Time passed and no arrest was made. Other matters engaged public
attention, and the Chelsea studio murder gradually dropped out of
sight, occupying less and less space in the press and presently
disappearing altogether.
Between Inspector Grimsby and Moris Klaw a definite breach occurred.
“He’s either bluffing or else hiding something,” the Inspector
declared to me. “Why did he keep that cigarette? What the devil was
the sound he heard, or thought he heard, or pretended he heard? All I
know is that I’ve made a fool of myself. There’s not a ghost of a
clue.”
I was not without sympathy for Grimsby. He had grown so used to
finding his difficulties resolved by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs,
that beyond doubt in the Chelsea case he had promised more than he had
been able to perform, optimistically trusting Klaw to provide light in
the darkness; and the great man had proved to be fallible.
It was a dreadful blow to Detective-Inspector Grimsby, and, I must
confess, a surprise to me. Although I had no definite evidence, I
nevertheless had certain reasons to suppose that Moris Klaw was not
entirely inactive during this time. Twice I met him, accompanied by
the dazzling Isis, in the neighbourhood of Queen’s Hall, and on the
second occasion as he entered a car which was waiting for him:
“Mr. Searles,” he said, “tell him, that Detective Inspector, that all
work and no play makes of Jean a dull fellow. Recommend to him music.
Tell him he should sometimes steal an afternoon and at a concert relax
himself.”
I reported the conversation to Grimsby in due course and had never
seen him more angry.
“He’s pulling my leg!” he said. “It’ll be a long time before I ask him
to help me again. Concerts! What time have _I_ got for concerts?”
Such, then, was the state of affairs at the time that Len Hassett, a
black-and-white artist of my acquaintance whose work was beginning to
attract attention, leased the house and studio of ill-fame where poor
Pyke Webley had met his death.
Hassett was ultra-modern and very morbid, but although he professed to
have taken the place because its murderous atmosphere appealed to him,
I had more than a suspicion that the low rental, consequent upon its
evil reputation, had done much more to influence his decision.
However, in due course I received an invitation to the house-warming,
and on the same day a telephone message from Moris Klaw.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles,” came his rumbling greeting over the
wires; “it is very wet again. This appalling English climate becomes
disastrous. I have lost in one week two marmosets and a Peruvian
squirrel. They see the fog and rain, they sneeze, they cough, they
die. I have to make to you a request, Mr. Searles: it is that you
secure for myself and Isis the invitation to Mr. Len Hassett’s party
at his new studio.”
“Certainly, Mr. Klaw,” I replied, trying to keep a note of surprise
from my voice; “Hassett and I are old friends. I have only to mention
your name and you will be heartily welcomed.”
That Isis would be welcome I did not doubt, but, mentally picturing
the eccentric figure of Moris Klaw at such a gathering, I could not
deny that it seemed out of place. However, I doubted not that some
purpose deeper than amusement underlay the request, and the matter was
arranged accordingly.
Moris Klaw called for me in a Daimler, wherein, queenly, Isis reclined
in an ermine cloak. I think I had never before become so fully
conscious of the mystery enshrouding the life of this oddly assorted
pair as I did during that drive to Chelsea.
Who, I asked myself, was Moris Klaw, the inscrutable genius who so
gladly offered his services to the guardians of law and order?--who
dealt in beasts and birds and reptiles, old furniture and fusty
books?--who lived in one of the most unsavoury quarters of
London?--whose daughter was an unchallenged beauty, possessed of
clothes and jewels which never were purchased out of the profits of
the Wapping business? My reflections, however, availed me nothing.
Arrived at Chelsea, we met our host in the lounge hall of the house,
and, introductions being over and the beauty of Isis having annoyed
every other pretty woman in the place, I presently found myself
escorting Morris Klaw’s daughter through the garden to the studio,
whither some of the party had preceded us. We paused for a moment and
looked in at the window.
A group of a dozen people or so gathered around the piano at the
farther end of the place; but, nearer to us, seated in a high armchair
before the blazing fire and caressing a black cat which rested upon
his knee, was a strange-looking, gaunt-faced man. Upon his harsh
features the dancing firelight painted odd shadows, so that at one
moment it was a smiling, benevolent face, and, in the next, the face
of a devil.
It was a mere illusion, of course, but when I turned again to Isis and
we proceeded toward the door, I saw her biting her lip in sudden
agitation, and:
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied--“but what a queer-looking man that was sitting
before the fire.”
Presently we met him, however, as well as the black cat (which proved
to belong to Len Hassett). He was Serg Skobolov, a Russian pianist
whose reputation was growing by leaps and bounds. Upon Isis his
curious small eyes rested greedily; and that she was repelled, the
girl was unable to disguise. In due course, when the merriment was in
full swing, there were songs, and a certain amount of dancing took
place; and then melting at the right moment to the entreaties of
Hassett, Skobolov agreed to play.
“You know,” said a lady journalist who was sitting on the floor near
me, “Skobolov has composed numerous works but not one of them is
published.”
“Ah!” came a hoarse whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Moris
Klaw standing in the shadow behind us. “How strange! Does he refuse
then to publish his compositions?”
“Absolutely,” the lady declared earnestly. “He maintains that no one
else could play them.”
“Is that so?” wheezed Moris Klaw. “Perhaps he is right. Presently we
shall hear and judge for ourselves.”
He became silent, as the pianist, seating himself, began to speak:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his broken English, “you know that
the friend of us all, our good Hassett, takes this studio because it
is haunted. Here, murder is done, yes, and so I shall play to you a
prelude newly composed in which--it is appropriate--I try to express
in music the lust of slaying.”
