Murder Abroad (19 page)

“He couldn't cross the Massif at night, I suppose?” said Bobby. “Every one seems to think it so difficult, I think I shall have to try some day to show it isn't.”

Ducane laughed very much and hoped monsieur would at any rate not make the attempt in the dark. By daylight, it might be possible perhaps, though barely so. For himself he would not care to try. But in the dark—he waved the suggestion away as altogether unreasonable. Indeed Bobby was inclined to agree that so it was, remembering what he himself had seen of that wild and rugged terrain, so little different to-day from the state in which the last thundering roar of now extinct volcanoes had left it.

The conversation passed to other subjects. Bobby asked questions about gardening and for what vegetables the soil was most suitable. Ducane responded at length. He believed, it appeared, in deep digging and in hoeing.

“To dig and to hoe, all is there,” he said.

It appeared that he disliked in especial artificial manure. Natural manure perhaps, but tight-fisted farmers would only part with that at the cost of the eyes in your head. As for chemical manures, they burnt up the good in the land. In that case, inquired Bobby, mildly puzzled, why was there such a huge stock of artificial manure stored up here? Ducane explained that there was an excellent joke about that. Monsieur Shields spoke French well enough but with an accent that was really extraordinary. Bobby noted in passing that this contradicted Ducane's earlier praise of his employer's French, but supposed that had been politeness and now the true verdict was being rendered. When, however, he had telephoned to Paris for certain garden requisites he had got his figures and weights all wrong. As a result he received, for instance, a penny packet of lettuce seed, but enough of this artificial manure to stock a large farm, and an enormous bale of binder twine instead of the handful or two of raffia needed for tying up plants. Unfortunately he paid the bill before realizing that anything was wrong and though he had been trying—was still trying—to get the Paris firm to take back the binder twine and the sacks of artificial manure, and refund the money paid, he had not as yet succeeded. Ducane did not hide his own belief that Monsieur Shields would never succeed. Probably the Parisians had seen a chance to get rid of the stuff, especially of all that binder twine which is not in much demand early in the spring. In his, Ducane's, considered opinion, Parisians were a tough lot when it came to business, and any one having affair with them, had to keep a good look-out, or he would lose the shirt off his back before he knew more than that he was feeling a bit chilly. Ducane hoped it would be a lesson to Monsieur Shields. If he, Monsieur Shields, had placed the order through him, Jules Ducane, why, then, all would have been well and there wouldn't still be sacks and sacks of artificial manure it was very certain those Parisians, once they had got rid of it, would never consent to take back. The binder twine had apparently, one way or another, got used, but the artificial manure was just as it had been dumped down by the carriers. It was a history of an artist, declared Ducane; children all of them in the ordinary affairs of life.

Bobby sighed and said it was only too true. He himself, but he would not trouble Monsieur Ducane with the history of some of his own misadventures. Instead perhaps Monsieur Ducane would give his opinion on the now completed portrait. For his part, Bobby admitted, he was not too well satisfied. It was not the sort of thing he would like to show Monsieur Shields, for example. Monsieur Ducane must let him try again, and, in the meantime, would Monsieur Ducane please remember he had promised to say nothing about it.

“He'll want to do you himself as soon as he knows what I've been up to,” Bobby explained, “and I want first try. And he won't be pleased to think I noticed at once such an interesting model that he had had under his nose and never seen.”

Ducane promised once more, accepted the payment due, and departed. Bobby went round to the front of the house and as there was still some time to spare before there left the last train he had to catch if he was to get back to Citry that night he settled down to wait a little longer in the hope that Shields might yet return. Nor in fact had he had time to do more than smoke another cigarette before Shields appeared, coming up the garden path, looking very surprised to see Bobby there and very apologetic for having so nearly missed him. He had cycled over to Clermont, he explained, but had returned a little earlier than he had expected because an acquaintance, one of his neighbours, had offered to bring him, and the cycle, too, back in his car.

“Rather thought I might make a sale,” he explained confidentially, “but it didn't come off. In these hard times, when you make a sale about once a year if you're lucky, and when you're luckier still if you got much more than you've paid for paint and canvas, you jolly well can't afford to miss even the smell of a chance.”

