Artists in Crime

CHAPTER XII Malmsley on Pleasure

Nigel returned while Alleyn was still chuckling over Miss O’Dawne’s letter.

“What’s up?” asked Nigel.

“Bailey has discovered a remarkably rich plum. Come and read it. I fancy it’s the sort of thing your paper calls a human document. A gem in its own way.” Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder.

“I like Dolores Duval and her spot of trouble,” he said.

“She got her pass from Leo Cohen for Sonia,” said Alleyn. “Sonia told Ormerin she’d seen the show. Fox, what do you make of the passage where she says Sonia might as well get it both ways if Garcia is willing? Then she goes on to say she supposes it’s all right to be married and he sounds a lovely boy.”

“The lovely boy seems to be the Hon. Pilgrim, judging by the next bit about her boy-friend that was a lord,” said Fox. “Do you think Sonia Gluck had an idea she’d get Mr. Pilgrim to marry her?”

“I hardly think so. No, I fancy blackmail was the idea there. Pilgrim confessed as much when he couldn’t get out of it. If Mr. Artistic Garcia was willing! Is she driving at the blackmail inspiration there, do you imagine? Her magnificent disregard for the convention that things that are thought of together should be spoken of together, is a bit baffling. I shall have to see Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. She may be the girl we all wait for. Anything else, Bailey?”

“Well,” said Bailey grudgingly, “I don’t know if there’s anything in it but I found this.” He took out of his case a shabby blue book and handed it to Alleyn. “It’s been printed, Mr. Alleyn. There’s several of deceased’s prints and a few of the broad one I got off the door. Same party had tried to get into the case where I found the book.”

“The Consolations of a Critic,” Alleyn muttered, turning the book over in his long hands. “By C. Lewis Hind, 1911. Yes, I see. Gently select. Edwardian manner. Seems to be a mildly ecstatic excursion into aesthetics. Nice reproductions. Hullo! Hullo! Why stap me and sink me, there it is!”

He had turned the pages until he came upon a black and white reproduction of a picture in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows and turreted palaces.

“By gum and gosh, Bailey, you’ve found Mr. Malmsley’s secret. I knew I’d met those three nice little men before. Of course I had. Good Lord, what a fool! Yes, here it is. From Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, by Pol de Limbourge and his brothers. The book’s in the Musée Condé at Chantilly. I had to blandish for half an hour before the librarian would let me touch it. It’s the most exquisite thing. Well, I’ll be jiggered, and I can’t say fairer than that.”

“You can tell us what you’re talking about, however,” suggested Nigel acidly.

“Fox knows,” said Alleyn. “You remember, Fox, don’t you?”

“I get you now, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox. “That’s what she meant when she sauced him on the day of the experiment.”

“Of course. This is the explanation of one of the more obscure passages in the O’Dawne’s document. ‘What a yell about Marmelade’s bit of dirt.’ What a yell indeed! Fetch him in, Fox — any nonsense from Master Cedric Malmsley and we have him on the hip.” He put the book on the floor beside his chair.

“You might tell me, Alleyn, why you are so maddeningly perky all of a sudden,” complained Nigel.

“Wait and see, my dear Bathgate. Bailey, you’ve done extremely well. Anything else for us in the room?”

“Not that I could make out, Mr. Alleyn. Everything’s put back as it was, but I thought there was nothing against taking these things.”

“Certainly not. Pack them into my case, please. I want you to wait until I’ve seen Mr. Malmsley. Here’s Fox.”

Malmsley drifted in ahead of Fox. Seen across the dining-room table he had looked sufficiently remarkable with his beard divided into two. This beard was fine and straight and had the damp pallor of an infant’s crest. Malmsley wore a crimson shirt, a black tie and a corduroy velvet jacket. Indeed he had the uncanny appearance of a person who had come round, full circle, to the Victorian idea of a Bohemian. He was almost an illustration for “Trilby.”

“Perhaps,” thought Alleyn, “there is nothing but that left for them to do.” He wore jade rings on his, unfortunately, broad fingers.

“Ah, Mr. Alleyn,” he said, “you are painfully industrious.”

Alleyn smiled vaguely and invited Malmsley to sit down. Nigel returned to the desk, Bailey walked over to the door, Fox stood in massive silence by the dying fire.

