“You’re forgetting, Mr. Christmas, that by his own account Ernest Greenaway did not wait to see Shirley enter the building. The last person he saw enter the court was the man in the fez.”
“But my dear Hembrow,” protested John gently, “do remember that a murder has been committed, and that I am presuming young Greenaway knows nothing about it. For all he knew, Pandora Shirley might herself have been the murderess. His suppression of the fact that he had seen her enter Madox Court was a laudable, if not very well-considered, attempt to shield her.”
Hembrow looked thoughtfully at his friend for a moment.
“Well,” he said at length non-committally, “if Greenaway’s story is true, it oughtn’t to be difficult to get corroboration of it. There’s a taxi-rank in Greentree Road, and one or two of the drivers will probably be able to tell us whether they saw a man walking up and down between eight and nine o’clock... Is that a piece of the letter that was burnt you’ve got there, Mr. Christmas?”
“The only piece, unfortunately, that remains,” said Christmas, handing the Inspector a small torn fragment of greyish paper, slightly charred at one edge. “But it’s not uninteresting. The complete letter would have told us quite a lot, I fancy, if Frew hadn’t so inconsiderately burnt it.”
“Queer writing,” commented Hembrow, and indeed the hand, though small and fairly legible, was peculiarly loose, straggly and ill-formed. “Looks as if it had been written in a hurry. Let’s see what we can make of it.”
The fragment measured about a square inch and a half, and appeared to have been torn from the middle of the page, showing torn edges all round. On one side were the words, or parts of words: “or God’s sa,” and underneath “tolerable posi.” On the other side, more informatively, the words “bout eight o’cl,” and, on the second line, clear and distinct, three complete words: “risk. The fog.”
“This is certainly tantalizing,” commented Hembrow, studying the broken words with knitted brows. “It’s fairly obvious, of course, that the first line represents ‘For God’s sake,’ but the ‘tolerable’ something doesn’t convey much.”
“You notice, though,” said John, “that the ‘t’ of ‘tolerable’ starts with a long up-stroke. Very few English people decorate their ‘t’s’ like that. It looks to me as if the ‘t’ were not at the beginning of the word, but somewhere in the middle. As if the whole word, in fact, were not ‘tolerable,’ but ‘intolerable.’ And the next word, I take it, will be ‘position.’ ‘For God’s sake let us end this intolerable position,’ is the sentence that comes naturally into one’s mind.”
“Yes,” assented the Inspector. “You’re probably right there, Mr. Christmas. And the back of the paper would give one the impression that something was going to happen at eight o’clock that would involve risk, and that the fog—by the way, at what time did this fog come on?”
“Soon after three,” replied Laurence promptly. “At ten past three I had to turn on the light. I looked at my watch because I was surprised it was getting dark so early. And then I saw it was a fog coming up.”
“H’m,” said Hembrow. “In that case the letter must have been posted fairly near at hand—or else the writer had the gift of prophecy, and I don’t think we need trouble ourselves with that supposition!”
He laid the scrap of paper carefully in his pocket-book and put it away for later reference, and returned to his methodical search through the papers in the drawers of the dead man’s desk.
“Deceased,” he observed conversationally, “seems to have made a habit of burning his letters. It’s a funny thing, but I haven’t found a single personal letter of any kind among all this stuff. Files and files of receipts and bills and press-cuttings, all very orderly. But not a line in the way of a private letter. Plenty of cards for picture-shows and catalogues of exhibitions, but nothing that really throws much light on the dead man’s affairs.”
“There’s a good deal to throw light on the dead man’s character,” observed John, “which is the next best thing. This book of press-cuttings, for instance, so beautifully bound in morocco. He was a vain man.”
“Dash it, John,” said Newtree, looking a little pained. “You can’t call a man vain just because he keeps press-cuttings about himself. Lots of people do. I do it myself, in fact.”
John smiled.
“But just have a look through these press-cuttings, Laurence, and you’ll see what I mean. What’s the first thing that strikes you about them?”
“That there aren’t very many,” said Laurence promptly.
“And the second?”
“That they’re mostly from provincial papers, and all appreciative—gushing would be a better word.”
“Yet Frew’s book on Persia had a good many reviews from London papers, and was not at all well received on the whole. It’s obvious that he discarded all the more unsympathetic criticisms and kept only those which pleased his vanity. In other words, that he was a vain man.”
“And much good may that conclusion do you, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow with a smile, as he whipped open a secret drawer and took from it a cheque-book and several small piles of used cheques neatly banded with india-rubber.
John returned his friend’s smile and went on blandly to Newtree:
“In fact, I should say that our late friend was a pretty considerable poseur. He posed as a writer, but he did not write his own books. He posed as a painter, but whether he could paint or not you know better than I.”
“Well,” said Laurence slowly, “he had a good feeling for colour, of course—but—”
“Exactly. He posed as a connoisseur, but—” John looked slowly around the richly-hung and decorated room. “Doesn’t it strike you that there’s something rather curious about this collection?”
