tenant’s last possessions out of the place. There was nothing at all. Or there was only a smell.
And at least there was no mystery about that . Appleby had sufficiently moved about in his wife’s world to recognize it instantly. A painter had, comparatively recently, occupied this studio flat.
But if this was no very startling detective deduction, neither was it, in all probability, a fact of the slightest relevance for Appleby’s present enquiries. The amount of cubic space devoted in London to the lower reaches of artistic endeavour is – he was accustomed to say – one of the most depressing statistical facts that the metropolis afforded. And artists, moreover, are an impermanent and drifting community – perpetually deciding that this or that place is no good, and moving on to another. In London the number of studios of this kind that were vacated daily must be quite considerable. And he was himself in this one now only as a consequence of detective investigation that had degenerated into idle curiosity.
All the same, he decided not to go back as he had come. So he took one more barren prowl round this swept and voided space. And then he opened the door and walked downstairs.
But he hadn’t gone down half-a-dozen steps before he halted in perplexity. He had seen something significant. Or rather he had seen something that remotely stirred a memory, but which he couldn’t now place for the life of him. He climbed up again – and then realized that, as he had drawn the door of the studio to behind him, he could enter it again only by the roof as before. This was tiresome. And he was about to turn away when he became aware that, to fulfil his present object, he didn’t have to re-enter the studio at all. For what had pricked at his memory was something stuck in the outside of the door. And it was nothing more than a drawing pin.
He levered it out, examined it closely, and stowed it away in a matchbox. Then he looked carefully at the door. Perhaps because everything was rather damp up here, the vanished object which the drawing pin had pierced had left on the paint an oblong impression so precise that it could be accurately measured. Producing a pocket rule, Appleby accurately measured it. And then he turned and went downstairs again.
It wasn’t, as in Trechmann’s place, the sort of staircase that went down through the body of the building. Here, too, there had been some alterations, and this was now an enclosed outer staircase off which doors opened on several small landings. On the ground floor there was no doubt a shop. But the rest of the property had been converted into flats. And there didn’t seem to be much life about them. He met nobody. He didn’t hear a sound. You could do a lot of coming and going here without attracting notice.
And the entrance was at the back. This wasn’t unexpected. The frontage on the street would be valuable as shop space. So access to the flats had been arranged from that cul-de-sac at the rear which Appleby had already inspected.
There was again nobody about. There were only the cats and the garbage bins. Turning up his coat collar – for it was again raining hard – Appleby began to make his way back to the late Mr Trechmann’s yard. And then – once again – he stopped. Precisely the same thing had happened. It came, he supposed, of being out of training at this game. He had seen something . But what?
He retraced his steps. A dog had joined the cats, and was investigating one of the garbage bins with vigour. And that, of course, was it. Most of the bins were overflowing and with their lids askew. There were a couple like that at the bottom of a service hoist beside the flats. But there was a third…
Yes – on this one the lid was fitting snugly. And when he lifted it the bin was empty. More than that, it was unnaturally empty. Just as that flat had been unnaturally empty. No dustman had ever coped thus with such a receptacle since dustmen first began.
The
And at least there was no mystery about that . Appleby had sufficiently moved about in his wife’s world to recognize it instantly. A painter had, comparatively recently, occupied this studio flat.
But if this was no very startling detective deduction, neither was it, in all probability, a fact of the slightest relevance for Appleby’s present enquiries. The amount of cubic space devoted in London to the lower reaches of artistic endeavour is – he was accustomed to say – one of the most depressing statistical facts that the metropolis afforded. And artists, moreover, are an impermanent and drifting community – perpetually deciding that this or that place is no good, and moving on to another. In London the number of studios of this kind that were vacated daily must be quite considerable. And he was himself in this one now only as a consequence of detective investigation that had degenerated into idle curiosity.
All the same, he decided not to go back as he had come. So he took one more barren prowl round this swept and voided space. And then he opened the door and walked downstairs.
But he hadn’t gone down half-a-dozen steps before he halted in perplexity. He had seen something significant. Or rather he had seen something that remotely stirred a memory, but which he couldn’t now place for the life of him. He climbed up again – and then realized that, as he had drawn the door of the studio to behind him, he could enter it again only by the roof as before. This was tiresome. And he was about to turn away when he became aware that, to fulfil his present object, he didn’t have to re-enter the studio at all. For what had pricked at his memory was something stuck in the outside of the door. And it was nothing more than a drawing pin.
He levered it out, examined it closely, and stowed it away in a matchbox. Then he looked carefully at the door. Perhaps because everything was rather damp up here, the vanished object which the drawing pin had pierced had left on the paint an oblong impression so precise that it could be accurately measured. Producing a pocket rule, Appleby accurately measured it. And then he turned and went downstairs again.
It wasn’t, as in Trechmann’s place, the sort of staircase that went down through the body of the building. Here, too, there had been some alterations, and this was now an enclosed outer staircase off which doors opened on several small landings. On the ground floor there was no doubt a shop. But the rest of the property had been converted into flats. And there didn’t seem to be much life about them. He met nobody. He didn’t hear a sound. You could do a lot of coming and going here without attracting notice.
And the entrance was at the back. This wasn’t unexpected. The frontage on the street would be valuable as shop space. So access to the flats had been arranged from that cul-de-sac at the rear which Appleby had already inspected.
There was again nobody about. There were only the cats and the garbage bins. Turning up his coat collar – for it was again raining hard – Appleby began to make his way back to the late Mr Trechmann’s yard. And then – once again – he stopped. Precisely the same thing had happened. It came, he supposed, of being out of training at this game. He had seen something . But what?
He retraced his steps. A dog had joined the cats, and was investigating one of the garbage bins with vigour. And that, of course, was it. Most of the bins were overflowing and with their lids askew. There were a couple like that at the bottom of a service hoist beside the flats. But there was a third…
Yes – on this one the lid was fitting snugly. And when he lifted it the bin was empty. More than that, it was unnaturally empty. Just as that flat had been unnaturally empty. No dustman had ever coped thus with such a receptacle since dustmen first began.
The
Similar Books
