‘There wasn’t a conversation. I haven’t spoken to him since Monday.’
But at last, after the statement was typed out and signed, a small flicker of emotion did break through the act:
‘Is he — is Mr Johnson at the police station now?’
Gently mimicked her flat responses:
‘No. He isn’t here…’
Butters was able to confirm that his daughter hadn’t used the telephone — after Gently left there had been a row, and then Butters had locked her in her room. His wife, he admitted, had taken the daughter’s part, and on the morrow, which was Sunday, there was a family conference in prospect.
The poor fellow had a stricken look, and perhaps wasn’t far from tears.
The hour was closer to twelve than eleven when Gently fetched his Riley from the garage, having previously had a chat with the detective who had done the night shift on Johnson. Stephens, invited to go along, preferred to attend to another angle: he wanted to beat round the car-park area in the hope of flushing a reluctant eyewitness.
‘We caught the chummie just like that on the Kenwood case, sir. There was a type who saw the job done, but the locals hadn’t got on to him.’
‘That was a case in a thousand, Stephens.’
‘All the same, sir… I’d like to have a shot.’
So Gently had left him to it, and set out to see Mallows alone.
Mallows lived in Oldmarket Road, which was the handsome south-west approach to the city; he also had a Regency house but in the more elaborate, urban style. It stood a good way back from the road and was largely screened by a plantation of beeches. Around this went a double carriage-sweep, its terminals guarded by fine stone gateways. The house itself was faced with plaster. It was designed to give a monumental effect. The lofty centre section was supported by a pair of recessed ones, and in the angles between them nestled two single-storey units. The whole was decorated with moulded plaster, with shallow apses, urns and friezes, and it displayed with the greatest virtuosity the period penchant for wrought-iron ornament.
A small, elderly man answered Gently’s ring, and the detective was ushered up a narrow but gracefully swept stairway. From the landing some plainer stairs departed to the second floor and it was here that, by joining three rooms, the artist had contrived his studio.
‘You’re late, Superintendent… who’s been going through the mill?’
Mallows had come to the doorway to greet him, his palette and brush still held in his hands. He wore the conventional artist’s smock with a beret to contain his rebellious hair. The former, though stained and stiffened with paint, gave the artist an ecclesiastical air.
‘Bring us a bottle of sherry, Withers — drop of the ’16, I should think. It wouldn’t do to offer common stuff to a man like the Superintendent. Oh, and what about stopping to lunch? We’ve got some fried chicken, with a flan to follow… Withers, you’d better inform Mrs Clingoe: the Superintendent will be staying for lunch.’
As a matter of fact Gently hadn’t assented, but then, he hadn’t been consulted either. The matter was disposed of as though it scarcely bore noticing — Mallows wasn’t going to bother him to make up his mind on such a trifle.
‘Come into the workshop — I’ve got some things I want to show you.’
Gently followed him into the studio, which smelt strongly of turpentine. Surprisingly the place was cool, though lying directly under the roofs; a row of windows, facing north, were swung horizontally in their frames. Along the inner wall ran a line of racks, most of which were stuffed with canvases. Some other racks, considerably larger, filled one end of the studio from floor to ceiling. Under the windows had been built a bench, and this was equipped with a tool or two; beneath it were drawers, some long and shallow, and there was a complicated stand which took up a lot of the floor space.
It was a friendly, informal and yet efficient place, harbouring none of the mess and clutter often to be found in artists’ studios. The canvas on the stand was a large, unfinished seascape and it depicted a number of yachts at the beginning of a race.
‘Are you a sailing man, Gently? Those are East Coast One-Designs. It’s the start of the Harwich to Ostend race — a friend of mine called Jenkins won it.’
‘You are painting this for him?’
‘Good heavens no! He couldn’t afford it. But he saw that I got the commission, so I’m going to do him a little something. By the way, would you like a portrait?’
‘No thanks. I couldn’t afford it, either.’
‘Not for cash, you silly fellow! I’ll knock you one off for a souvenir…’
He got rid of his palette and brush and wiped his hands on a scrap of stockinet. Then, picking up a pad and some charcoal, he began to sketch with firm, bold strokes.
‘You’ve got a face that asks to be painted… good frontal development… ocular benevolence. You’re a fraud as a detective, you know… mouth gives you away, and so does your nose. How in the world did you come to take it up?’
Gently shrugged. How did he, if it came to that?
‘You might have made a judge, or a priest or something. But not a detective — it’s a sheer waste of human material. Just look at that mouth, and the set of the brows! A doctor, even… but not a policeman.’
The topic was making Gently feel uneasy, so that he was glad when Withers interrupted them with the sherry. About Mallows there was a fearless and unceasing penetration; both his brain and his pencil had a scalpel- like sharpness.
‘You like a dry sherry, do you?’
‘Yes… I prefer it dry.’
‘Good, because I don’t carry much of the other. But this is a Vino del Pasto, Domecq, ’16 — that was the best year for sherry since… oh, ’82.’
Unquestionably they were drinking a fine and delicate sherry. Gently leant against the bench and sniffed and sipped it with appreciation. Mallows, squatting on a window sill, watched him over considered mouthfuls, and every now and then an elvish twinkle came into his eye.
‘So you’ve come back to me, then!’ He was forcing Gently to meet his eye. ‘You’ve taken a sniff at Mr Johnson, and you think that hewon’t do. Personally speaking, I think you’re right… as you may know, I’ve done business with him. He, too, has a mouth with a story… then there’s his nose: that isn’t quite a failure. Yes… I think you’re quite right… you mustn’t let Johnson bias your viewpoint.’
‘Why do you say: “So you’ve come back to me”?’
‘My dear fellow!’ Mallows lofted a shaggy eyebrow at him. ‘In the first place the Palette Group enjoys level pegging with Johnson, and in the second, I was the last person to see Shirley alive. Have a little more sherry — the second glass is often the best.’
Gently grunted but permitted his glass to be taken. It was a sherry he would have drunk with the devil himself. Again the two of them sat silently drinking, Gently by the bench and Mallows in the window.
‘Let me guess, if I can, a few of the things you want to ask me. From the beginning I’ve tried to look at this affair as you would…’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I asked them?’
‘Don’t spoil the fun, you moron! Let’s reverse the roles for the moment — I’m the detective, and you’re the suspect.’
‘All right… if it amuses you.’
‘Drink your sherry and listen to me.
‘To begin with, have you ever been to bed with Shirley Johnson?’
‘What does the suspect reply?’
‘Remember! You’re being me.’
‘Very well. I think I may have been, but I’d better be quiet about it.’
‘That’s good — very good. It’s what I expected all along. Now, your wanting to be quiet about it opens up some possibilities. If I think that she’s been your mistress, then I think I can see a motive. She’s been threatening you, hasn’t she — threatening to shop you to her husband?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far-’