“I want your movements from Friday noon to yesterday evening, if you will be so obliging, Mr. Malmsley,” said Alleyn.

“I am afraid that I am not fortunate enough to have a very obliging nature, Mr. Alleyn. And as for my movements, I always move as infrequently as possible, and never in the right direction.”

“London was, from your point of view, in the right direction on Friday afternoon.”

“You mean that by going to London I avoided any question of complicity in this unpleasant affair.”

“Not necessarily,” said Alleyn. Malmsley lit a cigarette. “However,” continued Alleyn, “you have already told us that you went to London by the six o’clock bus, at the end of an afternoon spent with Mr. Garcia in the studio.”

“I am absurdly communicative. It must be because I find my own conversation less tedious, as a rule, than the conversation of other people.”

“In that,” said Alleyn, “you are singularly fortunate.”

Malmsley raised his eyebrows.

“What did Mr. Garcia tell you about Mr. Pilgrim during your conversation in the studio?” asked Alleyn.

“About Pilgrim? Oh, he said that he thought Valmai would find Pilgrim a very boring companion. He was rather ridiculous and said that she would soon grow tired of Pilgrim’s good looks. I told him that it was much more likely that she would tire of Pilgrim’s virtue. Women dislike virtue in a husband almost as much as they enjoy infidelity.”

“Good Lord!” thought Alleyn. “He is late Victorian. This is Wilde and Water.”

“And then?” he said aloud.

“And then he said that Basil Pilgrim was not as virtuous as I thought. I said that I had not thought about it at all. ‘The superficial observer,’ I told him, ‘is the only observer who ever lights upon a profound truth.’ Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Being a policeman, I am afraid I don’t. Did you pursue this topic?”

“No. I did not find it sufficiently entertaining. Garcia then invited me to speculate upon the chances of Seacliff’s virtue saying that he could astonish me on that subject if he had a mind to. I assured him that I was unable to fall into a ecstasy of wonderment on the upshot of what was, as I believe racing enthusiasts would say, a fifty-fifty chance. I found Garcia quite, quite tedious and pedestrian on the subject of Seacliff. He is very much attracted by Seacliff, and men are always more amusing when they praise women they dislike than when they abuse the women to whom they are passionately attracted. I therefore changed the topic of conversation.”

“To Sonia Gluck?”

“That would be quite brilliant of you, Inspector, if I had not mentioned previously that we spoke of Sonia Gluck.”

“That is almost the only feature of our previous conversation that I do remember, Mr. Malmsley. You told us that Garcia asked you if—” Alleyn consulted his note-book— “if you had ever felt like murdering your mistress just for the horror of doing it. How did you reply?”

“I replied that I had never been long enough attached to a woman for her to claim the title of my mistress. There is something dreadfully permanent in the sound of those two sibilants. However, the theme was a pleasant one and we embroidered it at our leisure. Garcia strolled across to my table and looked at my drawing. ‘It wouldn’t be worth it,’ he said. I disagreed with him. One exquisite pang of horror! ‘One has not experienced the full gamut of nervous luxury,’ I said, ‘until one has taken a life.’ He began to laugh and returned to his work.”

“Is he at all insane, do you think?”

“Insane? My dear Inspector, who can define the borders of * abnormality?”

“That is quite true,” said Alleyn patiently. “Would you say that Mr. Garcia is far from being abnormal?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Is he in the habit of taking drugs, do you know?”

Malmsley leant forward and dropped his cigarette on an ash-tray. He examined his jade rings and said:

“I really have no idea.”

“You have never noticed his eyes, for instance?” continued Alleyn, looking very fixedly into Malmsley’s. “One can usually tell, you know, by the eyes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The pupils are contracted. Later on they occasionally become widely dilated. As you must have observed, Mr. Malmsley, when you have looked in a mirror.”

“You are wonderfully learned, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I ask you if, to your knowledge, Garcia has contracted this habit. I must warn you that a very thorough search will be made of all the rooms in this house. Whether I think it advisable to take further steps in following up evidence that is not relevant to this case, may depend largely upon your answer.”

Malmsley looked quickly from Fox to Nigel.

“These gentlemen are with me on this case,” said Alleyn. “Come now, Mr. Malmsley, unless you wish to indulge the — what was Mr. Malmsley’s remark about nervous enjoyment, Bathgate?”

