Artists in Crime

CHAPTER XVII The Man at the Table

At four o’clock on the following afternoon, Wednesday, September 21st, Alleyn turned wearily into the last land and estate agents’ office in Brixton. A blond young man advanced upon him.

“Yes, sir? What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

“It’s not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid. If you will, and if you can, tell me of any vacant warehouses in this district, or of any warehouses that have let part of themselves to artists, or of any artists who, having rented such premises, have taken themselves off to foreign parts and lent the premises to a young man who sculps. As you will probably have guessed, I am an officer of Scodand Yard. Here’s my card. Do you mind awfully if I sit down?”

“Er — yes. Of course not. Do,” said the young man in some surprise.

“It’s a weary world,” said Alleyn. “The room would be well lit. I’d better show you my list of all the places I have already inspected.”

The list was a long one. Alleyn had continued his search at eleven o’clock that morning.

The blond young man ran through it, muttering to himself. Occasionally he cast a glance at his immaculately dressed visitor.

“I suppose,” he said at last, with an avid look towards an evening paper on the corner of his desk, “I suppose this wouldn’t happen to have any connection with the missing gentleman from Bucks?”

“It would,” said Alleyn.

“By the name of Garcia?”

“Yes. We believe him to be ill and suffering from loss of memory. It is thought he may have wandered in this direction, poor fellow.”

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed the young man.

“Too odd for words,” murmured Alleyn. “He’s a little bit ga-ga, we understand. Clever, but dottyish. Do you think you can help us?”

“Well now, let me see. This list is pretty comprehensive. I don’t know if— ”

He bit his finger and opened a large book. Alleyn closed his eyes.

“It’s not exactly in our line, really,” said the young man. “I mean to say, any of the warehouses round here might have a room to let and we’d never hear of it. See what I mean?”

“Alas, yes,” said Alleyn.

“Now there’s Solly and Perkins. Big place. Business not too good, they tell me. And there’s Anderson’s shirt factory, and Lacker and Lampton’s used-car depot. That’s in Guiper Row, off Cornwall Street. Just by the waterworks. Opposite the prison. Quite in your line, Inspector.”

He laughed shrilly.

“Damn’ funny,” agreed Alleyn.

“Lacker and Lampton’s foreman was in here the other day. He’s taken a house from us. Now, he did say something about there being a lot of room round at their place. He said something about being able to store his furniture there if they went into furnished rooms. Yes. Now, I wonder. How about Lacker and Lampton’s?”

“I’ll try it. Could you give me the foreman’s name?”

“McCully’s the name. Ted McCully. He’s quite a pal of mine. Tell him I sent you. James is my name. Look here, I’ll come round with you, if you like.”

“I wouldn’t dream of troubling you,” said Alleyn firmly. “Thank you very much indeed. Good-bye.”

He departed hurriedly, before Mr. James could press his offer home. A fine drizzle had set in, the sky was leaden, and already the light had begun to fade. Alleyn turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his hat and strode off in the direction of Brixton Prison. Cornwall Street ran along one side of the waterworks and Guiper Row was a grim and deadly little alley off Cornwall Street. Lacker and Lampton’s was at the far end. It was a barn of a place and evidently combined wrecking activities with the trade in used cars. The ground floor was half full of spare parts, chassis without wheels, engines without chassis, and bodies without either.

Alleyn asked for Mr. Ted McCully, and in a minute or two a giant in oil-soaked dungarees came out of a smaller workshop, wiping his hands on a piece of waste.

“Yes, sir?” he asked cheerfully.

“I’m looking for an empty room with a good light to use as a painting-studio,” Alleyn began. “I called in at the estate agents, behind the prison, and Mr. James, there, said he thought you might have something.”

“Bert James?” said Mr. McCully with a wide grin. “What’s he know about it? Looking for a commission as per usual, I’ll bet.”

“Have a cigarette. Will that thing stand my weight?”

“Thank you, sir. I wouldn’t sit there; it’s a bit greasy. Take the box.”

Alleyn sat on a packing-case.

“Have you any vacant rooms that would do to paint in?”

“Not here, we haven’t, but it’s a funny thing you should ask.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence,” said Mr. McCully maddeningly.

“Oh?”

“Yes. The world’s a small place, you know, sir. Isn’t it, now?”

“No bigger than a button,” agreed Alleyn.

“That’s right. Look at this little coincidence, now. I dare say you’ve had quite a ramble looking for this room you want.”

“I have rambled since eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Is that a fact? And then you look in on Bert James and he sends you round here. And I’ll swear Bert knows nothing about it, either. Which makes it all the more of a coincidence.”

“Makes what, though?” asked Alleyn, breathing through his nostrils.

