“Don’t think so. I didn’t see him much in the fog. Only when he pushed open the door and the light fell on his face. But I don’t recollect ever seeing him before.”
There was a pause while Hembrow looked through his notes, and Greenaway watched him with a furtive, sullen look on his worn young face.
“Will you answer me a question?” asked John Christmas, leaning forward. “Did you ask your employer for permission to go out this evening?”
The young man flushed unaccountably and looked at John with suspicious, narrow eyes.
“No, sir, I didn’t,” he replied surlily. “I didn’t know I was to have the evening off till about a quarter to seven, when the master called me in and said he wouldn’t be wanting me this evening, and I could go and see how my ma was.”
“Do you know whether your master was expecting any visitors this evening?”
Greenaway answered with a sort of savage brusqueness:
“No, I don’t.”
“Had he a telephone call or a telegram before he gave you permission to go out?”
“Not that I know of,” answered the valet a little less inimically. He added: “The evening post came in about a quarter to seven. I’d just taken him his letters when he called me back and told me I could go out.”
“Do you remember,” asked John, “how many letters there were?”
“Yes,” said the young man sulkily, “there were three. One of them was a bill or something in a halfpenny envelope, and then there was a type-written envelope with a crest on the back and the College of Arms, or something, written on it. And there was a letter in a little grey envelope. But you won’t find that, because Mr. Frew was just tearing it in bits and throwing it in the fire when he called me in.”
“Thank you,” said Christmas, looking interrogatively at the Inspector, who nodded to Greenaway to go.
“That was a good point, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow approvingly, shutting his note-book. “Looks as if the deceased was expecting one of his visitors, anyhow —probably the girl. Though it seems queer, if he was expecting her, that she should only stay a few minutes, as according to old Greenaway’s evidence she did. That young man seems to have kept an observant eye on his master’s correspondence, by the way, which may be useful to us, but isn’t altogether to his own credit.”
“Natural, though, in the circumstances.”
“You mean—”
“That Miss Pandora Shirley probably corresponded with Frew occasionally, although, as Newtree tells me, she lives quite close by in Greentree Road. The vagaries of Miss Shirley, in fact, may account quite satisfactorily for young Greenaway’s nocturnal wanderings and all the rest of his rather fishy story. I wonder, by the way, on which side of the road she lives?”
“Her address,” said Hembrow, turning over the leaves of his note-book, “is No. 14 Greentree Road.”
“No. 14,” repeated Christmas thoughtfully. “Yes, the even numbers are on the north side of the road, and it was on the north side that young Greenaway walked up and down for a period of time he didn’t seem able to specify.”
“Come, Mr. Christmas,” protested Hembrow good-humouredly, slipping his note-book into his pocket and rising to his feet. “We have only young Greenaway’s own word for it that he did anything of the kind. In my opinion—however, it’s too early yet to have an opinion, and far too early to state one, even to an old friend like yourself, Mr. Christmas!”
Chapter V
When Doctors Disagree
“The other gentlemen and the ladies have gone home, I see,” observed Hembrow approvingly, as he and Christmas re-entered the studio. “Glad they had so much sense. Generally at times like these everybody in the place wants to hang around and behave like Sherlock Holmes.”
Laurence, who was bending over the writing-table looking through a pocket magnifying-glass at some sheets of paper lying there, looked up at this remark with a rather abashed smile. He murmured:
“Yes, it’s queer the fascination these things have for ordinary peaceable folk like me. I suppose Mordby would say it was the primitive blood-lust finding an outlet.”
He had had, in fact, great difficulty in persuading Serafine to go home, and only the piteous protests of Imogen Wimpole, who was beginning to fear the effect on her health and beauty of all this excitement, had at last driven the younger lady forth in search of a taxi. Mordby had offered to escort them with alacrity. He preferred, apparently, to study the psychology of murder from text-books rather than at first hand, and seemed possessed with the plain, respectable man’s earnest determination not to get mixed up in anything unpleasant. He had taken it for granted that Sir Marion Steen would accompany them, and Sir Marion, although it seemed to Laurence that he would have preferred to stay and watch the police investigations, had offered no objection. Mordby had shepherded him out with the air of a champion bearing off a trophy.
