The Studio Crime (19 page)

“And have you any idea of who the man is, Inspector?” asked Laurence with interest.

Hembrow shook his head.

“Bit early to say yet, Mr. Newtree,” he said affably, and John guessed that, early or not, the Inspector had formed his own opinion, but preferred, in Newtree's presence, to keep it to himself.

“I've got a piece of news for you, Inspector,” he said, and proceeded to recount his interview with the clerk at the College of Arms. Hembrow listened with a good deal of interest, but not much surprise, John noted.

“So he was going to change his name, was he?” commented the detective, when John had finished. “Well, it wouldn't have been for the first time, though as far as I know he'd never gone to the length of taking legal steps about it before. I had an eye-opener this morning when I received the answer to a cable I sent yesterday to the New York headquarters.”

“This sounds very interesting, Hembrow,” said John, listening with close attention. “Go on. You're not going to tell us that the late Gordon Frew was a swell cracksman, or something of that kind, are you?”

“You're not far off it, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow with the satisfaction of one who sees the mine he has laid exploding neatly under his victims' feet. “I thought it'd come as a surprise to you gentlemen, as it did to me.”

“Well?” asked Newtree breathlessly.

Hembrow smiled at his eagerness.

“Well, after hearing what Mrs. Rudgwick had to say yesterday about her brothers who emigrated to America, I thought it'd be worth while to cable an inquiry, just on the off-chance that her idea of the deceased's character might prove to be correct. I certainly didn't expect quite so much as I got. It appears that Gordon Frew was one of the names, and thought to be the real name, of an Englishman calling himself Herbert Heath who did penal servitude twenty-five years ago for one of the biggest swindles that ever nearly succeeded. It was before my time, of course, but apparently it made a good deal of stir at the time. He was associated with two other men: Henry Winter, who was thought to be the leading spirit in the enterprise, and Michael Templar, an older man and a copper-plate engraver by profession. Winter managed to escape, and it is thought that he committed suicide. A body thought to be his was found drowned in a canal soon after the gaff was blown. Herbert Heath, or Gordon Frew, made a desperate attempt to get away, but was overtaken and arrested, and did five years in prison. Michael Templar was convicted of forgery, and did ten years. Although there was a feeling at the time that Templar was merely a tool in the hands of Winter and Heath, it was impossible to prove forgery against Heath. There seems little doubt that it is the same man. The ages coincide exactly, and the appearance of the deceased, allowing for twenty-five years having passed, agrees with the description cabled by the New York police.”

Hembrow sat back in his chair with a well-satisfied air, and looked from Laurence's interested face to John's.

“Well, I'm blowed!” said Laurence at last. “So he did lead a double life after all!”

“Not necessarily,” rejoined Christmas. “He led two lives, but there is no evidence that he led them simultaneously. Have there been any subsequent convictions against Heath, or Frew, Inspector?”

“None. He left the country soon after his release from prison. It is thought that he went to Russia.”

“And what happened to the other two men?”

“Henry Winter was presumed drowned, and Michael Templar, having shortened his period of imprisonment by his exemplary conduct, left the country with the avowed intention of settling in France. He seems to have been rather a different type of man from the two others. He had a good many friends waiting to help him when he came out of prison; and while he was serving his time a cousin of his had died and left him a considerable fortune. It is thought that he is still living in the south of France under an assumed name.”

“I suppose,” said John thoughtfully, “that you haven't got a description of Henry Winter and Michael Templar?”

“No,” said Hembrow, looking rather surprised. “I can't imagine that it's necessary to have one, Mr. Christmas. Winter is dead, and it's pretty plain, I think, that the other man had nothing to do with this affair. My own view is that the past history of the deceased, though it certainly comes as a bit of a surprise, has no bearing on his death. By the way, Mr. Christmas, a witness has come forward who deposes to having seen a woman wearing a red shawl under her coat pass into the entrance of Madox Court just before eight o'clock on the night of the crime.”

Hembrow took a paper from his desk.

“This is a voluntary statement made by Mrs. Helen Smith, the caretaker at Ransom House, which, as of course you know, is the new block of flats they've put up in Hurst Road not far from Madox Court.” Hembrow cleared his throat and in his most expressionless official voice began to read Mrs. Smith's statement.

