by Mike Ashley
“He heard no cry?”
“No; it was not loud enough to be audible from the corner.”
“Lastly,” said Klaw, “have you informed Scotland Yard?”
“No,” answered the sculptor; “nor will the constable lodge information; moreover, I withheld from him the object of my inquiries. If this business gets into the papers I shall be a ruined man!”
“I have hopes,” Klaw assured him, “that it will get in no papers. Let us proceed now to the scene of these wonderful happenings. It is my custom, Mr. Paxton, to lay my old head down upon the scene of a mystery, and from the air I can sometimes recover the key to the labyrinth!”
“So I have heard,” said Paxton.
“You have heard so, yes? You shall see! Lead on, Mr. Paxton! No time must be wasted. I am another like Napoleon, and can sleep on an instant. I do not know insomnia! Lead on. Isis, my child, be careful that it brushes against no object in passing—my odically sterilised cushion!”
We proceeded to the studio.
“I feel that I am responsible for dragging you here at this unearthly hour,” said Paxton to Isis Klaw.
She turned her fine eyes upon him.
“My father is indebted for the opportunity,” she replied; “and since he has need of me, I am here. I, too, am indebted.”
Her supreme self-possession and tone of finality silenced the artist. So far as I could see, everything in the studio was exactly as before, save that Nicris’s throne was vacant. The top of the studio was partially glazed, and Moris Klaw peered up at it earnestly.
“From above,” he rumbled, “I should wish to look down into below. How do I reach it?”
“The only step-ladder is that in the studio,” answered Paxton. “I will bring it out.”
He did so. The grey light of dawn was creeping into the sky and against that sombre background we watched Moris Klaw crawling about the roof like some giant spider.
“Did you find anything?” asked Paxton, anxiously, as the investigator descended.
“I find what I look for,” was the reply; “and no man is entitled to find more. Isis, my child, place that cushion in the ebony chair.”
The girl stepped on to the dais, and disposed the red cushion as directed.
“You see,” explained Moris Klaw, “whoever has robbed you, Mr. Paxton, runs some one great danger, however clever his plans. There is, in every criminal scheme, one little point that only Fate can decide—either to hitch or to smooth out—to bring success and riches or whistling policemen and Brixton Gaol! Upon that so critical point his or her mind will concentrate at the critical moment. The critical moment, here, was that of getting Nicris out of your studio.
“I sleep upon that throne where she reclined—the ivory dancer. This sensitive plate—” he tapped his brow—“will reproduce a negative of that critical moment as it seemed in the mind of the one we look for. Isis, return in the cab that waits and be here again at six o’clock.”
He placed his quaint bowler upon a table and laid beside it his black cloak. Then, a ramshackle figure in shabby tweed, reclined upon the big ebony chair, his head against the cushion.
“Place my cloak about me, Isis.”
The girl did so.
“Good-morning, my child! Good-morning, Mr. Searles! Goodmorning, Mr. Coram and Mr. Paxton!”
He closed his eyes.
“Excuse me,” began Paxton.
Isis placed her finger to her lips, and signed to us to withdraw silently.
“Ssh!” she whispered. “He is asleep!”
III
AT FIVE MINUTES TO SIX SOUNDED ISIS KLAW’S RING UPON THE door bell. Paxton, Coram, and I had spent the interval in discussing the apparently supernatural happening which threatened to wreak the artist’s ruin. Again and again he had asked us: “Should I call in the Scotland Yard people? If Moris Klaw fails, consider the priceless time lost!”
“If Moris Klaw fails,” Coram assured him, “no one else will succeed!”
We admitted Isis, who wore now a smart tweed costume and a fashionable hat. Beyond doubt, Isis Klaw was strikingly beautiful.
At the door of the studio stood her father, staring straight up to the morning sky, as though by astrological arts he hoped to solve the mystery.
“What times does your model come?” he asked, ere Paxton could question him.
“Half-past ten. But, Mr. Klaw—” began our anxious friend.