“Well,” said Laurence again, “some of the things are very beautiful, and some are obviously valuable, but of course one can see that they’re not very well arranged. In fact, they’re in an awful muddle.”
“Just so. They suggest an ignorant indiscriminate collector rather than a connoisseur. They’re not only badly arranged, but some of them are trash. Those cast, and badly-cast, bronze altar candlesticks, for instance, which have certainly never been near an altar. There’s a whole library of books on art in this bookcase, but” and John rapidly took out three or four volumes and glanced through them, “most of the books are uncut. What do you make of that, Laurence?”
“I suppose, that he hadn’t had time to read them.”
“A man may buy a few books that he hasn’t time to read,” said John, continuing to take volumes from the shelves, open them, run through the pages with his thumb and put them back, “but he doesn’t buy hundreds and not have time to read one. Inclination was lacking, I think, rather than time.”
“I don’t see why anybody should buy all these book—jolly expensive, some of them—if he didn’t intend to read them,” said Laurence, looking with rather an envious eye at the well-stocked shelves.
“Oh, well!” said John lightly, closing the glass doors and brushing the dust from his fingers. “They look nice in the shelves, don’t they?” He stood back with his head on one side and contemplated the rich and attractive array. “And remember, Laurence, that Frew was a vain man.”
So saying, he left Laurence looking covetously at vellum and gilding, and went over to the writing-table, where Hembrow was looking through the counter-foils of the dead man’s cheque-book. He had begun to examine with great care a large piece of white blotting-paper which had lain under the dead man’s body, when Hembrow exclaimed in a puzzled tone:
“This is queer! May 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; June 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; July 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds. And so on up to November 1. A monthly allowance, apparently. Starting on May 1 this year.”
“Some poor relation or other dependent, perhaps. Why is it queer, Hembrow?”
“The queer thing,” answered Hembrow slowly, “is the name. Emily Rudgwick. I came across an Emily
Rudgwick about ten years ago, when I was first promoted. I’ve good cause to remember her, too, for when I arrested her she gave me a black eye, which did her more harm in the end than it did me. Blackmail’s quite serious enough in itself without having a charge of assaulting the police added on to it.” Hembrow smiled, and then looked grave as he resumed: “I wonder if it is the same woman. She’s a notorious fence, and as clever as they make them. This little allowance of ten pounds a month certainly needs looking into.”
Christmas, who had been listening attentively, asked:
“Did you find the other letters that were delivered here this evening, Inspector? There was a receipt, according to young Greenaway, and an official letter from the College of Arms.”
Hembrow shook his head.
“I’m afraid the letter went into the fire with the other one, Mr. Christmas. There’s not a sign of it. The halfpenny envelope is here, with its contents, but it’s only a bookseller’s receipt, and of no interest to us.”
Christmas took the thin envelope the Inspector handed him and drew out a slip of paper headed with the name and address of a bookseller in Charing Cross Road.
“Now what in the world,” he asked, “did the late Mr. Frew want Fraser’s ‘Law of Libel and Slander’ for? Was he going to pose as a lawyer, as well as a connoisseur of the arts? A queer addition to that library of illustrated books! Just have a look in the shelves, Laurence, and see if it’s actually there.”
“Yes,” said Laurence after a moment, pulling a discreet and sober volume out from among its magnificent neighbours. “Here it is. And, I say, John, every page is cut, so you can’t say old Frew didn’t read any of his books.”
“So here,” commented John slowly, “we have a connoisseur who left the Life of Benvenuto Cellini uncut on his shelves while he devoured in a few days the whole of a volume on the laws of libel. This is a queer case, Laurence. And the queerest thing in it is the character of the dead man.”
He returned to the contemplation of the piece of blotting-paper, raising his head after a moment to remark:
“I wish very much that we knew what had happened to that communication from the College of Arms.”
“I’m afraid there’s not very much doubt what has happened to it, Mr. Christmas. It was obviously a habit of the deceased to burn his correspondence.”
“And yet,” said John, “even a man who habitually burns his letters does not as a rule burn them until he has answered them.”
“This particular letter may not have required an answer,” Hembrow pointed out.
“And yet it has been answered,” said Christmas gently. “And I should also like very much to know what has happened to the answer. For although the late Mr. Frew may have burnt the letters he received, he certainly did not make a habit of burning the letters he wrote... See, Inspector. The ink on this blotting-paper is quite fresh. I have not yet made the test myself, but I think if you use a mirror you will find that this patch of writing in the corner represents an envelope addressed to the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. And I read these rather more blurred lines lower down as ‘Dear Sir, in answer to your communication I have to say that my desire is—’
There the letter breaks off. The rest was either not blotted, or not written at all. The latter, probably. Frew had a pen in his hand when we found him dead.”
“There is nothing to show that these lines were written to-night,” objected Hembrow. “There is no date that I can see, and ink will retain this fresh look for several days. It is more probable, I think, that this letter was written a day or two ago, and that the communication Mr. Frew received from the Herald’s Office to-night was in answer to it.”
“They must have been carrying on quite a correspondence, in that case,” said John lightly. “However, a few inquiries will soon settle the point, and we need not trouble our heads about it at the moment.”
