A Little Murder Page 10

  Brush suspended in mid-air, Clovis stood stock-still staring into space, his memory galvanised by excitement. The scene crystallised in his mind’s eye, and what he was damn sure of was that the mac had not been there when he had returned from the bog … Good Lord, that could be a tale to tell! The previous session with that dreary policeman had been unfruitful, his information about the parcel failing to cause the stir he had hoped, and there had been nothing else he could contribute. But now there was indeed something he might report: a matter surely of vital interest!

  The Greenleaf chap had telephoned earlier requesting a second interview. At the time it had annoyed him, thinking there was little to add to his previous statement and loath to become embroiled unless it led to his advantage. But things had suddenly changed. Oh yes, indeed they had! And if he played his cards right he might be a star witness. Once again he saw the bright glow of publicity: Eminent painter’s testimony nails the killer. Yes, conceivably his date with PC Plod might just prove productive! He stood back, making a careful assessment of his handiwork, and then craning forward applied a triumphal flourish to the canvas.

  ‘I say,’ a voice said from the doorway, ‘may I come in? Been caught up in one or two things, all rather a rush. Hope I’m not late.’

  ‘What? Oh no, of course not,’ the artist replied abstractedly. ‘Sit down there for the moment, would you? I’m just putting the finishing touches to this. It’s nearly done.’

  ‘Artist bludgeoned to death in own studio!’ screamed the morning headlines. ‘Victim’s body found drenched in paint and gore …’

  Disgusting, thought Lady Fawcett, biting firmly into her buttered toast, what extraordinary things happened to people! She poured a second cup of coffee, adjusted her reading glasses and settled herself more comfortably upon her pillows. What a relief there was nothing pressing to do until the visit to Barkers to help Amy choose a new hat. The girl had such execrable taste that if she didn’t accompany her she was bound to pick something totally unsuitable. Doubtless there would be strife, so it was just as well she could stay a little longer in bed to muster her strength …

  She glanced again at the newspaper, and this time her eyes grew round with disbelief. ‘No,’ she gasped, ‘it can’t possibly be. Ridiculous!’ Ridiculous, perhaps, but more than possible, for there it was, confronting her in black and white.

  Slowly she reread the article and scrutinised the accompanying photograph of Clovis Thistlehyde. Taken at least ten years ago, she surmised, fifteen probably. She had noted at her party how his features were growing less than juvenile – getting very jowly, in fact. Still, one didn’t bludgeon a man for losing his looks – at least, not generally. Presumably there was another reason. Suddenly bed and buttered toast seemed awfully boring, and throwing back the covers she reached for her wrap and then the telephone.

  ‘My dear, have you heard?’ she breathed.

  Her auditor had not heard, and thus with the relish of the news-breaker Lady Fawcett proceeded to inform.

  ‘I must say,’ Leo observed, ‘your associates do have an unhappy habit of being felled before their time. I shall have to watch out! Did you know this artist chap well?’

  ‘One tried not to,’ replied Rosy shortly. And then feeling guilty at her dismissive tone, she added, ‘He was a bit tiresome, you see, rather pleased with himself: thought he was the cat’s whiskers of the art world and a gift to any female over the age of seventeen. Boring, really. Still, one didn’t take him seriously and he hardly deserved that fate.’

  ‘Hmm. No more did your aunt,’ said Leo.

  Rosy sighed. ‘No she didn’t, not at all.’

  There was a silence as they sipped their coffee and Leo hacked at one of the museum’s joyless cakes.

  ‘But you must admit,’ he continued, ‘it’s an extraordinary coincidence that both model and artist should have the same murky end. Pretty damned odd, in fact. I bet the police are after a link, and the newspapers will be in their element. Better watch out, reporters at your door before you can say knife!’

