The Studio Crime (20 page)

The Greek's suave, gentle voice trailed artistically into silence. He clasped his hands on the edge of his writing-table and looked inquiringly at Hembrow with his black eyes to which the squint gave a permanently sinister look. When he dropped his thick eyelids that look completely left his face, leaving nothing but an appearance of amiability, slight melancholy, and great intelligence.

“Another question, Mr. Lascarides, which may seem to you rather trivial. What sort of hat do you wear?”

The dealer's eyebrows mounted towards his thin, grizzled hair, but he replied readily enough, with a faint smile:

“I wear the fez. It is comfortable and I am used to it. Also, it does no harm to a unique business if the head of the business is a little—eccentric in small ways. You understand? If it were not comfortable I should still wear it. It pleases people. And it adds to my prestige. The successful man does not neglect such trifles.”

“Mr. Lascarides,” said Hembrow gravely, “when were you last in Greentree Road, St. John's Wood?”

“Greentree Road?” echoed the Greek, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb and gazing thoughtfully at his interlocutor. “I do not know the name. I do not know that I have ever been in Greentree Road—unless, stop! It is the little pleasant road that runs between Finchley Road and Abbey Road somewhere? Then I have been there once, about—let me see. About a year ago. Sir Hubert Strange took a house there, and I went to advise him on its decoration...”

“You have not been there since?”

Mr. Lascarides reflected for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. I am certain.”

There was a pause.

“Mr. Lascarides,” said Hembrow slowly, “at about eight o'clock on the night of November 24 a man answering to your description was seen by three separate people walking down Greentree Road. He was also seen by two other people to enter Madox Court, the building in which the murder of Gordon Frew took place.”

“I am sorry,” replied the Greek mildly. “I am sorry that my appearance is not so unique as I had thought.” He placed his finger-tips gently together and gazed pensively at the ceiling.

“But if I remember right,” he added, “it was a foggy night. Possibly the resemblance was not so exact, after all.”

“Possibly,” answered Hembrow pleasantly. “Still, you will understand that in the circumstances it would be as well if you could give me an account of your movements between seven o'clock and nine o'clock that night.”

For the first time a trace of discomfiture appeared in the foreigner's manner. He hesitated, flicking imaginary specks of dust from the table, and seemed to be uncertain how to reply. Finally he said with hauteur:

“I do not know why I should be treated as a suspect. I have told you all I know of the late Mr. Frew.”

. “Come, come, Mr, Lascarides. You must see quite plainly that we are anxious to establish the identity of the man who was seen in Greentree Road. If you can tell us that you were somewhere else at the time—well, we shall not trouble you further.”

“And if I do not choose to tell you?”

“I shall be obliged to detain you until we have investigated the matter without your assistance. Why take this line, Mr. Lascarides? I am making no accusation. I ask you to assist me with information.”

The other was silent. John thought his olive face had gone a shade paler.

“That is it,” he replied at last with an effort. “I can give you the information. But I do not know if I can prove it.”

“You can leave that to me.”

There was another long silence. Mr. Lascarides took a handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose, at the same time furtively wiping his forehead.

“I—I At six o'clock on the night of November 24,” he began rather uncertainly, “I was in my house in Golders Green. I was about to begin dinner. The telephone bell rang. I answered it myself. A man's voice spoke to me.”

He hesitated, and looked sadly from Hembrow to Christmas.

“I—I did not know the voice. I asked who is it? He would not tell me his name, only that he was a friend and wished me well.” Once again the little Greek broke off and looked at Hembrow. “Ah!” he cried. “But what is the use of telling you this? You will not believe me! It is too strange! Yet it is true! Already I see that you do not believe me!”

Hembrow said merely:

“It's not my business to believe or disbelieve. My business is to find out facts. Go on, Mr. Lascarides.”

With a slight gulp the other continued:

“He told me to come immediately to meet him at the corner of Circus Road. He will not tell me his business. He says he has something for me. That it will be strongly to my advantage to do as he says. I point out that it is foggy, and getting more foggy. I ask if he cannot give me his address and let me see him there. He says no, it is impossible. I stop and reflect. Half I am inclined not to go. I smell danger. But I am interested. It is my way never to refuse what you call an adventure. I agree. I go.”