“Where does it lead to,” Klaw rumbled on, “that lane behind the studio?”
“Tradesmen’s entrance to the next house.”
“Whose house?”
“Dr. Gleeson.”
“M.D.?”
“Yes. But tell me, Mr. Klaw—tell me, have you any clue?”
“My mind, Mr. Paxton, records for me that Nicris was not stolen away, but walked! Plainly, I feel her go tip-toe, tip-toe, so silent and cautious! She is concerned, this barbaric dancing-girl who escapes from your studio, with two things. One is some very big man. She thinks, as she tip-toes, of one very tall; six feet and three inches at least! So it is not of you she thinks, Mr. Paxton. We shall see of whom it is. Tell me the name of your acquaintance, the point-policeman.”
We were all staring at Moris Klaw, spellbound with astonishment. But Paxton managed to mumble—
“James—Constable James.”
“We shall seek him, this James, at the section-house of the police depot,” rumbled Klaw. “Be silent, Mr. Paxton; let no one know of your loss. And hope.”
“I can see no ground for hope!”
“No? But I? I recognise the clue, Mr. Paxton! What a great science is that of mental photography!”
What did he mean? None of us could surmise, and I could see that poor Paxton reposed no faith whatever in the eccentric methods of the investigator. He would have voiced his doubts, I think, but he met a glance from the dark eyes of Isis Klaw which silenced him.
“My child,” said Klaw to his daughter, “take the cushion and return. My negative is a clear one. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” replied Isis with composure.
“Breakfast—” began Paxton, tentatively.
But Moris Klaw waved his hands, and enveloped himself in the big cloak.
“There is no time for such gross matters!” he said. “We are busy.”
From the brown bowler he took out a scent-spray, and bedewed his high, bald forehead with verbena.
“It is exhausting, that odic photography!” he explained.
Shortly afterwards he and I walked around to the local police depot. Something occurred to me, en route.
“By the way,” I said, “what was the other thing of which you spoke? The thing that you declared Nicris to be thinking of, though I don’t understand in the least how one can refer to the ‘thoughts’ of an ivory statue!”
“Ah,” rumbled my companion, “it is something I shall explain later—that other fear of the missing one.”
Arriving at the police depot, “Shall I ask for Constable James?” I said.
“Ah, no,” replied Klaw. “It is for the constable that he relieved at twelve o’clock I am looking.”
Inquiry showed that the latter officer—his name was Freeman—had just entered the section-house. Moris Klaw’s questions elicited the following story—although its bearing upon the matter in hand was not evident to me.
Towards twelve o’clock, that is, shortly before Freeman was relieved, a man, supporting a woman, came down the street and entered the gate of Dr. Gleeson’s house. The woman was enveloped in a huge fur cloak which entirely concealed her face and figure, but from her feeble step the constable judged her to be very ill. Considering the lateness of the hour, also, he concluded that the case must be a serious one; he further supposed the sick woman to be resident in the neighbourhood, since she came on foot.
He had begun to wonder at the length of the consultation, when, nearly an hour later, the man appeared again from the shadows of the drive, still supporting the woman. Pausing at the g
ate he waves his hand to the policeman.
Constable Freeman ran across the road immediately.
“Fetch me a taxicab, officer!” said the stranger, supporting his companion and exhibiting much solicitude.
Freeman promptly ran to the corner of Beira Road, and returned with a cab from the all-night rank.
“Open the door!” directed the man, who was a person of imposing height—some six-feet-three, Freeman averred.
“Ha, ha!” growled Moris Klaw, “six-feet-three! What a wondrous science!”
He seemed triumphant; but I was merely growing more nonplussed.
With that, carefully wrapping the cloak about the woman’s figure, the big man took her up in his arms and placed her inside the cab—the only glimpse of her which the constable obtained being that of a small foot clad in a silk stocking. She had apparently dropped her shoe.
Tenderly assisting her to a corner of the vehicle, the man, having bent and whispered some word of encouragement in her ear, directed the cabman to drive to the Savoy.
