Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“And on Saturday morning Mr. Garcia’s clay model and all his things were gone?”

“That queer-looking mud thing like plasticine? Ooo yes, sir, it was gone on Saturday.”

“Right. I think that’s all.”

“May I go, sir?”

“Yes, off you go. I’ll ask you to sign your name to a statement later on. You’ll do that, won’t you? It will just be what you’ve told us here?”

“Very good, sir.”

“Good night, Welsh,” said Alleyn smiling. “Thank you.”

“Good night, sir. I’m sure I’m sorry to come in, such a fright. I don’t know what Mr. Hipkin would say. It doesn’t look very nice for ‘Welsh,’ the parlourmaid, does it, sir?”

“We think it was quite correct,” said Alleyn.

Fox, with a fatherly smile, shepherded Sadie to the door.

“Well, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’d better get on with it. Let’s have Mr. Francis Ormerin. How’s the French, by the way?”

“I’ve mastered the radio course, and I’m on to Hugo’s Simplified now. I shouldn’t fancy an unsimplified, I must say. I can read it pretty steadily, Mr. Alleyn, and Bob Thompson, the super at number three, has lent me one or two novels he picked up in Paris, on the understanding I translate the bits that would appeal to him. You know Bob.” Fox opened his eyes wide and an expression of mild naughtiness stole over his healthy countenance. “I must say some of the passages are well up to expectation. Of course, you don’t find all those words in the dictionary, do you?”

“You naughty old scoundrel,” said Alleyn. “Go and get M. Ormerin.”

“Toot sweet,” said Fox. “There you are.”

“And you’d better inquire after the Seacliff. ” Fox went out. “This case seems to be strewn with upheavels,” said Alleyn. “Garcia was sick when he saw the defaced portrait. Sonia was sick in the mornings, and Miss Seacliff is heaving away merrily at this very moment, or I’m much mistaken.”

“I begin to get an idea of the case,” said Nigel, who had gone through his notes. “You’re pretty certain it’s Garcia, aren’t you?”

“Have I said so? All right, then, I do feel tolerably certain he laid the trap for this girl, but it’s purely conjectural. I may be quite wrong. If we are to accept the statements of Miss Troy and Watt Hatchett, the knife was pushed through the boards some time after three o’clock on Friday afternoon, and before Saturday afternoon. Personally I am inclined to believe both these statements. That leaves us with Garcia and Malmsley as the most likely fancies.”

“There’s— ”

“Well?”

“Of course if you accept her statement it doesn’t arise,” said Nigel nervously.

Alleyn did not answer immediately, and for some reason Nigel found that he could not look at him. Nigel ruffled the pages of his notes and heard Alleyn’s voice: “I only said I was inclined to believe Hatchett’s statement — and hers. I shall not regard them as inviolable.”

Fox returned with Francis Ormerin and once again they settled down to routine. Ormerin had attended the private view of the Phoenix Group Show on Friday night, and had spent the week-end with a French family at Hampstead. They had sat up till about two o’clock on both nights and had been together during the day-time.

“I understand that during the bus drive back from London yesterday, the model sat beside you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes. That is so. This poor girl, she must always have her flirt in attendance.”

“And you filled the role on this occasion?”

Ormerin pulled a significant grimace.

“Why not? She makes an invitation with every gesture. It is a long and tedious drive. She is not unattractive. After a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything about her movements in London?”

“Certainly. She told me that she stayed with another girl who is in the chorus of a vaudeville show at the Chelsea Theatre. It is called ‘Snappy.’ Sonia shared this girl’s room. She went to ‘Snappy’ on Friday evening, and on Saturday she went to a studio party in Putney where she became exceedingly drunk, and was driven home by a young man, not so drunk, to the room of this girl whose name is— tiens ! — ah yes — Bobbie is the name of the friend. Bobbie O’Dawne. All this she told me, and for a while I was complacent, and held her hand in the bus. Then after a time I fell asleep.”

“Did she say anything at all that could possibly be of any help to us?”

“Ah! Any help? I do not think so. Except one thing, Perhaps. She said that I must not be surprised if I learn soon of another engagement.”

“What engagement was that?”

“She would not tell me. She became retenue — espiègle — in English, sly-boots. Sonia was very sly-boots on the subject of this engagement. I received the impression, however, that it would be to Garcia.”

“I see. She did not talk about Garcia’s movements on Friday?”

“But I think she did!” exclaimed Ormerin, after a moment’s consideration. “Yes, it is quite true, she did speak of him. It was after I had begun to get sleepy. She said Garcia would start for his promenade through this country on Saturday morning, and return to work in London in a week’s time.”

“Did she say where his work-room was in London?”

“On the contrary, she asked me if I could tell her this. She said: ‘I do not know what his idea is, to make such a mystery of it.’ Then she laughed and said: ‘But that is Garcia — I shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’ She spoke with the air of a woman who has certain rights over a man. It may, of course, have been an assumption. One cannot tell. Very often I have noticed that it is when a woman begins to lose her power with a man that she assumes these little postures of the proprietress.”

“What did you think of Sonia Gluck, M. Ormerin?”

Ormerin’s sharp black eyes flashed in his sallow face and his thin mouth widened.

“Of Sonia? She was a type, Mr. Alleyn. That is all one can say of her. The gamine that so often drifts towards studio doors, and then imperceptibly, naturally, into the protection of some painter. She had beauty, as you have seen. She was very difficult. If she had lived, she would have had little work when her beauty faded. While she was still good for our purpose we endured her temperament, her caprice, for the sake of her lovely body, which we might paint when she was well-behaved.”

“Had you so much difficulty with her?”

“It was intolerable. Never for one minute would she remain in the same position. I myself began three separate drawings of the one pose. I cannot paint in such circumstances, my nerves are lacerated and my work is valueless. I had made my resolution that I would leave the studio.”

“Really! It was as bad as that?”

“Certainly. If this had not happened, I would have told Troy I must go. I should have been very sorry to do this, because I have a great admiration for Troy. She is most stimulating to my work. In her studio one is at home. But I am very greatly at the mercy of my nerves. I would have returned when Bostock and Pilgrim had completed their large canvases, and Troy had rid herself of Sonia.”

“And now, I suppose, you will stay?”

“I do not know.” Ormerin moved restlessly in his chair. Alleyn noticed that there was a slight tic in his upper-lip, a busy little cord that flicked under the dark skin. As if aware of Alleyn’s scrutiny, Ormerin put a thin crooked hand up to his lip. His fingers were deeply stained by nicotine.

“I do not know,” he repeated. “The memory of this morning is very painful. I am bouleversé . I do not know what I shall do. I like them all here at Troy’s — even this clumsy, shouting Australian. I am en rapport with them well enough, but I shall never look towards the throne without seeing there the tableau of this morning. That little unfortunate with her glance of astonishment. And then when they moved her — the knife — wet and red.”