The Studio Crime

by Ianthe Jerrold

  “I don’t mind telling you at all, Sir Marion. In fact, I was rather hoping to see you and ask you about one or two little details that trouble me rather. Yes, it seems fairly obvious that my friend Lascarides was the man you met, although he strenuously denies it and offers an alibi.”

  “What kind of alibi?”

  “Feeble,” replied John. “Almost too feeble to be an invention, if you know what I mean. That’s one of the little things that worry me. When people invent alibis, they usually invent something with at least a pretence of solidity.”

  “And in what way can I help you, my dear boy? I am only too glad to be able to do so.”

  “Well, would you mind describing again the man you met in Greentree Road, Sir Marion, in as much detail as possible? I am on my way to him now, and should like to have your description of the stranger fresh in my memory.”

  “Certainly.” The old man smiled. “Where is your note-book, John?”

  “In my head.”

  “The best place for it, to be sure. Well, to describe our mysterious friend. He was below the middle height; in fact, about my own height. His eyes were about on a level with my own as he spoke to me. He had a dark, sallow complexion and a small, grizzled moustache. He was wearing a dark overcoat buttoned closely up to his chin, and a fez. I didn’t particularly observe his features, but they seemed to me to be the sort of features one associates with a fez. The fez looked very much in place on his head. He was a stoutish man.” Sir Marion spoke slowly and carefully, looking over John’s shoulder as if seeking to conjure up on the pavement an apparition of the man he was describing. “He had a gold-crowned tooth. Yes, one of the canine teeth in the top row was crowned with gold. It showed very much when he smiled.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more. I think that’s a full report of all I noticed about the gentleman.”

  “Are you sure, Sir Marion?”

  Steen raised his eyebrows, and a shade of that asperity which his aquiline features could so readily assume crossed his face. He spoke good-humouredly enough, however.

  “Yes, my dear John, I think I may say I am sure.”

  “Forgive me for being persistent, but it is a point which troubles me rather. Did you happen to notice whether the gentleman suffered from a squint?”

  Sir Marion gave a slight smile, and hesitated.

  “That was certainly my impression at the time, but I may have been deceived. He had peculiarly close-set, dark eyes of the kind which sometimes appear to have a slight cast when they have really nothing of the kind. As I told the Inspector, my impression was of a slight cast in the left eye, but I am not positive. Dr. Merewether did not notice any such thing.”

  “Yet,” said John slowly, “surely a squint is one of the most noticeable peculiarities a man can have. When a stranger speaks to one, it is at his eyes that one looks.”

  “Well,” said the elder man patiently, “as I say, I am quite ready to believe that I was mistaken about the squint. On such a foggy night, one cannot vouch for the accuracy of one’s observations... And yet,” he added thoughtfully, “it seems to me that he did have a squint, or something peculiar about one of his eyes. Why does this matter trouble you so, John? Has your Mr.—Lascarides, wasn’t it? a squint, or has he not? Am I the better observer, or is Dr. Merewether?”

  “He has,” replied John. “What troubles me is that his eyes, when he looks straight at you, are so peculiar and so—well, in fact, unpleasant, that I cannot understand how Dr. Merewether could fail to notice them, or you to be uncertain about them. It troubles me because it makes me feel that, after all, I may be on the wrong track.”

  Sir Marion gave a small, whimsical smile.

  “Peculiarly unpleasant!” he echoed. “Why, this sounds most interesting and sinister, John. But you must remember that when the gentleman spoke to us, he spoke in the character of a harmless fog-bound wayfarer: when he spoke to you, he was in the position of a suspect defending himself. Mightn’t that account for the unpleasantness you noticed in the way he looked at you?”

  John laughed.

  “Perhaps. But he really has such an extraordinarily horrible squint!”

  “Really? Well, I wish you luck, John, in clearing our friend the doctor of this horrible suspicion. I’d offer to come with you and help you if I felt at all certain that I could identify the man I met. But I had such a casual glimpse of him, and the night was so dark and foggy, that I am afraid I should not recognize the gentleman if I saw him again, not with any certainty. But I mustn’t keep you gossiping here. Good-bye, John. You to the worship of Hecate, and I to the temple of Apollo!”

