Artists in Crime

CHAPTER V Routine

When Alleyn returned to the hall he found it full of men. The Scotland Yard officials had arrived, and with their appearance the case, for the first time, seemed to take on a familiar complexion. The year he had spent away from England clicked back into the past at the sight of those familiar overcoated and bowler-hatted figures with their cases and photographic impedimenta. There, beaming at him, solid, large, the epitome of horse-sense, was old Fox.

“Very nice indeed to have you with us again, sir.”

“Fox, you old devil, how are you?”

And there, looking three degrees less morose, was Detective-Sergeant Bailey, and behind him Detective-Sergeant Thompson. A gruff chorus began:

“Very nice indeed— ”

A great shaking of hands, while Superintendent Blackman looked on amicably, and then a small, clean, bald man came forward. Blackman introduced him.

“Inspector Alleyn, this is Dr. Ampthill, our divisional surgeon.”

“How d’you do, Mr. Alleyn? Understand you want to see me. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“I’ve not long arrived,” said Alleyn. “Let’s have a look at the scene of action, shall we?”

Blackman led the way down the hall to a side passage at the end of which there was a door. Blackman unlocked it and ushered them through. They were in the garden. The smell of box borders came up from their feet. It was very dark.

“Shall I lead the way?” suggested Blackman.

A long pencil of light from a torch picked up a section of flagged path. They tramped along in single file. Tree trunks started up out of the darkness, leaves brushed Alleyn’s cheek. Presently a rectangle of deeper dark loomed up.

Blackman said: “You there, Sligo?”

“Yes, sir,” said a voice close by.

There was a jangle of keys, the sound of a door opening.

“Wait till I find the light switch,” said Blackman. “Here we are.”

The lights went up. They walked round the wooden screen inside the door, and found themselves in the studio.

Alleyn’s first impression was of a reek of paint and turpentine, and of a brilliant and localised glare. Troy had installed a high-powered lamp over the throne. This lamp was half shaded, so that it cast all its light on the throne, rather as the lamp above an operating-table is concentrated on the patient. Blackman had only turned on one switch, so the rest of the studio was in darkness. The effect at the moment could scarcely have been more theatrical. The blue drape, sprawled across the throne, was so brilliant that it hurt the eyes. The folds fell sharply from the cushion into a flattened mass. In the middle, stupidly irrelevant, was a spike. It cast a thin shadow irregularly across the folds of the drape. On the margin of this picture, disappearing abruptly into shadow, was a white mound.

“The drapery and the knife haven’t been touched since the victim died,” explained Blackman. “Of course, they disarranged the stuff a bit when they hauled her up.”

“Of course,” said Alleyn. He walked over to the throne and examined the blade of the knife. It was rather like an oversized packing-needle, sharp, three-edged, and greatly tapered towards the point. It was stained a rusty brown. At the base, where it pierced the drape, there was the same discoloration, and in one or two of the folds small puddles of blood had seeped through the material and dried. Alleyn glanced at Dr. Ampthill.

“I suppose there would be an effusion of blood when they pulled her off the knife?”

“Oh yes, yes. The bleeding would probably continue until death. I understand that beyond lifting her away from the knife, they did not move her until she died. When I arrived the body was where it is now.”

He turned to the sheeted mound that lay half inside the circle of light.

“Shall I?”

“Yes, please,” said Alleyn.

Dr. Ampthill drew away the white sheet.

Troy had folded Sonia’s hands over her naked breast. The shadow cut sharply across the wrists so that the lower half of the torso was lost. The shoulders, hands and head were violently lit. The lips were parted rigidly, showing the teeth. The eyes were only half closed. The plucked brows were raised as if in astonishment.

“Rigor mortis is well established,” said the doctor. “She was apparently a healthy woman, and this place was well heated. The gas fire was not turned off until some time after she died. She has been dead eleven hours.”

“Have you examined the wound, Dr. Ampthill?”

“Superficially. The knife-blade was not absolutely vertical, evidently. It passed between the fourth and fifth ribs, and no doubt pierced the heart.”

“Let us have a look at the wound.”

