Contrary to his oft-proclaimed principle that he always left business behind him at the Yard, French’s thoughts reverted to his case as later that evening he sat over the fire in his parlour. The position was so unsatisfactory that he could not but feel worried. What matter an evening lost from social intercourse or hobbies, if only it advanced him a step towards his goal?
Shaw, he felt, had every reason to be satisfied with his progress. Complete proof that Buller had burnt down his house would no doubt soon be in his hands. But the fate of Charles Barke remained as mysterious as ever. French’s own advance had been negligible.
Slowly and systematically he reviewed what he had done up to the present, but he could not keep his thoughts on his own case. They strayed continuously to Shaw’s and to the striking discoveries made that day. Then it occurred to him that a promising line of inquiry was awaiting exploitation. If Buller had put in all those electrical fittings, where had he obtained them? It was unlikely that he would have taken a second person into his confidence: therefore had he not made them himself? If so he could scarcely have avoided leaving some trace, and what more helpful than such a trace?
Unhappily this promise was once again connected with arson, not with murder. But now wishful thinking suggested that the cases were probably connected and that what helped one might help the other also. With this in view he rang up Shaw and asked him to call at his house on the following day, which was Sunday. ‘It’s an idea, certainly,’ Shaw said when French had put forward his views. ‘I intended to do the workshop in due course, but now I agree there should be no further delay.’
‘There’s probably a snag,’ French pointed out. ‘I’ve got no search warrant and I don’t suppose you have either.’
Shaw smiled. ‘Not me,’ he admitted, ‘but then I’m not so faddy as you are. If I want to search a building I just pop in and have a look round.’
‘But I can’t do that,’ French returned. ‘You know very well if I broke the rules, the resulting evidence would be rejected in court.’
‘The plan for you,’ Shaw suggested, ‘is to come with me while I make the search. If we find nothing, the matter drops. If there is anything, you get your warrant and find it officially.’
This was what French had hoped for. ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘You lead on and I’ll follow.’
Next morning they drove down in Shaw’s car, the better to prove that the business was his and that French was merely a passenger.
The workshop was in one of the haylofts, over the former range of stables and coach-houses. Immediately beneath it was the last of the line of garages, from which it was reached by a staircase. As representative of the Thames & Tyne, Shaw had a key of the former, but when they went up the staircase they found the workshop door locked. Shaw however was second only to French in the cult of the skeleton key, and after some persuasion the lock gave up the struggle.
The workshop would have delighted the heart of any amateur. Lofty and spacious, it was lighted by a continuous window, evidently new, along its north wall. In one corner was a lathe, small in size but elaborate in accessories, in another a universal woodworking machine, while between the two was a boring and slotting machine, a tiny portable hearth and an anvil. A bench ran along in front of the window and racks and shelves on an impressive scale were filled with tools.
Two things were instantly apparent: from the plant, that Buller had here all the appliances necessary to make complicated mechanisms; and from the stores, that he worked not only in wood and metal, but in electrical apparatus. But at first sight there was nothing to indicate that he had made the fittings for the five-gallon drum.
‘It’s going to take a proper search,’ Shaw suggested.
‘Right,’ French answered, ‘if we begin at this corner we can go different ways till we meet.’
‘Search warrant no longer a trouble?’
‘The less you say about that, the more help you’re likely to get,’ French retorted as they settled down to work.
For nearly an hour neither spoke and then Shaw called a halt. ‘Got anything?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got this,’ French returned. ‘What do you make of it?’
As he spoke he laid on the bench a large glass syringe or squirt. It had the usual cylinder and piston, the latter being packed, not with a leather or rubber washer, but with a lapping of thread. When full it would probably have held a pint. The only thing remarkable about it was that a bent glass tube had been joined on to the nozzle, making it over a foot long.
Shaw looked at it without speaking, then turned back to French. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘What do you?’
‘I find it suggestive,’ French answered, ‘but if I’d seen any thin sheet lead, I’d be surer of my ground.’