He paused amid an uncomfortable silence, and then:
“Some of you must know,” he resumed, “that all my compositions are
emotions, attempts to paint in chords things experienced. Some
experiences one cannot have and so can never paint--for atmosphere,
atmosphere, is everything! Now I shall paint for you the story of this
studio.”
With that, he began to play; and although I had never heard him
before, I realized from the outset that he was a master of his
instrument. Indeed, I thought, a genius. His theme and its treatment
alike were unusual, grotesque. There was some quality in the man’s
technique which I found myself unable to define. He possessed uncanny
power. When, at last, the prelude ended, it was greeted by a silence
more eloquent than any applause.
It was only momentary, of course. Then came a wild outburst of
enthusiasm. Yet it had been long enough, that moment of stillness, for
me to hear the squirting of Moris Klaw’s scent spray immediately
behind me. And when at last the clapping and shouting died down:
“That prelude,” came his voice, almost in my ear, “it has a bad smell.
Soon, Isis my child, we must go. It grows late. But perhaps Mr.
Hassett will permit me to telephone to my chauffeur, as I allow him to
go away? It is all right? Very well. How wonderful is that prelude.”
V
Skobolov’s attentions to Isis Klaw became very marked. Presently,
following some whispered words from her father, I noticed with
surprise that she had ceased to avoid the Russian pianist, indeed was
consenting to smile upon him. Hence, when presently Moris Klaw’s car
arrived, I was prepared for Skobolov’s acceptance of an offer of a
lift as far as his hotel.
For my own part I confess quite frankly that I disliked the man. I had
disliked him on sight, and nearer acquaintance did nothing to dispel
that first impression. That Isis disliked him, also, I could not
doubt. Therefore I divined that she was playing a part, although its
purpose defeated my imagination.
Throughout the drive from Chelsea to the hotel Moris Klaw discussed
music, a subject with which I had not hitherto believed him to be
acquainted. Perhaps his intention was to exhibit Skobolov’s intense
egotism, for indeed the man was a monument to his own colossal vanity.
His genius I could not dispute, but his personality was detestable.
I had foreseen that he would try to detain the party at his hotel, or,
rather, that he would try to detain Isis. (I had no doubt whatever
that he would gladly have excused both Moris Klaw and myself.) But I
had not been prepared for Klaw’s acceptance of the offer. However, as
we descended from the car and I hesitated whether to accept Skobolov’s
grudging inclusion of myself in the party, or to walk home, I detected
an unmistakable expression in Moris Klaw’s queer eyes, twinkling
behind the pebbles of his pince-nez.
Suddenly the fact came home to me that I was a minor actor in some
mysterious comedy directed by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs.
The Russian occupied a luxurious suite, and Moris Klaw, with
reluctance which I could see to be feigned, agreed at Skobolov’s
pressing invitation to drink one glass of wine and then to depart for
home.
Skobolov did his best to make himself agreeable, proffering cigars and
cigarettes, and opening a bottle of Bollinger. Moris Klaw and I
declined to smoke, but Isis accepted a cigarette and lay back in a
deep lounge chair blowing smoke rings and watching the vainglorious
Russian musician through half-lowered lashes.
There was a grand piano in the room, and Moris Klaw, who had not
touched his wine, prevailed upon Skobolov to play for us once more the
prelude which we had heard at Hassett’s studio.
The pianist shrugged, glanced at Isis, and then seated himself at the
instrument. Placing his cigarette in a little ashtray, he laid his
fingers caressingly on the keyboard, and once more my soul was
harrowed by those indescribable strains.
As the sound of the last chord died away:
“Good,” said Moris Klaw, “excellent, most excellent. And now,
please”--he stood up--“I am an old nuisance, an absent old foolish. Do
you object that I telephone to my chauffeur? I just remember that Isis
leaves her ermine cloak in the car. Is it not so, my child?”
“Good heavens, yes!” Isis exclaimed.
He crossed the room to the telephone, circling ungainly around the
piano, raised the instrument, and:
“Will you be pleased to ask Mr. Moris Klaw’s chauffeur to bring in
from the car the cloak,” he said, distinctly. “Yes, all right, very
well.” He hung up the receiver and turned to face us again, shrugging
his shoulders. “So greatly tempting,” he explained, “to some prowler
thief.”
I now became aware that Isis had suddenly grown very pale. She had
stood up and was watching Skobolov intently. He seemed rather to be
enjoying the scrutiny of her fine dark eyes--when there came a
peremptory rap upon the door.
“Come in!” said the Russian sharply.
The door opened--and Detective-Inspector Grimsby stood on the
threshold!
Moris Klaw nodded in Skobolov’s direction, and, literally stupefied
with astonishment, I heard Grimsby say:
“Serg Skobolov, I arrest you on a charge of having murdered Mr. Pyke
Webley at his studio on the night of November the fourteenth. I must
warn you----” But he got no further.
Uttering a sound which I can only describe as the roar of a wild
beast, Skobolov leapt upon him, clasped his hands about the speaker’s
throat, and hurled him to the floor!
To Moris Klaw, Grimsby owed his life. The Russian was kneeling on the
detective’s chest and literally squeezing life out of him, when Klaw,
surprisingly agile, sprang forward. He stooped over the would-be
murderer and performed some simple operation which threw Skobolov upon
his back.
In two seconds the madman was up again; and, even now, I sometimes see
in my dreams that devil face, transfigured by such evil as I could not
have supposed to reside in any human being. He opened and closed his
hands in a horrible, writhing, suggestive movement, looked at Grimsby
who was trying slowly, painfully to struggle to his feet, looked at
Isis, looked at Moris Klaw, looked at myself. Then, bursting into
peals of laughter, he ran to the French windows, threw one open,
sprang on to the parapet outside, and uttering one final frenzied
shriek, leapt into the courtyard sixty feet below!