by Ngaio Marsh
“But if he wanted her out of the way?” persisted Fox.
“I know, I know. But if he was going to bolt he had so much to lose. His first big commission!”
“Well, perhaps he’ll turn up and brazen it out. He doesn’t know he dropped the pellet of clay with his thumb-print. He doesn’t know Miss Lee overheard his conversation with Sonia. He doesn’t know Sonia told anyone she was going to have his child. He’ll think the motive won’t appear.”
“He’ll know what will appear at the post-mortem. What’s worrying me is the double aspect of the crime, if Garcia’s the criminal. There’s no reason to suppose Malmsley lied about giving Garcia opium. It’s the sort of thing he’d suppress if he could. Very well. The planning of the murder and the laying of the trap might have been done under the influence of a pipe or more of opium. The subsequent business with the caravan has every appearance of the work of a cool and clearheaded individual.”
“Someone else in it?”
“Who?”
“Gawd knows,” said Fox.
“Meanwhile Garcia does not appear.”
“Do you think he may have got out of the country?”
“I don’t know. He had a hundred pounds.”
“Where d’you get that, chief?”
“From Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. Sonia gave him the hundred pounds she got from Basil Pilgrim.”
“I’ve fixed up with the people at the ports,” said Fox, “he won’t get by, now. But has he already slipped through? That’s what’s worrying me.”
“If he left Tatler’s End House on his flat feet in the early hours of Saturday morning,” said Alleyn, “well pick up his track.”
“If?”
“It’s the blasted psychology of the brute that’s got me down,” said Alleyn with unusual violence. “We’ve got a very fair picture of Garcia from all these people. They all agree that he lives entirely for his work, that he will sacrifice himself and everyone else to his work, that his work is quite remarkably good. I can’t see a man of this type deliberately committing a crime that would force him to give up the biggest job he has ever undertaken.”
“But if the opium’s to blame? Not to mention the whisky?”
“If they’re to blame I don’t think he’s responsible for the rest of the business with the caravan. He’d either sleep it off there in the studio or wander away without taking any particular pains to cover his tracks. In that case we’d have found him by now.”
“Then do you think there’s any likelihood of someone else driving him up to London and hiding him in this blasted warehouse? What about the man Ethel and her boy saw in the lane? Say it wasn’t Garcia but someone else. Could he have found Garcia under the weather and offered to drive him up to London with the stuff and return the caravan?”
“Leaving the knife where it was?” said Alleyn. “Yes, that’s possible, of course. He may not have noticed the knife, this lurker in the lane. On the other hand— ”
Alleyn and Fox stared thoughtfully at each other.
“As soon as I got here this morning,” said Fox at last, “I looked up this Mr. Charleson, the secretary to the board of the New Palace Theatre in Westminster. Had a bit of luck, he was on the premises and answered the telephone. He’s coming in at eleven-thirty, but beyond confirming the business about this statue he can’t help us. Garcia was to order the marble and start work on next Monday. They offered him two hundred pounds and they were going to pay for the marble after he’d chosen it. Mr. Charleson says they’d never get anyone else at that price whose work is as good as Garcia’s.”
“Bloodsucker,” grunted Alleyn.
“But he’s no idea where the work was to be done.”
“Helpful fellow. Well, Fox, we’d better get a move on. We’re going to spend a jolly day checking up alibis. I’ll take Miss Troy’s and Miss Bostock’s to begin with. You start off with young Hatchett and Phillida Lee. To your lot will fall the breaded intelligentsia of the Vortex Experimental Studio theatre, the Lee aunt, and the Hatchett boardinghouse keeper. To mine Sir Arthur Jaynes, Cattcherley’s hairdressing establishment, Mr. Graham Barnes, and the staff of the United Arts Club.”
“And this Mr. John Bellasca, sir, Miss Troy’s friend.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Me too.”
“And then what?”
“If we get done to-day we’ll run down to Boxover in the morning and see the people with whom Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff stayed on Friday night.”
He opened a drawer in his desk and took out the photograph of the group at Tatler’s End House.
“How tall is Garcia?” he asked. “Five foot nine according to the statement Blackman gave us. Yes. Pilgrim looks about two and a half inches taller in this photograph, doesn’t he? You get a very good idea of the comparative heights. Ormerin, Hatchett and Garcia are all within an inch of each other. Miss Bostock, Miss Seacliff and Miss Lee are much shorter. The model is a little taller than Miss Bostock, but not so tall as the others. Miss Troy is taller than the first batch, but about two inches shorter than Pilgrim. Pilgrim is the tallest of the lot. Alas, alas, Fox, how little we know about these people! We interview them under extraordinary circumstances and hope to get a normal view of their characters. We ask them alarming questions and try to draw conclusions from their answers. How can we expect to discover them when each must be secretly afraid that his most innocent remark may cast suspicion upon himself? How would you or I behave if we came within the range of conjecture in a murder case? Well, damn it, let’s get on with the job.”
