Murder of a Snob (25 page)

Crisp was examining the back of the envelope on which was a pencilled note in a round, immature handwriting.

‘
Tarranio: “Casa Flavia,” Caversham Street, Soho, W.'

Fenchurch seemed to be expecting congratulation of some sort.

“I say, Colonel, would it have proved anything about me if poor old Ralph hadn't spoilt all the clueage?”

“I don't know yet. Would you mind sitting at that other desk for a moment. Give him a pencil, Benscombe. Now, Mr. Fenchurch, will you please write the following: ‘Tarranio, Casa Flavia, Caversham Street—”

“Caversham Street! That's what I couldn't remember. He must be in the telephone book as a limited company or something. I couldn't find him. That address is written on the envelope, isn't it?”

Crisp made no answer. Fenchurch, with a touch of unease, chattered on:

“Tarranio is the Italian wine merchant who fascinated you. I didn't know until the other day that he has a restaurant in Town.”

Benscombe removed the sheet on which Fenchurch had written part of the address, in his bold, ornate script.

“That address, as you surmise, was pencilled on this envelope,” said Crisp. “Did Watlington give you the information?”

“You're losing touch, Colonel! Watlington had never heard of Tarranio until I mentioned him on Saturday afternoon. Don't you remember sleuthing his blotting pad?”

“Then who wrote this address for you on the back of this envelope? You didn't write it yourself.”

“Didn't I? Then Ralph must have written it for me. It was he who mentioned Tarranio's restaurant. That was while we were loafing about on the terrace on Saturday night, waiting to hear which of us would drop in for the murder.”

“Take time before you answer the next question, Fenchurch,” warned Crisp. “Here's this envelope. Look at it, Watlington's envelope. Watlington's seal. Who produced this envelope on the terrace for note-taking purposes? You —or Ralph?”

“Presumably, I did.”

“Did you indeed! May I take it that, when you were interviewing Watlington, you picked up this—old envelope —and put it in your pocket? While you're pondering your answer, let me remind you that you have been very sarcastic about old envelopes and old pieces of brown paper. In effect, you refused to account for the piece of brown paper. You'll have to account for this envelope, Fenchurch.”

“This is rapidly becoming horrible!” moaned Fenchurch.

“Look at the size—feel the thickness of this envelope,” pressed Crisp. “Did you say to yourself, ‘at some future time I might want to make a note, so I will take this very awkward envelope, fold it up and put it in my pocket'?”

Benscombe expected an outburst. But Fenchurch controlled himself—answered with strained amiability.

“Aren't we rather losing our sense of proportion? I don't know how, or when, I first became possessed of that envelope. Moreover—if you don't think me unsympathetic —I don't care.”

Crisp, about to invite Benscombe to intervene, decided to make one more effort.

“I seem to have failed to make you understand, Fenchurch, that you yourself are under grave suspicion and that I am doing my utmost to help you clear yourself.”

“And why the devil should I bother to clear myself!” exploded Fenchurch. “With all respect to your official position, Colonel, I warn you that you've let this unfortunate murder get on your nerves. You're beginning to see life as a tapestry of clues to the murder of Watlington. Suspect me as much as you like, if you find it restful. But when you come down to earth, you'll realise that Ralph's confession will prevent the court from listening to your feverish little discoveries.”

“The trouble is,” said Crisp, when Fenchurch had gone, “that fellow is right. We're hamstrung by that confession.”

“A bit o' law sandwiched in with the artistic temperament, sir?” As Benscombe received no discouragement, he went on: “And the net result of that bid of comedy-business-with-pocket is that we're left to conclude that Ralph handed it to him. Mrs. Cornboise, Querk, Claudia, Fenchurch—all contributing little items in support of Ralph's confession!”

The Plea of guilty came into formal existence on the following morning when Ralph Cornboise was brought befor the local magistrates. After evidence of arrest, he was committed for trial, to be lodged in the meantime in the county gaol.

“The dates are against us, Benscombe,” remarked Crisp when they were back at their desks. “He'll be up at the Old Bailey in a fortnight. Gives us very little time-”

Information and reports continued to pile up, though the torrent was spent. Ralph's bachelor flat in the West End had been combed, yielding a couple of diaries and a drawer full of bills and receipts, which Benscombe was sorting.

