“But still,” murmured John, speaking to himself, “there was a book on the laws of libel tucked away in those wonderful book-shelves, and every page had been read.”
Chapter VIII
Obstinacy of A Crossing-Sweeper
John Christmas strolled along Greentree Road, enjoying the clear November sunshine which, in spite of the sharp tang in the air, gave a delusive look of early springtime to die lopped elms and leafless ash-trees in the pleasant brick-walled gardens of the old informal houses. He glanced up as he passed No. 14, a tall, square, stuccoed mansion that stood up above the heads of the other low, rambling, creeper-grown buildings with their pleasant reminiscences of the time when St. John’s Wood was a quiet suburb, before the canker of flat-building had begun to invade its green dreamy roads and gardens. The tranquil blue sky looked as if it could never have been obscured by an evil yellow fog, just as the gay and brisk demeanour of the few people John passed on the pavement seemed blandly to disclaim all knowledge of the existence of such a thing as murder. Yet less than twenty-four hours before this road had been like one of the dark labyrinths of Hades, and less than fifty yards away a man had died with a knife in his back.
He turned into Madox Court and found it bathed in sunshine, with a holly-tree covered with scarlet berries that told of the approach of Christmas and the season of goodwill. Admiring its festive effect over his shoulder as he entered the building he knocked heavily up against a man emerging from the front door.
“I beg your pard— Why, how d’you do, Sir Marion? I hope I haven’t injured you in any way. I was lost in thought, as they say, and forgot to blow my horn coming round the corner.”
“How are you, John?” asked the great financier, taking his hand with his customary quick, nervous grip, and smiling his diffident, pleasant smile. “I hope you slept last night. I must confess that I didn’t.”
“Neither did I. Poor Newtree’s party turned out to be more exciting than he intended it to be. But this extraordinarily lovely day had almost entirely blown the cobwebs away for me.”
Sir Marion glanced across the court to the tall holly-tree that made so brave a show with its glossy leaves and vermilion berries against the pale blue sky. His refined, gentle face took on an expression of extreme sadness.
“A heavenly day,” he agreed, “in the truest sense of the word. It makes last night seem like a queer nightmare. The sunshine deludes one for a while into thinking with Pangloss that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. And then the memory of last night comes back, and one knows—well, that it isn’t.” He sighed, and then his sudden, attractive smile flashed back. “Are you hot on the trail? I understand that the detection of crime is one of your many hobbies. A gruesome one, in my opinion. It wouldn’t be to my taste.”
Christmas smiled.
“I was just thinking that you must be emulating Sherlock Holmes, Sir Marion. You are so early on the scene of the crime.”
Heaven forbid that I should help to bring a man to be hanged,” said Sir Marion quietly, and Christmas remembered suddenly that the great philanthropist was a fierce opponent of capital punishment, and had written and lectured a good deal on the subject.
“I am afraid it was only idle curiosity that brought me here this morning. I have been disturbing Mr. Newtree at his work. And now I’m disturbing you at yours. But take an old man’s advice, John. Leave this kind of thing to the police. I’m a sentimental old fogey, I suppose, but I don’t like to see a young man using his talents in such a direction. Who touches pitch—eh? However, good luck to your hunting, my boy, if you are quite determined to teach Scotland Yard its business!”
And with a smile of friendly malice Sir Marion nodded and walked on towards the gate. John raised his hat and watched the debonair little figure turn out into the road.
“Rum cove, Sir Marion,” he meditated, “but one can’t help rather liking him. I wonder where he keeps his go-getting machinery, as the Americans would call it. It certainly doesn’t show on the surface. The iron hand in the velvet glove, I suppose.”
Having thus satisfactorily compressed the complex character of the suave little millionaire into a platitude, John dismissed him from his mind and rang the bell of Newtree’s front door.
