The Studio Crime (8 page)

“Well,” said Laurence again, “some of the things are very beautiful, and some are obviously valuable, but of course one can see that they're not very well arranged. In fact, they're in an awful muddle.”

“Just so. They suggest an ignorant indiscriminate collector rather than a connoisseur. They're not only badly arranged, but some of them are trash. Those cast, and badly-cast, bronze altar candlesticks, for instance, which have certainly never been near an altar. There's a whole library of books on art in this bookcase, but” and John rapidly took out three or four volumes and glanced through them, “most of the books are uncut. What do you make of that, Laurence?”

“I suppose, that he hadn't had time to read them.”

“A man may buy a few books that he hasn't time to read,” said John, continuing to take volumes from the shelves, open them, run through the pages with his thumb and put them back, “but he doesn't buy hundreds and not have time to read one. Inclination was lacking, I think, rather than time.”

“I don't see why anybody should buy all these book—jolly expensive, some of them—if he didn't intend to read them,” said Laurence, looking with rather an envious eye at the well-stocked shelves.

“Oh, well!” said John lightly, closing the glass doors and brushing the dust from his fingers. “They look nice in the shelves, don't they?” He stood back with his head on one side and contemplated the rich and attractive array. “And remember, Laurence, that Frew was a vain man.”

So saying, he left Laurence looking covetously at vellum and gilding, and went over to the writing-table, where Hembrow was looking through the counter-foils of the dead man's cheque-book. He had begun to examine with great care a large piece of white blotting-paper which had lain under the dead man's body, when Hembrow exclaimed in a puzzled tone:

“This is queer! May 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; June 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; July 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds. And so on up to November 1. A monthly allowance, apparently. Starting on May 1 this year.”

“Some poor relation or other dependent, perhaps. Why is it queer, Hembrow?”

“The queer thing,” answered Hembrow slowly, “is the name. Emily Rudgwick. I came across an Emily Rudgwick about ten years ago, when I was first promoted. I've good cause to remember her, too, for when I arrested her she gave me a black eye, which did her more harm in the end than it did me. Blackmail's quite serious enough in itself without having a charge of assaulting the police added on to it.” Hembrow smiled, and then looked grave as he resumed: “I wonder if it is the same woman. She's a notorious fence, and as clever as they make them. This little allowance of ten pounds a month certainly needs looking into.”

Christmas, who had been listening attentively, asked:

“Did you find the other letters that were delivered here this evening, Inspector? There was a receipt, according to young Greenaway, and an official letter from the College of Arms.”

Hembrow shook his head.

“I'm afraid the letter went into the fire with the other one, Mr. Christmas. There's not a sign of it. The halfpenny envelope is here, with its contents, but it's only a bookseller's receipt, and of no interest to us.”

Christmas took the thin envelope the Inspector handed him and drew out a slip of paper headed with the name and address of a bookseller in Charing Cross Road.

“Now what in the world,” he asked, “did the late Mr. Frew want Fraser's ‘Law of Libel and Slander' for? Was he going to pose as a lawyer, as well as a connoisseur of the arts? A queer addition to that library of illustrated books! Just have a look in the shelves, Laurence, and see if it's actually there.”

“Yes,” said Laurence after a moment, pulling a discreet and sober volume out from among its magnificent neighbours. “Here it is. And, I say, John, every page is cut, so you can't say old Frew didn't read any of his books.”

“So here,” commented John slowly, “we have a connoisseur who left the Life of Benvenuto Cellini uncut on his shelves while he devoured in a few days the whole of a volume on the laws of libel. This is a queer case, Laurence. And the queerest thing in it is the character of the dead man.”

He returned to the contemplation of the piece of blotting-paper, raising his head after a moment to remark:

“I wish very much that we knew what had happened to that communication from the College of Arms.”

“I'm afraid there's not very much doubt what has happened to it, Mr. Christmas. It was obviously a habit of the deceased to burn his correspondence.”

