“Now that’s not fair, Teddybear. If Jimmy gets into the pictures he’ll make a packet, and all because he knows about those stupid bones.”
Alec blinked, but managed not to let his jaw drop. “The pictures?” he said weakly.
“That’s where he’s gone tonight,” said Mrs. Steadman.
“Not the cinema, but to the Dorchester to talk to Harry Hoyt, from Hollywood! Mr. Hoyt’s going to make a film of that book by Sherlock Homes,The Lost World,that’s all about dinosaurs, and he came to London to talk to our Jimmy. He’s got Lewis Stone, who’s inThe Prisoner of Zendawith Ramon Novarro, and Wallace Beery that was inThe Last of the Mohicans,and Bessie Love, and …”
“And our Jimmy won’t make a penny out of it, mark my words,” said his cynical brother. “I told him he shouldn’t even talk to this bloke without a contract in black and white, but does he listen to me? He does not!”
As the pair wrangled, Alec decided that if James Steadman took it into his head to commit murder, he would start with his brother and go on to his sister-in-law. On the other hand, he might commit theft so as to be able to escape them.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with a lot of money if he had it,” Mrs. Steadman proclaimed. “What’s he do with what he’s got, I ask you, after he’s paid his share of expenses? He hasn’t got a lady-friend, and you never see him go out for a bit of fun, not even down the local.”
With a glance at the Pink ’Un, her husband shook his head. “Not even a bob each way on the Derby,” he confirmed.
Tom knocked on the door and came into the sitting room, electric torch in hand. “There’s a padlocked shed out the back, sir,” he told Alec.
“Jim-boy keeps some old bones there,” said Teddy. “Works on ’em out there evenings and weekends, if you call it work.”
“I won’t have them in the house, disgusting things,” Mrs. Steadman said self-righteously. “There’s a spare key in a drawer in the kitchen.”
“One of these, madam?” Tom held out his large hand, full of keys of every shape and size and degree of rustiness.
“I think it’s that one. Or maybe that. I never go out there.”
“We didn’t used to lock it,” Teddy said, “not keeping anything valuable there, but some kids got in once and messed about with the bones. I thought Jimmy’d have a stroke.”
He guffawed and his wife tittered at the memory.
“Treat the bones with care, Sergeant,” said Alec.
“With great care, sir,” Tom said emphatically. Departing, he murmured to Alec as he passed, “No bank papers visible, Chief.”
Alec nodded. With a word of apology, he poked around the sitting room. Bare as it was, there were few hiding places. No stolen gems in the gramophone’s or wireless’s innards, none behind the ugly modern clock on the mantelpiece, none down the sides of the chairs or sofa. As he searched he continuedto encourage the Steadmans to talk about James. Not that they needed much encouragement.
Tom returned, shaking his head, and the detectives took their leave.
“No jewels,” said Tom. “Like I told you, Chief, I didn’t get a look at any financial papers. There’s a locked box—one of those metal cash boxes—in his bedroom. No key. I shook it, and nothing shifted about like the jewels would, just papers rustling.”
“But why’d he lock it, Chief,” said Ernie Piper, “if there’s nothing in there to give him away?”
“Because his sister-in-law is a snooper, I dare say.”
“There’s a key to his room in the kitchen drawer,” Tom said, “and it’s not one of the rusty ones. It’s not that big a room, but he’s got it all fitted up nice like a bed-sitter and study combined. Bookcase full of dinosaur books and desk covered with dinosaur drawings. I don’t reckon he spends much time downstairs, Chief.”
“Hardly congenial company for a gentleman of intellectual pursuits,” Alec commented, “and nosy with it. Mrs. Steadman says her brother-in-law banks at the South Ken Lloyd’s. Tomorrow, as soon as the banks open, I want appointments made for me to talk as soon as possible to all the suspects’ bank managers, Tom. Unless we strike lucky with Witt.”
Calvin Witt’s residence was a service flat in a luxury block in South Audley Street, Mayfair.
“Blimey, must cost him a pretty penny!” observed D. C. Ross as the red-carpeted lift bore them smoothly upwards.
“Fishy, on museum pay,” said Piper hopefully.
“I had a word with the porter who let us in,” Tom rumbled. “Mr. Witt’s lived here twelve years, since the building went up. Must have private means besides his salary.”
The young constables’ disappointment was reflected in the gilt mirror hanging on the back wall.
Private means could be squandered, Alec reflected, leaving their erstwhile possessor accustomed to a style of living he could no longer afford. Or fine living might lead to a desire for finer. Perhaps Witt yearned to give up his job and retire to a place of his own in the country.
