The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold Page A

and has had no dealings with Mr. Frew since last July. I’ve got a man making a list of all the Turkish curio and carpet-dealers in London. But there must be hundreds!”
    â€œFacts not generally known,” murmured John sententiously. “The Turkish carpet-dealers in London, if laid down end to end, would carpet the road from London to Edinburgh and interfere a good deal with the traffic.”
    â€œThe only useful clue to the identity of the stranger,” went on Hembrow, taking no notice of this frivolous interruption, “besides the description of his appearance, of course, is that he asked both Sir Marion Steen and Dr. Merewether the way to Golders Green. As it was late in the evening at the time, it is probable, though not by any means certain, that he lived there. And I have an assistant going through the directories of that district. The fact that he wore a fez should make him easier to trace.”
    â€œYou mean, a fez impresses itself upon the jaded eyes of a bus conductor, for instance, where a face, however noble, would pass unnoticed. Quite true. We must hunt out the conductors of all the Golders Green buses that passed the end of Greentree Road between a quarter past eight and half-past or so. There can’t have been many.”
    â€œThere weren’t,” said Hembrow gloomily. “There were only two. And neither of the conductors has any memory of seeing a man in a fez among their passengers. In fact, they both swore that no such person boarded their buses at Greentree Road or anywhere else.”
    â€œI say, you have been busy, Hembrow,” said John admiringly. “Have you crowded anything else into your morning of glorious life?”
    â€œWent to interview Shirley,” said Hembrow. “But I found her out, and the caretaker at the flats had no idea where she was likely to be. It appears she lives alone. I shall go back this evening, when I was told I should probably find her in.”
    â€œMay I come with you, Inspector? I should like to see the lovely Pandora.”
    â€œLovely or not,” said Hembrow grimly, “I should like to know why she paid that flying visit to Madox Court last night.”
    â€œThe queer thing about this case so far,” said Christmas thoughtfully, “is that all these mysterious visitors were well out of the way before the murder took place. Pandora Shirley left the court at ten minutes to eight and the Oriental gentleman, as old Greenaway calls him, met Steen and Merewether in Greentree Road soon after eight o’clock. Yet Gordon Frew was alive at nine, when Merewether went up to his flat. Of course our mysterious Oriental may have returned, and so, for that matter, may Miss Shirley, but—”
    â€œMr. Christmas,” interrupted Hembrow slowly, “would you mind telling me what you know of Dr. Merewether?”
    Christmas looked at his friend’s face and was surprised at the gravity he saw there.
    â€œMerewether?” he repeated vaguely. “Why—but surely you can’t imagine that Merewether”
    â€œWell, Mr. Christmas,” said Hembrow heavily, “it’s a very queer thing that Dr. Merewether should be so positive he saw the deceased alive at nine o’clock. Because our doctor, Dr. Hallet, who examined the corpse, has told me that there’s no manner of doubt at all that the deceased died before nine o’clock, and no manner of doubt at all that Dr. Merewether was either mistaken or lying.”
    Christmas said nothing for a moment. He seemed to see again the sweat upon Merewether’s forehead, the shaking of his hands, as he stood upright after laying the corpse back in its chair. He wished that this memory would not insist upon obtruding itself between him and the protest Hembrow’s suggestion forced out of him.
    â€œIf that is so, it is a queer thing, certainly,” he agreed. “But not so queer a thing as the suggestion that Merewether could