Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake leave it alone and let me clear it up,” cried Rosanne. “It’ll be all over everything if you’re not careful, and it stains. It’s a filthy colour.”

  “It’s a damned good colour—got some kick in it,” retorted Bruce, and Rosanne laughed.

  “Your slacks will show evidence of the ‘kick’ for the rest of their natural existence,” she said. “I hope you’ll enjoy going out in them. Go out and shake yourself in the garden and see if you can get it off. It won’t wash out, you know—and leave all this to me. I’ll sweep it up. Once we get any water near it, we’re done; there’s enough powder there to stain the whole floor. Some colours I can tolerate, but not that one.”

  Bruce went outside, leaving a trail of the penetrating powder as he moved, and Rosanne got a broom and endeavoured to clear up the hated colour. She shut the chest and locked it, determined to deal with its contents herself at some later date. When her brother came in again, she said,

  “Why not go on with the Cardinal portrait? You can get the lay figure rigged up, Delaunier left his costume for you. You haven’t got too much time if you want to get it in for the February show.”

  “Blast the Cardinal’s portrait… I tell you I’m fed up with the bloody thing. It’s no good, it never will be any good. It’s not a picture, it’s just a rotten bit of illustration. I loathe the thought of it.”

  Rosanne did not answer immediately. She finished her sweeping and took the dust pan and emptied it in the stove, and then walked across to the easel and swung it round so that the light caught the charcoal drawing.

  “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “It’s a good piece of work—one of the best drawings I’ve seen you do. If it were a dud, I should know. It isn’t. It’s got strength in it, and the planes are well done. If you don’t stick to it, you’ll be a fool, and rather a feeble fool.”

  She left the canvas and went to her own table and found a cigarette and lighted it, and then sat down on the edge of the table. At that moment Reeves passed outside, and Bruce Manaton muttered: “Those blasted police again… they’re haunting the place.”

  “Oh, never mind the police!” cried Rosanne scornfully. “What do they matter to us? Whatever happened—out there—was nothing to do with us, was it? Weren’t you in here, drawing Delaunier, when the old man was murdered?”

  Bruce Manaton whipped round on her: “If you’d said you were in here, too, Rosanne, there’d be nothing to bother about. Oh, hell! You’ve got a good opinion of me, haven’t you? You think that provided I know I am safe, I don’t care a damn about you, or anything else.”

  Rosanne sat very still, watching him.

  “You don’t think I did it, by any chance, Bruce?”

  He came over to her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “No, my dear. I’m not such a bloody fool as that. I may be a rotter, Rosanne, and a waster… I may let you work for me, and worry for me… but I know. Oh, my dear, I know. Do you think I’ve enjoyed watching you work like a charwoman, and go without everything you’ve wanted, just to keep me out of the gutter—where I belong? You’re worth something. I’m not. If it weren’t for me, you’d have made something of your life.”

  Rosanne slipped away from the table and from his gripping fingers, aware that she was trembling. She tried to answer lightly.

  “Bruce, I think there’s something morbid in the atmosphere of this place. What on earth has made us all go goopy and get on each other’s nerves? Police at the window?” She laughed a little shakily and added: “We don’t need to indulge in protestations, you and I. We understand one another well enough without all that. I don’t care a damn about police at the window, Bruce. What I’m afraid of is having the brokers in, as we did before… Can’t you get on with that portrait? I believe it’d sell, it’s going to be a great shouting gorgeous piece of scarlet, like Van Gogh’s Zouave. There’s something in the drawing that’s arresting, already. It’s much finer than a portrait of Delaunier. Oh, do get on with it.”

  Bruce Manaton fumbled on the table, and took Rosanne’s last cigarette.

  “All right, Rosa. I’ll get on with it. God, when this damned war’s over, let’s leave this blighted country and go to Italy again, into the sunlight. How I loathe this filthy fog, mud and soot and drab dirt.”

  “Look at your hands, Bruce—dirt but not drabness, stain but not soot. My dear, I told you that red powder would stain.”