  So saying, the old philanthropist turned in at the gate of Hertford House, and John went on his way towards the exclusive shop kept by Mr. Lascarides.

  Arrived there, however, he was informed by the pale girl who spent her time rounding her slim shoulders and straining her pretty eyes over repairing damaged treasures that Mr. Lascarides was not on the premises. He had gone home to lunch, and would not return to the shop until the evening.

  “My business,” said John, “is rather urgent. Could you give me his home address, or, better still, his ’phone number?”

  “Certainly, sir. His home address is Oakdene, Ramsay Hill, Golders Green, and his telephone number is Hampstead 9497. Would you care to leave a message in case he is away from home and you are unable to reach him?”

  “No, thank you. In that case I will call again this evening. Good afternoon.”

  Christmas left the girl to her delicate and wearisome task, and took a bus to Greentree Road. In Newtree’s studio he was surprised to find Serafine Wimpole, sitting in a rather lackadaisical attitude on the edge of the throne and smoking. She was looking gloomily across the studio as if her thoughts were in some far-away and rather unpleasant place, and Newtree was making pencil sketches of her with great rapidity and concentration, in complete silence. The moral atmosphere struck John, coming briskly in, as being rather heavy. He was not surprised at Newtree’s silence, but taciturnity was not as a rule a characteristic of Miss Serafine Wimpole. They both looked up as he entered, and Newtree with a brief greeting returned to his sketching. Serafine gave a rather lifeless smile and said:

  “Hullo, John. I’m suffering torture. My right foot has pins and needles, and Mr. Newtree won’t let me get up and see what he’s doing.”

  Dropping his pencil hastily, Laurence protested in some embarrassment:

  “I say, I’m awfully sorry, Miss Wimpole! But really there’s no reason why you should sit so still. I’m only making quick sketches. I’d much rather, in fact, you moved a bit. I don’t seem able to get the expression.” Serafine gave a small, malicious smile at his confusion. “I’m sorry, Mr. Newtree. I’m afraid I’m not feeling very expressive to-day. I’ve got rather a headache, and what is worse, so has my aunt.” John, who knew Imogen well, smiled at this. Serafine went on: “And really I don’t think my constitution is built to stand murders at close quarters. I used to think it would stand anything, from forty cigarettes a day to the remarks of such critics as don’t appreciate my remarkable works. But murder, apparently, is a different matter.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” repeated Laurence humbly. “I wish I could have made the sitting to-morrow. But they want the finished drawing to-night.”

  “Who does?” asked John, looking at the large sheet of paper on which Laurence had endeavoured to reproduce Serafine’s vigorous and incisive personality while suppressing his own lively instinct for caricature.

  “Some bally women’s paper or other—Fireside Notes, or something.”

  “Didn’t know you went in for contributing to the domestic press, Laurence.”

  Laurence looked rather uncomfortable and cleared his throat.

  “I don’t as a rule. But—h’m! I rather wanted to do some studies of Miss Wimpole. And so... so when Ferguson tackled me about a portrait for his rag, I—I thought it’d be rather an opportunity of getting a sitting.”


  “I feel honoured, Mr. Newtree,” said Serafine, strolling over to inspect the drawings. “But I wish you hadn’t made me so pretty.”

  This being the kind of remark to which Mr. Newtree was quite incapable of finding a reply, he flushed slightly, began to say something incoherent, and subsided, looking at John for help. John laughed.

  “She only says it to annoy because she knows it teases,” he said. “I expect Fireside Bits won’t think they’re pretty enough.”

  Hastily changing a subject he felt incapable of treating with the grace it demanded, Laurence asked:

  “Have you found the murderer yet?”

  “No. But I’m on a trail.”

  “The right one?”

  “I hope so.”

  At his confident tone Serafine glanced quickly at him and away again. John, noticing that glance and her sombre look, said rallyingly:

  “You don’t look as if you shared my hope, Serafine. Have you lost confidence in your sleuth?”

