The Studio Crime (18 page)

John vanished through the neo-classic portals, and Laurence wandered obediently around the grounds, watching the fat pigeons searching for crumbs in the gravel, and looking with faint envy at the hatless young men and women who passed occasionally in and out of the gates in the pursuit of knowledge. The brilliant sunshine and the sight of youth combined to make him feel pensive, vaguely discontented and rather old. He thought, as is the way with every mortal, no matter what his achievements, at such a moment: Forty, and nothing done! Soon I shall be fifty, sixty, seventy.... And his work and life at Madox Court, which at most times seemed all that a man could desire of life, appeared for the moment unadventurous and wearisome in the extreme. He was so wrapped in this contemplative melancholy that he started when John Christmas suddenly appeared beside him.

“I'm sorry I've kept you waiting so long, Laurence, but there were a good many formalities to be gone through. However, I got what I wanted out of them in the end. And now we're going down to the city.”

Laurence allowed himself to be escorted back to Tottenham Court Road and into a passing taxi-cab. As they drove along this lively and interesting thoroughfare his spirits revived, and by the time they reached Trafalgar Square his natural interest in the spectacle of bustling, consequential human life had returned and the last leaf of willow had dropped from him.

“What did you find out at University College, John? I can't imagine that there's anything to be seen there that might throw light on this murder.”

John, who was looking rather well-pleased with himself, replied:

“At Serafine's last night Simon Mordby spun me a romantic yarn about one of his early affairs of the heart. I wanted to find out from the registers whether it were true.”

“And was it?”

“Part of it, certainly. All of it, very probably.”

“Don't be so exasperating, John. I won't be Watson and follow you all over London unless I'm allowed to know what's what and why.”

John smiled.

“Well, to go into details, the registers told me that Simon Hetherley Mordby and George Mathew Merewether took the degree of Bachelor of Medicine at University College in the same year. And they told me that two young women bearing the Christian name of Phyllis were medical students at the college at the same time as our two friends.”

“Well?”

“Their names were Phyllis Nicholson and Phyllis Hilary Templar,” went on John with enjoyment. “Phyllis Templar did not complete the course. Phyllis Nicholson finally took degrees and is now in practice in the West End.”

“I hope,” said Laurence fervently, “that you don't intend to call on Dr. Nicholson and ask her whether she murdered Gordon Frew. If you do, I am not coming with you.”

“How crude you are, my dear Watson,” murmured John reprovingly. “Certainly I don't intend to do any such thing. I don't think we need interest ourselves at all in Dr. Phyllis Nicholson. I should prefer to know the subsequent history of Miss Phyllis Templar.”

“Well,” said Laurence, philosophically, leaning back and lighting a cigarette, “Simon Mordby's love affairs may be very interesting, but I don't see what possible connection they can have with the murder of Gordon Frew. And as it must be at least ten years since he took his degree at University College, the state of his affections at the time can't have much interest for us now.”

“He is still a bachelor,” murmured John pensively, “and so is Merewether.”

“So are you, and so am I. What of it?”

“But Gordon Frew was a married man.”

“Well, so are lots of people—poor devils,” added Newtree with more convention than conviction.

“Do you believe in love, Laurence?”

Newtree dropped his cigarette, groped for it on the floor of the cab, and having picked it up and burnt his fingers, flung it a quarter smoked through the window. For some obscure reason the question seemed to connect itself with the mood of vague melancholy into which he had fallen watching the students in University College grounds.

“My dear fellow,” he protested at last, putting on his pince-nez as if for protection, “are you the editor of a woman's weekly paper? Or am I? And what does the question mean, anyhow? Kindly be more explicit.”

“Certainly. Do you believe in a life-long constancy to the object of an early unrequited affection?”

Newtree looked puzzled, but rather relieved.

“Do I believe that such a constancy may exist? Is that what you mean? Well, of course it may, if the attachment is strong enough and the subject sufficiently obstinate. But what
has
Mordby's constancy or otherwise got to do with the matter in hand?”

