“Go on, Hembrow,” said John as the Inspector paused. “Don’t keep me in suspense. This is extremely interesting, though it looks as if it were going to complicate matters considerably.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Christmas. Rather the reverse, I fancy. Early this morning I examined the earth and gravel round the block of buildings in Madox Court. I found a woman’s foot-prints in the passage that runs along the back of the flats—where you had your little tussle with young Greenaway. They were made by a thin, high-heeled pair of shoes, size four, and they led only one way, towards the road. There are no women servants employed in the block, and no women living there. Pandora Shirley takes size six in shoes. The foot-prints did not lead all the way from the back door to the road, but started suddenly in the middle of the passage, as if their owner had dropped out of heaven. And,” said Hembrow impressively, taking out a pocket-book, “I found this clinging to the corrugated iron of the outhouse roof under Mr. Frew’s studio window.”
Carefully Hembrow removed from the book a small shred of fuchsia-coloured silk. Christmas stared at it, fascinated. As he looked at the grimly-incriminating slip of silk he seemed to see the phantom of a small pale woman in a brilliant fuchsia gown; and for a moment his instinctive pity for any woman tied against her will to a man like Gordon Frew protested against the ruthless work he was engaged upon. Then his interest in the case as a case reasserted itself.
“Have you followed up this clue at all, Inspector? Did anybody see the woman, I wonder, in Hurst Road or elsewhere?”
Hembrow shook his head.
“So far, all the inquiries we’ve made have drawn blank. She seems to have simply vanished into the fog. The murderer, whoever he or she may be, has a lot to thank that fog for. So far all we know is that a small woman wearing a red dress, scarf or shawl climbed out of Frew’s studio window last night and escaped along the passage-way into the street. I shall lose no time in following up her trail, but meanwhile I think this burglary at Camperdown Terrace calls for more immediate attention. Why didn’t the fool of a man call in the police this morning? Probably every clue to the identity of the burglar is destroyed by now!”
“She must have been a very athletic woman,” said John thoughtfully, “and a brave one, too, to drop from the window on to that outhouse roof. It’s a wonder she didn’t break her neck, especially if she was a short woman, as her size in shoes seems to indicate. Why, it was quite a feat for me! I shouldn’t have cared to do it in cold blood, and I stand six foot two. When I was hanging on to the sill by my finger-nails my toes were still inches off the roof, and it’s a sloping one. I don’t see how she could have done it. Even if she managed not to injure herself, the drop on to that galvanized iron must have made the devil of a noise! Yet nobody heard anything.”
Hembrow looked at his friend with a sidelong, rather sorry look.
“I think I’ve got the explanation of that, Mr. Christmas, though I’m afraid it’s one you won’t like. I’ll keep it to myself for the present.... This the place? H’m! Certainly doesn’t look very enticing to an ordinary thief! Do you want the taxi, Mr. Christmas? I shan’t keep it.”
John wished his friend good luck, and sat watching in the taxi until the door of 9a opened and closed behind Inspector Hembrow. Then he gave the driver Serafine’s address and drove off. He wished very much that he could go home to his flat and think over the events of the day in solitude. He felt not at all in the mood for light conversation.
Chapter X
A Party at Serafine’s
There was the usual lively crowd at Serafine’s little house on Hampstead Heath, the usual roar of conversation on the usual subjects. Laurence Newtree, persuaded much against his will by John, was there, and Simon Mordby and little Sir Marion Steen. Imogen Wimpole, implored by Serafine not to turn the evening into a post-mortem by recounting the previous night’s adventures, was mystifying her guests by hints and veiled allusions to terrible experiences which had robbed her of her night’s sleep and made her really unfit to perform the duties of a hostess properly. She looked, however, her usual beautiful, large, eupeptic self. Serafine, John thought, seemed to have suffered most from the shock. For one so energetic, she seemed a little lifeless and absent-minded, rousing herself occasionally to her usual argumentative brilliance and then dropping back into platitudes or silence. She looked pale and careworn and confided to John that she wished very much her guests would all go.
