Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers Page A

Fenchurch himself appeared, in a dressing gown which most courageous young men would have liked for their honeymoon, and pyjamas which had passed beyond effeminacy to surrealism.
    â€œOnly the police would dare!” he exclaimed. “Please come in. My flat is yours. I will give you a latch-key. What do you want of me?”
    â€œSorry to disturb you,” said Benscombe. “I want to see Mrs. Fenchurch.”
    â€œHow disappointing!” They were in the hall. Fenchurch raised his voice. “Glenda! Glenda, darling, damn you! A really nice policeman has called for you!” He turned to Benscombe. “I believe she’s gone.” He opened the door of a bedroom. “Yes, she has. With suitcases. Come and see my studio before you go.”
    It was a top floor studio flat. The studio impressed Benscombe. Against the walls was a litter of unfinished canvases, some upside down. Those that were right way up were all pretty portraits of women, except those which were pretty portraits of men. Prominent was a nude without a face. There was a general effect of studied bohemianism and a good deal of untidiness, but the divans were roomy and well sprung, and the screens worked on electric rollers, controlled from a panel built into the easel.
    â€œPerhaps you would give me Mrs. Fenchurch’s address?”
    â€œI don’t know it. I don’t even know her name. I don’t know when she went. I last saw her about midnight. After that, I heard her packing.”
    â€œThen at least you knew she was going?”
    â€œBecause she was packing?” Fenchurch laughed. “Why, during the few months we’ve been together she must have packed dozens of times, just as noisily as that. It was a sort of last-word technique, after a row. Good lord, she hasn’t left any coffee in the thermos! You’ll have to wait while I make some.”
    â€œDon’t bother about me, thanks! I say, Mr. Fenchurch, this is on the serious side. We shall have to winkle her out.”
    â€œWhat a pity! If you find her, please don’t bring her back here. Frankly, the poor darling outstayed her welcome. Pray help yourself to any clues you want. I must heat up some coffee if I am to parry your deft questions.”
    Fenchurch disappeared kitchenwards. Benscombe went to the room that had been Glenda’s.
    He was surprised to find it so tidy. And so empty. Except that the dressing table was fitted with side mirrors, there was nothing to indicate that the room had been occupied by a woman. Glenda had cleaned up thoroughly, presumably in order to remove the kind of evidence for which Benscombe was looking.
    The scent of gardenia still hovered about the chest-of-drawers, which was as empty as the wardrobe. Sheets had been removed. The mattress was folded on itself. Through the springs, he saw, under the bed, a large cardboard dress-box, of the kind costumiers use to deliver dresses. He stooped down.
    The box was larger than any of its kind that he had ever seen. It was tied with thick string and the knots were sealed. As he pulled it from under the bed, he perceived that it did not contain dresses.
    He had left the door open. He could hear a faint, distant clatter of crockery.
    â€œFunny how fond these chaps are of coffee!” he muttered, as he cut the string and removed the lid.
    The next moment he caught his breath, but not as policemen catch their breath—if, indeed, they ever do.
    â€œGod, he can paint! You can recognise her at once, though it isn’t really like her to look at.”
    Claudia Lofting gazed at him out of the canvas. As a picture, it had nothing in common with the pretty portraits lying about in the studio. Benscombe, who knew nothing of art idioms, became aware that this artist could paint personality. Mood, too, subordinated to personality.
    In the first, Claudia was gazing at him as if he were her lover. In the second, a full-length study, with an Italian background, showed