The Studio Crime

by Ianthe Jerrold

  “And what happened to the other two men?”

  “Henry Winter was presumed drowned, and Michael Templar, having shortened his period of imprisonment by his exemplary conduct, left the country with the avowed intention of settling in France. He seems to have been rather a different type of man from the two others. He had a good many friends waiting to help him when he came out of prison; and while he was serving his time a cousin of his had died and left him a considerable fortune. It is thought that he is still living in the south of France under an assumed name.”

  “I suppose,” said John thoughtfully, “that you haven’t got a description of Henry Winter and Michael Templar?”

  “No,” said Hembrow, looking rather surprised. “I can’t imagine that it’s necessary to have one, Mr. Christmas. Winter is dead, and it’s pretty plain, I think, that the other man had nothing to do with this affair. My own view is that the past history of the deceased, though it certainly comes as a bit of a surprise, has no bearing on his death. By the way, Mr. Christmas, a witness has come forward who deposes to having seen a woman wearing a red shawl under her coat pass into the entrance of Madox Court just before eight o’clock on the night of the crime.”

  Hembrow took a paper from his desk.

  “This is a voluntary statement made by Mrs. Helen Smith, the caretaker at Ransom House, which, as of course you know, is the new block of flats they’ve put up in Hurst Road not far from Madox Court.” Hembrow cleared his throat and in his most expressionless official voice began to read Mrs. Smith’s statement.

  “‘I am a caretaker at Ransom House, and live on the premises. On the evening of November 24 I went out to post some letters in the pillar-box which stands at the corner of Hurst Road and Greentree Road. As I approached Madox Court on my return journey I passed a young woman who was walking quickly down towards Greentree Road, and about ten yards behind her I passed a young man, who was walking slowly.’”

  Hembrow glanced up from his paper.

  “That will have been Pandora Shirley and young Greenaway,” he interpolated, and went on:

  “‘As I passed the entrance to Madox Court I saw a lady approaching from the other direction. She was walking rather slowly. As we passed I saw her fairly plainly under a street-lamp, and although it was very foggy at the time I could see that she was fairly young and that she was wearing a fur coat and a red scarf round her neck, and that she was hatless. Her hair was dark, and she was small and slight in build. As we passed she looked at me as if she was rather startled. I looked back when I had gone on a yard or two and saw her turn in at the entrance to the courtyard at Madox Court. I know by sight all the inhabitants of Madox Court, and she was not one of them. The time was about five minutes to eight.’”

  Hembrow laid the paper down with a satisfied air.

  “I think,” he said, “that this information is worth more to us than the cable from the New York headquarters, though it is not so startling. The letter that Gordon Frew received on the night of his death mentioned the hour of eight o’clock, if you remember. I think we may conclude that the letter contained a proposal to visit Frew at eight o’clock that evening, and that it was written by the woman with the red shawl.”

  “Yes,” agreed John slowly and thoughtfully. “And that Frew gave his servant leave to go out for the evening because he did not wish the woman’s presence in his flat to become known. Or it is possible that the woman herself did not wish it. You remember that the fragment of a letter which we found in the fireplace contained the words ‘risk’ and ‘fog.’ It is possible that they referred to the fact that there was less risk of being seen in the fog, or something of that kind. By the way, Inspector, if she entered Madox Court a moment or so after Shirley had left she must have entered Frew’s flat a few moments before the man in the fez left it. I wish we could find that elusive gentleman.”

  “Yes,” agreed Hembrow. “He might be a valuable witness. But I shall see you at the inquest to-morrow, Mr. Christmas, and possibly by then we shall be a good deal nearer to the solution of the mystery.”

  Chapter XII

  Mr Lascarides

  At the inquest held the following morning only formal evidence was taken, and the matter was adjourned for a fortnight.

