Artists in Crime ra-6

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “And of course he was livid when she defaced my portrait. She must have hated me to do that. In a way it was rather interesting, a directly sexual jealousy manifesting itself on the symbol of the hated person.”

  Alleyn repressed a movement of impatience and said: “No doubt.”

  “My own idea is that she was going to have a baby and had threatened to sue him for maintenance. I suppose in a way I’m responsible.”

  She looked grave enough as she made this statement, but Alleyn thought there was more than a hint of complacency in her voice.

  “Surely not,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. In a way. If he hadn’t been besotted on me, I dare say he might not have done it.”

  “I thought,” said Alleyn, “that you were worrying about your actual hand in the business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Alleyn’s voice was grave, “the circumstance of it being your hands, Miss Seacliff, that thrust her down upon the knife. Tell me, please, did you notice any resistance at first? I should have thought that there might even have been a slight sound as the point entered.”

  “I — don’t think— ”

  “We are considering the actual death throes of a murdered individual,” said Alleyn mildly. “I should like a clear picture.”

  She opened her eyes wide, a look of extreme horror came into her face. She looked wildly round the room, darted a furious glance at Alleyn, and said in a strangled voice: “Let me out. I’ve got to go out.”

  Fox rose in consternation, but she pushed him away and ran blindly to the door.

  “Never mind, Fox,” said Alleyn.

  The door banged.

  “Here,” said Fox, “what’s she up to?”

  “She’s bolted,” exclaimed Nigel. “Look out! She’s doing a bolt.”

  “Only as far as the cloak-room,” said Alleyn. “The fatal woman is going to be very sick.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Ormerin’s Nerves and Sonia’s Correspondence

  “Well, really, Alleyn,” said Nigel, “I consider you were hard on that girl. You deliberately upset her lovely stomach.”

  “How do you know her stomach’s lovely?”

  “By inference. What did you do it for?”

  “I was sick of that Cleopatra nonsense. She and her catgut nerves!”

  “Well, but she is terrifically attractive. A really magnificent creature.”

  “She’s as hard as nails. Still,” added Alleyn with satisfaction, “I did make her sick. She went through the whole story the first time almost without batting an eyelid. Each time we came back to it she was a little less confident, and the last time when I mentioned the words ‘death throes’ she turned as green as asparagus.”

  “Well, wasn’t it natural?”

  “Quite natural. Served her jolly well right. I dislike fatal women. They reek of mass production.”

  “I don’t think you can say she’s as hard as nails. After all, she did feel ill. I mean she was upset by it all.”

  “Only her lovely stomach. She’s not in the least sorry for that unfortunate little animal who died under her hands. All that psychological clap-trap! She’s probably nosed into a Freud Without Tears and picked out a few choice phrases.”

  “I should say she was extremely intelligent.”

  “And you’d be right. She’s sharp enough. What she said about Garcia rang true, I thought. What d’you say, Brer Fox?”

  “You mean when she talked about Garcia’s coldbloodedness, don’t you, sir?”

  “I do.”

  “Yes. They all seem to agree about him. I think myself that it doesn’t do to ignore other people’s impressions. If you find a lot of separate individuals all saying so-and-so is a cold, unscrupulous sort of person, why then,” said Fox, “it usually turns out that he is.”

  “True for you.”

  “They might all be in collusion,” said Nigel.

  “Why?” asked Alleyn.

  “I don’t know.”

  “‘More do I.”

  “Well,” said Fox, “if this Garcia chap doesn’t turn up in answer to our broadcast and ads. and so on, it’ll look like a true bill.”

  “He’s probably the type that loathes radio and never opens a paper,” said Nigel.

  “Highly probable,” agreed Alleyn.

  “You’ll have to arrest all hikers within a three-days’ tramp from Tatler’s End House. What a bevy of shorts and ruck-sacks.”

  “He’ll have his painting gear if he’s innocent,” said Alleyn. “If he’s innocent, he’s probably snoring in a pub not twenty miles away. The police stations have all been warned. We’ll get him soon enough — if he’s innocent.”

  “And if he’s guilty?”

  “Then he’s thought out the neatest method of murder that I’ve come across for a very long time,” said Fox. “He knew that nobody would meddle with the throne, he knew he’d got two-days’ start before the event came off, and he very likely thought we’d have a tough job finding anything to pin on to him.”