Shaw stared. ‘But I’ve got that,’ he exclaimed. ‘Look here.’ He pointed to half a dozen tiny cuttings. ‘Three pound lead, by the look of it. That’s too thin for plumbing or roof work. I wondered what it could be for and that’s why I collected it.’
‘Where did you find these bits?’
‘All in cracks, either between the floorboards or in joints about the bench; I mean hidden from casual view. It looked as if the place had been cleaned and these pieces overlooked.’
French was delighted. ‘That’s exactly what happened,’ he said eagerly. ‘In cleaning away his traces Buller missed those, and they’re going to cook his goose.’
‘One up for you, French, I will say. What exactly’s the idea?’
‘Put those two things together and you’ll see it for yourself,’ French answered, ‘three things rather: the syringe, those bits of lead, and the melted splashes all over the house. See here. Buller wants to commit arson and he devises an incendiary arrangement which can be operated when he’s a couple of thousand miles away. So far, so good. But he spots a danger. If the house is not burnt out, the delayed action mechanism may be discovered. The house therefore must be burnt out. How can this be ensured? No way better than to fill it with little reservoirs of petrol.’
Shaw nodded slowly. ‘I see what’s in your mind,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’
‘The rest’s surely obvious. Buller buys some sheet lead—lead because it will melt—and makes it into containers. He fills up his car, runs it in below us, and sucks out the petrol with the syringe. Next day he fills up the car at a different station. And so on. He makes and fills his little reservoirs and hides them all over the house, which of course is possible owing to its being unoccupied.’
Shaw was obviously impressed. ‘By Jove, French, it’s an idea,’ he exclaimed, then more doubtfully, ‘But do you think he could do that? Where would he hide these containers?’
‘I don’t know,’ French admitted, ‘he’d have to think that out. One place occurs to me. The house was full of all sorts of tables, wardrobes, cabinets, chests of drawers and so on. Why couldn’t he have made lead containers to fit these drawers, then screwed the drawers up? No one would have any business at any of them while he was away, so the screwing of them up wouldn’t be discovered.’
‘Ingenious! I will say that.’
‘Then,’ French went on, his inventive faculty stimulated by praise, ‘what would be easier than to take the springs or stuffing out of sofa or chair coverings and replace them by properly shaped containers? I dare say a flat container could have gone under every mattress. There were lots of places.’
‘What about the smell?’
‘What about it?’
‘As you know very well, a petrol container can’t be sealed. It gives off vapour continuously.’
French thought. ‘He’d have to risk something. The rooms are lofty. I question if there’d be much smell.’
‘Probably you’re right. It’s a great notion anyhow, and I bet it’s exactly what he did. If so,’ he paused again, ‘we should be able to get a conviction out of it.’
‘Well, let’s see how we’d start. First there’s the lead. Anything remarkable about that?’
‘It’s too light for house work, particularly for a house of this type. Even for poor houses four-pound lead is the lightest commonly used. I should say it was remarkable enough to trace the purchase.’
‘Can we estimate how much he must have got?’
‘We can be sure of a minimum. All we need do is to weigh some of those splashes and count the splashes.’
French nodded. ‘And there are probably any number of splashes we’ve not seen. Then there’s the syringe and all the electrical stuff. We should be able to trace those purchases also.’
‘We’ve got him,’ Shaw declared contentedly. ‘Worth coming down these last three days, eh?’
‘Worth it for you, yes,’ French agreed. ‘But I’ve got no further with my case. This is all very interesting no doubt, but it doesn’t help to clear up the disappearance of Charles Barke.’
‘It makes it more likely that Buller did him in.’
French made a gesture of exasperation. ‘I know it does! That’s just what’s bothering me. But you see, he couldn’t have. You can commit arson from a distance of thousands of miles, but you have to be on the spot to commit murder.’ He paused as if struck by an idea, then added slowly, ‘And then again, you haven’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ Shaw asked sharply.
‘I’ve just remembered one of my own cases. Man poisoned his uncle for an inheritance and’—he leant forward—‘now that really is a coincidence.’