He found Laurence sitting in his shirt-sleeves at his drawing-table, surrounded by a small, untidy army of little bottles containing ink, body-colour, paste and other materials of the artist’s curious trade. His hair was standing on end and his cigarette was firmly fixed to his lower lip, sure signs that he was in the throes of composition. He looked up as Christmas entered the room and said briefly:
“Go away,” and continued to repeat absent-mindedly: “Go away, go away, go away,” at intervals while John calmly laid down his hat and stick, chose a comfortable chair and lit a cigarette.
“Dash it,” said Newtree suddenly in tones of indignation, “did you or did you not hear me telling you to go away, John?”
“I heard.”
“People seem to think a wretched artist has nothing to do but receive callers. People seem to think he does his work, if any, in bed or in his bath. People seem to think that he has all day to sit and listen to their ridiculous troubles. People seem to think—”
“D’you mean to say I’m interrupting you, Laurence?” asked Christmas in injured surprise. “I’m only sitting and thinking. I haven’t said a word since I came in.”
“You’ll soon start,” replied Laurence gloomily. “They all do. First Mordby, and then old Steen—they’ve both been here sitting and thinking nineteen to the dozen. I had to be polite to Steen because he’s a millionaire and buys pictures. But I’m dashed,” said Laurence with sudden ferocity, “if I see any reason for being polite to you.”
Christmas looked reproachful but said nothing.
“Here was I trying to think of a subject for the Comet cartoon, and there was he blithering away as if there wasn’t such a thing as work in the world. People seem to think daily papers can come out once a week. I’m putting him in my cartoon as a revenge. He’ll probably be pleased, though, and come again when I’m working out the next one to tell me how jolly it was of me. So do for goodness’ sake leave off talking a minute, John, and let me hear myself think.”
He flounced back to his bristol-board, and the scratching of his pen was the only sound to be heard in the studio for a minute of two. After a moment he turned a worried eye over his shoulder and asked:
“Whatever’s the matter with you, John? You’re sitting there like a blessed mute at a funeral. Come and have a look.”
John strolled over and stood at the back of his friend’s chair. A colossal Sir Marion in the traditional robes of the necromancer straddled a wooded valley, and with a magician’s wand dripping sovereigns drew a charmed circle from hill to hill.
“You know he’s just presented a thousand acres of the Haysling Valley in Gloucestershire to the National Trust?”
“Yes. Jolly good.”
“Do you mean my cartoon or the presentation?”
“Both,” replied Christmas dreamily, studying the drawing with a fascinated expression. “It’s an awfully good caricature, though you’ve made him look rather predatory for a fairy godfather.”
“Have I? Well, if people come and jabber at one for an hour when one’s got work to do they can’t expect to be flattered.”
“My dear Laurence, you gave all your guests such a thrilling experience last night that you must expect them all to come and pay duty calls. You’d better put your work away and come out with me now, or you’ll have to spend the afternoon entertaining Merewether, Imogen Wimpole and Serafine.”
“Your Serafine terrifies me,” said Newtree gloomily.
“Then you’ll probably end up by marrying her.”
“Thanks. I’d rather marry Lucrezia Borgia.”
“Well, you can’t,” said Christmas reasonably. “She’s dead. So get your coat and come along.”
As if cowed by his friend’s terrible p
rognostication, Laurence meekly got his coat and followed John out into the street, and it was not until they had turned into Greentree Road that he stopped and asked:
“Where are we going?”
“We are going to call on Mr. Gilbert Cold, of 9a Camperdown Terrace, W.9,” replied Christmas calmly, taking his friend’s arm firmly to make sure he should not slip back to his studio.
“Gilbert Cold,” repeated Laurence, who had an excellent memory. “Who Oh, yes, that’s the chap who wrote poor Frew’s books for him.”
“The same. I am Sherlock Holmes. You are Doctor Watson.”
Laurence shook his head.
“I’ll be Watson for this afternoon, but let it be understood that I’m not going to make a habit of it. I’ve got a great deal more work to do than that obliging gentleman had.”