  “Those traces of modelling clay,” murmured Alleyn.

  “He didn’t think of that,” said Fox. “If Bailey’s right they dropped off his overall while he fixed the knife.”

  “What’s all this?” asked Nigel. Alleyn told him.

  “We’ve got to remember,” said Alleyn, “that he’d got the offer of a good job. Marble statues of Comedy and Tragedy are not commissioned for a few pounds. It is possible, Fox, that a guilty Garcia might be so sure of himself that he would turn up in his London warehouse at the end of a week or so’s tramp and set to work. When we found him and hauled him up for a statement, he’d be all vague and surprised. When we asked how the traces of clay were to be accounted for, he’d say he didn’t know, but that he’d often sat on the throne, or stood on it, or walked across it, and the clay might have dropped off him at any moment. We’ll have to find out what sort of state his working smock was in. The bit of clay Bailey found is hardish. Modellers’ clay is wettish and kept so. When faced with Phillida Lee’s statement he’d say he’d had dozens of rows with Sonia, but hadn’t plotted to kill her. If we find she was going to have a child he’d very likely ask what of it?”

  “What about the appointment he made with her for Friday night?” asked Fox.

  “Did he make an appointment with her for Friday night?”

  “Well, sir, you’ve got it there. Miss Lee said— ”

  “Yes, I know, Fox. According to Miss Lee, Garcia said: ‘All right. On Friday night then.’ And Sonia answered: ‘Yes, if it’s possible.’ But that may not have meant that they arranged to meet each other on Friday night. It might have meant a thousand and one things, damn it. Garcia may have talked about leaving on Friday night. Sonia may have said she’d do something for him in London on Friday night. It is true that the young Lee person got the impression that they arranged to meet her, but she may have been mistaken.”

  “That’s so,” said Fox heavily. “We’ll have to get on to deceased’s movements from Friday afternoon till Sunday.”

  “Did you get anything at all from the maids about Friday night?”

  “Not a great deal, sir, and that’s a fact. There’s three servants living in the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin who do butler and cook, and a young girl called Sadie Welsh, who’s housemaid. They all went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge on Friday night and returned by the front drive. There’s another girl — Ethel Jones — who comes in as a daily from Bossicote. She leaves at five o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll get on to her tomorrow, but it doesn’t look promising. The Hipkins seem a very decent couple. Devoted to Miss Troy. They’ve not got much to say in favour of this crowd. To Mrs. Hipkin’s way of thinking they’re all out of the same box. She said she wasn’t surprised at the murder and expected worse.”

  “What? Wholesale slaughter did she mean?”

  “I don’t think she knew. She’s a Presbyterian — Auld Licht — maide
n name McQumpha. She says painting from the figure is no better than living in open sin, and she gave it as her opinion that Sonia Gluck was fair soused in wickedness. That kind of thing. Hipkin said he always thought Garcia had bats in the belfry, and Sadie said he once tried to assault her and she gave him a smack in the chops. She’s rather a lively girl, Sadie is. They say Miss Seacliff’s no lady because of the way she speaks to the servants. The only one they seemed to have much time for was the Honourable Basil Pilgrim.”

  “Good old snobs. What about Garcia’s evening meal on Friday?”

  “Well, I did get something there, in a way. Sadie took it on a tray to the studio at seven-thirty. She tapped on the screen inside the door and Mr. Garcia called out to her to leave the tray there. Sadie said she didn’t know but what he had naked women exhibiting themselves on the platform, so she put it down. When she went to the studio on Saturday morning the tray was still there, untouched. She looked into the studio but didn’t do anything in the way of housework. She’s not allowed to touch anything on the throne and didn’t notice the drape. Garcia was supposed to make his own bed. Sadie says it’s her belief he just pulled the counterpane over it and that’s what we found, sir, isn’t it?”

  “Garcia wasn’t there on Saturday morning?”

  “No. Sadie says he’d gone and all his stuff as far as she could make out. She said the room smelt funny, so she opened the window. She noticed a queer smell there on Friday night, too. I wondered if it was the acid Bailey found the marks of, but she said no. She’s smelt the acid before, when they’ve been using it for etching, and it wasn’t the same.”

  “Look here, Fox, I think I’d like a word with your Sadie. Be a good fellow and see if she’s still up.”

