Into danger? There hadn’t, so far, been any evidence of danger in this business – Except, as aforesaid, in Tuppence’s imagination.
If he were to go to the police, saying his wife had not returned home as she announced she was going to do – The police would sit there, looking tactful though possibly grinning inwardly, and would then presumably, still in a tactful way, ask what men friends his wife had got!
‘I’ll find her myself,’ declared Tommy. ‘She’s somewhere. Whether it’s north, south, east or west I’ve no idea – and she was a silly cuckoo not to leave word when she rang up, where she was.’ ‘A gang’s got her, perhaps -‘ said Albert.
‘Oh! be your age, Albert, you’ve outgrown that sort of stuff years ago!’ ‘What are you going to do, sir?’ ‘I’m going to London,’ said Tommy, glancing at the clock.
‘First I’m going to have lunch at my club with Dr Murray who rang me up last night, and who’s got something to say to me about my late deceased aunt’s affairs – I might possibly get a useful hint from him – After all, this business started at Sunny
Ridge. I am also taking that picture that’s hnnlg over our bedroom mantelpiece up with me ‘ ‘You mean you’re taking it to Scotland Yard?’ ‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m taking it to Bond Street.’
CHAPTER 11 Bond Street and Dr Murray
Tommy jumped out of a taxi, paid the driver and leaned back into the cab to take out a rather clumsily done up parcel which was clearly a picture. Tucking as much of it as he could under his arm, he entered the New Athenian Galleries, one of the longest established and most important picture galleries in London.
Tommy was not a great patron of the arts but he had come to the New Athenian because he had a friend who officiated there.
‘Officiated’ was the only word to use because the air of sympathetic interest, the hushed voice, the pleasable smile, all seemed highly ecclesiastical.
A fair-haired young man detached -himself and came forward, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.
‘Hullo, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time.
What’s that you’ve got under your arm? Don’t tell me you’ve been taking to painting pictures in your old age? A lot of people do – results usually deplorable.’ ‘I doubt if creative art was ever my long suit,’ said Tommy.
‘Though I must admit I found myself strongly attracted the other day by a small book telling in the simplest terms how a child of five can learn to paint in water colours.’ ‘God help us if you’re going to take to that. Grandma Moses in reverse.’
‘To tell you the truth, Robert, I merely want to appeal to your expert knowledge of pictures. I want your opinion on this.’ Deftly Robert took the picture from Tommy and skilfully removed its clumsy wrappings with the expertise of a man accustomed to handle the parcelling up and deparcelling of all different-sized works of art. He took the picture and set it on a chair, peered into it to look at it, and then withdrew five or six steps away. He turned his gaze towards Tommy.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what about it? What do you want to know?
Do you want to sell it, is that it?’ ‘No,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t want to sell it, Robert. I want to know about it. To begin with, I want to know who painted it.’ ‘Actually,’ said Robert, ‘if you had wanted to sell it, it would be quite saleable nowadays. It wouldn’t have been, ten years ago. But Boscowan’s just coming into fashion again.’ ‘Boscowan?’ Tommy looked at him inq ‘mringiy. ‘Is that the name of the artist? I saw it was signed with something beginning with B but I couldn’t read the name.’ ‘Oh, it’s Boscowan all right. Very popular painter about twenty-five years ago. Sold well, had plenty of shows. People bought him all right. Technically a very good painter. Then, in the usual cycle of events, he went out of fashion. Finally, hardly any demand at all for his works but lately he’s had a revival. He, Stitchwort, and Fondella. They’re all coming up.’ ‘Boscowan,’ repeated Tommy.