  Bruce Manaton glanced at his hands: they were clammy with sweat, and the red powder paint had turned the palms a livid cerise.

  “‘It would the multitudinous seas incarnadine,’” he quoted, and again Rosanne laughed.

  “‘Go, wash this filthy witness from your hands,’” she quoted in return, “or, if you prefer it, ‘let each man render me his bloody hand: first yours, Catullus: now Caius Casca, yours…’”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” cried Manaton, and Rosanne said quickly,

  “Oh, don’t be an ass. You generally like out-quoting me. I’m going to make some tea. You can’t have any sugar, because you’ve had it all. I shall have to go out and do some shopping, but we’ll have tea first.”

  She went into the “K. and B.,” put the kettle on, and was collecting the tea things when she dropped her cup. A moment later Bruce Manaton looked in on her. “What have you done?” he demanded.

  “Smashed the nicest cup I possess. We’ve only got three left now, and one has no handle. What a life! Bruce, go and get on with your work and leave me alone.”

  He went out and closed the door, and Rosanne waited for the kettle to boil. While she was doing so, she took down a tin box from a shelf and opened it. It was an old-fashioned “spice box,” containing smaller boxes to hold cloves and ginger, cinnamon and mace, bay leaves and pepper corns. Rosanne used it now as a cash-box, wherein she kept her money. Bruce had not discovered it yet. She knew, by bitter experience, that if her brother knew where she kept her money he would “borrow it”—as he had borrowed her last cigarette. There were five pound notes in the clove tin, one ten shilling note in the mace tin, and five shillings and sixpence in the cinnamon tin. She took out two pound notes slipped them in her pocket, and replaced the tin.

  Just as the kettle boiled, Rosanne heard voices in the studio, and stood with her head cocked sideways, listening. Then the door banged, and there was silence. With the tea tray in her hands, Rosanne went into the studio.

  “Wasn’t that Delaunier’s voice?” she enquired of her brother.

  He nodded. “Yes. He wanted to come and pose, but I didn’t want him. The sight of him gives me the cafard somehow. He’s so damned pleased with himself.”

  “You are an ass, aren’t you?” replied Rosanne. “The light’s quite good for another hour, and you’re all ready to begin painting, and your model turns up—and then you say the sight of him gives you the cafard.”

  “Well, so it does. Never mind, Rosanne, I’ll get on with the background. I’ve got an idea about that, heavy shadow, with a cross light in the corner. I noticed an interesting effect when you had the kitchen door open last night.”

  “Oh, did you?—and you cursed me to high heaven for opening that door. This, my dear, is China tea, and the last Romilly biscuit the world contains, so make the best of it.”

  “Madonna! How have you got China tea?”

  “Saved it. Betty Mountjoy gave me some months ago—honest to God Lap San Suchong. I’ve been treasuring it like fine gold against an emergency, and somehow to-day I felt justified in using some of it. Everything looked mouldy, and I thought a decent cup of tea might cheer us both up. A pity Robert Cavenish isn’t here, he appreciates China tea.”

  “Cavenish?” Bruce Manaton’s dark face grew brooding again. “You like him, don’t you, Rosa?”

  “Yes. I like him. He’s sensible and reliable and kind, and he’s not condescending, nor yet a complete Philistine. Do
you know, he writes good verse, Bruce. Don’t tell him I told you, but Cavenish is a poet manqué. Rather pathetic. He works all day on Government reports at the Home Office, and he’s capable of writing poetry which compares well with T. S. Eliot’s.”

  “Cavenish? Good God! I know he can play chess—but poetry! I suppose you’re the only person in the world who knows about it. Why don’t you marry him, Rosanne?”

  “A. He hasn’t asked me to. B. I don’t want to and shouldn’t if he did. I’m not of the marrying variety. If I’d wanted to get married, I could have done so. Have some more tea.”

  Bruce pushed over his cup.

  “All my fault,” he said morosely.

  “You flatter yourself,” retorted Rosanne. “I have a mind of my own. Heavens! What’s that? Delaunier come back again? If it is, I’m going to tell him to pose for you, and you can get on with it, cafard or no cafard.”