‘What is?’
‘The man was in Italy at the time he did it, near Naples. Just as Buller was when he burnt his house.’
‘How did he do it?’
‘Left the stuff where it would be taken, of course. But poison’s one thing and a disappearance is quite another. No one could inveigle his enemy to his death in the streets of Paris unless he himself was there too.’
‘Or his agent?’
‘Or his agent of course. No, Shaw, I can’t see how Buller could be mixed up with Barke’s murder. I’d like to, but I can’t.’
They completed the search of the workshop, but without finding anything more of interest. Then returning to town, French set in train inquiries into the purchases of the syringe, the electrical fittings, and the lead respectively.
The last seemed the most hopeful, owing to certain difficulties its purchase would have involved. Normally such a commodity would be delivered by the suppliers. Buller could scarcely have risked this. Probably he would have bought it in small quantities and carried it home in his car. This however would have involved either several calls on one firm, or application to several firms, a repetition which would simply invite discovery.
That French’s reasoning was sound was quickly demonstrated. The next day a sergeant rang up to say that he believed he had found the required firm—in Walkover Street, Clapham.
In an hour French was at the place, a large builders’ supplies depot.’
‘One of our salesmen remembers certain transactions such as your sergeant describes,’ the manager told him. ‘I’ll send for him.’
A smart-looking young fellow presently arriving, French put his questions. It seemed that some three months earlier a man, giving his name as Findlay, called to say that he was building a number of dog kennels and wished to buy some 3-lb sheet lead to roof them. He wanted it cut in strips two feet by ten. These weighed 60 lb, and when rolled a man could just carry one strip comfortably. When asked where it was to be sent, Findlay said that as he was frequently passing the depot, he would call for it himself. He took five rolls that day in his car, repeating the operation on five subsequent occasions. That made 120 superficial feet of lead in all. The salesman said he had been interested in the transaction not only because it was unusual, but also because he thought a two-foot strip too narrow to cover the average kennel roof.
All this was very pleasing to French, but it was not till the salesman picked Buller’s photograph out of a dozen others that he was really satisfied.
When he returned to the Yard he found a message from Shaw awaiting him. He had, he reported, weighed several of the splashes of lead and had found that though they varied considerably, they averaged about fourteen pounds. With a further grunt of satisfaction French produced his Molesworth’s Pocket-book of Engineering Formulae and settled down to calculations.
Buller’s rolls of lead were 10 ft by 2 ft, i.e. each contained 20 square feet. On each call he took away five rolls, or 100 sq ft. Altogether he made six calls, so that the total lead he purchased was 600 sq ft. At 3 lb to the square foot, this worked out at 1,800 lb.
But each petrol receptacle weighed about 14 lb or say 15, as there would be some shortage in the amount recovered. 15 into 1,800 went 120 times. So that before the fire some 120 tiny kegs of petrol were distributed through the house!
He wondered could he calculate how much petrol that represented. 15 lb of 3-lb lead equalled 5 sq feet of lead. What size of cube could be made from that?
A little work showed him that one with a side of about 9 inches would meet the case. And how much petrol would that hold? Molesworth told him that there were about 227 cubic inches to a gallon. Then each keg would hold 3 gallons.
Three gallons! 120 kegs! 360 gallons! Or say 300, to allow for varying shapes of kegs. With 300 gallons of petrol distributed throughout the house, it was not much wonder that it burnt, and burnt more quickly than normally!
French realized that there was no direct proof that the lead had been used in this way, but he believed that the indirect evidence would be ample. Buller would be asked what he had done with it. If he had used it innocently, he could say so. If his explanation were unsatisfactory, French’s theory would be accepted.
French wondered why the man had used 3-lb lead. The purchase of 4-lb lead, which is in more common use, would have been harder to trace. Then he saw that the heavier stuff would have involved correspondingly more journeys to the shop, and consequently more contacts with outsiders and more chances of discovery. On the whole French thought that the latter would have been the safer course, but Buller had evidently taken the other view.
