Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [103]
“On the morning Mr. Cathcart was killed there was a quarrel between Orlando Antrim, the actor, and Mr. Henri Bonnard of the French Embassy,” Pitt explained.
McKellar looked startled.
“Do you know anything about it?” Pitt pressed. “It was apparently on the subject of photographs.”
“Was it?” McKellar seemed perplexed but not entirely at a loss, as he might have been were the subject to make no sense to him at all.
“Do people quarrel over photographs?” Pitt asked.
“Well . . . I suppose so. What has that to do with poor Cathcart?”
“Do you sell your pictures?” Tellman said suddenly. “I mean, is there money in it?” He glanced around at the cameras and their tripods.
McKellar colored a little more deeply. “Well, sometimes. It—it helps funds, you know. Costs a bit, all this stuff. Not that . . .” He trailed off and stopped, standing a little uncomfortably.
Pitt waited.
“I mean . . .” McKellar fidgeted. “Look, I think I may be speaking a trifle out of turn, you know? I’ve just sold the odd picture here and there, that’s all.”
“Of vines and leaves?” Tellman said incredulously. “People pay for that?”
McKellar avoided his eyes. “No . . . no, I shouldn’t think so. Mostly a nice picture of a young lady, perhaps a few flowers . . . more . . . more personal, more charm, that sort of thing.”
“A young lady with perhaps a few flowers,” Pitt repeated, raising his eyebrows a little. “And a gown, or not?”
McKellar looked wretched. “Well, I daresay. Sometimes . . . not.” He met Pitt’s eyes and this time he was quite vehement. “Just a bit— artistic. Not vulgar!”
Pitt smiled. He carefully avoided Tellman’s glance. “I see. And these sales supplement your funds for the expense of films and so on?”
“Yes.”
“And do the young ladies in question receive part of this profit?”
“They get copies of . . . of one or two of the pictures.”
“And are they aware that the rest are sold—to be bought, I presume, by the general public?” Pitt enquired.
McKellar was silent for a moment. “I . . . I think so,” he said unhappily. “I mean . . . the reason’s clear, isn’t it?”
“Perfectly,” Pitt agreed. “You wish to make some money in order to finance your hobby.” His voice was colder than he had meant it to be.
McKellar flushed bright pink.
“And where are these photographs sold?” Pitt pressed. “Sergeant Tellman will take down the names and addresses of all the dealers you have business with.”
“Well . . . I . . .”
“If you can’t remember them then we’ll accompany you to wherever you have the information, and take it from there.”
McKellar gave up. He swallowed convulsively. “It’s all quite innocent, you know!” he protested. “Just . . . just pictures!”
In the afternoon Pitt and Tellman began visiting the dealers in postcards.
To begin with, all they saw were pretty pictures of a variety of young women in fairly conventional poses, their gentle faces looking out at the camera, some awkwardly self-conscious, others boldly, with a smile, even a challenge. There was nothing to be offended by, except the possibility that they had been denied a share of the profits. But then, considering the cost of cameras, film, development and so on, the profits were probably extremely small. The postcards themselves sold for a few pence, and they were of a good quality. The greatest gain from them was the pleasure in the creation and the possession.
“Is that all you have?” Pitt asked, without hope of learning anything further that was of value; it was a matter of habit. They were in a small tobacconist and bookseller’s in Half Moon Street, just off Piccadilly, its shelves crowded, wooden floor creaking at every step. The smells of leather and snuff filled the air.
“Well . . .” the dealer said dubiously. “More the same, others much like these. That’s all.”
There was something in the way he said it, a directness that caught Pitt’s attention. He was not certain it was a lie, but he felt it was.
“I’ll see them,” he said firmly.
Several dozen more cards