  II

  It was not Delaunier. When Rosanne opened the studio door she saw Macdonald standing there. Quaintly enough, the first thought which flashed into her mind was, “How clean he looks.” Macdonald, tall, neat, in a well-cut dark suit, immaculate collar and black tie, made a striking contrast to Bruce Manaton, who had omitted to shave that morning.

  “You are the Chief Inspector, aren’t you? Do you want to see my brother? Come in.”

  Rosanne stood back from the door, and Macdonald saw the studio in daylight, with its dingy shabbiness unsoftened by the play of shaded lights. Bruce Manaton stared at the C.I.D. man with his customary hostile look, and Macdonald said:

  “Good-afternoon. I’m sorry to have to bother you again.”

  “Needs must,” said Rosanne: she smiled as she spoke, and Macdonald smiled in return.

  “When the devil drives,” he capped her remark, adding, “the devil drives us all alike, me, and you, and the world in general these days.”

  “That’s true,” said Rosanne. “Do you like China tea? There’s still some in the pot.”

  “I do. I like it very much indeed,” said Macdonald, “but it’s not fair to drink other people’s China tea these days.”

  “Well, it’s here, so if you’d like it you can have it. The other cup hasn’t got a handle, but that’s not uncommon these days. Do sit down.”

  Rosanne sounded calm and cheerful and sensible, talking as she crossed the studio to fetch the cup from the kitchen. Bruce, sitting hunched up in his chair, enquired abruptly,

  “That young chap—Neil Folliner—do you think he did the shooting?”

  “I don’t know yet,” replied Macdonald. “We’re still considering all the possibilities.”

  Rosanne returned, and poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Macdonald, saying,

  “What do you think of my brother’s study of the Cardinal?”

  Macdonald held out his cigarette case to her, and Rosanne took a cigarette saying,

  “Thanks. Bruce just smoked my last one.”

  Cup in hand, Macdonald went and stood in front of the canvas and studied it, while he sipped his tea appreciatively. At length he said,

  “It’s impossible for a non-expert to assess the skill of work like this. I think it’s a grand drawing. It seems to me that it’s not only a striking portrait, it’s an impressive composition, too. Even in outline it’s got depth—mass—something more than mere line.”

  “You mean it’s three-dimensional,” said Rosanne. “You’ve made a most intelligent commentary. Imagine it with the scarlet and cerise, and Delaunier’s black-browed face. Wouldn’t you like to buy it when it’s finished?”

  “Really, Rosanne!” protested her brother. “The Chief Inspector hasn’t come here to buy a picture.”

  “Nor yet to drink China tea,” replied Macdonald, “but having accepted the tea, I see no reason why he shouldn’t enjoy the picture. You didn’t do all that in one sitting, did you?” he asked of Manaton.

  “No. Two. I blocked the main proportions in on Tuesday, and the details—face and hands—last night. Damn all! It might have been my best picture, if only… Oh, well. What have you come to tell us?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve come to make a nuisance of myself. We believe it probable that old Mr. Folliner was robbed. We don’t know yet who the murderer was, nor the thief, but we do know that three people who were in that house last night also came into this studio.”

  “Which three?” demanded Rosanne.

  “You know that already. Young Folliner, the Special Constable, and Mrs. Tubbs. We have searched the house, and found nothing. We have searched the garden and drained the dug-out, as you know, and found nothing.”

  “And now you want to search the studio,” said Rosanne. “Well, search away. I have no objections to offer. If you find any beetles—and you will—please kill them.”

  Macdonald’s lips twitched, and Bruce put in:

  “I don’t think my sister was referring to ‘beetle crushers,’ Chief Inspector. She’s much too polite.”

  “I’m sure she is,” replied Macdonald, “but I will deal faithfully with the beetles if I find any.”

  Bruce Manaton went on: “I can’t quite see your point about searching here, all the same. Neither young Folliner nor the Special had the faintest chance of hiding anything while they were here. We were all watching them—five of us—and the thing is just impossible. As for Mrs. Tubbs—well, we just don’t believe it.”

