealer lifted his brows and gestured with both hands, “I took part in the thing, myself. But I ran no real risk of Sheerness’s displeasure; it was all in my line of business. I merely covered the matter here in New York, acting for a principal, and presumably knowing little of what was going on in Paris. But Marsh flew deliberately in the face of his patron. When all was done, he had no retreat.”
“Idiot!” said Duddington. “Nothing else.”
“It is possible,” said MacQuarrie, “that Custis made him certain promises having to do with the museum. That is the only explanation I’ve ever been able to see for it. Custis was shrewd! He was one of the cleverest men I’ve known. And exceedingly plausible when he wanted to be. Yes, it is possible he deceived Marsh. He may have promised him a great deal. And afterward, quite likely, he laughed. That was Custis’s usual way with people. It gave him pleasure to bewilder them; to make fools of them.”
“A vicious little ape,” said Duddington. “I’ve never seen a worse.”
MacQuarrie nodded in agreement with this; but, nevertheless, there was a smile about his mouth, a kindly look in his eye.
“He had a good deal of mischief in him, but at the same time, he did much for art. And he was not wanting in good will toward some who came to him.”
“Possibly in the manner of the Haviz episode of years ago,” said Duddington. “That’s not your notion of good will, I hope, MacQuarrie.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said the art dealer.
“But that was a rumor only. People talked about things then as they talk now. There may have been no truth in it at all. I repeat, Mr. Chalmers, Custis was not without his good points; though,” with another smile and a nodding of his head, “I must say he sometimes made them difficult to see.”
“I should think he did,” said Duddington. “And if he put Marsh in the way of losing patronage and ignored him afterward, Marsh is a pretty pale ghost of a man not to have resented it.”
“He did resent it,” said MacQuarrie. “Oh, yes.” The man stroked his chin and regarded Duddington reassuringly. “Yes, indeed. Marsh is poor; I believe he has a family; but he is not as lacking in spirit as he may seem. He did resent being used and cast aside. There have been times when he’s been very bitter about it. Once I heard him mention the matter to Mr. Haviz; it was in my galleries. Mr. Haviz spoke of Custis in an angry way which,” with a chuckle, “was no unusual thing with him
; and he and Marsh agreed that Mr. Custis was akin to the devil himself. Ha, ha! It was rather curious to see how eagerly they came together on that subject. I’ve never heard them agree before; and after that they’d speak often as they met. I’ve noticed them,” said MacQuarrie, “a number of times in conversation. A like taste or a like aversion does a great deal toward drawing people together.” He nodded shrewdly. “Nations, for years at feud, will sometimes combine against a common foe. Of course, any thought of a combination between Mr. Haviz and Marsh should be absurd; they merely shared a dislike, and, I suppose, drew a sort of consolation from it.”
Duddington wandered along the corridor, leaving MacQuarrie with his newspaper. Hunger gnawed persistently at him. “I’m almost famished,” he said as he paused at the top of the six steps going down to the level of the front door. “I wonder would it be advisable to send out for a bite. Or could I call an eating place on the telephone and have them send a waiter with something on a tray?”
The slices of beef he’d meant to have Turvy transform into a deviled grill were still in the ice box; the paste for them was still unmixed; the mushrooms were still untouched, the ale still stoppered; the little gas range in the kitchen was not lighted.
“I guess I’ll wait, though,” said Duddington. “I have waited so long, I can stand it a bit longer. As soon as I see any sign of this matter here coming to an end I’ll call Turvy.”
He’d turned back along the corridor; and he saw Marsh come out of the office. The man was wan and had a harrassed look; he fidgeted with his hands, and his eyes went here and there as though seeking a way of escape.
“Is that your third or fourth conference with Mr. Lynch?” said Duddington. “He seems to favor you somewhat.”
There was resentment in Marsh’s pale eyes.
“I wish they’d find someone else,” he said. “They are beginning to shed their veneer, Mr. Chalmers. They were reasonable enough at first, but I find them pretty rough, now.”
“I see,” said Duddington. “But of course that is to be expected; the police are not lily handed, Marsh, you know. Let the going be hard, or let them sight what they are after, and no person with information need expect mercy.”
Marsh smiled wanly; he stood with his coat pulled about his spare figure, and looked around.
“They are upon a new tack with me, sir,” he said. “And I can’t quite make it out. They speak of Mr. Haviz. As I understand it, they fancy I am quite friendly with him—that of late I’ve been extremely friendly. And Mr. Sheerness, too! What could have put it into their heads that I am upon terms with him, I don’t know. But that’s what they think. Haviz and Sheerness! It’s comic, that’s what it is, Mr. Chalmers. Why, Haviz hates me. And as for Sheerness, he wouldn’t spit on me.” The man laughed in a thin, forlorn sort of way. “But the inspector thinks I am quite in their confidence; that I’m operating with them in some way. And he fancies, Mr. Chalmers, that Mr. Haviz and Mr. Sheerness have had something to do with the disappearance of the Hals. And——” but here his voice suddenly broke and failed; his mouth formed words, but he made no sound. Then he caught his breath sharply: “And with the death of Mr. Custis!” he said.
“To be frank with you, I’m not surprised, where you are concerned,” said Duddington. “As I see it, the first thing a man should do when he’s called for questioning in a case like this is to tell everything he knows. He should not hold back a thing. You haven’t done that. It was plain that you were keeping something back. So can you wonder if the police are impatient with you?”
There was a pause. Marsh looked at the floor.
“I suppose, Mr. Chalmers, you mean the matter of the bakeshop,” he said. “The inspector brought that up just now.”
