Many times Moris Klaw knocked upon the door of the house in Clapham
Old Town, a small one, standing well back from the roadway. Within we
could hear someone coughing.
Then the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man appeared who must
have stood some six feet three inches. He had finely chiselled
features, was clean-shaven, and wore pince-nez.
Klaw said a thing that had a surprising effect.
“What!” he rumbled, “has Nina caught cold?”
The other glared, with a sudden savagery coming into his eyes, fell
back a step, and clenched his great fists.
“Enough, Jean Colette!” said Morris Klaw, “you do not know me, but I
know you. Attempt no tricks, or it is the police and not a meddlesome,
harmless old fool who will come. Enter, Jean! We follow.”
For a moment longer the big man hesitated, and I saw the shadows of
alternate resolves passing across his fine features. Then clearly he
saw that surrender was inevitable, shrugged his shoulders, and stared
hard at my companion.
“Enter, messieurs,” he said, with a marked French accent.
He said no more, but led the way into a long, bare room at the rear of
the house. To term the apartment a laboratory would be correct but not
inclusive; for it was, in addition, a studio and a workshop. Glancing
rapidly around him, Moris Klaw asked, “Where is it?”
The man’s face was a study as he stood before us, looking from one to
the other. Then a peculiar smile, indescribably winning, played around
his lips. “You are very clever, and I know when I am beaten,” he
remarked; “but had you come four hours later it would have been one
hour too late.”
He strode up the room to where a tall screen stood, and, seizing it by
the top, hurled it to the ground.
Behind, on a model’s dais, reclined the statue of Nicris, in a low
chair!
“You have already removed the girdle and one of the anklets,” rumbled
Klaw.
This was true. Indeed, it now became evident that the man had been
interrupted in his task by our arrival. Opening a leather case that
stood upon the floor by the dais, he produced the missing ornaments.
“What action is to be taken, messieurs?” he asked, quietly.
“No action, Jean,” replied Moris Klaw. “It is impossible, you see. But
why did you delay so long?”
The other’s reply was unexpected.
“It is a task demanding much time and care, if the statue is not to be
ruined; otherwise I should have performed it in Mr. Paxton’s studio
instead of going to the trouble of removing the figure--and---- Nina’s
condition has caused me grave anxiety throughout the night.” He stared
hard at Moris Klaw. We could hear the sound of coughing from some room
hard by. “Who are you, m’sieur?” he asked, pointedly.
“An old fool who knew Nina when she posed at Julien’s, Jean,” was the
reply, “and who knew you, also, in Paris.”
V
Paxton, Coram, myself, and Moris Klaw sat in the studio, and all of us
gazed reflectively at the recovered statue.
“It was so evident,” explained Klaw, “that, since you were absent from
here but thirty seconds, for any one to have removed the statue during
that time was out of the question.”
“But someone did----”
“Not during that time,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Nicris was removed whilst
you all made merry within the house!”
“But, my dear Mr. Klaw, Searles, Coram, and I saw the statue long
after that--some time about one o’clock!”
“Wrong, my friend! You saw the _model!_”
“What! Nina?”
“Madame Colette, whom you knew in Paris as Nina--yes! Listen--when I
drop off to sleep here and dream that I am afraid for what may happen
to some very large man, I dream, also, that I fear to be _touched!_ I
look down at myself, and I am beautiful! I am ivory of limb and decked
with gold! I creep, so cautiously, out of the studio (in my
dream--_you_ would call it a dream), and I know, when I wake, that I
must have been Nicris! Ah, you wonder! Listen.
“At about midnight, whilst your party is amiable together, comes one,
Jean Colette, a clever scamp from that metropolis of such perverted
genius--Paris. Into Doctor Gleeson’s he goes, supporting Madame--your
model. This is seen by Constable Freeman. When the trees hide them
they climb over the fence into the lane and over the wall into your
garden. Nina has a cast of the studio key. How easy for her to get it!
“Jean, a clever rogue with his hands, and a man who promised to be,
once, a great artist, detaches the figure from the throne and arrays
it as Madame--in Madame’s outer garb! Beneath her cloak, Madame is
Nicris--with copies of the jewels and all complete. He is clever, this
Jean! He is, too, a man of vast strength--a modern Crotonian Milo. Not
only does he carry that great piece of ivory from the studio, he lifts
it over the wall--did Madame assist?--and into Doctor Gleeson’s drive.
He bears it to the gate, wrapped in Nina’s furs. He calls a policeman!
Ah, genius is here! He gives the wrong address. He is as cool as an
orange!
“Do they escape now? Not so! He sees that you, finding Nicris missing,
will apply to the point-policeman and get hold upon a thread. He says,
‘I will make it to appear that the robbery took place at a later time.
I will thus gain hours! Another policeman will be on duty when the
discovery is made; he will know nothing.’ He leaves Nina to pretend to
be Nicris!
“Ah! she has courage, but her fears are many. Most of all she dreads
that you will _touch_ her! You do not. And Jean, the ivory statue safe
at Clapham, returns for Nina. He comes into the doctor’s drive by the
farther gate--where the point-policeman cannot see him. He wears
rubber shoes. He mounts to the studio roof. He lies flat upon the
ledge above the door. His voice is falsetto. He calls, ‘Nicris!’
“Presently, you come out. You peep over the wall. Ah! out, also, is
Madame! She stretches up her white arms--so like the real ivory!--he
stretches down his steel hands. He raises her beside him! Name of a
dog, he is strong!
“Why to the roof and not over the wall? The path is of gravel and her
feet are bare. On the roof, to prove me correct, upon the grime are
marks of small bare feet; are marks of men’s rubber shoes; are,
halfway along, marks of smaller rubber shoes--which he had brought for
Nina. He has forethought. They retire by the farther gate of your
neighbour’s drive.
“No doubt he bring her furs as well--no doubt. But she contracts a
chill, no wonder! Ah! he is cool, he is daring, he is a great man----”
A maid entered the studio.
“A gentleman to see you, sir.”
“Ask him to come along here.”
A short interval--and Jean Colette entered, hat in hand!
“These two wedges, m’sieur”--he bowed to Paxton--“which help to attach
the girdle. I forgot to return them. Adieu!”
He placed the wedges on a table and, amid a dramatic silence,
withdrew.
Moris Klaw took out the cylindrical scent spray from the lining of the
brown bowler.
“A true touch of Paris!” he rumbled. “Did I not say he was a great
man?”
FIFTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE BLUE RAJAH
I
Inspector Grimsby called upon me one evening, wearing a great
glumness of countenance.
“Look here,” said he, “I’m in a bit of a corner. You’ll have heard
that a committee of commercial magnates has been formed to buy, and on
behalf of the City of London to present to the Crown, the big Indian
diamond?”