“Taken those photographs?” asked Hembrow of his assistant, who was packing away a large camera. “Good. You might photograph the room as well from every possible angle. I have an idea, Mr. Christmas, we shall find robbery mixed up in this.”
Laurence Newtree looked thoughtfully around the walls which had almost the appearance of a museum, so draped they were with embroidered hangings and rugs, so hung with queer weapons, masks and mirrors.
“It all looks much as usual,” he murmured. “If it was a burglary, the thief has left a great deal of valuable stuff behind him. That missal, for instance, must be worth several hundred pounds...”
“That could easily be explained,” said Hembrow. “Either the thief was after one particular object of great value and preferred to lessen the risk by leaving all the lesser treasures behind, or he was after money and did not know the value of all this stuff.”
“If we can find out what has been stolen, then,” said Laurence, “we shall have some idea of the kind of man the murderer was.”
Inspector Hembrow, who was engaged in dusting a fine yellow powder over the handle of the dagger that had killed Gordon Frew, smiled a little at Newtree’s eager tone. He blew the surplus powder gently away and examined the weapon intently through a magnifying-glass. After a moment he gave an exclamation of disgust.
“Gloves,” he uttered shortly. “The murderer knew his business. Wait a bit! That’s queer! There are no marks on the handle, but a very distinct thumb-mark on the blade, about two inches down—and a finger-print to correspond on the other side.”
Holding the weapon carefully by the ornate inlaid handle, he showed his discovery to John, who had been watching him with much attention. Plainly printed in the fine powder were the intricate-loops and spirals that show on the skin of a thumb or finger.
“I’m afraid these won’t help us to the murderer, Mr. Christmas. There are only the two—thumb and the side of a forefinger, and they’re placed in such a way as to suggest that the person they belong to was holding the dagger-point towards himself.”
“It would certainly be quite impossible to stab a man with a knife held in such a way,” agreed John. “The thumb-print runs at a slight slant towards the handle.”
“Probably they were made at some time when the weapon was taken down and dusted,” commented the detective. He compared them rapidly with a set of the dead man’s finger-prints which had been taken by his assistant soon after their arrival.
“Thought so,” he commented, laying the knife down. “They’re the deceased’s own thumb-prints. Well, that doesn’t get us much farther. Except that as the murderer evidently took the precaution of wearing gloves, it’s fairly safe to assume that this was a premeditated crime... There’s no need for you to wait any longer, Sergeant,” added Hembrow to the local man who had been first on the spot. “Get your men to remove the body to the mortuary. You can go, too, Codings, if you’ve got those photographs.”
Laurence gave a sigh of relief when the door had finally closed behind the three officers and the arm-chair by the desk stood empty. The dark, oppressive atmosphere se
emed to lift a little now that the blank white face of the murdered man no longer dumbly accused the unknown. He watched with interest Hembrow’s methodical examination of the papers on the desk, and was surprised on glancing at Christmas to see that he did not appear equally interested. The eccentric young man had taken a silver pencil-case from his pocket and was holding it out gravely between his finger and thumb.
“What on earth are you doing, John?” asked Laurence, absentmindedly taking the pencil thus held out towards him, divided between his interest in the detective’s quick, methodical procedure with the papers and his surprise at his friend’s peculiar behaviour.
John’s grave face relaxed. He smiled.
“Just thinking,” he replied. “Thinking that if one were dusting an edged weapon or otherwise fingering it one would naturally take it by the handle, not by the blade, which is extremely sharp.”
“I suppose one would,” assented Newtree, “unless, of course, one wanted to examine the handle... What am I to do with this pencil you’ve given me, I’d like to know?”
“Give it back again,” said John with a smile, holding out his hand. “Thank you for taking it from me so meekly.”
