The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (best thriller novels of all time .TXT) 📗

So do you have reason to think Mr Wilson isn’t as honourable as he appears?’

‘No, of course not. I’m just saying. You never know, do you?’

Conway stood up and paced round the office, his face suggesting he was reflecting on what he had just said. He stopped by a bookcase and distractedly brushed the top of a camera that was sitting on the shelf, as if removing some invisible dust.

‘I told you I’m a photographer, didn’t I?’ he said, picking up the camera and passing it to Jago.

‘I think you said you’re a very good one,’ Jago replied.

‘Ah, yes, well I like to think I am. That’s my Rolleiflex – it’s a Standard, with a Heidoscop Anastigmat 75mm viewing lens. German, of course, but very good. I picked it up second-hand before the war.’

‘It sounds like you have a passion for photography.’

‘I do – I think it’s the greatest invention of the last century. It’s changed the world. I mean, who needs Rembrandt to spend months painting your portrait when a camera can capture a true likeness in one five-hundredth of a second? With photography, everyone can have beautiful pictures in their own home. If we all appreciated art and beauty more, I think the world would be a better place. It’s not musicians and artists who start wars, is it?’

‘Except Hitler, perhaps?’

‘Yes, well, he’s the exception that proves the rule, and I expect he was a very poor painter.’

Jago held the camera in front of his waist and looked down into the viewfinder.

‘But you don’t paint yourself?’ he said.

‘No, I just take pictures. I got the Rolleiflex because it’s what Cecil Beaton uses. I’m a great admirer of his work. I saw some of his fashion photos – beautiful women in beautiful clothes, just like in the movies, and they inspired me.’

‘So is that the kind of photography you aspire to?’

‘Yes. I realise I might’ve sounded a bit vague when I said that envelope of mine in the safe had some personal papers in it, but in fact they were photographs. The thing is, I was going to enter a national photographic competition, and I’d put some of my prints in the safe.’

‘Why? Are they valuable?’

‘They might be one day – it depends whether I manage to establish myself. I may not be Cecil Beaton, and I don’t think I’d want to be a fashion photographer for the rest of my life, but I do have a talent.’

Jago was not surprised that Mr Conway thought he had a talent.

‘So these are fashion photographs?’ he asked.

‘Yes, as far as that’s possible in West Ham. Beautiful clothes are a problem, of course – women round here don’t have the money for them, and neither do I – but there are still beautiful women to be found, and I try to capture the same sort of mood that Beaton had in those pictures of his that I saw. Languid sophistication – I think that’s what I’d call it.’

‘And the competition would help to establish you?’

‘If I win it, yes. Any amateur photographer would be thrilled to win a competition. It’s a recognition of your ability. I’d just like my work to be celebrated by other photographers with more experience than me.’ His voice took on a more urgent tone. ‘Look, Inspector, I think you understand me. I’d like to get those pictures back, so if you find whoever did this and you recover them, could you please return them to me? They were in a plain brown envelope, sealed with red sealing wax. I don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It would spoil my chances in the competition, of course – someone might recognise their quality and enter them as their own work.’

‘I understand. We’ll see what we can do, Mr Conway.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Back to the station now, guv’nor?’ said Cradock, putting the suitcase down as the cinema doors thudded shut behind them.

‘Patience, Peter,’ said Jago. ‘Just one or two little calls to make before we do. There’s one more person I want to show that uniform to.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Carol Hurst. We’ll leave it at the station when we get there, but I want to call in at the bank first. Thanks to Bert Wilson we now know what it is, but I’d still like to know whether it was definitely Richard’s. And what did you make of our Bert? When you suggested he might’ve been in on the job his answer was quite convincing, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. He’d got it all off pat, hadn’t he? As if he’d done all the sums before we came, and learnt it by heart.’

‘He certainly seemed to have something of a gift for arithmetic. And he thought a lot of Joan Lewis, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but then maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d have liked to.’

‘Possibly. Or perhaps he knew more about her than he wished to admit. Mr Conway speaks highly of her too, though, doesn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes, and he’s a good judge of women, isn’t he?’ said Cradock with a stifled laugh. ‘It’s funny what you find out about people, isn’t it?’

‘You mean Sidney Conway as a would-be society photographer sensation?’

‘Exactly.’

‘He’s entitled to his private life, though. And he does seem convinced that photography’s changed the world.’

‘Yes, and I get the impression he thinks he’s going to change the world too. A bit too big for his boots, if you ask me.’

‘Quite. Anyway, I’m not sure we can take what he said about Bert Wilson as a ringing endorsement of his doorman’s integrity, can we?’

‘No. I suppose the fact that a man rescues some people from a bus that’s been bombed doesn’t necessarily make him an angel, especially when temptation comes his way. If deep down he’s dishonest, it’ll come out in the end. You can’t judge a leopard by its spots, can you?’

‘You mean you can’t judge a book by its cover.’

‘Yes, same thing.’

‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ said Jago, a note of exasperation creeping