Alleyn slid his long hands under the rigid body and turned it on its side. The patches of sunburn showed clearly on the back. About three inches to the left of the spine was a dark puncture. It looked very small and neat in spite of the traces of blood that surrounded it.

“Ah, yes,” said Alleyn. “As you say. We had better have a photograph of this. Bailey, you go over the body for prints. You’d better tackle the drape, and the knife, and the top surface of the throne. Not likely to prove very useful, I’m afraid, but do your best.”

While Thompson set up his camera, Alleyn turned up the working-lamps and browsed about the studio. Fox joined him.

“Funny sort of case, sir,” said Fox. “Romantic.”

“Good heavens, Fox, what a macabre idea of romance you’ve got.”

“Well, sensational,” amended Fox. “The papers will make a big thing of it. We’ll have them all down in hordes before the night’s over.”

“That reminds me — I must send a wire to the Bathgates. I’m due there to-morrow. To business, Brer Fox. Here we have the studio as it was when the class assembled this morning. Paint set out on the pallettes, you see. Canvases on all the easels. We’ve got seven versions of the pose.”

“Very useful, I dare say,” conceded Fox. “Or, at any rate, the ones that look like something human may come in handy. That affair over on your left looks more like a set of worms than a naked female. I suppose it is meant for the deceased, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” said Alleyn. “The artist is probably a surrealist or a vorticist or something.” He inspected the canvas and the paint-table in front of it.

“Here we are. The name’s on the paint-box. Phillida Lee. It is a rum bit of work, Fox, no doubt of it. This big thing next door is more in our line. Very solid and simple.”

He pointed to Katti Bostock’s enormous canvas.

“Bold,” said Fox. He put on his spectacles and stared blankly at the picture.

“You get the posture of the figure very well there,” said Alleyn.

They moved to Cedric Malmsley’s table.

“This, I think, must be the illustrator,” continued Alleyn. “Yes — here’s the drawing for the story.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Fox, greatly scandalised. “He’s made a picture of the girl after she was killed.”

“No, no. That was the original idea for the pose. He’s merely added the dagger and the dead look. Here’s the portfolio with all the drawings. H’m, very volup. and Beardsley, with a slap of modern thrown in. Hullo!” Alleyn had turned to a delicate watercolour in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows, and a turreted palace. “That’s rum!” muttered Alleyn.

“What’s up, Mr. Alleyn?”

“It looks oddly familiar. One half of the old brain functioning a fraction ahead of the other, perhaps. Or perhaps not. No matter. Look here, Brer Fox, I think before we go any farther I’d better tell you as much as I know about the case.” And Alleyn repeated the gist of Blackman’s report and of his conversation with Troy. “This, you see,” he ended, “is the illustration for the story. It was to prove the possibility of murdering someone in this manner that they made the experiment with the dagger, ten days ago.”

“I see,” said Fox. “Well, somebody’s proved it now all right, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “It is proved — literally, up to the hilt.”

“Cuh!” said Fox solemnly.

“Malmsley has represented the dagger as protruding under the left breast, you see. I suppose he thought he’d add the extra touch of what you’d call romance, Brer Fox. The scarlet thread of gore is rather effective in a meretricious sort of way. Good Lord, this is a queer show and no mistake.”

“Here’s what I call a pretty picture, now,” said Fox approvingly. He had moved in front of Valmai Seacliff’s canvas. Seacliff had used a flowing, suave line. The figure was exaggeratedly slender, the colour scheme a light sequence of blues and pinks.

“Very elegant,” said Fox.

“A little too elegant,” said Alleyn. “Hullo! Look at this.”

Across Francis Ormerin’s water-colour drawing ran an ugly streak of dirty blue, ending in a blob that had run down the paper. The drawing was ruined.

“Had an accident, seemingly.”

“Perhaps. This student’s stool is overturned, you’ll notice. Fox. Some of the water in his paint-pot has slopped over and one of his brushes is on the floor.”

Alleyn picked up the brush and dabbed it on the china palette. A half-dry smudge of dirty blue showed.

