The Studio Crime (21 page)

Hembrow smiled.

“You're going too far, Mr. Christmas. I never said he was the murderer. I don't think he was.”

“Oh, I thought you had the serene, expectant air of one who contemplates making an arrest in the near future.”

“So I do. But I don't contemplate arresting old Lascarides. Not for murder, anyhow. But I'm glad we've got our hands on him because it clears the way a bit to the real murderer. So long as he was missing, there was always the possibility that one was going quite on the wrong tack. Now I feel fairly sure that I'm on the right one.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Christmas. “But if Lascarides is, as they say, guiltless of blood, why should he fabricate that rather thin story about meeting a man at the corner of Circus Road? Why not say frankly: ‘Yes, Inspector, I cannot tell a lie, I
did
visit the late regretted Mr. Frew on the evening of the tragedy, yet murderer am I none!' Why not? It would be much the most sensible thing to do.”

“Not in the circumstances,” replied Hembrow grimly.

“Surely honesty, as the old adage has it, is the best policy?”

“Depends what you've been doing,” said the Inspector. “You see, Mr. Christmas, I've got a pretty good suspicion, in fact more than a suspicion, that old Lascarides sells something else besides rugs. Something which would mean a term of imprisonment for him if he was caught selling it. In a word, opium. And I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the deceased was an opium-taker—a drug-fiend, as they say in novels. I found quite a lot of the stuff in a secret drawer in his writing-table. Now, since Frew collected rugs and such things, and Lascarides sells them, isn't it rather likely, apart from all the other evidence, that Frew got drugs, as well as rugs, from our Greek friend? And if Lascarides visited Frew on the night of the murder, as we may take it he did, isn't it likely that he left with him that unopened packet of opium I found in the writing-table? And isn't it natural that he should risk any kind of silly lie rather than risk his little activities being found out? Trafficking in drugs isn't quite such a serious matter as murder, of course. But it's quite serious enough, to account for any lies that Lascarides may take it into his head to tell.”

“True,” said John pensively, “but—though I'm sorry to be so obstinate, Inspector, it doesn't account for his appalling squint. And it doesn't account for his having asked the crossing-sweeper the way to Primrose Hill.”

Hembrow smiled.

“I think we may take it that that crossing-sweeper of yours was mistaken, Mr. Christmas.”

John looked back at him thoughtfully.

“To err is human,” he agreed, and said no more.

Hembrow picked up the slip of paper he had laid on his desk and held it out to John with an air of some importance. John read: “Gordon Frew, painter, married Phyllis Hilary Templar at the British Consulate, July 14, 1921.”

“The message came through from the Paris Sûreté this morning, in answer to one of mine. You don't seem very much surprised, Mr. Christmas.”

“I'm not,” admitted John with a smile. “But I'm delighted, Inspector, at this confirmation of a little guess of my own.”

“Oh, you'd guessed it, had you?” said Hembrow with a rather mortified air. “May I ask how, Mr. Christmas?”

“I'm afraid my methods of arriving at the conclusion would make you laugh, my dear Hembrow, so I won't go into details. But I came to the conclusion by these steps—the expression on a man's face when Frew's name was mentioned, a book-plate, the look on another gentleman's lace while a song was being sung, the registers of University College, and the information you gave me yesterday as to our friend Frew's weird past.”

Hembrow looked a trifle disgruntled.

“Well, I shouldn't stake much on a deduction chiefly built up on the look of people's faces. But it's certainly come off this time. You'll notice that the lady had the same surname as one of Frew's associates in America.”

“I should think she's probably his daughter,” said John casually.

“Quite possible, of course,” assented the Inspector. “But have you any special reason for thinking so, Mr. Christmas?”

“Well,” replied John lightly, “she isn't old enough to be his mother or his sister. And I deduce the first degree of relationship from her anxiety to defend the gentleman's reputation. An aunt or cousin would have taken it more philosophically.”

Hembrow looked at him curiously for a moment, then laughed.

