Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers Page B

her an attractive, everyday girl, thinking of amusing trivialities. Two more had the same kind of background: on one of them, which might have been symbolic, the words ‘Casa Flavia’ were scrawled across the corner.
    Casa Flavia sounded familiar. He closed his eyes, visualised the Chief Constable in the morning-room reading to Querk, from the typed sheet, a row of figures and words pencilled on Watlington’s blotting pad.
    Watlington — Querk — Fenchurch — Claudia — Casa Flavia? Work that out later.
    The last of the canvases stung him to anger. Claudia in the nude! Some devilishly clever trick with shadow made her body seem hard as armour, her hands the hands of a strangler, while the eyes, indubitably hers, looked out of the picture with fierce contempt—as if at something she had killed. In the corner was scrawled: ‘O madre mia.’
    â€œMothers aren’t murderers. The thing doesn’t make sense!”
    He replaced the canvases in the cardboard dress box, turned it so that the uncut string was outermost, and slid it back under the bed.
    He went back to the studio, had to wait a couple of minutes, during which he composed himself, before Fenchurch came in, with a breadboard acting as a tray for two cups of coffee.
    â€œThanks awf’ly!” Benscombe accepted the cup out of policy. “I found nothing I was looking for in that room. I suppose she has some friends, or a family or something?”
    â€œShe must have,” agreed Fenchurch impartially. “She used to tell some obvious lies about the social standing of her people. I never listened. She picked me up one evening at Clapham Junction, where I had no defence. Her past did not interest me, as she had no future. D’you mind keeping still for a minute?”
    Fenchurch, forgetting his coffee, was making line-notes in a sketch book.
    â€œThere’s no sense in your painting my portrait—” Benscombe began.
    â€œPortrait be damned!” He was sketching rapidly. “You can’t suppose, my dear fellow, that I am touting you for a commission. It is I who should offer a fee. I can get into the Royal Academy on your head. Under a fancy title. ‘Streamline.’ The modern policeman. Science, poise, breeding! Don’t be offended with me. If a doctor were to tell you that your liver was marvellously interesting, you would not quarrel with him.”
    â€œGo ahead—I’m not quarrelsome on duty,” said Benscombe. “As you’ve spoken pretty freely about Glenda, you won’t mind telling us what her relations were with Watlington?”
    â€œThere weren’t any relations. I don’t believe he wanted her. And I’m certain she wasn’t trying for him … Can you look a tiny bit to your left? Thanks … One acquires an ability to read women’s intentions by what they think they’re doing with their dress. Few have the sense to employ an artist to advise on how to dress for seduction. If it’s any help to you, I’m sure Glenda didn’t murder Watlington. She was too lacking in temperament.”
    Benscombe, forgetting that he had been overawed by the skill revealed in the pictures of Claudia, now discovered in himself a sneaking respect for this man who was so adept at slithering off the point. To nail him down it would be necessary to take a risk. He waited until there came a pause in the sketching.
    â€œLast night,” said Benscombe, “we found a cheque to her, signed by Watlington, for five hundred pounds.”
    â€œGod damn the dirty little crook!” The sketch book went flying. A half second later, Fenchurch looked ashamed at having made a fool of himself.
    â€œCrook?” echoed Benscombe.
    â€œNo—no, of course not! Mercenary, not crook! Evidently I was wrong in what I said about her relations with Watlington.”
    â€œI’m taking a bet you were not wrong,” said Benscombe. “And