been enabled to keep in touch with the developments of the case, as you
know; and he had noted as a significant fact that the late Mrs. Vernon's
periodical visits to Scotland corresponded, curiously, with those of
Mrs. Leroux to Paris. I don't mean in regard to date; although in one or
two instances (notably Mrs. Vernon's last journey to Scotland, and that
of Mrs. Leroux to Paris), there was similarity even in this particular.
A certain Mr. Debnam--the late Horace Vernon's solicitor--placed an
absurd construction upon this”...
“Do you mean,” interrupted Helen in a strained voice, “that he
insinuated that Mrs. Vernon”...
“He had an idea that she visited Leroux--yes,” replied her father
hastily. “It was one of those absurd and irritating theories, which,
instinctively, we know to be wrong, but which, if asked for evidence, we
cannot hope to PROVE to be wrong.”
“It is outrageous!” cried Helen, her eyes flashing indignantly; “Mr.
Debnam should be ashamed of himself!”
Dr. Cumberly smiled rather sadly.
“In this world,” he said, “we have to count with the Debnams. One's own
private knowledge of a man's character is not worth a brass farthing as
legal evidence. But I am happy to say that Dunbar completely pooh-poohed
the idea.”
“I like Inspector Dunbar!” declared Helen; “he is so strong--a splendid
man!”
Denise Ryland stared at her cynically, but made no remark.
“The inspector and myself,” continued Dr. Cumberly, “attached altogether
a different significance to the circumstances. I am pleased to tell you
that Debnam's unpleasant theories are already proved fallacious; the
case goes deeper, far deeper, than a mere intrigue of that kind. In
short, I am now assured--I cannot, unfortunately, name the source of
my new information--but I am assured, that Mrs. Leroux, as well as Mrs.
Vernon, was addicted to the opium vice.”...
“Oh, my God! how horrible!” whispered Helen.
“A certain notorious character,” resumed Dr. Cumberly...
“Soames!” snapped Denise Ryland. “Since I heard... that man's name I
knew him for... a villain... of the worst possible... description...
imaginable.”
“Soames,” replied Dr. Cumberly, smiling slightly, “was one of the group,
beyond doubt--for I may as well explain that we are dealing with an
elaborate organization; but the chief member, to whom I have referred,
is a greater one than Soames. He is a certain shadowy being, known as
Mr. King.”
“The name on the paper!” said Helen, quickly. “But of course the police
have been looking for Mr. King all along?”
“In a general way--yes; but as we have thousands of Kings in London
alone, the task is a stupendous one. The information which I received
this morning narrows down the search immensely; for it points to Mr.
King being the chief, or president, of a sort of opium syndicate, and,
furthermore, it points to his being a Chinaman.”
“A Chinaman!” cried Denise and Helen together.
“It is not absolutely certain, but it is more than probable. The point
is that Mrs. Leroux has not eloped with some unknown lover; she is in
one of the opium establishments of Mr. King.”
“Do you mean that she is detained there?” asked Helen.
“It appears to me, now, to be certain that she is. My hypothesis is that
she was an habitue of this place, as also was Mrs. Vernon. These
unhappy women, by means of elaborate plans, made on their behalf by the
syndicate, indulged in periodical opium orgies. It was a game well worth
the candle, as the saying goes, from the syndicate's standpoint; for
Mrs. Leroux, alone, has paid no less than a thousand pounds to the opium
group!”
“A thousand pounds!” cried Denise Ryland. “You don't mean to tell me
that that... silly fool... of a man, Harry Leroux... has allowed himself
to be swindled of... all that money?”
“There is not the slightest doubt about it,” Dr. Cumberly assured her;
“he opened a credit to that amount in Paris, and the entire sum has been
absorbed by Mr. King!”
“It's almost incredible!” said Helen.
“I quite agree with you,” replied her father. “Of course, most people
know that there are opium dens in London, as in almost every other big
city, but the existence of these palatial establishments, conducted by
Mr. King, although undoubtedly a fact, is a fact difficult to accept.
It doesn't seem possible that such a place can be conducted secretly;
whereas I am assured that all the efforts of Scotland Yard thus far have
failed to locate the site of the London branch.”