  Fox went off and was away some minutes.

  “He must have broken into the virgin fastness of Sadie’s bedroom,” said Nigel.

  Alleyn wandered round the room and looked at the books.

  “What’s the time?” he said.

  “After twelve. Twelve-twenty-five.”

  “Oh Lord! Here’s Fox.”

  Fox came in shepherding an extraordinary little apparition in curling-pins and red flannel.

  “Miss Sadie Welsh,” explained Fox, “was a bit uncomfortable about coming down, Mr. Alleyn. She’d gone to bed.”

  “I’m so sorry to bring you out,” said Alleyn pleasantly. “We shan’t keep you here very long. Come over to the fire, won’t you?”

  He threw a couple of logs on the fire and persuaded Miss Welsh to perch on the extreme edge of a chair with her feet on the fender. She was a girl of perhaps twenty-two, with large brown eyes, a button nose and a mouth that looked as though she constantly said: “Ooo.” She gazed at Alleyn as if he was a grand inquisitor.”

  “You’re Miss Troy’s housemaid, aren’t you?” said Alleyn.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Been with her long?”

  “Ooo, yes, sir. I was a under-housemaid here when the old gentleman was alive; I was sixteen then, sir. And when Miss Troy was mistress I stayed on, sir. Of course, Miss Troy’s bin away a lot, sir, but when the house was opened up again this year, Miss Bostock asked me to come with Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin to be housemaid. I never was a real housemaid like before, sir, but Mr. Hipkin he’s training me now for parlourmaid. He says I’ll be called Welsh then, because Sadie isn’t a name for a parlourmaid, Mr. Hipkin says. So I’ll be ‘Welsh.’ ”

  “Splendid. You like your job?”

  “Well, sir,” said Sadie primly. “I like Miss Troy very much, sir.”

  “Not so sure about the rest of the party?”

  “No, I am not, sir, and that’s a fact. I was telling Mr. Fox, sir. Queer! Well, I mean to say! That Mr. Garcia, sir. Ooo! Well, I dare say Mr. Fox has told you. I complained to Miss Troy, sir. I asked Mrs. Hipkin what would I do and she said: ‘Go straight to Miss Troy,’ she said, ‘I would,’ she said. ‘I’d go straight to Miss Troy.’ Which I did. There was no trouble after that, sir, but I must say I didn’t fancy taking his dinner down on Friday.”

  “As it turned out, you didn’t see Mr. Garcia then, did you?”

  “No, sir. He calls out in a sort of drawly voice: ‘Is that you, Sadistic?’ which was what he had the nerve to call me, and Mr. Hipkin says he didn’t ought to have because Mr. Hipkin is very well educated, sir.”

  “Astonishingly,” murmured Alleyn.

  “And then I said: ‘Your dinner, Mr. Garcia,’ and he called out — excuse me, sir — he called out: ‘Oh Gawd, eat it yourself.’ I said: ‘Pardon?’ and he said ‘Put it down there and shove off.’ So I said: ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘Mr. Garcia,’ I said. And I put down the tray and as I told Mrs. Hipkin, sir, I said: ‘There’s something peculiar going on down there,’ I said, when I got back to the hall.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Well, sir, he seemed that anxious I wouldn’t go in, and what with the queer perfume and one thing and another— well!”

  “You noticed an odd smell?”

  “Yes, I did that, sir.”

  “Ever smelt anything like it before?”

  “Ooo well, sir, that’s funny you should think of that because I said to myself: ‘Well, if that isn’t what Mr. Marziz’s room smells like of a morning sometimes.’”

  “Mr. Malmsley?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a kind of — well, a kind of a bitterish sort of smell, only sort of thick and sour.”

  “Not like whisky, for instance?”

  “Oh no, sir. I didn’t notice the perfume of whisky till I went down next morning.”

  “Hullo!” said Fox genially, “you never told me it was whisky you smelt on Saturday morning, young lady.”

  “Didn’t I, Mr. Fox? Well, I must of forgotten, because there was the other smell, too, mixed up with it. Anyway, Mr. Fox, it wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed whisky in the studio since Mr. Garcia’s been there.”

  “But you’d never noticed the other smell before?”asked Alleyn.

  “Not in the studio, sir. Only in Mr. Marziz’s room.”

