The Studio Crime (16 page)

He gave a quaint, pompous little bow to lend his words the air of a soothing compliment. Serafine took no notice. Her set, hard smile did not leave her lips.

“Won't you give us the benefit of your theory?” she persisted with a tactless obstinacy and disregard for the amenities of conversation that was most unusual in her. “If I ask you to, Dr. Mordby? I've been doing a little theorizing myself, and I should like to see if your theory fits in anywhere with mine.”

The intense seriousness which John divined beneath her flippant manner puzzled him beyond words. He moved a little closer to her, half with an instinctive impulse to protect, half with a vague desire to remind her by a look or touch that this was not the time for dragging out of Mordby his possibly absurd but probably obnoxious theories. She took no notice of him at all, still looking inquiringly at the doctor, who seemed rather pleased than otherwise at this interest in his ideas coming from such an unlikely quarter. He knew well, since it was part of his business and the secret of his success to be sensitive to such things, that Serafine disliked and distrusted him, and he returned her dislike in full measure.

“Well,” he replied at length, “I will reply by asking you a question, Miss Wimpole. Did you notice yesterday evening that a certain member of the party took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, glanced at it and suddenly thrust it back again into his pocket? I did. And I also noticed that the handkerchief was stained with blood.”

John started and looked at Mordby with real interest, wondering how far his observation could be depended on. He knew that the doctor had mentioned no such incident to Hembrow the evening before. Serafine changed countenance slightly, and there was a just perceptible pause before she said lightly:

“Indeed? Bloodstains always sound terribly incriminating, don't they? But after all it's quite a common thing for a man to cut his finger.”

“Not during an evening party, Miss Wimpole.”

“Before he sets out for his party.”

“He would take a clean handkerchief before setting out.”

“I suppose we had better not ask who the blood-stained gentleman was?”

“I would rather not tell you, Miss Wimpole.”

“Then I shall take it that he was a friend of mine. But the only friends of mine at Mr. Newtree's last night were John, Sir Marion and—yourself, Dr. Mordby. Mr. Newtree and Dr. Merewether I had not met before. It was not yourself, or you would hardly be taking me into your confidence. It was not John, or you would hardly mention it in his presence. Am I to understand that you think Sir Marion Steen—”

“Certainly not!” said Mordby very hastily and in a shocked tone, glancing uncomfortably over his shoulder as if he feared the millionaire might have overheard this preposterous suggestion.

With each word uttered these exchanges seemed to John to take on more and more the character of a duel, and Dr. Mordby's last sentence was uttered in an almost openly inimical tone. John, standing by and listening, felt extremely uncomfortable. His civilized soul was shocked at Serafine's persistence in such a conversation, and he determined to tell her so at the first opportunity. He could not imagine what demon had taken possession of his urbane and amiable friend.

“Not Sir Marion?” murmured Serafine, still with that glassy smile. “Well, I hardly thought it could have been, but a long acquaintance with detective fiction has led me to believe that the blood-stained handkerchief always belongs to the most unlikely man.” Suddenly she laughed, a laugh that was nearly, but not quite, natural and set John's teeth on edge. “But really, is that all you have to tell us, Dr. Mordby? You make me feel quite nervous, and I shall be very careful about my handkerchiefs in future. For I've often managed to get blood-stains on my handkerchief, but I've never yet committed a murder.”

John, fearing a recommencement of the verbal duel, was about to break in and change the subject completely, when Imogen Wimpole, with an earnest and portentous expression on her smooth fair face, came up and laid a hand on his arm.

“John,” she said impressively, “I've been talking to Mrs. De Valley—you know, the medium. And I do so want you to meet her. She says it's not at all impossible to get into touch with poor Mr. Frew before he passes too far on, and find out that way who did—you know. (Serafine says I'm not to talk about it, though I'm sure I can't think of anything else to talk about, after last night.) Mrs. De Valley says it's often been done, when people have—have died suddenly, with marvellous results. And if anybody could do it, she could. She really is marvellous! She gets the most amazing results at all her seances.”

