A Dramatic Discovery
About eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the third day after the
terrible events of that unforgettable night of the great fog, Marion
and I drew up on our bicycles opposite the studio door. She was now
outwardly quite recovered, excepting as to her left hand, but I
noticed that, as I inserted the key into the door, she cast a quick,
nervous glance up and down the road; and as we passed through the
lobby, she looked down for one moment at the great blood-stain on the
floor and then hastily averted her face.
“Now,” I said, assuming a brisk, cheerful tone, “we must get to work.
Mr. Polton will be here in half an hour and we must be ready to put
his nose on the grindstone at once.”
“Then your nose will have to go on first,” she replied with a smile,
“and so will mine, with two raw apprentices to teach and an important
job waiting to be done. But, dear me! what a lot of trouble I am
giving!”
“Nothing of the kind, Marion,” I exclaimed; “you are a public
benefactor. Polton is delighted at the chance to come here and enlarge
his experience, and as for me——”
“Well? As for you?” She looked at me half-shyly, half-mischievously.
“Go on. You’ve stopped at the most interesting point.”
“I think I had better not,” said I. “We don’t want the forewoman to
get too uppish.”
She laughed softly, and when I had helped her out of her overcoat and
rolled up the sleeve of her one serviceable arm, I went out to the
lobby to stow away the bicycles and lock the outer door. When I
returned, she had got out from the cupboard a large box of flaked
gelatine and a massive spouted bucket which she was filling at the
sink.
“Hadn’t you better explain to me what we are going to do?” I asked.
“Oh, explanations are of no use,” she replied. “You just do as I tell
you and then you will know all about it. This isn’t a school; it’s a
workshop. When we have got the gelatine in to soak, I will show you
how to make a plaster case.”
“It seems to me,” I retorted, “that my instructress has graduated in
the academy of Squeers. ‘W-i-n-d-e-r winder; now go and clean one.’
Isn’t that the method?”
“Apprentices are not allowed to waste time in wrangling,” she
rejoined, severely. “Go and put on one of Daddy’s blouses and I will
set you to work.”
This practical method of instruction justified itself abundantly. The
reasons for each process emerged at once as soon as the process was
completed. And it was withal a pleasant method, for there is no
comradeship so sympathetic as the comradeship of work; nor any which
begets so wholesome and friendly an intimacy. But though there were
playful and frivolous interludes—as when the forewoman’s working hand
became encrusted with clay and had to be cleansed with a sponge by the
apprentice—we worked to such purpose that by the time Mr. Polton was
due, the plaster bust (of which a wax replica was to be made) was
firmly fixed on the work-table on a clay foundation and surrounded by
a carefully levelled platform of clay, in which it was embedded to
half its thickness. I had just finished smoothing the surface when
there came a knock at the outer door; on which Marion started
violently and clutched my arm. But she recovered in a moment, and
exclaimed in a tone of vexation:
“How silly I am! Of course, it is Mr. Polton.”
It was. I found him on the threshold in rapt contemplation of the
knocker, and looking rather like an archdeacon on tour. He greeted me
with a friendly crinkle and I then conducted him into the studio and
presented him to Marion, who shook his hand warmly and thanked him so
profusely for coming to her aid that he was quite abashed. However, he
did not waste time in compliments, but, producing an apron from his
hand-bag, took off his coat, donned the apron, rolled up so sleeves,
and beamed inquiringly at the bust.
“We are going to make a plaster case for the gelatine mould, Mr.
Polton,” Marion explained, and proceeded to a few preliminary
directions, to which the new apprentice listened with respectful
attention. But she had hardly finished when he fell to work with a
quiet, unhurried facility that filled me with envy. He seemed to know
where to find everything. He discovered the waste-paper with which to
cover the model to prevent the clay from sticking to it, he pounced on
the clay bin at the first shot, and when he had built up the shape for
the case, found the plaster-bin, mixing-bowl, and spoon as if he had
been born and bred in the workshop, stopping only for a moment to test
the condition of the gelatine in the bucket.
“Mr. Polton,” Marion said, after watching him for a while, “you are an
impostor—a dreadful impostor. You pretend to come here as an improver,
but you really know all about gelatine moulding; now, don’t you?”
Polton admitted apologetically that he “had done a little in that way.
But,” he added, in extenuation, “I have never done any work in wax.
And, talking of wax, the doctor will be here presently.”
“Dr. Thorndyke?” Marion asked.
“Yes, Miss. He had some business in Holloway, so he thought he would
come on here to make your acquaintance and take a look at the
premises.”
“All the same, Mr. Polton,” said I, “I don’t quite see the connexion
between Dr. Thorndyke and wax.”
He crinkled with a slightly embarrassed air and explained that he must
have been thinking of something that the doctor had said to him; but
his explanations were cut short by a knock at the door.
“That is his knock,” said Polton; and he and I together proceeded to
open the door, when I inducted the distinguished visitor into the
studio and presented him to the presiding goddess. I noticed that each
of them inspected the other with some curiosity, and that the first
impressions appeared to be mutually satisfactory, though Marion was at
first a little overawed by Thorndyke’s impressive personality.
