Mister Fortune Objects by Bailey H. C

Author:Bailey, H. C. [Bailey, H. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Anthology
Published: 1935-03-06T05:00:00+00:00

FIFTH OBJECTION

THE LONG DINNER

“I DISLIKE YOU,” said Mr. Fortune. “Some of the dirtiest linen I’ve seen.” He gazed morosely at the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.

“Quite,” Lomas agreed. “Dirty fellow. What about those stains?”

“Oh, my dear chap!” Mr. Fortune mourned. “Paint. All sorts of paint. Also food and drink and assorted filth. Why worry me? What did you expect? Human gore?”

“I had no expectations,” said Lomas sweetly.

A certain intensity came into Mr. Fortune’s blue eyes. “Yes. I hate you,” he murmured. “Anything else you wanted to know?”

“A lot of things,” Lomas said. “You’re not useful, Reginald. I want to know what sort of fellow he was, and what’s become of him.”

“He was an artist of dark complexion. He painted both in oils and water - colours. He lived a coarse and dissolute life, and had expensive tastes. What’s become of him, I haven’t the slightest idea. I should say he was on the way to the devil. What’s it all about? Why this interest in the debauched artist?”

“Because the fellow’s vanished,” said Lomas. “He is a painter of sorts, as you say. Name - Deny Farquhar. He had a talent and a bit of a success years ago, and he’s gone downhill ever since. Not altogether unknown to the police - money under false pretences and that sort of thing - but never any clear case. Ten days ago a woman turned up to give information that Mr. Derry Farquhar was missing. He had some money out of her - a matter of fifty pounds - three months ago. She don’t complain of that. She was used to handing him donations - that kind of woman and that kind of man. What worries her is that, since this particular fifty pounds, he’s faded out. And it is a queer case. He’s lived these ten years in a rat - hole of a flat in Blooms - bury. He’s not been seen there for months. That’s unlike him. He’s never been long away before. A regular London loafer. And his own money - he’s got a little income from a trust - has piled up in the bank. August and September dividends untouched. That’s absolutely unlike him. Besides that: one night about a fortnight ago - we can’t fix the date - somebody was heard in the flat making a good deal of noise. When Bell went to have a look at things, he found the place in a devil of a mess, and a heap of foul linen. So we sent that to you.”

“Hoping for proof of bloodshed,” Reggie murmured. “Hopeful fellow. Shirts extremely foul, but affordin’ no evidence of foul play. Blood is absent. Almost the only substance that is.”

“So you don’t believe there’s anything in the case?”

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap,” Reggie opened large, plaintive eyes. “Belief is a serious operation. I believe you haven’t found anything. That’s all. I should say you didn’t look.”

“Thank you,” said Lomas acidly. “Bell raked it all over.” He spoke into the telephone, and Superintendent Bell arrived with a fat folder.

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