“I see him or her preparing to flood a little of this colour on the drawing. He receives a shock, his hand jerks sideways and the brush streaks across the paper. He jumps up, overturning his stool and jolting the table. He drops the brush on the floor. Look, Fox. There are signs of the same sort of disturbance everywhere. Notice the handful of brushes on the table in front of the big canvas — I think that must be Katti Bostock’s — I remember her work. Those brushes have been put down suddenly on the palette. The handles are messed in paint. Look at this very orderly array of tubes and brushes over here. This student has dropped a tube of blue paint and then trodden on it. Here are traces leading to the throne. It’s a man’s shoe, don’t you think? He’s tramped about all over the place, leaving a blue painty trail. The modern lady — Miss Lee — has overturned a bottle of turpentine, and it’s run into her paint-box. There are even signs of disturbance on the illustrator’s table. He has put a wet brush down on the very clean typescript. The place is like a first lesson in detection.”

“But beyond telling us they all got a start when the affair occurred, it doesn’t appear to lead us anywhere,” said Fox. “Not on the face of it.” He turned back to Seacliff’s canvas and examined it with placid approval.

“You seem very taken with Miss Seacliff’s effort,” said Alleyn.

“Eh?” Fox transferred his attention sharply to Alleyn. “Now then, sir, how do you make out the name of this artist?”

“Rather prettily, Fox. This is the only outfit that is quite in order. Very neat everything is, you’ll notice. Tidy box, clean brushes laid down carefully by the palette, fresh paint-rag all ready to use. I make a long guess that it belongs to Valmai Seacliff, because Miss Seacliff was with the model when she got her quietus. There is no reason why Miss Seacliff’s paraphernalia should show signs of disturbance. In a sense, Miss Seacliff killed Sonia Gluck. She pressed her naked body down on the knife. Not a very pleasant reflection for Miss Seacliff now, unless she happens to be a murderess. Yes, I think this painting is hers.”

“Very neat bit of reasoning, chief. Lor’, here’s a mess.” Fox bent over Watt Hatchett’s open box. It overflowed with half-used tubes of oil-colour, many of them without caps. A glutinous mess to which all sorts of odds and ends adhered spread over the trays and brushes. Cigarette-butts, matches, bits of charcoal, were mixed up with fragments of leaves and twigs, and filthy scraps of rag.

“This looks like chronic muck,” said Fox.

“It does, indeed.” From the sticky depths of a tin tray Alleyn picked out a fragment of a dried leaf and smelt it.

“Blue gum,” he said. “This will be the Australian, I suppose. Funny. He must have collected that leaf sketching in the bush, half the world away. I know this youth. He joined our ship with Miss Troy at Suva. Travelled second at her expense.”

“Fancy that,” said Fox placidly. “Then you know this Miss Troy, sir?”

“Yes. Now you see, even he appears to have put his hand down on his palette. He’d hardly do that in normal moments.”

“We’ve finished, sir,” said the photographic expert.

“Right.”

Alleyn went over to the throne. The body lay as it was when he first saw it. He looked at it thoughtfully, remembering what Troy had said: “I’m always frightened of dead people.”

“She was very lovely,” said Alleyn gently. He covered the body again. “Carry her over to that couch. It’s a divan-bed, I fancy. She can be taken away now. You’ll do the post-mortem to-morrow, I suppose, Dr. Ampthill?”

“First thing,” said the doctor briskly. “The mortuary car is outside in the lane now. This studio is built into the brick wall that divides the garden from the lane. I thought it would save a lot of trouble and difficulty if we opened that window, backed the car up to it, and lifted the stretcher through.”

“Over there?”

Alleyn walked over to the window in the south wall. He stooped and inspected the floor.

“This is where the modeling fellow, Garcia, did his stuff. Bits of clay all over the place. His work must have stood on the tall stool here, well in the light. Wait a moment.”

He flashed his pocket-torch along the sill. It was scored by several cross-scratches.

“Someone else has had your idea, Dr. Ampthill,” said Alleyn. He pulled a pair of gloves from his overcoat pocket, put them on, and opened the window. The light from the studio shone on the white body of a mortuary van drawn up in the lane outside. The air smelt cold and dank. Alleyn shone his torch on the ground under the window-sill. He could see clearly the print of car tyres in the soft ground under the window.

“Look here, Mr. Blackman.”

Blackman joined him.

