But the atmosphere that had existed before that jarring note had intruded was never quite regained. Despite Carthallow’s efforts to obliterate it his guests were finding it too intriguing to be forgotten and it was a fruitful source of conversation for the small groups of conscious bohemians into which the party tended to disintegrate.
Mordecai Tremaine searched in his mind for some topic that would be safe.
“I wonder what makes some people buy pictures?” he observed. “Warren Belmont, for instance, the millionaire who’s just come over here. I wonder whether he buys them because he really appreciates them or because he feels that having made several million dollars he’s expected to have a few art treasures in his home?”
But Adrian Carthallow was not inclined to be talkative.
“Belmont? Don’t know the fellow,” he said shortly.
He moved away and Mordecai Tremaine was left with the impression that he had somehow managed to say the wrong thing.
Mingled with a sense of pity for Neale, behaving, after all, only as a father might have been expected to act, there was a feeling that Adrian Carthallow had come out of it rather well. That blow had been a heavy one and the artist would have been justified in retaliating. His growing corpulence did not disguise the fact that he was a much more powerfully built man than the elderly colonel and would have had no difficulty in knocking him down.
He had displayed a magnanimity that gave the lie to those who had decried him when Christine Neale’s portrait had been exhibited and had said that he was seeking only to achieve notoriety. If he had chosen to make capital out of Neale’s assault he could have been sure of publicity; the newspapers would have attended to that. Instead of seizing his opportunity he had allowed the incident to be forgotten.
He spoke of this altruism to Anita Lane when he saw her on the following day and was surprised by her cynicism.
“Maybe,” she said, “he did it because he was quite sure it wouldn’t pass unnoticed and he was clever enough to put himself in a good light by pretending to turn the other cheek.”
Mordecai Tremaine stared at her in dismay. Rebuffs and disappointments in a hard world had not yet convinced him that human nature possessed such tortuous depths.
“You don’t mean,” he protested, “that Carthallow intended all the time to tell the newspapers?”
“Why should he?” said Anita practically. “There were plenty of people at last night’s party who’ll be only too willing to see that the story gets into print. And Adrian Carthallow, not being by any means a fool, is well aware of that.”
Tremaine tried to convince himself that long experience as a critic had tended to make Anita over-suspicious, but he was unable to banish the tiny, carping doubt. Had Carthallow been acting? Had he been keeping one eye on the newspapers all the time?
He thought of something that had been puzzling him.
“By the way, Nita,” he said, “you did tell me that Carthallow would be certain to try and contact Warren Belmont, didn’t you?”
“It won’t be Adrian if he doesn’t. I don’t think they’ve met publicly, but you can bet he knows all about Belmont and is moving heaven and earth to get acquainted.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. What are you being so mysterious about?”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“Oh—nothing.”
But in this he was not strictly truthful. He knew that it was a trivial incident. Adrian Carthallow, preoccupied with thoughts of his brush with Colonel Neale, had been in no mood for confidences. He had been paying small attention and might even have misheard what had been said. Tremaine was aware that there could be a dozen simple explanations for the artist’s unwillingness to discuss Belmont.
And yet it puzzled him.
5
IT WAS TWO days after the party at Adrian Carthallow’s house that Mordecai Tremaine heard from Jonathan Boyce. Although his meetings with the Scotland Yard detective were irregular—Boyce had now been confirmed in the rank of chief inspector and was seldom free from official duties—they kept in touch with each other, and knowing his friend’s absorbing interest in all things criminal Boyce often gave him an outline of the cases upon which he was engaged.
They understood each other. Between the stocky, brusquely spoken Yard man and the mild-looking, elderly retired tobacconist there was a bond based upon mutual trust. With Boyce to guide him Tremaine had found his way among the strange places of the underworld. His knowledge and his appetite had grown rapidly, and it would have surprised those casual acquaintances who knew him only as a benevolent, rather garrulous and romantic elderly gentleman to learn of the store of criminal matters that lay within his mind.
Boyce, it seemed, was engaged upon an investigation that required him to visit a house in the West End where a considerable amount of gambling was rumoured to take place. He was not going in his official capacity and would Mordecai Tremaine care to accompany him?
Mordecai Tremaine, of course, would be delighted. He had always wanted to visit a gambling hell, and accordingly, although inwardly a little tremulous at the thought of the haunt of iniquity in which he might find himself, he met the Yard man at the appointed rendezvous.
His first reaction was one of intense disappointment. He had been expecting a basement room, approached by a series of guarded doors and filled with tough-looking individuals scrutinizing every stranger. Instead, he was admitted to a well-furnished, impeccably decorated house by a dignified servant whom it was impossible to associate with anything not done in the best circles.
If there was any check upon the people who were given entrance it was one with which Jonathan Boyce evidently knew how to deal, for no questions were asked. The only concession to convention was that it was necessary to pass another door before arriving at the room in which the serious business was carried on and here stood a custodian who made a more careful examination, although he did it with the polite air of a shopwalker attending to the wants of a valued customer. Boyce produced a card and the door was opened for them.