Newtree, however, who had been listening attentively to this conversation, said musingly:
“I wonder what he wanted with the Herald’s Office, anyhow.”
Hembrow laughed.
“A pedigree, I expect, Mr. Newtree, or a coat-of-arms, or something of that kind. Well, he’ll get on quite well without them now, poor chap.”
Chapter VI
Confabulation
The next morning John Christmas was sitting alone in the small library-sitting-room of his flat in Great Russell Street when Inspector Hembrow was announced. He had not slept, but had sat up the rest of the night thinking over the strange pattern of events and persons which lay like a spider’s web around the bulky, gorgeously clad body of Gordon Frew sitting dead in his Aladdin’s cave of treasures. Above all, the queer personality of the dead man, as revealed in his belongings, intrigued and fascinated John. He had a strong persuasion, as yet without foundation in reason, that it was in this personality that the key to the riddle would be found.
Hembrow looked heavy-eyed and sallow, as though he had slept but little, but his smile and tone were as brisk and cheerful as always.
“You’ve not been to bed, Mr. Christmas.”
“Wonderful!” murmured John with mock solemnity. “How do you do it, Sherlock?”
The Inspector smiled.
“I notice that although you have changed your coat, sir, you are still wearing an evening shirt and waistcoat.” “Marvellous how the trained eye observes these tiny details,” sighed John. “Have a drink, Inspector. What are you doing in this part of the world?
“Following up a clue to last night’s business, but it came to nothing. So as I was passing your door I thought I’d drop in and tell you of one or two new facts that have come to light.”
John’s tired face lit up.
“Oh? That’s interesting, Inspector. What’s the news?”
Hembrow lit a cigarette and blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke.
“Well, in the first place I have gone systematically through Mr. Frew’s collection, comparing it with the catalogue, and I find—”
The Inspector paused dramatically.
“Well?” asked Christmas. “What? Don’t keep me in suspense, Hembrow. And don’t tell me that it is robbery, after all! I felt strongly last night that this was one of those murders in which the motive must be looked for in the hidden recesses of the soul, so to speak. If it turns out to be a mere primitive robbery I shall be bitterly disappointed.”
“I find,” repeated the Inspector impressively, having waited for his friend to finish, “that there is not a single item missing from the large collection.”
Christmas brightened up and leant eagerly over the table.
“Not robbery, then! I must say I’m glad. There’s something so crude about a mere murder for gain that it needs very unusual circumstances to rouse one’s interest in it. There remains the other usual crude motive to dispose of, and we may find ourselves up against something really interesting.”
“Personally I would rather find myself up against the murderer, as soon and as close as possible,” replied Hembrow with a wry grin. “But I must say this case looks less simple to me now than it did last night. To begin with, idiotic as young Greenaway’s story sounded, it is apparently true.”
Christmas smiled.
“The idiotic has a way of being true. After all, Inspector, ‘ life is a tale told by an idiot...’ You know the quotation, I expect.”
“Yes,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “But I don’t think much of it. There’s such a thing as cause and effect.”
“Remarkable discovery,” murmured Christmas. “So there is. Where would Scotland Yard be if there weren’t? Echo answers, Where?”
“I was going to say,” resumed Hembrow, disregarding this problem, “that I’ve collected evidence from two of the cabman on the taxi-rank in Greentree Road corroborating Greenaway’s account of his own movements between a quarter to eight and half-past last night.”
He took out his note-book and turned the pages.
“Andrew Milton, licensed hackney-cab dr
iver, of 7 Cauldon Street, N.W.8, deposes that he was in and about the shelter in Greentree Road between the hours of seven-forty-five and eight-thirty last night, and that during that time he saw a man walking up and down the north side of the road. The first time he saw him was a little after eight, when he was walking down towards the Finchley Road about ten yards behind a woman, who was hurrying and who turned in at the gate of No. 14, a house let off in flats which stands some thirty yards away from the cab-rank. Several times during the next half-hour Milton saw the man walk slowly up and down. He pointed the man out to another driver, James Hemington, who also makes a statement to the same effect, and further adds that he had a fare at about eight-forty-five, and that as he drove off the rank he noticed the man turn north into Grove End Road and walk off. This supports Greenaway’s statement that before coming home at nine-thirty he walked up Hampstead way.”
Hembrow closed his note-book with a sigh. It was plain that he was sorry to see his prospect of an immediate arrest vanish away.
“I told you so, if you’ll allow me to make that time-honoured remark,” said Christmas. “Life is a tale told by, about and for idiots, and the conclusions drawn by an idiot often hit the mark when those of a man of sense (yourself, Inspector) fly wide. I thought so silly a story must be true. Have, you never, in your extreme youth, Hembrow, walked up and down past a lady’s house, gazing sentimentally at a light in a bedroom window which afterwards turned out to be her aunt’s? I have.”
“No,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “Before we were married I used to go and see Mary every Sunday for tea and supper. But I never felt any call to walk up and down first. Why should I?”
The Studio Crime Page 6