“I was just going to tell you,” said Mr. McCully. “You see, although we haven’t got the sort of thing you’d be wanting, on the premises, there’s a bit of a storehouse round the corner that would do you down to the ground. Skylight. Paraffin heater. Electric light. Plenty of room. Just the thing.”

“May I— ”

“Ah! Wait a bit, though. It’s taken. It’s in use in a sort of way.”

“What sort of way?”

“That’s the funny thing. It was taken by an artist like yourself.”

Alleyn flicked the ash off his cigarette.

“Really?” he said.

“Yes. Gentleman by the name of Gregory. He used to look in here pretty often. He once took a picture of this show. What a thing to want to take a photo of, I said, but he seemed to enjoy it. I wouldn’t have the patience myself.”

“Is he in his studio this afternoon?”

“Hasn’t been there for three months. He’s in Hong Kong.”

“Indeed,” murmured Alleyn, and he thought: “Easy now. Don’t flutter the brute.”

“Yes. In Hong Kong taking pictures of the Chinks.”

“Would he sublet, do you know?”

“I don’t know whether he would but he can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he promised the loan of it to someone else.”

“I see. Then somebody else is using it?”

“That’s where the funny part comes in. He isn’t. Never turned up.”

“Gosh!” thought Alleyn.

“Never turned up,” repeated Mr. McCully. “As a matter of fact I asked the boss only yesterday if I might store some bits of furniture there during Christmas because the wife and I are moving and it’s a bit awkward what with this and that and the other thing— ”

He rambled on. Alleyn listened with an air of sympathetic attention.

“… so the boss said it would be all right if this other chap didn’t turn up, but all Mr. Gregory said was that he’d offered the room to this other chap and given him his key, and he’d just come in when he wanted it. So that’s how it stands.”

“What was this other man’s name, do you know?”

“Have I heard it now?” ruminated Mr. McCully, absently accepting another of Alleyn’s cigarettes. “Wait a bit now. It was a funny sort of name. Reminded me of something. What was it? By crikey, I remember. It reminded me of the rubbish van — you know — the chaps that come round for the garbage tins.”

“Garbage?”

“Garbage — that’s the name. Or nearly.”

“Something like Garcia, perhaps.” And Alleyn thought: “Has he read the evening paper or hasn’t he?”

“That’s it! Garcia! Well, fancy you getting it. Garcia! That’s the chap. Garcia.” Mr. McCully laughed delightedly.

Alleyn stood up.

“Look here,” he said, “I wish you’d just let me have a look at this place, will you? In case there is a chance of my getting it.”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing against that. The boss is away just now, but I don’t see how he could object. Not that there’s anything to see. We don’t go near it from one week to another. I’ll just get our key and take you along. Fred!”

“Hooray?” said a voice in the workshop.

“I’m going round to the shed. Back before knock-off.”

“Right-oh.”

Mr. McCully got a key from behind a door, hooked an old tarpaulin over his shoulders and, talking incessantly, led the way out of the garage by a side door into a narrow alley.

It was now raining heavily. The alley smelt of soot, grease, and stagnant drainage. Water streamed down from defective gutters and splashed about their feet. The deadliness and squalor of the place seemed to close about them. Their footsteps echoed at the far end of the alley.

“Nasty weather,” said Mr. McCully. “It’s only a step.”

They turned to the left into a wider lane that led back towards Cornwall Street. McCully stopped in front of a pair of rickety double-doors fastened with a padlock and chain.

“Here we are, sir. Just half a tick and I’ll have her opened. She’s a bit stiff.”

While he fitted the key in the padlock Alleyn looked up the lane. He thought how like this was to a scene in a modern talking-picture of the realistic school. The sound of the rain, the grime streaked with running trickles, the distant mutter of traffic, and their own figures, black against grey — it was almost a Dostoievsky setting. The key grated in the lock, the chain rattled and McCully dragged the reluctant doors back in their grooves.

“Darkish,” he said. “I’ll turn up the light.”

It was very dark inside the place they had come to. A greyness filtered through dirty skylights. The open doors left a patch of light on a wooden floor, but the far end was quite lost in shadow. McCully’s boots clumped over the boards.

“I don’t just remember where the switch is,” he said, and his voice echoed away into the shadows. Alleyn stood like a figure of stone in the entrance, waiting for the light. McCully’s hand fumbled along the wall. There was a click and a dull yellow globe, thick with dust, came to life just inside the door.

“There we are, sir.”

Alleyn walked in.

The place at first looked almost empty. A few canvases stood at intervals with their faces to the wall. Half-way down there was a large studio easel, and beyond it, far away from the light, stood a packing-case with a few old chairs and some shadowy bundles. Beyond that again, deep in shadow, Alleyn could distinguish the corner of a table. An acrid smell hung on the air. McCully walked on towards the dark.