“Did you give him your assistance?” asked Moris Klaw.
“No. He did not seem to require it.”
“And the number of the cabman?”
Freeman fetched his notebook and supplied the required information.
“Thank you, Constable Freeman,” said Klaw. “You are a very alert constable. Good-morning, Constable Freeman!”
Again satisfaction beamed from behind my companion’s glasses. But to my eyes the darkness grew momentarily less penetrable. For these inquiries bore upon matters which had occurred prior to twelve o’clock; and, Coram, myself, and Paxton had seen the statue in its usual place considerably after midnight! My brain was in a turmoil.
Said Moris Klaw: “That cab was from the big garage at Brixton. We shall ring up the Brixton garage and learn where the man may be found. Perhaps, if Providence is with us—and Providence is with the right—he has not yet again left home.”
From a public call-office we rang up the garage, and learned that the man we wanted was not due to report for duty until ten o’clock. We experienced some difficulty in obtaining his private address, but finally it was given to us. Thither we hastened, and aroused the man from his bed.
“A big gentleman and a sick lady,” said Moris Klaw, “they hired your cab from Dr. Gleeson’s, near Beira Road, at about twelve o’clock last night, and you drove them to the Savoy Hotel.”
“No, sir. He changed the address afterwards. I’ve been wondering why. I drove him to Number 6A, Rectory Grove, Old Town, Clapham.”
“Was the lady by then recovered—no? Yes?”
“Partly, sir. I heard him talking to her. But he carried her into the house.”
“Ah,” said Moris Klaw, “there is much genius wasted; but what a great science is the science of the mind!”
IV
MANY TIMES MORIS KLAW KNOCKED UPON THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE in Clapham Old Town, a small one standing well back from the roadway. Within we could hear some one coughing.
Then the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man appeared who must have stood some six feet three inches. He had finely chiselled features, was clean-shaven and wore pince-nez.
Klaw said a thing that had a surprising effect.
“What!” he rumbled, “has Nina caught cold?”
The other glared, with a sudden savagery coming into his eyes, fell back a step, and clenched his great fists.
“Enough, Jean Colette!” said Moris Klaw, “you do not know me, but I know you. Attempt no tricks, or it is the police and not a meddlesome, harmless old fool who will come. Enter, Jean! We follow.”
For a moment longer the big man hesitated, and I saw the shadows of alternate resolves passing across his fine features. Then clearly he saw that surrender was inevitable, shrugged his shoulders, and stared hard at my companion.
“Enter, messieurs,” he said, with a marked French accent.
He said no more, but led the way into a long, bare room at the rear of the house. To term the apartment a laboratory would be correct but not inclusive; for it was, in addition, a studio and a workshop. Glancing rapidly around him, Moris Klaw asked: “Where is it?”
The man’s face was a study as he stood before us, looking from one to the other. Then a peculiar smile, indescribably winning, played around his lips. “You are very clever, and I know when I am beaten,” he remarked; “but had you come four hours later it would have been one hour too late.”
He strode up the room to where a tall screen stood, and, seizing it by the top, hurled it to the ground.
Behind, on a model’s dais, reclined the statue of Nicris, in a low chair!
“You have already removed the girdle and one of the anklets,” rumbled Klaw.
This was true. Indeed, it now became evident that the man had been interrupted in his task by our arrival. Opening a leather case that stood upon the floor by the dais, he produced the missing ornaments.
“What action is to be taken, messieurs?” he asked, quietly.
“No action, Jean,” replied Moris Klaw. “It is impossible, you see. But why did you delay so long?”
The other’s reply was unexpected.
“It is a task demanding much time and care, if the statue is not to be ruined; otherwise I should have performed it in Mr. Paxton’s studio instead of going to the trouble of removing the figure—and—Nina’s condition has caused me grave anxiety throughout the night.” He stared hard at Moris Klaw. We could hear the sound of coughing from some room hard by. “Who are you, m’sieur?” he asked pointedly.
