HE returned to his rooms.
The man who would command events must be able to command sleep. This, at
least, Freyberger was able to do. He cast himself upon his bed, closed
his eyes and was immediately lost in oblivion.
At half-past four he awoke, made himself some coffee, lit a cigar and
fell, for a moment, into meditation. There was one point wanting to him
in the case before it stood absolutely four square and to his
satisfaction.
That point was the proof that the bust of Sir Anthony Gyde was by the
hand of the same sculptor as the bust of M. Lefarge.
It was more than probable that Mademoiselle Lefarge would bring with her
to London this very material piece of evidence. It was in her possession
he knew, for, in the newspaper accounts of the tragedy it was numbered
amidst the _pièces de conviction_, and the statement was made that it
had been returned to the daughter of Lefarge, coupled with the statement
that Mademoiselle Lefarge wept when it was returned to her and expressed
her conviction of her father’s innocence and her determination to devote
her life to the task of clearing his name from the terrible stain upon
it. Antonides alone would be able to decide the question of the artist,
and at five Freyberger left his rooms and took his way to Old Compton
Street.
He did not call at the Yard on his way, knowing quite well that if
anything important had turned up in reference to the Gyde case, the
chief would have communicated with him immediately.
Antonides was in. He was eating a sausage roll behind his counter, or
rather finishing it, when Freyberger entered. The old man was killing
himself with indigestion. To save the price of a trustworthy assistant
he looked after his business entirely himself, with the exception of
what help a boy, hired at seven shillings a week, could give him. This
meant that whenever he required a meal properly cooked he had to go to a
café and lock the shop up till he returned, as this meant the possible
loss of a customer, he was condemned to live on sardines and sausage
rolls, sandwiches, anything, in fact, that did not require cooking or
service.
Of course he could have had dinner sent in from a café, but he would
have had to eat it on the counter for had he retired upstairs to devour
it he would have been compelled to close the shop.
Not for one moment did he leave it open during his absence upstairs,
save on very rare occasions, such as the morning before, when
Freyberger, calling to inspect the bust, had found the boy taking down
the shutters and the door open.
“Good day, Mr Freyberger,” said the old man.
“Good day,” said Freyberger.
“And what can I do for you Mr Freyberger,” asked Antonides, “any more
busts to restore?”
“Not to-day, thanks, I want your opinion on a work of art.”
“Produce it.”
“Do you think I carry it about with me in my pocket?”
“I have seen works of art produced from a pocket before now. I have seen
a snuff-box, worth a thousand guineas, and which I bought for,—no
matter.”
“Well this is not a snuff-box but a bust.”
“Another bust!”
“Yes, another.”
“The subject?”
“A man.”
“The artist?”
“Unknown, but supposed to be the same who executed the bust of Sir
Anthony Gyde.”
“Ha! ha!”
“Could you tell if it were the same artist?”
“Could I tell it in the dark by the touch of my fingers, could I not?”
“Well, I hope to show you it.”
“You know my fee for examining works of art?”
“No.”
“A guinea.”
“You shall have it.”
“At what hour will you bring it here?”
“That’s just the point, the thing can’t be brought here, you must go to
see it.”
“Where?”
“At the Langham Hotel.”
“You know my fee for leaving my shop to inspect works of art.”
“No.”
“Two guineas, Mr Freyberger.”
“You shall have them.”
“And the cab fare?” shrieked Antonides, his face becoming pinched with
excitement.
“And the cab fare.”
“There and back?”
“Yes, there and back, anything else? Mention it whilst we are about it,
don’t be bashful, drinks on the way and a red carpet on the steps when
you get there.”
“I never drink between meals. Three shillings is the cab fare. I never
cheat my customers, nor do I allow cabmen to cheat me. At what hour
shall I be at the Langham Hotel?”
“Oh, about half-past seven.”
“And the bust. If it is not asking an impertinent question, where is it
coming from?”
“Paris.”
“Ah!”
“By the way.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of an artist and sculptor, named Wilhelm Müller?”
“Wilhelm Müller, a sculptor?”
“Yes.”
“Murdered eight years ago?”
“Yes.”
“By a M.—”
“Lefarge.”
“Yes, yes, that is the name. Oh, yes, I remember Müller. I only saw him
once about nine years ago; I clearly recollect him for the fact of his
murder, which I read of in the papers shortly after impressed our
meeting upon me. It was at the _chat noir_. Oh, yes, I remember Wilhelm
Müller very well indeed.”
“You are a judge of men.”
“I am a judge of art primarily, modern man is mainly a production of
art, not of nature; yes, I am a judge of men.”
“What was your opinion of Müller?”
“You know my fee for examining and giving my opinion on works of art.”
“Yes, here, take a cigar and give me your opinion on Müller.”
“As a work of art or nature?”
“You said modern man was a work of art.”
“I said, mainly a work of art, there is a strong substratum of nature in
some men.”
“Well I want your opinion on Müller, both as a work of art and a work of
nature; cast some light on him for me out of your intelligence.”
“Give me a match.”
“There you are.”
“Thank you. As an artistic production, Müller was not so bad, for he
managed fairly well to conceal from his fellow-men what nature had made
him?”
“And what had nature made him?”
“A madman.”
“A madman?”
“Yes, and yet he was sane.”
“That sounds like a paradox.”
“Man is a paradox. I know twenty men in London who are as mad as
hatters, yet they are sane for all practical purposes.”
“Could you fancy Müller committing a murder?”
“Easily. He was of the intellectual criminal type.”
“Yet he was a great artist.”
“Though I have never seen any of his work—”
“Pardon me, you have, for that bust of Sir Anthony Gyde’s was, I
believe, from his chisel.”
“Though I had never seen any of his work, judging from my recollection
of the man, I would say he was a great genius. He had the brilliancy of
eye, the concentration of gaze, which one rarely meets with in
common-place people, and yet those eyes would, so to speak, fall apart,
the concentration relax, the gaze become turned inward. Then it was that
the essential madness of the man became visible to the man who could
see. How many men of your acquaintance can see, Mr Freyberger?”
Freyberger laughed and turned to leave the shop.
“Well,” he said, “seven-thirty at the Langham. Be sure you are there and
ask for Mademoiselle Lefarge.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------