“Oh, auntie!” laughed Serafine, who seemed to have completely recovered her composure. “You're not proposing to turn this party into a seance, are you?”

Her aunt looked at her reproachfully.

“Serafine doesn't believe in it,” she said sadly to John. “But she's such a dreadful materialist. She doesn't believe in anything incredible. I tell her she doesn't realize what she misses. Don't you agree with me, Dr. Mordby?” Dr. Mordby turned the full battery of his gold and ivory smile upon his former patient.

“I should not say that Miss Wimpole is lacking in faith,” he replied silkily, and it seemed to John that there was an underlying note of satire in his voice. “And as for spiritualism, I'm afraid you must expect a certain scepticism in a man of my profession. The whole matter

is so easily explained on psychological grounds that”

“Oh, I believe in psychology!” protested Mrs. Wimpole with delightful comprehensiveness. “And I believe in spiritualism too! I don't see why one shouldn't believe in both, or in everything, for that matter! It makes life so much more interesting.”

Serafine and John exchanged smiles, and Dr. Mordby murmured soothingly;

“It does, it does, it certainly does.”

“Come along, auntie,” said Serafine, slipping her hand through the older woman's arm. “Introduce me to your Mrs. De Valley. Tell her I'm a sheep to be gathered into the fold. I'll promise to behave myself. John and Dr. Mordby are in the thick of a terribly absorbing conversation.”

The two ladies drifted away, and John, with a smile at Mordby, murmured:

“Are we?”

Once again he found himself wondering what Serafine was after. Did she wish him to pump Mordby further as to his theory of the crime? Personally he did not see that anything was to be gained by it. It had always been obvious that Mordby disliked George Merewether, and it was natural that he should joyfully put the worst construction upon such a matter as that of the blood-stained handkerchief. But could it be possible that Mordby's patronizing dislike of the other doctor was based upon something more tangible than the natural antipathy of one type for another? Could it be possible that Mordby had some ulterior motive in wishing to force suspicion upon the man he disliked? Was Serafine groping towards some discovery which might straighten out the threads of this mystery?

Simon Mordby answered blandly:

“We did begin one, but we were abruptly and charmingly interrupted.”

“It is early days as yet,” said John conversationally, hoping to draw the doctor out, “but this murder looks as if it were going to be the most puzzling mystery I have ever run across. Do you remember the British Museum murder? That was a puzzling affair, if you like, but in a different way. In that case suspicion pointed absolutely nowhere. In this case it points in all directions at once.”

“Is that so?” murmured Simon Mordby. He went on with an air of diffidence: “Of course I'm not
au fait
with the course of events since last night. But a man of my profession is naturally observant of the demeanour of the people with whom he comes in contact. And I noticed one or two things last night which have caused my thoughts to trend in a direction which makes me feel quite ashamed. And yet—”

He sighed. Merewether's name had not been mentioned, but it was obvious enough of whom Dr. Mordby spoke. John's first impulse was to defend Merewether by assuming perfect ignorance of what Mordby referred to, followed by shocked surprise when Merewether's name was mentioned. But just as he was about to speak he altered his tactics. There was nothing to be gained by such a display of innocence. He could hardly hope even to deceive Mordby by it, for it was obvious that Merewether had placed himself in an equivocal position by his display of agitation, and that anybody investigating the case could not fail to take a good deal of interest in him. John determined to try the effect of a bluff and breezy candour. He had learnt from experience that men of Mordby's type feared and distrusted candour above everything, and were sometimes betrayed by it into quite interesting reactions.

“You've never hit it off very well with Merewether, have you, Dr. Mordby?” he asked with a diffident smile that robbed the blunt question of offence, and waited in silence for the reply.

Mordby shot a quick glance at him. For a moment he seemed uncertain how to answer. Then recovering his poise, he smiled, shook his head, and replied with a composure John could not but admire:

“I have a great respect for Dr. Merewether. He has always seemed to me the perfect type of integrity. We went through the hospitals together, and I think I may say it is not my fault that we have not kept up our old acquaintance. The little rivalries of youth are not always forgotten when one grows older and wiser. I have long ago forgiven Merewether for once having been my rival; or rather I have realized that there is nothing to forgive. But I do not think he has forgiven me.”