“Yes,” he said. “Someone’s backed a car across the lane under the window. Miss Troy says the carrier must have called for this Mr. Garcia’s stuff on Saturday morning. The maids say nobody came to the house about it. Well now, suppose Garcia left instructions for them to come straight to this window? Eh? How about that? He’d help them put the stuff through the window on to the van and then push off himself to wherever he was going.”

“On his walking tour,” finished Alleyn. “You’re probably right. Look here, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll take the stretcher out through the door and along the path. Perhaps there’s a door in the wall somewhere. Is there?”

“Well, the garage yard is not far off. We could take it through the yard into the lane, and the van could go along and meet them there.”

“I think it would be better.”

Blackman called through the window.

“Hullo there! Drive along to the back entrance and send the stretcher in from there. Keep over on the far side of the lane.”

“O.K., super,” said a cheerful voice.

“Sligo, you go along and show the way.”

The constable at the door disappeared, and in a minute or two returned with two men and a stretcher. They carried Sonia’s body out into the night.

“Well, I’ll push off,” said Dr. Ampthill.

“I’d like to get away, too, if you’ll let me off, Mr. Alleyn,” said Blackman. “I’m expecting a report at the station on this other case. Two of my chaps are down with flu and I’m rushed off my feet. I needn’t say we’ll do everything we can. Use the station whenever you want to.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll worry you as little as possible. Good night.”

The door slammed and the voices died away in the distance. Alleyn turned to Fox, Bailey and Thompson.

“The old team.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Bailey. “Suits us all right.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “it’s always suited me. Let’s get on with it. You’ve got your photographs and prints. Now we’ll up-end the throne. Everything’s marked, so we can get it back. Let me take a final look at the drape. Yes. You see, Fox, it fell taut from the cushion to the floor, above the point of the knife. Nobody would dream of disturbing it, I imagine. As soon as Miss Seacliff pressed the model over, the drape went with her, pulling away the drawing-pin that held it to the boards. That’s all clear enough. Over with the throne.”

They turned the dais on its side. The light shone through the cracks in the roughly built platform. From the widest of these cracks projected the hilt of the dagger. It was a solid-looking round handle, bound with tarnished wire and protected by a crossbar guard. One side of the guard actually dug into the platform. The other just cleared it. The triangular blade had bitten into the edges of the planks. The end of the hilt was shiny.

“It’s been hammered home at a slight angle, so that the blade would be at right-angles to the inclined plane of the body. It’s an ingenious, dirty, deliberated bit of work, this. Prints, please, Bailey, and a photograph. Go over the whole of the under-surface. You won’t get anything, I’m afraid.”

While Bailey and Thompson worked, Alleyn continued his tour of the room. He pulled back the cover of the divan and saw an unmade bed beneath it. “Bad mark for Mr. Garcia.” Numbers of stretched canvases stood with their faces to the wall. Alleyn began to inspect them. He thought he recognised a large picture of a trapeze artiste in pink tights and spangles as the work of Katti Bostock. That round, high-cheeked face was the one he had seen dead a few minutes ago. The head and shoulders had been scraped down with a knife. He turned another big canvas round and exclaimed softly.

“What’s up, sir?” asked Fox.

“Look.”

It was a portrait of a girl in a green velvet dress. She stood, very erect, against a white wall. The dress fell in austere folds about the feet. It was most simply done. The hands looked as though they had been put down with twelve direct touches. The form of the girl shone through the heavy dress, in great beauty. It was painted with a kind of quiet thoughtfulness.

But across the head where the paint was wet, someone had scrubbed a rag, and scratched with red paint an idiotic semblance of a face with a moustache.

“Lor’,” said Fox, “is that a modern idea, too, sir?”

“I hardly think so,” murmured Alleyn. “Good God, Fox, what a perfectly filthy thing to do. Don’t you see, somebody’s wiped away the face while the paint was wet, and then daubed this abortion on top of the smudge. Look at the lines of paint — you can see a kind of violence in them. The brush has been thrust savagely at the canvas so that the tip has spread. It’s as if a nasty child had done it in a fit of temper. A stupid child.”