  ‘Well, they’ll get short shrift,’ Rosy snapped. This was exactly what she feared: pursuit by a posse of press clamouring for insights and ‘angles’. So far she had managed to remain in the background of her aunt’s death, luckily seeming to be of small account in the police investigation. And apart from the Fawcetts, some of her own circle and a few of Marcia’s cronies, no one knew of her kinship with the dead woman – or cared. But the Thistlehyde killing was likely to add a fresh dimension to the whole business; and along with others associated with Marcia (and now indeed with both victims) she could well become a target of wider curiosity. God, what a prospect!

  ‘Look, Leo,’ she pleaded, ‘do you think you could possibly play this down? I mean, I know it’s all very intriguing, but I would rather you didn’t say anything to anyone about my involvement.’ She paused, and then said defensively, ‘Not that I am involved, of course – well, not in any material way – but I just don’t want idiots asking questions and nosing around making a meal of it all. I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘I understand entirely,’ he said solemnly. ‘Just like Greta Garbo: methinks the lady wants “to be alone”.’ He turned up the collar of his jacket and with a theatrical flourish shaded his face with his hand.

  ‘What? Oh really, you do talk rubbish!’

  ‘It’s working in this place, one absorbs the style. Now, tell me all about poor crummy Clovis and we’ll put two and two together …’

  ‘Pipped at the post,’ lamented Greenleaf’s superior. ‘I thought we might be on to a good thing with that Thistlehyde fellow, i.e. either nab him for the murder itself or at least get him to spill a few more beans about what happened that afternoon. Now the geezer’s gone and got himself killed as well. Nothing’s bloody simple, is it?’

  Ignoring the obvious, Greenleaf said, ‘Presumably there must be a connection between the two, though it doesn’t do to jump the gun – could be entirely unrelated, I suppose, different matter altogether.’

  ‘Oh yes? So what’s the motive?’

  Greenleaf shrugged. ‘Perhaps somebody didn’t like his brushwork. Like you’ve said before, funny lot these artistic types; they get passions and take offence easily. Not normal like you and me. They’ve got what we haven’t: delicate sensibilities. I remember that case of the Russian ballet dancer who defected here just after the war. There was a hell of a shindig in the chorus line because they didn’t like the way he did his pas de whatsit, and one of the swans drew a knife, and then just as he was going to lift—’

  ‘This is not some ruddy ballet!’ fumed the inspector. ‘It’s a serious case of murder – very serious indeed, because if we don’t solve it tootie-sweetie we’re going to look even bigger charlies than we do already with the Beasley case. The super is starting to give me some very funny looks. There’s got to be a link – and you and me, sonny boy, have got to come up with it pretty damn quick!’ As if to underline the point he began to knock his pipe out among the biscuit debris on Greenleaf’s desk, but stopped abruptly, and frowning asked, ‘What do you mean the swan drew a knife? Where’d she keep it?’

  ‘Down the front of her tutu.’

  ‘Cor!’

  Later over tea in the canteen the inspector asked hopefully, ‘I don’t suppose your chaps found any bits of coal hanging about in his studio, did they?’

  Greenleaf shook his head. ‘No such luck: just paint and Durexes, nothing to write home about.’

  The inspector sighed. ‘Thought not. Only dreaming. What about that flat of his in Islington – find anything useful there?’

  ‘Not so far, but we’ve still got a fair way to go. It’s the size of a shoebox but my God you should see the mess! It’ll take some sifting, that will. Mind you, apart from clothes and such, most of the other stuff seems to be piles of old press cuttings and photographs. Took himself very seriously did our Mr Thistlehyde.’

  ‘Presumably somebody else did as well,’ observed the other dryly. He
stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘There’s just got to be a link somewhere … Perhaps he had been having it away with the Beasley woman and someone took exception.’

  ‘On her side or his?’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘Either way – jealous boyfriend, jealous mistress.’

  ‘But not much point in killing him if she was dead already. End of the affair – waste of time, really. Besides, from what he said to me when he came down to the station that time he hadn’t been too keen on the deceased. She may have sat for him in the nude but I didn’t get the impression that anything was going on. I think she was a bit long in the tooth for him. Liked ’em younger; easier to impress.’

