Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers

any tricks while she was giving evidence. He found himself approving her. She had given straight answers, told her tale without trying to lead him in this direction or that. The tale was consistent with the known facts, corroborated in detail by Mrs. Cornboise and by Bessie, the maid.
    At the back of his head was the suspicion that there was a catch in it somewhere.
    â€œThat Will is the catch!” he exclaimed.
    As before, he ran his fingers over the envelope, wondering at its slimness. One would expect a millionaire’s Will to be a complicated, bulky affair. He was certain now, that there was only a single folded sheet inside the long envelope.
    â€œIf Cornboise gives me the same tale I’ll open it in his presence.”
    He was about to call Benscombe, when the latter came in.
    â€œThat artist, Arthur Fenchurch, sir. Do you want to see him before he goes? He gave an address about half a mile from here.”
    â€œAll right! I’ll see him before I see Cornboise.”
    Arthur Fenchurch registered elaborate indifference. Crisp recognised his type too—the poseur who explains that he is posing.
    â€œI’d like to know your business here this evening, Mr. Fenchurch?”
    â€œBusinesss? None. That is, not directly. I consented to come in order to kow-tow to a wealthy client. I was to paint him, including—my God!—his wig.” He added: “I have to do portraiture to make a living. My portraits are very vulgar, and so I am becoming very popular.”
    Crisp eyed the sports coat and flannel trousers—noticed that the leather-bound sketch-book was no longer in the side-pocket.
    â€œD’you mean you were asked to dinner?”
    â€œYes. I never wear evening dress. When I turn up like this, people think I’m much better known that I am. That helps to stiffen my prices.”
    Crisp consulted the list of dinner guests. Mr. Fenchurch. Mrs. Fenchurch , followed by a local address and telephone number.
    â€œThe other guests had all left by about eight at my request. It’s now ten.”
    â€œI apologise. I lingered partly out of morbid curiosity, partly in the hope of publicity, and partly because I know Ralph Cornboise and Miss Lofting very well.”
    â€œBut Mrs. Fenchurch went home alone? I take it the lady is your wife?”
    â€œYes—but not legally, of course! Everybody knows we’re not married.”
    â€œAnd she was asked to dinner as your mistress?” Crisp was sceptical.
    â€œIn effect, yes. People who can afford to have their portraits painted always expect an artist to have a mistress. As a matter of fact, my relations with the fair Glenda are what you would probably call blameless. She believes she’s my secretary—she’s actually my domestic help. She likes people to think she’s living in sin, so the arrangement pleases everybody. Only, for some reason, she funked turning up tonight.”
    Crisp was framing a question, when the explanation came of its own accord.
    â€œShe cried off yesterday on the ground that Watlington was a nasty old man who had—er—I think you call it?—made advances to her. It may or may not have been true. She is very pretty and very vain. I adore her vanity but detest her prettiness.”
    Putting himself over, thought Crisp. He let a silence hang, knowing that this type could rarely endure inattention. His eye lighted on the dun coloured cotton glove on the other’s left hand.
    â€œIn hot weather, I am afflicted with a slight eczema—due to excessive drinking,” he explained, and added: “By the way, am I suspected of guilty knowledge of the murder and—that kind of thing?”
    â€œTheoretically, you are—until we have checked you out. Where were you between lunch and dinner?”
    â€œHeavens, have I to produce an alibi? I must take fantastic care not to contradict myself.” He possessed himself of one of the pencils exhibited on the