THE MECHANICAL CONNOISSEUR
Dr. Leslie, the Coroner, was an old friend of ours with whom we had
co-operated in several cases. When we reached his office we found Dr.
Blythe there already, waiting for us.
"Have you found anything yet?" asked Dr. Blythe with what I felt was
just a trace of professional pique at the fact that neither physician
had been able to shed any light on the case so far.
"I can't say--yet," responded Craig, not noticing Blythe's manner, as
from the piece of tissue paper in which he had wrapped them he produced
the broken bits of bottle.
Carefully he washed off the jagged pieces, as though perhaps some of the
liquid the bottle had contained might have adhered to the glass.
"I suppose you have animals here for experiment?" he asked of Leslie.
The Coroner nodded.
"Chickens?" asked Craig with a broad smile at the double meaning.
"A Leghorn rooster," returned Dr. Leslie with a laugh.
"Good--bring him on," replied Craig briskly.
Quickly Kennedy shot a small quantity of the liquid he had obtained by
washing the bits of glass into the veins of the white Leghorn. Then he
released the rooster, flapping about.
In a corner chanticleer stood, preening his feathers and restoring his
ruffled dignity, while we compared opinions.
"Look!" exclaimed Kennedy a few minutes later, when we had almost
forgotten the rooster.
His bright red comb was now whitish. As we watched, a moment later it
turned dark blue. Otherwise, however, he seemed unaffected.
"What is it?" I asked in amazement, turning to Craig.
"Ergot, I think," he replied tersely. "At least that is one test for its
presence."
"Ergot!" repeated Dr. Leslie, reaching for a book on a shelf above him.
Turning the pages hurriedly, he read, "There has been no experience in
the separation of the constituents of ergot from the organs of the body.
An attempt might be made by the Dragendorff process, but success is
doubtful."
"Dragendorff found it so, at any rate," put in Dr. Blythe positively.
Running his fingers over the backs of the other books, Dr. Leslie
selected another. "It is practically impossible," he read, "to separate
ergot from the tissues so as to identify it."
"Absolutely," asserted Dr. Blythe quickly.
I looked from one physician to the other. Was this the "safe" poison at
last?
Kennedy said nothing and I fell to wondering why, too, Dr. Blythe was so
positive. Was it merely to vindicate his professional pride at the
failure he and the Coroner had had so far with the case?
"I suppose you have no objection to my taking some of this sample of the
contents of the organs of her body, have you?" asked Craig at length of
Dr. Leslie.
"None in the world," replied the Coroner.
Kennedy poured out some of the liquid into a bottle, corked it
carefully, and we stood for a few moments longer chatting over the
developments, or rather lack of developments of the case.
It was late when we returned to our apartment, but the following morning
Kennedy was up long before I was. I knew enough of him, however, to know
that I would find him at his laboratory breakfastless, and my deduction
was correct.
It was not until the forenoon that Craig had completed the work he had
set himself to do as he puzzled over something in the interminable
litter of tubes and jars, bottles and beakers, reagents, solutions, and
precipitates.
"I'm going to drop in at Jacot's," he announced finally, laying off his
threadbare and acid-stained coat and pulling on the clothes more fitted
for civilization.
Having no objection, but quite the contrary, I hastened to accompany
him. Jacot's was a well-known shop. It opened on Fifth Avenue, just a
few feet below the sidewalk, and Jacot himself was a slim Frenchman,
well preserved, faultlessly dressed.
"I am the agent of Mr. Morehouse, the Western mine-owner and
connoisseur," introduced Kennedy, as we entered the shop. "May I look
around?"
"Certainement,--avec plaisir, M'sieur," welcomed the suave dealer, with
both hands interlocked. "In what is Mr. Morehouse most interested? In
pictures? In furniture? In--"
"In almost anything that is rare and beautiful," confided Craig, looking
Jacot squarely in the eye and adding, "and not particular about the
price if he wants a thing, either. But I--I am particular--about one
thing."
Jacot looked up inquiringly.
"A rebate," Kennedy went on insinuatingly, "a commission on
the bill--you understand? The price is immaterial, but not
my--er--commission. Comprenez-vous?"
"Parfaitement," smiled the little Frenchman. "I can arrange all that.
Trust me."
We spent an hour, perhaps, wandering up and down the long aisles of the
store, admiring, half purchasing, absorbing facts about this, that and
the other thing that might captivate the fictitious Mr. Morehouse.
Not satisfied with what was displayed so temptingly in the front of the
store, Kennedy wandered back of a partition apparently in search of some
more choice treasures, before Jacot could stop him. He turned over a
painting that had been placed with its face toward the wall, as if for
protection. I recognized the subject with a start. It was Watteau's
Fete!
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Kennedy in well-feigned ecstasy, just as Jacot
came up.
"Ah, but, M'sieur," interposed the art dealer, "that is only a copy--and
not for sale."
"I believe my friend, Mr. Faber, has a copy," ventured Craig.
"By a Miss Fleming?" asked Jacot quickly, apparently all interest now.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Was Jacot hinting at something known in
the trade?
"Might I photograph some of the things here to show Mr. Morehouse?"
asked Craig a moment later. "I see several things in which I think he
might be interested."
"Surely," answered Jacot, then, after consideration, in which his beady
eye seemed to size up Kennedy, he added, sotto voce, craftily, "Would
Mr. Morehouse be--er--interested in Watteau's Fete?"
My heart almost stopped beating. Were we really on the right track at
last?
