The Studio Crime (27 page)

At a quarter past three John was inclined to think that he would come if his story had been true, but not if he suspected a trap.

At twenty past three John cursed himself for wasting time over a twenty to one chance, and wished he had gone straight and unannounced to Golders Green.

At twenty-three minutes past three a taxi-cab drew up about five yards away from him, and his heart gave a little throb of excitement as Lascarides stepped on to the pavement and paid the driver. In the grey light of out-of-doors he looked a very much more noticeable figure than he had seemed among the oriental rugs and tapestries in his carpet-shop. John noticed that several people turned to look at him with mild curiosity as he stood on the pavement turning over the coins in his hand. Besides his crimson fez, which was sufficient in itself to make his appearance remarkable, he wore a long overcoat with an astrakhan collar and carried a very large and sumptuous umbrella with an ornamental crook handle of gold. John thought: If we converse long in this public spot we shall collect a crowd. He noticed, as the Greek turned in his direction, that the fur-collared overcoat was open at the neck in the ordinary way.

John stepped forward with a smile, but before he could speak the other said serenely:

“Good afternoon. We have met before, I think. But your name I do not know. On the telephone you prefer not to give your name. Why, I do not know. To have a name is more convenient, I have always found, even if it is the name of one's choice rather than of one's fathers.”

“My name is Christmas,” said John, rather taken aback.

“It is a good name,” said the Greek with grave politeness. “You have a saying: Call a dog by a bad name, and hang him. But in these so civilized times you have first to prove that he deserves the bad name you give, isn't it?” He smiled, with a glint of white teeth and gold.

“You are not surprised to see me, Mr. Lascarides?”

The carpet-dealer clicked his tongue softly against his teeth, and slowly shook his head.

“Not in the least, Mr. Christmas. I will not say that it was yourself personally I expected to have the happiness of meeting. I thought it might be the excellent officer from Scotland Yard who was with you this morning when you called at my shop. You need not have kept your name from me. I should in any case have been enchanted to offer you an interview, although I should perhaps a more private place have chosen for it. However, you like this place for its associations, eh?”

John laughed.

“You are quite right,” he said. “I mentioned this spot because I thought it was a favourite meeting-place of yours. And I refrained from giving my name on the telephone because I understood that people who made appointments to meet you were in the habit of remaining incognito.”

The Greek smiled.

“The people who make appointments with me,” he replied calmly, “are in the habit of remaining incognito only when an officer from Scotland Yard shows an impolite interest in their doings. Are you an officer from Scotland Yard?”

“No. I am a private investigator.”

“An amateur. I thought so. And what can I do for you, Mr. Private Investigator Christmas?”

And with a grotesque effect the little man put his head on one side and rubbed his expensively gloved hands together, his umbrella hanging over his fore-arm.

“You can tell me the truth,” replied John with a grin. “But I don't suppose you will.”

“You are mad, my young mister,” observed Lascarides equably. “It is a madness of an amiable sort, but one that has already wasted much of my valuable time.”

“I am sorry. But an arrest on the capital charge, or even detention pending inquiries, would waste a great deal more of your time than I shall.”

“You are bluffing,” said the other, looking at him narrowly. “You have no power to make an arrest. And if you had, I am not the man you want. To be arrested for the murder of your late ever-to-be-regretted friend would be an inconvenience to me, but not a tragedy. For I did not kill him, and I could prove it, though at some inconvenience to myself.”

“It would be difficult to prove it,” murmured John tentatively. “You were with him at the time he was killed, were you not?”

“But I tell you I was not. I was here, in this very place where I stand now, and nearer to your Madox Court than this I did not go.”

“Mr. Lascarides,” said John gravely, “was not Mr. Gordon Frew a client of yours?”

The Greek looked impassively at the pavement.

“Mr. Christmas,” he replied gently, “he was not. Though, if he had been, I do not know why you should suppose that I should visit him at eight o'clock in die evening to sell him rugs. I am not a pedlar.”

