“Well....” Elsa pouted for a moment. “I suppose so. I’d hoped we’d never see her again. All right, just as you say. I’ll just sit around and wait and keep on the watch in case she tries anything.”
Clive gave a somewhat incredulous smile. “What do you imagine she would be likely to try?”
“Anything! A jealous woman doesn’t know any limits. She might even try and ruin that painting of me.”
“I could do another one even if she did.”
Elsa turned away and settled herself on the broad, fabric-covered top of the chesterfield under the main window. She lighted a cigarette and reclined, watching. After a while the superb, partly-draped figure of Barbara came into view again, and although she did not betray herself Elsa had, to silently admit that her own smaller proportions would never have succeeded in duplicating the sweeping curves and graceful lines of Barbara.
Barbara gave one glance of her cynical blue eyes and then took up her position on the platform at the end of the studio.
“‘Water Nymph’?” Clive asked, searching through the canvasses.
“Might as well; it’s the most advanced.”
Clive nodded, found the required canvas and perched it on the easel. He had hardly made three strokes with the brush, however, before there was a sharp rapping on the door.
“Now what?” he demanded irritably, and Barbara glanced round, drawing her draperies closer about her.
“Sounds like Terry,” she said. “I know that triple knock.”
“Whoever you are, come in!” Clive called out, and then waited.
The door handle rattled and a shortish young man with very broad shoulders, dressed in grey, entered. He had dark hair, thickly brilliantined, a sawn-off nose, and an infectious grin.
“Terry,” Barbara commented. “I thought as much.”
From the chesterfield Elsa considered him with languid interest as she smoked.
“’lo, you two,” Terry greeted, grinning. “Up to the old painting game again eh? Can’t think what you see in it. Sooner do acting any time— Oh!” he broke off, catching sight of Elsa. “I should have said you three,” he apologized. “Sorry.”
“Miss Farraday, my fiancée,” Clive introduced. “This is Terry Draycott, Elsa. Remember I mentioned him to you?”
Terry hurried over and shook Elsa’s extended hand, then he gave a somewhat puzzled frown.
“Is there anything wrong in here?” he asked. “Atmosphere seems sort of—chilly. Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” Clive told him frankly. “I’m finishing a painting of Babs. To put it mildly, old man, either get out or dry up. I don’t care which.”
Terry did not seem to hear. He stroked the end of his turned-up nose for a moment and then glanced from Clive to Barbara—and back to Clive again.
“Wait a minute,” he exclaimed. “I missed something. You said ‘fiancée’, didn’t you? Miss Farraday?”
“Well?” Clive looked at him in silent challenge.
“I’m muddled,” Terry confessed. “I thought Babs was the one you were going to—er— Wasn’t it?’ he asked bluntly.
“I never said so,” Clive replied. “In fact I got the impression that you and Babs were ‘that way’ about each other.”
Terry shook his head, his frown changing to a scowl.
“Never. We’re just good friends. Same interests, that’s all. You jumped to conclusions, Clive.”
“So did Babs,” Clive sighed. “Anyway, that’s the way it is. Do you mind if I get on with my job?”
“Eh? Oh, no. Sure—sure.”
Barbara, however, stepped down from her pedestal on the platform, walked into the dressing room for a gown, then came back tying the gown sash about her waist.
“Am I permitted to ask what my model thinks she’s doing?” Clive asked bitterly, waiting.
“I can’t sit there motionless whilst I’m waiting to know why Terry is here,” Barbara answered; and she looked at him questioningly. “Something on your mind, Terry? That why you called?”
“Nothing more than usual. I simply dropped in to know how you’ll be fixed for a date on Sunday afternoon. It’s when we usually go out together, isn’t it? I called at your rooms and they told me you’d probably be here.”
“I’ll be free Sunday,” Barbara replied. “And from the look of things I’ll be free quite a deal once I’ve finished off what I have to do for Clive.”