“I think you're going a little too far in the fantastic direction there, Mr. Christmas. But we can soon find out her relationship, if she's a relation at all. Though personally I don't think it's a point that bears on the case. To get back to facts. Dr. Mordby button-holed me at the court this morning just before the proceedings started, and said he wanted to make a statement. It was about an incident that happened on the evening of the murder. I asked him why he hadn't made the statement earlier, and he said that he had forgotten the incident in the excitement of the discovery of the body, and only realized later that it was his duty to report it.”

“I can tell you what it was,” said John grimly. “It was about a handkerchief.”

“M'm,” assented Hembrow. “You're doing a lot of good guessing this morning, Mr. Christmas.”

“It wasn't a guess. Mordby had already reported the incident, as you put it, to me and half a dozen other people at Miss Wimpole's house yesterday evening. Old snake.”

“Eh? Come, Mr. Christmas, it was Dr. Mordby's duty to report the incident.”

“It wasn't, his duty to broadcast it at an evening party.” Hembrow was silent for a moment, twiddling his pen with a look of great concentration on his face. Finally he looked up seriously at his friend and said:

“Mr. Christmas, if you're a friend of Dr. Merewether's—I mean, if you've got friendly feelings for him, more than an ordinary acquaintance, I advise you to leave this case alone. I should be sorry, because I like talking things over with you, and often your ideas are useful, you seeing things from a fresh, different angle. But for your own sake, I think you'd best leave it alone. For I've got little doubt in my own mind now that Dr. Merewether was an accessory after, and probably also before, the fact; every new piece of evidence that comes to light goes to build up the case against him.”

Christmas looked back at Hembrow with a face as grave as his own.

“Your theory being,” he said slowly, “that Frew was murdered by the woman who escaped through the studio window, and that she was assisted to escape by Dr. Merewether?”

“Exactly.”

“That makes Merewether an accessory after, but not before.”

“There is strong presumptive evidence that he was also an accessory before the fact.”

“Then,” said Christmas decidedly, “the presumptions on which the evidence is founded are false.”

Hembrow sighed.

“There you are, you see, Mr. Christmas. Your personal feelings about Merewether interfere with your common sense at every turn.”

“Not at all,” said John stoutly. “My common sense and my personal feelings go hand in hand!”

Hembrow shook his head.

“Take my advice, Mr. Christmas. Leave this affair to the police.”

John smiled and shook his head.

“Assuming that your theory is correct, Inspector, what do you make of the cry?”

“The cry?”

“The noise which could be heard down in Newtree's studio and sent Merewether up to investigate things in the first place. It couldn't have been given by Frew, for he was already dead. You don't, I suppose, suggest that the woman, an hour after she had murdered Frew, was so overcome with emotion as to cry out loudly and suddenly in a voice which could be heard in the room below and which would jeopardize her escape? Who gave the cry, then?”

Hembrow pushed his chair a little way back from his desk, and leaning on the edge looked gravely and steadfastly at his friend.

“Mr. Christmas,” he said, “cast your mind back to the evening of the murder, and the moment that noise was heard. Try to forget that it led to the discovery of a dead man. What did the noise sound like to you?”

John did as he was told.

“Why,” he said at last, “it sounded like a cry—a sort of gasping cry. At least, it sounded more like a cry than anything.”

“Could you swear on your oath that the noise you heard was a cry of distress?”

John hesitated.

“No, I couldn't swear to the distress. How could I? I don't know that I would
swear
to it being a cry at all. One can't be quite sure with noises from up above. I would swear that it
sounded
like a cry.”

“Did it alarm you at the time?”

“No,” said John slowly. “It wasn't loud and obvious enough to be alarming. I was interested. But I wasn't alarmed.”

“Would it have occurred to you to go up and investigate if you had been alone?”

“No—no, I can't say it would. One needs to be fairly sure that something's wrong before one can go knocking at people's doors and asking if they're all right. I should probably have listened for a bit, and if I'd heard no more curious sounds I should have forgotten it.”