“I was not suggesting,” replied John slowly, “that you sold him rugs, Mr. Lascarides.”

The dealer's heavy eye-lids gave the faintest flicker.

“What then?” he inquired smoothly.

“Drugs,” said John, and saw the other give an uncontrollable start and press his small hands closely together as if to keep command of himself.

There was a long silence. The Greek appeared to be meditating his answer to this charge, wondering, perhaps, whether John had proof of his illegal dealings or whether his accusation had been shot in the dark. Watching the dark, impassive face, John saw out of the corner of his eye old Greenaway strolling past them for the third time.

“You would suggest,” said Lascarides at last, “that I supplied Mr. Frew with drugs, and visited him on the night he died for that purpose?”

“That is my suggestion.”

A sort of puzzled frown crossed the other man's face and he gave a short, impatient laugh.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he uttered softly. “If your friend took drugs, it was not I who supplied him. There is something here I do not understand.”

He glanced up quickly at John, and then back at the pavement again. He seemed to be aware of the fact that he appeared a great deal more prepossessing when his eyes were not in evidence.

“Listen, my young friend,” he said at length, more amiably and naturally than he had spoken before. “This morning I told your Inspector Hembrow the story of all I had done on the night this murder was. It was all true—all but one little detail which does not affect the story and which I would prefer to keep my own business. I will tell you, if you wish, that it was not an emerald I went to receive on that foggy night. The emerald was a little story, as I think you have guessed, but all the rest was true. Now I can tell you something more, which may be of service to you. My friend from whom I was expecting the messenger has now arrived in England. Yesterday evening he arrived. After your clever Inspector and your respected friend had gone out of my shop this morning, quickly I take a taxi to my friend's place of business, which is—never mind where! I go to warn him to be discreet, should by any chance your Inspector Hembrow trace him. I should not tell you this, perhaps, if you were an official detective, Mr. Christmas; but being an amateur, I think you are only interested in your murder and will not interfere in a matter that does not bear upon it. As I was saying, to my friend I went, and tell him everything, begging him to be upon his guard. How surprised I was, then, to hear that my friend had sent no messenger to England, but had brought the—emerald, himself! Who it was that spoke to me on the telephone that foggy night I do not know, but my friend's messenger it was not.”

The little man spread out his hands and lifted his shoulders.

“Is there no one else who might have 'phoned you a similar message, Mr. Lascarides?”

“No one that I know of. It is a complete mystery to me, young sir.”

John found himself wishing that fate had not seen fit to give Lascarides that appalling squint. It made it impossible to judge his character from his physiognomy. When he looked down at the pavement the gently-cynical, intellectual look of his fleshy olive face queerly inclined John to like him; but when he looked up that sinister, obliquely-staring eye caused an immediate revulsion of feeling and seemed to lay his every word open to the suspicion of being false.

“Have you any enemies, Mr. Lascarides?”

The Greek smiled.

“I do not know. Many I may have. I do not trouble my head. I do not think that I have any, but one cannot see into the hearts of all one's friends.” He gave a sudden smile. “You are wishing, are you not, that you could see into my heart and know whether I speak the truth? You cannot, Mr. Detective Christmas. You can only search and test and prove. And now I will leave you to your searching and testing, for I have an appointment at four o'clock. And I see that your friend is waiting for you down the street.”

He waved his gloves blandly to where in the distance old Greenaway was strolling away from them, and then signalled to a passing taxi-cab.

“If I had so much interest in your doings as you have in mine,” went on Lascarides gently, as the taxi turned, “I should think you had brought your friend here to see if he could identify me. Up and down, up and down, he has walked while we have been standing here. You should tell him, Mr. clever Detective Christmas, that if he does not recognize a man at the first glance, he will not recognize him at the third—no, nor the fourth! Good-bye, Mr. Christmas. My address you know. I will not run away.”

He climbed into the taxi and disappeared, leaving John smiling ruefully to himself on the pavement. As Greenaway came to meet him, he noticed that the old servant looked somewhat dejected.