The question of an arrest now arose and French discussed it thoroughly with Shaw. ‘If we don’t pull him in,’ he summarized his views, ‘he may get wind of what we’re on to, do a vanishing act, and give us a lot of trouble. On the other hand, I’d rather leave him alone till I’ve found out about Barke. If there was a confederate in that matter, Buller at liberty might lead me to him.’
‘I see that,’ Shaw agreed. ‘Also if you pulled him in, the confederate might take fright and disappear.’
They agreed accordingly to postpone the arrest, though French decided to put Buller under observation, so as to forestall an attempted dash for freedom.
‘I found out something else about Buller,’ Shaw went on; ‘not much in itself, but with these other things it becomes cumulative evidence. About three months ago, evidently about the time he decided on arson, he sacked his chauffeur. I’ve seen the chauffeur, and he tells me that there was nothing against him and he showed me an excellent testimonial that Buller gave him, saying that his leaving was through no fault of his own.’
‘What reasons did Buller give?’
‘That he wanted the job for an old friend who was in low water.’
French smiled. ‘He might have thought of something better than that.’
‘It went down all right. The chauffeur suspected nothing.’
‘It wasn’t true, of course?’
‘Of course not: Buller didn’t replace him. From then he took out the cars himself.’
‘The better to carry lead and fill up with petrol. Yes, that’s a point.’ French considered, then added: ‘Anything else?’
‘Anything else?’ Shaw returned in mock wrath. ‘I like that! Anything else yourself!’
‘Yes,’ French answered unexpectedly; ‘the pictures.’
Shaw instantly grew serious. ‘The cleanings? Yes, I agree. I hadn’t forgotten about them. It’s a promising line, too.’
‘Of course we must be careful,’ French pointed out. ‘We mustn’t forget that our idea’s pure guesswork. We haven’t a scintilla of proof of fraud.’
‘Relf’s tale of Barke’s displeasure in the gallery?’
‘Means nothing. Barke believed that unnecessary cleaning damaged pictures. He might only have been distressed by the damage.’
‘I see that,’ Shaw admitted. ‘Then what do you propose?’
‘I think we should ask Buller who cleaned them.’
‘Agreed. If we knew that we’d be pretty poor fools if we couldn’t find out the rest.’
‘And what’s more,’ went on French, ‘I think you’re the man to ask him.’
‘I’ve no objection.’
‘It would come more naturally from you. You’ve only to say that your people are considering what difference the cleanings have made in the value of the pictures, and your curiosity is explained.’
‘I’ll see him,’ Shaw nodded and presently took his leave.
Next morning when French reached the Yard, Shaw was waiting for him.
‘Bad penny, you are,’ French greeted him.
Shaw ignored the remark. ‘I’ve got that information,’ he declared. ‘Got it without trouble. The cleanings were done in London by a chap called Davenport.’
‘Davenport?’ French repeated. ‘Never heard of him. Where does he hang out?’
‘Number 27, Eglington Road. It’s not far from Baker Street Station. He has a flat there.’
‘Been to see him?’
‘No, I called to know if you’d care to join me.’
French considered. If Barke had been murdered by a confederate of Buller’s because he had discovered a picture fraud, who more likely to be involved than the confederate artist. Yes, French would very much like to meet Mr Davenport.
‘Any time like …?’ Shaw queried.
‘None,’ French returned firmly, ‘provided you give me ten minutes to glance over my correspondence.’
The ten minutes had lengthened to nearly thirty before French had finished dictating replies to his letters, and another thirty were occupied in reaching No. 27, Eglington Road. It proved to be a tall Georgian house in a quiet cul-de-sac on the Regent’s Park side of Marylebone Road. Davenport’s flat was at the top of the house, and the reason for this became evident when they entered his studio and saw that light was supplied from a long skylight with a northerly aspect.
Davenport met them with evident surprise and some apparent embarrassment: or was it a guilty conscience? French’s interest was at first keenly aroused, but the man presently grew more normal and French’s suspicions became dulled.