  “And I think we shall have our man safely under lock and key before then, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow cheerfully as they walked down Baker Street after leaving the court. “Matters are going nicely—very nicely, so far.” He spoke with a good deal of satisfaction, and whistled to himself as they walked along. Hembrow’s idea of the identity of “our man” was fairly plain to John. Dr. Merewether had given his evidence at the inquest with composure, it was true, but with the sort of cold and steely composure of self-restraint: or of a liar determined to stick to his lie though he knows that it is not believed. In the two days that had passed since the murder he seemed to have aged ten years. John seemed to hear again the cool, sceptical voice of the Coroner:

  “Did you know the deceased well?”

  “I had attended him professionally.”

  “And are you certain that the man who opened the door to you at nine o’clock on the evening of the death was the deceased?”

  “To the best of my belief it was he.”

  “You are not certain?”

  “I am quite certain.”

  “Are you aware of the fact that the doctor who examined the body gave it as his opinion that death took place not later than eight o’clock?”

  “I am aware of that fact.”

  “Yet you are certain that you saw the deceased alive an hour later than the hour at which, according to medical testimony, he was dead?”

  “I am.”

  “You are a doctor yourself, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you examined the body did you find anything incompatible with death having taken place within the past half-hour?”

  “No.”

  “You may stand down, Dr. Merewether.”

  “Are you interested in carpets, Mr. Christmas?” Hembrow paused in his whistling to ask, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Carpets? What sort of carpets? Why?”

  “Oriental. Because I’m going along to see some, and should be glad to have your company, if you care to come too. I’m not so much interested in the carpets, myself, as in the fellow who deals in them. This is the place. Coming in?”

  They had turned down a small quiet street off Lower Baker Street, and Hembrow had stopped outside a small but expensive-looking shop which displayed in its window one beautiful old Persian prayer-rug with a grey and purplish bloom, and a vase of Japanese chrysanthemums. Over the shop-front Christmas read the name: “O. Lascarides. Carpets and Oriental hangings.”

  “My man tracked the owner down to an address in Golders Green,” explained Hembrow. “And we’ve found a cabman in the rank near Circus Road who says that he drove a man wearing a fez out to Golders Green on the night of the murder. He’s a Greek, this Lascarides, not a Turk, by the way.”

  They entered the shop, and a young girl who was engaged in darning a fine tapestry over the counter rose and bade them good morning.

  “Mr. Lascarides in?” asked Hembrow.

  The girl looked a little surprised.

  “I am not sure,” she replied courteously. “I’ll see.... Do you particularly want to see Mr. Lascarides?”

  “If I may.”

  She vanished among the rugs that hung around the walls, and after five minutes or so, which John spent happily in admiring the contents of the shop and Hembrow spent impatiently looking out of the window, a man appeared noiselessly brushing aside one of the wall-hangings and advanced into the shop.

  “Good morning, sare. You wish to see me?”

  A small, stoutish, olive-complexioned man with a small, grizzled moustache, dapper and suave, with plump, white hands clasped before his immaculate grey waistcoat. He smiled, displaying a row of even teeth of which one was crowned with gold. He looked interrogatively from
Hembrow to Christmas.

  “You wish to consult me about a carpet?”

  “Could I see you privately, Mr. Lascarides? No, it isn’t about a carpet. It’s a private matter.”

  The carpet-dealer’s eyebrows rose until his low forehead was a mass of fine horizontal ridges. He glanced quickly from one to the other of his visitors with a narrow, calculating glance that accorded curiously with the bland, deferential smile on his lips. His eyes were dark and narrow and close-set to his large, curved nose, and his left eye had a curious obliqueness of direction that gave a sinister air of secretiveness to his glance. As he noticed this, John felt his heart give a throb of excitement. Were they at last in the presence of the mysterious visitor to Frew’s flat? In every detail Mr. Lascarides fitted the description that had been given of him. He watched the man eagerly as he took the card Hembrow held out to him.

