Artists in Crime

‘You mean you’ve trained your eye?’

‘I’ve had to try to do so, certainly.’

‘Why?’

‘Part of my job. Let me take your box for you.’

‘Oh—thank you. Mind the lid—it’s a bit painty. Pity to spoil those lovely trousers. Will you take the sketch?’

‘Do you want a hand down?’ offered Alleyn.

‘I can manage, thank you,’ she said gruffly, and clambered down to the deck.

Alleyn had propped the canvas against the rail and now stood looking at it. She joined him, eyeing it with the disinterested stare of the painter.

‘Why!’ murmured Alleyn suddenly. ‘Why, you must be Agatha Troy.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Good Lord, what a self-sufficient fathead I’ve been.’

‘Why?’ said Agatha Troy. ‘You were all right. Very useful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn humbly. ‘I saw your one-man show a year ago in London.’

‘Did you?’ she said without interest.

‘I should have guessed at once. Isn’t there a sort of relationship between this painting and the “In the Stadium”?’

‘Yes.’ She moved her eyebrows quickly. ‘That’s quite true. The arrangement’s much the same—radiating lines and a spotted pattern. Same feeling. Well, I’d better go down to my cabin and unpack.’

‘You joined the ship at Suva?’

‘Yes. I noticed this subject from the main deck. Things shove themselves at you like that sometimes. I dumped my luggage, changed, and came up.’

She slung her box over her shoulder and picked up the sketch.

‘Can I—?’ said Alleyn diffidently.

‘No, thanks.’

She stood for a moment staring back towards Fiji. Her hands gripped the shoulder-straps of her paintbox. The light breeze whipped back her short dark hair, revealing the contour of the skull and the delicate bones of the face. The temples were slightly hollow, the cheek-bones showed, the dark-blue eyes were deep-set under the thin ridge of the brows. The sun caught the olive skin with its smudge of green paint, and gave it warmth. There was a kind of spare gallantry about her. She turned quickly before he had time to look away and their gaze met.

Alleyn was immediately conscious of a clarification of his emotions. As she stood before him, her face slowly reddening under his gaze, she seemed oddly familiar. He felt that he already knew her next movement, and the next inflexion of her clear, rather cold voice. It was a little as though he had thought of her a great deal, but never met her before. These impressions held him transfixed, for how long he never knew, while he still kept his eyes on hers. Then something clicked in his mind, and he realized that he had stared her out of countenance. The blush had mounted painfully to the roots of her hair and she had turned away.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alleyn steadily. ‘I’m afraid I was looking at the green smudge on your cheek.’

She scrubbed at her face with the cuff of her smock.

‘I’ll go down,’ she said, and picked up the sketch.

He stood aside, but she had to pass close to him, and again he was vividly aware of her, still with the same odd sense of surprised familiarity. She smelt of turpentine and paint, he noticed.

‘Well—good evening,’ she said vaguely.

Alleyn laughed a little.

‘Good evening, madam.’

She started off down the ladder, moving sideways and holding the wet sketch out over the hand-rail. He turned away and lit a cigarette. Suddenly a terrific rumpus broke out on the deck below. The hot cheap reek of frangipanni blossoms drifted up, and with it the voice of the success of the ship.

‘Oh, pardon me. Come right down. Gangway, fellows. Oh say, pardon me, but have you been making a picture? Can I have a keek? I’m just crazy about sketching. Look, boys—isn’t that cute? The wharf? My, my, it’s a shame you haven’t been able to finish it, isn’t it? It would have been swell! Look, boys, it’s the wharf. Maybe a snapshot would help. We’ll surely have to watch our step with an artist on board. Say, let’s get acquainted. We’ve been celebrating and we feel fine. Meet the mob. I’m Virginia Van Maes.’

‘My name’s Troy,’ said a voice that Alleyn could scarcely recognize. A series of elaborate introductions followed.

‘Well, Miss Troy, I was going to tell you how Caley Burt painted my portrait in Noo York. You’ve heard of Caley Burt? I guess he’s one of the most exclusive portraitists in America. Well, it seems he was just crazy to take my picture—’

The anecdote was a long one. Agatha Troy remained silent throughout.

‘Well, when he was through—and say, did I get tired of that dress? —it certainly was one big success. Poppa bought it, and it’s in our reception-hall at Honolulu. Some of the crowd say it doesn’t just flatter, but it looks good to me. I don’t pretend to know a whole lot about art, Miss Troy, but I know what I like.’

‘Quite,’ said Agatha Troy. ‘Look here, I think I’d better get down to my cabin. I haven’t unpacked yet. If you’ll excuse me—’

‘Why, certainly. We’ll be seeing you. Say, have you seen that guy Alleyn around?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know—’

‘He’s tall and thin, and I’ll say he’s good looking. And is he British? Gee! I’m crazy about him. I got a little gamble with these boys, I’ll have him doing figure eights trying to dope out when the petting-party gets started.’

‘I’ve kissed goodbye to my money,’ one of the youths said.

‘Listen to him, will you, Miss Troy? But we certainly saw Mr Alleyn around this way a while back.’

‘He went up to the boat deck,’ said a youth.

‘Oh,’ said Miss Troy clearly. ‘That man! Yes, he’s up there now.’

‘Atta-boy!’

‘Whooppee!’

‘Oh damn!’ said Alleyn softly.

And the next thing that happened was Miss Van Maes showing him how she’d made a real Honolulu lei out of Fijian frangipanni, and asking him to come down with the crowd for a drink.

‘Has this party gone cuckoo or something? We’re three rounds behind the clock. C’m on!’

‘Virginia,’ said a youth, ‘you’re tight.’