Camperdown Terrace proved to be a row of shabby but dignified Victorian stucco houses fronting an exact copy of itself across a quiet backwater near the Edgware Road. Once solid and prosperous family residences, the large basement houses had passed from gentility to shabby-gentility, and had a look now of awaiting the housebreaker’s hammer and the rising of a phoenix, in the shape of a large red-brick block of flats, from their quiet ashes. Many of them, in fact, had anticipated the future by turning themselves into self-contained maisonettes, as the rows of door bells at some of the porched and pillared doors testified. No. 9 was one of these.
Christmas rang the bell of 9a, and they waited some time in the little lobby before they heard a footstep inside the flat. Then the door was opened suddenly and noisily, and Christmas, who had subconsciously expected to see a small, timid, scholarly figure, could hardly repress a start as he found himself looking up into the scowling, square, rather fine face of a broad, burly man two or three inches taller than himself. The unexpectedly commanding presence of Mr. Gilbert Cold, combined with his extraordinarily unfriendly frown, took the wind out of John’s sails for the moment, and the other spoke first.
“Well? Well?” he rapped out impatiently, his deep-set dark eyes glancing swiftly from one to the other of his callers.
“Mr. Gilbert Cold?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
But though he still spoke brusquely his frown had relaxed a little, as though he found the appearance of his visitors more to his taste than he anticipated.
“My name is Christmas,” said John with a smile. “And this is my friend Laurence Newtree.”
Mr. Cold’s dark, sallow face cleared. He smiled.
“I know the name well. In fact, I take the Comet every morning principally on account of Mr. Newtree’s brilliant cartoons. Is it the same Mr. Newtree?”
Newtree smiled uncomfortably, blushed and glanced reproachfully at John. The stream of self-expression which had flowed so fast and turgidly alone in his studio with John, was dried up within him. He hated talking to strangers, and hated himself for hating it. He cleared his throat and made a benevolent, inarticulate sound.
“I wonder whether I might have a word or two with you, Mr. Cold?” said Christmas, who had planned his line of attack in the omnibus. “I do hope we are not interrupting your work?”
“Come in, come in,” said the large man genially, and led them through a narrow, dark passage into a very large, untidy, shabby room where an enormous cut-glass chandelier glittered mournfully over a horse-hair couch, a large table littered with books and papers, two or three worn arm-chairs and ah inadequate gas-stove. From the appearance of the couch, on which lay a disarranged rug, several cushions and a magazine of the more lurid type, John guessed that they had disturbed Mr. Cold’s siesta rather than his labours.
“The fact is,” said John with effrontery, “I am thinking of writing a life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and I understand that you knew the family well at one time. I was wondering whether you would think it presumptuous if—”
Mr. Cold, who had looked perfectly blank at John’s opening sentence, now pursed his thick but well-cut lips and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“I am afraid you have been misinformed. I can’t claim to have been personally acquainted with any members of that distinguished family, although I am second to none in my admiration of their genius.”
Having delivered himself of this sonorous period, Mr. Cold sat down carefully on the creaking sofa and surreptitiously pushed the rather gaudy magazine under a cushion.
“I have met a great many interesting people in my time,” he went on, “but the Rossettis are not among them. Dante Gabriel, of course, was a leetle before my time.”
His manner seemed to indicate that, had it not been for this unfortunate fact, he would have been able to oblige his inquirer with as many personal reminiscences as he could desire.
“Now I wonder who can have so misinformed you, Mr. Christmas?”
He spoke to Christmas, but he looked most of the time at Newtree, and it was plain that Christmas’s proposed work did not interest him half as much as Laurence’s accomplished fame. Christmas, recognizing in Mr. Cold the more amiable type of snob, was glad that he had brought his friend along with him as bait, and thought that he would have little trouble in hooking the fish he wanted.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Christmas slowly, “it was a mutual friend of ours whom I am afraid it will be painful for us both to mention, as he died so short a while ago as last night in rather horrible circumstances.”
Mr. Cold turned sharply from a scrutiny of Newtree which that gentleman was beginning to find embarrassing.
“Not poor Gordon Frew?” he exclaimed. “Yes? I see by your face that it was. Oh, what a terrible thing that is, Mr. Christmas! I don’t know that I have ever had a more unpleasant shock than when I opened my Comet this morning. These terrible things happen every day, and yet it is so rare that one has it brought home to one like this. Was poor Frew a friend of yours also, Mr. Newtree?”
