“As you know,” he said, “I can make no guess as to who killed poor Julian. That is your province and not mine. But this senseless charade in hanging his body in front of the painting by Max Ernst worries me. It has just occurred to me that there is one more possibility. As you entered the gallery you no doubt noticed a wall decoration on the first landing of the stairs?”
He paused and the Professor puffed a cloud of nauseous smoke into the room before he grunted, “D’ye mean that junk-heap that’s somehow defyin’ the laws o’ gravity an’ stickin’ on the walls?”
“Well,” the Doctor was again benign, “if you care to put it that way you can. I can hardly expect art-criticism or appreciation from a man of your profession,” I don’t know what he thought the Professor did; I suppose he thought he was a strange sort of policeman. “To one trained in appreciation, like myself, that decoration expresses all the zeitgeist of the works in this Museum. It has a freedom from preconceived notions which lifts it into the class of inspired works. But, be that as it may, the decoration is the work of a young artist called Ben Carr whom I was privileged to discover employing his unique gifts on the walls of a deserted chapel in the East End. Being, if I do not flatter myself, a man of some little perspicacity, I immediately drew him to the attention of Miss Wallenstein, suggesting that she might offer him some employment more commensurate with his genius and gifts. I am glad to say that Miss Wallenstein thought highly of my suggestion and offered him the needful encouragement. Now, you must not for a moment think that I am suggesting that Mr. Carr had anything to do with this outrage, but I would suggest that, if he had found Mr. Ambleside lying dead in the gallery, the idea of hanging the body in front of a picture is just the sort of idea which would have made an immediate appeal to a man of his free and untarnished vision. After all, only the other day, he came to me with the suggestion that he should employ raw meat in the decoration of the ladies’ lavatory, and I had to use, I may say, considerable tact in dissuading him from this no doubt laudable idea. Finding Ambleside dead, say, I fear that Carr, robbed of his expression through the use of raw meat, might have considered that he had found the ideal chance to, shall I say, get back at me for my interference. And once he had done the deed, I fear that the dear fellow is quite capable of having forgotten all about it. He is eccentric in the way that all the most free and uninhibited characters are called eccentric by the world, but there is not, I may say, any essential evil in his eccentricity. He has no repressions which need release. I, however unintentionally and with the worthiest of motives, may have been responsible for the creation of a repression, which he took the earliest opportunity of releasing.”
He looked round at us again. I thought he looked pleased with himself. The Chief Inspector looked puzzled, as well he might. I was pretty puzzled myself, but then I had not encountered either Ben Carr or his work.
“That old woman with the rat,” I asked, “would she be any relative?”
Dr. Bellamy shuddered with elaborate distaste. “That old woman,” he said tartly, “is his mother. She is a disgraceful old harridan and old enough to know better.”
“If she’s a hundred and two, as she claims,” the old man broke in, “she’d better start learning soon or she never will learn. I thought her a gay old girl an’ she taught me how to catch rats. I’ve always wanted to know how these chaps go about the job. She shewed me, but,” ruefully, “she says I’ll never make an expert. Most disappointin,’ most disappointin’.” He relapsed into a series of unintelligible grumbles. I knew he was regretting the loss of the mechanical rat and I knew damn well that I’d have to find another, even if it meant crawling all over London on my hands and knees for it.
Chapter 3
Nostalgia of the Infinite
I WOULD hardly have called the interview with Dr. Cornelius Bellamy a piece of gay social intercourse. He was as solemn as an old dog and about as helpful, We were the students and we had to put up with his lecturing. And he certainly did lecture.
Professor Stubbs, rather to my surprise, sat there drinking it in as if he had all his life wished to be instructed in the less well digested parts of psychology. The Doctor invoked the ghost of Freud till that learned Viennese gentleman must have groaned in his grave, and the names of Jung and Horney were bandied about with a nonchalance that would have startled anyone but the old man.
I was glad when it was all over. The Chief Inspector, his heavy lidded eyes opening a slit, looked across at the Doctor, who still sat with his finger-tips pressed together.
