The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold

needs very unusual circumstances to rouse one’s interest in it. There remains the other usual crude motive to dispose of, and we may find ourselves up against something really interesting.”
    â€œPersonally I would rather find myself up against the murderer, as soon and as close as possible,” replied Hembrow with a wry grin. “But I must say this case looks less simple to me now than it did last night. To begin with, idiotic as young Greenaway’s story sounded, it is apparently true.”
    Christmas smiled.
    â€œThe idiotic has a way of being true. After all, Inspector, ‘ life is a tale told by an idiot...’ You know the quotation, I expect.”
    â€œYes,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “But I don’t think much of it. There’s such a thing as cause and effect.”
    â€œRemarkable discovery,” murmured Christmas. “So there is. Where would Scotland Yard be if there weren’t? Echo answers, Where?”
    â€œI was going to say,” resumed Hembrow, disregarding this problem, “that I’ve collected evidence from two of the cabman on the taxi-rank in Greentree Road corroborating Greenaway’s account of his own movements between a quarter to eight and half-past last night.”
    He took out his note-book and turned the pages.
    â€œAndrew Milton, licensed hackney-cab driver, of 7 Cauldon Street, N.W.8, deposes that he was in and about the shelter in Greentree Road between the hours of seven-forty-five and eight-thirty last night, and that during that time he saw a man walking up and down the north side of the road. The first time he saw him was a little after eight, when he was walking down towards the Finchley Road about ten yards behind a woman, who was hurrying and who turned in at the gate of No. 14, a house let off in flats which stands some thirty yards away from the cab-rank. Several times during the next half-hour Milton saw the man walk slowly up and down. He pointed the man out to another driver, James Hemington, who also makes a statement to the same effect, and further adds that he had a fare at about eight-forty-five, and that as he drove off the rank he noticed the man turn north into Grove End Road and walk off. This supports Greenaway’s statement that before coming home at nine-thirty he walked up Hampstead way.”
    Hembrow closed his note-book with a sigh. It was plain that he was sorry to see his prospect of an immediate arrest vanish away.
    â€œI told you so, if you’ll allow me to make that time-honoured remark,” said Christmas. “Life is a tale told by, about and for idiots, and the conclusions drawn by an idiot often hit the mark when those of a man of sense (yourself, Inspector) fly wide. I thought so silly a story must be true. Have, you never, in your extreme youth, Hembrow, walked up and down past a lady’s house, gazing sentimentally at a light in a bedroom window which afterwards turned out to be her aunt’s? I have.”
    â€œNo,” replied Hembrow stolidly. “Before we were married I used to go and see Mary every Sunday for tea and supper. But I never felt any call to walk up and down first. Why should I?”
    â€œWhy, indeed? Well, that disposes of young Greenaway and his misplaced affections. Is there any news of the gentleman in the fez whom everybody seems to have seen and nobody seems to have known?”
    â€œNo, there isn’t,” replied Hembrow with a frown. “And although you’d think a person like that would be easy enough to find, it doesn’t look as if it’s going to be easy to trace him. When I saw the name Fuzuli in Mr. Frew’s catalogue under an address in Theobald’s Road I thought I was on the track. But I’ve been down there this morning—came straight from there, in fact—and it doesn’t help us. Mr. Fuzuli does not answer in the least to the description of the man who went to see the deceased last evening,