In and out of the inscrutable houses went Carr, in and out of cafés and music-halls and studios, inventing a hundred reasons for the search, but never the true one, lest Brand hear of the pursuit and evade him. He discovered among the women of the quarter the models and cocottes who shared the artist’s lives and pursued his search among them. This type of woman, he had found, frequently put a thread into a man’s hand, from motives either of jealousy or curiosity, or from sheer stupidity. But neither from these could he learn anything.
Eventually he ran his quarry to earth by pure chance. He had turned into a newspaper shop to ask for an English paper. He was told that only one remained, and that was reserved for an English gentleman who came each morning. Yes, the monsieur might arrive at any moment. Even while they spoke, Brand came in. He had done nothing to alter his appearance; he looked thin and under-nourished and he had not yet shaved. The woman at the desk handed him his paper, saying that this monsieur, indicating Carr, had wanted to deprive him of it.
Brand looked up with instant suspicion. “There are other paper-sellers,” he remarked offensively, and walked out.
Carr, not altogether convinced of his identity, followed at a discreet pace on the other side of the road. He saw Brand enter a café, fling himself down at the small circular table, and open the journal. He did not lift his head to give his order, but continued reading. He was, apparently, exploring the paper for some particular paragraph. His swift eye examined the columns methodically, page by page; as he turned each sheet he discarded it, allowing it to sag to the floor. Presently his attention was arrested; he let his coffee grow cold; his expression changed, becoming bold, resolute, ruthless. After a moment he flung the paper aside and walked out of the café. Carr darted up, snatched the sheet Brand had just discarded, and followed him into the road. A little later he saw him mount the steps of a house not a hundred yards from a terrace where he had pursued his patient enquiries two days earlier. Brand had gone straight in, so clearly he was at home here; Carr pressed the bell and learned from a garrulous landlady that the English gentleman for whom he asked, a M. Brett, was not lodging there; her only English gentleman was an artist, a M. Gray, who occupied a room at the top of her house; he received no letters and saw no friends. All day he painted, painted, painted. No one visited him but the model—a male model, mon Dieu.
She flung up her hands.
In a second café, where he ordered a bock, Carr examined the single sheet he had stuffed into his pocket. Tucked away in a corner he found a paragraph headed:
king’s poplars murder trial
The trial of Eustace Moore for the murder of his father-in-law, Mr. Adrian Gray, has been definitely fixed for March 8th (i.e. the day after to-morrow). The death of Mr. Gray in mysterious circumstances, on Christmas Day, attracted a great deal of attention. Mr. Moore is Chairman of [here followed a list of practically derelict companies].
“So that’s what Gray saw, presumably what he’s been looking for since he got here. Are they on his trail? Is there any suggestion of substituting another man for the one at present under arrest? Is he himself mentioned, either as witness or suspect?”
He felt a certain resentment at having, at this stage, to relinquish the case to Miles, after this intriguing search. Moreover, he was only imperfectly in his employer’s confidence, and puzzled his brains to know what counter-evidence Miles could bring. Anyway—who wanted Moore to get off?
4
Miles received Carr’s cable in time to catch the night boat. Ruth had learned early in her married life the inadvisability of attempting to alter her husband’s plans; nevertheless, on this occasion she did her utmost to impede him.
“Do you want me to miss the boat?” he demanded, concealing pardonable exasperation under a smiling manner.
“It wouldn’t be any use really, I suppose. You’d only take the next one.”
“Why are you so dead set against my going?”
She faced him, white and desperate. “Don’t you realise what you’re doing? Brand has killed one man and you’ve found him out. That means he knows his life is forfeit, and do you suppose he’ll let it make any difference to him whether he hangs for one murder or two? Besides, with you out of the way, who’s to know the facts?”
“That, I admit, hadn’t occurred to me,” Miles acknowledged. “About going headlong into danger, I mean. But if you’re going to base your life on security, you’re not going to get far. I won’t run any unnecessary risks, sweetheart, but this job’s got to be put through.”
***
Brand’s studio was an enormous room at the top of the tall brownstone house. Light entered through a long casement in the north wall, that extended from floor to ceiling. In another corner an unmade bed was visible behind a soiled red curtain; water stood in a cheap white china basin; on a round table that reflected the cold northern light stood a lamp, a cup, and a plate of apples.
Miles thought, “He’s not going in for still life? Not Brand?” For to his cool and inartistic nature there had always appeared something slightly emasculate about a full-blooded adult “messing about with a dead duck and a vase of cornflowers.”
Brand was in the room as he softly opened the door, but he was engrossed in his canvas and heard nothing. So Miles stood where he was, tranquilly surveying his surroundings. Brand had his back to him; on the model stand was a young man also with his back to the room. He wore a blue suit and his dark head dropped towards the floor.