“Well, Dr. Bellamy,” he said politely, “I must thank you for all the trouble you have taken in telling us about these people. You have been most helpful. I do not think that I will need to detain you further.”
“Thank you,” the Doctor rose, “but before I go I would like to ask you whether you think that we should open the Museum to the public, as we originally intended, to-morrow morning? Would you, as the spokesman of the police, have any objection to our doing so?”
The Chief Inspector shook his head. “I have no objection at all,” he said, “but I think I should warn you that you will probably find that the newspapers have got hold of this story and that fact, combined with the publicity the Museum has already received, will mean that you will be inundated with crowds of people who would not otherwise have come here You will probably find it difficult to control the crowds.”
“My dear sir,” the Doctor was patronising, “I have already thought of that eventuality. One cannot control the morbidity of the gutter-press, but one can at least control those whose ghoulish instincts prompt them to come and gloat over the scene of any untoward happening. I intend to ring the Corps of Commissionaires and ask for two large and strong—ah—fellows, to assist in controlling these sightseers. On the other hand, sad though I am that this should have befallen the unfortunate Mr. Ambleside, I may say that there is always the possibility that it may result in some converts to the cause which he had so much at heart—the cause of modern art. Some of those who come to gloat may stay to admire.”
Coldblooded fish, I thought, but Professor Stubbs beamed.
“Eh, Doctor Ho-hum,” he growled, “Ye might say that nothin’ in his life became him like the leavin’ o’ it, eh?”
The Doctor bowed stiffly and left the room. The Chief Inspector waggled his hands like a pair of helpless flippers.
“Well,” he said, without cheer in his voice, “here we are in the middle of another muddle. Here’s a fine mad-house for you. So far as I can judge from what that chap says anyone here might have done the murder for the most trivial reasons. The reasons he puts forward are not such as would appear logical to a simple man like myself, and I’ve seen some pretty queer motives for murder in my day. What do you think, John?”
“I’d like a drink,” the Professor complained, “I dehydrate so thunderin’ quick. But if ye ask me me opinion on the matter I’d say ye should discount most o’ what that windbag blew at ye. He was shewin’ off how clever he was. He’s read all the blinkin’ books an’ he can’t let ye forget it, not by a long chalk. I’d say that he is a bit worried himself, too. Did ye notice that?”
The Bishop nodded pontifically. “Yes,” he said, “but I think that is only natural. After all Dr. Bellamy has dreamed all his life of a place like this,” he waved his hand and it got tangled in a small Calder mobile hanging above him. “Damn it. Well here he is with his Museum of Modern Art and just as he thinks the balloon is going up good and proper some small boy sticks a pin in it. I’d have said he was more irritated than worried, myself.”
“Perhaps ye’re right,” the old man grumbled and he stumped towards the door. “I’m goin’ to see if I can find somethin’ to slake me confounded thirst.”
We left the Chief Inspector to his unhappy thoughts and went back into the gallery. It was deserted except for two figures beside the table which still carried an incredible load of drinks. One of these was Douglas Newsome and the other one I did not know. We went towards t
hem.
“Hullo, sir,” said Douglas gloomily on seeing the Professor. I noticed that he was drinking whisky out of a half-pint glass. “This is Mr. Carr. He knows all about interior decoration and horses. Mr. Ben Carr—Professor John Stubbs.”
Mr. Carr lifted a glass to his lips. “Here’s to you,” he said, “and plenty of murders, old cock. How is the trade in death—does it flourish and will it bloom this year?”
I thought that Mr. Carr was going a bit far. The inappropriate use of quotations was Douglas’s prerogative.
The old man looked pleased, however. He snorted violently. He blew his nose with a noise like the last trump on a brilliant bandanna handkerchief.
“Oh,” he said beaming, “it goes fine. It’ll ha’ plenty of flowers soon. How’s interior decoratin’?”
“Ruddy awful,” said Mr. Carr gloomily, “all they want is plenty of rubbish spread on their walls and I can’t find original rubbish. You’d think that a few old tins and scraps of paper would do, wouldn’t you? Well, not a bit of it. They all want bits of rubbish that you can’t find. Bits of rubbish that don’t lie around every junk-heap. What they want is the junk of a museum and not the junk of a household. Now I tell them that the junk of a household is much more significant. ‘Significant’,” he repeated the word admiringly, “good word that. I learned it from the Doc himself. But do they want significance? No! Have a drink.”