The doctor rounded off his well-delivered little speech with a sigh. Christmas did not believe a word of it, for he knew Merewether well enough to know that he was the last man in the world to nourish a grievance for fifteen years or so, and the casual insolence with which Mordby treated his less-successful confrère had always been disagreeably noticeable. Still, it was an admirable speech, admirably spoken, and John realized that Mordby was not to be betrayed by bluff candour into any expression of his real feelings.

“Your interests lie so far apart,” murmured John thoughtfully, “that I shouldn't have thought there was room for professional rivalry.”

“The rivalry was not professional,” said Dr. Mordby with ready amiability. “Though at the beginning of my career I did intend to be a surgeon. No. The rivalry was in the realm of—ah! sentiment, my dear Christmas. There was a certain beautiful young lady, a fellow medical student. And although she favoured neither of us, our feelings for one another were none the less bitter.” He smiled and sighed, as if both deriding and regretting the stormy days of youth. “She cared for neither of us, and she married neither of us, and for at least twelve years I have not seen nor heard of her. Yet the bitterness remains—on the one side. As for my side, though you may not believe me, I cannot at the moment so much as recall her name!”

Christmas did not believe him. Excellent as the story was up to this point, the last touch, intended as a guarantee of genuineness, betrayed unmistakably the faker's hand. It was artistic; it was altogether too artistic. And as, still with the lingering smile of one who recalls his dead self, the eminent psycho-analyst moved away, John could not tell whether his whole story had been a fabrication or whether it were a skilful interweaving of truth and falsehood. The latter, he was inclined to believe, since the story sounded altogether too romantic and too unlikely for a man of Mordby's intellect to make up on the spur of the moment.

Later in the evening, Imogen Wimpole, mistaking young Conway the engraver for a popular singer who was also present, persuaded him to “sing just one little song before people went away and John, who happened to be standing near Dr. Mordby, found further food for thought. With much enthusiasm but little tunefulness young Conway sang a song called “Phyllis is my only Joy.” At the opening bars the doctor's slight habitual smile went out like a blown candle. Of course, young Conway's cheerful bawl was enough to cause a change of expression on the face of any lover of music. But there was also the possibility that Simon Mordby remembered the lady's name only too well.

Soon after this most of the guests took their departure, and John to his relief found himself alone in the smoke-laden, disordered room with his hostesses, Newtree and Sir Marion Steen. Imogen Wimpole yawned delicately and looked at the tiny watch on her plump wrist. The precious hours before midnight, which do so much to restore fatigued beauty, were gone beyond recall.

“Well,” she said complacently, “I think it went off very well, Serafine dear, though I never felt less like entertaining people in my life. And now I suppose you're all going to talk about the murder.”

“You were a beautiful hostess, Imogen,” said her niece. “You did all my work as well as your own. But, darling, you really shouldn't ask people like Peter Conway to sing.”

“I know,” said Imogen placidly. “I thought he was what's-his-name. But it didn't really matter a bit, because I'd told lots of people what's-his-name was going to sing, and they all said how wonderfully he sang. Luckily, he'd gone home.”

“There was one person who wasn't impressed,” said John. “And that was Dr. Mordby. When Peter began, he looked as if somebody were treading on his feet.”

“Probably somebody was, then,” said Mrs. Wimpole tranquilly. “It couldn't have been Peter's singing that made him look like that. Because he's often told me music means absolutely nothing to him at all.”

“The man that hath no music in his soul,” began Sir Marion, and then, suddenly perceiving that the quotation in the circumstances was an unfortunate one, left it unfinished, and exchanged with Serafine a smile at his own embarrassment.

“Lord!” said Serafine with vigour, when her aunt had wandered away to tell the servants to go to bed. “How I hate that man Mordby!”