Nigel looked at his notes.

“The full gamut of nervous luxury?” he said.

“That’s it. Unless you feel like experiencing the full gamut of such nervous luxury as police investigations can provide, you will do well to answer my question.”

“He could not afford it,” said Malmsley. “He is practically living on charity.”

“Have you ever treated him to — let us say — to a pipe of opium?”

“I decline to answer this question.”

“You are perfectly within your rights. I shall obtain a search-warrant and examine your effects.”

Malmsley shrank a little in his chair.

“That would be singularly distasteful to me,” he said. “I am fastidious in the matter of guests.”

“Was Garcia one of your guests?”

“And if he was? After all, why should I hesitate? Your methods are singularly transparent, Inspector. You wish to know if I have ever amused myself by exploring the pleasures of opium. I have done so. A friend has given me a very beautiful set in jade and ivory, and I have not been so churlish as to neglect its promise of enjoyment. On the other hand, I have not allowed myself to contract a habit. In point of fact, I have not used half the amount that was given to me. I am not a creature of habit.”

“Did you invite Garcia to smoke opium?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last Friday afternoon.”

“At last,” said Alleyn. “Where did you smoke your opium?”

“In the studio.”

“Where you were safe from interruption?”

“Where we were more comfortable.”

“You had the six o’clock bus to catch. Surely you felt disinclined to make the trip up to London?”

Malmsley moved restlessly.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did not smoke a full pipe. I did not wish to. I merely started one and gave it to Garcia.”

“How many pipes did you give him?”

“Only one.”

“Very well. You will now, if you please, give us an exact account of the manner in which you spent your afternoon. You went to the studio immediately after lunch. Was Garcia there?”

“Yes. He had just got there.”

“How long was it before you gave him opium?”

“My dear Inspector, how should I know? I should imagine it was round about four o’clock.”

“After your conversation about the model and so on?”

“It followed our conversation. We discussed pleasure. That led us to opium.”

“So you went to the house and fetched your jade and ivory paraphernalia?”

“Ah — yes.”

“In your first account you may remember that you told me you did not leave the studio until it was time to change and catch your bus?”

“Did I? Perhaps I did. I suppose I thought that the opium incident would over-excite you.”

“When you finally left the studio,” said Alleyn, “what was Mr. Garcia’s condition?”

“He was very tranquil.”

“Did he speak after he had begun to smoke?”

“Oh, yes. A little.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he was happy.”

“Anything else?”

“He said that there was a way out of all one’s difficulties if one only had the courage to take it. That, I think, was all.”

“Did you take your opium and the pipe back to the house?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The housemaid had said something about changing the sheets on my bed. I didn’t particularly want to encounter her.”

“Where did you put the things then?”

“In a box under Garcia’s bed.”

“And collected them?”

“This morning before class.”

“Had they been disturbed?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Malmsley moved irritably.

“They were in the box. I simply collected them and took them up to the house.”

“How much opium should there be?”

“I don’t know. I think the jar must be about half full.”

“Do you think Garcia may have smoked again, after you left?”

“Again I have no idea. I should not think so. I haven’t thought of it.”

Alleyn looked curiously at Malmsley.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you realize what you may have done?”

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“I think you do. Everything you have told me about Mr. Garcia points, almost too startlingly, to one conclusion.”

Malmsley made a sudden and violent gesture of repudiation.

“That is a horrible suggestion,” he said. “I have told you the truth — you have no right to suggest that I have — that I had any other motive, but — but— ”

“I think I appreciate your motives well enough, Mr. Malmsley. For instance, you realised that I should discover the opium in any case if I searched your room. You realised that if Mr. Garcia makes a statement about Friday, he will probably speak of the opium you gave him. You may even have known that a plea of irresponsibility due to the effect of opium might be made in the event of criminal proceedings.”

“Do you mean — if he was tried for murder, that I— I might be implicated? That is monstrous. I refuse to listen to such a suggestion. You must have a very pure mind, Inspector. Only the very pure are capable of such gross conceptions.”

“And only the very foolish attitudinise in the sort of circumstances that have risen round you and what you did on Friday afternoon. Come, Mr. Malmsley, forget your pose for a moment. To my aged perceptions it seems a little as if you were mixing Dorian Grey with one of the second-rate intellectuals of the moment. The result is something that — you must forgive me — does not inspire a policeman with confidence. I tell you quite seriously that you are in a predicament.”

