Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“And I,” said Alleyn, “think of going down to Brixton.”

“Is that a joke?” asked Fox suspiciously, after a blank pause.

“No, Fox.”

“Brixton? Why Brixton?”

“Sit down for a minute,” said Alleyn, “and I’ll tell you.”

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.”