Free The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold Page B

mirror you will find that this patch of writing in the corner represents an envelope addressed to the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. And I read these rather more blurred lines lower down as ‘Dear Sir, in answer to your communication I have to say that my desire is—’
    There the letter breaks off. The rest was either not blotted, or not written at all. The latter, probably. Frew had a pen in his hand when we found him dead.”
    â€œThere is nothing to show that these lines were written to-night,” objected Hembrow. “There is no date that I can see, and ink will retain this fresh look for several days. It is more probable, I think, that this letter was written a day or two ago, and that the communication Mr. Frew received from the Herald’s Office to-night was in answer to it.”
    â€œThey must have been carrying on quite a correspondence, in that case,” said John lightly. “However, a few inquiries will soon settle the point, and we need not trouble our heads about it at the moment.”
    Newtree, however, who had been listening attentively to this conversation, said musingly:
    â€œI wonder what he wanted with the Herald’s Office, anyhow.”
    Hembrow laughed.
    â€œA pedigree, I expect, Mr. Newtree, or a coat-of-arms, or something of that kind. Well, he’ll get on quite well without them now, poor chap.”

Chapter VI
Confabulation
    The next morning John Christmas was sitting alone in the small library-sitting-room of his flat in Great Russell Street when Inspector Hembrow was announced. He had not slept, but had sat up the rest of the night thinking over the strange pattern of events and persons which lay like a spider’s web around the bulky, gorgeously clad body of Gordon Frew sitting dead in his Aladdin’s cave of treasures. Above all, the queer personality of the dead man, as revealed in his belongings, intrigued and fascinated John. He had a strong persuasion, as yet without foundation in reason, that it was in this personality that the key to the riddle would be found.
    Hembrow looked heavy-eyed and sallow, as though he had slept but little, but his smile and tone were as brisk and cheerful as always.
    â€œYou’ve not been to bed, Mr. Christmas.”
    â€œWonderful!” murmured John with mock solemnity. “How do you do it, Sherlock?”
    The Inspector smiled.
    â€œI notice that although you have changed your coat, sir, you are still wearing an evening shirt and waistcoat.” “Marvellous how the trained eye observes these tiny details,” sighed John. “Have a drink, Inspector. What are you doing in this part of the world?
    â€œFollowing up a clue to last night’s business, but it came to nothing. So as I was passing your door I thought I’d drop in and tell you of one or two new facts that have come to light.”
    John’s tired face lit up.
    â€œOh? That’s interesting, Inspector. What’s the news?”
    Hembrow lit a cigarette and blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke.
    â€œWell, in the first place I have gone systematically through Mr. Frew’s collection, comparing it with the catalogue, and I find—”
    The Inspector paused dramatically.
    â€œWell?” asked Christmas. “What? Don’t keep me in suspense, Hembrow. And don’t tell me that it is robbery, after all! I felt strongly last night that this was one of those murders in which the motive must be looked for in the hidden recesses of the soul, so to speak. If it turns out to be a mere primitive robbery I shall be bitterly disappointed.”
    â€œI find,” repeated the Inspector impressively, having waited for his friend to finish, “that there is not a single item missing from the large collection.”
    Christmas brightened up and leant eagerly over the table.
    â€œNot robbery, then! I must say I’m glad. There’s something so crude about a mere murder for gain that it