He leaned over and found a bottle of sherry which he practically emptied into a mug. All the glasses on the table were of a reasonable size, but Douglas and Mr. Carr seemed to have gone in for glasses of a more thirst-quenching capacity.
Douglas caught my eye looking at the glasses. “These,” he said in a sepulchral tone, picking two of them up, “come from the Department of Industrial Design. Mr. Carr and myself came to the conclusion that it was a pity to let all this drink evaporate on the table, so we’re trying to save it from that fate, but we wouldn’t have got far with the ordinary glasses that they’d laid out for the guests this afternoon. So we went and raided the Industrial part—the only good thing that can be said for it is that there are plenty of glasses of all sorts. I,” he sounded more miserable than usual, “wanted to take one that held a litre. But Carr, here, said that it would be immoderate. What do you think?” He appealed to the old man.
“Moderation in all things is excellent,” said Mr. Carr before the Professor had time to answer, “remember that, Douglas cock, and you won’t go far wrong.”
The Professor shook his head solemnly. “I must say,” he grumbled, “that I like a drink that’s a drink. I can’t do wi’ yer fiddlin’ little la-de-da glasses. I like a mug meself.”
Douglas looked even more miserable and finished his glass. With a complete disregard for his interior he filled the glass with the remains of the sherry.
“Harumph,” Professor Stubbs snorted, “I came here to ha’ a drink. Ye know I dehydrate hellish quick? Well, I do. But since I’m here I might as well find out a few things about the death o’ Julian Ambleside. Mr. Carr, now, would ye mind tellin’ me if ye killed Julian Ambleside?”
This direct approach did not seem to embarrass Mr. Carr at all. He looked thoughtful, as if he was trying to remember something. It was at least half a minute before he answered.
“No,” he spoke slowly, “so far as I can remember I didn’t kill him. I feel sure I’d have remembered if I had. You see, I didn’t know him well enough and I feel sure that you’ve got to know someone very well before you murder them. No. I didn’t kill the poor fish.”
The Professor nodded his head heavily and the mop of grey hair wagged up and down on top of his scalp.
“I thought ye didn’t, son,” he said comfortably, “but now ’ud ye mind tellin’ me if ye found him dead an’ hung him up as a kinda decoration?”
Mr. Carr looked even more thoughtful. He took a short and rough looking cheroot from his waistcoat pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He lighted this carefully before he replied.
“No,” his voice was regretful, “that was an idea I didn’t think of. It’s a pity, isn’t it? He’d have looked tasty stuck to the cement in the ladies’ lavatory, wouldn’t he? Particularly after the flies began to get at him.”
This seemed pretty unpleasant to me and so I helped myself to another drink. A rather more moderate size of drink than those which the others were taking.
“Say, Prof old cock,” Mr. Carr suddenly brightened, “do you play cards at all? We could get up a nice game if you do.”
“Don’t play cards with him,” Douglas was sombre, “all his cards are marked and he’s bound to win. Not that it does him any good.”
“Not half it don’t,” said Mr. Carr, who apparently did not resent Douglas issuing warnings against his cards, “I win packets. I don’t play unless I think I’m going to win packets. I take them home with me. I go into the place with the money dripping from me like dew, and what happens—I ask you?—why, Maggie, she’s my concubine—she takes it all off me at dice. I keep on saying that I’ll either have to get a new woman or a new set of dice, but I never get round to doing anything about it. I’m lethargic, that’s my failing.”
So far as I could see the proceedings were about to degenerate into a common boozing party, not that I’m averse to boozing at the right time, but it seemed to me to be a bit early in even the old man’s investigations for that. I looked at him disapprovingly. He was completely enthralled by Mr. Carr.
“Um,” he said solemnly, “an’, if it’s not too personal a question, what started ye interior decoratin’. I mean is it a vocation in the same kinda way as goin’ into the church, or do ye just suddenly discover ye’ve got a gift for it?”