“And yet,” said John, “even a man who habitually burns his letters does not as a rule burn them until he has answered them.”

“This particular letter may not have required an answer,” Hembrow pointed out.

“And yet it has been answered,” said Christmas gently. “And I should also like very much to know what has happened to the answer. For although the late Mr. Frew may have burnt the letters he received, he certainly did not make a habit of burning the letters he wrote... See, Inspector. The ink on this blotting-paper is quite fresh. I have not yet made the test myself, but I think if you use a mirror you will find that this patch of writing in the corner represents an envelope addressed to the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. And I read these rather more blurred lines lower down as ‘Dear Sir, in answer to your communication I have to say that my desire is—'

There the letter breaks off. The rest was either not blotted, or not written at all. The latter, probably. Frew had a pen in his hand when we found him dead.”

“There is nothing to show that these lines were written to-night,” objected Hembrow. “There is no date that I can see, and ink will retain this fresh look for several days. It is more probable, I think, that this letter was written a day or two ago, and that the communication Mr. Frew received from the Herald's Office to-night was in answer to it.”

“They must have been carrying on quite a correspondence, in that case,” said John lightly. “However, a few inquiries will soon settle the point, and we need not trouble our heads about it at the moment.”

Newtree, however, who had been listening attentively to this conversation, said musingly:

“I wonder what he wanted with the Herald's Office, anyhow.”

Hembrow laughed.

“A pedigree, I expect, Mr. Newtree, or a coat-of-arms, or something of that kind. Well, he'll get on quite well without them now, poor chap.”

The next morning John Christmas was sitting alone in the small library-sitting-room of his flat in Great Russell Street when Inspector Hembrow was announced. He had not slept, but had sat up the rest of the night thinking over the strange pattern of events and persons which lay like a spider's web around the bulky, gorgeously clad body of Gordon Frew sitting dead in his Aladdin's cave of treasures. Above all, the queer personality of the dead man, as revealed in his belongings, intrigued and fascinated John. He had a strong persuasion, as yet without foundation in reason, that it was in this personality that the key to the riddle would be found.

Hembrow looked heavy-eyed and sallow, as though he had slept but little, but his smile and tone were as brisk and cheerful as always.

“You've not been to bed, Mr. Christmas.”

“Wonderful!” murmured John with mock solemnity. “How do you do it, Sherlock?”

The Inspector smiled.

“I notice that although you have changed your coat, sir, you are still wearing an evening shirt and waistcoat.” “Marvellous how the trained eye observes these tiny details,” sighed John. “Have a drink, Inspector. What are you doing in this part of the world?

“Following up a clue to last night's business, but it came to nothing. So as I was passing your door I thought I'd drop in and tell you of one or two new facts that have come to light.”

John's tired face lit up.

“Oh? That's interesting, Inspector. What's the news?”

Hembrow lit a cigarette and blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke.

“Well, in the first place I have gone systematically through Mr. Frew's collection, comparing it with the catalogue, and I find—”

The Inspector paused dramatically.

“Well?” asked Christmas. “What? Don't keep me in suspense, Hembrow. And don't tell me that it is robbery, after all! I felt strongly last night that this was one of those murders in which the motive must be looked for in the hidden recesses of the soul, so to speak. If it turns out to be a mere primitive robbery I shall be bitterly disappointed.”

“I find,” repeated the Inspector impressively, having waited for his friend to finish, “that there is not a single item missing from the large collection.”

Christmas brightened up and leant eagerly over the table.

“Not robbery, then! I must say I'm glad. There's something so crude about a mere murder for gain that it needs very unusual circumstances to rouse one's interest in it. There remains the other usual crude motive to dispose of, and we may find ourselves up against something really interesting.”

“Personally I would rather find myself up against the murderer, as soon and as close as possible,” replied Hembrow with a wry grin. “But I must say this case looks less simple to me now than it did last night. To begin with, idiotic as young Greenaway's story sounded, it is apparently true.”

Christmas smiled.