Jacot leaned over confidentially to Kennedy and added, "Why not sell as
an original, not this, but another copy--a--a--what you call it?--a
fake?"
I understood. Kennedy, having invited crooked dealing by his remark
about the rake-off, was being approached about another crooked deal.
"A fake Watteau?" he asked, appearing to meet Jacot halfway.
Jacot nodded. "Why not? You know the same Botticelli belongs to
collectors in Philadelphia and Boston; that is, each has a picture and
if one is genuine the other must be a fake. Possibly the artist painted
the same picture twice. Why, M'sieur, there are Rubens, Hals, Van Dycks,
Rembrandts galore in this country that hang also at the same time
abroad." Jacot smiled. "Did you never hear of a picture with a dual
personality?"
Kennedy seemed to consider the idea. "I'll think it over," he remarked
finally, as we prepared to leave, "and let you know when I come back to
snap some of the things for my principal."
"Well--of all brazen crooks!" I sputtered when we had gained Fifth
Avenue.
Kennedy shook his head. "We can't be sure of anything in this game. Does
it occur to you that he might perhaps think he was playing us for
suckers, after all?"
My mind worked rapidly. "And that that picture of Faber's is the real
original, after all?" I asked. "You mean that somehow a copy by Miss
Fleming has come really to Jacot with instructions to palm it off on
some gullible buyer?"
"Frankly, Walter," he said, as we walked along, "I don't know what to
think. You know even the greatest experts sometimes disagree over
questions like this. Well, Walter, art is long and time is fleeting. If
we are ever to settle where that real Watteau is, we shall have to
resort to science, I think."
That afternoon after a trip up to the laboratory, where Craig secured a
peculiar and cumbersome photographic outfit, we at last found ourselves
around at Faber's private gallery. Faber was out, but, true to his
promise, he had left word with his man, who admitted us.
Kennedy set to work immediately, before the painting, placing an
instrument which certainly was not like a regular camera. I was further
astonished, moreover, when Craig set up something back of the canvas,
which he moved away from the wall. As nearly as I could make it out it
consisted of a glass bulb of curious shape. A moment later he attached
the bulb to a wire that connected with a little rheostat or resistance
coil and thence, in turn, to an electric-light socket.
He switched on the electric current and the apparatus behind the picture
began to sputter. I could not see very well what it was, but it looked
as if the bulb was suffused with a peculiar, yellowish-green light,
divided into two hemispheres of different shades. The pungent odor of
ozone from the electric discharge filled the room.
While Kennedy was working, I had noticed a little leather party box
lying on a table, as though it had been forgotten. It was not just the
thing one would expect in Faber's rooms and I looked at it more closely.
On it were the initials "R. T." Had Rita Tourville visited him?
Craig had scarcely finished and was packing up his apparatus when we
heard a noise outside. A second later, Faber himself entered, with Rita,
evidently looking for something.
"Oh, yes, Rita,--here it is. Why, Kennedy--how are you? Did you get your
photograph?"
Kennedy replied that he had, and thanked him.
It was easy to see Rita's pleasure at being with the young connoisseur,
but at the sight of Craig I fancied for a moment that I saw a flash of
that passionate resentment which had caused me to find a resemblance
between the expression of her face and that of De Montespan in the
painting, a hint at what she would do or dare to protect the object of
her affections.
We departed shortly, leaving Rita and Faber deep in the discussion of
some art topic.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we were able to revisit
Jacot's. He received us cordially, but Craig, by a whispered word or
two, was able to postpone the answer to the clever proposal which might
have been a trap prepared for us.
Craig, with a regular camera which he had brought also, set to work
snapping pictures and objects of art with reckless profusion, moving
them about to get a better light and otherwise consuming time.
At last came the opportunity he had been awaiting, when Jacot had a
customer in the front of the store. Quickly he set up the peculiar
apparatus which he had used at Faber's before the copy of the Watteau in
the rear of the shop, switched on the electricity, and amid the
suppressed sputtering duplicated the work I had seen him do before.
As he was packing the apparatus up, I happened to glance toward the
front of the store. There were Leila and Jacot in earnest conversation.
I whispered to Kennedy, and, a moment later, she caught sight of me,
appeared not to recognize me, and left.
Jacot sauntered back to us, I thought, concealing his haste.
Before he could speak, Kennedy asked, "Who was that woman?"
He had finished packing up the apparatus and even if Jacot had heard
something that caused him to change his mind, it was now too late to
stop Kennedy.
"Why," hastened Jacot, apparently frank, "that is the maid of the Miss
Fleming, the artist who has just died. She has come to me to see whether
I can get her a position with another artist."
"I thought I recognized her," remarked Kennedy. "I remember when I saw
her once before that she had on a wedding ring. Doesn't her husband
support her?"
Jacot shrugged his shoulders. "She is looking for another position--that
is all I know," he said simply.
Kennedy picked up his apparatus.
"You will think over my proposition?" asked Jacot, as we left.
"And let you know in a day or two," nodded Kennedy.
As we walked up Fifth Avenue, I confess to have felt all at sea. Who had
the real masterpiece? Was it Faber, or Jacot, or was it someone else? If
Rita had warned Faber against us, and Leila had warned Jacot, which had
copy and which original? Or were they both copies and had the original
been hidden? Had it been stolen for money or had some fiend with a
knowledge of this mysterious ergot stolen it simply for love of art,
stopping not even at murder to get it?