“Well, Greenaway,” said John, as they made their way homewards, “you had a good look at my friend. What did you make of him?”

“I 'ad several good looks, sir,” replied Greenaway sadly, “and the rest of the time I've spent wishing I 'adn't been so cocksure, sir, when you spoke about me being an observant man.”

“I noticed you walked past us several times.”

“Yes, I did, sir, but if I'd walked past a 'undred times it would 'ave been the same, sir.”

“Then you didn't recognize the gentleman?”

Greenaway sighed heavily.

“Well, I did and I didn't, sir. When I saw the gentleman get out of the cab, I thought all excited-like: That's him! And then I walked past and saw him a bit clearer, and I 'ad quite a turn, sir, because it wasn't him after all! And then I looked again, and I thought, Well, it might be, remembering that people always look a bit different in colour and that, sir, at night-time. And he was very like the gendeman as called the other night, sir. Same colour, and build, and height and that, and the same darkish moustache, and the same bit of gold in 'is teeth, sir. But the long and short of it is, sir, I couldn't swear as it isn't the gentleman, and I couldn't swear as it is him. There's only one thing I can swear to, an' that is that the gentleman as called at Madox Court never 'ad that dreadful cast in 'is eye—at least,” amended Greenaway, rendered cautious by his experience of the difficulties of bearing witness, “I could swear as I never noticed it, if 'e 'ad, sir.”

And once again old Greenaway gave a heavy, disappointed sigh.

“I am to take it, then, that you can't identify the gentleman, but that on the whole you are inclined to think it is the same man?”

The servant paused and then slowly shook his head.

“Inclined to think it isn't, sir. Like 'im, very like 'im. But different in a way it isn't easy to explain, sir. 'E seemed—well, thicker than the gentleman I saw before. Thicker in the body and neck and in the features too, sir. It being a different light might make that difference, I can't say. But my feeling is, sir, that it isn't the same man, though I wouldn't swear it isn't.”

“Thank you, Greenaway. This looks as if it were going to be interesting.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but didn't you
want
it to be the same man?”

John laughed.

“All I want is to find out the truth, Greenaway, and I must thank you for helping me. Half a minute. I want to have a word with our friend the crossing-sweeper.”

That ragged philosopher was sitting in his old place at the corner of Shipman's Mews, with his brooms beside him, contemplating his crossing, and smoking an evil-smelling pipe. He saluted as John came up, and greeted Greenaway, who disapproved of him and his methods of earning a living, with extreme politeness.

John cut short his long and blasphemous discourse on the state of the weather.

“Do you remember,” he interrupted, “that I asked you the other day about a foreigner wearing a fez who came down this road the night Mr. Frew was killed?”

“Ah!” assented the other emphatically. “You gave me 'arf a dollar.”

“I'll give you another if you can just cast your mind back to that night and remember something for me.”

“I'd remember anything for 'arf a dollar,” replied the old beggar with a grin.

“You shall have the half-crown anyhow. But I want you to be quite accurate. It's rather important.”

The crossing-sweeper composed his features into an expression of portentous solemnity.

“The truth, the 'ole truth and nothing but the truth, so 'elp me bob!”

“Well, first. Can you swear that the man who came into the mews and was so startled when you spoke to him had a cast in his left eye?”

“Fust I've 'eard of it, sir.” The old man pushed his hat back and scratched among his long, greasy locks. “I'd almost swear 'e 'adn't anything of the sort, but that there night being so foggy, one can't 'ardly swear to noticing anything. I'll swear I never noticed it if 'e 'ad sir, if that'll do you.”

“That'll do. Secondly, can you say positively that he had a gold tooth in the upper row?”

The crossing-sweeper looked mildly surprised.

“Are you sure it's the same gentleman yore thinkin' of, sir? No, my gentleman didn't 'ave no gold tooth!”

“Are you sure?” asked John, and became conscious of Greenaway at his elbow protesting: