Artists in Crime (14 page)

“There’s— ”

“Well?”

“Of course if you accept her statement it doesn’t arise,” said Nigel nervously.

Alleyn did not answer immediately, and for some reason Nigel found that he could not look at him. Nigel ruffled the pages of his notes and heard Alleyn’s voice: “I only said I was inclined to believe Hatchett’s statement — and hers. I shall not regard them as inviolable.”

Fox returned with Francis Ormerin and once again they settled down to routine. Ormerin had attended the private view of the Phoenix Group Show on Friday night, and had spent the week-end with a French family at Hampstead. They had sat up till about two o’clock on both nights and had been together during the day-time.

“I understand that during the bus drive back from London yesterday, the model sat beside you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes. That is so. This poor girl, she must always have her flirt in attendance.”

“And you filled the role on this occasion?”

Ormerin pulled a significant grimace.

“Why not? She makes an invitation with every gesture. It is a long and tedious drive. She is not unattractive. After a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything about her movements in London?”

“Certainly. She told me that she stayed with another girl who is in the chorus of a vaudeville show at the Chelsea Theatre. It is called ‘Snappy.’ Sonia shared this girl’s room. She went to ‘Snappy’ on Friday evening, and on Saturday she went to a studio party in Putney where she became exceedingly drunk, and was driven home by a young man, not so drunk, to the room of this girl whose name is—
tiens
! — ah yes — Bobbie is the name of the friend. Bobbie O’Dawne. All this she told me, and for a while I was complacent, and held her hand in the bus. Then after a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything at all that could possibly be of any help to us?”

“Ah! Any help? I do not think so. Except one thing, Perhaps. She said that I must not be surprised if I learn soon of another engagement.”

“What engagement was that?”

“She would not tell me. She became
retenue — espiègle
— in English, sly-boots. Sonia was very sly-boots on the subject of this engagement. I received the impression, however, that it would be to Garcia.”

“I see. She did not talk about Garcia’s movements on Friday?”

“But I think she did!” exclaimed Ormerin, after a moment’s consideration. “Yes, it is quite true, she did speak of him. It was after I had begun to get sleepy. She said Garcia would start for his promenade through this country on Saturday morning, and return to work in London in a week’s time.”

“Did she say where his work-room was in London?”

“On the contrary, she asked me if I could tell her this. She said: ‘I do not know what his idea is, to make such a mystery of it.’ Then she laughed and said: ‘But that is Garcia — I shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’ She spoke with the air of a woman who has certain rights over a man. It may, of course, have been an assumption. One cannot tell. Very often I have noticed that it is when a woman begins to lose her power with a man that she assumes these little postures of the proprietress.”

“What did you think of Sonia Gluck, M. Ormerin?”

Ormerin’s sharp black eyes flashed in his sallow face and his thin mouth widened.

“Of Sonia? She was a type, Mr. Alleyn. That is all one can say of her. The
gamine
that so often drifts towards studio doors, and then imperceptibly, naturally, into the protection of some painter. She had beauty, as you have seen. She was very difficult. If she had lived, she would have had little work when her beauty faded. While she was still good for our purpose we endured her temperament, her caprice, for the sake of her lovely body, which we might paint when she was well-behaved.”

“Had you so much difficulty with her?”

“It was intolerable. Never for one minute would she remain in the same position. I myself began three separate drawings of the one pose. I cannot paint in such circumstances, my nerves are lacerated and my work is valueless. I had made my resolution that I would leave the studio.”

“Really! It was as bad as that?”

“Certainly. If this had not happened, I would have told Troy I must go. I should have been very sorry to do this, because I have a great admiration for Troy. She is most stimulating to my work. In her studio one is at home. But I am very greatly at the mercy of my nerves. I would have returned when Bostock and Pilgrim had completed their large canvases, and Troy had rid herself of Sonia.”

“And now, I suppose, you will stay?”

