Free Death Among the Sunbathers by E.R. Punshon Page B

Personally she doubted sometimes its very existence, certainly its authenticity. As long as she had been there it had reposed in its case, elaborately fastened up, ready for delivery to some South American, who had arranged to purchase it, and paid a deposit on it, but had never either claimed the picture or paid the rest of the purchase money. Still, if the transaction were cancelled apparently two-thirds of the deposit would have to be returned, which would not be convenient, and certainly no other purchaser was in sight for the moment, so the painting, genuine or not, remained in its carefully packed case, waiting to be claimed.
    Keene went off then to see some prospective, Miss Duncan suspected mythical, customer in the city, and as he went the latest errand boy, who had been listening with much interest to this fresh passage of arms, and who was passionately on the side of Miss Duncan, put out his tongue at him. Keene saw the gesture in a mirror, but suppressed his natural instinct to turn and box the cheeky youngster’s ears. For one thing errand boys are hard to get and harder to keep, and for another it might be useful some day to have a witness to this little conversation.
    He took a bus to the City, and getting down near the Bank walked on towards the Tower, turning presently into Howland Yard, where stood some dozen or so of old-fashioned, rather tumble-down houses, most of them badly in need of paint and repair. There was no way out, the only entry being that by which Keene had come in, and all the houses, except one or two which were empty, were in the occupation of various business firms. Number Seven, about half-way down on the left from the entrance, was occupied by ‘Business Furs, Ltd’, as a large and shining brass plate proclaimed. On the ground floor were the offices, and a large waiting-room where an occasional favoured client might sometimes be permitted to buy a coat at ‘warehouse price’ instead of at ‘West End price’ – though it had happened that after the completion of the purchase the new owner of the fur coat was a little inclined to wonder which of these was the higher, or on which side lay the difference. But such sales were comparatively rare, for the business was essentially wholesale. The basement was let off to a neighbouring wireless set manufacturer for storage purposes, and on the upper floors were kept the furs that formed, declared young Mr Horace Hunter, managing director, founder, and apparently almost sole shareholder in the concern, the finest collection in London.
    He could – and did – for example boast of eight or ten coats, mink or Russian sable, of such fine quality that by themselves they were insured for six thousand pounds.
    â€˜Under-insured at that,’ Hunter would say sometimes, though admitting that during the continuance of the present slump it might be hard to find purchasers. ‘But once things turn the corner,’ he was accustomed to add, ‘as they must sooner or later, because slumps don’t last for ever, then they’ll fetch double.’
    There were two big packing cases of blue fox furs as well, also insured for a large sum, and also being held for a better market, and a good deal more of valuable stock. Hunter, in fact, had started in rather a big way at the time when the post-war boom was at its height, and when, since all the world was making money, all the world’s wife wanted – and got – the most expensive furs possible. But almost as soon as the business got well under way, the slump arrived. For a time, Hunter admitted, bankruptcy had threatened, for expensive furs had become almost as difficult to sell as pictures. But now, taking advantage of an opportunity that, said Keene ruefully, came no picture dealer’s way, he claimed to have turned even the slump to advantage by a large purchase of lower grade furs at a figure so low his re-sale of them at bargain prices had yet