Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“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.”