‘I got your name, sir,’ Shaw began, ‘from Sir Geoffrey Buller of Forde Manor. I’m acting on behalf of the Thames & Tyne Insurance Company, and I have called about some pictures of Sir Geoffrey’s which I understand you cleaned.’
‘That’s correct,’ Davenport answered stepping aside from the door. ‘Won’t you come in?’ he invited, looking inquiringly at French.
‘My friend, Chief Inspector French of Scotland Yard,’ Shaw answered the look.
‘I’m concerned with the disappearance of Mr Charles Barke,’ French explained, determined to carry on the interview on Shaw’s high level. ‘I understand he was specially interested in the cleaning of pictures, and I therefore wondered if you knew him and could tell me anything about him.’
Davenport shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t, Chief Inspector,’ he answered. ‘I know his name of course—who in the world of art doesn’t?—but I never had the pleasure of meeting him.’
‘In that case I suppose you can tell me nothing that might help to explain his disappearance?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ Davenport said, growing obviously more at ease.
‘I scarcely expected you could,’ French declared smoothly, ‘but I thought I would take the chance.’ He turned to Shaw. ‘Sorry to have butted in. Shall I wait for you outside?’
Shaw knowing his cue, played up to it. ‘No, no; no need,’ he replied. ‘I’ve only a question or two to ask and they’re not private. It’s about the cleaning of those pictures, sir. I wonder if you would tell me just what took place.’
‘I thought Sir Geoffrey had already done so?’
‘Not exactly,’ Shaw returned. ‘He gave me your name as the artist who had done the work. I should like something a little more technical, if you don’t mind.’
Davenport rubbed his hands. ‘I don’t mind,’ he declared in a tone which irresistibly suggested the Sheep in Alice through the Looking Glass. ‘Question is what do you want to know?’
‘Well, general details—who advised the cleanings, how you and Sir Geoffrey came in touch with one another, how the pictures were transported, what your views are as to their alteration in value, and anything else you can tell me.’
‘I can answer those questions I think,’ Davenport answered. ‘I first met Sir Geoffrey on the Nicarian, crossing from New York to Southampton. That was when he was coming to take over his inheritance. We were mere casual acquaintances on board and didn’t get really intimate, but I knew of his inheritance and he knew that I was an artist. When we were saying goodbye he gave me the usual vague invitation to look him up. You know. I didn’t really intend to do it, but it chanced that one day some weeks later I found myself near Ockham with time on my hands. I thought it would be interesting to see him and Forde Manor, and rang him up. He asked me to lunch and I went. Afterwards he showed me his pictures. He had a lot of very fine stuff and some rubbish.’
‘Like most amateur collections,’ suggested Shaw as the other paused.
‘Quite. It was when we were walking round that Sir Geoffrey raised the question of having the pictures cleaned. He said he had been advised that some of them should be done, and asked me what I thought. I said, was this a professional consultation, as, if so, I should have to take a day or so to examine the pictures. He said no, that it was a question on the general advisability of cleaning. Well, you know, Mr Shaw, I couldn’t answer that. It depended solely on the state of the individual picture. Some would be ruined by it, others simply reborn.’
‘I can understand that, sir.’
‘I was in front of a Goya as I spoke, and I could see that it was in a very bad state. It looked at a casual glance as if it had been revarnished with poor quality varnish which had darkened and cut out a lot of detail. You know. As a rule one would as readily interfere with a Goya as with the Tutankhamen relics, but this was an exceptional case. I said, “Here’s a picture that would be the better of a little careful work, and here,” I went back to the one I had just looked at, a Hans Holbein, the younger, “is one that would be a crime to touch.” He seemed impressed. “That’s very interesting,” he said. “That’s word for word what I’ve been told by another artist, quite a big man in his profession.” Well, we got talking about it; you know; and he finally asked me could I put him on to an artist who would do the work for him.’
