Artists in Crime ra-6

by Ngaio Marsh

  He stooped and picked up a broken twig.

  “It is still sappy. There are several. One quite close to the studio wall, and there’s another across the lane. If it should happen they were snapped off by the top of a vehicle, it must have moved from one side to the other. It is a fair chance, isn’t it, that they were broken by our van, and, if this is so, they give an idea of its height. Right?”

  “That’s right, sir,” said Mr. Sligo, breathing loudly through his nostrils.

  “You know all this sort of stuff, of course,” said Alleyn, “but it’s a characteristic example of outside work. Now come along to the garage.”

  They walked along the lane through a wide entrance into the garage yard. Alleyn unlocked the garage doors and broke the police tape. It had begun to rain steadily.

  “I took some measurements here last night, but it would be as well to verify them. Suppose you have a stab at it, Sligo.”

  Sligo, intensely gratified, measured the width of the tyres and the wheel-base.

  “The tyres are the same, sir. Look here, sir, here’s the patch on the rear tyre on the driving side. We found the trace on the left-hand as you faced the window, sir, so she was backed all right.”

  “Good,” said Alleyn. “That’s the way, Sligo. Now take a look at the doorstep. Wait a moment. I’ll just have a go at the handle for prints.”

  He opened his bag and got out his insufflator. The grey powder showed no prints on the door or doorknob. Alleyn closely examined the three steps, which were worn and dirty.

  “Don’t touch these,” he said, and opened the door.

  “Now then, Sligo— ”

  “There they are, sir, there they are. Same marks on the top step. That’s the marks of them little wheels, sir, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. Check them to make sure. Here are the measurements of the scars on the window-sill.”

  Out came Sligo’s tape again.

  “It’s them, for sure,” he said.

  “Now have a look on the roof. If you climb on that bench, you’ll do no harm. Co carefully, though. You never know if you won’t spoil a perfectly good bit of evidence in the most unlikely spot.”

  Sligo mounted the bench like a mammoth Agag, and peered over the roof of the caravan.

  “Eh, there’s a-plenty of scratches, sir, right enough, and Gor’, Mr. Alleyn, there’s a bit of a twig jammed between the top roofing and the frame. Dug into the crack. Gor’, that’s a bit of all right, isn’t it, sir?”

  “It is indeed. Can you reach it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take these tweezers and draw it out carefully. That’s right. Now you can come down. Let’s have an envelope, Fox, may we? We’ll put your twig in there, Sligo, and label it. How far is it from here to London?”

  “Twenty miles exactly, sir, to the end of the drive from Shepherd’s Bush,” answered Sligo promptly.

  “Right!”

  Alleyn packed his case and began with Fox and Sligo to examine the yard and the gateway into the lane.

  “Here are the tracks clear enough in the lane,” said Fox. “We’ve got enough here and more to show this caravan was driven into the lane, backed up to the studio window and loaded up through the window. Who does the caravan belong to?”

  “Miss Troy, I think,” said Alleyn.

  “Is that so?” responded Fox, without any particular emphasis.

  “We’ll find out presently. Seal the garage up again, will you, Fox? Blast this weather. We’d better have a look at Pilgrim’s car.”

  Basil Pilgrim’s car was a very smart supercharged two-seater. The upholstery smelt definitely of Valmai Seacliff, and one of the side-pockets contained an elaborate set of cosmetics. “For running repairs,” grunted Alleyn. They opened the dicky and found a man’s rather shabby raincoat. Pilgrim’s. “Also for running repairs, I should think.” Alleyn examined it carefully, and sniffed at it. “Very powerful scent that young woman uses. I fancy, Fox, that this is the pure young man’s garment for changing wheels and delving in engines. Now then, Sligo, you have a look at this. It’s ideal for demonstration purposes — the sort of thing Holmes and Thorndyke read like a book. Do you know Holmes and Thorndyke? You should. How about giving me a running commentary on an old raincoat?”

  Sligo, breathing noisily, took the coat in his enormous hands.

  “Go on,” said Alleyn; “you’re a Yard man, and I’m taking notes for you.”

  “It’s a man’s mackintosh,” began Sligo. “Made by Burberry. Marked ‘B. Pilgrim’ inside collar. It’s mucked up like and stained. Inside of collar a bit greasy, and it’s got white marks, too, on it. Grease on one sleeve. That’s car grease, I reckon, and there’s marks down front. Pockets. Righthand: A pair of old gloves used, likely, for changing tyres. There’s other marks, too. Reckon he’s done something to battery some time.”

  “Well done,” said Alleyn. “Go on.”

  Sligo turned the gloves inside out.

  “Left hand inside has got small dark stain on edge of palm under base of little finger. Left-hand pocket: Piece of greasy rag. Box of matches.” Sligo turned the coat over and over. “I can’t see nothing more, sir, except a bit of a hole in right-hand cuff. Burnt by cigarette, likely. That’s all, sir.”

  Alleyn shut his note-book.

