Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [159]
“Well—perhaps ‘room’ is a bit of a grand term for it.” He shrugged elaborately. “More of a cubbyhole, really. He-he asked to keep things now and then.” He looked sideways at Pitt rapidly then away again. “So of course I said ’E could. No harm in obliging.” He seemed to feel some need to explain himself as he led Pitt along a narrow, airless corridor and unlocked the door of a room very spartanly furnished with a wooden table, an unframed glass on the wall above it, two wooden chairs and a set of cupboards against the far wall, several tall enough to serve as wardrobes, and an uncurtained window looking into the blind wall of the next building.
“We use it for changing rooms for extra artistes,” Caulfield explained, waving his arm vaguely at the table.
Pitt said nothing.
Caulfield seemed to feel compelled to go on talking, his face growing pinker.
“Your man used that cupboard at the end there.” He pointed with a well-manicured hand.
Pitt looked, but did not move towards it.
Caulfield took a deep breath and licked his lips again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to take a look inside?”
Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“Is there something in it?”
“I—well—I, er…” Caulfield was plainly caught in some embarrassment. Why? If he had looked that was not hard to understand. It was his cupboard and the man to whom he had lent its use had gone without warning. It would be usual to look and see if he had left anything behind. Such an act needed no explanation and certainly no apology.
Pitt regarded him unblinkingly and Caulfield colored.
“No,” he denied. “I don’t know if there’s anything there. I just thought—you bein’ police, and interested in the man, like, you’d want to see.”
“I do,” Pitt agreed, certain now that he would find something. It was unfair to be angry with the manager. It should have been Urban; it was Urban who had been greedy for the pictures and Urban who had gone moonlighting to get the money. No one had pushed him into ruining his career, certainly not this curiously uncomfortable man with his red face and constantly moving hands. “By the way, why was the room locked? There hardly seems anything worth stealing.”
Again Caulfield was thrown off balance. He shifted his feet.
“I—er—well—habit, I suppose. Sometimes people leave things …” He tailed off. “Do you want to see in the cupboard? Don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but I do have duties …”
“Of course.” Pitt went over to the corner and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a large parcel, about two feet by three feet tall, but barely two inches thick, and wrapped in brown paper tied with string. He did not need to undo it to know what it was.
For once Caulfield kept silent. There was not even an in-drawn breath of surprise.
“Did he often leave pictures here?” Pitt asked.
Caulfield hesitated.
“Well?” Pitt asked.
“He often had parcels that size with ’im,” Caulfield said nervously. “He didn’t say what they were, an’ I didn’t ask. It did cross my mind as he was an artist, maybe, an’ that was why ’E needed the work extra.”
“An artist carrying his pictures about with him to work at a music hall?” Pitt sounded dubious.
“Well—yes.” Caulfield rose to his feet and his eyes were very wide as he gazed at Pitt. “ ’E did come with one picture sometimes, an’ leave with a different one.”
“How do you know? At first you didn’t even know they were pictures. You said ‘parcels.’ ”
“Well—I mean—the parcel ’E left with was a different size. an’ I just supposed they were pictures cause o’ the shape.” His voice grew sharper with irritation. “An’—An’ he carried them very careful, like. And because he asked to keep ’em safe, I took it as they was of value to ’im. What else could they be?”
Slowly Pitt undid the string and the paper and disclosed a large, very ornate, carved and gilded frame, containing nothing but a bare wood backing.
“Frames?” he said with a lift of bleak astonishment in his voice.
“Well I never!” The response was not wholly convincing. “What’d ’E do that for? I wonder what ’appened to the picture? Looks like there was one, don’t