“I wonder who painted the picture, sir. If it’s a portrait of this girl Sonia Gluck, it looks as if there’s been a bit of spite at work. By gum, it’d be a rum go if the murderer did it.”

“I don’t think this was Sonia,” said Alleyn. “There’s a smudge of blonde hair left. Sonia Gluck was dark. As for the painter—” He paused. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. The painter was Agatha Troy.”

“You can pick the style, can you?”

“Yes.”

With a swift movement Alleyn turned the canvas to the wall. He lit a cigarette and squatted on his heels.

“Let us take what used to be called a ‘lunar’ at the case. In a little while I must start interviewing people, but I’d like you fellows to get as clear an idea as possible of the case as we know it. At the moment we haven’t got so much as a smell of motive. Very well. Eight students, the model, and Miss Troy have used this studio every morning from Saturday the 10th until last Friday, the 16th. On Friday they used it until twelve-thirty, came away in dribbles, lunched at the house, and then, at different intervals, all went away with the exception of Wolf Garcia, a bloke who models and sculps. He stayed behind, saying that he would be gone when they returned on Sunday. The studio was not locked at any time, unless by Garcia, who slept in it. They reopened this morning with this tragedy. Garcia and his belongings had gone. That’s all. Any prints, Bailey?”

“There’s a good many blue smears round the edge, sir, but it’s unplaned wood underneath, and we can’t do much with it. It looks a bit as if someone had mopped it up with a painty rag.”

“There’s a chunk of paint-rag on the floor there. Is it dusty?”

“Yes, thick with it.”

“Possibly it was used for mopping up. Have a go at it.”

Alleyn began to prowl round the back of the throne.

“Hullo! More grist for the mill.” He pointed to a strip of wood lying in a corner of the studio. “Covered with indentations. It’s the ledge off an easel. That’s what was used for hammering. Take it next, Bailey. Let’s find an easel without a ledge. Detecting is so simple when you only know how. Mr. Hatchett has no ledge on his easel — therefore Mr. Hatchett is a murderer. Q.E.D. This man is clever. Oh, lawks-a-mussy-me, I suppose I’d better start off on the statements. How goes it, Bailey?”

“This paint-rag’s a mucky bit of stuff,” grumbled Bailey. “It’s been used for dusting all right. You can see the smudges on the platform. Same colour. I thought I might get a print off some of the smears of paint on the rag. They’re still tacky in places. Yes, here’s something. I’ll take this rag back and have a go at it, sir.”

“Right. Now the ledge.”

Bailey used his insufflator on the strip of wood.

“No,” he said, after a minute or two. “It’s clean.”

“All right. We’ll leave the studio to these two now, Fox. Try to get us as full a record of footprints as you can, Bailey. Go over the whole show. I can’t tell you what to look out for. Just do your stuff. And, by the way, I want photographs of the area round the window and the tyre-prints outside. You’d better take a cast of them and look out for any other manifestations round about them. If you come across any keys, try them for prints. Lock the place up when you’ve done. Good sleuthing.”

Fox and Alleyn returned to the house.

“Well, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn on the way, “how goes it with everybody?”

“The Yard’s still in the same old place, sir. Pretty busy lately.”

“What a life! Fox, I think I’ll see Miss Valmai Seacliff first.

“On the face of it she’s a principal witness.”

“What about Miss Troy, sir?” asked Fox.

Alleyn’s voice came quietly out of the darkness:

“I’ve seen her. Just before you came.”

‘What sort of a lady is she?”

“I like her,” said Alleyn. “Mind the step. Here’s the side door. I suppose we can use it. Hullo! Look here, Fox.”

He paused, his hand on Fox’s arm. They were close by a window. The curtains had been carelessly drawn and a wide band of light streamed through the gap. Alleyn stood a little to one side of this light and looked into the room. Fox joined him. They saw a long refectory table at which eight people sat. In the background, half in shadow, loomed the figure of a uniformed constable. Seven of the people round the table appeared to listen to the eighth, who was Agatha Troy. The lamplight was full on her face. Her lips moved rapidly and incisively; she looked from one attentive face to the other. No sound of her voice came to Alleyn and Fox, but it was easy to see that she spoke with urgency. She stopped abruptly and looked round the table as if she expected a reply. The focus of attention shifted. Seven faces were turned towards a thin, languid-looking young man with a blond beard. He seemed to utter a single sentence, and at once a stocky woman with black straight hair cut in a bang, sprang to her feet to answer him angrily. Troy spoke again. Then nobody moved. They all sat staring at the table.