“Did you tell him what you were doing there?”
But Marsh smiled his tight-lipped smile and shook his head.
“Well,” he said, “I gave him an answer. But, I’m afraid, not the kind that satisfied him. For the police, you see, require a person to have a good deal of knowledge. They demand specific information, and I hadn’t any such to give them. I admitted I stood in the bake-shop often of an evening and watched the back door of the museum. Mr. Lynch asked me why I did so. I said I had no real idea; and then Mr. Moore called me a liar.”
Duddington nodded:
“Yes, I suppose he would.”
“It is a fact, Mr. Chalmers, that I had no concrete reason for keeping this vigil. I was what might be called suspicious of certain persons, I’ll admit that; but I knew nothing that would warrant my mentioning anyone’s name to the police.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Duddington.
“I can speak in confidence to you, Mr. Chalmers, for you’ve always treated me with consideration. But I can’t with the police. I’m told they are on the point of arresting young Mr. Gregory, so you can see why it is I hesitate to speak out and possibly involve others who also may be innocent. That would be too bad.”
“You are quite right,” said Duddington. “I approve of that. Of course, if you were speaking to the man Lynch, alone, I think you could be candid. But, as it is, it’s not Lynch—it’s a system; it’s a thing which reduces everybody to a common quality; no one ever comes out of the police machine as clean as he, or she, went into it. It does some elemental thing to one; it rubs a sordid grime into the soul.”
Marsh locked his hands together and unlocked them; he seemed weighted with care.
“Suppose,” he said, “I’d mentioned Mr. Custis to them. Mr. Custis is dead. Suppose I’d said Mr. Custis had at one time spoken to me very guardedly—so guardedly that I’d had but the barest idea of what he meant. And suppose I’d said to them that though I’d expected him to take the matter up at a later time, he never did.”
“And did this,” Duddington searched the man with his look, “result in your keeping a watch upon the back door of the museum?”
Marsh nodded.
“Yes, but not that alone. There was something more—there were a number of things. You see, Mr. Chalmers, I was in a rather bad way for money, and what Mr. Custis said made me think there would shortly be an opportunity for something profitable. But, as he did not mention it again, and put me off quite brusquely one day when I brought it up, I wondered what had happened. Then little by little I began to fancy someone had superseded me; the opportunity, whatever it was, had fallen to someone else. It may be I became jealous; at any rate, I visited the museum oftener than before; I made it a point to pass it sometimes at night. It was at one of these times that I saw Haviz and Custis through the window from the side street, as I told Mr. Lynch.”
“Ah, I see. You had Haviz in your mind. You’d associated him in some way with this thing.”
“Not especially. No, sir. But I saw him, as I’ve said; and while I had no desire to implicate him, even though no one knew it but myself, he seemed to fit into the matter, and I couldn’t help considering him.”
“Well, now, look at it this way,” said Duddington. “If Custis had a furtive thing to do—a dishonest thing—would he have called on Haviz?”
“If it was a dishonest thing, Mr. Chalmers, he might have—if he’d finally made up his mind he couldn’t trust anyone else.”
“But why should he select Haviz?” Duddington’s eyes were intently on the man.
For an instant the light-colored eyes of Marsh met the look; then they began searching the floor once more.
“As I’ve said, I have no desire to mention anyone in connection with this crime. It is a dangerous thing to do, and I shrink from it. But I’m in a position, now, Mr. Chalmers, where I’m forced to explain my thoughts, my meanings, and my actions; I must, to prevent being dragged into the thing myself.” He was silent for a little, then resumed in a lowered voice: “Suppose Mr. Custis knew something about Mr. Haviz? What if there was some sort of thing Haviz desired kept quiet, and——”
“Just a moment,” said Duddington. “Are you referring now to the thing you mentioned awhile ago—of so
me paintings supposed to have been done by Haviz at Custis’s request?”
“I am. I don’t know if the rumor has any foundation, Mr. Chalmers, but if it has, wouldn’t that give Custis a grip upon Haviz? I hope you see what I mean. We will suppose Custis has a piece of low-pressure work to do; at first,” with a tight-lipped smile, “he had me in mind as a helper, but being afraid he could not trust me, he turned to Haviz. Having authority over him, he’d feel sure of him. Do you keep with me, sir? And, also,” said Marsh, gesturing, “there might have been another reason. Haviz is a trustee of the museum.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Duddington, sharply.
“I repeat,” said Marsh, “I had no idea what Custis had in mind. But, now, we know The Syndic’s Daughter is missing, so would it be going too far to suppose it might have been that? I know, sir, what I’m saying is an astonishing thing, but it really isn’t so much so as some other things which have happened here tonight.”
“No,” said Duddington. “That’s true.”
“Here is what is in my mind, Mr. Chalmers. Suppose Custis was in need of money. Suppose he planned, with the aid of a second person, to steal the Hals. A reward would be offered for its return. He would propose that at a trustees’ meeting. If Haviz was his confederate, he would support him. Then, no matter what your thought was, as a trustee, they’d carry it out. The picture would be returned by a third person, and they’d pocket the proceeds.”
“Marsh,” said Duddington firmly, “this whole thing is dashed nonsense!”
Marsh gestured.
“It may be you are right,” he said. “Remember, I am telling it to you in confidence; I’m not sure of it, therefore I’ve kept it from the police. The only thing I’ve been sure of, Mr. Chalmers, was that something was going to happen; and it was in my mind it would be a thing having to do with the museum. There would be goings and comings; and at the back door, because of the watchman at the front—possibly Slade—whom Custis always distrusted.”
The Museum Murder Page 18