  “There’s nothing like looking facts in the face, Bruce,” Rosanne’s voice was calm and clear. “I was out in the black-out last night, and that latch-key was on the kitchen table. So far as I am concerned, I say ‘search,’—as thoroughly as possible.” She turned and looked at Macdonald. “I wonder… if I were the guilty party, should I have had the nerve to leave that key on the table, just to look innocent?”

  “I don’t know,” said Macdonald. “I deal mainly in facts, you see. It is a fact that you had not handled the key since Mrs. Tubbs grasped it. The prints on it were fragmentary, but very clear. They were not your prints. I’m not an expert at fingerprint reading, but the difference between the lines on your hands and fingers and those of Mrs. Tubbs are very marked.”

  “Well I’m damned!” There was marked relief in Bruce Manaton’s voice. “And I wanted to chuck that blasted latch-key into the dug-out,” he went on, “only Rosanne wouldn’t let me. Look here, do you want us to clear out while you search the place?”

  “Certainly not. We’ll be as little nuisance as possible. I’ve got a very skilled helper—a woman—and we’ll leave everything exactly as it was.”

  “You’re going to have some fun when you hunt through my brother’s painting materials,” said Rosanne. “You probably have no idea what dirt and mess and muddle mean. Now you’re going to find out. You won’t look quite so clean when you have finished.”

  “I expect that I know as much about dirt and mess and muddle as anybody in this world, and a lot more about it than you do, Miss Manaton,” replied Macdonald. “A detective’s work leads him into strange places, most of which are neither clean nor tidy nor pleasant. I have been in studios beside which this one looks like the abode of an academician. As for kitchens—have you seen the one in number 25?”

  “No, thank heaven. I haven’t, the old man’s room was quite enough. I’ve got to go out, Chief Inspector, or we shan’t have anything to eat for supper. I’ll leave you to ransack the place. I don’t care what you look at, though it would be all the same if I did. I know that.”

  “It’s true that a woman detective will look through your personal belongings, Miss Manaton, since you have given permission. I know it’s repugnant to have one’s belongings searched, but it’s a very impersonal search.”

  “Thanks. I understand what you mean. I doubt if any woman in the world has fewer personal belongings than I have—you can look through them yourself for all I care.” She nodded towards the gallery. “Now I’m g
oing to do some shopping, and I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to Bruce. “You might as well get on with that painting. It’s suddenly occurred to me, it may be valuable, apart from its artistic possibilities.”

  She broke off, nodded to Macdonald, and went out by the kitchen door. A moment later Macdonald saw her pass the window, fastening up her coat collar as she walked.

  III

  Bruce Manaton stood before his canvas with brooding eyes, a deep frown of concentration on his face. Macdonald stood in the centre of the studio, his hands in his pockets, considering the general lay-out. The long barn-like structure ran east and west, the west end nearest to the house. The corrugated iron of the pent roof was covered with some material like asbestos, now stained and discoloured. The north light was set in the sloping roof towards the eastern end. At the west end was the small gallery, with a ladder leading up to it: a curtain—or rather several curtains of varying material—screened the gallery from the floor; otherwise it had only a hand-rail supported by occasional bars. The kitchen door was at the farther end, in the southeast corner of the studio. The stove, an old-fashioned iron affair, stood so that its iron chimney-pipe ran up to the roof just clear of the gallery. There was a blocked-up fireplace in the west wall, under the gallery, and Macdonald guessed from the general arrangement that the gallery had been added some time after the original structure was put up, and that the iron stove superseded the original fireplace. The space under the gallery held a divan bed and a chest of drawers, as well as a number of boxes, old easels, canvases, drawing boards, a small printing press, portfolios, and piles of books, mostly stacked on the floor against the wall. The “front door” of the studio was in the north-west corner under the gallery, with a screen and a curtain arranged for necessities of black-out.

  Macdonald took in the whole arrangement very quickly, checking up on the impression he had gained the previous evening, when the different lighting had made the place seem larger and more mysterious. Now, in the cold grey light of late afternoon, the studio looked shabby and sordid.