Artists in Crime

CHAPTER XVI Back to the Yard

Alleyn cursed himself secretly and heartily for that unlucky word “blackmail.” Miss Bobbie O’Dawne refused, pointblank, to give him any further information that might possibly come under that heading. He seemed to have come up against a tenet. If Sonia had committed blackmail and Sonia was dead, Bobbie O’Dawne wasn’t going to give her away. However, she told him quite willingly how Sonia had spent the week-end, and pretty well proved that Sonia could not possibly have gone down to Tatler’s End House between Friday and Monday. With this Alleyn had to be content. He thanked his hostess and promised to go and see her show.

“That’s right, dear, you come along. It’s a bright show. I don’t have much to do, you know. I hope you don’t think any the worse of me for minding my own business about Sonia?”

“No. But if it comes to — well — if it comes to the arrest of an innocent person and you know you could save them, what would you do then?”

“Garcia’s not innocent, dear, not so’s you’d notice it.”

“It might not be Garcia.”

“Come off it. Listen. Do you know Garcia told the poor kid that if she let on to anybody that the child was his, he’d do for her? Now! She told me that herself. She was dead scared I’d forget and let something out. She made me swear I wouldn’t. She said he’d do for both of us if we talked. Isn’t that good enough?”

“It’s sufficiently startling,” said Alleyn. “Well, I suppose I’d better be off. I do ask you, very seriously, Miss O’Dawne, to think over what I have said. There is more than one kind of loyalty, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have said a thing about the kid if I didn’t know you’d find out. Anyway, that’s the sort of thing that might happen to any girl. But I’m not going to do the dirty and have them calling her criminal names, and it’s no good asking me to. Are you going, dear? Well, so long. See you some more.”

“Suppose I sent a man along from one of the evening papers, would you care to give him an interview?”

“Who, me? Well, I don’t pretend a bit of publicity doesn’t help you in the business,” said Miss O’Dawne honestly. “D’you mean the ‘Sonia Gluck as I knew her’ gag?”

“Something like that.”

“With perhaps my picture along of hers? I’ve got a nice picture of Sonia. You know — wound up in georgette with the light behind her. Very nice. Well, as long as they don’t want the dirt about her, I wouldn’t mind the ad., dear. You know. It sounds hard, but it’s a hard old world.”

“I’ll come again, if I may.”

“Welcome, I’m sure. Be good.”

Alleyn went thoughtfully to Scotland Yard. He saw his Assistant Commissioner and went over the case with him. Then he went to his office. He had been for a year in the south of the world and the room looked at once strange and familiar. The respectably worn leather chairs, his desk, the untidy groove where he had once let a cigarette burn itself out, the little dark print of a medieval town above the mantelpiece — there they all were, as it seemed, waiting for him after a period of suspension. He sat at his desk and began to work on the report of this case. Presently Fox came in. Alleyn realised that he had clicked right back into his socket in the vast piece of machinery that was Scotland Yard. New Zealand, the wharf at Suva, the night tide of the St. Lawrence — all had receded into the past. He was back on his job.

He related to Fox the gist of his interview with Miss O’Dawne.

“What about yourself?” he asked when he had finished. “Any news, Brer Fox?”

“The city’s been set going on the warehouse business. It’s a bit of a job and no mistake. According to Miss Troy’s reckoning, we’ve got sixty miles to account for. That correct, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Well, supposing Garcia didn’t tell lies about his warehouse, it’s somewhere in London. It’s twenty miles to Shepherd’s Bush from the house. There and back, forty. Of course, he might not have come in by the Uxbridge Road, but it’s by far the most direct route and it would be the one he was familiar with. For the sake of argument say he took it. That leaves us a radius of ten miles, roughly, from Shepherd’s Bush to wherever the warehouse is. Twenty, there and back.”

“Total, sixty.”

