A lot of cars coming and going. Say there are five major robberies done within six months but each time the loot passes through, or is cached in, not just one of these houses, but five different houses in five different parts of the countryside. It’s only a supposition as yet, my dear Tommy, but we’re working on it. Let’s say your old lady lets a picture of a certain house go out of her possession and supposing that’s a significant house.
And supposing that that’s the house that your Missus has recognized somewhere, and has gone dashing off to investigate.
And supposing someone doesn’t want that particular house investigated – It might tie up, you know.’ ‘It’s very farfetched.’ ‘Oh yes – I agree. But these times we live in are farfetched times – In our particular world incredible things happen.’
II
Somewhat wearily Tommy alighted from his fourth taxi of the day and looked appraisingly at his surroundings. The taxi had deposited him in a small cul-de-sac which tucked itself coyly under one of the protuberances of Hampstead Heath. The cul- de-sac seemed to have been some artistic ‘development’. Each house was wildly different from the house next to it. This particular one seemed to consist of a large studio with skylights in it, and attached to it (rather like a gumboil), on one side was. what seemed to be a little cluster of three rooms. A ladder staircase painted bright green ran up the outside of the house.
Tommy opened the small gate, went up a path and not seeing a bell applied himself to the knocker. Getting no response, he paused for a few moments and then started again with the knocker, a little louder this time.
The door opened so suddenly that he nearly fell backwards.
A woman stood on the doorstep. At first sight Tommy’s first impression was that this was one of the plainest women he had ever seen. She had a large expanse of flat, pancake-like face, two enormous eyes which seemed of impossibly different colours, one green and one brown, a noble forehead with a quantity of wild hair rising up from it in a kind of thicket. She wore a purple overall with blotches of day on it, and Tommy noticed that the hand that held the door open was one of exceeding beauty of structure.
‘Oh,’ she said. Her voice was deep and rather attractive.
‘What is it? I’m busy.’ ‘Mrs Boscowan?’ ‘Yes. What do you want?’ ‘My name’s Beresford. I wondered if I might speak to you for a few moments.’ ‘I don’t know. Really, must you? WhaC is it – something about a picture?’ Her eye had gone to what he held under his arm.
‘Yes. It’s something to do with one of your husband’s pictures.’ ‘Do you want to sell it? I’ve got plenty of his pictures. I don’t want to buy any more of them. Take it to one of these galleries or something. They’re beginning to buy him now. You don’t look as though you needed to sell pictures.’ ‘Oh no, I don’t want to sell anything.’ Tommy felt extraordinary difficulty in talking to this particular woman. Her eyes, unmatching though they were, were very frae eyes and they were looking now over his shoulder down the street with an air of some peculiar interest at something in the far distance.
‘Please,’ said Tommy. ‘I wish you would let me come in. It’s so difficult to explain.’ ‘If you’re a painter I don’t want to talk to you,’ said Mrs Boscowan. ‘I fund painters very boring always.’ ‘I’m not a painter.’ Well, you don t look like one, certainly.’ Her eyes raked him up and down. ‘You look more like a civil servant,’ she said disapprovingly.
‘Can I come in, Mrs Boscowan?’ ‘I’m not sure. Wait.’ She shut the door rather abruptly. Tommy waited. After about four minutes had passed the door opened again.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can come in.’ She led him through the doorway, up a narrow staircase and into the large studio. In a corner of it there was a figure and various implements standing by it. Hammers and chisels.