  He read it through expressionlessly and remained a moment with downcast eyelids, tapping the small piece of pasteboard on his thumb-nail and pursing his thick lips. Then he said blandly, with a slight lift of his shoulders:

  “Certainly, certainly. If you gentlemen will step through to my sitting-room? But I cannot imagine in what way I can assist you, Mr.” (he referred thoughtfully to the card), “ah! Hembrow.”

  He parted the hangings at the back of the shop and stood aside to let them pass through a small doorway into a dark passage. Then opening another door he showed them into a light and pleasant room which seemed to combine the functions of office and sitting-room. Motioning them to two easy chairs covered with worn but gorgeously-covered rugs, he took a seat in the revolving chair at his desk and waited for Hembrow to speak.

  “The matter I wish to see you about is this,” said Hembrow slowly. “As you no doubt know, a Mr. Gordon Frew was found murdered on the twenty-fourth in his studio in St. John’s Wood....”

  He watched the foreigner’s face closely as he mentioned Frew’s name, but it remained expressionless—too expressionless to be natural, John thought.

  “I saw it in the paper, yes. It was very sad. But it did not concern me. I did not read the details.”

  “Had you ever met Gordon Frew, Mr. Lascarides?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He was a collector of rugs and Oriental works of art, and it seems to me very likely that he might have purchased some of the items in his collection from you.” The little Greek became very interested in his fingernail, examining it closely with a slight frown.

  “To your question, yes. To your supposition, no. I have met the late Mr. Gordon Frew. But I have sold him nothing, no. Six—eight weeks ago he came to my shop. He wished to buy a fine old Soumak rug I had. But he thought I cheat him over the price. He try to beat me down. But I say: ‘This is my price. If you take it, very well. If not, many others there are who will...’ He call me a damn old swindler, as if I was a bagman or a cheapjack in your Caledonian market. I am not a dealer in second-hand rubbish. I am an expert, I sell only the best. Nobody dispute with me over the value of a Persian rug. I bow him out. Ten days later he comes again. He asks the price of a silk Tabriz. I tell him one hundred and seventy pounds. But I am keeping it for a good client, for Lord Amberdown. He offer to give me one hundred and eighty pounds if I will sell to him. But it is not with methods like those that I have built the most exclusive business in London. With great pleasure I tell him to go to hell. He walk out of the shop, but I do not know where he went.”

  The Greek’s suave, gentle voice trailed artistically into silence. He clasped his hands on the edge of his writing-table and looked inquiringly at Hembrow with his black eyes to which the squint gave a permanently sinister look. When he dropped his thick eyelids that look completely left his face, leaving nothing but an appearance of amiability, slight melancholy, and great intelligence.

  “Another question, Mr. Lascarides, which may seem to you rather trivial. What sort of hat do you wear?”

  The dealer’s eyebrows mounted towards his thin, grizzled hair, but he replied readily enough, with a faint smile:

  “I wear the fez. It is comfortable and I am used to it. Also, it does no harm to a unique business if the head of the business is a little—eccentric in small ways. You understand? If it were not comfortable I should still wear it. It pleases people. And it adds to my prestige. The successful man does not neglect such trifles.”

  “Mr. Lascarides,” said Hembrow gravely, “when were you last in Greentree Road, St. John’s Wood?”

  “Greentree Road?” echoed the Greek, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb and gazing thoughtfully at his interlocutor. “I do not know the name. I do not know that I have ever been in Greentree Road—unless, stop! It is the little pleasant road that runs between Finchley Road and Abbey Road somewhere? Then I have been there once, about—let me see. About a year ago. Sir Hubert Strange took a house there, and I went to advise him on its decoration...”

  “You have not been there since?”

  Mr. Lascarides reflected for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No. I am certain.”

  There was a pause.

  “Mr. Lascarides,” said Hembrow slowly, “at about eight o’clock on the night of November 24 a man answering to your description was seen by three separate people walking down Greentree Road. He was also seen by two other people to enter Madox Court, the building in which the murder of Gordon Frew took place.”

  “I am sorry,” replied the Greek mildly. “I am sorry that my appearance is not so unique as I had thought.” He placed his finger-tips gently together and gazed pensively at the ceiling.

