“She’s as hard as nails. Still,” added Alleyn with satisfaction, “I did make her sick. She went through the whole story the first time almost without batting an eyelid. Each time we came back to it she was a little less confident, and the last time when I mentioned the words ‘death throes’ she turned as green as asparagus.”
“Well, wasn’t it natural?”
“Quite natural. Served her jolly well right. I dislike fatal women. They reek of mass production.”
“I don’t think you can say she’s as hard as nails. After all, she did feel ill. I mean she was upset by it all.”
“Only her lovely stomach. She’s not in the least sorry for that unfortunate little animal who died under her hands. All that psychological clap-trap! She’s probably nosed into a Freud Without Tears and picked out a few choice phrases.”
“I should say she was extremely intelligent.”
“And you’d be right. She’s sharp enough. What she said about Garcia rang true, I thought. What d’you say, Brer Fox?”
“You mean when she talked about Garcia’s coldbloodedness, don’t you, sir?”
“I do.”
“Yes. They all seem to agree about him. I think myself that it doesn’t do to ignore other people’s impressions. If you find a lot of separate individuals all saying so-and-so is a cold, unscrupulous sort of person, why then,” said Fox, “it usually turns out that he is.”
“True for you.”
“They might all be in collusion,” said Nigel.
“Why?” asked Alleyn.
“I don’t know.”
“‘More do I.”
“Well,” said Fox, “if this Garcia chap doesn’t turn up in answer to our broadcast and ads. and so on, it’ll look like a true bill.”
“He’s probably the type that loathes radio and never opens a paper,” said Nigel.
“Highly probable,” agreed Alleyn.
“You’ll have to arrest all hikers within a three-days’ tramp from Tatler’s End House. What a bevy of shorts and ruck-sacks.”
“He’ll have his painting gear if he’s innocent,” said Alleyn. “If he’s innocent, he’s probably snoring in a pub not twenty miles away. The police stations have all been warned. We’ll get him soon enough — if he’s innocent.”
“And if he’s guilty?”
“Then he’s thought out the neatest method of murder that I’ve come across for a very long time,” said Fox. “He knew that nobody would meddle with the throne, he knew he’d got two-days’ start before the event came off, and he very likely thought we’d have a tough job finding anything to pin on to him.”
“Those traces of modelling clay,” murmured Alleyn.
“He didn’t think of that,” said Fox. “If Bailey’s right they dropped off his overall while he fixed the knife.”
“What’s all this?” asked Nigel. Alleyn told him.
“We’ve got to remember,” said Alleyn, “that he’d got the offer of a good job. Marble statues of Comedy and Tragedy are not commissioned for a few pounds. It is possible, Fox, that a guilty Garcia might be so sure of himself that he would turn up in his London warehouse at the end of a week or so’s tramp and set to work. When we found him and hauled him up for a statement, he’d be all vague and surprised. When we asked how the traces of clay were to be accounted for, he’d say he didn’t know, but that he’d often sat on the throne, or stood on it, or walked across it, and the clay might have dropped off him at any moment. We’ll have to find out what sort of state his working smock was in. The bit of clay Bailey found is hardish. Modellers’ clay is wettish and kept so. When faced with Phillida Lee’s statement he’d say he’d had dozens of rows with Sonia, but hadn’t plotted to kill her. If we find she was going to have a child he’d very likely ask what of it?”
“What about the appointment he made with her for Friday night?” asked Fox.
“Did he make an appointment with her for Friday night?”
“Well, sir, you’ve got it there. Miss Lee said— ”
“Yes, I know, Fox. According to Miss Lee, Garcia said: ‘All right. On Friday night then.’ And Sonia answered: ‘Yes, if it’s possible.’ But that may not have meant that they arranged to meet each other on Friday night. It might have meant a thousand and one things, damn it. Garcia may have talked about leaving on Friday night. Sonia may have said she’d do something for him in London on Friday night. It is true that the young Lee person got the impression that they arranged to meet her, but she may have been mistaken.”
“That’s so,” said Fox heavily. “We’ll have to get on to deceased’s movements from Friday afternoon till Sunday.”
“Did you get anything at all from the maids about Friday night?”
“Not a great deal, sir, and that’s a fact. There’s three servants living in the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin who do butler and cook, and a young girl called Sadie Welsh, who’s housemaid. They all went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge on Friday night and returned by the front drive. There’s another girl — Ethel Jones — who comes in as a daily from Bossicote. She leaves at five o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll get on to her tomorrow, but it doesn’t look promising. The Hipkins seem a very decent couple. Devoted to Miss Troy. They’ve not got much to say in favour of this crowd. To Mrs. Hipkin’s way of thinking they’re all out of the same box. She said she wasn’t surprised at the murder and expected worse.”
“What? Wholesale slaughter did she mean?”
“I don’t think she knew. She’s a Presbyterian — Auld Licht — maiden name McQumpha. She says painting from the figure is no better than living in open sin, and she gave it as her opinion that Sonia Gluck was fair soused in wickedness. That kind of thing. Hipkin said he always thought Garcia had bats in the belfry, and Sadie said he once tried to assault her and she gave him a smack in the chops. She’s rather a lively girl, Sadie is. They say Miss Seacliff’s no lady because of the way she speaks to the servants. The only one they seemed to have much time for was the Honourable Basil Pilgrim.”
“Good old snobs. What about Garcia’s evening meal on Friday?”
“Well, I did get something there, in a way. Sadie took it on a tray to the studio at seven-thirty. She tapped on the screen inside the door and Mr. Garcia called out to her to leave the tray there. Sadie said she didn’t know but what he had naked women exhibiting themselves on the platform, so she put it down. When she went to the studio on Saturday morning the tray was still there, untouched. She looked into the studio but didn’t do anything in the way of housework. She’s not allowed to touch anything on the throne and didn’t notice the drape. Garcia was supposed to make his own bed. Sadie says it’s her belief he just pulled the counterpane over it and that’s what we found, sir, isn’t it?”
“Garcia wasn’t there on Saturday morning?”
“No. Sadie says he’d gone and all his stuff as far as she could make out. She said the room smelt funny, so she opened the window. She noticed a queer smell there on Friday night, too. I wondered if it was the acid Bailey found the marks of, but she said no. She’s smelt the acid before, when they’ve been using it for etching, and it wasn’t the same.”
“Look here, Fox, I think I’d like a word with your Sadie. Be a good fellow and see if she’s still up.”
Fox went off and was away some minutes.
“He must have broken into the virgin fastness of Sadie’s bedroom,” said Nigel.
Alleyn wandered round the room and looked at the books.
“What’s the time?” he said.
“After twelve. Twelve-twenty-five.”
“Oh Lord! Here’s Fox.”
Fox came in shepherding an extraordinary little apparition in curling-pins and red flannel.