“I do not know.” Ormerin moved restlessly in his chair. Alleyn noticed that there was a slight tic in his upper-lip, a busy little cord that flicked under the dark skin. As if aware of Alleyn’s scrutiny, Ormerin put a thin crooked hand up to his lip. His fingers were deeply stained by nicotine.

“I do not know,” he repeated. “The memory of this morning is very painful. I am
bouleversé
. I do not know what I shall do. I like them all here at Troy’s — even this clumsy, shouting Australian. I am
en rapport
with them well enough, but I shall never look towards the throne without seeing there the tableau of this morning. That little unfortunate with her glance of astonishment. And then when they moved her — the knife — wet and red.”

“You were the first to notice the knife, I think?”

“Yes. As soon as they moved her I saw it.” He looked uneasily at Alleyn.

“I should have thought the body would still have hidden it.”

“But no. I knelt on the floor. I saw it. Let us not speak of it. It is enough that I saw it.”

“Did you expect to see the blade, Mr. Ormerin?”

Ormerin was on his feet in a flash, his face ashen, his lips drawn back. He looked like a startled animal.

“What do you say? Expect! How should I expect to see the knife? Do you suspect me—
me
—of complicity in this detestable affair?” His violent agitation came upon him so swiftly that Nigel was amazed, and gaped at him, his notes forgotten.

“You are too sensitive,” Alleyn said quietly, “and have read a meaning into my words that they were not intended to convey. I wondered if the memory of your experiment with the knife came into your mind before you saw it. I wondered if you guessed that the model had been stabbed.”

“Never!” exclaimed Ormerin, with a violent gesture of repudiation. “Never! Why should I think of anything so horrible?”

“Since you helped in the experiment, it would not be so astonishing if you should remember it,” said Alleyn. But Ormerin continued to expostulate, his English growing more uncertain as his agitation mounted. At last Alleyn succeeded in calming him a little, and he sat down again.

“I must ask you to pardon my agitation,” he said, his stained fingers at his lips. “I am much distressed by this crime.”

“That is very natural. I shall not keep you much longer. I spoke just now of the experiment with the dagger. I understand that you and Mr. Hatchett did most of the work on the day you made this experiment?”

“They were all interested to see if it could be done. Each one as much as another.”

“Quite so,” agreed Alleyn patiently. “Nevertheless you and Mr. Hatchett actually tipped up the throne and drove the dagger through the crack.”

“And if we did! Does that prove us to be— ”

“It proves nothing at all, M. Ormerin. I was about to ask you if Mr. Garcia had any hand in the experiment?”

“Garcia?” Ormerin looked hard at Alleyn, and then an expression of great relief came upon him and he relaxed. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not believe that he came near us. He stood in the window with Sonia and watched. But I will tell you one more thing, Mr. Alleyn. When it was all over and she went back to the pose, Malmsley began to mock her, pretending the dagger was still there. And Garcia laughed a little to himself. Very quietly. But I noticed him, and I thought to myself that was a very disagreeable little laugh. That is what I thought!” ended Ormerin with an air of great significance.

“You said in the dining-room that we might be sure this was a
crime passionnel
. Why are you so sure of this?”

“But it is apparent — it protrudes a mile. This girl was a type. One had only to see her. It declared itself. She was avid for men.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” murmured Alleyn.

“
Pardon
?”

“Nothing. Please go on, M. Ormerin.”

“She was not normal. You shall find, I have no doubt, that she was
enciente
. I have been sure of it for some time. Even at the beginning women have an appearance, you understand? Her face was a little”—he made an expressive movement with his hand down his own thin face— “dragged down. And always she was looking at Garcia. Mr. Alleyn, I have seen him return her look, and there was that in his eyes that made one shudder. It was not at all pretty to see him watching her. He is a cold young man. He must have women, but he is quite unable to feel any tenderness for them. It is a type.”

Ormerin’s distress had apparently evaporated. He had become jauntily knowing.

“In a word,” said Alleyn, “you consider he is responsible for this tragedy?”