He put it back in his pocket and seemed to forget about it, strolling over to where the Divisional-Surgeon, a small Scotsman of brisk and cheerful aspect, was packing his bag preparatory to departure.
“Plain case, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“Of murder ? Oh, yes! But—” He hesitated and looked apologetically through his glasses at Merewether, who was sitting near the writing-table and watching Hembrow with a stoical and indifferent air. Then, addressing the Inspector in a brisk, official tone he went on: “It is my duty to state that had it not been for the fact that Dr. Merewether saw the deceased alive soon after nine o’clock, I should have put his death at least an hour earlier than that.”
All eyes turned instinctively to Merewether, the Inspector’s in a brief, keen glance.
“Putting aside for the moment Dr. Merewether’s evidence on that point. Would it occur to you on examining the body that there was a possibility of death having taken place between nine and half-past?”
“N-no. Frankly, it would not,” replied the police-surgeon uncomfortably, with another rather deprecating glance at his silent colleague.
“Do you find anything positively incompatible with death having taken place after nine?”
“Well... yes. Yes,” said the little doctor, gathering courage, “I do. When I first examined the body at a quarter-past ten the blood had already clotted considerably in the neighbourhood of the wound—very much more so than I should have expected to find it had the death taken place only an hour before. The small drops of blood which had fallen upon the parquet floor were completely dried. I should have thought it impossible that they should have dried within an hour. However—”
“Now, Dr. Merewether,” said Hembrow in a kind but business-like tone. “A good deal hangs on this. Can you swear that the man who opened the door to you at nine o’clock was the deceased himself? You thought it was at the time. But think. Don’t answer in a hurry. Try to revisualize the man as he opened the door. Are you positive of his identity?”
“Absolutely.”
“Could it not have been a brother or somebody bearing a strong resemblance to the deceased? Or somebody impersonating him?”
“The man who opened the door to me at nine o’clock,” said Merewether with a sort of weary firmness, “was Gordon Frew, and no one else.”
“You were well acquainted with his appearance?” persisted Hembrow.
“Yes. As I have told you already, Inspector, I attended him last April during a prolonged attack of influenza. I assure you I am not mistaken. The man I saw was Gordon Frew. I would swear to it anywhere, at any time, in any court—”
His voice rose queerly, and he broke off abruptly, as if he were afraid he was about to lose control of himself. This sudden ascent into rhetoric was so unlike the Merewether he knew that Laurence looked at him in amazement. Merewether looked back at him and round at the other faces with a queer, defiant smile. There was a pause.
“Well,” said the police-surgeon amiably at last, “I’ll be getting back, Hembrow. Can I give anybody a lift?”
“If I may,” said Merewether, regaining his urbanity with a visible effort and looking questioningly at Hembrow, “I will accompany you. If there is nothing more I can do, Inspector?”
“That’s all right, Doctor,” replied Hembrow, looking stolidly, but, as Christmas knew, very observantly, at the pale, set face. “There’s nothing more.”
He glanced at John with a slight lift of his eyebrows as the two medicoes left the room.
“Seems a bit rattled, for a medical man,” he observed, resuming his examination of the papers on the desk. “They’re not usually so put out by a little matter of a murder or so. Friend of the deceased?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replied Laurence, looking as puzzled as he felt. “Apart from having attended him professionally and meeting him once or twice at my place, I don’t think he knew him at all.”
“Oh, well!” said the Inspector in a casual tone. “Perhaps he was annoyed at our man seeming to question his evidence.... Hullo! Mr. Frew seems to have been writing a book.” He lifted the top page of a pile of manuscript lying face downwards in a shallow basket. “This sheet, which seems to be the last, is numbered eighty-seven, and the one underneath it is number eighty-six.”
He took up the pile of manuscript and flicked it through. “‘ People and Places,’” he read from the neatly-written title-page. “‘ A Record of an Adventurous Career.’ Seems to be a sort of book of reminiscences. Everybody writes them nowadays.”
“If they’re true reminiscences, they ought to be very interesting,” observed Laurence. “Gordon Frew had an eventful life, according to his own account.”
