Part 20 (1/2)

'Going someplace for a few years might not be the worst idea - Australia, Canada, the States. Put it behind you. Everybody west of the Mississippi is putting something behind him.'

'I've lost my nerve.'

The rain had turned away from sleet but was still coming down. Denton pulled the hat brim lower and took the few steps along Piccadilly to the arcade and moved into its welcome shelter. What Heseltine had said about the note and the painting didn't seem convincing, but it did suggest one or two possibilities. He had promised Janet he would talk to Geddys, anyway - how long was it since he'd tried and been told Geddys was travelling? Turning into Geddys's shop, he saw Geddys standing there looking more than ever the gnome - some bent, malicious creature standing guard over a cave full of valuable, probably stolen things.

'I was in a while ago,' Denton said. 'I came back, but you seem to have been travelling.' Geddys gave no sign of recognition, but Denton thought that in fact he remembered him. 'About a note that was left with a painting. A Wesselons sketch of a lion.' He wondered if Geddys had been away at all.

'Oh, yes?'

'Mary Thomason.'

'Oh, yes, I recollect.'

'Mr Geddys, you told me that you didn't know where Mary Thomason lived.'

'Naturally.'

'Her landlady says you sometimes saw her home.'

'Did she.'

Denton waited for more. Apparently there was to be none. He said, 'I've reported this to the police since I was here. Have they been to talk to you?'

'Of course not.'

'I could make sure that they do.'

Geddys looked up at him, his neck twisted to one side. He said, 'I don't get what you're about. You've no authority to come in here asking questions.'

'Why did you lie to me?'

'That is offensive.'

'Look, Geddys, it's me or the police. They're a good deal more offensive than I am. Why did you lie to me?'

'Please leave my shop.'

'You saw the young woman home a number of times. Why did you want to hide that from me? What was going on?'

'I'll have a constable called if you don't leave.'

'Was there something between you?' Geddys was ready to make a battle of it, but Denton jumped in. 'She wrote me that she was afraid somebody was going to hurt her. She's disappeared. You lied about how well you knew her. What do you think the police will make of it?'

Geddys licked his lips. 'I don't wish to be involved.'

'But you are involved. You involved yourself by lying to me. What was going on between you?'

Geddys turned away and walked the few steps to the front of the shop. He bent to arrange something in the front window. 'Do the police have to come into this?' His voice was a whisper.

'I don't have to call them specially, if that's what you mean.' Geddys began to examine small objects on a low table. 'She was a very - captivating girl. I became a little - interested in her.' He looked up quickly. 'But nothing happened! I swear it. I'll swear it to the police. Yes, I took her home in a cab several times when the weather was bad. It was a chance to help her. But nothing happened!' He finished moving the things and straightened. 'I'm a coward. Look at me - you think it would be easy to offer yourself to a young woman if you looked like me?' He walked to the shop window again, stood looking out past the paintings and bric-a-brac that were exhibited there. 'That's all there was to it.'

'I doubt it.'

'A man like you wouldn't understand. But I'd never have hurt her, never.'

He was believable, Denton thought. He didn't entirely believe, but he wasn't any longer sure that Geddys was lying, either. An older man, something like infatuation - was some sort of purity possible here? Remembering what Heseltine had suggested, he said, 'Mr Geddys, who else might have looked at the back of the Wesselons?'

'I don't see what that has to do with anything. Because she put the note there? She probably put it there so she wouldn't forget it.'

'But she did forget it.' Or did she? Perhaps Heseltine's theory was not so entirely wrong. 'How many other people worked in the shop when Mary Thomason was here?'

'Only one.'

'Man or woman?'

'A woman.' Geddys put his hands behind his back, stared out at the empty arcade. 'An older woman. She and Mary got along, neither friends nor enemies - you know. But the Wesselons was out here in the shop; Alice had no reason to come out here and handle it.'

'But you did.'

'Well, of course I did! I owned owned it!' He turned his head towards Denton but didn't meet his eyes. 'Please leave. I've nothing more to say.' it!' He turned his head towards Denton but didn't meet his eyes. 'Please leave. I've nothing more to say.'

'Who was going to buy the painting? Somebody was going to buy it and then didn't want it.'

'The Wesselons? I can't tell you that.'

'I think you'd better.'

'I have a responsibility to my clients.'

'Do you want to tell the police about that?'

Geddys whirled on him, his face reddening, his head tilted on the neck, then strode to the back and came out with a large ledger. He opened it on one hand, turned pages with the other, read until he found what he wanted. 'Francis Wenzli put down a guinea on it. He never came for it. I wrote to remind him that the painting was here, and he sent back my note with a scribble on it to the effect that he was no longer interested.' He slammed the book. 'Rude of him.'

'Who's Francis Wenzli?'

Geddys looked at him as if he were simple. 'The painter.'

'You didn't give him back his deposit?'

'He didn't ask for it.' Geddys shrugged. 'I'd lost the sale, after all.'

Denton went over some of it again, but Geddys wanted him gone. The story didn't change. A couple of hard detectives might get more - Denton thought there might be more to ask about the relations.h.i.+p with Mary Thomason - but he wasn't going to get it today. He could come back another time. Or put Guillam on him, ho-ho.

He had missed lunch. The rain was steady now, the wind slacked off; Piccadilly seemed dispirited - the tops of the buses empty, the horses plodding with their heads down, black umbrellas everywhere. He realized he was hungry. His watch told him it would be the low period at the Cafe Royal, but he could at least find something to eat there, and he might, too, find somebody who could tell him who Francis Wenzli was. Not Frank Harris: Harris was one of the nighttime habitues. Oddly, he thought of Gwen John, and not without interest. He set off for the Cafe Royal.

Inside the door of the Domino Room, shaking the rain off his ponderous overcoat, he looked for a familiar face. The room was all but empty, waiters leaning against the backs of chairs, arms folded. A single pair of long legs stuck out from a banquette half-hidden by a gold-and-green pillar - somebody either asleep or telling the world with his posture to go to h.e.l.l.

It was the latter. Denton saw a big, dark hat, the glitter of a gold earring.

'Hullo, sheriff. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here at this hour?' It was Augustus John, Gwen's brother, astonis.h.i.+ngly cheeky for a near-boy of twenty-three. Denton slid into the banquette and said, 'I might ask you the same thing. I like your hat.'