“You suspect Garcia?”

“We suspect everyone and no one at the moment. We note what you have told us and we believe that Garcia was alone in the studio in a semi-drugged condition on Friday evening when we suppose the knife was thrust through the throne. We learn that you drugged him.”

“At his own suggestion,” cried Malmsley.

“Really? Will he agree to that? Or will he say that you persuaded him to smoke opium?”

“He was perfectly ready to do it. He wanted to try. And he only had one pipe. A small amount. He would sleep it off in a few hours. I tell you he was already half asleep when I left.”

“When do you think he would wake?”

“I don’t know. How should I know? The effect varies very much the first time. It is impossible to say. He would be well enough in five hours at all events.”

“Do you think,” said Alleyn very deliberately, “that Garcia set this terrible trap for Sonia Gluck?”

Malmsley was white to the lips.

“I don’t know. I know nothing about it. I thought he must have done it. You have forced me into an intolerable position. If I say I believe he did it — but not because of the opium — I refuse to accept— ”

His voice was shrill, and his lips trembled. He seemed to be near to tears.

“Very well. We shall try to establish your own movements after you left the house. You caught the six o’clock bus?”

Malmsley eagerly gave an account of his week-end. He had attended the private view, had gone on to the Savoy, and to a friend’s flat. They had sat up till three o’clock. He had spent the whole of Saturday with this friend, and with him had gone to a theatre in the evening, and again they had not gone to bed until very late. Alleyn took him through the whole business up to his return on Sunday. Malmsley seemed to be very much shaken.

“Excellent, so far,” said Alleyn. “We shall, of course, verify your statements. I have looked at your illustrations, Mr. Malmsley. They are charming.”

“You shake my pleasure in them,” said Malmsley, rallying a little.

“I particularly liked the picture of the three little men with scythes.”

Malmsley looked sharply at Alleyn but said nothing.

“Have you ever visited Chantilly?” asked Alleyn.

“Never.”

“Then you have not seen Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry?”

“Never.”

“You have seen reproductions of the illustrations, perhaps?”

“I–I may have.”

Nigel, staring at Malmsley, wondered how he could ever have thought him a pale young man.

“Do you remember a book called The Consolations of a Critic?”

“I — don’t remember — I— ”

“Do you own a copy of this book?”

“No — I–I— ”

Alleyn picked up the little blue volume from under his chair and laid it on Malmsley’s knee.

“Isn’t this book your property, Mr. Malmsley?”

“I–I refuse to answer. This is intolerable.”

“It has your name on the fly-leaf.”

Nigel suddenly felt desperately sorry for Malmsley. He felt as if he himself had done something shameful. He wished ardently that Alleyn would let Malmsley go. Malmsley had embarked on a sort of explanation. Elaborate phrases faltered into lame protestations. The subconscious memory of beautiful things — all art was imitative — to refuse a model was to confess yourself without imagination. On and on he went, and ended in misery.

“All this,” said Alleyn, not too unkindly, “is quite unnecessary. I am not here to inquire into the ethics of illustrative painting. The rightness or wrongness of what you have done is between yourself, your publisher, and your conscience, if such a thing exists. All I want to know is how this book came into the possession of Sonia Gluck.”

“I don’t know. She was odiously inquisitive — I must have left it somewhere — I had it in the studio one afternoon when I — when I was alone. Someone came in and I–I put it aside. I am not in the least ashamed. I consider I had a perfect right. There are many dissimilarities.”

“That is what she was driving at when she asked you, on the morning of the experiment, where you got your ideas?”

“Yes. I suppose so. Yes.”

“Did you ask her for the book?”

“Yes.”

“And she refused to give it up?”

“It was abominable. It was not that I objected to anybody knowing.”

“Did you go to her room?”

“I had every right when she refused. It was my property.”

“I see. You tried to recover it while she was away. On Friday, perhaps, before you left?”

“If you must know, yes.”

“And you couldn’t find your book?”

“No.”

“Where was this book, Bailey?”

“In a locked suit-case, sir, under deceased’s bed. Someone had tried to pick the lock.”

“Was that you, Mr. Malmsley?”

“I was entirely justified.”