“Kind of lonesome, isn’t it?” he said. “Not much comfort about it. Bit of a smell, too? There was some storage batteries in here. Wonder if he broke one of them.”

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn, but McCully did not hear him.

“There’s another light at this end. I’ll find the switch in a minute,” he said. “It’s very dark, isn’t it, sir? Cripes, what a stink. You’d think he’d— ”

His voice stopped as if someone had gagged him. He stood still. The place was filled with the sound of rain and with an appalling stench.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alleyn sharply.

There was no answer.

“McCully! Don’t move.”

“Who’s that!” said McCully violently.

“Where? Where are you?”

“Here — who — Christ!”

Alleyn strode swiftly down the room.

“Stay where you are,” he said.

“There’s someone sitting at the table,” McCully whispered.

Alleyn came up with him and caught him by the arm. McCully was trembling like a dog.

“Look! Look there!”

In the shadow cast by the packing-case Alleyn saw the table. The man who sat at it leant across the top and stared at them. His chin seemed to be on the surface of the table. His arms were stretched so far that his hands reached the opposite edge. It was an uncouth posture, the attitude of a scarecrow. They could see the lighter disc that was his face and the faint glint of his eyeballs. Alleyn had a torch in his pocket. He groped for it with one hand and held McCully’s arm with the other. McCully swore endlessly in a whisper.

The sharp beam of light ran from the torch to the table. It ended in the man’s face. It was the face of a gargoyle. The eyeballs started from their sockets, the protruding tongue was sulphur yellow. The face was yellow and blue. McCully wrenched his arm from Alleyn’s grasp and flung it across his eyes.

Alleyn walked slowly towards the table. The area of light widened to take in an overturned cup and a bottle. There was a silence of a minute broken by McCully.

“Oh, God!” said McCully. “Oh, God, help me! Oh, God!”

“Go back to your office,” said Alleyn. “Telephone Scotland Yard. Give this address. Say the message is from Inspector Alleyn. Ask them to send Fox, Bailey, and the divisional surgeon. Here!”

He turned McCully round, marched him towards the door and propped him against the wall.

“I’ll write it down.” He took out his note-book wrote rapidly and then looked at McCully. The large common face was sheet-white and the lips were trembling.

“Can you pull yourself together?” asked Alleyn. “Or had I better come with you? It would help if you could do it. I’m a C.I.D. officer. We’re looking for this man. Come now, can you help me?”

McCully drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

“He’s dead,” he said.

“Bless my soul, of course he is. Will you take this message? I don’t want to bully you. I just want you to tell me if you can do it.”

“Give us a moment, will you?”

“Of course.”

Alleyn looked up and down the alley.

“Wait here a minute,” he said.

He ran through the pelting rain to the top of the alley and looked into Cornwall Street. About two hundred yards away he saw a constable, walking along the pavement towards him. Alleyn waited for him, made himself known, and sent the man off to the nearest telephone. Then he returned to McCully.

“It’s all right, McCully, I’ve found a P.C. Sit down on this box. Here.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and made McCully drink. “Sorry I let you in for this,” he said. “Now wait here and don’t admit anyone. When I’ve turned up the light at the back of this place, close the doors. You needn’t look round.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll wait outside.”

“All right. Don’t speak to anyone unless they say they’re from the Yard.”

Using his torch, Alleyn went back to the far end of the room. He found the light switch, turned it on, and heard McCully drag the doors together.

The lamp at this end of the room was much more brilliant. By its light Alleyn examined the man at the table. The body was flaccid. Alleyn touched it, once. The man was dressed in an old mackintosh and a pair of shabby grey trousers. The hands were relaxed, but their position suggested that they had clutched the edge of the table. They were long, the square fingertips were lightly crusted with dry clay and the right thumb and forefinger were streaked with blue. On the backs of the hands Alleyn saw sulphur-coloured patches. Not without an effort he examined the terrible face. There were yellow spots on the jaw amongst the half-grown beard. The mouth was torn, and a glance at the finger-nails showed by what means. On the chin, the table and the floor Alleyn found further ghastly evidence of what had happened before the man died.

Alleyn dropped his silk handkerchief over the head.

He looked at the overturned bottle and cup. The bottle was marked clearly with a label bearing a scarlet cross. It was almost empty and from its neck a corroded patch spread over the table. The same marks appeared on the table round the cup. The table had been heavily coated with dust when the man sat at it. His arms had swept violently across the surface. The floor was littered with broken china and with curiously shaped wooden tools, rather like enormous orange-sticks. Alleyn looked at the feet. The shoes, though shabby and unpolished, had no mud on them. One foot was twisted round the chair-leg, the other had been jammed against the leg of the table. The whole posture suggested unspeakable torture.