Mordecai Tremaine said, under his breath:
“I take it that they don’t know who you really are?”
“I hope not,” the inspector returned grimly. “I went to a great deal of trouble to make sure there wouldn’t be any rough stuff.”
Tremaine could not repress a suspicion that his companion was exaggerating. It was difficult to imagine anything untoward taking place in this long, quiet chamber that was like a room in a highly exclusive club.
The gathering was an all male one. Groups of men were dotted about the room, some seated, some standing, and all of them behaving with a decorum that contrasted violently with Mordecai Tremaine’s preconceived ideas.
The biggest group was centred upon a large table, and when he drew closer he saw that it carried a roulette wheel. Judging by the chips near the elbows of several of the players there were considerable amounts being wagered.
Mordecai Tremaine’s curious eyes wandered from face to face, eager to observe what type of man it was who was prepared to commit his financial destiny to the laws of chance—assuming, of course, that there was no skilfully balanced wheel to enable the croupier to exercise a nice judgment as to who should declare a profit on the evening’s entertainment.
And it was then that he saw Adrian Carthallow.
The artist’s attention was fixed upon the spinning wheel. There was a small heap of counters in front of him. Tremaine guessed from his strained expression that it was smaller than it had been when he had started to play.
The wheel stopped. Tremaine was not close enough to hear the croupier’s words but it was clear from Carthallow’s face that the worst had happened.
With a savage gesture he pushed the remaining counters from him on to another number. His companion said something to him. Carthallow looked blackly thunderous for an instant or two and then he seemed to become aware that he was betraying himself and managed to smile. The other pushed h
is own pile of counters towards him.
Evidently the two were on intimate terms. The man who was with Adrian Carthallow had not acted like a stranger, performing a diffident deed of generosity, but like an old friend who was familiar enough to be able to do such things without the need for explanations.
Tremaine scrutinized him carefully. He was not a man likely to be either overlooked or forgotten. He was a big man, wide-shouldered, with fair colouring and with a carefully trimmed beard that gleamed silkily under the light. His voice was resonant. Tremaine heard him laugh and set him down as a man who both enjoyed life and lived it hard.
So far Carthallow, intent upon his game, had not looked in his direction. But now, as the wheel spun again, he glanced across and their eyes met.
Mordecai Tremaine began to make a smiling recognition, for it was obvious that the artist must have seen him and he was expecting the other to acknowledge him with a friendly gesture.
But the smile died away, for the gesture did not come. Carthallow looked at him as if he was looking at a stranger. Or perhaps with more significance than he would have employed with someone he did not know. Almost there was a hostile resentment in his eyes.
It was only for a second or two that their glances held across the room. And then Adrian Carthallow’s eyes dropped and he began to speak to the blond man at his side.
Jonathan Boyce said:
“Someone you know?”
Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
“Someone I thought I knew,” he amended.
Boyce gave him a curious glance but did not question him. He had his own enquiries to make and in any case he knew that if there was anything of real interest in the air Mordecai Tremaine would tell him sooner or later what it was.
The Yard man purchased a handful of chips and joined the players around the roulette table. Tremaine stood just behind him watching the spinning wheel that carried so much of hope and fear in its whirling numbers. He guessed that Jonathan Boyce was merely making a show in order to lend credence to his presence.
He did not want to give Adrian Carthallow the impression that he was being spied upon and he deliberately refrained from looking across to the other side of the table. When at last he risked a glance the artist had gone and so had the fair-haired man with him. They must have quitted the table almost as soon as Jonathan Boyce and himself had joined it.
Following upon Carthallow’s refusal to acknowledge him it seemed a little odd. But maybe, he reflected, the other had been chagrined at being discovered in such a place; it had been his way of indicating that he did not wish the matter to be remarked upon.
Boyce did not spend long at the table. After ten minutes or so he glanced at his watch and then gave an exclamation and gathered up the chips remaining to him. Mordecai Tremaine took the hint and waited discreetly in the background as Boyce obtained cash in exchange and then walked with him towards the door.
The custodian regarded them with what Mordecai Tremaine felt to be a suspicious eye.
“Leaving already, sir?” he said, casually enough.
“Must, unfortunately,” returned Boyce. “Just remembered an appointment. Damned nuisance.”
Mordecai Tremaine pushed his pince-nez back into position and hoped his hand wasn’t shaking. His throat felt dry. He was thinking that the more robust aspects of a crime investigator’s life were by no means in his line.
When they were outside in the cool night air and the house was a block behind them, Boyce said:
“Well, Mordecai, what did you think of it?”
“I’m glad to be out,” Mordecai Tremaine said. “But perhaps it’s because I was scaring myself before we went in with lurid thoughts of the kind of place it was going to turn out to be. It didn’t look any more dangerous really than a friendly society meeting.”
“Provided you spend your money and don’t make trouble it’s friendly enough,” said the inspector. “It has to be. Otherwise the customers wouldn’t come. By the way,” he added curiously, “who was your friend?”