Half an hour later, as if there had been no break, Crisp added:

“I don't know whether Comboise is innocent or guilty. But if he's hanged it will be because he's a liar—or because he's had an hallucination.”

“Or because he can't get Claudia out of his system?” suggested Benscombe.

Crisp's attention had drifted. But he remembered the words when the afternoon post brought a letter to Ralph from Fenchurch, addressed care of the Chief Constable.

“This must go straight to the prison governor,” said Crisp. “And we shall have to wait for a typed copy.”

Benscombe took the letter and placed it in the appropriate basket on his own desk.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said a minute later. “I've opened Fenchurch's letter by mistake.”

“Extremely careless of you!” grinned Crisp. “Bring it here.”

“Do you think, sir, that Fenchurch has too much artistic temperament to know that we read prisoners' letters?”

“That's the kind of thing you'll have to find out while you're sitting for him.”

Crisp opened out the letter. The texture of the paper— the handwriting, the spacing, the phrasing—were those of a man who has his own scale of values.

‘Dear Ralph,

I tried to see you yesterday, but there's some ghastly ritual involving a policeman as chaperone. I think it's going to be all right about Claudia. She definitely changed in her attitude to me after your departure. But obviously nothing can happen until you have settled down in Broadmoor. This sounds callous. But you know that I am not so, where my friends are concerned. While feeling a little tragic about you, I admire you tremendously for facing the music. Also, I am personally grateful, as I have been virtually arrested myself more than once. My peril seemed to distress Querk—I was civil to the oily bounder for your sake.

I still fear complications over Tarranio. If he and that nervously energetic Chief Constable get together, I shall probably have to go formally mad, too. And join you in Broadmoor! I know a very good sort who has been there for a long time and likes it—I'll write him to look out for you. You can have quite a decentish time there if you can do without women. I'll keep in touch with you as long as I'm at large.

Yours ever, Arthur Fenchurch.
P.S.—I believe my policeman's head is going to be good, though
conventional—anyhow, it's time I placated the critics.'

Crisp passed the letter to Benscombe.

“I was being too clever again, sir. He might want to feed us that he means to marry Claudia and provide for her future. But he wouldn't give us the tip to tackle Tarranio.”

“When will Tarranio be in London?”

“Scheduled to arrive last night.”

“Come along then!” Crisp delayed only to take from the dossier the relevant note: ‘
Tarranio, Fabroli: Casa Flavia: May 2nd'
copied from the pencilled scrawl on Watlington's blotting pad.

An hour later they were outside the Casa Flavia, a large restaurant for Soho, with some forty tables. Tacked on was a wine shop and a staircase leading to the wholesale department, which they ascended. They were received by a Cockney typist, who presently showed them into the proprietor's room.

Except for his colouring, Tarranio would have passed for a London stockbroker of the old school. He wore a morning coat: a silk hat graced the top of a filing cabinet. His accent was good, though his idiom wavered.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Seat yourselves, please. If the law has been broken by my business the mistake is mine I'm sure.”

“We have come to ask your help, Mr. Tarranio. I believe you are acquainted with a British subject who has spent some time in Casa Flavia—a Mr. Fenchurch?”

“Arthur Fenchurch—artist, painter and artist?” Mr. Tarranio made it sound like a firm of solicitors. “Oh yes, I know him backwards and forwards. If you desire recognisances—or is it bail?—you count me in for a reasonable sum, please.”

There came a faraway look in his eyes, then a reminiscent smile. “Assuredly, it is not a grave matter but only of a scandalous nature, eh? He is no criminal, though he owes me a little money.”

“He is no criminal,” agreed Crisp. “But we have to find out what he has been doing—for his own sake, perhaps.

I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell us all you know about his life at Casa Flavia.”

“All I know? You will ask me to stop! He comes first to Casa Flavia when he is fourteen, with his father, who is also artist, sculptor and artist. The boy comes alone to my restaurant and becomes very drunk. Because he is so young and because he is so drunk, he brings me into public disgrace. That was the beginning of our friendship.

