"Ah! Whom, for example?"
The Inspector shook his head.
"Every man in the artistic world and especially a preeminent man like Mr Schneider has them, Mr Pons. Ranging from critics to fellow artists."
Jamison had a self-satisfied expression on his features as he sat facing Pons and I could see my companion had a small crease of humour at each corner of his mouth.
"I am much obliged to you for the lecture, Inspector. I had no idea that you were so well-informed in such matters. But you no doubt discovered something in his studio to give you that impression?"
Inspector Jamison looked uncomfortable.
"Well, that is so, Mr Pons. I took the opportunity of perusing the brochure of Mr Schneider's current Exhibition while I was there. It had fully documented notes on his career."
Solar Pons smiled.
"You have been most frank, Jamison. It does you credit."
He looked across at me.
"Well, Parker, as it is your day off and you have nothing better to do, perhaps you would care to step around with me? It is not often that Inspector Jamison is at such a dead end and I am feeling unusually public-spirited on such a beautiful morning."
2
A short drive through relatively traffic-free streets brought us to the scene of the tragedy. We turned off Hampstead High Street and drove uphill for a short distance through the Vale of Health. The entrance to Cheneys was in a small lane and the house itself, trim and sparkling with white paint and yellow front door looked prosperous and cheerful across the soft arc of the green.
Jamison ordered the driver to stop a little distance away and we walked in the welcome shade of leafy trees up to a driveway which led down the side of the house. There was another police car parked nearby and a thin, sandy-haired man in a dark brown suit, with a worried expression on his face came hurrying down toward us as soon as we were seen.
"This business gets stranger every minute, Inspector," he said curtly.
His faded blue eyes looked curiously at us.
"This is Mr Solar Pons and his colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker," said Jamison by way of introduction. "My associate, Inspector Buckfast."
"Delighted to meet you both, gentlemen."
Buckfast's expression was cordial and friendly but the worried look remained. He fell into step with us as we walked along the side of the house, ignoring the salute of the constable stationed in the driveway.
"Something wrong?" queried Jamison.
The other man scratched his head.
"I went to the house about an hour ago. Apparently Schneider rented it to some people called Gantley six months ago. They have no connection with him. They have the use of the building below the studio but Schneider naturally retained the latter for himself. From what I gather Schneider suffered some financial reverses and decided to let. He himself now rents a smaller house on the other side of the Heath."
Jamison raised his eyebrows.
"That puts a different complexion on the matter. Have the Gantleys anything to tell us?"
Buckfast shook his head.
"They see Schneider come and go from time to time, of course. They were most helpful but they neither saw nor heard anything last night. I have not told them of the tragedy, of course. They think there has been a burglary."
Inspector Jamison nodded his head in satisfaction.
"I should like a look at the rest of the studio block, nevertheless."
"There is no difficulty about that. I have the keys." Jamison turned to us.
"Which would you like to see first, Mr Pons?"
"Oh, the studio, of course. The garage can come later, though I fancy it will tell us little if you have already examined it."
The studio block itself was a handsome, timbered structure, built of stone in rustic style for the lower portion and with mock Tudor beams in the upper. Jamison led the way up the wide teak staircase, pointing out the massive doors to the garage and store-rooms as we ascended. After a short distance the staircase turned at right-angles, terminating in a covered landing with glass windows.
A constable was on guard at the carved oak door and we went through into a large lobby which contained some coats and hats, together with dusty smocks hanging on pegs; a heavy door-mat; and some canes and walking sticks in a rack. There was a large, gilt-framed mirror, full-length, hanging on the far wall.
Jamison pushed open the inner door and we were soon able fully to realise the horror of the situation which had confronted P.c. Daniels in the small hours of the night.
The studio was a high, long room with white walls and oak beams set diagonally. It was lit from a vast circular skylight about twenty-five feet overhead and there were several hanging lamps of antique pattern but wired for electricity, suspended from the ceiling. The floor was made of heavy pine planking, as Jamison had said, and was evidently buttressed from the store-rooms below to take the enormous weight of the masses of sculpture set about on metal plates and in various stages of completion.
There was a large platform up at one end of the room, approached by shallow steps, and with a polished handrail round it. There was an easel on the platform and a drawing board with a hanging lamp above it. There was also a camera on a tripod but my eyes passed over all this at a glance.
Everyone who entered had riveted his gaze on the thing that was sprawled before a piece of white marble sculpture in front of the platform and just a few feet away. The beauty of the statue was in such marked contrast to the awful, bloodied creature lying in an agonised posture beneath it that I think we were all momentarily struck dumb. Even Pons' iron nerve was visibly shaken.
"Venus Aphrodite," he murmured. "This would have been an exquisite piece of work had its creator lived."
Inspector Jamison cleared his throat.
"I don't know about that, Mr Pons," he murmured. "But she is certainly a beautiful lady."
I caught the faint glimpse of a smile in the mocking glance Pons turned on me at the Inspector's gaucherie; that and the marvellous expression on the face of the naked goddess rising from the astonishingly sculptured spray had lightened the moment and I stepped forward briskly as Pons said, "Your department, Parker, I think."
I was already on my knees by the remains of Romaine Schneider. He lay with his knees drawn up, his arms outstretched. The fury of the attack had been so great that the whole of the front of the skull had been caved in; death must have been instantaneous. Blood was thickly encrusted on the hair and face and was running from the ears, eyes, mouth and nose.
Great gouts of blood were splashed for yards about the floor and up the base of the statue and the heavy wooden mallet with the broken handle which lay upon the planking was smeared with blood and brains.
I had difficulty in finding a suitable spot in which to kneel with safety but rapidly concluded my examination.
"I agree entirely with the police surgeon's conclusion, Pons," I said. "I can find nothing further."
I rose and dusted my trousers. Pons had already produced the powerful pocket lens, which he habitually carried, and was making a minute examination of the statue, the floor and the immediate area of the body. Jamison and Buckfast stood, a thoughtful group, at the edge of the platform and watched in silence.
Pons straightened up with a grunt.
"The murderer was a man over six feet tall; of enormous strength; but at the same time able to walk as quietly as a cat. The death of Schneider was obviously a matter of great urgency and carried out with technical precision. The motive, when it can be discovered, was so important that it was necessary to eliminate Schneider as rapidly as possible."
I glanced at the two detective officers who were standing open-mouthed upon the platform.