“Belmont?” Penross looked at him curiously, seeking an explanation for the apparent change of subject, but he knew that Mordecai Tremaine did not ask questions without a purpose. “Wait a moment—isn’t he the millionaire who was over here from the States at the beginning of the year?”
“He came to Europe to buy art treasures,” Tremaine said. “Among other things he took back with him a painting by SirJoshua Reynolds.”
“Yes, I did read something about it. Didn’t pay much attention, though—not in my line.”
“Belmont bought this particular Reynolds from a peer whose name wasn’t mentioned but who inherited a lot of paintings—most of them worthless—when he came into the title. The Reynolds was discovered amongst them. I wonder, Charles, whether you could find out for me the name of the peer and whether there’s been any reaction from Belmont?”
“I might.” Penross did not sound enthusiastic. “Can’t guarantee how long it’ll take, though. If Belmont’s gone back to the States it’ll probably mean putting through a request to the F.B.I.”
“I’d still like to know, Charles. And I’ve a feeling that you might like to know, too.”
Mordecai Tremaine settled his pince-nez firmly in position. He had seen enough of Penross to be aware that the inspector was under no illusions that when Westfield—or Galley—was traced, the problem of Adrian Carthallow’s death would be solved. There would still remain the tedious, tortuous business of uncovering the motive and proving the opportunity.
The reason for Penross’s jubilation lay not in any belief that he had found a murderer but in the knowledge that he had found an alternative. He had found an alternative to Helen Carthallow.
And it was still Helen Carthallow who was the key to the mystery. It was still Helen Carthallow who said that she had killed her husband.
7
THERE WERE NAMES carved into the spongy turf. Mordecai Tremaine amused himself searching for them. He wondered who Thelma and Ruby were and whether they had married George and Harry or whether theirs had been merely a seaside acquaintanceship that had faded when the train had left Falporth on a Saturday morning, taking them back to another year of routine.
The headland formed one arm of the narrow bay that was a sixpenny bus ride from Falporth and to which he had made his way in a minor spirit of exploration. The theory that had been creeping to steady life in his mind was still a very nebulous thing, with many ragged edges in its outline, but he was convinced that it held the core of truth and he wanted solitude and the stimulation of the wind from the sea.
Certainly there was nothing lacking as far as stimulation was concerned. He made his way slowly along the uneven but well-marked path that led to the headland’s extremity against a wind that blew more stiffly the further he advanced.
He raised his head as he neared the end of the path in order to take in his surroundings and found himself confronting a man who was standing in the shelter of the rocks. He said:
“Good morning, Colonel. Enjoying the view?”
Colonel Neale nodded.
“Yes—magnificent, isn’t it? But you seem to know who I am. I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”
“We haven’t exactly met,” Mordecai Tremaine said. “But we had an acquaintance in common—Adrian Carthallow.”
He saw the sudden contraction of the other’s eyebrows and saw his hand go up to smooth the grey moustache, trimmed with a military precision. A certain frostiness of manner replaced the friendliness with which he had at first responded to Tremaine’s greeting.
“I’ve placed you now,” he said. “You’re Tremaine, aren’t you? The detective fellow. I saw your name in the newspapers.”
At close quarters he looked older than Mordecai Tremaine had imagined him, but he still had the air of a man used to command. It was easy to visualize him as the martinet, determined to stand no nonsense. That night at Carthallow’s house he had been out of his element, among people whose ways were alien to him and with whom he possessed nothing in common. He was by no means the ineffectual rather pathetic figure he had appeared then.
Tremaine thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his raincoat and tried to assume his most benevolent and disarming expression.
“It always seems to me such a tragedy when a creative artist is cut off in his prime, as it were. The death of a man like Carthallow is a great loss to the world. Don’t you think?”
“No,” retorted Neale uncompromisingly. “Whoever put that bullet into him did something I’d been wanting to do myself.”
Mordecai Tremaine’s apparently shocked eyes regarded him over the top of the pince-nez.
“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” he said. And then, as though the knowledge had only just come to him and he realized that he had made a blunder, he added awkwardly: “Of course—your daughter. I’m so sorry. Carthallow painted her portrait, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Colonel Neale said grimly. “Carthallow painted her portrait.” His grey eyes searched his companion’s face with an intentness that was not friendly and yet was not openly hostile. He said: “I can hardly believe you were unaware of that fact. As I understand it you’ve a close connection with the local police inspector who’s in charge of the case.”
“Whatever a man’s real feelings might be,” Mordecai Tremaine said, evading the question, “it seems to me to be very unwise for him to go around saying that he would like to have killed Adrian Carthallow—particularly if his alibi isn’t too strong.”
A wintry smile played among the hard lines of the elderly man’s face.
“I thought you weren’t quite such a harmless fool as you’ve been trying to pretend. There’s no point in my hiding the fact that I think Carthallow was a scoundrel who deserved all that came to him. The police will be able to find plenty of people who’ve heard me threaten him and they know all about my daughter. The newspapers gave it enough publicity.”
“Why did you come to Falporth?”