“He comes often to Casa Flavia for his holiday. What is a holiday? For him a holiday is an extensive matter, you understand. He becomes one of the attractions to the tourists, because he is so rude to them, but to the Italians he is always polite. He eats at my restaurant and drinks much wine. At that of my neighbour Fabroli also, but that is Fabroli's affair. At one time, he owes me what-is-in-sterling thirty-five pounds. For the debt, he paints a portrait of me. The portrait is scandalous and would seem to be intended for insult. I break our friendship. But a tourist sees the picture and offers me what-is-in-sterling fifty guineas. So our friendship is renewed and he again owes me what-is-in-sterling forty-two pounds. But I do not mind, for he does not understand business.”

Here was an indulgent friend and admirer of Fenchurch, a fact which was not in itself helpful. Why should Fenchurch be afraid of him? Further probings produced only stories of ribald and riotous behaviour—of dreadful pictures painted on restaurant tablecloths with mustard and lipstick.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Tarranio,” said Crisp, concealing his disappointment. “His life seems to be blameless, as far as my profession is concerned.”

“Ah yes! Crime is not for him. He would think it a game with the police, and he would tell you first how clever he was going to be. Before you go, Colonel Crisp, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me, may I ask, how is the health of Madame—Mrs. Fenchurch?” For Crisp, this was a trial in tact. Did Tarranio mean Glenda? Benscombe came to his rescue.

“When I went to Fenchurch's flat, sir, he was living alone.”

“That is bad. But we feared it would be so!” sighed Tarranio. “The lady, I hope is not too distressed. She also is much admired in Casa Flavia. Courtesy. Charm. Even beauty also.

That, thought Crisp, was not the impression which Glenda would make on an Italian.

“Perhaps we are not talking about the same lady,” he said.

“So already there are others! The boy is a fool!” exclaimed Tarranio. “And he calls them all ‘Mrs. Fenchurch,' for insult. The lady, before her unfortunate marriage to him, is called Miss Lofting. ‘Miss Claudia' they called her, because that is an Italian name also and is easy for the tongue. Fabroli, for instance, would find himself unable to say ‘Lofting.'”

“I don't imagine Fenchurch is a faithful sort of man.” Crisp had risen and was offering his hand. Tarranio grasped it and in his agitation kept hold of it.

“Even the mayor, who was also a friend of Arthur Fenchurch, says to her, before he put on his robe of office, that marriage with such a man is a hazardous matter.”

“The
mayor
!” echoed Crisp.

“Assuredly! In Italy, if one is not of the Holy Church, it is the mayor only who performs the marriage. Myself, I heard him give the warning, which, alas, Miss Claudia did not heed! I am a witness of the ceremony. My neighbour, Fabroli, also. Arthur Fenchurch asked him because he owed Fabroli money and wished to flatter him. But me he did not ask because of what-is-in-sterling only forty-two pounds.”

Absently, Crisp reclaimed his hand.

“Was there a legal marriage ceremony?” he asked.

“Do I not say so, Colonel! On the certificate is the name of the mayor and that of myself and, unavoidably, that of my neighbour Fabroli also. Did I not myself kiss the bride in the English fashion, with sadness, and upon the cheek only. But Fabroli, who cannot speak English—”

“When did this marriage take place?” asked Crisp.

“On the second day of May last year. Is it in your mind, Colonel Crisp, that I delude myself?”

“Not at all, Mr. Tarranio., But I must have that certificate. If I cable the mayor—”

“He has retired. It would be a pleasure to cable for you to the proper quarter and send you the certificate, because I am angry. If Arthur Fenchurch has treated such a wife with insult, that is again the end of our friendship.”

Benscombe was delayed for handshaking, then followed his Chief down the stairs.

“I say, sir! We've got something there, haven't we?”

“Yes.” Crisp was gloomy. “But I can't see yet how to make use of it.”

“Legally married!” enthused Benscombe. “Claudia to marry Ralph, pop him in the asylum, administer the million and share the loot with secret husband Fenchurch!”

“Fine!” said Crisp. “Except for Watlington's blotting pad! Why did Fenchurch give him the name of those two witnesses?”