  With an averted face, knocking the ash off her cigarette with great care, Serafine muttered:

  “Of course not...”

  “Who’s the man?” asked Laurence, taking up a pencil and beginning to make a sketch of Serafine’s averted head.

  “The obvious one, of course,” replied John teasingly, and was amazed when Serafine turned on him a face gone suddenly white and hard.

  “John!” she said in a strangled voice. “You wouldn’t— But you’ll let him go! Surely your friends are more to you than this—this detective game of yours!”

  Her eyes were fierce, and two spots of carmine, appearing suddenly in her white cheeks, gave a sort of bizarre and hectic beauty to her worn face. Laurence, in the background, began another sketch. Completely taken aback, John stammered:

  “My dear! What do you mean?”

  Controlling herself with an effort, Serafine said in a strained, cold way:

  “You said that you liked Dr. Merewether—that he was your friend.”

  “I did, I do. But what— My dear girl, you don’t imagine that I’d have anything to do with arresting Merewether, even if— But of course he didn’t. The thing’s absurd! When I said the obvious one, I meant our friend in the fez.”

  The sudden fire and colour died out of Serafine’s face. She looked at her friend in silence for a moment, and then made an attempt to laugh.

  “Of course. I’m sorry!” She drew a long, unsteady breath. “For a moment I thought... As I say, my constitution won’t stand murders at close range. Sorry to be such an excitable idiot, John.”

  She got up from her place on the model’s throne and went over towards the great window, over which the leafless boughs of an ash tree made a black tracery in the white light of afternoon. John looked after her in silence, perturbed and puzzled. Laurence with a sigh abandoned his pencil and perched himself on the piano stool.

  “Do you mean to say, Serafine,” said John slowly at last, “that to you Merewether is the—obvious one?”

  There was a pause. Then without turning round, Serafine said in an unsteady, muffled voice:

  “No—I... I don’t. Why should I? I thought—thought you did, that was all.”

  John stood looking thoughtfully at her inexpressive back. He knew that she had worried a good deal over Dr. Merewether’s apparent connection with the mysterious crime. But her manner now seemed to point to something a good deal more serious than distress at the fact that Merewether should be suspected by the police. He walked over to her and linked his arm in hers.

  “Serafine,” he said seriously, “I feel as if you knew or guessed something about Merewether which you haven’t told me. Wouldn’t it be better to tell me? Even if it’s something which seems to go against him? The sooner I can find the real murderer, the better for Merewether, and the more I know the more likely I am to solve this puzzle. I am afraid that you have some special reason for thinking poor Merewether did it. But if you tell me, we may find that it is a special reason for thinking that he didn’t do it. After all, he didn’t do it. The thing’s impossible. And so the more we know, the sooner we can clear him.”

  Without returning the pressure of his hand on her arm, Serafine said sombrely:

  “I think you’re an optimist, John.”

  “My dear, you can’t believe—”

  Serafine gave a high, discordant laugh which set John’s teeth on edge.

  “Oh, can’t believe this and can’t believe that,” she cried. “What’s the use of can’t believe, if you have to believe it?”

  “What do you mean, Serafine?” asked John gravely. “Come! Hadn’t you better tell me? It can do no harm, in any circumstances. I’m not a Yard officer. I can drop my footling investigations when and where I like.”

  Serafine drew a long, unsteady breath.

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I’d better tell you. It’ll be a relief to tell somebody who feels the same way about it as myself. It—it only happened this morning. I suppose that’s why I’m behaving like an hysterical idiot this afternoon.” She glanced uncertainly at Newtree.

  “I’ll sling my hook,” remarked Newtree, rising, “for a bit.”

  “No, don’t go, Mr. Newtree. Unless you’d rather. Why should you?”

  “All right,” said Newtree, sitting down again. “I’ll stay, then. But nothing’ll make me believe Merewether had anything to do with this affair. I can’t think why you’re all getting so bothered about it. If he told me he’d done it, I shouldn’t believe him.”

  Serafine sighed.

  “I wonder,” she said. “Sometimes one has to believe what one would give the world not to.”

