Moon of madness
“There is one. Unfortunately, his features are in shadow.”
“Let me see,” said O’Shea.
Once more my portfolio of snapshots was produced.
“This could be enlarged,” said the inspector eagerly. “It is quite
sharp.”
“Does the face seem familiar?” O’Shea asked.
“Vaguely. I think I have seen him somewhere. But it’s very much a case
of a needle in a haystack. Of course, he’s far too clever to go to any
of the known centres--always supposing he’s alive, and, being alive,
that he’s in London.”
“He is alive, and he is in London,” said I.
“What!” O’Shea rapped out the word in a parade-ground voice. “How the
devil do you know that, Decies?”
In a very few sentences I told him.
“That settles it,” said the inspector. “The rest is routine. Find the
woman and your case is won.”
O’Shea adjusted his monocle. It was a danger signal, but the Scotland
Yard man was ignorant of this fact.
“Explain yourself, inspector,” he directed, with ominous calm.
“Well--it’s clear enough,” was the reply. “I shall insert a paragraph
in the _Planet_, and when Mr. Zara turns up, he will be met by someone
he’s not expecting.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said O’Shea coldly. “The assistance
of the Special Branch has been asked for because of the facilities
that you possess in cases of this kind. But on no account must the
name of any friend of mine be dragged into the matter.”
The atmosphere grew oppressively electrical for a moment; then:
“As you wish, sir,” returned the inspector. “But you are going to lose
him.”
“I trust not. But even so, I decline to use this lady’s name as a bait
to trap Zara.”
No doubt the man from Scotland Yard thought the speaker mad. No doubt
he wondered why cases of this sort were placed in charge of
distinguished soldiers handicapped by such preposterous scruples. But
he did not know how Fate had intertwined Nanette in this affair so
that at every turn success or failure seemed to lie cupped in her
little hands. He took it like a good sportsman, however.
“Might I look over the other photographs?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said I, and spread them before him. “The negatives are in
the wallet. You will want the one of Zara.”
But when, later, I found myself alone, and began to arrange my
photographic gallery, I missed not one negative, but _two_. Search
availed me nothing. The negative of Zara was gone, but so also was
that of Nanette in the act of diving from a rock.
“Jack!” I exclaimed. “Jack must have taken it!”
But I was wrong.
CHAPTER XXII.
PORTRAIT OF A GIRL DIVING
On the following morning Nanette’s mother called. One great
disadvantage of this era of freedom is that it has taken all the kick
out of life. Without prohibitions there can be no thrills. If a pretty
married woman had called upon my father in his bachelor days he would
have immediately consulted his solicitor.
She looked more like Nanette than ever. Her shapely arms were
sunburned, and (I thought) were very beautiful so. But, as Nanette had
done, she declared that she was ashamed of her gipsy appearance. But
she had come with some more definite purpose than merely to chat, and
presently the truth popped out.
“Really, you know, Mr. Decies,” she said, “I don’t think it was quite
playing the game.”
I suppose I stared like an idiot.
“You know quite well what I mean,” she added, and smiled in that way
which was so like Nanette’s.
“On the contrary,” I assured her earnestly. “I really haven’t the
faintest idea to what you refer.”
She stared at me very unblinkingly, then nodded.
“I can see you haven’t,” she confessed. “Perhaps you didn’t think
there was any harm in it--and, of course, I admit the excellence of
the charity. But I’m afraid it will get her talked about. At least,
you might have consulted me.”
“Please--please!” I entreated. “Take pity upon me. You are clearly
referring to something of which I have no knowledge whatever----”
“Mr. Decies,” she interrupted--and held out a newspaper which she
carried--“I am referring to the picture in the _Daily Planet_.”
“But what have I to do with the pictures in the _Daily Planet_?” I
asked blankly.
“Since you took the picture in question, the connection in this case
is obvious.”