“One draws one’s own conclusions, of necessity, Mr. Alleyn. Who else can it be?”

“She was on rather uncertain terms with most of you, it appears?”

“Ah yes, yes. But one does not perform murders from exasperation. Even Malmsley— ”

Ormerin hesitated, grimaced, wagged his head sideways and was silent.

“What about Mr. Malmsley?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“It is nothing.”

“By saying it is nothing, you know, you leave me with an impression of extreme significance. What was there between the model and Mr. Malmsley?”

“I have not been able to discover,” said Ormerin rather huffily.

“But you think there was something?”

“She was laughing at him. On the morning of our experiment when Malmsley began to tease Sonia, pretending that the knife was still there, she entreated him to leave her alone, and when he would not she said: ‘I wouldn’t be too damn’ funny. Where is it that you discover your ideas, is it in books or pictures?‘ He was very disconcerted and allowed his dirty brush to fall on his drawing. That is all. You see, I was right when I said it was nothing. Have you finished with me, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I think so, thank you. There will be a statement later on,” said Alleyn vaguely. He looked at Ormerin, as though he wasn’t there, seemed to recollect himself, and got to his feet.

“Yes, I think that’s all,” he repeated.

“I shall wish you good night then, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Good night,” said Alleyn, coming to himself. “Good night, M. Ormerin.”

But when Ormerin had gone, Alleyn wandered about the room, whistled under his breath, and paid no attention at all to Fox or Nigel.

“Look here,” said Nigel at last, “I want to use a telephone.”

“You?”

“Yes. Don’t look at me as though I was a fabulous monster. I want to use the telephone, I say.”

“What for?”

“Ring up Angela.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“That’s no matter. She’ll be up and waiting.”

“You’re burning to ring up your odious newspaper.”

“Well — I thought if I just said— ”

“You may say that there has been a fatal accident at Tatler’s End House, Bossicote, and that an artist’s model has died as the result of this accident. You may add that the authorities are unable to trace the whereabouts of the victim’s relatives and are anxious to communicate with Mr. W. Garcia who is believed to be on a walking tour and may be able to give them some information about the model’s family. Something on those lines.”

“And a fat lot of good-” began Nigel angrily.

“If Garcia is not our man,” continued Alleyn to Fox, “and sees that, he may do something about it.”

“That’s so,” said Fox.

“And now we’ll deal with the last of this collection, if you please, Fox. The languishing Malmsley.”

“I’ll go to the telephone,” said Nigel.

“Very well. Don’t exceed, now. You may tell them that there will be a further installment to-morrow.”

“Too kind,” said Nigel haughtily.

“And Bathgate — you might ring my mamma up and say we won’t be in until after midnight.”

“All right.”

Nigel and Fox collided in the doorway with Bailey, who looked cold and disgruntled.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. Wait a moment, Fox. Let’s hear what Bailey’s been up to.”

“I’ve been over deceased’s room,” said Bailey.

“Any good?”

“Nothing much, sir. It’s an attic-room at the front of the house.”

He paused, and Alleyn waited, knowing that “nothing much” from Bailey might mean anything from a vacuum to a phial of cyanide.

“There’s deceased’s prints,” continued Bailey, “and one that looks like this Garcia. It’s inside the door where the maid’s missed with the duster, and there’s another print close beside it that isn’t either of em. Broad. Man’s print, I’d say. And of course there are the maid’s all over the show. I’ve checked those. Nothing much about the clothes. Note from Garcia in the pocket. She was in the family way all right. Here it is.”

He opened his case, and from a labelled envelope drew out a piece of paper laid between two slips of glass.

“I’ve printed it and taken a photo.”

Alleyn took the slips delicately in his fingers and laid them on the desk. The creases in the common paper had been smoothed out and the scribbled black pencil lines were easy to read:

“A charming fellow,” said Alleyn.

“That was in a jacket pocket. Here’s a letter that was just kicking about at the back of the wardrobe. From somebody called Bobbie. Seems as if this Bobbie’s a girl.”