  “That’s the method,” he said. “But—” He glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, it is eight o’clock. You’d better cut back to the studio or your relief will be giving you a bad mark.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. I’m much obliged, sir. It’s been a fair treat.”

  “That’s all right. Away you go.”

  Sligo pounded off.

  Leaving Fox at the garage, Alleyn walked round the house and rang the front-door bell. It was answered by a constable.

  “Good morning. Do you know if Miss Troy is down yet?”

  “She’s in the library, sir.”

  “Ask if I may see her for a moment.”

  The man came back to say Troy would receive Alleyn, and he went into the library. By daylight it was a pleasant room, and already a fire blazed in the open grate. Troy, in slacks and a pullover, looked so much as she did on that first morning at Suva that Alleyn felt for a moment as if there had been nothing between them but the first little shock of meeting. Then he saw that she looked as if she had not slept.

  “You are early at your job,” said Troy.

  “I’m very sorry, indeed, to worry you at the crack of dawn. I want to ask you if the caravan in the garage belongs to you.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “When did you last use it, please?”

  “About a fortnight ago. We all went out in it to Kattswood for a picnic and a day’s sketching.”

  “Do you know how much petrol there was in the tank when you got back?”

  “It must have been more than half full, I should think. I got it filled up when we started, and we only went about forty miles there and back.”

  “What does she do to the gallon?”

  “Twenty.”

  “And the tank holds—?”

  “Eight gallons.”

  “Yes. It’s just over a quarter full this morning.”

  Troy stared at him.

  “There must be a leak in the petrol tank,” she said. “I couldn’t have used more than five that day — not possibly.”

  “There isn’t a leak,” said Alleyn. “I looked.”

  “Look here, what is all this?”

  “You’re sure no one else has used the caravan?”

  “Of course I am. Not with my permission.” Troy seemed puzzled and worried. Then as her eyes widened “Garcia!” she cried out. “You think Garcia took it, don’t you?”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Why, because I’ve puzzled my own wits half the night to think how he got his stuff away. The superintendent here told me none of the local carriers knew anything about it. Of course Garcia took it! Just like him. Trust him not to pay a carrier if he could ge
t his stuff there free.”

  “Can he drive?”

  “I really don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought so, certainly. I suppose he must be able to drive if he took the caravan.” She paused and looked steadily at Alleyn.

  “I know you think he went in the caravan,” she said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He must have brought it back that night,” said Troy.

  “Couldn’t have been some time on Saturday before you came back?”

  “He didn’t know when I was coming back. He wouldn’t have risked my arriving early and finding the caravan gone. Besides, anyone might have seen him.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” said Alleyn.

  “If this warehouse place is somewhere in London, he could do the trip easily if it was late at night, couldn’t he?” asked Troy.

  “Yes. Dear me, I shall have to do a sum. Wait a moment. Your car does twenty to the gallon, and holds eight gallons. You went forty miles, starting with a full tank. Therefore there should be six gallons, and there are only about three. That leaves a discrepancy of sixty miles or so. How fast can she go?”

  “I suppose forty to forty-five or fifty if pressed. She’s elderly and not meant for Brooklands.”

  “I know. I do wish he’d told one of you where this damned warehouse was.”

  “But he did. At least, Seacliff said this morning she thought she remembered he said something about it being near Holloway.”

  “Good Lord, why didn’t she say so last night?”

  “Why does she always behave in the most tiresome manner one could possible conceive? I’m nearly as bad, not to have told you at once.”

  “You’re nothing like as bad. How did Miss Seacliff happen to remember Holloway?”

  “It was at breakfast, which, I may tell you, was not a very sparkling event this morning. Phillida Lee would talk about every murder story she has ever read, and Hatchett was more bumptious than words can describe. At last the Lee child remarked that if a woman was convicted of murder, she was hanged at Holloway, and Seacliff suddenly exclaimed: ‘Holloway — that’s it — that’s where Garcia’s warehouse is; he said something about it when he first came down.’”

  “Is she sure?”

  “She seems to be fairly certain. Shall I send for her?”

  “Would you?”

  Troy rang the bell, which was answered by Hipkin, a large man with a small head and flat feet.

  “Ask Miss Seacliff if she’ll come and see me.”

  Seacliff strolled in, dressed in black trousers and a magenta sweater. She looked very lovely.

  “Good morning, Miss Seacliff,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Are you recovered?”

  “Why, what was the matter with you?” Troy asked her.

  Seacliff glared at Alleyn with positive hatred.

  “Miss Seacliff was indisposed last night,” said Alleyn.

  “What was the matter?”

  “Nerves,” said Seacliff.

  “Was it you who was sick in the downstairs bathroom?” demanded Troy with an air of sudden enlightenment. “Sadie was furious at having to clear up. She said— ”

  “Need we discuss it, Troy? I’m really terribly upset.”

  “You must have been,” agreed Troy, with a suspicion of a grin. “I must say I think you might have cleared up after yourself. Sadie said she thought at least three men— ”

  “Troy!”

  “All right. Do you want to be alone, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “No, no. I just wanted to ask Miss Seacliff about this Holloway business.”