“You mustn’t let me interrupt your work,” the latter said, when the
preliminary politenesses had been exchanged. “I have just come to fill
in Dr. Gray’s outline sketches with details of my own observing. I
wanted to see you—to convert a name into an actual person, to see the
studio for the same reason, and to get as precise a description as
possible of the man whom we are trying to identify. Will it distress
you to recall his appearance?”
She had turned a little pale at the mention of her late assailant, but
she answered stoutly enough: “Not at all; besides, it is necessary.”
“Thank you,” said he; “then I will read out the description that I had
from Dr. Gray, and we will see if you can add anything to it.”
He produced a note-book, from which he read out the particulars that I
had given him, at the conclusion of which he looked at her
inquiringly.
“I think that is all that I remember,” she said. “There was very
little light, and I really only glanced at him.”
Thorndyke looked at her reflectively. “It is a fairly full
description,” said he. “Perhaps the nose is a little sketchy. You
speak of a hooked nose with a high bridge. Was it a curved nose of the
Jewish type, or a squarer, Roman nose?”
“It was rather square in profile; a Wellington nose, but with a rather
broad base. Like a vulture’s beak, and very large.”
“Was it actually a hook-nose? I mean, had it a drooping tip?”
“Yes, the tip projected downwards and it was rather sharp—not
bulbous.”
“And the chin? Should you call it a pronounced or a retreating chin?”
“Oh, it was quite a projecting chin, rather of the Wellington type.”
Thorndyke reflected once more; then, having jotted down the answers to
his questions, he closed the book and returned it to his pocket.
“It is a great thing to have a trained eye,” he remarked. “In your one
glance you saw more than an ordinary person would have noted in a
leisurely inspection in a good light. You have no doubt that you would
know this man again if you should meet him?”
“Not the slightest,” she replied, with a shudder. “I can see him now
if I shut my eyes.”
“Well,” he rejoined, with a smile, “I wouldn’t recall that unpleasant
vision too often, if I were you. And now, may I, without disturbing
you further, just take a look round the premises?”
“But, of course, Dr. Thorndyke,” she replied. “Do exactly what you
please.”
With this permission, he drew away and stood for some moments letting
a very reflective eye travel round the interior; and meanwhile I
watched him curiously and wondered what he had really come for. His
first proceeding was to walk slowly round the studio and examine
closely, one by one, all the casts which hung on pegs. Next, in the
same systematic manner, he inspected all the shelves, mounting a chair
to examine the upper ones. It was after scrutinizing one of the latter
that he turned towards Marion and asked:
“Have you moved these casts lately, Miss D’Arblay?”
“No,” she replied; “so far as I know, they have not been touched for
months.”
“Some one has moved them within the last day or two,” said he.
“Apparently the nocturnal explorer went over the shelves as well as
the cupboard.”
“I wonder why,” said Marion. “There were no moulds on the shelves.”
Thorndyke made no rejoinder, but as he stood on the chair he once more
ran his eye round the studio. Suddenly he stepped down from the chair,
picked it up, carried it over to the tall cupboard, and once more
mounted it. His stature enabled him easily to look over the cornice on
to the top of the cupboard, and it was evident that something there
had attracted his attention.
“Here is a derelict of some sort,” he announced, “which certainly has
not been moved for some months.” As he spoke, he reached over the
cornice into the enclosed space and lifted out an excessively grimy
plaster mask, from which he blew the thick coating of dust, and then
stood for a while looking at it thoughtfully.
“A striking face this,” he remarked, “but not attractive. It rather
suggests a Russian or Polish Jew; do you recognize the person, Miss
D’Arblay?”
He stepped down from the chair, and handed the mask to Marion, who had
advanced to look at it, and who now held it in her hand regarding it
with a frown of perplexity.
“This is very curious,” she said. “I thought I knew all the casts that
have been made here. But I have never seen this one before, and I
don’t know the face. I wonder who he was. It doesn’t look like an
English face, but I should hardly have taken it for the face of a Jew,
with that rather small and nearly straight nose.”
“The East-European Jews are not a very pure breed,” said Thorndyke.
“You will see many a face of that type in Whitechapel High-street and
the Jewish quarters hard by.”
At this point, deserting the work-table, I came and looked over
Marion’s shoulder at the mask which she was holding at arm’s length.
And then I got a surprise of the most singular kind, for I recognized
the face at a glance.
“What is it, Gray?” asked Thorndyke, who had apparently observed my
astonishment.
“This is the most extraordinary coincidence!” I exclaimed. “Do you
remember my speaking to you about a certain Mr. Morris?”
“The dealer in antiques?” he queried.
“Yes. Well, this is his face.”
He regarded me for some moments with a strangely intent expression.
Then he asked: “When you say that this is Morris’ face, do you mean
that it resembles his face, or that you identify it positively?”
“I identify it positively. I can swear to the identity. It isn’t a
face that one would forget. And if any doubt were possible, there is
this hare-lip scar, which you can see quite plainly on the cast.”
“Yes, I noticed that. And Morris has a hare-lip scar, hasn’t he?”
“Yes; and in the same position and of the same character. I think you
can take it as a fact that this cast was undoubtedly taken from
Morris’ face.”