“But surely,” cried Denise Ryland, nostrils dilated indignantly, “some
of the... customers of this... disgusting place... can be followed?”...
“The difficulty is to identify them,” explained Cumberly. “Opium smoking
is essentially a secret vice; a man does not visit an opium den openly
as he would visit his club; and the elaborate precautions adopted by
the women are illustrated in the case of Mrs. Vernon, and in the case of
Mrs. Leroux. It is a pathetic fact almost daily brought home to me, that
women who acquire a drug habit become more rapidly and more entirely
enslaved by it than does a man. It becomes the center of the woman's
existence; it becomes her god: all other claims, social and domestic,
are disregarded. Upon this knowledge, Mr. King has established his
undoubtedly extensive enterprise.”...
Dr. Cumberly stood up.
“I will go down and see Leroux,” he announced quietly. “His sorrow
hitherto has been secondary to his indignation. Possibly ignorance in
this case is preferable to the truth, but nevertheless I am determined
to tell him what I know. Give me ten minutes or so, and then join me.
Are you agreeable?”
“Quite,” said Helen.
Dr. Cumberly departed upon his self-imposed mission.
XXV
FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK
Some ten minutes later, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland were in turn
admitted to Henry Leroux's flat. They found him seated on a couch in
his dining-room, wearing the inevitable dressing-gown. Dr. Cumberly, his
hands clasped behind him, stood looking out of the window.
Leroux's pallor now was most remarkable; his complexion had assumed an
ivory whiteness which lent his face a sort of statuesque beauty. He was
cleanly shaven (somewhat of a novelty), and his hair was brushed back
from his brow. But the dark blue eyes were very tragic.
He rose at sight of his new visitors, and a faint color momentarily
tinged his cheeks. Helen Cumberly grasped his outstretched hand, then
looked away quickly to where her father was standing.
“I almost thought,” said Leroux, “that you had deserted me.”
“No,” said Helen, seeming to speak with an effort--“we--my father,
thought--that you needed quiet.”
Denise Ryland nodded grimly.
“But now,” she said, in her most truculent manner, “we are going to...
drag you out of... your morbid... self... for a change... which you
need... if ever a man... needed it.”
“I have just prescribed a drive,” said Dr. Cumberly, turning to them,
“for to-morrow morning; with lunch at Richmond and a walk across the
park, rejoining the car at the Bushey Gate, and so home to tea.”
Henry Leroux looked eagerly at Helen in silent appeal. He seemed to fear
that she would refuse.
“Do you mean that you have included us in the prescription, father?” she
asked.
“Certainly; you are an essential part of it.”
“It will be fine,” said the girl quietly; “I shall enjoy it.”
“Ah!” said Leroux, with a faint note of contentment in his voice; and he
reseated himself.
There was an interval of somewhat awkward silence, to be broken by
Denise Ryland.
“Dr. Cumberly has told you the news?” she asked, dropping for the moment
her syncopated and pugnacious manner.
Leroux closed his eyes and leant back upon the couch.
“Yes,” he replied. “And to think that I am a useless wreck--a poor
parody of a man--whilst--Mira is... Oh, God! help me!--God help HER!”
He was visibly contending with his emotions; and Helen Cumberly found
herself forced to turn her head aside.
“I have been blind,” continued Leroux, in a forced, monotonous voice.
“That Mira has not--deceived me, in the worst sense of the word, is
in no way due to my care of her. I recognize that, and I accept my
punishment; for I deserved it. But what now overwhelms me is the
knowledge, the frightful knowledge, that in a sense I have misjudged
her, that I have remained here inert, making no effort, thinking her
absence voluntary, whilst--God help her!--she has been”...
“Once again, Leroux,” interrupted Dr. Cumberly, “I must ask you not to
take too black a view. I blame myself more than I blame you, for having
failed to perceive what as an intimate friend I had every opportunity to
perceive; that your wife was acquiring the opium habit. You have told me
that you count her as dead”--he stood beside Leroux, resting both hands
upon the bowed shoulders--“I have not encouraged you to change that
view. One who has cultivated--the--vice, to a point where protracted
absences become necessary--you understand me?--is, so far as my
experience goes”...