“My dear, what’s the matter with you? I thought you were your happiest in a crowd?”
“So I am, as a rule. I don’t know. I feel morbid.”
“Last night?”
“I suppose so. But it’s worse than that. I feel as if I were waiting for something too horrible to happen.”
John smiled.
“Don’t tell me you’re the criminal.”
“I couldn’t feel more jumpy if I were,” said Serafine with a tired grin. “Here’s that fool Mordby. Stay and keep him off me, for heaven’s sake!”
“Ah, Christmas!” Mordby came up behind John with his soft, secretive tread and took his hand in a soft, boneless clasp. “Why, you’re looking worn-out, man!” He dropped his voice. “How do you find the trail?”
“Distinctly long and winding,” replied John flippantly, wishing the doctor would not stare gravely and intently into his eyes as if he were reading the symptoms of a serious complex, inhibition or what-not. However, it was no use wishing, for that wide, vague yet earnest stare was part of Mordby’s stock-in-trade. Patients like Imogen Wimpole liked to think that those wide grey eyes could see into their inmost souls and save them the trouble of explaining themselves. Privately, John diagnosed myopia and guessed that even the earthly garment of the soul was more than a little blurred to that searching gaze.
“I understand,” went on the psychologist in confidentially lowered tones, “that the detection of crime is a hobby of yours. I also find crime and the criminal a most interesting study, though I prefer to study them from the arm-chair, as they say, rather than at first hand. Now—” He moved a little closer to John, and John, who heartily and instinctively disliked him, had to repress a discourteous impulse to move abruptly back, “I wonder—have you formed any theory as to the murderer?”
Christmas smiled at this bald question.
“A hundred,” he replied amiably. “All equally interesting, all equally unlikely to coincide with the facts.”
“Ah!” said Mordby, shaking his large head. “Of course you won’t tell me. But I ventured to wonder whether I mightn’t be of some service to you, in a purely unofficial way. I suppose I may say, without vanity, that I know as much about abnormal psychology as any man in England. And I’ve often thought that such a knowledge, helping one as it does to recognize the potential murderer practically at sight, would be invaluable to a student of crime, like yourself.”
“The difficulty is,” said Christmas gravely, “that, to quote your own words, Dr. Mordby, we are all potential murderers.”
“Yes, yes,” said the doctor eagerly. “That is so. But only the student of psychology can gauge the—ah! breaking-point of a given individual with anything like accuracy. I suppose this is hardly the time and place to discuss such a matter....” He looked regretfully towards the door as if he would have liked to lead John off to some more private place. “But I hope to have an opportunity of a talk with you soon. I may say that I have formed a certain opinion, and I shall be interested to see whether events bear me out.”
“Indeed!” Serafine, who had so far made a silent third in the group, suddenly joined in. A little surprised at her incisive tone, John glanced at her and saw that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unusually hard and bright. “Won’t you give us your opinion, Dr. Mordby, and let us share the interest?”
Mordby put his head on one side and disclosed a row of even white teeth and one gold one in a whimsical, consciously charming smile.
“I hardly feel that such a gruesome subject of discussion is appropr
iate to these charming surroundings.”
“What does it matter?” said Serafine, still in that hard, light tone. “It isn’t a personal affair. The murderer, whoever he may be, isn’t a friend of ours. Why not discuss him?”
She laughed. John, who knew her so well, could not understand her in this mood.
“I hope you don’t think I did it, Dr. Mordby,” she went on flippantly. “In that case, I would much rather you kept your theory to yourself. I don’t want to have John sleuthing me all over London. It would quite spoil our old friendship.”
“My dear Miss Wimpole,” replied Mordby, smiling, “as I told you last night, your potentiality for murder, or in fact any violent act, is extremely low. I can hardly imagine the circumstances in which so well co-ordinated a mind as yours would reach breaking-point.”