“Unfortunately,” said Christmas, who had been raking carefully among the ashes and cooling cinders in the fireplace, “the capacity to live an eventful life and the ability to write about it don’t often go together. Gordon Frew’s book on Persia was really one of the dullest works I have ever run across. And I see,” added Christmas, glancing at a letter which lay in the basket from which Hembrow had removed the manuscript, “that even to produce that masterpiece he had to have a good deal of assistance.”
Hembrow picked up the letter and read it through, then handed it to Laurence. It was a note written on the cheapest block paper but in a good clear hand to remind Mr. Frew, after many compliments and apologies, that he owed the writer the sum of twenty pounds in consideration of the manuscript “The Soul of Persia” re-cast, re-written, and duly delivered to Mr. Frew.
“I am sorry to trouble you with this small matter so soon after the delivery of the manuscript,” the letter ended, “but the fact is that I am rather pressed at the moment, and the money would be most acceptable to pay one or two creditors who are becoming rather troublesome. With all best wishes for the success of the book, believe me,
Yours very truly,
“Gilbert Cold.”
“Poor devil!” said Christmas, making a note of the address. “Some mute, inglorious Milton making a poor living by licking into shape the effusions of the illiterate rich!”
“Hardly likely to know anything about the murderer, is he?” remarked Newtree.
“No. But having for his sins read through one of Frew’s own original untouched compositions, he may know something quite interesting about the murdered. And the more one knows of a man, the more one knows of his murderer.”
Hembrow laughed.
“At your old theories, Mr. Christmas!” he observed good-humouredly. “I believe you’d hang a man because you thought he was the sort of man who’d be likely to murder the sort of man you took the victim to be!”
“I shouldn’t be quite so arbitrary as to hang him,” said John gravely. “But I should inquire very closely into his history.”
“Well, it’s early to say,�
�� remarked Hembrow cheerfully. “But my feeling at present is that we shan’t have far to look for the murderer.”
“And mine,” said Christmas, looking thoughtfully at a scrap of charred paper he held in his hand, “is that we shan’t have to look too near.”
Hembrow smiled indulgently.
“Ah, you don’t like the obvious thing, do you, Mr. Christmas! When you’ve had as much experience of this game as I have, you’ll know that when the obvious means and the obvious motive stare one in the face, the obvious man’s probably the murderer. Life isn’t so much like plays and novels as you clever gentlemen think.”
“Is the motive so obvious?” asked Christmas dreamily.
“Robbery and a woman,” replied Hembrow succinctly. “Motive of ninety-five per cent, of the murders that get themselves committed, one or other of them. Here we have certainly one, and possibly the other as well.”
“And yet, you know, young Greenaway’s story rings so true. His behaviour, as recorded by himself, seems so natural.”
The Inspector stared at his friend, then laughed.
“You’re joking, aren’t you, Mr. Christmas? If you think it natural for a servant who’s been given an unexpected evening off to spend half of it hanging around his master’s front door and the other half of it walking up and down in a thick fog—well, I don’t, Mr. Christmas!”
“But consider the circumstances, Hembrow, and the state of mind of the man we have to deal with. Young Greenaway is obviously a weak emotional character of the type easily thrown off its balance by an unhappy love affair.”
“Exactly,” interpolated the Inspector grimly.
“But one moment, Hembrow. Now consider his evidence. He is given an unexpected evening off. What are his natural suspicions in the circumstances? That Frew expects a visit from Pandora Shirley. Instead of going home or otherwise amusing himself, he, in his own words, hung about the house for three-quarters of an hour. Why? To watch for the arrival of Pandora Shirley. After three-quarters of an hour, in other words at about a quarter to eight, he left Madox Court and walked up and down Greentree Road. According to old Greenaway’s evidence, Miss Shirley left the building at about a quarter to eight. Isn’t it fairly obvious that the young man watched her in, watched her out, followed her home and walked up and down the road she lived in to make sure she did not go out again?”
The Studio Crime Page 5