“Who teaches you?” he asked. “Sugg?”
“That’s right.” Nagle did not seem surprised. “Know his work?”
“I have one of his early oils. A nude.”
“You made a good investment. Hang on to it.”
“I’ve every intention of doing so,” said Dalgliesh mildly. “I happen to like it. Have you been with him long?”
“Two years. Part time, of course. In another three years I’ll be teaching him. If he’s capable of learning, that is. He’s getting an old dog now and too fond of his own tricks.”
“You appear to have imitated some of them,” said Dalgliesh.
“You think so? That’s interesting.” Nagle did not seem affronted. “That’s why it will be good to get away. I’m off to Paris by the end of the month at the latest. I applied for the Bollinger scholarship. The old man put in a word for me and last week I had a letter to say that it’s mine.”
Try as he would, he could not entirely keep the note of triumph from his voice. Underneath the assumption of nonchalance, there was a spring of joy. And he had reason to be pleased with himself. The Bollinger was no ordinary prize. It meant, as Dalgliesh knew, two years in any European city with a generous allowance and freedom for the student to live and work as he chose. The Bollinger trust had been set up by a manufacturer of patent medicines who had died wealthy and successful but unsatisfied. His money had come from stomach powders but his heart was in painting. His own talent was small and, to judge by the collection of paintings which he bequeathed to the embarrassed trustees of his local gallery, his taste had been on a par with his performance. But the Bollinger scholarship had ensured that artists should remember him with gratitude. Bollinger did not believe that art flourished in poverty or that artists were stimulated to their best efforts by cold garrets and empty bellies. He had been poor in his youth and had not enjoyed it. He had travelled widely in his old age and been happy abroad. The Bollinger scholarship enabled young artists of promise to enjoy the second without enduring the first and it was well worth winning. If Nagle had been awarded the Bollinger, he was hardly likely to be much concerned now with the troubles of the Steen Clinic.
“When are you due to go?” Dalgliesh asked.
“When I like. By the end of the month, anyway. But I may go earlier and without notice. No sense in upsetting anyone.” He jerked his head towards the far door as he spoke and added: “That’s why this murder is such a nuisance. I was afraid it might hold things up. After all, it was my chisel. And that wasn’t the only attempt made to implicate me. While I was in the general office waiting for the post, someone phoned to ask me to go down for the laundry. It sounded like a woman. I’d got my coat on and was more or less on my way out, so I said I’d collect it when I got back.”
“So that’s why you went to see Nurse Bolam on your return from the post and asked her whether the laundry was ready?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you tell her about the phone call at the time?”
“I don’t know. There didn’t seem any point. I wasn’t anxious to hang about the LSD room. Those patients give me the creeps with their moaning and muttering. When Bolam said the stuff wasn’t ready, I thought it was Miss Bolam who had phoned and it wouldn’t have done to have said so. She was a bit too apt to interfere with the nursing responsibilities, or so they thought. Anyway, I didn’t say anything about the call. I might have done but I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t tell me either when you were first interviewed.”
“Right again. The truth is that the whole thing struck me as a bit odd and I wanted time to think about it. Well, I’ve thought and you’re welcome to the story. You can believe it or not, as you like. It’s all the same to me.”
“You seem to be taking it pretty calmly if you really believe that someone was trying to involve you in the murder.”
“I’m not worrying. They didn’t succeed, for one thing, and, for another, I happen to believe that the chance of an innocent man getting convicted of murder in this country is practically nil. You ought to find that flattering. On the other hand—given the jury system—the chances of the guilty getting off are high. That’s why I don’t think you’re going to solve this murder. Too many suspects. Too many possibilities.”
“We shall see. Tell me more about this call. When exactly did you receive it?”
“I can’t remember. About five minutes before Shorthouse came into the general office, I think. It could have been earlier. Jenny may remember.”
“I’ll ask her when she gets back. What exactly did the voice say?”
“Just, ‘The laundry’s ready if you’d fetch it now, please.’ I took it that Nurse Bolam was phoning. I replied that I was just going out with the post and would see to it when I got back. Then I put down the receiver before she had a chance to argue.”
“You were sure it was Nurse Bolam speaking?”
“I’m not sure at all. I naturally thought it was at the time because Nurse Bolam usually does phone about the laundry. As a matter of fact the woman spoke softly and it could have been anyone.”
“But it was a woman’s voice?”
“Oh, yes. It was a woman all right.”
“At any rate it was a false message because we know that, in fact, the laundry wasn’t sorted.”
“Yes. But what was the point of it? It doesn’t add up. If the idea was to lure me down to the basement to frame me, the killer stood the risk that I’d arrive at the wrong moment. Nurse Bolam, for example, wouldn’t want me on the spot inquiring for the laundry if she were planning to be in the record room slugging her cousin. Even if Miss Bolam were dead before the call was made, it still doesn’t make sense. Suppose I’d nosed around and found the body? The killer couldn’t have wanted it discovered that soon! Anyway, I didn’t go down until I got back from the post. Lucky for me I was out with it. The box is only just across the road, but I usually go down to Beefsteak Street to buy a Standard. The man there probably remembers me.”
Jennifer Priddy had returned during the last few words. She had changed into a plain woollen dress. Clasping a belt round her waist, she said: “It was the row over your paper that finished poor old Cully. You might have let him have it, darling, when he asked. He only wanted to check on his horses.”
Nagle said without rancour: “Mean old devil. He’d do anything to save himself threepence. Why can’t he pay for it occasionally? I’m no sooner in the door before he puts out his hand for it.”
“Still, you were rather unkind to him, darling. It isn’t as if you wanted it yourself. We only glanced at it downstairs then used it to wrap up Tigger’s food. You know what Cully is. The least upset goes to his stomach.”
Nagle expressed his opinion of Cully’s stomach with force and originality. Miss Priddy glanced at Dalgliesh as if inviting his shocked admiration of the vagaries of genius and murmured: “Peter! Really, darling, you are awful!” She spoke with coy indulgence, the little woman administering a mild rebuke. Dalgliesh looked at Nagle to see how he bore it, but the painter seemed not to have heard. He still sat, immobile, on the bed and looked down at them. Clad now in brown linen trousers, thick blue jersey and sandals, he yet looked as formal and neat as he had in his porter’s uniform, his mild eyes unworried, his long, strong arms relaxed.