“You had no idea who it could be?”
“None.”
“And no idea what he wished to see you about?” The foreigner paused a fraction of a second and moistened his lips.
No idea, Mr. Hembrow.”
“I am to understand that a perfect stranger rang you up, refused to give his name or state his business, and that thereupon you, without any idea of his identity or of his reasons for wishing t6 see you, left home on a foggy night and waited for an hour out in the street before deciding that you had been the victim of a hoax, and going home? Frankly, such a story is not credible for a man of your intelligence and position.” Hembrow’s voice was like ice. He rose to his feet. “However, I will not question you further at the moment. There will be opportunities later. For I regret, Mr. Lascarides, that I must ask you to—”
What Inspector Hembrow was about to ask, Lascarides did not stop to find out. Christmas at the time suspected his friend of bluff. And the bluff, if bluff it was, was successful. The Greek rose quickly to his feet and moved a step backward from the Inspector, raising his hands in protest and crying:
“No, no! One moment! One moment, and I will tell you all! It was true, it was all true, but it was not all the truth. I will tell you all...”
Hembrow sat down again, saying nothing, and waited, his clear, deep-set eyes fixed inquiringly on the other’s face. Mr. Lascarides groped for his chair, sank heavily into it and mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. His face was ghastly and he kept moistening his dry lips.
“There is no need to detain me. I can tell you nothing about this murder. I am not a murderer. I had no wish to kill your Gordon Frew. He was a fool. He was a hog. He insulted me. But he was nothing to me. But when I said that I did not know who the man was who rang me up, it was true, and yet it was not true. I was expecting a message. A—business message.”
He stopped and sighed heavily.
“Sometimes I buy and sell other things besides rugs, Inspector Hembrow. Amber, jade, old ivories, even more precious things—diamonds, emeralds come sometimes my way. A few days ago I had a message from a man with whom sometimes I make business, to tell me that he has a very fine unmounted emerald for me. He is sending it by messenger, as usually such precious things are sent. When the call came on the telephone I thought it was from the messenger with the emerald. I am anxious to get the gem safely into my own hands. I was a little surprised that he was so secretive on the telephone, but I thought, he has his reasons. I went. No one there was, and no one came... Now what I have told you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as so poetically you put it in your courts of law.”
The Greek seemed to have recovered his composure. He was pale and still breathed rather heavily, but he smiled faintly as he finished his declaration. Hembrow asked:
“Why did you not tell me that in the first place, may I ask, Mr. Lascarides?”
The other hesitated, then spoke in a lower tone.
“To be frank, I do not know the history of this emerald. Perhaps its history would be interesting to the police. I cannot always know the past history of all the things I sell. Therefore I did not wish to tell you the whole truth. I tell you now because I do not care to be detained in connection with a murder I know nothing of. It would be inconvenient. I am at the time very busy.”
“Did anybody hear you speaking on the ’phone, Mr. Lascarides?”
“Alas, no! I have no witness. I have no family. I live alone. A housekeeper I have, and servants, but they were far away in the kitchen. The bell of the telephone they may have heard, but not my voice.”
“Since then have you heard anything of the messenger you expected to meet?”
“Nothing have I heard, Mr. Hembrow, and I must confess that I am beginning to fear for the safety of my emerald.”
“You did not recognize the voice over the ’phone?”
“No... but, my dear sir, I did not expect to, for I did not know by whom the emerald is coming.”
“Would you recognize it again if you heard it?”
The Greek smiled pityingly.
“No. I am not English. I have no ear for the English voice and accent. It was English, that is all I can say.” He mused. “I do think now that perhaps it was a more gentle voice than generally belongs to the kind of man who acts as messenger in these matters. Yes, it might have been the voice of yourself, or your friend. But recognize it again? My friend, just as all black faces look alike to a white man, so do all English voices sound alike to a Greek.”
Hembrow remained a moment lost in thought. Then he rose to take his departure.
“I will not trouble you further at the moment, Mr. Lascarides.”
The carpet-dealer bowed. He had quite regained his elasticity of manner.
“I shall be charmed to assist you in any way I can. I am generally here from about eleven until about four. My home address you have. Good day, Mr. Inspector Hembrow. Good day, sir.”
He bowed them out. Christmas, happening to glance back as they walked down the street, saw him still standing at his shop door looking after them with an extraordinary intensity and malignity in his oblique and sinister gaze.
Chapter XIII
A Sheet of Paper
When Hembrow, accompanied by John Christmas, arrived at Scotland Yard, he showed Christmas into his own office and left him while he went to report to his Superintendent. Christmas stood looking idly out of the window and thinking. His thoughts chiefly centred themselves on Mr. Lascarides. The vanishing Turk, or Greek, as he turned out to be, had not remained elusive for long. But though he was no longer elusive, he was even more mysterious; or so John thought. He turned eagerly when Hembrow re-entered the room carrying in his hand a slip of paper which he laid on his desk with a satisfied smile.
“Well,” said Hembrow cheerily, “what do you think of our friend Lascarides?”
“Well,” answered John slowly, “what I’m chiefly thinking about him at the moment is—that he suffers from a certain obliquity of vision. In other words, he squints.”
Hembrow looked surprised.
“Well?”
“When I was talking the day before yesterday to my friend the crossing-sweeper at Shipman’s Mews, the conversation happened to turn, oddly enough, upon the murder, and especially upon the gendeman who added a touch of romance to Greentree Road by walking down it in a fez. I said to my friend the crossing-sweeper: ‘Had he a squint?’ My friend the crossing-sweeper replied: ‘Not as I noticed.’ Could one fail to notice such a squint, Inspector?”
Hembrow looked puzzled.
“We can’t expect every one of our witnesses to have noticed every little detail, Mr. Christmas. That would be too much to ask. It was a very foggy night, remember...”
“Yes,” echoed Christmas musingly, “it was a foggy night.”
“We have several witnesses who saw a man of Lascarides’ height, build and complexion, wearing a fez, and having an obviously gold-crowned tooth, walking down Greentree Road at a time when Lascarides was away from home and, by his own account, was not many hundred yards away. Lascarides can only give the flimsiest story to account for his movements at the time. Surely we need not complain because all our witnesses cannot swear that the man in Greentree Road had a cast in his left eye! As I say, it was a foggy night.”
“As you say,” repeated Christmas, “it was a foggy night.” He looked dreamily across the room. “But even on a foggy night I should have thought an intelligent murderer would have changed his head-gear for something less noticeable than a fez before setting forth to do a murder.”
Hembrow smiled.
“You’re going too far, Mr. Christmas. I never said he was the murderer. I don’t think he was.”
“Oh, I thought you had the serene, expectant air of one who contemplates making an arrest in the near future.”
“So I do. But I don’t contemplate arresting old Lascarides. Not for murder, anyhow. But I’m glad we’ve got our hands on him because it cl
ears the way a bit to the real murderer. So long as he was missing, there was always the possibility that one was going quite on the wrong tack. Now I feel fairly sure that I’m on the right one.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Christmas. “But if Lascarides is, as they say, guiltless of blood, why should he fabricate that rather thin story about meeting a man at the corner of Circus Road? Why not say frankly: ‘Yes, Inspector, I cannot tell a lie, I did visit the late regretted Mr. Frew on the evening of the tragedy, yet murderer am I none!’ Why not? It would be much the most sensible thing to do.”
“Not in the circumstances,” replied Hembrow grimly.
“Surely honesty, as the old adage has it, is the best policy?”
“Depends what you’ve been doing,” said the Inspector. “You see, Mr. Christmas, I’ve got a pretty good suspicion, in fact more than a suspicion, that old Lascarides sells something else besides rugs. Something which would mean a term of imprisonment for him if he was caught selling it. In a word, opium. And I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the deceased was an opium-taker—a drug-fiend, as they say in novels. I found quite a lot of the stuff in a secret drawer in his writing-table. Now, since Frew collected rugs and such things, and Lascarides sells them, isn’t it rather likely, apart from all the other evidence, that Frew got drugs, as well as rugs, from our Greek friend? And if Lascarides visited Frew on the night of the murder, as we may take it he did, isn’t it likely that he left with him that unopened packet of opium I found in the writing-table? And isn’t it natural that he should risk any kind of silly lie rather than risk his little activities being found out? Trafficking in drugs isn’t quite such a serious matter as murder, of course. But it’s quite serious enough, to account for any lies that Lascarides may take it into his head to tell.”
“True,” said John pensively, “but—though I’m sorry to be so obstinate, Inspector, it doesn’t account for his appalling squint. And it doesn’t account for his having asked the crossing-sweeper the way to Primrose Hill.”
Hembrow smiled.
“I think we may take it that that crossing-sweeper of yours was mistaken, Mr. Christmas.”
John looked back at him thoughtfully.
“To err is human,” he agreed, and said no more.
Hembrow picked up the slip of paper he had laid on his desk and held it out to John with an air of some importance. John read: “Gordon Frew, painter, married Phyllis Hilary Templar at the British Consulate, July 14, 1921.”
“The message came through from the Paris Sûreté this morning, in answer to one of mine. You don’t seem very much surprised, Mr. Christmas.”
“I’m not,” admitted John with a smile. “But I’m delighted, Inspector, at this confirmation of a little guess of my own.”
“Oh, you’d guessed it, had you?” said Hembrow with a rather mortified air. “May I ask how, Mr. Christmas?”
“I’m afraid my methods of arriving at the conclusion would make you laugh, my dear Hembrow, so I won’t go into details. But I came to the conclusion by these steps—the expression on a man’s face when Frew’s name was mentioned, a book-plate, the look on another gentleman’s lace while a song was being sung, the registers of University College, and the information you gave me yesterday as to our friend Frew’s weird past.”
Hembrow looked a trifle disgruntled.
“Well, I shouldn’t stake much on a deduction chiefly built up on the look of people’s faces. But it’s certainly come off this time. You’ll notice that the lady had the same surname as one of Frew’s associates in America.”
“I should think she’s probably his daughter,” said John casually.
“Quite possible, of course,” assented the Inspector. “But have you any special reason for thinking so, Mr. Christmas?”
“Well,” replied John lightly, “she isn’t old enough to be his mother or his sister. And I deduce the first degree of relationship from her anxiety to defend the gentleman’s reputation. An aunt or cousin would have taken it more philosophically.”
Hembrow looked at him curiously for a moment, then laughed.
“I think you’re going a little too far in the fantastic direction there, Mr. Christmas. But we can soon find out her relationship, if she’s a relation at all. Though personally I don’t think it’s a point that bears on the case. To get back to facts. Dr. Mordby button-holed me at the court this morning just before the proceedings started, and said he wanted to make a statement. It was about an incident that happened on the evening of the murder. I asked him why he hadn’t made the statement earlier, and he said that he had forgotten the incident in the excitement of the discovery of the body, and only realized later that it was his duty to report it.”
“I can tell you what it was,” said John grimly. “It was about a handkerchief.”
“M’m,” assented Hembrow. “You’re doing a lot of good guessing this morning, Mr. Christmas.”
“It wasn’t a guess. Mordby had already reported the incident, as you put it, to me and half a dozen other people at Miss Wimpole’s house yesterday evening. Old snake.”
“Eh? Come, Mr. Christmas, it was Dr. Mordby’s duty to report the incident.”
“It wasn’t, his duty to broadcast it at an evening party.” Hembrow was silent for a moment, twiddling his pen with a look of great concentration on his face. Finally he looked up seriously at his friend and said:
“Mr. Christmas, if you’re a friend of Dr. Merewether’s—I mean, if you’ve got friendly feelings for him, more than an ordinary acquaintance, I advise you to leave this case alone. I should be sorry, because I like talking things over with you, and often your ideas are useful, you seeing things from a fresh, different angle. But for your own sake, I think you’d best leave it alone. For I’ve got little doubt in my own mind now that Dr. Merewether was an accessory after, and probably also before, the fact; every new piece of evidence that comes to light goes to build up the case against him.”
Christmas looked back at Hembrow with a face as grave as his own.
“Your theory being,” he said slowly, “that Frew was murdered by the woman who escaped through the studio window, and that she was assisted to escape by Dr. Merewether?”
“Exactly.”
“That makes Merewether an accessory after, but not before.”
“There is strong presumptive evidence that he was also an accessory before the fact.”
“Then,” said Christmas decidedly, “the presumptions on which the evidence is founded are false.”
Hembrow sighed.
“There you are, you see, Mr. Christmas. Your personal feelings about Merewether interfere with your common sense at every turn.”
“Not at all,” said John stoutly. “My common sense and my personal feelings go hand in hand!”
Hembrow shook his head.
“Take my advice, Mr. Christmas. Leave this affair to the police.”
John smiled and shook his head.
“Assuming that your theory is correct, Inspector, what do you make of the cry?”
“The cry?”
“The noise which could be heard down in Newtree’s studio and sent Merewether up to investigate things in the first place. It couldn’t have been given by Frew, for he was already dead. You don’t, I suppose, suggest that the woman, an hour after she had murdered Frew, was so overcome with emotion as to cry out loudly and suddenly in a voice which could be heard in the room below and which would jeopardize her escape? Who gave the cry, then?”
Hembrow pushed his chair a little way back from his desk, and leaning on the edge looked gravely and steadfastly at his friend.
“Mr. Christmas,” he said, “cast your mind back to the evening of the murder, and the moment that noise was heard. Try to forget that it led to the discovery of a dead man. What did the noise sound like to you?”
John did as he was told.
“Why,” he said at last, “it sounded like a cry—a sort of gasping cry. At least, it sounded more like a cry than anything.”<
br />
“Could you swear on your oath that the noise you heard was a cry of distress?”
John hesitated.
“No, I couldn’t swear to the distress. How could I? I don’t know that I would swear to it being a cry at all. One can’t be quite sure with noises from up above. I would swear that it sounded like a cry.”
“Did it alarm you at the time?”
“No,” said John slowly. “It wasn’t loud and obvious enough to be alarming. I was interested. But I wasn’t alarmed.”
“Would it have occurred to you to go up and investigate if you had been alone?”
“No—no, I can’t say it would. One needs to be fairly sure that something’s wrong before one can go knocking at people’s doors and asking if they’re all right. I should probably have listened for a bit, and if I’d heard no more curious sounds I should have forgotten it.”
“Exactly. It was not until after the murder had been discovered that you really seriously thought of the sound you had heard as a cry of distress. Now, Mr. Christmas, of all the people in Mr. Newtree’s studio at the time, Dr. Mordby did not hear the sound at all; Mr. Newtree suggested that it sounded like the feet of a chair scraping over the parquet floor. Sir Marion Steen thought it sounded like a loud yawn; Miss Serafine Wimpole made no remark about it at all; and Mrs. Wimpole asked, so far as I can gather without any symptoms of alarm: ‘What was that?’ I know that, after the event, they all agreed that the sound might have been a cry and that the idea of there being something wrong had entered their heads. But one must not attach too great importance to that kind of wisdom after the event. My point is that, when the sound was heard, not one of these people was seriously alarmed or disturbed by it, although afterwards they naturally connected it, just as you did, with the murder. Not one of them, Mr. Christmas, suggested that the matter ought to be investigated—except Dr. Merewether. Dr. Merewether immediately offered to go and see if Frew was all right, and immediately started for the door. Not only that, not only was he determined to go, he was also determined to go alone. Dr. Mordby offered to accompany him, but he very firmly declined the offer. Why? If he was merely going to investigate the cause of a sound which might have meant trouble, and possibly danger, surely it would have been natural to take a companion. But if he knew very well what he was going to find upstairs, if the sound which all of you heard but none of you could identify, had been a signal to him to come—then naturally he would insist upon going alone.”
The Studio Crime Page 16