  ‘Perhaps, but somebody didn’t like him. So get weaving and find out his enemies. Trawl through his address book – when you have found it – and dig out a list of his girlfriends, married or otherwise. Even if it wasn’t to do with the Beasley woman it may have involved some other bird.’

  ‘Yes, but one thing’s certain – even if it was sexual jealousy it’s unlikely to have been a woman who did it. According to the latest pathologist report the assailant used a rabbit punch before bashing the victim with the equivalent of a good-sized truncheon. Doesn’t sound like a woman’s work to me.’

  A slow grin spread over the inspector’s face. ‘Good Lord, Greenleaf, a truncheon you say? If I remember rightly you weren’t too fond of Mr Thistlehyde yourself, were you? Not your perishing cup of tea, you said …’

  ‘And when did the news come through?’ asked Cedric.

  ‘Half past nine this morning,’ Felix replied. ‘Angela Fawcett telephoned. Caught me on the hop. I was just arranging the special displays and I was so unnerved I knocked one over. Water everywhere! It took me ages to mop up.’

  ‘Then what did you do? Crack open some champagne?’

  Felix gave a rueful smile. ‘I think that little indulgence may have to bide its time. It doesn’t do to count chickens—’

  ‘But you must admit it does put a safer stamp on matters. One less problem to consider in the scheme of things … Or rather,’ Cedric added slyly, ‘one less problem for you. And talking of which, one trusts that awful mackintosh no longer survives to dazzle us all. Circumstances may alter cases, but as you’ve just said yourself, this is no time to be careless.’ He knew it was hardly the moment for such needling; it was far from fair but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself: Felix was the softest target!

  Yet guilt mingled with mild disappointment when his companion ignored the bait, and gazing at the languid Pierrot murmured pensively: ‘You know, he really was such a vulgarian …’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘I’d like you to interview her,’ said the inspector to Greenleaf.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This bint that Harris has traced, Thistlehyde’s girlfriend. Apparently she was seeing him regularly at the time of the murder.’

  ‘Which one – his or Marcia Beasley’s?’

  ‘Both, which is why she could be useful.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Greenleaf.

  The inspector shrugged. ‘Young, much younger than him – and French. Works as a waitress at one of the Lyons Corner Houses. Leicester Square, I think.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Lulu – Lulu Lapin.’

  ‘Lapin?’ Greenleaf exclaimed. ‘But that means rabbit! We had to learn a whole lot of those French words at school and that was one of ’em. Seems a funny sort of name, if you ask me.’

  ‘I am not asking,’ said the inspector. ‘And since you are so very proficient in the French language you will doubtless pay particular attention to her rabbiting on, won’t you?’ He grinned complacently. ‘Go on, quick about it. I’ve put her in the next room.’ He cocked his thumb at the office across the passage.

  Greenleaf sighed and unearthed his notebook. He had been hoping to get away early and pick up a fish-and-chip supper and a bottle of stout; instead of which for the next half-hour or so he was to be closeted with the fractured burblings of some foreigner. Just the ticket! He rose wearily …

  On the whole, he reflected, Mademoiselle Lulu Lapin was a sizzler and far too good for the dead man. (A view she clearly shared.) But unfortunately her speech proved just as fractured as he had feared and twice as rapid. However, she was easy on the eye if not the ear and he found the interview mildly congenial … certainly several notches above that of his recent encounter with the fearsome charlady!

  From what he could piece together the girl was some sort of art student pursuing a course at the Courtauld Institute and working part-time as a Lyons Nippy to support her six-month sojourn in London. She had met Thistlehyde at a party in Soho (one of those louche Bohemian affairs, he surmised gloomily), and promising to introduce her to the best and biggest names of the London art world the painter had swiftly made her his girlfriend. Evidently it was a transaction she had grown to regret. ‘Pouf!’ Lulu Lapin had fumed, ‘I meet not any nice big name – all leetle and big boring! And he, he big boring too – and leetle in evair-ee way!’ She rolled her rs and her eyes on the qualifying term and enquired if Greenleaf understood what she meant.

  He felt himself blushing, but with some pride enunciated carefully, ‘Oui, Mademoiselle, je tout comprends.’

