Read Online Richardson's First Case by Basil Thomson - Free Book Online Page A

Foster, I suppose you haven’t had time yet to see the old rascal who sold that picture that we saw in the shop?”
    â€œI called at Elizabeth Buildings this afternoon noon, but the man was out. I’m going on there now.”
    â€œDon’t be hard on him,” pleaded Nan. “He is very poor and miserable. He wasn’t always like that. I knew he was fond of liquor, but when I first began to get him work he took a pull on himself; it’s only within the last three or four months that he’s gone downhill. All we want is to get the picture back for Lady Turnham.”
    â€œNo, I won’t be hard on him, but I must find out how he came to see that picture.”
    They parted with mutual expressions of good will. Foster looked at his watch when he reached the street. Yes, there was still time for another visit to Elizabeth Buildings.
    This time he was more fortunate. A feeble voice replied to his knock, and the door was opened by a scarecrow of a man wearing a dilapidated overcoat over his shirt; apparently he had just risen from the pallet bed in the corner. The room was littered with canvases, pots of paint, and oil and brushes; on the easel stood a canvas half cleaned: it was evident that this broken-down wreck was able still to obtain commissions and that he did sometimes fulfil his engagements, for Foster’s eye was caught by a brown paper parcel of the shape and size of a canvas, lying near the door.
    â€œI must introduce myself, Mr. Cronin. I am Detective Inspector Foster of the Metropolitan Police.” The old man shivered and sat down heavily on the bed. Foster took the only chair. “I have one or two questions to put to you. I think that you were entrusted by Mrs. Kennedy with a Dutch picture to clean. Here is a description of it, as far as it was possible to make out the subject under the layer of old varnish and dirt: it measured forty inches by twenty-three and represented what seemed to be a Dutch village in flames, with a windmill in the background; soldiers in armour are looting the houses and dragging off the women.”
    â€œYes, sir, I know the picture,” faltered the old man. “The subject belonged to the Spanish occupation of the Low Countries. It was a good picture.”
    â€œAnd you admit that it was entrusted to you to clean?”
    â€œYes, sir, but I’ve been so busy these last few weeks—” he waved his hand at the canvases about the room—“that I haven’t had time.”
    â€œYou mean that you have the picture here in this room?”
    â€œWell, no sir, not exactly.”
    â€œThen where is it?” There was no answer. “Where is it?” Foster had dropped his softer manner. “Come, out with it: you must know where it is.”
    There was still no reply. Cronin was shivering, and tears dimmed his eyes. At last he spoke, scarcely above a whisper: “I haven’t been feeling myself, sir, for some weeks past—not eating or sleeping well—and with all this work to do I’ve had to take stimulants. If you want to know the truth, sir—it’s a habit that grows on me.”
    â€œI can see that for myself, but since you won’t tell me where the picture is I’ll tell you. We found it this afternoon in the antique shop in High Street, Marylebone. I suggest to you that you sold it, but before you reply I must caution you that I shall take down in writing what you say, and it may be used against you in any proceedings that may be taken against you for larceny as a bailee.”
    â€œI know I did wrong, sir, but surely Mrs. Kennedy wouldn’t be so cruel as to have me up in court for a thing like that: it was a sudden temptation.”
    â€œYou admit having sold it, then?”
    â€œYes, sir, they told me that the old man who kept the shop had an eye for a good picture and would pay a fair price for it and that he asked no questions. He took it, but he didn’t pay