“I wasn't thinking of Mordby at the moment,” answered John gravely. “But this is where I get out, Laurence. I shan't be a minute.”

The cab had turned into the courtyard of an imposing building in Queen Victoria Street. Looking curiously at its facade as John stepped out on to the pavement, Laurence read incised on the frontage “College of Arms.” The place had a peaceful and timeworn aspect that accorded well with the ancient traditions for which it stood, and Laurence lit a cigarette and settled down to wait in patience until his erratic friend should have finished his business.

It was not long, however, before John emerged with a thoughtful expression on his face, and giving some directions to the driver, got in beside Newtree and sat down with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Where are we going now?” asked Laurence patiently.

“To Scotland Yard.”

“And when we get to Scotland Yard,” went on the long-suffering Laurence, “how long am I to wait outside?”

“Not at all,” replied John with a laugh. “You shall come in with me and see whether Hembrow's got the murderer yet.”

“And what did you discover just now at the Herald's Office to make you look as happy as a cat full of cream?”

“Something rather unexpected,” replied John quietly.

“You may remember, Laurence, that on the night of the murder I commented on the vanity of the late Mr. Frew, as evidenced in his possessions and the use he made of them.”

“I remember. And it was pretty obvious when you pointed it out that the man was more than a bit of a poseur. Of course it was always obvious in his painting. But lots of people dabble in paint who've no more gift for it than he had. And somehow it never occurred to me that all his culture was a pose. Am I to understand that there was something sinister about his assumption of tastes and gifts that he did not possess? That he was leading a double life, as they say?”

“No, I don't think so,” replied John meditatively. “I haven't found any reason for thinking so; and a double life is neither so easy to lead nor so difficult to detect as the more sensational type of fiction would lead one to suppose. I should say our friend Frew's pose was quite an innocent one, so far as any departure from the truth can be innocent. He desired to be credited with greater talents and more learned and cultured tastes than he actually possessed. But that is a common failing. All of us, except a few simple truthful souls like yourself, Laurence, are tempted to pose as possessing greater knowledge, greater gifts, or wider culture than we actually have. Which is merely a way of saying that vanity is a common human fault. But in some people, and notably in people who have passed their young days in cramping or unappreciative surroundings, this vain desire for approbation, applause, supremacy, becomes a ruling passion. And then it may be dangerous.”

“But,” protested Laurence, looking rather puzzled, “if Frew's vanity was innocent, it cannot have been dangerous, and you said—”

“When I say that the desire for approbation may become dangerous,” said John slowly, “I am not thinking of Frew, but of a possible motive for his murder. And I am taking into consideration three things. The reminiscences that Frew was writing, the book on the libel-laws that he purchased not long before his death, and the sealed envelope which he directed Gilbert Cold to send to a woman who has been convicted of blackmail. Gordon Frew was a vain man, but I do not think that the desire for applause was his ruling passion.”

“What then?”

“Another form of vanity, called jealousy.”

“You talk,” said Newtree curiously, “as if you know already who the murderer is, and all about it.”

John laughed.

“I only wish I did! My dear chap, if I were to meet the murderer face to face this minute I shouldn't know him from Adam. At present I am just blocking in the composition of the picture, to use a phrase you will readily appreciate. I have no idea yet how the details will turn out. I am afraid my methods are not what Hembrow would call sound. The sound detective collects facts and deduces his theory from them. I prefer to create a theory out of the broad characteristics of the case, and then test the facts to see if they support my theory. If they don't, of course the theory falls to the ground; and if no other rises from the ruins to take its place, I have to give the affair up as hopeless.”

“You haven't told me yet what it was you discovered at the College of Arms,” Laurence reminded him.