“M’m,” said Newtree, rather inadequately, he feared. He added: “He had the flat above mine.” In response to a glance of encouragement from Christmas he went on unwillingly: “He was a—a nice chap. Did you know him long?”
“Some time, some time,” replied Mr. Cold vaguely. “I had the pleasure of helping him with some of his literary work. He had a great deal of material, and not much—ah! time for putting it together. I can hardly believe that he is dead—and in such a way. Only a few weeks ago I saw him, looking the picture of health and prosperity. I suppose robbery was the motive?”
“I—I suppose so,” agreed Newtree. “He had a lot of valuable things.”
“Ah, worldly possessions are not always a blessing,” murmured the writer philosophically. “I have always thought so. I prefer a simple way of living myself, as you can see. Though, as a matter of fact, even the simplest way of living doesn’t exempt one from the attentions of burglars, apparently. You may hardly believe it, Mr. Newtree, but this humble flat of mine was broken into last night.”
“Really?” said Newtree, glancing at John for guidance. “Did the thieves take anything?”
“Not a thing,” replied Mr. Cold blandly. “In fact, I should not have known of their visit if it had not been for the chaos in which I found this room when I got down this morning—or I should say, got up, for I sleep in a very pleasant room in the basement, looking on to the garden. Every drawer and cupboard in the room was pulled open and the contents hauled out on to the floor. But I have not so far found that anything is missing.”
“Didn’t you hear anything of the thieves?” asked John.
“Not a sound. He, or they, must have come in through this window—not a very difficult feat, as the catch is broken. I fancy they must have mistaken this house for another in which they knew there was something worth their while. For certainly there’s nothing here worth stealing except a few first editions and autograph letters, which do not appeal to the taste of Mr. Bill Sykes.”
“Have you notified the police?”
“Not yet. I suppose I ought to, as a good citizen. But p
ersonally I don’t feel inclined to bother. I am not at all a nervous person, though I must say I could hardly eat my breakfast after reading my paper this morning.”
“Did you know Frew well?” asked Christmas sympathetically.
“Oh, very,” replied the other in a rather vague tone, and then more definitely: “He was writing a second book, I believe, which I was to have had the pleasure of revising for him. A book of memoirs, I believe, which would have been interesting. He was a much travelled man.”
“So I gathered,” said Laurence, once again in response to a sign from John. “Rather a mysterious fellow. I saw quite a lot of him, but I’m as much in the dark as to his origin as I was when he first came to Madox Court.”
“He rather liked to be thought a man of mystery, I imagine,” agreed Cold. “It was a—an amiable affectation of his. I, too, knew very little about him, although he reposed a good deal of trust in me.”
“With his literary work, I suppose,” murmured Laurence.
“Not only that,” replied the other, and he hesitated a moment. Then his vanity conquered his caution and he went on: “It seems now, poor fellow, almost as though he had a presentiment of his coming death... It was two or three months ago. I had called on Frew in connection with some small matter in his work, and he was looking through his drawers to find some papers I required. All of a sudden he tossed across the room to me a large envelope done up with tape and sealing-wax.
‘ By the way,’ he said, ‘ would you take charge of that for me, Gilbert? ’ (It was a pleasant habit of his to call all his friends by their Christian names, you remember.) I looked at the envelope and saw that it was addressed ready for posting. I naturally asked him what it was and whether it contained anything valuable. He replied that it contained family letters and papers, and that in the event of his death I was to put it in the post immediately. Of course I pooh-poohed the notion that he was likely to die before I did. He laughed, and said that he certainly didn’t anticipate dying for several years, but all the same I should oblige him very much by taking charge of the packet. He added that it had no interest but for himself and the person to whom it was addressed—a Mrs. Emily Rud—” Suddenly Mr. Cold’s caution seemed to return to him. He coughed, cleared his throat, and finished: “I was rather touched at his confidence in me, as he had only known me for three or four months.”
The Studio Crime Page 9