Terry gave Clive a glance as he lounged near the easel, smoking. Elsa still remained silent, watching.
“To my way of thinking, Clive, you’ve handed Babs a pretty raw deal,” Terry said grimly. “And me too, come to think of it. I’ve held off telling Babs how I really feel about her because I thought you were in earnest—and she thought you were too. I don’t like to see a girl like Babs two-timed.”
“Oh, talk sense, you damned fool!” Clive snapped. “How can you expect me to be responsible for the silly delusions you both had?”
Terry turned to Babs again. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “And be mighty glad to as well. Sunday then, same time.”
She nodded; then when he had got as far as the door Terry paused and turned, feeling in the inside pocket of his jacket. To the surprise of Clive and Elsa he brought into view what appeared to be a beautifully carved dagger with a long, wicked blade.
“All right, don’t get alarmed,” he said dryly, seeing Clive’s look. “It’s only a trick dagger. Babs said she wanted to see it. I’m using it in the play I’m in.”
He went over to Barbara and showed it to her. Suddenly he stabbed at her and the hilt crosspiece apparently struck level with her breast and then the blade jumped out again.
“Mmm, very nice,” she laughed, taking it and studying it. “Spring blade into the hilt, of course? I’ve heard about them and seen cheap ones, but never one as good as this. What do you think of it, Clive?”
“I’m not particularly interested,” he responded. “All I know is that you’re holding up my work. Why the sudden interest in that bit of theatrical property, anyway?”
“Oh, it just happens to fascinate me, that’s all. I’ve seen the play and I just couldn’t believe that such a beautifully made dagger could be phony. Now I’m satisfied.”
She poised it above her palm, drove the knife down, and the odd effect of the hilt on her palm and no blade visible through it made Clive smile a little. He held out his hand and took the knife from her.
“It is tricky at that,” he admitted. “Take a look, Elsa.”
“What good would it do me?” she asked, without stirring.
Clive shrugged and drove the blade at his right hand—then he gave a sharp gasp of anguish, dropped the knife, and, cupped his palm in his left hand. Through his clenched fingers blood suddenly brimmed.
“What in—?” Terry stared blankly as he picked the knife up. “What happened?”
“The damned thing didn’t work!” Clive retorted. “It feels as though I’ve flayed my hand to the bone. You blasted idiot, bringing a fool thing like that in here—!”
He dashed across the studio and into the adjoining dressing room, Elsa fleeing after him. With his free hand he yanked some soft lengths of cloth out of a cupboard and bunched them into his palm, tying them in place.
“Clive, can’t I help—?”
He swung, his face white and taut. “Only a doctor can do that. There’s one down the road. I don’t know what’s happened but my hand just won’t work. Won’t even bend and it’s bleeding like the devil.... I’ll be back,” he finished, and hurried out into the passageway.
Elsa hesitated over following him; then instead she turned back into the studio. She found Terry Draycott examining the knife blade minutely, working it up and down and cleaning it with a duster. Barbara was watching him. They both looked up as Elsa advanced slowly.
“How’s he doing?” Barbara asked quickly. “Was it a bad cut?”
“Bad enough to send him to the doctor,” Elsa answered, her voice stony
. “He says his hand won’t work—the hand he paints with,” she added, her grey eyes glinting.
“I can’t understand what happened,” Terry said worriedly. “The blade works all right now— Look!” He flung the dagger downwards, but instead of it falling flat on the wooden floor the blade jammed again and the weapon swayed back and forth in the boards, transfixed by its point.
“It’s stuck again!” Barbara exclaimed, startled. “Say, that thing’s dangerous. It doesn’t work every time. The spring must be faulty, or something—”
“Get out!” Elsa breathed venomously. “Both of you! Go on—get out!”
Terry stared at her, then at Barbara. Barbara gave a contemptuous smile.