“The idiotic has a way of being true. After all, Inspector, ‘ life
is
a tale told by an idiot...' You know the quotation, I expect.”

“Yes,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “But I don't think much of it. There's such a thing as cause and effect.”

“Remarkable discovery,” murmured Christmas. “So there is. Where would Scotland Yard be if there weren't? Echo answers, Where?”

“I was going to say,” resumed Hembrow, disregarding this problem, “that I've collected evidence from two of the cabman on the taxi-rank in Greentree Road corroborating Greenaway's account of his own movements between a quarter to eight and half-past last night.”

He took out his note-book and turned the pages.

“Andrew Milton, licensed hackney-cab driver, of 7 Cauldon Street, N.W.8, deposes that he was in and about the shelter in Greentree Road between the hours of seven-forty-five and eight-thirty last night, and that during that time he saw a man walking up and down the north side of the road. The first time he saw him was a little after eight, when he was walking down towards the Finchley Road about ten yards behind a woman, who was hurrying and who turned in at the gate of No. 14, a house let off in flats which stands some thirty yards away from the cab-rank. Several times during the next half-hour Milton saw the man walk slowly up and down. He pointed the man out to another driver, James Hemington, who also makes a statement to the same effect, and further adds that he had a fare at about eight-forty-five, and that as he drove off the rank he noticed the man turn north into Grove End Road and walk off. This supports Greenaway's statement that before coming home at nine-thirty he walked up Hampstead way.”

Hembrow closed his note-book with a sigh. It was plain that he was sorry to see his prospect of an immediate arrest vanish away.

“I told you so, if you'll allow me to make that time-honoured remark,” said Christmas. “Life is a tale told by, about and for idiots, and the conclusions drawn by an idiot often hit the mark when those of a man of sense (yourself, Inspector) fly wide. I thought so silly a story must be true. Have, you never, in your extreme youth, Hembrow, walked up and down past a lady's house, gazing sentimentally at a light in a bedroom window which afterwards turned out to be her aunt's? I have.”

“No,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “Before we were married I used to go and see Mary every Sunday for tea and supper. But I never felt any call to walk up and down first. Why should I?”

“Why, indeed? Well, that disposes of young Greenaway and his misplaced affections. Is there any news of the gentleman in the fez whom everybody seems to have seen and nobody seems to have known?”

“No, there isn't,” replied Hembrow with a frown. “And although you'd think a person like that would be easy enough to find, it doesn't look as if it's going to be easy to trace him. When I saw the name Fuzuli in Mr. Frew's catalogue under an address in Theobald's Road I thought I was on the track. But I've been down there this morning—came straight from there, in fact—and it doesn't help us. Mr. Fuzuli does not answer in the least to the description of the man who went to see the deceased last evening, and has had no dealings with Mr. Frew since last July. I've got a man making a list of all the Turkish curio and carpet-dealers in London. But there must be hundreds!”

“Facts not generally known,” murmured John sententiously. “The Turkish carpet-dealers in London, if laid down end to end, would carpet the road from London to Edinburgh and interfere a good deal with the traffic.”

“The only useful clue to the identity of the stranger,” went on Hembrow, taking no notice of this frivolous interruption, “besides the description of his appearance, of course, is that he asked both Sir Marion Steen and Dr. Merewether the way to Golders Green. As it was late in the evening at the time, it is probable, though not by any means certain, that he lived there. And I have an assistant going through the directories of that district. The fact that he wore a fez should make him easier to trace.”

“You mean, a fez impresses itself upon the jaded eyes of a bus conductor, for instance, where a face, however noble, would pass unnoticed. Quite true. We must hunt out the conductors of all the Golders Green buses that passed the end of Greentree Road between a quarter past eight and half-past or so. There can't have been many.”

“There weren't,” said Hembrow gloomily. “There were only two. And neither of the conductors has any memory of seeing a man in a fez among their passengers. In fact, they both swore that no such person boarded their buses at Greentree Road or anywhere else.”