(5) BASIL PILGRIM.
Opportunity. Same as Seacliff. Perhaps more favourable. If she had taken aspirin, she would sleep soundly, and the others were nowhere near his room. He would have slipped out after they had all gone to bed, taken his car, gone to the studio and fixed the knife.
Motive. Sonia had blackmailed him, threatening to tell Seacliff and Lord Pilgrim that the child was Basil’s. He seems to have a kink about purity and Seacliff. On the whole, plenty of motive.
N.B. If Seacliff or Pilgrim did it, either Garcia was not at the studio or else he is a confederate. If he was not at the studio, who took the caravan and removed his stuff? Could he have done this before Pilgrim arrived, leaving the coast clear?
(6) CEDRIC MALMSLEY.
Opportunity. He could have fixed the knife after he had knocked Garcia out with opium.
Motive. Sonia was blackmailing him about his illustration. He is the type that would detest an exposure of this sort.
(7) FRANCIS ORMERIN.
Opportunity. If Hatchett and Malmsley are correct in saying the drape was still crumpled on Friday afternoon after Ormerin had left, and if Troy is correct in saying it was stretched out on Saturday before he returned, there seemed to be no opportunity.
Motive. Only the model’s persistent refusal to keep still (v. Unlikely).
(8) PHILLIDA LEE.
Opportunity. Accepting above statements — none.
Motive. None.
(9) WATT HATCHETT.
Opportunity. On Malmsley’s and Troy’s statements — none.
Motive. Appears to have disliked her intensely and quarrelled over the pose. Sonia gibed about Australia. (Poor motive.)
Remarks. It seems to me there is little doubt that Garcia did it. Probably gingered up by his pipe of opium. If he fails to answer advertisements, it will look still more suspicious.
Suggestion. Find the warehouse.
Alleyn pointed a long finger at Nigel’s final sentence.
“Mr. Bathgate’s bright idea for the day,” he said.
“Yes,” said Fox. “It looks nice and simple just jotted down like that.”
“The thing’s quite neat in its way, Fox.”
“Yes, sir. And I think he’s got the right idea, you know.”
“Garcia?”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Oh Lord, Fox, you’ve heard my trouble. I don’t see how we can be too sure.”
“There’s that bit of clay with his print on it,” said Fox. “On the drape, where it had no business.”
“Suppose it was planted? There’d be any number of bits like that lying on the floor by the window. We found some. Let’s get Bailey’s further report on the prints, shall we?”
Alleyn rang through to Bailey’s department and found that Bailey had finished his work and was ready to make a report. In a minute or two he appeared with a quantity of photographs.
“Anything fresh?” asked Alleyn.
“Yes, sir, in a sort of a way there is,” said Bailey, with the air of making a reluctant admission.
“Let’s have it.”
Bailey laid a set of photographs on Alleyn’s desk.
“These are from the empty whisky bottle under Garcia’s bed. We got them again from different parts of the bed-frame, the box underneath and the stool he used for his work. Some of them cropped up on the window-sill and there’s a good thumb and forefinger off the light switch above his bed. These”—he pointed to a second group—“come from bits of clay that were lying about the floor. Some of them were no good, but there’s a couple of clear ones. They’re made by the same fingers as the first lot. I’ve marked them ‘Garcia.’ ”
“I think we may take it they are his,” said Alleyn.
“Yes. Well then, sir, here’s the ones off the opium-box and the pipe. Four of those I’ve identified as Mr. Malmsley’s. The others are Garcia’s. Here’s a photo of the clay pellet I found in the drape. Garcia again. This set’s off the edge of the throne. There were lots of prints there, some of them Mr. Hatchett’s some Mr. Pilgrim’s and some the French bloke’s — this Mr. Ormerin. They seem to have had blue paint on their fingers, which was useful. But this set is Garcia’s again and I found it on top of the others. There were traces of clay in this lot, which helped us a bit.”
Alleyn and Fox examined the prints without comment. Bailey produced another photograph and laid it on the desk.
“I got that from the drape. Took a bit of doing. Here’s the enlargement.”
“Garcia,” said Alleyn and Fox together.
“I reckon it is,” said Bailey. “We’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for the clay. It looks to me, Mr. Alleyn, as if he’d only half done the job. There’s no prints on the knife, so I supposed he held that with a cloth or wiped it after he’d only half done the job. There’s nothing on the knife but a smudge of blue. You may remember there were the same blue smudges on the throne and the easel-ledge that was used to hammer in the dagger. Now, this print we got from the bit of paint-rag that you suggested was used to wipe off the prints. Some of the paint on the rag was only half dry, and took a good impression. It matches the paint smudges on the knife. Blue.”
“Garcia’s.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“This about settles it, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox.
“That Garcia laid the trap? I agree with you.”
“We’ll have to ask for more men. It’s going to be a job getting him, sir. He had such a big start. How about letting these alibis wait for to-day, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I think we’d better get through them, but I tell you what, Fox. I’ll ask for another man and leave the alibi game to the pair of you. I’m not pulling out the plums for myself, Foxkin.”
“I’ve never known you to do that, Mr. Alleyn, don’t you worry. We’ll get through these alibis,” said Fox. “I’d like to see what our chaps are doing round the Holloway district.”
“And I,” said Alleyn, “think of going down to Brixton.”
“Is that a joke?” asked Fox suspiciously, after a blank pause.
“No, Fox.”
“Brixton? Why Brixton?”
“Sit down for a minute,” said Alleyn, “and I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER XVII
The Man at the Table
At four o’clock on the following afternoon, Wednesday, September 21st, Alleyn turned wearily into the last land and estate agents’ office in Brixton. A blond young man advanced upon him.
“Yes, sir? What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”
“It’s not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid. If you will, and if you can, tell me of any vacant warehouses in this district, or of any warehouses that have let part of themselves to artists, or of any artists who, having rented such premises, have taken themselves off to foreign parts and lent the premises to a young man who sculps. As you will probably have guessed, I am an officer of Scodand Yard. Here’s my card. Do you mind awfully if I sit down?”
“Er — yes. Of course not. Do,” said the young man in some surprise.
“It’s a weary world,” said Alleyn. “The room would be well lit. I’d better show you my list of all the places I have already inspected.”
The list was a long one. Alleyn had continued his search at eleven o’clock that morning.