“Incurable! I quite understand,” jerked Leroux. “A thousand times better
dead, indeed.”
“The facts as I see them,” resumed the physician, “as I see them, are
these: by some fatality, at present inexplicable, a victim of the opium
syndicate met her death in this flat. Realizing that the inquiries
brought to bear would inevitably lead to the cross-examination of Mrs.
Leroux, the opium syndicate has detained her; was forced to detain her.”
“Where is the place,” began Leroux, in a voice rising higher with every
syllable--“where is the infamous den to which--to which”...
Dr. Cumberly pressed his hands firmly upon the speaker's shoulders.
“It is only a question of time, Leroux,” he said, “and you will have the
satisfaction of knowing that--though at a great cost to yourself--this
dreadful evil has been stamped out, that this yellow peril has been torn
from the heart of society. Now, I must leave you for the present; but
rest assured that everything possible is being done to close the nets
about Mr. King.”
“Ah!” whispered Leroux, “MR. KING!”
“The circle is narrowing,” continued the physician. “I may not divulge
confidences; but a very clever man--the greatest practical criminologist
in Europe--is devoting the whole of his time, night and day, to this
object.”
Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland exhibited a keen interest in the words,
but Leroux, with closed eyes, merely nodded in a dull way. Shortly,
Dr. Cumberly took his departure, and, Helen looking at her companion
interrogatively:--
“I think,” said Denise Ryland, addressing Leroux, “that you should not
over-tax your strength at present.” She walked across to where he sat,
and examined some proofslips lying upon the little table beside the
couch. “'Martin Zeda,'” she said, with a certain high disdain. “Leave
'Martin Zeda' alone for once, and read a really cheerful book!”
Leroux forced a smile to his lips.
“The correction of these proofs,” he said diffidently, “exacts no great
mental strain, but is sufficient to--distract my mind. Work, after all,
is nature's own sedative.”
“I rather agree with Mr. Leroux, Denise,” said Helen;--“and really you
must allow him to know best.”
“Thank you,” said Leroux, meeting her eyes momentarily. “I feared that I
was about to be sent to bed like a naughty boy!”
“I hope it's fine to-morrow,” said Helen rapidly. “A drive to Richmond
will be quite delightful.”
“I think, myself,” agreed Leroux, “that it will hasten my recovery to
breathe the fresh air once again.”
Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what
purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.
“I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon,” she said; “I
am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord's studio. It is sure to
be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho futurists,
you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares imaginable.
One always meets such singular people there, too, and I am honored in
receiving an invitation to represent the Planet!”
“I consider,” said Denise Ryland, head wagging furiously again, “that
the man is... mad. He had an exhibition... in Paris ... and everybody...
laughed at him... simply LAUGHED at him.”
“But financially, he is very successful,” added Helen.
“Financially!” exclaimed Denise Ryland, “FINANCIALLY! To criticize a
man's work... financially, is about as... sensible as... to judge the
Venus... de Milo... by weight!--or to sell the works... of Leonardo...
da Vinci by the... yard! Olaf van Noord is nothing but... a fool... of
the worst possible... description... imaginable.”
“He is at least an entertaining fool!” protested Helen, laughingly.
“A mountebank!” cried Denise Ryland; “a clown... a pantaloon... a whole
family of... idiots... rolled into one!”
“It seems unkind to run away and leave you here--in your loneliness,”
said Helen to Leroux; “but really I must be off to the wilds of
Soho.”...
“To-morrow,” said Leroux, standing up and fixing his eyes upon her
lingeringly, “will be a red-letter day. I have no right to complain,
whilst such good friends remain to me--such true friends.”...
XXVI
“OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES”
A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large and
dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird and
nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre in
the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing the
Press, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering--“advanced” and
unenlightened alike--seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a large
canvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio,
where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.
Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, and
handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace, was
Olaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes to appear
white, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut squarely
all around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He wore a slight
mustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could not
entirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion had the color
and general appearance of drawing-paper, and in his large blue eyes was
an eerie hint of sightlessness. He was attired in a light tweed suit
cut in an American pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a black
French knot.
Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland, advancing
across the floor with the measured gait of a tragic actor. He greeted
them aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of China
tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her gaze swept the
picture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve of the tea.
The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing little
yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but Denise
Ryland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously--and
then replaced it in the box.
“It has a most... egregiously horrible... odor,” she commented.
“They are a special brand,” explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly,
“which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small
percentage of opium.”
“Opium!” exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then at
Helen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some way for
the vices of the painter.
“Yes,” he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door to
greet a new arrival.
“Did you ever in all your life,” said Denise Ryland, glancing about her,
“see such an exhibition... of nightmares?”
Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; the
dauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotous
charcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio were
distinctly “advanced.” But, since the center of interest seemed to be
the large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the edges of the group
of spectators and began to examine this masterpiece. A very puzzled
newspaperman joined them, bending and whispering to Helen Cumberly:
“Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writing
it up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a column--Lord knows
what for!--but I can't see how to handle it except as funny stuff.”
“But, for heaven's sake... what does he... CALL it?” muttered Denise
Ryland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her eyes, and
shifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the canvas.
“'Our Lady of the Poppies,'” replied the journalist. “Do you think it's
intended to mean anything in particular?”
The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily solved.
The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a technical mastery
of the bizarre that had in it something horrible--was a long narrow
room--or, properly, cavern. The walls apparently were hewn from black
rock, and at regular intervals, placed some three feet from these
gleaming walls, uprose slender golden pillars supporting a kind of
fretwork arch which entirely masked the ceiling. The point of sight
adopted by the painter was peculiar. One apparently looked down into
this apartment from some spot elevated fourteen feet or more above the
floor level. The floor, which was black and polished, was strewn with
tiger skins; and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushions
were spread about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied the
visible corners of the place. The lighting was very “advanced”: a lamp,
having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low into
the room and furnished all the illumination.
Three doors were visible; one, directly in line at the further end of
the place, apparently of carved ebony inlaid with ivory; another, on the
right, of lemon wood or something allied to it, and inlaid with a design
in some emerald hued material; with a third, corresponding door, on the
left, just barely visible to the spectator.
Two figures appeared. One was that of a Chinaman in a green robe
scarcely distinguishable from the cushions surrounding him, who crouched
upon the divan to the left of the central door, smoking a long bamboo
pipe. His face was the leering face of a yellow satyr. But, dominating
the composition, and so conceived in form, in color, and in lighting, as
to claim the attention centrally, so that the other extravagant details
became but a setting for it, was another figure.
Upon a slender ivory pedestal crouched a golden dragon, and before the
pedestal was placed a huge Chinese vase of the indeterminate pink
seen in the heart of a rose, and so skilfully colored as to suggest
an internal luminousness. The vase was loaded with a mass of exotic
poppies, a riotous splash of color; whilst beside this vase, and
slightly in front of the pedestal, stood the figure presumably intended
to represent the Lady of the Poppies who gave title to the picture.
The figure was that of an Eastern girl, slight and supple, and
possessing a devilish and forbidding grace. Her short hair formed a
black smudge upon the canvas, and cast a dense shadow upon her face.
The composition was infinitely daring; for out of this shadow shone the
great black eyes, their diablerie most cunningly insinuated; whilst with
a brilliant exclusion of detail--by means of two strokes of the brush
steeped in brightest vermilion, and one seemingly haphazard splash of
dead white--an evil and abandoned smile was made to greet the spectator.
To the waist, the figure was a study in satin nudity, whence, from a
jeweled girdle, light draperies swept downward, covering the feet and
swinging, a shimmering curve out into the foreground of the canvas, the
curve being cut off in its apogee by the gold frame.
Above her head, this girl of demoniacal beauty held a bunch of poppies
seemingly torn from the vase: this, with her left hand; with her right
she pointed, tauntingly, at her beholder.
In comparison with the effected futurism of the other pictures in the
studio, “Our Lady of the Poppies,” beyond question was a great painting.