Mordecai Tremaine said, slowly:
“Adrian Carthallow. The artist. He didn’t seem very pleased to see me.”
“No?” Boyce seemed unimpressed. “Carthallow, eh? Half the people in there tonight are respectable members of society who’d hate to think their names were going to appear in the newspapers. It’s surprising how the desire to appear to lead a moral life in the eyes of the neighbours still clings. Carthallow’s probably like the rest of them—didn’t like to be caught out doing what most of his friends already know he does anyway.”
Mordecai Tremaine went to bed trying to convince himself that Jonathan Boyce was right and that that had indeed been the reason for Carthallow’s attitude. But somehow his mind refused to accept such a soothing explanation. The incident persisted in linking itself with Carthallow’s refusal to talk about Warren Belmont. It stirred vague doubts. It made him wonder what it was the artist wanted to hide.
He told himself that his imagination was getting the better of him again and picked up Romantic Stories. He settled down to read the latest sugared offering from his favourite author.
It was an excellent story—well written and with an original plot—and it should have calmed him into a state of pleasure in which sleep should have been easy. But the formula refused to work. He placed the magazine on the bedside table with So Come Kiss Me, Sweet and Twenty only half read, and switched off the light.
He lay back on the pillows and stared into the darkness. He was absorbed by the thought that when he had mentioned Warren Belmont to Adrian Carthallow the artist had been afraid.
Which, of course, regarded soberly, was absurd.
Mordecai Tremaine sighed, turned over, and applied himself grimly to the business of going to sleep.
6
IT WAS ANOTHER coincidence that the morning newspapers should have carried a further reference to Warren Belmont. The millionaire had just reached New York. He had given the reporters an interview and had boasted of his purchases.
A tapestry from Paris, a marble from Rome, a rare example of the goldsmith’s art in the shape of a gold christening cup from Florence, and from England he had been successful in obtaining a Gainsborough from the Earl of Harsley’s collection. There was also a hitherto unsuspected painting by Reynolds that he had bought after protracted negotiations with its owner, an impoverished peer, who had requested as a condition of the sale that his name should not be made public.
Although no longer of first-rank importance, impoverished peers still possessed a certain news-value, and, of course, the new Reynolds was of passing interest. The New York correspondents of the London dailies who ran semi-gossip columns in their home journals had considered the item worthy of being cabled across the Atlantic.
Mordecai Tremaine folded his newspaper, observed the spring sunshine and decided that he would pay a visit to the National Gallery. It was a long time since he had been to the Gallery and in view of his present interest in things artistic it would, he considered, be an excellent plan if he were to renew his acquaintance with it.
He did not dream that there was anything of particular significance in his sudden decision, nor that fate was once more guiding his footsteps.
He wandered through the galleries, studying the exhibits with a painstaking thoroughness. He prided himself that he was giving a convincing impersonation of an expert.
The Italians, with their curves and their insistence upon religious backgrounds, were inclined to weary him, but he was genuinely stirred by the clear lines of the Dutch school. He stood before Jan Van Eyck’s Arnolfini and his Wife, admiring the detailed perfection of the image in the mirror on the wall behind the two subjects of the portrait.
The Rembrandts, too, stirred his pulses. He was fascinated by the cunning use by that master of his craft of dark masses and the concentration of light upon a single point.
At the far end of one wall was a Rubens—the Portrait of a Doctor. Tremaine studied the wise old man, a twinkle
in his eye, his face high-lighted by the ruff, and wondered how much shrewdness and knowledge had lain behind that wide brow in his lifetime. He moved on, past the vivid purple splendour of El Greco’s Agony in the Garden, towards the centre of the room, where hung the vast achievement of Sir Anthony Van Dyck’s Charles I. Looking at the armoured figure seated so proudly on his horse Tremaine found himself reflecting upon the bloody end to which that ill-starred monarch had come. Little sign here of what destiny had in store; no warning shadow of the scaffold.
He stepped back so that he could observe the general effect more easily, and it was then that he saw Helen Carthallow.
She was a yard or two away from him, occupying one of the wooden seats running down the centre of the gallery. There was someone with her. Mordecai Tremaine frowned, stared, and then knew that he had not been mistaken. It was the gipsy of the Allied Arts Ball.
Even if his sentimental soul had not been always ready to thrust forward romantic ideas he would have known that here were two people in love. It was in their faces, in their eyes, in the way they sat so closely, oblivious of the paintings and of the people about them.
Helen Carthallow was wearing a grey costume with a white blouse that was gathered softly feminine at her throat, and a grey fur hat perched attractively upon her dark hair. She was beautiful with an air of appeal he had not observed in her before. It was as though she had lowered the defensive barrier she normally erected against the world. No doubt, Mordecai Tremaine’s mind said, it was because she was with her lover.
He could not stifle the bitterness. He had old-fashioned ideas on the sanctity of marriage; Romantic Stories did not always allow the course of true love to run smooth but its code did not approve of the eternal triangle, and Mordecai Tremaine had been raised on a diet whose basic ingredient was a belief in the permanency of the marriage vows.
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