The desk telephone rang and he answered it.
“It’s me,” said Nigel’s voice winningly.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to come and see you, Alleyn.”
“Where are you?”
“In a call-box about five minutes away.”
“Very well, come up. I’ve got a job for you.”
“I’ll be there.”
Alleyn hung up the receiver.
“It’s Bathgate. I’ll send him round to get an exclusive story from Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. There’s just a remote hope she may become less discreet under the influence of free publicity. I’m damn’ well positive she’s keeping something up her sleeve about the blackmailing activities. She’s rather an attractive little creature, Fox. Hard as nails and used to the seamy side of life, but a curious mixture of simplicity and astuteness. She knew we’d find out about the child and had no qualms in talking about it, but as soon as the word blackmail cropped up she doubled up like a hedgehog. I don’t think it had occurred to her that Sonia’s gentle art of extracting money was in any sense criminal. And I — blundering booby that I was — must needs enlighten her. She’s terrified of Garcia. She’s convinced he murdered Sonia and I honestly think she believes he’d go for her if she informed against him.”
He moved restlessly about the room.
“There’s something missing,” he said. “I’m positive there’s something missing.”
“Garcia,” said Fox. “He’s missing all right.”
“No, blast you, not Garcia. Though Lord knows, we’ll have to get him. No, there was something else that the O’Dawne had on the tip of her tongue. By gum, Fox, I wonder — Look here.”
Alleyn was still talking when the telephone rang to say Nigel Bathgate had arrived.
“Send him up,” said Alleyn. And when Nigel appeared Alleyn talked about Bobbie O’Dawne and suggested that Nigel should get a special interview.
“This is extraordinarily decent of you, Alleyn,” said Nigel.
“It’s nothing of the sort. You’re the tool of the Yard, my boy, and don’t you forget it. Now listen carefully and I’ll tell you what line you’re to take. You must impress upon her that you are to be trusted. If she thinks you’ll publish every word she utters, she’ll say nothing to the point. If you can, write the interview there and then and read it to her. Assure her that you will print nothing without her permission. Photograph the lady in every conceivable positio
n. Then get friendly. Let her think you are becoming indiscreet. You may say that you have had instructions from the Yard to publish a story about Sonia’s blackmailing activities unless we can hear, privately, exactly what they were. You may say that we think of publishing an appeal through the paper to any of her victims, asking them to come forward and tell us without prejudice what they paid her. We hope that this will lead to the arrest of Garcia. Emphasise this. It’s Garcia we’re after, but we can’t lay it home to him without the evidence of the people Sonia blackmailed. We think Sonia refused to give him any more of the proceeds and he killed her to get them. It’s a ridiculous tarradiddle, but I think if you are low and cunning she may believe you. She’ll tell you about Pilgrim and Malmsley, I fancy, because she knows we have already got hold of that end of the stick. If, however, she thinks she may save Sonia’s name by going a bit farther, there’s just a chance she may do it. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“If you fail, we’ll be no worse off than we were before. Off you go.”
“Very well,” Nigel hesitated, his hand in his coat pocket.
“What is it?” asked Alleyn.
“Do you remember that I made a sort of betting list on the case last time you allowed me to Watson for you?”
“I do.”
“Well — I’ve done it again,” said Nigel modestly.
“Let me have a look.”
Nigel took a sheet of foolscap from his pocket and laid it before Alleyn with an anxious smile.
“Away you go,” said Alleyn. “Collect your cameraman and use your wits.”
Nigel went out and Alleyn looked at his analysis of the case.
“I’d half a mind to do something of the sort myself, Fox.” he said. “Let us see what he makes out.”
Fox looked over his shoulder. Nigel had headed his paper:
“Murder of an Artist’s Model. Possible suspects.”
(1) GARCIA.
Opportunity. Was in the studio on Friday after all the others had gone. Knew the throne would not be touched (rule of studio).
Motive. Sonia was going to have a baby. Probably his. He had tired of her and was after Valmai Seacliff (V.S.’s statement). They had quarrelled (Phillida Lee’s statement), and he had said he’d kill her if she pestered him. Possibly she threatened to sue him for maintenance. He may have egged her on to blackmail Pilgrim and taken the money. If so, she may have threatened to give him away to Troy. He had taken opium at about four o’clock in the afternoon. How long would he take to get sufficiently over the effect to drive a car to London and back?
(2) AGATHA TROY.
Opportunity. Could have done if on Saturday after she returned from London, or on Sunday. We have only her word for it that the drape was already arranged when she visited the studio on Saturday afternoon.
Motive. Sonia had hopelessly defaced the portrait of Valmai Seacliff — on Troy’s own admission the best picture she had painted.
(3) KATTI BOSTOCK.
Same opportunities as Troy.
Motive. Sonia had driven her to breaking-point over the sittings for her large picture.
(4) VALMAI SEACLIFF.
Opportunity. Doubtful, but possibly she could have returned from Boxover after they had all gone to bed. The headache might have been an excuse.
