Artists in Crime (15 page)

This letter was written in an enormous hand on dreadful pink paper:

Nigel returned while Alleyn was still chuckling over Miss O’Dawne’s letter.

“What’s up?” asked Nigel.

“Bailey has discovered a remarkably rich plum. Come and read it. I fancy it’s the sort of thing your paper calls a human document. A gem in its own way.” Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder.

“I like Dolores Duval and her spot of trouble,” he said.

“She got her pass from Leo Cohen for Sonia,” said Alleyn. “Sonia told Ormerin she’d seen the show. Fox, what do you make of the passage where she says Sonia might as well get it both ways if Garcia is willing? Then she goes on to say she supposes it’s all right to be married and he sounds a lovely boy.”

“The lovely boy seems to be the Hon. Pilgrim, judging by the next bit about her boy-friend that was a lord,” said Fox. “Do you think Sonia Gluck had an idea she’d get Mr. Pilgrim to marry her?”

“I hardly think so. No, I fancy blackmail was the idea there. Pilgrim confessed as much when he couldn’t get out of it. If Mr. Artistic Garcia was willing! Is she driving at the blackmail inspiration there, do you imagine? Her magnificent disregard for the convention that things that are thought of together should be spoken of together, is a bit baffling. I shall have to see Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. She may be the girl we all wait for. Anything else, Bailey?”

“Well,” said Bailey grudgingly, “I don’t know if there’s anything in it but I found this.” He took out of his case a shabby blue book and handed it to Alleyn. “It’s been printed, Mr. Alleyn. There’s several of deceased’s prints and a few of the broad one I got off the door. Same party had tried to get into the case where I found the book.”

“
The Consolations of a Critic
,” Alleyn muttered, turning the book over in his long hands. “By C. Lewis Hind, 1911. Yes, I see. Gently select. Edwardian manner. Seems to be a mildly ecstatic excursion into aesthetics. Nice reproductions. Hullo! Hullo! Why stap me and sink me, there it is!”

He had turned the pages until he came upon a black and white reproduction of a picture in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows and turreted palaces.

“By gum and gosh, Bailey, you’ve found Mr. Malmsley’s secret. I knew I’d met those three nice little men before. Of course I had. Good Lord, what a fool! Yes, here it is. From
Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry
, by Pol de Limbourge and his brothers. The book’s in the Musée Condé at Chantilly. I had to blandish for half an hour before the librarian would let me touch it. It’s the most exquisite thing. Well, I’ll be jiggered, and I can’t say fairer than that.”

“You can tell us what you’re talking about, however,” suggested Nigel acidly.

“Fox knows,” said Alleyn. “You remember, Fox, don’t you?”

“I get you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox. “That’s what she meant when she sauced him on the day of the experiment.”

“Of course. This is the explanation of one of the more obscure passages in the O’Dawne’s document. ‘What a yell about Marmelade’s bit of dirt.’ What a yell indeed! Fetch him in, Fox — any nonsense from Master Cedric Malmsley and we have him on the hip.” He put the book on the floor beside his chair.

“You might tell me, Alleyn, why you are so maddeningly perky all of a sudden,” complained Nigel.

“Wait and see, my dear Bathgate. Bailey, you’ve done extremely well. Anything else for us in the room?”

“Not that I could make out, Mr. Alleyn. Everything’s put back as it was, but I thought there was nothing against taking these things.”

“Certainly not. Pack them into my case, please. I want you to wait until I’ve seen Mr. Malmsley. Here’s Fox.”

Malmsley drifted in ahead of Fox. Seen across the dining-room table he had looked sufficiently remarkable with his beard divided into two. This beard was fine and straight and had the damp pallor of an infant’s crest. Malmsley wore a crimson shirt, a black tie and a corduroy velvet jacket. Indeed he had the uncanny appearance of a person who had come round, full circle, to the Victorian idea of a Bohemian. He was almost an illustration for “Trilby.”

“Perhaps,” thought Alleyn, “there is nothing but that left for them to do.” He wore jade rings on his, unfortunately, broad fingers.

“Ah, Mr. Alleyn,” he said, “you are painfully industrious.”