He paused. Hembrow looked at him woodenly.

“Well?”

“I go. At the corner of Circus Road no one is. The fog by this time is pea-soup. I stroll up and down, never going far. I wait, I wait. No one comes. One or two men pass, but they do not stop. Half-past eight comes. Nearly an hour I have been waiting. I call a taxi and go home. I think, it is some silly trick, some... hoax, isn't it? I am hungry, I am angry. But I eat my dinner, I forget my anger, I think no more about it.”

He spread out his hands in a revealing, appealing gesture.

“That is all, gentlemen. That is true.”

There was a pause. Hembrow looked thoughtfully at the floor. John studied the little man's face. He thought there was real, acute fear lying beneath the surface of that amiable, deprecating mask. The eyelids kept contracting slightly, and the lips seemed to be held lightly apart by an effort of will that made their slight apologetic smile like the fixed smile of a carved figure.

Hembrow asked tranquilly:

“How did you go to Circus Road, Mr. Lascarides?”

“How? I call up a taxi from my house.”

“At what time did you get there and dismiss the taxi? ' “At half-past seven, perhaps a few minutes earlier.”

“And at half-past eight you hailed a passing taxi and went home?”

“So.”

There was a silence, broken only by the sound of the

Greek's hand rubbing nervously along the edge of his desk.

“At what hour exactly did the stranger ring you up?” “It was just after half-past six.”

“You had no idea who it could be?”

“None.”

“And no idea what he wished to see you about?” The foreigner paused a fraction of a second and moistened his lips.

No idea, Mr. Hembrow.”

“I am to understand that a perfect stranger rang you up, refused to give his name or state his business, and that thereupon you, without any idea of his identity or of his reasons for wishing t6 see you, left home on a foggy night and waited for an hour out in the street before deciding that you had been the victim of a hoax, and going home? Frankly, such a story is not credible for a man of your intelligence and position.” Hembrow's voice was like ice. He rose to his feet. “However, I will not question you further at the moment. There will be opportunities later. For I regret, Mr. Lascarides, that I must ask you to—”

What Inspector Hembrow was about to ask, Lascarides did not stop to find out. Christmas at the time suspected his friend of bluff. And the bluff, if bluff it was, was successful. The Greek rose quickly to his feet and moved a step backward from the Inspector, raising his hands in protest and crying:

“No, no! One moment! One moment, and I will tell you all! It was true, it was all true, but it was not all the truth. I will tell you all...”

Hembrow sat down again, saying nothing, and waited, his clear, deep-set eyes fixed inquiringly on the other's face. Mr. Lascarides groped for his chair, sank heavily into it and mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. His face was ghastly and he kept moistening his dry lips.

“There is no need to detain me. I can tell you nothing about this murder. I am not a murderer. I had no wish to kill your Gordon Frew. He was a fool. He was a hog. He insulted me. But he was nothing to me. But when I said that I did not know who the man was who rang me up, it was true, and yet it was not true. I was expecting a message. A—business message.”

He stopped and sighed heavily.

“Sometimes I buy and sell other things besides rugs, Inspector Hembrow. Amber, jade, old ivories, even more precious things—diamonds, emeralds come sometimes my way. A few days ago I had a message from a man with whom sometimes I make business, to tell me that he has a very fine unmounted emerald for me. He is sending it by messenger, as usually such precious things are sent. When the call came on the telephone I thought it was from the messenger with the emerald. I am anxious to get the gem safely into my own hands. I was a little surprised that he was so secretive on the telephone, but I thought, he has his reasons. I went. No one there was, and no one came... Now what I have told you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as so poetically you put it in your courts of law.”

The Greek seemed to have recovered his composure. He was pale and still breathed rather heavily, but he smiled faintly as he finished his declaration. Hembrow asked:

“Why did you not tell me that in the first place, may I ask, Mr. Lascarides?”