“Exactly. It was not until after the murder had been discovered that you really seriously thought of the sound you had heard as a cry of distress. Now, Mr. Christmas, of all the people in Mr. Newtree's studio at the time, Dr. Mordby did not hear the sound at all; Mr. Newtree suggested that it sounded like the feet of a chair scraping over the parquet floor. Sir Marion Steen thought it sounded like a loud yawn; Miss Serafine Wimpole made no remark about it at all; and Mrs. Wimpole asked, so far as I can gather without any symptoms of alarm: ‘What was that?' I know that, after the event, they all agreed that the sound might have been a cry and that the idea of there being something wrong had entered their heads. But one must not attach too great importance to that kind of wisdom after the event. My point is that, when the sound was heard, not one of these people was seriously alarmed or disturbed by it, although afterwards they naturally connected it, just as you did, with the murder. Not one of them, Mr. Christmas, suggested that the matter ought to be investigated—except Dr. Merewether. Dr. Merewether immediately offered to go and see if Frew was all right, and immediately started for the door. Not only that, not only was he determined to go, he was also determined to go alone. Dr. Mordby offered to accompany him, but he very firmly declined the offer. Why? If he was merely going to investigate the cause of a sound which might have meant trouble, and possibly danger, surely it would have been natural to take a companion. But if he knew very well what he was going to find upstairs, if the sound which all of you heard but none of you could identify, had been a signal to him to come—then naturally he would insist upon going alone.”

“A signal?”

“Why not? The murderess had to escape before Mr. Newtree and the rest of you came up and found what had happened. Time was running short.”

“I still don't see why she should have risked rousing the house just so that Merewether could watch her escape.”

“
Help
her escape, Mr. Christmas. She could not risk going down the stairs and out at the front door. Once outside the house she was fairly safe in that fog, but with a party on and people coming in and out of the front door, to say nothing of Greenaway hovering about with refreshments and so on, it would have been too risky to go downstairs and through the hall. There remained the window.”

“Well?”

“You climbed out of that window yourself, Mr. Christmas. Did you enjoy it?”

“I didn't mind at the moment. I shouldn't have cared about doing it in cold blood. When I was hanging on to the window-sill by my eyelashes, so to speak, there was a drop of two or three feet on to a sloping out-house roof. Once on the out-house, it was fairly easy to scramble down.”

“You are—how tall, Mr. Christmas? Six foot three?”

“Six foot two!”

“The woman who got out of that window on the night of the murder took size four in shoes. She was probably about five foot to five foot four in height. It would have been a risky business her getting out of that window alone. She might well have slipped and injured herself severely, to say nothing of the noise she would make dropping three or four feet on to a galvanized iron roof. She had to escape by the window, and she had to be assisted. Dr. Merewether leaned over the sill and holding her wrists lowered her until her feet touched or nearly touched the roof. The rest she had to do by herself.”

“I still think,” said John, “that to make a noise, a cry or whatever it was, that might have alarmed the house, was an extraordinarily risky way of getting help from an accomplice.”

“Might have alarmed the house,” repeated Hembrow slowly. “Why do you keep saying that, Mr. Christmas? It did
not
alarm the house. It was not sufficiently loud and startling, as you yourself just said, to alarm the house. If Dr. Merewether had not answered it, no one else would have done. You said so yourself. And, even if some other person had thought it necessary to go up, Dr. Merewether could effectually have prevented him, as he prevented Dr. Mordby. And, in any case, it's difficult to do a murder without taking some small risk, you know, Mr. Christmas. The alternative, which would have involved Dr. Merewether's going secretly up to Frew's flat under a pretence of fetching something from the hall, or some other pretext, would have been riskier still, if Greenaway or somebody had seen him go up. Also, without some kind of signal, he could not know that the murder had been accomplished. For the woman had to wait her opportunity before she could accomplish it. I'm sorry, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow kindly and regretfully. “You see how it is. You see why I advised you to withdraw. For it's not just a theory that happens to fit the facts. There's plenty of evidence to prove it, though not quite enough yet to convince a jury against a clever defence.”