“‘I am a caretaker at Ransom House, and live on the premises. On the evening of November 24 I went out to post some letters in the pillar-box which stands at the corner of Hurst Road and Greentree Road. As I approached Madox Court on my return journey I passed a young woman who was walking quickly down towards Greentree Road, and about ten yards behind her I passed a young man, who was walking slowly.'”

Hembrow glanced up from his paper.

“That will have been Pandora Shirley and young Greenaway,” he interpolated, and went on:

“‘As I passed the entrance to Madox Court I saw a lady approaching from the other direction. She was walking rather slowly. As we passed I saw her fairly plainly under a street-lamp, and although it was very foggy at the time I could see that she was fairly young and that she was wearing a fur coat and a red scarf round her neck, and that she was hatless. Her hair was dark, and she was small and slight in build. As we passed she looked at me as if she was rather startled. I looked back when I had gone on a yard or two and saw her turn in at the entrance to the courtyard at Madox Court. I know by sight all the inhabitants of Madox Court, and she was not one of them. The time was about five minutes to eight.'”

Hembrow laid the paper down with a satisfied air.

“I think,” he said, “that this information is worth more to us than the cable from the New York headquarters, though it is not so startling. The letter that Gordon Frew received on the night of his death mentioned the hour of eight o'clock, if you remember. I think we may conclude that the letter contained a proposal to visit Frew at eight o'clock that evening, and that it was written by the woman with the red shawl.”

“Yes,” agreed John slowly and thoughtfully. “And that Frew gave his servant leave to go out for the evening because he did not wish the woman's presence in his flat to become known. Or it is possible that the woman herself did not wish it. You remember that the fragment of a letter which we found in the fireplace contained the words ‘risk' and ‘fog.' It is possible that they referred to the fact that there was less risk of being seen in the fog, or something of that kind. By the way, Inspector, if she entered Madox Court a moment or so after Shirley had left she must have entered Frew's flat a few moments before the man in the fez left it. I wish we could find that elusive gentleman.”

“Yes,” agreed Hembrow. “He might be a valuable witness. But I shall see you at the inquest to-morrow, Mr. Christmas, and possibly by then we shall be a good deal nearer to the solution of the mystery.”

At the inquest held the following morning only formal evidence was taken, and the matter was adjourned for a fortnight.

“And I think we shall have our man safely under lock and key before then, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow cheerfully as they walked down Baker Street after leaving the court. “Matters are going nicely—very nicely, so far.” He spoke with a good deal of satisfaction, and whistled to himself as they walked along. Hembrow's idea of the identity of “our man” was fairly plain to John. Dr. Merewether had given his evidence at the inquest with composure, it was true, but with the sort of cold and steely composure of self-restraint: or of a liar determined to stick to his lie though he knows that it is not believed. In the two days that had passed since the murder he seemed to have aged ten years. John seemed to hear again the cool, sceptical voice of the Coroner:

“Did you know the deceased well?”

“I had attended him professionally.”

“And are you certain that the man who opened the door to you at nine o'clock on the evening of the death
was
the deceased?”

“To the best of my belief it was he.” 

“You are not certain?”

“I am quite certain.”

“Are you aware of the fact that the doctor who examined the body gave it as his opinion that death took place not later than eight o'clock?”

“I am aware of that fact.”

“Yet you are certain that you saw the deceased alive an hour later than the hour at which, according to medical testimony, he was dead?”

“I am.”

“You are a doctor yourself, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“When you examined the body did you find anything incompatible with death having taken place within the past half-hour?”

“No.”

“You may stand down, Dr. Merewether.”

“Are you interested in carpets, Mr. Christmas?” Hembrow paused in his whistling to ask, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Carpets? What sort of carpets? Why?”

“Oriental. Because I'm going along to see some, and should be glad to have your company, if you care to come too. I'm not so much interested in the carpets, myself, as in the fellow who deals in them. This is the place. Coming in?”

They had turned down a small quiet street off Lower Baker Street, and Hembrow had stopped outside a small but expensive-looking shop which displayed in its window one beautiful old Persian prayer-rug with a grey and purplish bloom, and a vase of Japanese chrysanthemums. Over the shop-front Christmas read the name: “O. Lascarides. Carpets and Oriental hangings.”