“I’ll go when I’m ready—”
“You’ll go now,” Elsa interrupted, her voice harsh. “What kind of a fool do you think I am? This meeting between you and Terry was deliberately arranged! I’m convinced of it. You had Terry bring that knife, fixed the blade somehow, and when Clive played around with it he damaged himself— So he can’t paint! That’s why! You arranged it deliberately to ruin him and to spite me!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Barbara retorted angrily. “The whole thing was an accident. I didn’t do anything to the blade—and Terry only brought the knife here because I asked him to. Just chance, the way it happened—”
“I don’t believe it. Clear out, the pair of you!”
“If you think I’m going just because you order it you’re crazy,” Barbara declared. “I’m staying right here until Clive comes back and I hear how he is—”
Elsa turned to her big handbag on the table. She snapped it open and then swung round, a small automatic in her hand.
“You’re leaving,” she stated. “Now!”
Terry whipped the knife from the floor, wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and put it back in his inside pocket. He said quietly,
“Well, I’m going anyway. I know which doctor Clive will have gone to. No use staying here, Babs—and that gun’s unhealthy.”
Barbara’s blue eyes gleamed angrily, but she was aware of the logic of Terry’s words. Neither she nor Terry knew exactly what kind of a person Elsa was. She might, in her present mood of cold fury, fire the gun point blank.
“All right,” Barbara said curtly. “I’ll dress.”
“I’ll see that you do,” Elsa snapped, and followed her into the adjoining room.
Barbara wasted no time. She bundled on her clothes, dragged on her coat, and left. Terry was waiting for her in the passage outside. Elsa moved to the door and watched them go down the stairs, then she wandered moodily back into the studio and returned the automatic to her handbag.
Wearily she went to the chesterfield and sank upon it. All the malevolent fury had died now from her expression and instead she seemed almost on the verge of tears. She looked at the half-completed portrait of herself on the easel next to the painting of Barbara, then she sighed and shook her head to herself.
Half an hour passed before Clive returned. His face was grimmer than she had ever seen it, and deathly pale. His right hand had vanished now inside a pile of adding and was supported in a sling.
“Clive—” Elsa hurried over to him and caught his arm. “What did the doctor say? How bad is it?”
He did not answer immediately. He sat down heavily on the chesterfield and passed his tongue over his lips.
“I feel groggy,” he muttered. “There’s some brandy over there in the cupboard— Pour me some out, will you?”
Elsa did so as quickly as she could, and under the influence of the spirit Clive seemed to recover somewhat.
“I—I saw Babs and Terry,” he said. “They were waiting for me outside the doctor’s—”
“Never mind them. What about you?”
“They said you ordered them out, with a gun.” Clive looked at the girl queerly. “I’m glad you did,” he finished, his mouth shutting hard.
“They planned that business deliberately, Clive. I’m convinced of it.”
“So am I. Spite. Nothing else. I told them so, too. If I hadn’t have cut myself so beautifully I think one or other of them would have ‘accidentally’ done it for me. Anything just as long as they ruined me.”
Elsa was silent for a moment, absorbing his words. “Ruined you?” she repeated in a whisper. “But...you’ll get better, surely?”
“I’ve severed one of the main tendons of my hand,” he told her deliberately. “My first and second fingers won’t be any use for painting again. Good as paralyzed. In other words,” he added, speaking into a vast silence, “an artist died this morning, Elsa. I’m washed up. Finished!”
“But—but your other hand?” Elsa cried. “You can use that?”
“Don’t see how I can,” he muttered. “I’ve always worked with my right. I could never begin to do it with my left.”
A slow change came over Elsa’s face, and it was an expression that Clive, studying her with his brows knitted, found impossible to analyze.
“What will you do then?” she asked, her voice brittle.
“I dunno. Anything except paint, I suppose.”
For perhaps half a minute Elsa remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him; then without speaking she suddenly wrenched the engagement ring from her finger and tossed it with a gentle clink on to the table.