Alleyn smiled vaguely and invited Malmsley to sit down. Nigel returned to the desk, Bailey walked over to the door, Fox stood in massive silence by the dying fire.

“I want your movements from Friday noon to yesterday evening, if you will be so obliging, Mr. Malmsley,” said Alleyn.

“I am afraid that I am not fortunate enough to have a very obliging nature, Mr. Alleyn. And as for my movements, I always move as infrequently as possible, and never in the right direction.”

“London was, from your point of view, in the right direction on Friday afternoon.”

“You mean that by going to London I avoided any question of complicity in this unpleasant affair.”

“Not necessarily,” said Alleyn. Malmsley lit a cigarette. “However,” continued Alleyn, “you have already told us that you went to London by the six o’clock bus, at the end of an afternoon spent with Mr. Garcia in the studio.”

“I am absurdly communicative. It must be because I find my own conversation less tedious, as a rule, than the conversation of other people.”

“In that,” said Alleyn, “you are singularly fortunate.”

Malmsley raised his eyebrows.

“What did Mr. Garcia tell you about Mr. Pilgrim during your conversation in the studio?” asked Alleyn.

“About Pilgrim? Oh, he said that he thought Valmai would find Pilgrim a very boring companion. He was rather ridiculous and said that she would soon grow tired of Pilgrim’s good looks. I told him that it was much more likely that she would tire of Pilgrim’s virtue. Women dislike virtue in a husband almost as much as they enjoy infidelity.”

“Good Lord!” thought Alleyn. “He is late Victorian. This is Wilde and Water.”

“And then?” he said aloud.

“And then he said that Basil Pilgrim was not as virtuous as I thought. I said that I had not thought about it at all. ‘The superficial observer,’ I told him, ‘is the only observer who ever lights upon a profound truth.’ Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Being a policeman, I am afraid I don’t. Did you pursue this topic?”

“No. I did not find it sufficiently entertaining. Garcia then invited me to speculate upon the chances of Seacliff’s virtue saying that he could astonish me on that subject if he had a mind to. I assured him that I was unable to fall into a ecstasy of wonderment on the upshot of what was, as I believe racing enthusiasts would say, a fifty-fifty chance. I found Garcia quite, quite tedious and pedestrian on the subject of Seacliff. He is very much attracted by Seacliff, and men are always more amusing when they praise women they dislike than when they abuse the women to whom they are passionately attracted. I therefore changed the topic of conversation.”

“To Sonia Gluck?”

“That would be quite brilliant of you, Inspector, if I had not mentioned previously that we spoke of Sonia Gluck.”

“That is almost the only feature of our previous conversation that I do remember, Mr. Malmsley. You told us that Garcia asked you if—” Alleyn consulted his note-book— “if you had ever felt like murdering your mistress just for the horror of doing it. How did you reply?”

“I replied that I had never been long enough attached to a woman for her to claim the title of my mistress. There is something dreadfully permanent in the sound of those two sibilants. However, the theme was a pleasant one and we embroidered it at our leisure. Garcia strolled across to my table and looked at my drawing. ‘It wouldn’t be worth it,’ he said. I disagreed with him. One exquisite pang of horror! ‘One has not experienced the full gamut of nervous luxury,’ I said, ‘until one has taken a life.’ He began to laugh and returned to his work.”

“Is he at all insane, do you think?”

“Insane? My dear Inspector, who can define the borders of * abnormality?”

“That is quite true,” said Alleyn patiently. “Would you say that Mr. Garcia is far from being abnormal?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Is he in the habit of taking drugs, do you know?”

Malmsley leant forward and dropped his cigarette on an ash-tray. He examined his jade rings and said:

“I really have no idea.”

“You have never noticed his eyes, for instance?” continued Alleyn, looking very fixedly into Malmsley’s. “One can usually tell, you know, by the eyes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The pupils are contracted. Later on they occasionally become widely dilated. As you must have observed, Mr. Malmsley, when you have looked in a mirror.”

“You are wonderfully learned, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I ask you if, to your knowledge, Garcia has contracted this habit. I must warn you that a very thorough search will be made of all the rooms in this house. Whether I think it advisable to take further steps in following up evidence that is not relevant to this case, may depend largely upon your answer.”