“My man tracked the owner down to an address in Golders Green,” explained Hembrow. “And we've found a cabman in the rank near Circus Road who says that he drove a man wearing a fez out to Golders Green on the night of the murder. He's a Greek, this Lascarides, not a Turk, by the way.”

They entered the shop, and a young girl who was engaged in darning a fine tapestry over the counter rose and bade them good morning.

“Mr. Lascarides in?” asked Hembrow.

The girl looked a little surprised.

“I am not sure,” she replied courteously. “I'll see.... Do you particularly want to see Mr. Lascarides?”

“If I may.”

She vanished among the rugs that hung around the walls, and after five minutes or so, which John spent happily in admiring the contents of the shop and Hembrow spent impatiently looking out of the window, a man appeared noiselessly brushing aside one of the wall-hangings and advanced into the shop.

“Good morning, sare. You wish to see me?”

A small, stoutish, olive-complexioned man with a small, grizzled moustache, dapper and suave, with plump, white hands clasped before his immaculate grey waistcoat. He smiled, displaying a row of even teeth of which one was crowned with gold. He looked interrogatively from Hembrow to Christmas.

“You wish to consult me about a carpet?”

“Could I see you privately, Mr. Lascarides? No, it isn't about a carpet. It's a private matter.”

The carpet-dealer's eyebrows rose until his low forehead was a mass of fine horizontal ridges. He glanced quickly from one to the other of his visitors with a narrow, calculating glance that accorded curiously with the bland, deferential smile on his lips. His eyes were dark and narrow and close-set to his large, curved nose, and his left eye had a curious obliqueness of direction that gave a sinister air of secretiveness to his glance. As he noticed this, John felt his heart give a throb of excitement. Were they at last in the presence of the mysterious visitor to Frew's flat? In every detail Mr. Lascarides fitted the description that had been given of him. He watched the man eagerly as he took the card Hembrow held out to him.

He read it through expressionlessly and remained a moment with downcast eyelids, tapping the small piece of pasteboard on his thumb-nail and pursing his thick lips. Then he said blandly, with a slight lift of his shoulders:

“Certainly, certainly. If you gentlemen will step through to my sitting-room? But I cannot imagine in what way I can assist you, Mr.” (he referred thoughtfully to the card), “ah! Hembrow.”

He parted the hangings at the back of the shop and stood aside to let them pass through a small doorway into a dark passage. Then opening another door he showed them into a light and pleasant room which seemed to combine the functions of office and sitting-room. Motioning them to two easy chairs covered with worn but gorgeously-covered rugs, he took a seat in the revolving chair at his desk and waited for Hembrow to speak.

“The matter I wish to see you about is this,” said Hembrow slowly. “As you no doubt know, a Mr. Gordon Frew was found murdered on the twenty-fourth in his studio in St. John's Wood....”

He watched the foreigner's face closely as he mentioned Frew's name, but it remained expressionless—too expressionless to be natural, John thought.

“I saw it in the paper, yes. It was very sad. But it did not concern me. I did not read the details.”

“Had you ever met Gordon Frew, Mr. Lascarides?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He was a collector of rugs and Oriental works of art, and it seems to me very likely that he might have purchased some of the items in his collection from you.” The little Greek became very interested in his fingernail, examining it closely with a slight frown.

“To your question, yes. To your supposition, no. I have met the late Mr. Gordon Frew. But I have sold him nothing, no. Six—eight weeks ago he came to my shop. He wished to buy a fine old Soumak rug I had. But he thought I cheat him over the price. He try to beat me down. But I say: ‘This is my price. If you take it, very well. If not, many others there are who will...' He call me a damn old swindler, as if I was a bagman or a cheapjack in your Caledonian market. I am not a dealer in second-hand rubbish. I am an expert, I sell only the best. Nobody dispute with me over the value of a Persian rug. I bow him out. Ten days later he comes again. He asks the price of a silk Tabriz. I tell him one hundred and seventy pounds. But I am keeping it for a good client, for Lord Amberdown. He offer to give me one hundred and eighty pounds if I will sell to him. But it is not with methods like those that I have built the most exclusive business in London. With great pleasure I tell him to go to hell. He walk out of the shop, but I do not know where he went.”