Artists in Crime by Ngaio Marsh

“I went down to the studio at about eight-thirty, Inspector. ‘After dinnah’ if you’ve got enlarged tonsils. ‘After tea’ if you’re normal.”
    “Did you get in?”
    “Too right. She was locked, but the key’s left on a nail, and I opened her up and had a look-see at my picture. Gosh, it looked all right, too, Miss Troy, by artificial light. Have you seen it by lamplight, Miss Troy?”
    “No,” said Troy. “Don’t wander.”
    “Good oh, Miss Troy.”
    “Well,” said Alleyn, “you went into the studio, and put the lights up, and looked at your work. Did you look at the throne?”
    “Er — yes. Yes, I did. I was wondering if I’d paint a bit of the drape, and I had a look, and it was all straightened out. Like it always is before she gets down into the pose. Stretched tight from the cushion to the floor. If I had a pencil I could show you— ”
    ‘Thank you, I think I follow.”
    “Good oh, then. Well, I wondered if I’d try and fix it like as if the model was laying on it. I’d an idea that I might get it right if I lay down myself in the pose. Cripes!” exclaimed Hatchett, turning paper-white. “If I’d a-done that would I have got a knife in me slats? Cripey, Mr. Alleyn, do you reckon that dagger was sticking up under the drape on Sundee evening?”
    “Possibly.”
    “What a cow!” whispered Hatchett.
    “However, you didn’t arrange yourself on the drape. Why not?”
    “Well, because Miss Troy won’t let anybody touch the throne without she says they can, and I thought she’d go crook if I did.”
    “Correct?” asked Alleyn, with a smile at Troy.
    “Certainly. It’s the rule of the studio. Otherwise the drapes would get bundled about, and the chalked positions rubbed off.”
    “Yeah, but listen, Miss Troy. Mr. Alleyn, listen. I’ve just remembered something.”
    “Come on, then,” said Alleyn.
    “Gee, I reckon this is important,” continued Hatchett excitedly. “Look, when I went down to the studio just before we all went to catch the bus on Fridee, the drape was all squashed down, just as it had been when the model got up.”
    “You’re sure of that?”
    “I’m certain. I’ll swear to it.”
    “Did you notice the drape on your brief visit to the studio after lunch, Mr. Ormerin?”
    “Yes,” said Ormerin excitedly. “Now you ask I remember well. I looked at my work, and then automatically I looked at the throne as though the model was still there. And I got the small tiny shock one receives at the sight of that which one does not expect. Then I looked at my treatment of the drape and back to the drape itself. It was as Hatchett describes— crumpled and creased by the weight of her body, just as when she arose at midday.”
    “Here!” exclaimed Hatchett. “See what that means? It means— ”
    “It is pregnant with signification, I’m sure, Mr. Hatchett,” said Alleyn. Hatchett was silent. Alleyn looked at his notes and continued: “I understand that Miss Troy and Miss Bostock left by car. So did Miss Seacliff and Mr. Pilgrim. Then came the bus party at three o’clock. Miss Lee, Mr. Ormerin, Mr. Hatchett, and the model. It seems,” said Alleyn very deliberately, “that at a few minutes before three when Mr. Hatchett left to catch the bus, the drape was still flat and crushed on the floor.” He paused, contemplating Cedric Malmsley. “What did you do after the others had gone?”
    Malmsley lit a cigarette and took his time over it.
    “Oh,” he said at last, “I wandered down to the studio.”
    “When?”
    “Immediately after lunch.”
    “Did you look at the drape on the throne?”
    “I believe I did.”
    “How was it then?”
    “Quite well, I imagine. Just like a drape on a throne.”
    “Mr. Malmsley,” said Alleyn, “I advise you not to be too amusing. I am investigating a murder. Was the drape still flat?”
    “Yes.”
    “How long did you stay in the studio?”
    “I’ve told you. Until five.”
    “Alone with Mr. Garcia?”
    “I’ve