Alleyn turned to the packing-case. It was five feet square and well made. One side was hinged and fastened with a bolt. It was not locked. He pulled on his gloves and, touching it very delicately, drew the bolt. The door opened smoothly. Inside the case, on a wheeled platform, was an irregularly shaped object that seemed to be swathed in clothes. Alleyn touched it. The cloths were still damp. “Comedy and Tragedy,” he murmured. He began to go over the floor. McCully’s and his own wet prints were clear enough, but as far as he could see, with the exception of the area round the table, the wooden boards held no other evidence. He turned his torch on the border where the floor met the wall. There he found a thick deposit of dust down the entire length of the room. In a corner there was a large soft broom. Alleyn looked at this closely, shook the dust from the bristles on to a sheet of paper and then emptied it into an envelope. He returned to the area of floor round the table and inspected every inch of it. He did not disturb the pieces of broken china there, nor the wooden tools, but he found at last one or two strands of dark-brown hair and these he put in an envelope. Then he looked again at the head of the dead man.

Voices sounded, the doors rattled open. Outside in the pouring rain was a police car and a mortuary van. Fox and Bailey stood in the doorway with McCully. Alleyn walked quickly towards them.

“Hullo, Fox.”

“Hullo, sir. What’s up?”

“Come in. Is Curtis there?”

“Yes. Ready, doctor?”

Dr. Curtis, Alleyn’s divisional surgeon, dived out of the car into shelter.

“What the devil have you found, Alleyn?”

“Garcia,” said Alleyn.

“Here!” ejaculated Fox.

“Dead?” asked Curtis.

“Very.” Alleyn laid his hand on Fox’s arm. “Wait a moment. McCully, you can sit in the police car if you like. We shan’t be long.”

McCully, who still looked very shaken, got into the car. A constable and the man off the local beat joined the group in the doorway.

“I think,” said Alleyn, “that before you see the body I had better warn you that it is not a pleasant sight.”

“Us?” asked Fox, surprised. “Warn us?”

“Yes, I know. We’re pretty well seasoned, aren’t we? I’ve never seen anything quite so beastly as this — not even in Flanders. I think he’s taken nitric acid.”

“Good God!” said Curtis.

“Come along,” said Alleyn.

He led them to the far end of the room, where the man at the table still sat with a coloured handkerchief over his face. Fox, Bailey and Curtis stood and looked at the body.

“What’s the stench?” asked Fox. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Nitric acid?” suggested Bailey.

“And other vomited matter,” said Curtis.

“You may smoke, all of you,” said Alleyn, and they lit cigarettes.

“Well,” said Curtis, “I’d better look at him.”

He put out his well-kept doctor’s hand and drew away the handkerchief from the face.

“Christ!” said Bailey.

“Get on with it,” said Alleyn harshly. “Bailey, I want you to take his prints first. It’s Garcia all right. Then compare them with anything you can get from the bottle and cup. Before you touch the bottle we’ll take a photograph. Where’s Thompson?”

Thompson came in from the car with his camera and flashlight. The usual routine began. Alleyn, looking on, was filled with a violent loathing of the whole scene. Thompson took six photographs of the body and then they covered it. Alleyn began to talk.

“You’d better hear what I make of all this on the face of the information we’ve already got. Bailey, you carry on while I’m talking. Go over every inch of the table and surrounding area. You’ve got my case? Good. We’ll want specimens of this unspeakable muck on the floor. I’ll do that.”

“Let me fix it, sir,” said Fox. “I’m out of a job, and we’d like to hear your reconstruction of this business.”

“You’d better rig something over your nose and mouth. Nitric acid fumes are no more wholesome than they are pleasant, are they, Curtis?”

“Not too good,” grunted Curtis. “May as well be careful.”

The doors at the end opened to admit the P.C. whom Alleyn had left on guard.

“What is it?” asked Alleyn.

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

“Is his name Bathgate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miserable young perisher,” muttered Alleyn. “Tell him to wait. No. Half a minute. Send him in.”

When Nigel appeared Alleyn asked fiercely: “How did you get wind of this?”

“I was down at the Yard. They’d told me you were out. I saw Fox and the old gang tootle away in a car, then the mortuary van popped out. I followed in a taxi. What’s up? There’s a hell of a stink in here.”

“The only reason I’ve let you in is to stop you pitching some cock-and-bull story to your filthy paper. Sit down in a far corner and be silent.”

“All right, all right.”

Alleyn turned to the others.

“We’ll get on. Don’t move the body just yet, Curtis.”

“Very good,” said Dr. Curtis, who was cleaning his hands with ether. “Speak up, Alleyn. Are you going to tell us this fellow’s swallowed nitric acid?”

“I think so.”

“Bloody loathsome way of committing suicide.”

“He didn’t know it was nitric acid.”

“Accident?”

“No. Murder.”