The Master Detective Part 33

"You suggested that perhaps Forbes was not the born artist that Musgrave is. What is your opinion now, Wigan?"

"I am chiefly impressed with the fact that Zena was right when she said the real woman was probably between Forbes's bust and Musgrave's picture."

"And I am chiefly impressed with the fact that they are both great artists," said Quarles. "I said Musgrave was, but I reserved my opinion of Forbes until I had seen this group. It has convinced me. Now, for my idea concerning the dancer. The first germ was in the notion that in Musgrave's picture lay the key to the mystery. Knowing something of the painter's power and ideals, I felt that the portrait must be true from one point of view. What was his standpoint? He explained it to you. He was detached, unbiased, putting on to his canvas that which he saw behind the mere outer mask. When I saw Forbes's bust, one of two things was certain: either he was incapable of seeing below the surface, or in this particular case he was incapable of doing so. I could not decide until I had seen other work of his. To-day I know he is as capable with his chisel as Musgrave is with his brush. You have only to study the standing and crouching figures in the group to see how virile and full of insight he can be."

"But the rec.u.mbent figure--" I began.

"You remember that he said it was idealized," Quarles said. "It is undoubtedly full of--of strength, but for the moment I am more interested in the bust. Why does it differ so widely from Musgrave's portrait? Well, I think Forbes was only capable of seeing Madame Vatrotski like that, and we have to discover the reason."

"Temperament," I suggested. "He said himself he was content as a rule to show the beautiful exterior."

"He also said one or two other interesting things," said Quarles, "For instance, he was certain she was dead, or he would hardly have sold the bust he had executed specially for her. Why was he so certain? Again, he suggested she was French and not Russian, scorned the idea of her being afraid of any one, and altogether he showed rather an intimate knowledge of her, which makes one fancy that she had been more open with him than she had been with others."

"The fact that she was sitting to him might account for that," said Zena.

"One would also expect that it would have made him come forward and give what help he could in clearing up the mystery." Quarles answered; "but he does nothing of the kind. We do not hear that he has used her as a model for his Agricultural group until we hear it casually on the day the bust was exhibited, and he tells us that he did not know of her disappearance until he telephoned to her rooms two days afterwards. Does that sound quite a likely story, Wigan?"

"I think you are building a theory on a frail foundation, Professor."

"It has served its purpose; I have built my theory--the artistic mind fascinated and becoming revengeful in a moment of repulsion. I think Madame Vatrotski had an appointment with Forbes that day, and more, that she kept it."

"Where?"

"At his studio. It may have been to give him a final sitting, or it may have been a lovers' meeting. Forbes could only see her beauty and fascination; he put what he saw into the bust. He loved her with all the unreasoning power that was in him; it is possible that in her limited way she loved him, that he was more to her than all the rest. Then came the sudden revulsion, perhaps because stories concerning her had reached Forbes, stories he was convinced were true. She was alone with him in the studio, and--well, I do not think she left it alive."

"But the body?" I said.

"Always the great difficulty," Quarles returned. "Yesterday I spent an interesting day in Ess.e.x, Wigan, watching the various processes used in making artificial stone, from its liquid and plastic state to its setting into a hard block. I was amazed at what can be done with it."

"You mean that--"

"It is impossible!" Zena exclaimed.

"It is not a very difficult matter to treat a body so as to preserve it, but to cover it with a preparation and with such precision that when it is set you shall see nothing but a stone figure is, of course, only possible to an artist."

"But she had sat for him, the figure must have been far advanced before--before she disappeared."

"I have no doubt it was, Wigan; but, far advanced as it was, that stone figure was removed and replaced by one that only superficially was stone."

"I do not believe it. It is absurd."

"Measurement proved that the rec.u.mbent figure was out of proportion in comparison with the other figures, accounted for by the stone casing. Of course with the secretary there I could not look too closely."

"No, or you would have found--"

"You seem to forget that I went back for my gloves," said Quarles. "I left them on purpose. I ran up to the library; no one was about. I had a chisel and hammer with me. By this time some one may have discovered that the group has been chipped. There are the pieces."