“Yes. Of course, if this warehouse is somewhere, west, north-west, or south-west, he might have branched off before he got to Shepherd’s Bush, but he said Holloway to Miss Seacliff and if he went to Holloway he’d go by Shepherd’s Bush. Then on by way of, say, Albany Street and the Camden Road. As the crow flies, Holloway Prison is only about five miles from Shepherd’s Bush, but the shortest way by road would be nearer eight or nine. Holloway fits in all right as far as the petrol consumption goes. Of course, it’s all very loose,” added Fox, looking over his spectacles at Alleyn, “but so’s our information.”

“Very loose. Holloway’s a large district.”

“Yes. Still, it squares up, more or less, with what we’ve got.”

“True enough.”

“Well, sir, following out your suggestion we’ve concentrated on Holloway and we’re raking it for warehouses.”

“Yes, it’s got to be done.”

“On the other hand,” continued Fox stolidly, “as you pointed out on the trip up, it may not be in Holloway at all. Suppose Garcia lied about the position of the warehouse, having already planned the job when he spoke to Miss Seacliff. Suppose he deliberately misled her, meaning to use this warehouse as a hideout after the job was done?”

“It doesn’t look like that, Fox. She says Garcia tried to persuade her to visit him there alone. He actually gave her a sketch-map of how to get to the studio. She’s lost it, of course.”

“Look here,” said Fox. “The idea was that Pilgrim should drive her up. I wonder if there’s a chance she handed the sketch-map to Pilgrim and he knows where the place is?”

“Yes. If he does know he didn’t bother to mention it when I asked them all about the warehouse. Of course, that might have been bluff, but the whole warehouse story is rather tricky. Suppose Garcia planned this murder in cold blood. He would have to give up all idea of carrying out his commission for the marble group unless he meant to brazen it out, go for his walk, and turn up at the warehouse to get on with his work. If he meant to do this it would be no good to tell preliminary lies about the site, would it? Suppose, on the other hand, he meant to disappear. He wouldn’t have mentioned a warehouse at all if he meant to lie doggo in it.”

“That’s right enough. Well, sir, what if he planned the murder while he was still dopey after the opium?”

“That, to me, seems more probable. Malmsley left the pipe, the jar and the lamp in a box under Garcia’s bed because he was afraid of your friend Sadie catching him if he returned them to his bedroom. Bailey found Garcia’s as well as Malmsley’s prints on the jar. There’s less opium than Malmsley said there would be. It’s at least possible that Garcia had another go at it after Malmsley had gone. He may have woken up, felt very dreary, and sought to recapture the bliss. He may have smoked another pipe or taken a pull at his whisky. He may have done both. He may even have laid the trap with the dagger while still under the influence of the opium and — or — whisky. This is shamefully conjectural, Fox, but it seems to me that it is not too fantastic. The macabre character of the crime is not inconsistent, I fancy, with the sort of thing one might expect from a man in Garcia’s condition. So far — all right. Possible, at any rate. But would he be sensible enough to get Miss Troy’s caravan, back it, however clumsily, up to the window, put the empty case on board and wheel the model through the window and into the case? And what’s more, my old Foxkin, would he have the gumption to drive to this damnable warehouse, dump his stuff, return the caravan to Tatler’s End House, and set out on his walking tour? Would he not rather sink into a drugged and disgusting slumber lasting well into Saturday morning? And having come to himself would he not undo his foul trap for Sonia?”

“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 position. 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:

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 the 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.”

“Garcia’s.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“This about settles it, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox.

“That Garcia laid the trap? I agree with you.”

“We’ll have to ask for more men. It’s going to be a job getting him, sir. He had such a big start. How about letting these alibis wait for to-day, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I think we’d better get through them, but I tell you what, Fox. I’ll ask for another man and leave the alibi game to the pair of you. I’m not pulling out the plums for myself, Foxkin.”

“I’ve never known you to do that, Mr. Alleyn, don’t you worry. We’ll get through these alibis,” said Fox. “I’d like to see what our chaps are doing round the Holloway district.”

“And I,” said Alleyn, “think of going down to Brixton.”

“Is that a joke?” asked Fox suspiciously, after a blank pause.

“No, Fox.”

“Brixton? Why Brixton?”

“Sit down for a minute,” said Alleyn, “and I’ll tell you.”