He gave a quaint, pompous little bow to lend his words the air of a soothing compliment. Serafine took no notice. Her set, hard smile did not leave her lips.
“Won’t you give us the benefit of your theory?” she persisted with a tactless obstinacy and disregard for the amenities of conversation that was most unusual in her. “If I ask you to, Dr. Mordby? I’ve been doing a little theorizing myself, and I should like to see if your theory fits in anywhere with mine.”
The intense seriousness which John divined beneath her flippant manner puzzled him beyond words. He moved a little closer to her, half with an instinctive impulse to protect, half with a vague desire to remind her by a look or touch that this was not the time for dragging out of Mordby his possibly absurd but probably obnoxious theories. She took no notice of him at all, still looking inquiringly at the doctor, who seemed rather pleased than otherwise at this interest in his ideas coming from such an unlikely quarter. He knew well, since it was part of his business and the secret of his success to be sensitive to such things, that Serafine disliked and distrusted him, and he returned her dislike in full measure.
“Well,” he replied at length, “I will reply by asking you a question, Miss Wimpole. Did you notice yesterday evening that a certain member of the party took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, glanced at it and suddenly thrust it back again into his pocket? I did. And I also noticed that the handkerchief was stained with blood.”
John started and looked at Mordby with real interest, wondering how far his observation could be depended on. He knew that the doctor had mentioned no such incident to Hembrow the evening before. Serafine changed countenance slightly, and there was a just perceptible pause before she said lightly:
“Indeed? Bloodstains always sound terribly incriminating, don’t they? But after all it’s quite a common thing for a man to cut his finger.”
“Not during an evening party, Miss Wimpole.”
“Before he sets out for his party.”
“He would take a clean handkerchief before setting out.”
“I suppose we had better not ask who the blood-stained gentleman was?”
“I would rather not tell you, Miss Wimpole.”
“Then I shall take it that he was a friend of mine. But the only friends of mine at Mr. Newtree’s last night were John, Sir Marion and—yourself, Dr. Mordby. Mr. Newtree and Dr. Merewether I had not met before. It was not yourself, or you would hardly be taking me into your confidence. It was not John, or you would hardly mention it in his presence. Am I to understand that you think Sir Marion Steen—”
“Certainly not!” said Mordby very hastily and in a shocked tone, glancing uncomfortably over his shoulder as if he feared the millionaire might have overheard this preposterous suggestion.
With each word uttered these exchanges seemed to John to take on more and more the character of a duel, and Dr. Mordby’s last sentence was uttered in an almost openly inimical tone. John, standing by and listening, felt extremely uncomfortable. His civilized soul was shocked at Serafine’s persistence in such a conversation, and he determined to tell her so at the first opportunity. He could not imagine what demon had taken possession of his urbane and amiable friend.
“Not Sir Marion?” murmured Serafine, still with that glassy smile. “Well, I hardly thought it could have been, but a long acquaintance with detective fiction has led me to believe that the blood-stained handkerchief always belongs to the most unlikely man.” Suddenly she laughed, a laugh that was nearly, but not quite, natural and set John’s teeth on edge. “But really, is that all you have to tell us, Dr. Mordby? You make me feel quite nervous, and I shall be very careful about my handkerchiefs in future. For I’ve often managed to get blood-stains on my handkerchief, but I’ve never yet committed a murder.”
John, fearing a recommencement of the verbal duel, was about to break in and change the subject completely, when Imogen Wimpole, with an earnest and portentous expression on her smooth fair face, came up and laid a hand on his arm.
“John,” she said impressively, “I’ve been talking to Mrs. De Valley—you know, the medium. And I do so want you to meet her. She says it’s not at all impossible to get into touch with poor Mr. Frew before he passes too far on, and find out that way who did—you know. (Serafine says I’m not to talk about it, though I’m sure I can’t think of anything else to talk about, after last night.) Mrs. De Valley says it’s often been done, when people have—have died suddenly, with marvellous results. And if anybody could do it, she could. She really is marvellous! She gets the most amazing results at all her seances.”