The other hesitated, then spoke in a lower tone.

“To be frank, I do not know the history of this emerald. Perhaps its history would be interesting to the police. I cannot always know the past history of all the things I sell. Therefore I did not wish to tell you the whole truth. I tell you now because I do not care to be detained in connection with a murder I know nothing of. It would be inconvenient. I am at the time very busy.”

“Did anybody hear you speaking on the 'phone, Mr. Lascarides?”

“Alas, no! I have no witness. I have no family. I live alone. A housekeeper I have, and servants, but they were far away in the kitchen. The bell of the telephone they may have heard, but not my voice.”

“Since then have you heard anything of the messenger you expected to meet?”

“Nothing have I heard, Mr. Hembrow, and I must confess that I am beginning to fear for the safety of my emerald.”

“You did not recognize the voice over the 'phone?”

“No... but, my dear sir, I did not expect to, for I did not know by whom the emerald is coming.”

“Would you recognize it again if you heard it?”

The Greek smiled pityingly.

“No. I am not English. I have no ear for the English voice and accent. It was English, that is all I can say.” He mused. “I do think now that perhaps it was a more gentle voice than generally belongs to the kind of man who acts as messenger in these matters. Yes, it might have been the voice of yourself, or your friend. But recognize it again? My friend, just as all black faces look alike to a white man, so do all English voices sound alike to a Greek.”

Hembrow remained a moment lost in thought. Then he rose to take his departure.

“I will not trouble you further at the moment, Mr. Lascarides.”

The carpet-dealer bowed. He had quite regained his elasticity of manner.

“I shall be charmed to assist you in any way I can. I am generally here from about eleven until about four. My home address you have. Good day, Mr. Inspector Hembrow. Good day, sir.”

He bowed them out. Christmas, happening to glance back as they walked down the street, saw him still standing at his shop door looking after them with an extraordinary intensity and malignity in his oblique and sinister gaze.

When Hembrow, accompanied by John Christmas, arrived at Scotland Yard, he showed Christmas into his own office and left him while he went to report to his Superintendent. Christmas stood looking idly out of the window and thinking. His thoughts chiefly centred themselves on Mr. Lascarides. The vanishing Turk, or Greek, as he turned out to be, had not remained elusive for long. But though he was no longer elusive, he was even more mysterious; or so John thought. He turned eagerly when Hembrow re-entered the room carrying in his hand a slip of paper which he laid on his desk with a satisfied smile.

“Well,” said Hembrow cheerily, “what do you think of our friend Lascarides?”

“Well,” answered John slowly, “what I'm chiefly thinking about him at the moment is—that he suffers from a certain obliquity of vision. In other words, he squints.”

Hembrow looked surprised.

“Well?”

“When I was talking the day before yesterday to my friend the crossing-sweeper at Shipman's Mews, the conversation happened to turn, oddly enough, upon the murder, and especially upon the gendeman who added a touch of romance to Greentree Road by walking down it in a fez. I said to my friend the crossing-sweeper: ‘Had he a squint?' My friend the crossing-sweeper replied: ‘Not as I noticed.' Could one fail to notice such a squint, Inspector?”

Hembrow looked puzzled.

“We can't expect every one of our witnesses to have noticed every little detail, Mr. Christmas. That would be too much to ask. It was a very foggy night, remember...”

“Yes,” echoed Christmas musingly, “it was a foggy night.”

“We have several witnesses who saw a man of Lascarides' height, build and complexion, wearing a fez, and having an obviously gold-crowned tooth, walking down Greentree Road at a time when Lascarides was away from home and, by his own account, was not many hundred yards away. Lascarides can only give the flimsiest story to account for his movements at the time. Surely we need not complain because all our witnesses cannot swear that the man in Greentree Road had a cast in his left eye! As I say, it was a foggy night.”

“As you say,” repeated Christmas, “it was a foggy night.” He looked dreamily across the room. “But even on a foggy night I should have thought an intelligent murderer would have changed his head-gear for something less noticeable than a fez before setting forth to do a murder.”