  “Oh,” said Seacliff. “You mean the place where Garcia is going to sculp?”

  “Yes. Did he tell you it was somewhere near Holloway?”

  “Yes, he did. I’d forgotten. I suppose you are furious with me?” She smiled at Alleyn. Her glance said, very plainly: “After all, you are rather good-looking.”

  “I’d like to know exactly what he said, if you can remember the conversation.”

  “I suppose I can remember a good deal of it if I try. It took place during one of his periodical attempts to make a pass or two at me. He asked me if I would come and see him while he was working. I forget what I said. Oh, I think I said I would if it wasn’t too drearily far away or something. Then he said it was near Holloway, because I remember I asked him if he thought he’d be safe. I said I knew better than to spend an afternoon with him in a deserted studio, but I might get Basil to drive me there, and, of course, that made him quite livid with rage. However, he told me how to get there and drew a sort of map. I’m afraid I’ve lost it. As a matter of fact, I would rather like to see that thing, wouldn’t you, Troy? Still, as long as he’s not arrested or something, I suppose we shall see it in its proper setting. I told Garcia I thought it was a bit of a comedown to take a commission from a flick-shop. I said they’d probably ask him to put touches of gilt on the breasts and flood it with pink lights. He turned as acid as a lemon and said the surroundings were to be appropriate. He’s got absolutely no sense of humour, of course.”

  “Did he tell you exactly where it was?”

  “Oh, yes. He drew up the map, but I can’t remember anything but Holloway.”

  “Not even the name of the street?” asked Alleyn resignedly.

  “I don’t think so. He must have mentioned it and marked it down, but I don’t suppose I’d ever remember it,” said Seacliff, with maddening complacency.

  “Then I think that’s all, thank you, Miss Seacliff.”

  She got up, frowned, and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Troy.

  “I’ve got another of these filthy headaches.”

  “Carry-over, perhaps.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ve been getting them lately.”

  “You’re looking a bit white,” said Troy, more kindly. “Why don’t you lie down? Would you like some aspirin?”

  “Basil gave me his last night, thanks.” She took out her mirror and looked at herself with intense concentration.

  “I look too bloody,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  “Is she always like that?” asked Alleyn.

  “Pretty much. She’s spoilt. She’d have been comparatively easy to live with if she hadn’t got that lovely face. She is beautiful, you know.”

  “Oh! magnificent,” agreed Alleyn absently.

  He was looking at Troy, at the delicate sparseness of her head, the straight line of her brows and the generous width between her grey-green eyes.

  “Are you very tired?” he asked gently.

  “Who, me? I’m all right.” She sat on the fender holding her thin hands to the fire. “Only I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “Small wonder,” said Alleyn, and to himself he thought: “She’s treating me more like a friend this morning. Touch wood.”

  “Oddly enough, it’s not so much Sonia, poor little thing, but Garcia, that I can’t get out of my head. You needn’t bother to be mysterious and taciturn. I know you must suspect Garcia after what Phillida Lee and Malmsley said last night. But you see, in a way, Garcia’s a sort of protégé of mine. He came to me when he was almost literally starving, and I’ve tried to look after him a bit. I know he’s got no conscience at all in the usual sort of way. He’s what they call unmoral. But he has got genius and I never use that word if I can get out of it. He couldn’t do a shabby thing with clay. Wait a moment.”

  She went out of the room for a few minutes. When she returned she carried a small bronze head, about half lifesize, of an old woman. Troy put the head on a low table and pulled back the curtains. The cold light flooded the little bronze. It looked very tranquil and pure; its simple forms folded it into a great dignity. The lights shone austerely and the shadows seemed to breathe.

  “ ‘All passion spent,’ ” said Alleyn after a short pause.

  “That’s it,” agreed Troy. She touched it delicately with a long finger. “Garcia gave me this,” she said.

  “It wouldn’t be too
florid to say it looked as if it had been done by an inspired saint.”

  “Well — it wasn’t. It was done by a lecherous, thieving little guttersnipe who happens to be a superb craftsman. But— ”

  Troy’s voice wavered. “To catch and hang the man who made it — ”

  “God — yes, I know — I know.” He got up and moved restlessly about the room, returning to her.

  “Oh, Troy, you mustn’t cry,” he said.

  “What the devil’s it got to do with you?”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing, and don’t I know it!”

  “You’d better get on with your job,” said Troy. She looked like a boy with her head turned shamefacedly away. She groped in her trousers pocket and pulled out a handkerchief disgracefully stained with paint. “Oh blast!” she said, and pitched it into the wastepaper basket.

  “Have mine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alleyn turned away from her and leant his arms on the mantelpiece. Troy blew her nose violently.

  “My mother’s so happy about my picture,” said Alleyn to the fire. “She says it’s the best present she’s ever had. She said, if you’ll forgive the implication, that you must know all about the subject. I suppose that’s the sort of lay remark that is rather irritating to a craftsman for whom the model must be a collection of forms rather than an individual.”

  “Bosh!” said Troy down her nose and behind his handkerchief.