“An old fool who knew Nina when she posed at Julien’s, Jean,” was the reply, “and who knew you, also, in Paris.”
V
PAXTON, CORAM, MYSELF, AND MORIS KLAW SAT IN THE STUDIO, and all of us gazed reflectively at the recovered statue.
“It was so evident,” explained Klaw, “that since you were absent from here but thirty seconds, for any one to have removed the statue during that time was out of the question.”
“But some one did—”
“Not during that time,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Nicris was removed whilst you all made merry within the house!”
“But, my dear Mr. Klaw, Searles, Coram and I saw the statue long after that—some time about one o’clock!”
“Wrong, my friend! You saw the model!”
“What! Nina?”
“Madame Colette, whom you knew in Paris as Nina—yes! Listen—when I drop off to sleep here and dream that I am afraid for what may happen to some very large man, I dream, also, that I fear to be touched! I look down at myself, and I am beautiful! I am ivory of limb and decked with gold! I creep, so cautiously, out of the studio (in my dream; you would call it a dream) and I know, when I wake, that I must have been Nicris! Ah, you wonder! Listen.
“At about midnight, whilst your party is amiable together, comes one, Jean Colette, a clever scamp from that metropolis of such perverted genius—Paris. Into Dr. Gleeson’s he goes, supporting Madame—your model. This is seen by Constable Freeman. When the trees hide them they climb over the fence into the lane and over the wall into your garden. Nina has a cast of the studio key. How easy for her to get it!
“Jean, a clever rogue with his hands, and a man who promised to be, once, a great artist, detaches the figure from the throne and arrays it as Madame—in Madam’s outer garb! Beneath her cloak, Madame is Nicris—with copies of the jewels and all complete. He is clever, this Jean! He is, too, a man of vast strength—a modern Crotonian Milo. Not only does he carry that great piece of ivory from the studio, he lifts it over the wall—did Madame assist?—and into Dr. Gleeson’s drive. He bears it to the gate, wrapped in Nina’s furs. He calls a policeman! Ah, genius is here! He gives the wrong address. He is as cool as an orange!
“Do they escape now? Not so! He sees that you, finding Nicris missing, will apply to the point-policeman and get hold upon a thread. He says, ‘I will make it to appear that the robbery took place at a later time. I will thus gain hours! An
other policeman will be on duty when the discovery is made; he will know nothing. He leaves Nina to pretend to be Nicris!
“Ah! she has courage, but her fears are many. Most of all she dreads that you will touch her! You do not. And Jean, the ivory statue safe at Clapham, returns for Nina. He comes into the doctor’s drive by the further gate—where the point-policeman cannot see him. He wears rubber shoes. He mounts to the studio roof. He lies flat upon the ledge above the door. His voice is falsetto. He calls ‘Nicris!’
“Presently, you come out. You peep over the wall. Ah! out, also, is Madame! She stretches up her white arms—so like the real ivory!—he stretches down his steel hands. He raises her beside him! Name of a dog, he is strong!
“Why to the roof and not over the wall? The path is of gravel and her feet are bare. On the roof, to prove me correct, upon the grime are marks of small, bare feet; are marks of men’s rubber shoes; are, half-way along, marks of smaller rubber shoes—which he had brought for Nina. He has forethought. They retire by the further gate of your neighbour’s drive.
“No doubt he bring her furs as well—no doubt. But she contracts a chill, no wonder! Ah! he is cool, he is daring, he is a great man—”
A maid entered the studio.
“A gentleman to see you, sir.”
“Ask him to come along here.”
A short interval—and Jean Colette entered, hat in hand!
“These two wedges, m’sieur—” he bowed to Paxton—“which help to attach the girdle. I forgot to return them. Adieu!”
He placed the wedges on a table, and amid a dramatic silence withdrew.
Moris Klaw took out the cylindrical scent-spray from the lining of the brown bowler.
“A true touch of Paris!” he rumbled. “Did I not say he was a great man?”