Malmsley looked quickly from Fox to Nigel.

“These gentlemen are with me on this case,” said Alleyn. “Come now, Mr. Malmsley, unless you wish to indulge the — what was Mr. Malmsley’s remark about nervous enjoyment, Bathgate?”

Nigel looked at his notes.

“The full gamut of nervous luxury?” he said.

“That’s it. Unless you feel like experiencing the full gamut of such nervous luxury as police investigations can provide, you will do well to answer my question.”

“He could not afford it,” said Malmsley. “He is practically living on charity.”

“Have you ever treated him to — let us say — to a pipe of opium?”

“I decline to answer this question.”

“You are perfectly within your rights. I shall obtain a search-warrant and examine your effects.”

Malmsley shrank a little in his chair.

“That would be singularly distasteful to me,” he said. “I am fastidious in the matter of guests.”

“Was Garcia one of your guests?”

“And if he was? After all, why should I hesitate? Your methods are singularly transparent, Inspector. You wish to know if I have ever amused myself by exploring the pleasures of opium. I have done so. A friend has given me a very beautiful set in jade and ivory, and I have not been so churlish as to neglect its promise of enjoyment. On the other hand, I have not allowed myself to contract a habit. In point of fact, I have not used half the amount that was given to me. I am not a creature of habit.”

“Did you invite Garcia to smoke opium?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last Friday afternoon.”

“At last,” said Alleyn. “Where did you smoke your opium?”

“In the studio.”

“Where you were safe from interruption?”

“Where we were more comfortable.”

“You had the six o’clock bus to catch. Surely you felt disinclined to make the trip up to London?”

Malmsley moved restlessly.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did not smoke a full pipe. I did not wish to. I merely started one and gave it to Garcia.”

“How many pipes did you give him?”

“Only one.”

“Very well. You will now, if you please, give us an exact account of the manner in which you spent your afternoon. You went to the studio immediately after lunch. Was Garcia there?”

“Yes. He had just got there.”

“How long was it before you gave him opium?”

“My dear Inspector, how should I know? I should imagine it was round about four o’clock.”

“After your conversation about the model and so on?”

“It followed our conversation. We discussed pleasure. That led us to opium.”

“So you went to the house and fetched your jade and ivory paraphernalia?”

“Ah — yes.”

“In your first account you may remember that you told me you did not leave the studio until it was time to change and catch your bus?”

“Did I? Perhaps I did. I suppose I thought that the opium incident would over-excite you.”

“When you finally left the studio,” said Alleyn, “what was Mr. Garcia’s condition?”

“He was very tranquil.”

“Did he speak after he had begun to smoke?”

“Oh, yes. A little.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he was happy.”

“Anything else?”

“He said that there was a way out of all one’s difficulties if one only had the courage to take it. That, I think, was all.”

“Did you take your opium and the pipe back to the house?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The housemaid had said something about changing the sheets on my bed. I didn’t particularly want to encounter her.”

“Where did you put the things then?”

“In a box under Garcia’s bed.”

“And collected them?”

“This morning before class.”

“Had they been disturbed?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Malmsley moved irritably.

“They were in the box. I simply collected them and took them up to the house.”

“How much opium should there be?”

“I don’t know. I think the jar must be about half full.”

“Do you think Garcia may have smoked again, after you left?”

“Again I have no idea. I should not think so. I haven’t thought of it.”

Alleyn looked curiously at Malmsley.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you realize what you may have done?”

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“I think you do. Everything you have told me about Mr. Garcia points, almost too startlingly, to one conclusion.”

Malmsley made a sudden and violent gesture of repudiation.

“That is a horrible suggestion,” he said. “I have told you the truth — you have no right to suggest that I have — that I had any other motive, but — but— ”

“I think I appreciate your motives well enough, Mr. Malmsley. For instance, you realised that I should discover the opium in any case if I searched your room. You realised that if Mr. Garcia makes a statement about Friday, he will probably speak of the opium you gave him. You may even have known that a plea of irresponsibility due to the effect of opium might be made in the event of criminal proceedings.”