“Was it you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not tell Miss Troy what had happened?”

“I — Troy might not look at it — Troy is rather British in such matters. She would confess with wonderful enthusiasm that her own work is rooted in the aesthetics of the primitives, but for someone who was courageous enough to use boldly such material from the past as seemed good to him, she would have nothing but abuse. Women — English women especially — are the most marvellous hypocrites.”

“That will do,” said Alleyn. “What was Sonia’s motive in taking this book?”

“She simply wanted to be disagreeable and infuriating.”

“Did you offer her anything if she returned it?”

“She was preposterous,” muttered Malmsley, “preposterous.”

“How much did she ask?”

“I do not admit that she asked anything.”

“All right,” said Alleyn. “It’s your mess. Stay in it if you want to.”

“What am I to understand by that?”

“Think it out. I believe I need not keep you any longer, Mr. Malmsley. I am afraid I cannot return your book just yet. I shall need a specimen of your fingerprints. We can take them from the cigarette-box you picked up when you came in, or from objects in your room which I am afraid I shall have to examine. It would help matters if you allowed Sergeant Bailey to take an official specimen now.”

Malmsley consented to this with a very ill grace, and made a great fuss over the printer’s ink left on his thick white finger-tips.

“I fail to see,” he said, “why I should have been forced to go through this disgusting performance.”

“Bailey will give you something to clean up the ink,” said Alleyn. “Good evening, Mr. Malmsley.”

“One more job for you, Bailey, I’m afraid,” said Alleyn, when Malmsley had gone. “We’ll have to look through these rooms before we let them go to bed. Are they still boxed up in the dining-room, Fox?”

“They are that,” said Fox, “and if that young Australian talks much more, I fancy we’ll have a second corpse on our hands.”

“I’ll start off on Mr. Malmsley’s room, will I, sir?” asked Bailey.

“Yes. Then tackle the other men’s. We’ll be there in a jiffy. I don’t expect to find much, but you never know in our game.”

“Very good, Mr. Alleyn,” said Bailey. He went off with a resigned look.

“What do you make of this dope story, Mr. Alleyn?” said Fox. “We’ll have to have a go at tracing the source, won’t we?”

“Oh Lord, yes. I suppose so. Malmsley will say he got it from the friend who gave him the pretty little pipe and etceteras, and I don’t suppose even Malmsley will give his dope-merchant away. Not that I think he’s far gone. I imagine he spoke the truth when he said he’d only experimented — he doesn’t look like an advanced addict. I took a pot-shot on his eyes, his breath, and the colour of his beastly face. And I remembered Sadie noticed a smell. Luckily the shot went home.”

“Smoking,” ruminated Nigel. “That’s rather out of the usual in this country, isn’t it?”

“Fortunately, yes,” agreed Alleyn. “As a matter of fact it’s less deadly than the other methods. Much less pernicious than injecting, of course.”

“Do you think Garcia may have done his stuff with the knife while he was still dopey?” asked Nigel.

“It would explain his careless ways,” said Fox, “dropping clay about the place.”

“That’s true, Brer Fox. I don’t know,” said Alleyn, “if, when he woke at, say, seven-thirty, when Sadie banged on the screen, he’d feel like doing the job. We’ll have to have expert opinion on the carry-over from opium. I’m inclined to think he might wake feeling darned unpleasant and take a pull at his whisky bottle. Had it been handled recently, Bailey?”

“Yes, sir, I’d say it had. It’s very dusty in patches, but there’s some prints that were left after the dust had settled. Only a very light film over the prints. Not more than a couple of days’ deposit.”

“That’s fairly conclusive,” said Alleyn. “Taken with Sadie’s statement it looks as if Garcia’s Friday evening dinner was a jorum of whisky.”

“What beats me,” said Fox, “is when he got his stuff away.”

“Some time on Friday night.”

“Yes, but how? Not by a local carrier. They’ve all been asked.”

“He must have got hold of a vehicle of some sort and driven himself,” said Nigel.

“Half doped and three-quarters tight, Mr. Bathgate?”

“He may not have been as tight as all that,” said Alleyn. “On the other hand— ”

“Well?” asked Nigel impatiently.

“On the other hand he may have,” said Alleyn. “Come on, we’ll see how Bailey’s got on, and then we’ll go home.”