Motive. Unless you count Sonia’s defacement of her portrait by Troy, there is no motive. If she had heard of Pilgrim’s affair with Sonia, she might be furious, but hardly murderous. Anyway, she had cut Sonia out.
(5) BASIL PILGRIM.
Opportunity. Same as Seacliff. Perhaps more favourable. If she had taken aspirin, she would sleep soundly, and the others were nowhere near his room. He would have slipped out after they had all gone to bed, taken his car, gone to the studio and fixed the knife.
Motive. Sonia had blackmailed him, threatening to tell Seacliff and Lord Pilgrim that the child was Basil’s. He seems to have a kink about purity and Seacliff. On the whole, plenty of motive.
N.B. If Seacliff or Pilgrim did it, either Garcia was not at the studio or else he is a confederate. If he was not at the studio, who took the caravan and removed his stuff? Could he have done this before Pilgrim arrived, leaving the coast clear?
(6) CEDRIC MALMSLEY.
Opportunity. He could have fixed the knife after he had knocked Garcia out with opium.
Motive. Sonia was blackmailing him about his illustration. He is the type that would detest an exposure of this sort.
(7) FRANCIS ORMERIN.
Opportunity. If Hatchett and Malmsley are correct in saying the drape was still crumpled on Friday afternoon after Ormerin had left, and if Troy is correct in saying it was stretched out on Saturday before he returned, there seemed to be no opportunity.
Motive. Only the model’s persistent refusal to keep still (v. Unlikely).
(8) PHILLIDA LEE.
Opportunity. Accepting above statements — none.
Motive. None.
(9) WATT HATCHETT.
Opportunity. On Malmsley’s and Troy’s statements — none.
Motive. Appears to have disliked her intensely and quarrelled over the pose. Sonia gibed about Australia. (Poor motive.)
Remarks. It seems to me there is little doubt that Garcia did it. Probably gingered up by his pipe of opium. If he fails to answer advertisements, it will look still more suspicious.
Suggestion. Find the warehouse.
Alleyn pointed a long finger at Nigel’s final sentence.
“Mr. Bathgate’s bright idea for the day,” he said.
“Yes,” said Fox. “It looks nice and simple just jotted down like that.”
“The thing’s quite neat in its way, Fox.”
“Yes, sir. And I think he’s got the right idea, you know.”
“Garcia?”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Oh Lord, Fox, you’ve heard my trouble. I don’t see how we can be too sure.”
“There’s that bit of clay with his print on it,” said Fox. “On the drape, where it had no business.”
“Suppose it was planted? There’d be any number of bits like that lying on the floor by the window. We found some. Let’s get Bailey’s further report on the prints, shall we?”
Alleyn rang through to Bailey’s department and found that Bailey had finished his work and was ready to make a report. In a minute or two he appeared with a quantity of photographs.
“Anything fresh?” asked Alleyn.
“Yes, sir, in a sort of a way there is,” said Bailey, with the air of making a reluctant admission.
“Let’s have it.”
Bailey laid a set of photographs on Alleyn’s desk.
“These are from the empty whisky bottle under Garcia’s bed. We got them again from different parts of the bed-frame, the box underneath and the stool he used for his work. Some of them cropped up on the window-sill and there’s a good thumb and forefinger off the light switch above his bed. These”—he pointed to a second group—“come from bits of clay that were lying about the floor. Some of them were no good, but there’s a couple of clear ones. They’re made by the same fingers as the first lot. I’ve marked them ‘Garcia.’ ”
“I think we may take it they are his,” said Alleyn.
“Yes. Well then, sir, here’s the ones off the opium-box and the pipe. Four of those I’ve identified as Mr. Malmsley’s. The others are Garcia’s. Here’s a photo of the clay pellet I found in the drape. Garcia again. This set’s off the edge of the throne. There were lots of prints there, some of them Mr. Hatchett’s some Mr. Pilgrim’s and some the French bloke’s — this Mr. Ormerin. They seem to have had blue paint on their fingers, which was useful. But this set is Garcia’s again and I found it on top of the others. There were traces of clay in this lot, which helped us a bit.”
Alleyn and Fox examined the prints without comment. Bailey produced another photograph and laid it on the desk.
“I got that from the drape. Took a bit of doing. Here’s th
e enlargement.”
“Garcia,” said Alleyn and Fox together.
“I reckon it is,” said Bailey. “We’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for the clay. It looks to me, Mr. Alleyn, as if he’d only half done the job. There’s no prints on the knife, so I supposed he held that with a cloth or wiped it after he’d only half done the job. There’s nothing on the knife but a smudge of blue. You may remember there were the same blue smudges on the throne and the easel-ledge that was used to hammer in the dagger. Now, this print we got from the bit of paint-rag that you suggested was used to wipe off the prints. Some of the paint on the rag was only half dry, and took a good impression. It matches the paint smudges on the knife. Blue.”