“Which,” said Thorndyke, “is a really important fact and one that is
worth looking into.”
“In what way is it important?” I asked.
“In this respect,” he answered. “This man, Morris, is unknown to Miss
D’Arblay; but he was not unknown to her father. Here we have evidence
that Mr. D’Arblay had dealings with people of whom his daughter had no
knowledge. The circumstances of the murder made it clear that there
must be such people; but here we have proof of their existence, and we
can give to one of them ‘a local habitation and a name.’ And you will
notice that this particular person is a dealer in curios and possibly
in more questionable things. There is just a hint that he may have had
some rather queer acquaintances.”
“He seemed to have had rather a fancy for plaster masks,” I remarked.
“I remember that he had one in his shop window.”
“Did your father make many life or death masks as commissions, Miss
D’Arblay?” Thorndyke asked.
“Only one or two, so far as I know,” she replied. “There is very
little demand for portrait masks nowadays. Photography has superseded
them.”
“That is what I should have supposed,” said he. “This would be just a
chance commission. However, as it establishes the fact that this man
Morris was in some way connected with your father, I think I should
like to have a record of his appearance. May I take this mask away
with me to get a photograph of it made? I will take great care of it,
and let you have it back safely.”
“Certainly,” replied Marion; “but why not keep it, if it is of any
interest to you? I have no use for it.”
“That is very good of you,” said he; “and if you will give me some rag
and paper to pack it in, I will take myself off, and leave you to
finish your work in peace.”
Marion took the cast from him, and, having procured some rag and
paper, began very carefully to wrap it up. While she was thus engaged,
Thorndyke stood, letting his eye travel once more round the studio.
“I see,” he remarked, “that you have quite a number of masks moulded
from life, or death. Do I understand that they were not commissions?”
“Very few of them were,” Marion replied. “Most of them were taken from
professional models, but some from acquaintances whom my father bribed
with the gift of a duplicate mask.”
“But why did he make them? They could not have been used for producing
wax faces for the show figures; for you could hardly turn a shop
window into a wax-work exhibition with lifelike portraits of real
persons.”
“No,” Marion agreed, “that wouldn’t do at all. These masks were
principally used for reference as to details of features when my
father was modelling a head in clay. But he did sometimes make moulds
for the wax from these masks, only he obliterated the likeness, so
that the wax face was not a portrait.”
“By working on the wax, I suppose?”
“Yes; or more usually by altering the mask before making the mould. It
is quite easy to alter a face. Let me show you.”
She lifted one of the masks from its peg and laid it on the table.
“You see,” she said, “that this is the face of a young girl—one of my
father’s models. It is a round, smooth, smiling face, with a very
short, weak chin and a projecting upper lip. We can change all that in
a moment.”
She took up a lump of clay and, pinching off a pellet, laid it on the
right cheek-bone and spread it out. Having treated the other side in
the same manner, she rolled an elongated pellet, with which she built
up the lower lip. Then, with a larger pellet, she enlarged the chin
downwards and forwards, and, having added a small touch to each of the
eyebrows, she dipped a sponge in thick clay-water, or “slip,” and
dabbed the mask all over to bring it to a uniform colour.
“There,” she said, “it is very rough, but you see what I mean.”
The result was truly astonishing. The weak, chubby, girlish face had
been changed by these few touches into the strong, coarse face of a
middle-aged woman.
“It really is amazing!” I exclaimed. “It is a perfectly different
face. I wouldn’t have believed that such a thing was possible.”
“It is a most striking and interesting demonstration,” said Thorndyke.
“But yet I don’t know that we need be so surprised. If we consider
that of all the millions of persons in this island alone each one has
a face which is different from any other, and yet that all those faces
are made up of the same anatomical parts, we realize that the
differences which distinguish one face from another must be
excessively subtle and minute.”
“We do,” agreed Marion, “especially when we are modelling a portrait
bust and the likeness won’t come although every part appears to be
correct and all the measurements seem to agree. A true likeness is an
extraordinarily subtle and exact piece of work.”
“So I have always thought,” said Thorndyke. “But I mustn’t delay you
any longer. May I have my precious parcel?”
Marion handed him the not very presentable bundle with a smile and a
bow. He then took his leave of her and I escorted him to the door,
where he paused for a moment as we shook hands.
“You are bearing my advice in mind, I hope, Gray,” he said.
“As to keeping clear of unfrequented places? Yes, I have been very
careful in that respect, and I never go abroad without the pistol. It
is in my hip-pocket now. But I have seen no sign of anything to
justify so much caution. I doubt if our friend is even aware of my
existence, and in any case, I don’t see that he has anything against
me, excepting as Miss D’Arblay’s watch-dog.”
“Don’t be too sure, Gray,” he rejoined earnestly. “There may be
certain little matters that you have overlooked. At any rate, don’t
relax your caution. Give all unfrequented places a wide berth and keep
a bright look-out.”
With this final warning, he turned away and strode off down the road
while I re-entered the studio just in time to see Polton mix the first
bowl of plaster, as Marion, having washed the clay from the
transformed mask, dried it and rehung it on its peg.