At five minutes to six sounded Isis Klaw’s ring upon the door bell.
Paxton, Coram, and I had spent the interval in discussing the
apparently supernatural happening which threatened to wreak the
artist’s ruin. Again and again he had asked us, “Should I call in the
Scotland Yard people? If Moris Klaw fails, consider the priceless time
lost!”
“If Moris Klaw fails,” Coram assured him, “no one else will succeed!”
We admitted Isis, who wore now a smart tweed costume and a fashionable
hat. Beyond doubt, Isis Klaw was strikingly beautiful.
At the door of the studio stood her father, staring straight up to the
morning sky, as though by astrological arts he hoped to solve the
mystery.
“What time does your model come?” he asked, ere Paxton could question
him.
“Half-past ten. But, Mr. Klaw----” began our anxious friend.
“Where does it lead to,” Klaw rumbled on, “that lane behind the
studio?”
“Tradesmen’s entrance to the next house.”
“Whose house?”
“Doctor Gleason.”
“M.D.?”
“Yes. But tell me, Mr. Klaw--tell me, have you any clue?”
“My mind, Mr. Paxton, records for me that Nicris was not stolen away,
but _walked!_ Plainly, I feel her go tiptoe, tiptoe, so silent and
cautious! She is concerned, this barbaric dancing girl who escapes
from your studio, with two things. One is some very big man. She
thinks, as she tiptoes, of one very tall: six feet and three inches at
least! So it is not of you she thinks, Mr. Paxton. We shall see of
whom it is. Tell me the name of your acquaintance, the
point-policeman.”
We were all staring at Moris Klaw, spellbound with astonishment. But
Paxton managed to mumble:
“James--Constable James.”
“We shall seek him, this James, at the section house of the police
depot,” rumbled Klaw. “Be silent, Mr. Paxton; let no one know of your
loss. And hope.”
“I can see no ground for hope!”
“No? But I? I recognize the clue, Mr. Paxton! What a great science is
that of mental photography!”
What did he mean? None of us could surmise, and I could see that poor
Paxton reposed no faith whatever in the eccentric methods of the
investigator. He would have voiced his doubts, I think, but he met a
glance from the dark eyes of Isis Klaw which silenced him.
“My child,” said Klaw to his daughter, “take the cushion and return.
My negative is a clear one. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” replied Isis, with composure.
“Breakfast----” began Paxton, tentatively.
But Moris Klaw waved his hands and enveloped himself in the big cloak.
“There is no time for such gross matters!” he said. “We are busy.”
From the brown bowler he took out a scent spray and bedewed his high,
bald forehead with verbena.
“It is exhausting, that odic photography!” he explained.
Shortly afterward he and I walked around to the local police depot.
Something occurred to me, en route.
“By the way,” I said, “what was the other thing of which you spoke?
The thing that you declared Nicris to be thinking of, though I don’t
understand in the least how one can refer to the ‘thoughts’ of an
ivory statue!”
“Ah,” rumbled my companion, “it is something I shall explain
later--that other fear of the missing one.”
Arriving at the police depot, “Shall I ask for Constable James?” I
said.
“Ah, no,” replied Klaw. “It is for the constable that he relieved at
twelve o’clock I am looking.”
Inquiry showed that the latter officer--his name was Freeman--had just
entered the section house. Moris Klaw’s questions elicited the
following story, although its bearing upon the matter in hand was not
evident to me.
Toward twelve o’clock, that is, shortly before Freeman was relieved, a
man, supporting a woman, came down the street and entered the gate of
Doctor Gleeson’s house. The woman was enveloped in a huge fur cloak
which entirely concealed her face and figure, but from her feeble step
the constable judged her to be very ill. Considering the lateness of
the hour, also, he concluded that the case must be a serious one; he
further supposed the sick woman to be resident in the neighbourhood,
since she came on foot.
He had begun to wonder at the length of the consultation, when, nearly
an hour later, the man appeared again from the shadows of the drive,
still supporting the woman. Pausing at the gate he waved his hand to
the policeman.
Constable Freeman ran across the road immediately.
“Fetch me a taxicab, officer!” said the stranger, supporting his
companion and exhibiting much solicitude.
Freeman promptly ran to the corner of Beira Road and returned with a
cab from the all-night rank.
“Open the door!” directed the man, who was a person of imposing
height--some six-feet-three, Freeman averred.
“Ha, ha!” growled Moris Klaw, “six-feet-three! What a wondrous
science!”
He seemed triumphant; but I was merely growing more nonplussed.
With that, carefully wrapping the cloak about the woman’s figure, the
big man took her up in his arms and placed her inside the cab--the
only glimpse of her which the constable obtained being that of a small
foot clad in a silk stocking. She had apparently dropped her shoe.
Tenderly assisting her to a corner of the vehicle, the man, having
bent and whispered some word of encouragement in her ear, directed the
cabman to drive to the Savoy.
“Did you give him your assistance?” asked Moris Klaw.
“No. He did not seem to require it.”
“And the number of the cabman?”
Freeman fetched his notebook and supplied the required information.
“Thank you, Constable Freeman,” said Klaw. “You are a very alert
constable. Good morning, Constable Freeman!”
Again satisfaction beamed from behind my companion’s glasses. But to
my eyes the darkness grew momentarily less penetrable. For these
inquiries bore upon matters which had occurred prior to twelve
o’clock; and, Coram, myself, and Paxton had seen the statue in its
usual place considerably after midnight! My brain was in a turmoil.
Said Moris Klaw: “That cab was from the big garage at Brixton. We
shall ring up the Brixton garage and learn where the man may be found.
Perhaps, if Providence is with us--and Providence is with the
right--he has not yet again left home.”
From a public call office we rang up the garage, and learned that the
man we wanted was not due to report for duty until ten o’clock. We
experienced some difficulty in obtaining his private address, but
finally it was given to us. Thither we hastened, and aroused the man
from his bed.
“A big gentleman and a sick lady,” said Moris Klaw, “they hired your
cab from Doctor Gleeson’s, near Beira Road, at about twelve o’clock
last night, and you drove them to the Savoy Hotel.”
“No, sir. He changed the address afterward. I’ve been wondering why. I
drove him to Number 6A, Rectory Grove, Old Town, Clapham.”
“Was the lady by then recovered--no? Yes?”
“Partly, sir. I heard him talking to her. But he carried her into the
house.”
“Ah,” said Moris Klaw, “there is much genius wasted; but what a great
science is the science of the mind!”