From a point where the entire composition might be taken in by the eye,
the uncanny scene glowed with highly colored detail; but, exclude the
scheme of the composition, and focus the eye upon any one item--the
golden dragon--the seated Chinaman--the ebony door--the silk-shaded
lamp; it had no detail whatever: one beheld a meaningless mass of
colors. Individually, no one section of the canvas had life, had
meaning; but, as a whole, it glowed, it lived--it was genius. Above all,
it was uncanny.
This, Denise Ryland fully realized, but critics had grown so used to
treating the work of Olaf van Noord as a joke, that “Our Lady of the
Poppies” in all probability would never be judged seriously.
“What does it mean, Mr. van Noord?” asked Helen Cumberly, leaving the
group of worshipers standing hushed in rapture before the canvas and
approaching the painter. “Is there some occult significance in the
title?”
“It is a priestess,” replied the artist, in his dreamy fashion....
“A priestess?”
“A priestess of the temple.”...
Helen Cumberly glanced again at the astonishing picture.
“Do you mean,” she began, “that there is a living original?”
Olaf van Noord bowed absently, and left her side to greet one who at
that moment entered the studio. Something magnetic in the personality
of the newcomer drew all eyes from the canvas to the figure on the
threshold. The artist was removing garish tiger skin furs from the
shoulders of the girl--for the new arrival was a girl, a Eurasian girl.
She wore a tiger skin motor-coat, and a little, close-fitting,
turban-like cap of the same. The coat removed, she stood revealed in a
clinging gown of silk; and her feet were shod in little amber colored
slippers with green buckles. The bodice of her dress opened in a
surprising V, displaying the satin texture of her neck and shoulders,
and enhancing the barbaric character of her appearance. Her jet black
hair was confined by no band or comb, but protruded Bishareen-like
around the shapely head. Without doubt, this was the Lady of the
Poppies--the original of the picture.
“Dear friends,” said Olaf van Noord, taking the girl's hand, and walking
into the studio, “permit me to present my model!”
Following, came a slightly built man who carried himself with a
stoop; an olive faced man, who squinted frightfully, and who dressed
immaculately.
“What a most... EXTRAORDINARY-looking creature!” whispered Denise Ryland
to Helen. “She has undoubted attractions of... a hellish sort... if I
may use... the term.”
“She is the strangest looking girl I have ever seen in my life,” replied
Helen, who found herself unable to turn her eyes away from Olaf van
Noord's model. “Surely she is not a professional model!”
The chatty reporter (his name was Crockett) confided to Helen Cumberly:
“She is not exactly a professional model, I think, Miss Cumberly, but
she is one of the van Noord set, and is often to be seen in the more
exclusive restaurants, and sometimes in the Cafe Royal.”
“She is possibly a member of the theatrical profession?”
“I think not. She is the only really strange figure (if we exclude Olaf)
in this group of poseurs. She is half Burmese, I believe, and a native
of Moulmein.”
“Most EXTRAORDINARY creature!” muttered Denise Ryland, focussing upon
the Eurasian her gold rimmed glasses--“MOST extraordinary.” She glanced
around at the company in general. “I really begin to feel... more and
more as though I were... in a private lunatic... asylum. That picture...
beyond doubt is the work ... of a madman... a perfect... madman!”
“I, also, begin to be conscious of an uncomfortable sensation,” said
Helen, glancing about her almost apprehensively. “Am I dreaming, or did
SOME ONE ELSE enter the studio, immediately behind that girl?”
“A squinting man... yes!”
“But a THIRD person?”
“No, my dear... look for yourself. As you say... you are ... dreaming.
It's not to be wondered... at!”
Helen laughed, but very uneasily. Evidently it had been an illusion, but
an unpleasant illusion; for she should have been prepared to swear that
not two, but THREE people had entered! Moreover, although she was
unable to detect the presence of any third stranger in the studio, the
persuasion that this third person actually was present remained with
her, unaccountably, and uncannily.
The lady of the tiger skins was surrounded by an admiring group of
unusuals, and Helen, who had turned again to the big canvas, suddenly
became aware that the little cross-eyed man was bowing and beaming
radiantly before her.
“May I be allowed,” said Olaf van Noord who stood beside him, “to
present my friend Mr. Gianapolis, my dear Miss Cumberly?”...