“Oh, auntie!” laughed Serafine, who seemed to have completely recovered her composure. “You’re not proposing to turn this party into a seance, are you?”
Her aunt looked at her reproachfully.
“Serafine doesn’t believe in it,” she said sadly to John. “But she’s such a dreadful materialist. She doesn’t believe in anything incredible. I tell her she doesn’t realize what she misses. Don’t you agree with me, Dr. Mordby?” Dr. Mordby turned the full battery of his gold and ivory smile upon his former patient.
“I should not say that Miss Wimpole is lacking in faith,” he replied silkily, and it seemed to John that there was an underlying note of satire in his voice. “And as for spiritualism, I’m afraid you must expect a certain scepticism in a man of my profession. The whole matter
is so easily explained on psychological grounds that”
“Oh, I believe in psychology!” protested Mrs. Wimpole with delightful comprehensiveness. “And I believe in spiritualism too! I don’t see why one shouldn’t believe in both, or in everything, for that matter! It makes life so much more interesting.”
Serafine and John exchanged smiles, and Dr. Mordby murmured soothingly;
“It does, it does, it certainly does.”
“Come along, auntie,” said Serafine, slipping her hand through the older woman’s arm. “Introduce me to your Mrs. De Valley. Tell her I’m a sheep to be gathered into the fold. I’ll promise to behave myself. John and Dr. Mordby are in the thick of a terribly absorbing conversation.”
The two ladies drifted away, and John, with a smile at Mordby, murmured:
“Are we?”
Once again he found himself wondering what Serafine was after. Did she wish him to pump Mordby further as to his theory of the crime? Personally he did not see that anything was to be gained by it. It had always been obvious that Mordby disliked George Merewether, and it was natural that he should joyfully put the worst construction upon such a matter as that of the blood-stained handkerchief. But could it be possible that Mordby’s patronizing dislike of the other doctor was based upon something more tangible than the natural antipathy of one type for another? Could it be possible that Mordby had some ulterior motive in wishing to force suspicion upon the man he disliked? Was Serafine groping towards some discovery which might straighten out the threads of this mystery?
Simon Mordby answered blandly:
“We did begin one, but we were abruptly and charmingly interrupted.”
“It is early days as yet,” said John conversationally, hoping to draw the doctor out, “but this murder l
ooks as if it were going to be the most puzzling mystery I have ever run across. Do you remember the British Museum murder? That was a puzzling affair, if you like, but in a different way. In that case suspicion pointed absolutely nowhere. In this case it points in all directions at once.”
“Is that so?” murmured Simon Mordby. He went on with an air of diffidence: “Of course I’m not au fait with the course of events since last night. But a man of my profession is naturally observant of the demeanour of the people with whom he comes in contact. And I noticed one or two things last night which have caused my thoughts to trend in a direction which makes me feel quite ashamed. And yet—”
He sighed. Merewether’s name had not been mentioned, but it was obvious enough of whom Dr. Mordby spoke. John’s first impulse was to defend Merewether by assuming perfect ignorance of what Mordby referred to, followed by shocked surprise when Merewether’s name was mentioned. But just as he was about to speak he altered his tactics. There was nothing to be gained by such a display of innocence. He could hardly hope even to deceive Mordby by it, for it was obvious that Merewether had placed himself in an equivocal position by his display of agitation, and that anybody investigating the case could not fail to take a good deal of interest in him. John determined to try the effect of a bluff and breezy candour. He had learnt from experience that men of Mordby’s type feared and distrusted candour above everything, and were sometimes betrayed by it into quite interesting reactions.
“You’ve never hit it off very well with Merewether, have you, Dr. Mordby?” he asked with a diffident smile that robbed the blunt question of offence, and waited in silence for the reply.
The Studio Crime Page 12