  She went over to the throne and sat down again, and began to tell John all that bad happened during the morning, from her encounter with the strange woman in Hampstead High Street to the passage-at-arms with Dr. Mordby in her own hall. John listened in silence, and Newtree, taking advantage of the animation on his sitter’s face as she told her story, made drawings of her and listened at the same time.

  “At any rate,” Serafine finished, “he’s got away. Perhaps...”

  John said nothing. In his opinion, the chances of Dr. Merewether getting farther than a railway station were extremely remote. He knew that for the last two days the doctor had never been out of sight of one of Hembrow’s men.

  Serafine, watching his grave face, asked pitifully:

  “Do you think he has a chance?”

  “Of getting out of the country? Frankly, my dear, not the slightest. A Yard man’s been watching him ever since Hembrow first suspected him. Probably already...”

  John left his sentence unfinished.

  “Best thing that could happen,” observed Newtree tranquilly. “Now we’ll have an explanation and the matter’ll be cleared up. Idiotic to run away just because you’re suspected of murder and haven’t got a cast-iron alibi. Worst thing he could do, in my opinion.”

  Oh, how can you be so ridiculous!” cried Serafine, jumping to her feet, and looking at her host as if he were beneath contempt and fit only for instant extermination. Her tortured nerves found a queer relief in this violent rudeness to an inoffensive person. “I never heard such obstinate tommy-rot! You say you’re a friend of Dr. Merewether’s. But to talk like that isn’t friendship, it’s just blind laziness!”

  Newtree’s glasses dropped and he blinked at the virago, flushing slightly and feeling extremely at a loss. Yet queerly not altogether displeased at being made the subject of a fierce attack; it was a new experience.

  “Isn’t it obvious, if Dr. Merewether’s gone, that he has some reason for going?” went on Serafine. “And what can the reason be but” She stopped abruptly.

  “Dunno,” said Laurence gruffly. “I’m not a detective. Ask Christmas.”

  John, who had been thinking deeply and had hardly noticed this little passage, asked slowly:

  “This woman, Serafine. You say she was mad?” Serafine hesitated.

  “More or less. Mad sounds a little too strong. She wa
sn’t raving, or anything like that. She seemed to have lost her memory and to be incapable of looking after herself.”

  “She couldn’t give an account of herself, at any rate?”

  “No. She’d forgotten her own name. She was quite vague about everything.”

  “And she said she was frightened?”

  “Yes. She seemed to have had some dreadful shock. She talked about something that made her forget, something that made her frightened...”

  “Laurence!” said John, turning abruptly to his friend. “Can you lend me Greenaway for the afternoon?”

  “Certainly, as long as you return him intact.”

  “Then I’ll be off, and take him with me. The less time I lose the better. May I use your telephone?”

  “Of course,” murmured Laurence, looking a little surprised at this sudden access of energy.

  Serafine asked huskily:

  “John, tell me first.... Can you help? Is there any chance—any hope?”

  “Of Merewether’s getting away? None. But I’m going to try and save him the trouble of proving himself innocent.”

  Serafine looked at him helplessly and shrugged her shoulders as he took up the telephone receiver.

  “Hullo. Is that Hampstead 9497? Is that Mr. Lascarides? Can you be at the corner of Circus Road, Wellington Road, at a quarter past three this afternoon? I’ve got the stuff. Yes. Yes. Don’t come if you don’t want it... What’s that? No. I say, I’ve got the stuff. Isn’t that enough for you? You won’t? All right. Good-bye.”

  As John took the receiver from his ear a faint spluttering noise, like the objurgations of an enraged elf, could be heard in the studio. John hung the receiver up and smiled, looking at his wrist-watch.

  “Got nearly three-quarters of an hour,” he observed. “I’ll go and tell Greenaway I want him as an assistant.”

  “Why,” asked Newtree curiously, “did you talk in that extraordinary wooden voice to your blasphemous friend?”

  “Didn’t want him to recognize me. Wanted to remain incognito.”

  “You don’t think he’s coming all the way from Hampstead to meet an incognito, do you?”