He took from his pocket some fragments of stone, pieces of a stone mold, in fact.

"Whether they will realize what it is that is disclosed where that piece is missing is another matter, but we know, Wigan. It is the body of Madame Vatrotski. Can you wonder, my dear Zena, that I felt more like a little brandy and water than tea?"

How far Quarles was right in his idea of the relations between Forbes and the dancer no one will ever know. When the police went to arrest him he was found dead in his studio. He had shot himself. How had he heard of Quarles's discovery? How did he know that his ingenious method of concealing the body had been found out?

It was so strange that I asked Quarles whether he had warned him.

"Do you think I should be likely to do such a thing?" was his answer.

He would give me no other answer, and all I can say positively is that he has never actually denied it.

CHAPTER X

THE MYSTERY OF THE MAN AT WARBURTON'S

Two days later Zena went to visit friends in the country, and for some weeks I did not go near Chelsea. Quarles was busy with some Psychological Society which was holding a series of meetings in London, and was quite pleased, no doubt, to be without my society for a while.

Except when I have a regular holiday, my leisure hours are limited, but I was taking a night off. It was not because I had nothing to do, but because I had so many things to think of that my brain had become hopelessly muddled in the process, and a few blank hours seemed to be advisable. When this kind of retreat becomes necessary, I invariably find my way to Holborn, to a very plain-fronted establishment there over which is the name Warburton. If you are a gastronomic connoisseur in any way you may know it, for Warburton's is a restaurant where you can get an old-fashioned dinner cooked as nowhere else in London, I believe, and enjoy an old port afterwards which those delightful sinners, our grandfathers, would have sat over half the night, and been pulled out from under the table in the morning perchance. I am not abnormally partial to the pleasures of the table, but I have found a good dinner in combination with first-rate port, rationally dealt with, an excellent tonic for the brain.

I do not suppose any one knew my name at Warburton's, and I have always prided myself on not carrying my profession in my face. The man who dined opposite to me that night possibly began by taking me for a prosperous city man, to whom success had come somewhat early, or perhaps for a barrister, not of the brilliant kind, but of the steady plodders who get there in the end by sheer force of sticking power. I was not in the least interested in him until he spoke to me--asked me to pa.s.s the Worcester sauce, in fact. His voice attracted me, and his hands. It was a voice which sounded out of practise, as if it were seldom used, and his hands were those of an artist. I made some casual remark, complimentary to Warburton's, and we began to talk. He seemed glad to do so, but he spoke with hesitation, not as one who has overcome an impediment in his speech, but as one who had forgotten part of his vocabulary. The reason leaked out presently.

"I wonder whether there is something--how shall I put it?--_simpatica_ between us?" he said suddenly.

"Why the speculation?" I asked.

"Otherwise I cannot think why I am talking so much," he said with a nervous laugh. "I live alone, I hardly know a soul, and all I say in the course of a week could be repeated in two minutes, I suppose."

"Not a healthy existence," I returned.

"It suits me. I dine here most nights; the journey to and fro forms my daily const.i.tutional. You are not a regular customer here?"

"No, an occasional one only. I should guess that you are engaged in artistic work of some kind."

"Right!" he said with a show of excitement. "And when I tell you I live in Gray's Inn do you think you could guess what kind of work it is?"

"That is beyond me," I laughed. "Gray's Inn sounds a curious place for an artist."

"I am an illuminator, not for money, but for my own pleasure. Do you know Italy?"

"No."

"At least you know that some of the old monks spent their hours in wonderful work of this kind, carefully illuminating the texts of works with marvelous design and color. Now and then some special genius arose and became a great fresco painter. Fra Angelico painted pictures for the world to marvel over, while some humbler brother pored over his illuminating. You will find some of this work in the British Museum."

Evidently my newly acquired friend was an eccentric, I thought.

"Pictures have no particular interest for me," he went on; "these illuminated texts have. I am an expert worker myself. First in Italy, now in Gray's Inn."