He took Bobby into the house, apologizing for an untidiness, due to the absence for the last day or two of the woman who cooked and cleaned for him. As a result of this defection there was nothing fit to eat in the house so he couldn't ask Bobby to stay to dinner. He would probably have to make his own evening meal off dry bread.

Bobby reflected that besides the café where he had lunched, he had noticed one or two quite promising- looking restaurants in the town and was inclined to gather, from this and other considerations, a general idea that either Shields had very little spare cash or else very little inclination to spend it. He sympathized, however, with his host on the difficulties of bachelor housekeeping and then in the studio, whither they had now proceeded, he did his best to wax enthusiastic over the paintings and drawings he was shown. He tried to salve his conscience by reminding himself that he was not a trained student of art, but all the same, with the best will in the world, he could not overcome his conviction that the drawing was only second-rate, that the composition was worse, that there was very little sense of atmosphere, and, though he knew his own colour sense was not first-rate, it seemed to him that that of Mr. Shields was, to say the least, eccentric. The only merit he could see was the kind of pedantic and careful accuracy much of Shields's work seemed to show, so that it would often be easy to recognize the places and scenes reproduced—reproduced was, Bobby thought, the exact word required. He noticed, too, that, as if in some sub-conscious way Shields was aware of a lack of interest, of poignancy, in his work, he tried hard nearly always to introduce some dramatic or human incident. One picture of a landscape under a storm cloud, for example, had a child painted in the foreground, and was entitled ‘Lost Baby'. Another, a striking little scene, showing a high isolated rock in the form of a sugar loaf and a curiously-shaped, stunted oak displayed against a gloomy background of precipitous cliff in which appeared what seemed the entrance to a cave—all rendered with such care in detail that Bobby was reminded of a coloured photograph—was called ‘The Duel', and showed in the foreground two men with levelled pistols facing each other. It was an instance, Bobby thought, of Shields's careless and inefficient drawing that the pistols were pointed in such a manner that the lines of fire were almost at right angles, crossing somewhere by or behind the stunted oak. Shields, however, must have thought it a good example of his work, for he had it framed and hanging on the studio wall in a conspicuous position, so that it would catch the eye of any visitor. Bobby duly admired it, and indeed its evident accuracy of detail gave it some claim to excellence, and then managed to turn the conversation to young Volny. But Shields did not seem much interested, supposed the young fellow had got fed up with paternal discipline, and would reappear again when he wanted to. Then he produced some drawings he said were the work of Miss Polthwaite.

“She had no talent, of course,” he said. “Rather weak amateur stuff. But it amused her, poor soul.”

To Bobby, though he kept reminding himself he was no expert, these drawings seemed to have more vitality than any of Shields's own work. He could see they had faults, but all the same they seemed to him to have more of that indefinable something perhaps best described as ‘atmosphere'. They did manage to convey an impression of having been not only ‘seen' but ‘felt' as well, not merely recorded as the camera records. Shields said suddenly and abruptly:

“You've heard about it? She was found in a well. Suicide. It was pretty clear what it was but some of these French police would have liked to pitch on me.”

A little startled, not quite knowing what to say, Bobby murmured:

“You don't mean... not really...?”

“They got it into their heads we were lovers. Shock for the poor old soul if she had known. They heard we were friends and that was enough for them—they don't understand friendship between a man and a woman. ‘L'amour'—all they can think of. I'm not a boy and she was no chicken, but that made no difference—‘toujours l'amour'. Oh, well, luckily I was here snug in bed at the time. Just as well. Or they might have landed it on me.” He laughed but not too comfortably. “Don't like the idea of the guillotine,” he said. “I much prefer my head where it is. It might have gone if I hadn't had a fool-proof alibi. Most likely it really was suicide.”

“I thought that was what was decided,” Bobby said.

“Yes. Officially. Sometimes I think they are still watching me. I don't know. I'm going to America soon. I expect I shall have my luggage searched with extra care to make sure there's nothing incriminating. Well, there won't be.”

“Do you think it was suicide?” Bobby asked.

