At half after eight we sat down to dinner. Indiman, of course, took the
head of the table, and opposite him, propped up on the arms of an
enormous "bishop's chair" of Flemish oak, was Lely's portrait of the
"Red Duchess." What a glorious picture it was, in the masterly sweep of
its lines, in the splendor of its incomparable coloring! The jagged
edges of the canvas showed plainly where the vandal knife had passed,
separating the painting from its frame. But the really big thing is
always independent of its cadre; one hardly noticed the mutilation, and
then immediately forgot about it.
I had been honored with a seat at the lady's right hand, and opposite
me a fourth cover had been laid. Indiman noticed my look of inquiry.
"Only one of my fancies," he explained, smiling. "I always make
provision for the unexpected guest. Who knows what supperless angels
may be hovering around?"
We were hardly at the soup before a servant brought in a card.
"Roger W. Blake," read Indiman, aloud. "An honest-enough-sounding name.
Is the gentleman in evening dress, Bolder?"
"No, sir; I don't think so, sir."
"Hym! That is unfortunate. Still, if Madame la Duchesse will permit,
and you, Thorp, have no objection--Good! Ask Mr. Blake to do me the
favor of joining us at dinner."
A few minutes later Mr. Roger Blake appeared at the door of the
dining-room. He was a young man with a profusion of fair hair and a
good deal of color, the latter heightened considerably by the somewhat
embarrassing circumstances attending his introduction. But Indiman
relieved the situation immediately, going forward and greeting the new
guest with unaffected cordiality.
"Mr. Blake, is it? You are very heartily welcome, I assure you. Let
Bolder take your hat and stick; indeed, I insist upon it. Allow me now
to present you: Her Grace the Duchess of Lackshire, more generally
known as Lely's 'Red Duchess'--Mr. Roger W. Blake. My friend, Mr.
Thorp--Mr. Blake."
Evidently the young man was not overclear in his own mind as to how it
had all happened, but there he was, sitting bolt upright in the vacant
chair and drinking two glasses of wine in rapid succession to cover his
confusion. A comedy, apparently, but to what purpose? Mr. Blake blushed
painfully, and made no reply to the polite commonplaces that I
ventured; Indiman smiled benevolently upon both of us, and in the most
natural possible manner led the conversation to the subject of
portrait-painting. There was his text before him--the famous "Red
Duchess"--and he talked well. I found myself listening with absorbed
attention, and even the shy Mr. Blake became oblivious of the keener
agonies of self-consciousness. So we went on until the game course had
been removed.
Our host rose to his feet, champagne glass in hand. "Gentlemen," he
said, and we followed his example, Blake managing to upset a decanter
of sherry in the process, "in life and in art--the fairest of her sex.
I give you, gentlemen, 'La Duchesse Rouge.'"
The toast was drunk with becoming decorum. I was about to resume my
seat when I saw that Mr. Blake had screwed himself up to a desperate
decision, and that the climax of the drama was at hand. He was quite
pale, and he stuttered a little as he spoke.
"Very sorry, I--I'm sure," he blurted out, "but you are Mr. In-Indiman?"
"I am, and not in the least sorry for it. Go on."
"It is my d-duty, sir, to place you under arrest for complicity in the
theft of that p-p-picture." Mr. Blake threw back his coat and displayed
a detective's shield attached to an aggressively red suspender brace.
Esper Indiman bowed ironically. "I presume that my presence at Police
Headquarters is necessary?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir. I have a coach in waiting outside, and we will start at
once, if you please." Mr. Blake, under the stimulus of his professional
functions, lost his embarrassed air and became severely business-like
and official. "This gentleman will have to accompany us," he continued,
looking at me.
"The coffee, Bolder," called our host, "and never mind the sweets." I
drank a demi-tasse and lit a cigarette. "Ready," announced Indiman, and
we descended to the coach, Mr. Blake bringing up the rear and carrying
the precious picture enveloped in a silken table-cover.
"What reward is offered, officer?" asked Indiman as the carriage drove
off.
"One hundred thousand dollars, sir. It will be a big thing for me
if--if--" He stopped, a trifle embarrassed.
"Ah, those ifs!" quoted Indiman, musingly.
The chief of the detective bureau received us in his private room. He
listened attentively to Blake's report, but seemed rather puzzled than
gratified by its triumphant peroration. Now the young man felt that he
had done a big thing, and this non-committal attitude of his superior
chagrined him. He unrolled the covering in which the picture had been
wrapped.
"There!" he said, half resentfully. The chief looked carefully at the
picture and turned to Indiman.
"Do you desire to make any explanation, Mr. Indiman, as to how this
picture happens to be in your possession?"
"Certainly," was the prompt reply. "I bought it for a small sum a month
ago on the lower Bowery. The dealer's name was Gregory, I think."
Young Mr. Blake sniffed incredulously. A messenger handed a couple of
telegrams to the chief. He read them with knitted brows and then
touched a call-bell.
"Send in Officer Stone," he ordered.
Mr. Stone immediately made his appearance. In his hand he carried a
flat, square parcel which, in obedience to a further order, he
proceeded to unwrap. I uttered an involuntary cry, for it was nothing
less than a replica of the famous portrait of the "Red Duchess." A
replica, indeed!--it would take an expert to decide which of the two
was the copy; they were absolutely alike, even to the detail of the
rough edges, the marks of the blunted knife.
"This picture was discovered in an art dealer's window on Fourth Avenue
near Twenty-ninth Street," explained the chief of the detective bureau.
"And now kindly listen to these despatches. The first from the chief of
police of New Orleans:
"'Lely portrait discovered in pawn-shop. Officer Smith goes North
to-night to return property and claim reward. J. H. BOWEN."
