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Devenish.
The car was Devenish’s.
It was Devenish who’d run when James had come knocking at Golightly’s office.
James rattled the door of the gallery, and then turned to Hartridge, shaking his head. “Locked. And I don’t see any lights on in there.”
“We’ve come straight here from Golightly’s. Devenish would have had to double back to his car after he ran.” Hartridge put his hands on either side of his face and peered through the window into the gloomy depths. “Maybe we got here first.”
James surveyed the street. “He never saw me—he ran before Golightly opened the door—but he knew you were a police officer when you chased him, I’m sure. I don’t know that he’d come back here in a hurry.”
“I was lying about getting a good look at him. I just noticed how on edge Golightly was when I came back in, and somehow the lie just fell out of my mouth.”
“It was a good lie.” James grinned at Hartridge. “It rattled him, all right. He couldn’t tell us what we needed to know fast enough if it would keep his name out of the papers.” He glanced into the unlit interior of the gallery one last time. “Let’s go round the back. See what we can see there.”
They took the alley where Patty Little had been found, coming out into a narrow laneway which James had glanced at quickly the day before, but hadn’t really explored with any thoroughness.
The narrow back lane was surprisingly clean, with less litter and detritus than he was used to seeing. It was only wide enough to allow for a single car, and there was no place to stop and pull to the side or park out of the way.
The bobbies who’d searched it after Patty’s body was found had come up empty-handed.
With a shriek of stiff hinges, a door set close to the corner of the building swung open into the alley, further up from where Patty’s body had been placed.
Mrs. Pinter, the gift shop owner, stepped out, arms full of boxes. She gave a little cry of surprise at the sight of him and dropped them.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Archer. You gave me quite a turn.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Pinter.” James came forward and picked up the boxes that had tumbled to the ground. Hartridge moved across to lift the lid of the big bin set against the wall so he could dump them inside for her.
“What are you doing back here? Looking for clues to do with young Patty’s death?”
“No. We’re looking for Mr. Devenish.”
Mrs. Pinter patted her hair. “He went out just before lunch, so it may be he won’t be back today. He does that sometimes.”
“Takes a half day?” James asked.
“Well, it’s not as if the gallery is particularly busy,” she confided. “I have wondered a time or two if he doesn’t make his money from all the rent he gets, and just keeps the gallery as a vanity project.” She tilted her head toward the gallery side of the building. “He makes something from the painting restorations, I suppose. That dreadful foreign man he hired to do the work is thankfully not a morning person. Still, I don’t know how it can bring in that much. He probably lives off his trust.”
“His trust?” Hartridge asked.
“His father’s Sir Reginald Devenish, you know? Something high up in the civil service. Department of Health, I think. Pots of money. Or, there was, before the war. I rather think death duties put a big dent in their fortune, but you wouldn’t know it to look at Mr. Devenish. His mother, my friend, was a lot less flashy with their money when she was alive, God rest her soul.”
“Did Mr. Devenish live with her?” James asked. “Can you give me the address?”
“Heavens, no. He lives in a flat in North London, I think, but I don’t know where it is. Given how he goes about, it’s probably very high end. His mother and father live near Grosvenor Square.”
“Didn’t you tell me you got a very reasonable rent from Devenish because of your connection to his mother?” James asked.
Mrs. Pinter leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m quite on tenterhooks at the end of each month since his mother died six months ago, waiting for him to give me the flick, so to speak, but so far, he hasn’t even mentioned raising the rent. So I have to give him credit for that, don’t I?”
James murmured agreement. “You said he gets income from all the rent he gets. You’re not his only tenant?”
“Oh, no, dear.” Mrs. Pinter waved an arm. “He owns all the shops on this side of the street. One end to the other.”
A car turned down the back lane, the tires crunching on the rough gravel. James turned to look at it, and Hartridge did the same.