“Come on,” whispered Alleyn.

He opened the side door and went along the passage to a door on the left. He tapped on this door. The policeman answered it.

“All right,” said Alleyn quietly, and walked straight in, followed by Fox and the constable. The eight faces round the table turned like automatons.

“Please forgive me for barging in like this,” said Alleyn to Troy.

“It’s all right,” said Troy. “This is the class. We were talking — about Sonia.” She looked round the table. “This is Mr. Roderick Alleyn,” she said.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn generally. “Please don’t move. If you don’t mind, I think Inspector Fox and I will join you for a moment. I shall have to ask you all the usual sort of things, you know, and we may as well get it over. May we bring up a couple of chairs?”

Basil Pilgrim jumped up and brought a chair to the head of the table.

“Don’t worry about me, sir,” said Fox. “I’ll just sit over here, thank you.”

He settled himself in a chair by the sideboard. Alleyn sat at the head of the table, and placed his notebook before him.

“The usual thing,” he said, looking pleasantly round the table, “is to interview people severally. I think I shall depart from routine for once and see if we can’t work together. I have got your names here, but I don’t know which of you is which. I’ll just read them through, and if you don’t mind— ”

He glanced at his notes.

“Reminiscent of a roll-call, I’m afraid, but here goes. Miss Bostock?”

“Here,” said Katti Bostock.

“Thank you. Mr. Hatchett?”

“That’s me.”

“Miss Phillida Lee?”

Miss Lee made a plaintive murmuring sound. Malmsley said: “Yes.” Pilgrim said: “Here.” Valmai Seacliff merely turned her head and smiled.

“That’s that,” said Alleyn. “Now then. Before we begin I must tell you that in my opinion there is very little doubt that Miss Sonia Gluck has been deliberately done to death. Murdered.”

They seemed to go very still.

“Now, as you all must realise, she was killed by precisely the means which you discussed and worked out among yourselves ten days ago. The first question I have to put to you is this. Has any one of you discussed the experiment with the dagger outside this class? I want you to think very carefully. You have been scattered during the week-end, and it is possible, indeed very likely, that you may have talked about the pose, the model, and the experiment with the knife. This is extremely important, and I ask you to give me a deliberated answer.”

He waited for quite a minute.

“I take it that none of you have spoken of this matter, then,” said Alleyn.

Cedric Malmsley, leaning back in his chair, said: “Just a moment.”

“Yes, Mr. Malmsley?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, if it’s of any interest,” drawled Malmsley, “but Garcia and I talked about it on Friday afternoon.”

“After the others had gone up to London?”

“Oh, yes. I went down to the studio, you see, after lunch. I did some work there. Garcia was messing about with his stuff. He’s usually rather sour when he’s working, but on Friday he babbled away like the brook.”

“What about?”

“Oh,” said Malmsley vaguely, “women and things. He’s drearily keen on women, you know. Tediously over-sexed.” He turned to the others. “Did you know he and Sonia were living together in London?”

“I always said they were,” said Valmai Seacliff.

“Well, my sweet, it seems you were right.”

“I told you, Seacliff, didn’t I?” began Phillida Lee excitedly. “You remember?”

“Yes. But I thought so long before that.”

“Did you pursue this topic?” asked Alleyn.

“Oh, no, we talked about you, Seacliff.”

“About me?”

“Yes. We discussed your engagement, and your virtue and so on.”

“Very charming of you,” said Basil Pilgrim angrily.

“Oh, we agreed that you were damned lucky and so on. Garcia turned all knowing, and said— ”

“Is this necessary?” demanded Pilgrim, of Alleyn.

“Not at the moment, I think,” said Alleyn. “How did you come to discuss the experiment with the dagger, Mr. Malmsley?”

“Oh, that was when we talked about Sonia. Garcia looked at my drawing and asked me if I’d ever felt like killing my mistress just for the horror of doing it.”