The other from Pittsburg, in substantially the same language, reports
the finding of the portrait of the 'Red Duchess' in a private gallery.
This fourth picture is also on its way to New York for identification."
We all looked at one another, Blake the picture of puzzled anger and
disappointment. "Which is the true picture?" asked the chief. "Mr.
Indiman, I should be glad of your opinion."
Indiman, who had been examining the canvas held by Stone, answered
quickly: "Neither of these, and it is more than probable that the other
two are also copies by the same hand. Wonderfully well done, too, but
the study of portraiture is a hobby of mine; I have even contemplated a
monograph on the subject, or, more particularly, a hand-book to the
smaller galleries and private collections. But I doubt if I ever do it
now," he concluded, meditatively.
"The 'Red Duchess'?" persisted the chief.
"Of course, I know it perfectly. I won't bore you with technical
explanations, but on the back of the stretcher is the address of the
American art dealer from whom the original canvas was purchased. That
should be enough."
It was as Indiman said; each of the canvas stretchers carried a small
gummed label, the address of a Fulton Street art-supply shop.
"That settles the question," remarked the chief of detectives. "I may
say finally that I have this cable from the Minister of Police at St.
Petersburg, communicated to me through the Russian Consul-General:
"'Lely portrait recovered and replaced in the gallery at the Hermitage.
Withdraw published reward.
"'(Signed) SOBRIESKA.'
"A queer piece of business; but this appears to be the end of it,"
commented the chief. "Needless to say, gentlemen, that you are at
liberty to depart. My apologies for the annoyance to which you have
been subjected."
We all bowed and withdrew to the anteroom. Blake, blushing redly, came
up to Indiman; he began to apologize, stuttering pitiably, but Indiman
cut him short.
"Call up the coach and offer the driver extra fare for the best time
his horses can make to this address." He scribbled the name of the
street and the house number on a leaf torn from his note-book and
handed it to Blake. "Yes, you can come along if you like; it may be the
big thing yet."
As the carriage rolled along Indiman vouchsafed certain explanations.
"As I have already told you," he began, "I bought the picture from a
small dealer in the Bowery. I happened to notice it in his window, and,
the 'Red Duchess' being one of the half-dozen superlative portraits of
the world, I was naturally interested. It was certainly a fine copy,
and I was pleased to get it so cheaply.
"Now there were two or three circumstances connected with my find that
afterwards struck me as peculiar. In the first place it is well known
that permission to copy any of the pictures at the Hermitage Gallery is
very rarely given, and the authorities are particularly averse to
having reproductions made of the Lely portrait. Secondly, why were the
edges of the canvas so curiously serrated, giving the picture the look
of having been hastily cut away from its frame? And, finally, where and
when had this copy been made? for the label of the Fulton Street art
dealer on the back bore the date 1903, and this was the 2d of February
in the same year. Obviously impossible that the artist could have gone
to Russia, painted the picture, and returned with it to New York in a
little over a month.
"Two days later I was walking up Fourth Avenue, through the district
affected by the curio and old-furniture dealers, and I discovered a
replica of my 'Red Duchess' hanging in a shop-window. In every respect
identical, you understand, the two pictures were unquestionably the
work of the same hand. Whose hand?
"Do you remember, Thorp, the name of Clive Richmond? Well, for a year
or two he was the favorite painter of women's portraits here in New
York, hailed as genius and all that. Then suddenly his work began to
fall off in quality; his failures became egregious, and his clients
left him. Shortly after he disappeared; it was the common report that
his misfortunes had affected his reason; there were even hints at
suicide. That was some four or five years ago, and whatever the secret
may be it has been kept faithfully.
"At least I had solved a portion of the problem--it was Clive Richmond
and no other who had painted my copy of the 'Red Duchess.' How do I
know? Well, with the expert it is a matter partly technical but more
largely intuitive. How do you recognize a friend's face? How does the
bank clerk detect the counterfeit bill?
"Now this second copy bore the same ear-marks as the one in my
possession--the edges of the canvas marred and jagged, the Fulton
Street label on the back. What was this mystery?
"Mystery--yes, and behind it the shadow of a crime, of a human tragedy.
Who was to lift the veil? There was but one man--Clive Richmond--who
could answer my question; and where was Clive Richmond? A week later I
found still a third copy of my 'Duchess' over on Sixth Avenue. I had
left my purse at home that morning, and when I went back the next day
to buy the picture it was gone--sold to a stranger. Did I say that I
had missed getting possession of the second picture through the same
sort of contretemps? I never saw either of them again.
"I had written to a friend in Petersburg to make certain inquiries for
me, and his answer confirmed my suspicions. The 'Red Duchess' was not
hanging in its accustomed place at the Hermitage; it was in process of
renovation, according to a statement made by the director of the
gallery.
"That was enough for me. The portrait had been stolen and was probably
in New York at this very moment. Where? Let me first find Clive
Richmond, and I must be quick about it, for once the secret of the
theft got out the detectives would not be long in rounding up the
various purchasers of those wonderfully accurate copies. This morning
the cable brought the news, and at dinner-time Mr. Blake's card was
presented to me. Quick work, Mr. Blake; I congratulate you.
"Here is the letter that I received just before we left my house; you
remember that it had come in the evening mail and been overlooked. I
will read it.
"'DEAR INDIMAN,--There's more in the art business than can be squeezed
out of a color tube, isn't there? But I have the secret now; it was
given me by Lely himself--no less. What a pity it is that I shan't have
the chance to use it, but you and the cognoscenti can fight it out
together. You might bury me decently if you like; you ought to be
willing to do that much, seeing that your critical pronouncements have
been so amply vindicated.