“I don't know,” Shields answered. “She was moody. Had ideas. Got herself into a bit of a jam with a French boy. You can never tell. Elderly spinsters go a bit dotty sometimes. Anyhow, the police weren't going to have it that it was any of their people killed her. They would have fixed it on me if they could, but as they couldn't they fell back on suicide. Quite likely, too. What do you think of this?”

It was an abrupt change of subject as Shields held up a large canvas which he evidently thought especially good and that Bobby was inclined to think especially bad. It took all his tact to avoid offending Shields and yet remain moderately near the limits of the truth. But Bobby had already discovered that the very modest, deprecatory terms in which Shields, on their first meeting, had spoken of his own work, in no way represented his real opinion of it. In his own eyes it was evident his work was of the highest quality and presently he began to hint that only the jealousy of other artists had prevented him from winning the recognition that was his due.

“Dinners,” he said abruptly.

“Dinners?” repeated Bobby, vaguely wondering if now he were going to be invited to share that meal.

“Dinners,” repeated Shields firmly. “If I had had the money to give a few smart dinners I should soon have been an R.A. Once there, I should have been one of the gang, they would have had to recognize me—they'll never recognize an outsider, die first—and once recognized, I should soon have been President. And all that missed for lack of a little coin to make a splash. Dining out, that's how an artist wins recognition in England. Oh, well, perhaps I'll come into my own yet. With a bit of money to back me, a little smart entertaining, a few cocktails for the critics, a big one-man show in a swell gallery, that's all there's to it. Only you have to have the money first.”

“I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully.

Shields showed some more of his work, and Bobby, suppressing his conscience, praised a good deal more freely than he had done before.

“A touch of genius there,” he said unblushingly before one of the worst things shown him, and Shields's look grew almost ecstatic. 

“I have sometimes thought so myself,” he admitted.

He was reluctant now to let Bobby go, but the hour for the last train was near and Bobby protested that he must take himself off, though he did hope he might be allowed to come again another time. Shields insisted he must have a drink before he went, and Bobby begged to be excused on the score of lack of time. He had noticed standing on a tray, apparently waiting for removal and washing up, two glasses in which dregs of wine still stood, as though another and a recent visitor had been treated to refreshment. In turning now he managed to knock over the tray and smash both glasses. In a moment he was on his knees, full of apologies, collecting the broken pieces of glass in a clean handkerchief, wrapping them up with the greatest care, protesting that he would have them matched and two exactly similar glasses provided in their place, no matter if he had to search Clermont, Dijon, Paris itself, all the world, to find replicas. Shields tried to protest against this torrent of words that it was quite unnecessary, they were two of the most ordinary glasses in the world, but Bobby cried out in dismay as he saw the time and fled at full speed for his train, carrying with him the broken bits of the glasses he had so carelessly broken.

Soon another parcel was on its way to England, addressed to Olive with fresh, careful, and detailed instructions within.

Early the next morning a heavy thunderstorm broke, and Bobby, having finished looking at the French papers, his own English paper not yet arrived, and having nothing else to read, proceeded to investigate a pile of books he had noticed, most of them probably left behind by previous visitors. He found little to interest him and the elder Camion, passing by, paused to comment on the unfortunate weather—such rain was rare, he protested, in that favoured land of gentle breeze and almost ceaseless sunshine, for indeed he thought of the local weather as hotel-keepers often do think of it when talking to their guests. Discovering that Bobby wanted something to read but could find nothing to his taste, he took him into the private sitting-room of the family and showed him a book-case in which were better-bound books he was plainly a little proud of. There was the inevitable La Fontaine, the edition with the Doré illustrations. It was a prize, the inscription said, won by Charles Camion, for recitation at some local competition. There were a number of French dramatic works, ranging from Racine and Corneille to more modern days, and various other classics of French literature; and if many of the books—this did not apply to the theatrical works—looked as if they had been but little read, they did at least show a recognition of literary values it would have been rare to find in any similar hotel in any small English town. Monsieur Camion also showed with especial pride a large classical dictionary, also with illustrations by Gustave Doré.