“Why does anybody come to Falporth?” the other countered sardonically. “I needed a holiday.”
“Did you know Adrian Carthallow was here?”
“It’s common knowledge that I’ve taken an interest in Carthallow’s activities for some months past. I couldn’t have avoided finding out that he had a house down here and used to spend several months here every summer.”
“Were you prepared to kill him if you could?”
“If I could have done it without putting my neck in the noose,” the colonel said flatly, “it would have been a pleasure.”
He moved away from the rocks against which he had been sheltering and pulled his raincoat around him. He added:
“I’ve talked to you because I know you’ve some kind of standing with the police, but if you think it will do you any good you’re mistaken. I’ve already had an interview with the inspector. My alibi may not be too strong but it’s strong enough. Nobody can prove I went into that house and that’s the only thing that’s going to convince a jury. Good day to you.”
Mordecai Tremaine said, mechanically:
“Good day.”
He watched the colonel’s spare figure go striding vigorously along the path. Despite his years the other was still active; he had obviously kept himself fit since his retirement.
Another thought came into his mind as he, too, went back over the headland. Adrian Carthallow had been killed with a weapon of Service pattern. And Colonel Neale would know all about Service revolvers.
He was glad there was no sign of the other at the bus stop. It would have been an embarrassment to have travelled back with him.
When they pulled up at the terminus in Falporth and he descended from the vehicle he almost collided with two people who were passing. He looked up with a word of apology and found himself facing Helen Carthallow and Elton Steele.
They greeted him pleasantly enough, but he knew that the meeting was an unwelcome one to them. The gaiety that had been in Helen Carthallow’s eyes died away and her face beca
me defensive and expressionless. It was as though she had told herself she must be on her guard with him.
Elton Steele put his arm around her waist. There was something symbolic in the gesture. Mordecai Tremaine felt that the big, dark man was throwing down a challenge. He left them with the disturbing impression that they felt themselves to be united against a common enemy, and that in their minds they had identified that enemy with himself.
He spent the afternoon at the house with Jonathan Boyce. There was a swell running in the bay and the Yard man had abandoned the cruise he had been proposing to take along the coast to St. Mawgan.
“Judging by the symptoms,” Boyce observed, addressing a Mordecai Tremaine who was embedded in an easy chair facing his own, “you’re expecting things to happen.”
Tremaine took off his pince-nez and began to polish them reflectively.
“The situation,” he observed, “is certainly highly interesting.”
He did not, however, expect developments quite so soon. It was just after tea when Charles Penross appeared. He arrived in an official patrol car and his manner left no doubt that his visit was not merely a social one.
“I’ve got the information you wanted about Warren Belmont, Mordecai,” he said, without preliminary. “It didn’t take as long as I thought it was going to. Because there’d already been a reaction from him. New York asked the Yard to make certain enquiries a couple of weeks ago. Belmont went to the police over there because he wasn’t satisfied with that Reynolds he bought. One of the leading art experts to whom he showed it when he got back told him he thought it was a fake.”
Mordecai Tremaine leaned forward, his eyes alight with triumph.
“What about the man who sold it to him?” he said. “The peer whose name wasn’t mentioned. Any news about him?”
Penross settled himself on the arm of a chair.
“Yes,” he said. “And no. The Yard haven’t been able to find any trace of the mysterious owner. It seems that all the negotiations were carried on by an agent. And the description of the agent fits our friend Westfield like the well-known glove.”
“In other words,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “Warren Belmont was the victim of a confidence trick that succeeded because the supposed painting by Reynolds was sufficiently like the genuine article to deceive more than one expert.”
“Westfield obviously must have put over a good story,” said Penross, “because Belmont’s hard-headed enough as far as his own business is concerned. But at the same time it looks as though whoever painted that picture pulled off a pretty clever piece of work.”
“That,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “is where Adrian Carthallow comes into the story.”
“That,” observed Penross, “is what I was hoping you’d say.”
Jonathan Boyce lowered his pipe. He looked startled. He said:
“You’re not suggesting that Carthallow deliberately faked that picture and sold it to Belmont?”
“It’s more than a suggestion, Jonathan,” Mordecai Tremaine told him. “It’s a fact. Carthallow was in deep water. He was spending money faster than he could earn it and he had to think up a way of bringing down his overdraft. Selling a fake Reynolds to a millionaire probably seemed to offer quite a promising beginning.”
Boyce still had an air of doubt.
“I don’t know a great deal about old masters,” he said slowly, “but it seems to me that there can’t be many people about who could fake a painting well enough to fool experienced art critics.”
“Whatever else he might have been,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “Adrain Carthallow was a genius. Even his enemies admitted that he could paint. And he was versatile. He could paint in different styles. I was telling Charles the other day how Roberta Fairham once quoted a lot of stuff some well-known critic had written about his gifts. He could have gone a long way but his trouble was that he was living at too fast a rate and couldn’t wait to develop his income honestly. He had to find a short cut. I suppose the way he chose was an obvious one to a man of his attainments. It’s been done before, of course. There was a Dutchman named Van Meergeren who made a fortune until he was found out by selling paintings supposed to be by the seventeenth-century painter Vermeer. He couldn’t sell his own work so he painted so-called newly discovered Vermeers that a lot of people thought were better than the master’s other pictures.”