‘And you did?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I had been in America for some years, having gone straight there from Paris, and I wasn’t too sure who would be the best English artist to approach. Well, we talked a little more, then he asked me would I do the work myself? I said no, that he knew nothing about me as an artist, and I advised him to go to the Secretary of the National Gallery and get his opinion. However, he said that my views so exactly agreed with those of the man he had originally consulted that he would like me to do the work. I confess it was a temptation. Since starting in London I hadn’t had much luck and the fees would be very welcome. Besides, rightly or wrongly, I felt I could do the job. You know. Eventually I agreed to do one of those of less value, and if my work gave satisfaction, to do the rest. Sir Geoffrey had a list of nineteen that his friend thought should be done. As a matter of fact I did fourteen and am at present at work—’ he waved his hand vaguely to an easel at the end of the room, ‘on the fifteenth.’
‘Just what I wanted to know, sir. Thank you very much. How was the transport of the picture arranged?’
Davenport rubbed his hands. ‘Sir Geoffrey did it himself. He brought the pictures one by one up here in his car and came for them when they were done.’
‘I understand, sir. Now just one last point. What difference in value do you think your cleanings have made to the pictures?’
This proved a fertile subject of discussion. At first Davenport would not be drawn, but eventually admitted that he thought he had increased the value of the collection by several hundred pounds.
‘There’s one other point,’ went on Shaw, when he had noted the other’s figures, ‘this time really the last. My company would like some artist of standing to inspect the picture you are now working on. Have you any objection?’
‘Not the slightest—anyone you like … Care to have a look at it?’
Without waiting for a reply Davenport led the way across the studio. ‘It’s a Flinck,’ he went on, ‘and rather valuable. But you see the detail that’s beginning to come out in that lower left-hand corner.’
The picture was quite a small one and showed an interior with three old men seated round a fire. It was certainly very dark. Where Davenport indicated the colour was lighter. Shadow was still depicted, but through it were faint indications of a chair and table. To French it undoubtedly looked an improvement.
Shaw seemed interested. He first examined the canvas closely, then stepped back and contemplated it with his head on one side. In fact, he stared so long that French’s attention wandered, and more from habit than of set purpose he began noting the other objects in the room.
These showed that Davenport was a man of many parts. In one corner was a stand bearing some object draped with clay-stained cloths, which showed that he did modelling. Pieces of wood and superfine graving tools on a desk indicated woodcuts, and French thought he saw also some of the apparatus of etching. Apparently even these did not exhaust the man’s versatility. On another table were blocks of fine rubber, knives like a surgeon’s, and a little tray of rubber cuttings, together with coloured pads of various sizes.
French was wondering if this were a new branch of art, when Shaw’s voice broke in on his surmisings.
‘A very pretty piece of work, if I may say so, sir,’ he was remarking. ‘I’m sure that’s going to be an immense improvement. Thank you for letting me see it.’
Davenport’s manner now seemed quite normal. He rubbed his hands together energetically. ‘Better when it’s finished, I hope,’ he smiled. ‘But there’s a lot more work in it that one would think.’
‘You seem to do all kinds of work, sir,’ French put in. ‘I don’t know anything about art, but I seem to see clay modelling, woodcut work and etching, as well as something to do with rubber stamping, which I’ve never seen before.’
For a moment Davenport looked annoyed and French wondered if he had given offence. But his brow quickly cleared.
‘You’re quite correct, Chief Inspector,’ he admitted. ‘I do all those things. Jack of All Trades, with, I’m afraid, its contingent limitation. You know.’ He hesitated as if in’ doubt, then apparently deciding to be friendly, went on, ‘That rubber cutting that you remarked on is my own idea, so I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it before. I make rough try-outs of my woodcuts in rubber. The reason is that they can be done quickly and I can go on making a succession of the same subject till I get one that pleases me. From that I do the wood block. It perhaps seems a long way round, but I think it saves time in the end.’
Both men thought it an admirable idea, and having arranged a day on which the artist might be brought to inspect the cleaning, they took their leave.