“Excuse me, Mr. Svenson!” Maisie raised her hand to attract the gallery owner as he moved on.
“Ah, Miss…er, Miss…” He turned and smiled, giving additional orders as he approached.
“It’s Miss Dobbs, and this is my colleague, Mr. Beale.”
“Charmed to see you again, and to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beale.” He inclined his head toward Billy and brought his attention back to Maisie. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs? I trust that all is well with our friend Georgina.”
Maisie nodded. “Quite well, though it’s still early days, isn’t it?”
“Yes, poor Nicholas’s death hit Georgie particularly hard.” He paused, then remembering that there was clearly a reason for her visit, spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss Dobbs, but is there something I can assist you with?”
“May we speak in private?”
“Of course.” Svenson held out his hand in the direction of his office, then called to Levitt. “Make sure those gorillas are careful with that portrait!”
The office was, like the gallery, a bright room with white walls and furniture constructed of dark oak and shiny chrome. There was a cocktail cabinet in one corner, a system of filing cabinets in another, and in the center, a large desk with two trays of documents, one on either side of a leather blotting pad. A set of two crystal inkwells was positioned at the top of the pad, along with a matching container with a clutch of fountain pens, each one of a different design. A black telephone was within easy reach. Though there were two chairs in front of the desk, Svenson directed his guests to the right of the door, where a coffee table was surrounded by a matching settee and two chairs in black leather.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”
“First of all, I have to make a confession. My first visit to your gallery was not in the context of my friendship with Georgina. We were, indeed, both at Girton, though her purpose for being in touch with me was in connection with my profession. I am a private inquiry agent, Mr. Svenson, an investigator—”
“But—” The color rose in Svenson’s cheeks as he began to stand.
Maisie smiled. “Let me finish, Mr. Svenson, there is no cause for alarm.” She waited for a second or two, then, satisfied he would not interrupt again, she went on. “Georgina came to me several weeks after Nick’s death, essentially because she felt, in her heart, that his passing was not the result of a simple, unfortunate accident. Given my work, and my reputation, she wanted me to make some inquiries, and to see whether there might be any reason for doubt—she understood that her emotional state might render her unable to see the facts with clarity.” Maisie chose her words with care, so that Svenson felt no undue pressure from the weight they carried—after all, the man in question had died on his premises.
Svenson nodded. “I wish she had confided in me; I could have helped her, poor girl.”
Billy stole a glance at Maisie and raised his eyebrows. Maisie nodded in reply, then continued speaking to Svenson.
“Please, do not take this as an indication of my suspicions or findings, but I do have some questions for you. I understand that you came back to the gallery later in the day that Nick died, to speak to him—is that so?”
Svenson sighed. “Yes, I did. I came back.”
“But you did not tell the police?”
He shrugged, waved his hand to one side as if brushing away a troublesome fly and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, no one asked me. When Mr. Levitt found the body…” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I still cannot believe our beloved Nick is gone. I expect to see him walk in that door at any moment, full of some new idea, a piece finished, a complaint about the manner in which another piece is exhibited.” He paused. “Levitt summoned the police first, then placed a telephone call to my home. I reached the gallery shortly after the detective, Inspector Stratton, who seemed rather annoyed that he had been called to a clear-cut accident. The pathologist made an initial examination and away they all went, taking Nick with them. The silence after they had left was extraordinary. So much activity, then nothing.” He held out his arms. “A man dead and his legacy all around us—it was unbearably strange, such a vacuum.”
“So, you weren’t asked when you last saw Nick, that sort of thing?” Maisie was quick to bring the conversation back to her original question.
“Not specifically. To tell you the truth, I can barely remember. It was such a blur. There was much to do, the family had to be informed, the newspapers contacted, an obituary to compose—I was Nick’s agent, after all.”
“But you saw Nick on the evening of his death, didn’t you?”
Svenson sighed again. “Yes, I did. There was something of a contretemps between Mr. Bradley—who as you know was Nick’s most fervent supporter—and Nick, here in the gallery, earlier in the day. It was in connection with the triptych, a piece that Nick’s secrecy suggested would become a work of significant value and import. Nick, as you have no doubt gathered if you’ve been making inquiries, had announced that the piece would not be put up for sale, would not be offered to Bradley first, as it should have been, by rights. No, out of the blue, Nick declared that the piece would be given to the war museum in Lambeth, and if they weren’t interested, then the Tate or some other such national institution. His decision presented something of an anathema to Bradley, and their words were fierce and heated.”
He had been rubbing his hands together as he spoke, but now he looked up at Maisie, then Billy. “I returned with the express purpose of cooling the eruption, so to speak. It was crucial that the two men remained able to do business, that there was respect on both sides, each for the other. If Nick wanted to make a gift of the piece, all well and good, but I was intent that we should take the appropriate steps toward reconciliation, perhaps by allowing Bradley to purchase the piece, then place it with the museum for permanent exhibition, a bequest in his name. I have brokered such arrangements in the past.”
“And Nick didn’t accept your proposal?”
“Dismissed it immediately. Of course, the budding liaison between Georgie and Bradley did not help matters. Nick was furious with her.”
“Did you enter by the front or back door?”
“I entered by the front.”
“Did you lock the door upon leaving?”
“I…I…” Svenson frowned and fell silent.
“Mr. Svenson, do you remember locking the door?”
He shook his head. “That I do not recall turning the key in the lock does not indicate that I didn’t actually secure the door. It is something I do all the time, it is a habit.” A hint of his Scandinavian accent was revealed as he spoke, indicating to Maisie that he was less than sure of his facts.
Maisie pressed on. “Did you see anyone lingering outside, as you departed the gallery?”
Svenson closed his eyes, his words deliberate, as if trying to remember the details. “I closed the door…raised my umbrella to summon a taxi-cab that had just turned into the street. It was a fortuitous arrival and—”
“Mr. Svenson?”
“Oh, dear. Oh, no!”
“What is it?”
“I rushed to the taxi-cab! It had started to rain again. I didn’t take a second glance at the passenger alighting on the other side of the motor car. I remember thinking that I was glad he or she had stepped via the left-hand door so I could just dive in and be on my way, and—I have now recalled—oh, my dear…. I may not have locked the door. The taxi-cab’s arrival just when I needed it distracted me, made me hurry, I—”