“I imagine,” Jonathan Boyce said, “that there’s more to it than the mere fact that Carthallow was short of money and that he was capable of turning out a pretty good imitation of a Reynolds?”
“There is more to it,” Mordecai Tremaine agreed. “Some of it doesn’t seem very important at first sight but it all adds up. When I first met Carthallow I thought it was curious that he should be so interested in crime. Most people are to a certain degree, of course, but his interest seemed to have a more personal touch. Besides,” he added deprecatingly, “I couldn’t help feeling that it was odd that a man in his position and with his reputation should pay so much attention to an insignificant stranger like me—unless there was something behind it he hadn’t told me about.
“In the beginning I thought it was merely that he knew he wasn’t exactly popular on account of a few of his paintings and was afraid that one day somebody would make an attempt to get at him. I thought that he was clinging to me with a kind of instinct for self-preservation, although naturally I couldn’t really have done anything to help him. But looking back I think that all his talk about successful criminals was due to the fact that he couldn’t bear the thought of being unable to parade his triumphs.
“I remember talking to him on one occasion about the perfect crime, and saying that the whole point of it was that nobody should even suspect there’d been a crime at all, otherwise it wouldn’t be perfect. He said that it must be depressing to commit the perfect murder and not be able to take the credit for it. And once he spoke about Thomas Chatterton, the boy poet who couldn’t claim his poetry as his own without revealing himself as a fake.
“Carthallow knew that his own fake paintings were good and in some odd, twisted way he resented not being hailed as a genius for producing them. He couldn’t tell the world openly, of course, so he used me as a sort of vehicle for unloading his ego.”
Penross was looking as though he thought the argument was venturing into realms a little too theoretical for his liking.
“Did he ever mention Belmont to you?” he asked.
“I mentioned the name to him,” Tremaine said, turning to the inspector. “He denied knowing Belmont and didn’t seem to want to talk about him. It struck me as being curious because only a short while before a friend of mine who was in a position to be sure of things like that had told me that Belmont was just the sort of person Carthallow would be eager to cultivate.”
“I’ve not heard that he did have any personal contact with Belmont,” Penross remarked. “I dare say he took care to keep well away from him so that his name wouldn’t be thought of in connection with the Reynolds if anything in the way of suspicion was aroused about the painting—as did happen when Belmont got back to the States. Maybe, too, he was just a bit scared of you, knowing your reputation, and tried to steer you off what might have been a dangerous line of thought.”
“If that was the case it had the opposite effect. If he’d said he knew Belmont and had passed it off casually I wouldn’t have paid any more attention to it. But what it did was to make me wonder whether he had anything to hide. It was the same where Westfield was concerned. I saw him one day in London with Carthallow and recognized him at the Pavilion here. But when I spoke to Carthallow about it he didn’t seem interested and said it couldn’t possibly be the same man.
“And then, early one morning, I saw them together on the beach. I don’t mind admitting that I did my best to eavesdrop without letting them know I was anywhere about. I wasn’t able to hear a great deal but I did hear a mention of ‘Belmont’ and ‘Reynolds’ and then Carthallow made a remark about not being able to turn out th
ings like sausages.”
Jonathan Boyce was puffing out clouds of smoke from his pipe, a sure indication that his excitement was mounting.
“It sounds as though Westfield was trying to get him to produce another fake painting. No doubt he believed that in Carthallow he had a valuable accomplice who could provide him with a permanent meal ticket. I wonder, Charles—I wonder! If Westfield’s a professional—and you say that Records know all about him—it’s on the cards that he tried to blackmail Carthallow. He knew that Carthallow was in his power since he’d incriminated himself by faking the Reynolds; the threat of exposure could bring him to heel. So he demanded more fake pictures—this time with a bigger share of the profits for himself.”
“Could be,” Penross said. “Westfield contacted Carthallow when he was in Wadestow and got him to come back to his house to a secret rendezvous. Carthallow wouldn’t agree to his terms—you can’t imagine him sitting down tamely under blackmail—and there was a quarrel.”
“It’s shaping, Charles,” said Jonathan Boyce. “Either by accident or in self-defence Westfield shot Carthallow and made his getaway. He thought he was safe and was going to sit tight in Falporth, and then he found out that enquiries were being made about him and he developed cold feet and decided to bolt.”
“Don’t forget,” Mordecai Tremaine observed, “there’s still the question of how he got into the house and away from it again without being seen.”
“I hadn’t overlooked that,” Boyce replied. “But once you’ve got your hands on Westfield, Charles, he’ll know the game’s up and maybe he’ll talk.”
Penross had been listening with an expression on his face that was hard to define. It was a mixture of satisfaction and chagrin. He said, now:
“As far as Westfield’s concerned the game is up. But he isn’t going to talk.”
His tone held a note of grimness. Mordecai Tremaine said:
“You’ve been holding out on us, Charles. What is it?”
So Pretty a Problem Page 23