  “But if I remember right,” he added, “it was a foggy night. Possibly the resemblance was not so exact, after all.”

  “Possibly,” answered Hembrow pleasantly. “Still, you will understand that in the circumstances it would be as well if you could give me an account of your movements between seven o’clock and nine o’clock that night.”

  For the first time a trace of discomfiture appeared in the foreigner’s manner. He hesitated, flicking imaginary specks of dust from the table, and seemed to be uncertain how to reply. Finally he said with hauteur:

  “I do not know why I should be treated as a suspect. I have told you all I know of the late Mr. Frew.”

  . “Come, come, Mr, Lascarides. You must see quite plainly that we are anxious to establish the identity of the man who was seen in Greentree Road. If you can tell us that you were somewhere else at the time—well, we shall not trouble you further.”

  “And if I do not choose to tell you?”

  “I shall be obliged to detain you until we have investigated the matter without your assistance. Why take this line, Mr. Lascarides? I am making no accusation. I ask you to assist me with information.”

  The other was silent. John thought his olive face had gone a shade paler.

  “That is it,” he replied at last with an effort. “I can give you the information. But I do not know if I can prove it.”

  “You can leave that to me.”

  There was another long silence. Mr. Lascarides took a handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose, at the same time furtively wiping his forehead.

  “I—I At six o’clock on the night of November 24,” he began rather uncertainly, “I was in my house in Golders Green. I was about to begin dinner. The telephone bell rang. I answered it myself. A man’s voice spoke to me.”

  He hesitated, and looked sadly from Hembrow to Christmas.

  “I—I did not know the voice. I asked who is it? He would not tell me his name, only that he was a friend and wished me well.” Once again the little Greek broke off and looked at Hembrow. “Ah!” he cried. “But what is the use of telling you this? You will not believe me! It is too strange! Yet it is true! Already I see that you do not believe me!”

  Hembrow said merely:

  “It’s not my business to believe or disbelieve. My business is to find out facts. Go on, Mr. Lascarides.”

  With a slight gulp the other continued
:

  “He told me to come immediately to meet him at the corner of Circus Road. He will not tell me his business. He says he has something for me. That it will be strongly to my advantage to do as he says. I point out that it is foggy, and getting more foggy. I ask if he cannot give me his address and let me see him there. He says no, it is impossible. I stop and reflect. Half I am inclined not to go. I smell danger. But I am interested. It is my way never to refuse what you call an adventure. I agree. I go.”

  He paused. Hembrow looked at him woodenly.

  “Well?”

  “I go. At the corner of Circus Road no one is. The fog by this time is pea-soup. I stroll up and down, never going far. I wait, I wait. No one comes. One or two men pass, but they do not stop. Half-past eight comes. Nearly an hour I have been waiting. I call a taxi and go home. I think, it is some silly trick, some... hoax, isn’t it? I am hungry, I am angry. But I eat my dinner, I forget my anger, I think no more about it.”

  He spread out his hands in a revealing, appealing gesture.

  “That is all, gentlemen. That is true.”

  There was a pause. Hembrow looked thoughtfully at the floor. John studied the little man’s face. He thought there was real, acute fear lying beneath the surface of that amiable, deprecating mask. The eyelids kept contracting slightly, and the lips seemed to be held lightly apart by an effort of will that made their slight apologetic smile like the fixed smile of a carved figure.

  Hembrow asked tranquilly:

  “How did you go to Circus Road, Mr. Lascarides?”

  “How? I call up a taxi from my house.”

  “At what time did you get there and dismiss the taxi? ’ “At half-past seven, perhaps a few minutes earlier.”

  “And at half-past eight you hailed a passing taxi and went home?”

  “So.”

  There was a silence, broken only by the sound of the

  Greek’s hand rubbing nervously along the edge of his desk.

  “At what hour exactly did the stranger ring you up?” “It was just after half-past six.”