The Studio Crime (25 page)

“And how's
le monde ou l'on s'amuse
, John?”

“Not very amusing at the moment.”

“It never is. I can't think why a chap with your brains doesn't use them. You'll die of premature senile decay if you go on trying to amuse yourself without working much longer.”

“I hate the very sound of the word work,” replied John gently. He always adopted his most dilettante pose in the company of this earnest and single-minded friend. It amused them both.

“You can't live for ever without an interest in life.”

“My dear Friar Bacon, I have an interest in life. People.”

Rampson looked at him with vague surprise.

“Ethnology? Now that's rather an interesting subject if you've got time for it. I was talking to Professor Nilssen the other day, and—”

“No, no. Just people. Any people who happen to be lying around, as one might say. Even you interest me no end. You've no idea, Sydenham, how mysterious, romantic and incalculable you are.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Don't you feel the same about me?”

“Not in the least,” replied Rampson brutally. “To me you're just a chap who blows in at terribly frequent intervals and interrupts me at my work. But then I'm not what you call interested in people. They're always wanting one to do something one doesn't want to do.”

“Jolly good guess,” said Christmas. “I want you to do something for me. You needn't put on that cautious expression. It's something quite in your own line, and you can do it without setting your foot outside your hermit's cave.”

“Well?”

John took from his breast-pocket a small tissue-paper package and unwrapping it laid on the table a little piece of thin gold.

“I want you to tell me all there is to know about this object. What made of, where been, what touched lately, if anything, and, in short, as much of family history as the microscope will disclose.”

“You want a good deal,” said Rampson. “You amateur detectives seem to think a microscope is a kind of telepathic medium and psychic investigator rolled into one. I can only find what's there, and if there's nothing there I can't find anything.”

“Quite. Well, you just see if there's anything there, there's a good chap. That's all I want.”

“Right you are, John. Why do you want to know?”

“Somebody has committed a murder.”

Rampson looked both disgusted and bored.

“People are always doing silly things,” he observed. “But of all the silly things people do, killing other people is the silliest. And that's what you call an interest in life!”

“I know, of course,” said John humbly, “that people are not anything like so sensible as molecules. Do you want me to tell you about this murder?”

“I do not. When do you want the report on this scrap of metal?”

“Soon. To-day, if possible.”

“Now, if you like. Stay to lunch. I've had mine, but I dare say Solomon will do you up something wholesome and nourishing.”

“No thanks. I've got too much to do.”

Rampson grinned.

“All right. I'll send old Solomon along with the report this evening. He likes a blow on a bus occasionally. If anything else turns up that you want analysed, John, command me.”

“Thank you, Sydenham, I will. Any suspicious objects I may collect shall be forwarded straight to you in plain vans. No deposit. Money back if not satisfied. Good-bye. I must be off e'er the scent cools, as they say in sleuthing circles.”

“Well, don't go running your fat head into danger. It's not worth it. I can't understand this morbid interest in murders. If a person's murdered, he's dead, and the only reasonable thing to do is bury him.”

“I haven't got time to argue, Sydenham, so I'll simply say that your anti-social tendencies sadden me, your lack of imagination rouses my pity, and your inhumanity fills me with misgivings as to the welfare of your soul. With this veiled rebuke I will take my leave. Don't bother to come down. I'll let myself out with the help of the gentle Solomon.”

John Christmas dismissed his taxi at Oxford Circus and walked west along the crowded pavement past the crowded shops. He could think better when he was walking than when he was sitting restlessly in a taxi that crawled along behind other taxis and buses and stopped every few hundred yards in obedience to the large white hand of a traffic controller. And he wanted to think. He wanted to think about Mr. Lascarides, and chiefly about the extreme flimsiness of the alibi offered by that gentleman. A mysterious telephone-call, an assignation in a thick fog, a stolen emerald—it savoured too much of fiction. It savoured so much of fiction that John felt sure that it was true. For he knew that when a clever man invents a story, he is very careful to make it savour of truth.

He turned up into the comparative peacefulness of Duke Street, and crossed Manchester Square. He paused outside the Wallace Collection, reading the notices on the board in the inattentive, negligent way in which a man who is thinking deeply will occupy his eyes with print. He was just passing on, without having assimilated one word, when a light hand touched him on the shoulder, and turning he found Sir Marion Steen looking at him quizzically.

“Not going in, John? I am. And when I saw you studying the notice-board so attentively, I thought perhaps you would accompany me.”

“Afraid I can't, Sir Marion, I've got something much less pleasant and peaceful to do.”

The financier raised his eyebrows with a half-humorous, half-deprecating look.

“Criminal investigation still? Every man to his taste.” In a serious, confidential tone he went on: “Our friend Merewether? Has anything turned up to clear him of suspicion?”

“Not in the eyes of the police. But I hope it won't be long before they're convinced of the truth.”

“The truth being?”

“That whoever did this thing, it was not Dr. Merewether.”

Sir Marion looked grave.

“It is not very easy to convince people of a negative truth. If only we could make our assertion a positive one, and convince them, not of who did not do it, but of who did it!”

“That is what I hope to do. Do you happen, Sir Marion, to know anything of a man called Lascarides?”

“A Greek name,” murmured Sir Marion, poking thoughtfully at a crevice in the pavement with his malacca cane. “No, I have certainly heard the name before. It is not an uncommon one, I imagine. But I don't think I have ever met anybody of the name. Why, if I may ask?”

“He's an acquaintance of the late Mr. Frew's who's cropped up in connection with the case, that's all. And I want to know as much about him as possible—more than I'll ever get him to tell me, I'm afraid. He keeps a carpet shop not far from here, and seems to be rather a swell in the carpet dealing line, so I thought you might have come across him.”

“No,” said Sir Marion, looking thoughtful. “Sorry I can't help you, John.” He looked pensively at his young friend in silence for a moment, as if he were wondering whether it would be tactful to ask for more information. “Is this Lascarides by any chance the man in the fez who accosted Dr. Merewether and myself in Greentree Road? I only ask out of curiosity, so if you would rather keep your counsel, John, you have only to say so.”

“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.”