Mr. Carr closed one eye. He was as solemn as Professor Stubbs.
“To tell the truth,” he said cheerfully, “I just sort of drifted into it. Speaking technically I’m an inventor. I invent the sort of little gadget which makes the housewife’s task less of a burden. If I’d come early enough on the scene I’d have invented the safety-pin and possibly even the whistling kettle. I like gadgets and there aren’t enough of them in the world, so I have to invent my own ones.”
Hell, and likewise damnation, I said to myself, now we’ve got onto the subject of gadgets nothing on earth will pull the old man away. I made a feeble effort.
“I say,” I said with the bright hopelessness of a vacuum cleaner salesman, “have you managed to find out yet when Julian Ambleside was last seen alive? It seems to me that if you could discover that you might be able to get a line on the murderer.”
“Eh?” he scowled at me through the gap between the tops of his steel-rimmed glasses and his grey bushy eyebrows, “Eh? Oh, there’s plenty o’ time for that. No need to hurry. That,” his voice took on a complaining tone, “is the trouble about ye, Max. Ye’re always in such a thunderin’ hurry to get over things. Me, I got the scientific mind, an’ so nothin’ comes amiss to me. Anythin’ may be o’ some importance. Ye’ll never know. Now, Mr. Carr, ye were tellin’ me about yer inventions. What d’ye think is the best o’ ’em?”
Mr. Carr looked down at his glass. His face contracted with the bitter agony of intense concentration.
“I’d say,” he said it slowly, “that my best idea was a combined shoetree and polishing outfit, designed for the traveller. You see, I have always noticed how much waste there is in the body of a shoe tree and I have always found, too, that whenever I go away and pack some stuff to do up my shoes when they get dirty, that there’s no end to the mess. You know, you get boot-polish in your toothbrush and you try and clean your teeth or shave with Meltonian cream. So I solved the problem. I just have hollow ends to the shoe trees and all the cleaning materials live inside them. Simple, isn’t it? You’d have thought it would have made me a fortune, wouldn’t you? Not a bit of it. Nobody is interested. The only maker of shoe-trees with whom I had an interview said that he didn’t carry cleaning stuff with him when he went away. His shoes were cleaned by the staff of the hotel w
here he happened to stay. Disgusting, that’s what I call it.”
“Eh?” said the Professor, “As for livin’ our servants can do that for us, eh?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Carr, still registering the extreme of bitter and unfathomed disgust. “But that’s not all. I invent thousands of things, but there’s always something wrong with them. Why I spent four years making a typewriter to write in Chinese, and that meant I’d already spent five years getting a smattering of the language. It was a beautiful machine, as big as a house, though. They said it wasn’t very portable, but then it wasn’t meant to be portable. You can’t carry all these characters in a pint-pot. You could, though, have moved it about in an average railway van, and then all you had to do was to plug it in to the nearest electric light plug and there you were. You just picked your character and pressed the key and it came out clear. As you can imagine, Prof, it was no easy job making a typewriter which not only had all these characters, but which also began on the right hand side of the page and went, so’s to speak, backwards.”
I had a momentary and pleasing vision of Mr. Carr astride a typewriter the size of a newspaper printing machine, vainly hunting for character number 1700.
“I also,” Mr. Carr was modest, “invented a new language. It was a peach. A winner. I could speak it perfectly and I taught my boy, Hurley, to speak it too. We got along top-hole. There again though, there was something wrong. Nobody else seemed to be able to learn it. It really was so much better than Volapuk or Esperanto and Basic English and all the rest. It sounded so nice.”
So far as detection was going it seemed to me that I might as well just call it a day. I beckoned to Douglas and he drifted away from Mr. Carr. We made a great shew of looking at the pictures on the walls. While we looked I did my best to get some information out of him, but it really seemed that he did not know very much. He did, however, tell me that a painting by Chirico had been destroyed and that it was a picture which was of doubtful authenticity. I stored this bit of information up in my mind and wondered why nobody had thought of telling us about it earlier. It seemed to me that perhaps it might have some bearing on the murder.
Swing Low, Swing Death Page 13