  This elicited shrieks of mirth and a spate of Gallic gesticulation of the sort he had witnessed only in the films. However, the gaiety ceased abruptly; and leaning forward she intoned darkly, ‘You seenk I kill the monsieur?’

  ‘Er, well not really,’ began Greenleaf, ‘but what I want to know is whether—’

  ‘I did like to, but now ’ees too late. And besides, I ’ave better things to do. I am very busy girl. Alors, too busy to be ’ere all alone with Eenglish pol-eece and much fearful!’ She took out a handkerchief and fluttered doleful eyelashes.

  ‘You misunderstand me, Mademoiselle,’ said Greenleaf hastily, ‘I just want to know whether Mr Thistlehyde said anything to you about the afternoon he visited Madame Beasley. For example, did he mention seeing anyone there or close by perhaps?’

  ‘But of course he see someone, he see Madame Beasley! She in nude – but she old, not like me.’ Lulu gave a dismissive laugh and wiggled a shapely ankle before launching into a torrent of impatient French. Clearly the interview was a tiresome interruption to her crowded day.

  ‘But,’ persisted Greenleaf stolidly, ‘apart from the lady in the nude, did he say if he saw anyone else?’

  ‘No, no person else. Nobody.’

  ‘Really? One might have thought that—’

  ‘Except old fart with lawnmower.’

  ‘What?’ Greenleaf was startled. And then clearing his throat he asked if those had been Thistlehyde’s exact words.

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’ She nodded. ‘But who was he talking about? Where was this … er, person?’

  She shrugged majestically. ‘I know nothing, that’s all he say. I must now go. I have important date with nice man, verrai beeg noise in art world. He take me to the Mirabelle. Not like Clovis to some meengy Italian joint!’ She tossed her head scornfully.

  Lulu’s mind was clearly on higher things than lawnmowers, let alone their operators – of whatever ilk. And realising that nothing further could be gained, Greenleaf released her to join the big noise in the Mirabelle.

  ‘She obviously meant the gardener,’ said the inspector. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t already checked that.’

  ‘Wasn’t on your list, sir,’ Greenleaf replied.

  ‘That’s as may be, but there’s such a thing as initiative. Young Harris has got it – remember what he was like with those coal scuttles, followed up every single one of them.’

  Greenleaf sniffed disparagingly. ‘Didn’t get us anywhere, though, did it? All in use and all accounted for.’

  ‘Not the point. It’s the spirit that counts and that’s what we’ve got to show His Eminence up there.’ He nodded towards the superintendent’s office on the floor above.
‘Like I said, Miss Rabbit must have meant the flipping gardener. Look for him.’

  ‘No point. There wasn’t a gardener.’

  ‘Oh no? So how do you know that? You told me you hadn’t checked.’

  ‘Because according to the neighbours she didn’t have one. It’s one of the things that annoyed them. Mrs Gill said the place was in an awful state – long grass, unweeded flowerbeds, and fruit trees always hanging over their walls attracting the squirrels. Apparently they had hinted to her a number of times that she should get a chap in but she never did.’ He grinned. ‘I gather she told them the cat liked it that way, made him think he was a tiger in the jungle.’

  The inspector sighed irritably. ‘So who was this old fart, then?’

  Greenleaf shrugged. ‘One of any number I assume …’

  ‘Probably making it up,’ said his wife that evening. ‘Girls like that, they like attention. Tell you anything to get noticed.’ She sniffed and gave a brisk swirl to the simmering mince.

  ‘Girls like what?’

  ‘Well, you know – foreign and going out with artists and such. From what you said he was old enough to be her father!’ She tugged at her apron as if to underline the point.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ answered Greenleaf eying the mince and wishing it were something else, ‘but I don’t think she wanted attention particularly. Seemed only too keen to get off on her date. Besides, I shouldn’t have thought a French girl would be especially familiar with the word “lawnmower” – not what you’d call part of her normal vocabulary. No, it’s more likely she heard it from the bloke.’