“Elsa, what on earth—?” Clive sprang to his feet.
She still said no word. Expressionless, she whipped up her hat and ducked before the wall mirror.
“Elsa, what’s the idea?” Clive gripped her arm and swung her round, staring at her helplessly. “You’re surely not walking out on me?”
“What does it look like?” she asked bitterly. “Where’s the sense of keeping up the pretence? You could have given me fame; now it’s gone. There’s nothing else left, is there?”
“But dearest—”
“I’m glad,” she interrupted, “that I haven’t yet phoned that estate agent to sell my place up. I’m going back home—where I should have stayed in the first place!”
She pulled free of Clive’s grip, whipped up her handbag and coat, and left the studio. Dazed, he stood listening to her feet hurrying down the staircase.
CHAPTER FIVE
Barbara Vane walked with Terry as far as her rooms in Dolphin Street, ten minutes’ distance away. During the journey they had exchanged but few words. Events had happened so swiftly they had neither of them got things into proper focus. Finally it was the girl who spoke first.
“There’s no doubt of one thing, Terry: he thinks the whole thing was deliberately arranged.”
“If he wants to think that, let him,” Terry growled. “We know it wasn’t so our consciences are clear.”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” Barbara insisted. “In spite of all that’s happened and the advent of that Elsa Farraday woman—whom I wouldn’t trust across the street—! I’m still deeply in love with Clive. I wouldn’t hurt him or his work for the world. He’s too fine an artist.... So how do we start to convince him that the whole thing really was an accident? Heaven knows, he needs sympathy after what’s happened. He may be mistaken, but judging from what he said he won’t ever be able to paint again.”
“My suggestion, Babs, after the way he’s thrown you on one side for Miss Farraday, is to leave him severely alone—particularly considering his readiness to think the worst of you.”
“From your point of view that’s natural enough,” Barbara sighed. “But I know him too well. You can’t get the man you love out of your thoughts that easily.... Besides, I want to know if his hand is really as bad as he believes.”
“Which means?” Terry asked quietly.
“I’m going back to the studio, to try and explain matters.”
“And have that woman pull her automatic on you again? Incidentally, I wonder where she got it?”
“No idea, but it was there plain enough. Oh, if only I hadn’t been interested enough in that trick knife to ask you to bring it!
” Barbara exclaimed bitterly. “The hopeless mess it’s made of everything!”
“In a way I’m glad that you did,” Terry responded, thinking. “Otherwise the blade might have jammed whilst I was on the stage and I’d have been hauled up for manslaughter, or something. I’m going to report the dagger the moment I get to the theatre. Anyway, Babs”—and he patted the girl’s arm gently—“I think I know how you feel, and anytime you want me just let me know. You have a good idea how things are with me. I’d like you for my wife any day, ’specially now Clive’s tied himself up otherwise. If you don’t want that—okay. I’ll still be your best friend.”
“Thanks,” the girl murmured, with a faint smile. “You’re a regular fellow, Terry.”
He nodded, raised his hat, and went on his way. Barbara glanced at the door of her rooming house, pondered for several moments, and then with a firming of her jaw retraced her way through Chelsea’s drab streets to Clive’s studio. She went up the stairs quietly so he would have no advance warning of her coming; but to her surprise both studio doors were firmly locked.
She knocked sharply on the main studio door and waited, but there was no response. Disappointed, she turned away and wandered downstairs again, stood for a while at the main entrance door glancing up and down the dreary street. After perhaps ten minutes she glanced at her watch. It was 12:30. Knowing Clive’s habits she was quite certain he would not return until evening.
So it was evening when she tried again—with the same result.
His absence, she realized, was explainable in a dozen different ways, but the part that troubled her was that, as time passed, it would become increasingly difficult to say the things she had planned. The longer she went without seeing him the harder it would be finally to convince him of the mistake he had made concerning her—and Terry.
Reflected Glory Page 4