  “Did you make the bed on Saturday morning?”

  Sadie turned pink.

  “Well, no, I didn’t, sir. I opened the window to air the room, and thought I’d go back later. Mr. Garcia’s supposed to make his own bed. It looked fairly tidy so I left it.”

  “And on Saturday morning Mr. Garcia’s clay model and all his things were gone?”

  “That queer-looking mud thing like plasticine? Ooo yes, sir, it was gone on Saturday.”

  “Right. I think that’s all.”

  “May I go, sir?”

  “Yes, off you go. I’ll ask you to sign your name to a statement later on. You’ll do that, won’t you? It will just be what you’ve told us here?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Good night, Welsh,” said Alleyn smiling. “Thank you.”

  “Good night, sir. I’m sure I’m sorry to come in, such a fright. I don’t know what Mr. Hipkin would say. It doesn’t look very nice for ‘Welsh,’ the parlourmaid, does it, sir?”

  “We think it was quite correct,” said Alleyn.

  Fox, with a fatherly smile, shepherded Sadie to the door.

  “Well, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’d better get on with it. Let’s have Mr. Francis Ormerin. How’s the French, by the way?”

  “I’ve mastered the radio course, and I’m on to Hugo’s Simplified now. I shouldn’t fancy an unsimplified, I must say. I can read it pretty steadily, Mr. Alleyn, and Bob Thompson, the super at number three, has lent me one or two novels he picked up in Paris, on the understanding I translate the bits that would appeal to him. You know Bob.” Fox opened his eyes wide and an expression of mild naughtiness stole over his healthy countenance. “I must say some of the passages are well up to expectation. Of course, you don’t find all those words in the dictionary, do you?”

  “You naughty old scoundrel,” said Alleyn. “Go and get M. Ormerin.”

  “Toot sweet,” said Fox. “There you are.�
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  “And you’d better inquire after the Seacliff. ” Fox went out. “This case seems to be strewn with upheavels,” said Alleyn. “Garcia was sick when he saw the defaced portrait. Sonia was sick in the mornings, and Miss Seacliff is heaving away merrily at this very moment, or I’m much mistaken.”

  “I begin to get an idea of the case,” said Nigel, who had gone through his notes. “You’re pretty certain it’s Garcia, aren’t you?”

  “Have I said so? All right, then, I do feel tolerably certain he laid the trap for this girl, but it’s purely conjectural. I may be quite wrong. If we are to accept the statements of Miss Troy and Watt Hatchett, the knife was pushed through the boards some time after three o’clock on Friday afternoon, and before Saturday afternoon. Personally I am inclined to believe both these statements. That leaves us with Garcia and Malmsley as the most likely fancies.”

  “There’s— ”

  “Well?”

  “Of course if you accept her statement it doesn’t arise,” said Nigel nervously.

  Alleyn did not answer immediately, and for some reason Nigel found that he could not look at him. Nigel ruffled the pages of his notes and heard Alleyn’s voice: “I only said I was inclined to believe Hatchett’s statement — and hers. I shall not regard them as inviolable.”

  Fox returned with Francis Ormerin and once again they settled down to routine. Ormerin had attended the private view of the Phoenix Group Show on Friday night, and had spent the week-end with a French family at Hampstead. They had sat up till about two o’clock on both nights and had been together during the day-time.

  “I understand that during the bus drive back from London yesterday, the model sat beside you?” said Alleyn.

  “Yes. That is so. This poor girl, she must always have her flirt in attendance.”

  “And you filled the role on this occasion?”

  Ormerin pulled a significant grimace.

  “Why not? She makes an invitation with every gesture. It is a long and tedious drive. She is not unattractive. After a time I fell asleep.”

  “Did she say anything about her movements in London?”

  “Certainly. She told me that she stayed with another girl who is in the chorus of a vaudeville show at the Chelsea Theatre. It is called ‘Snappy.’ Sonia shared this girl’s room. She went to ‘Snappy’ on Friday evening, and on Saturday she went to a studio party in Putney where she became exceedingly drunk, and was driven home by a young man, not so drunk, to the room of this girl whose name is—tiens! — ah yes — Bobbie is the name of the friend. Bobbie O’Dawne. All this she told me, and for a while I was complacent, and held her hand in the bus. Then after a time I fell asleep.”