The smoldering artist considered. “Yes.” He passed the picture back to O’Malley and eyed the bulky portfolio. “Is that all?”
“For the moment, sir,” Tennant said.
Whistler screwed his monocle under his eyebrow ridge and stood. “Get the son-of-a-bitch who did this.” He left trailing his yellow scarf.
“Nothing we’d like better,” O’Malley muttered.
“Our next order of business is Allingham and Allen.” Tennant tucked the Whistler and Solomon copies into a folder and plucked his hat from its peg. “But we’ll go by omnibus or hansom. Sorry to disappoint, Sergeant.”
* * *
Sergeant O’Malley made a show of his role as a notetaker for Sidney Allen’s benefit.
He settled his bulk into a chair, patted his pockets for his police pad, and flipped through it until he came to a blank page. He gave the tip of his pencil a lick and set the point at the top. Then he cleared his throat and looked up.
“Ready, I am, sir, to take Mister Allen’s testimony.”
The publisher blinked. “Testimony?”
“Just a few questions connected to official inquiries,” Tennant said.
“Again?”
“Yes, Mister Allen.” The inspector looked around the room, in no hurry to begin. Allen shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrest. But his eyes were watchful and still.
“Questions have arisen about the reproduction rights of several paintings.”
“Oh, aye. What about them?”
“Our information is that you purchased the rights for works by JA Whistler and Simeon Solomon.”
“Whistler and Solomon . . . let me think.” Allen leaned back and tilted his head at the ceiling. “Poor old Charlie dealt mostly with the artists, but I reckon you’re right, although I’d have to consult our records.”
Tennant had expected that gambit. A dead partner was a convenient scapegoat.
“Let me help your memory, Mister Allen, although they were recent purchases. The engraving rights are for two paintings.Bacchus, by Mister Solomon, andSymphony in White, Number Three, by JA Whistler.”
“Oh, aye. They’re ringing a bell with me now. Charlie thought they’d get a lot of play in the press. Worth the brass we’d fork out, he said.”
“I’d like to speak to the engraver.”
“I don’t rightly know. Charlie kept the originals for a while, and he brought in an outsider to work on—”
“Mister Allen, you told me earlier that you ran the business side of the partnership. Failure to assist the police in an official inquiry and the publication of pornographic materials are criminal offenses.”
“Pornography?” The publisher shifted uneasily in his chair. “Don’t know what you’re on about. You’re losing me, mate.”
Tennant held up Allingham’sBacchus.
Allen sprang to his feet. “It’s bollocks, I tell you.”
“We found this ‘bollocks’ in your partner’s study. Sit down, Mister Allen.”
The man dropped heavily into his chair. “I know now’t about the mangy thing.”
“And this one?” Tennant held up the Whistler. “Come, sir, cooperation is in your best interest. Surely, an old firm like Allingham and Allen wants to avoid the scandal of a charge?”
“’Tis the way of it,” O’Malley said mournfully. “Reporters always turn up at magistrate’s court when something dodgy is on the docket.” He tapped his pencil to his temple. “Don’t know how they find out, but they do.”