“Something rather curious,” replied John with a smile. “You remember, Laurence, that on the evening he was killed Frew received a communication from the College of Arms? And that the blotting-paper on his desk showed the beginning of a letter addressed to that body, and apparently in answer to one he had just received? And that the letter itself was nowhere to be found?”

“I remember,” said Laurence. “But, as Hembrow pointed out at the time, there was nothing to show that the letter had not been written and posted a day or two before.”

“I visited the College of Arms just now expressly to clear up that point,” replied Christmas. “And I think it is cleared up pretty conclusively. The letter we found on the blotting-paper began, if you remember: Dear Sir, in answer to your communication— Did it not?”

“Certainly.”

“But I have just learnt that only one communication was addressed to Gordon Frew from the Herald's Office, and that was the communication he received on the night he died. So I think we may conclude that Gordon Frew's letter was also written on that night.”

“Yes,” agreed Laurence. “And in that case it looks as though the murderer had made away with the letter, though it's not easy to see why. What was the business between Frew and the Herald's Office, by the way?”

“Ah, that is the curious thing! Given a man of Frew's character, and given the fact that although he had been born in fairly humble circumstances, he belonged to one of the younger branches of a good family—what business would you suppose he would have with the Herald's College?”

“Why,” said Laurence at once, “I should suppose that he was thinking of trying to establish his descent and his right to a coat-of-arms, or something of that kind.”

“Of course,” agreed John, “that is the obvious conclusion, and the one I came to myself. But it is not the correct one. Our friend Frew was thinking of changing his name.”

“Changing his name!” echoed Laurence, looking the picture of astonishment. “That doesn't sound much like a man who was proud of his blue blood! What was he going to change it to, and why?”

“If we knew the answer to the first question, we might make a guess at the answer to the second,” said John. “Unfortunately, we don't. A few days ago a letter from Gordon Frew was received at the Herald's Office, stating that he wished to change his name and asking for information as to the formalities to be gone through. The information was posted to him on the morning of November 24, and, of course, nothing further has been heard from him.”

“But what an extraordinary thing!” said Laurence. “Did he give any reason for the wish?”

“None. But here we are at the Yard. We'll pay off the taxi and go and see if Hembrow has any news for us.”

Good morning, gentlemen,” said Hembrow cheerfully as John and Laurence entered the room. “I've been expecting to see you along this morning, Mr. Christmas! And I fancy I've got some news for you.”

“About the burglary at Camperdown Terrace?”

“That, and some other news which doesn't bear so directly on the crime, but is a good deal more startling.”

“You haven't arrested the burglar?”

Hembrow smiled.

“Not yet. But I picked up one or two good clues on the spot, which is more than I expected from a twenty-four hour old job. Foot-prints all over die place. No finger-prints. The burglar had taken the precaution of wearing gloves. The press has given such a lot of publicity one way and another to the finger-print system that even amateur cracksmen take that precaution nowadays. But they're not so careful about their feet.

The man had evidently dropped over the garden wall at the back—the foot-prints were quite clear in the soft earth of the flower-bed. I've sent a man up to photograph them.”

“Anything else?”

“A pair of surgical forceps inside a drawer of the chest-of-drawers,” said Hembrow cheerfully. “They had evidently been used to pick the lock and dropped inside the drawer and forgotten. Gloves! Gloves won't help a man much if he goes and makes an elementary mistake like that! And the stump of a hand-made cigarette rolled with a dark smoking-mixture and an A.G. paper lying close to the wall where the man got over. It was fairly plain what he was after, too. Every drawer in the place had been opened and every packet of papers sorted out. It was lucky for us that Mr. Cold didn't lock the envelope in a cabinet in the ordinary way.”

“You haven't got possession of the envelope yet, I suppose?”

Hembrow shook his head.

“It's my idea that if we hang fire a bit the gentleman may give himself away by making an attempt on the Rudgwick's place, having failed to get what he wanted from Camperdown Terrace. I put a man on to watch the place last night, but so far the mouse hasn't walked into the trap.”