Dazedly, I opened the copy of the _Planet_ which she handed to me--and
there, prominently featured, was a large reproduction of my snapshot
of Nanette diving! The caption read:
A charming study of a charming diver. No wonder Madeira grows more
popular every season. The original photograph is on view in the Modern
Gallery, Bond Street, amongst a collection offered for sale in aid of
St. Dunstan’s Institute for Blinded Soldiers.
To say that I was staggered is to convey but a feeble idea of my frame
of mind. I stared at the picture until I seemed to see it dimly
through a haze. When, at last, I looked up and met the reproachful
gaze of Nanette’s mother, I was temporarily past comment.
My innocence must have proclaimed itself, for:
“Mr. Decies,” she said, and I saw her expression change, “I must
apologize. You evidently are as surprised as I was. But this only
deepens the mystery. Did you develop this film yourself?”
“No,” I answered. “It was on one of several spools which I brought
back. The Kodak people developed it. But----”
I stopped short. The truth had presented itself to me. One of four
people had taken this unaccountable liberty with the photograph. Jack,
the inspector, O’Shea, or Nanette herself. For I had no evidence to
show which of these four had removed the negative from the wallet.
“Yes?” Nanette’s mother prompted.
“The firm in question certainly knows nothing of the matter,” I went
on. “You see, I missed this negative yesterday.”
“You mean that someone stole it?”
“Stole it or borrowed it.”
“But with what object?”
“Presumably a philanthropic one,” said I, very blankly. “Nobody
profits--except the charity.”
“It resembles the work of an enemy--if one can imagine Nan having an
enemy. Unfortunately, it is a perfect likeness. In fact, it was
brought to my notice by someone. Personally, I don’t read the
_Planet_.”
“What does Nanette think about it?”
“She doesn’t know. That is, she had already gone out when the paper
was shown to me. She may know by now. I am afraid it will earn her a
rather unenviable notoriety.”
I promised that I would thresh the matter out, but as I had a luncheon
appointment all I could hope to do immediately was to ring up the
_Planet_ and speak to the department responsible.
This led to nowhere.
The art editor was out, and apparently no other member of the staff
knew anything whatever about the photograph--or about anything else.
I lunched that day at the Savoy Grill. So did nearly everybody who had
been in Funchal whilst Nanette was there. The room appeared to be
decorated with copies of the _Planet_, and my reception would have
gratified Gene Tunney and overwhelmed Douglas Fairbanks. I grew
stickily embarrassed.
Finally, I made my escape--and in the lobby ran into Jack.
“I say, Decies,” he exclaimed, “it’s hardly good enough. Nanette
kicked at the picture from the first. Now you go and publish it!”
“Stop!” I said sharply. “This is the last time I shall explain the
fact to anyone. But I did not send Nanette’s photograph to the
_Planet_. Except that someone stole the negative from the portfolio at
my rooms yesterday, I know nothing whatever about the matter.”
“_Stole_ it!”
“Exactly.”
“But when?”
“I missed it just after you had gone. In fact, Jack, I thought at the
time you had borrowed it to have a copy made.”
“Good heavens, no! She didn’t want me to have it.”
“Then the mystery remains a mystery.”
“It’s so objectless!” cried Jack. “A photograph like that is just good
fun amongst friends, but one doesn’t want the million readers of the
_Planet_ to see it. This defeats me! Have you rung up the office?”
“Yes. I could get no satisfaction. I am going along to the Modern
Gallery now.”
“I’ll come with you!” said Jack.
CHAPTER XXIII.
FIASCO
A curious episode marked our arrival at the gallery. On the opposite
side of Bond Street, you may recall that there is a block of offices
and showrooms, occupied by beauty specialists, modistes, and others.
Well, at the entrance to the gallery, where an announcement stated
that an exhibition of modern drawings and art photographs was being
held in aid of, etc., we bumped into one of Nanette’s Madeira
conquests.
“Hallo, Milton!” said I.
The young man, who had been leaning against the doorway and staring
abstractedly across the street, became galvanized into sudden action.
He gave a swift look at me, a second look at Jack, and then:
“Hallo, Decies,” he returned in an oddly guilty way.
Immediately he stared across the street again. At which moment came a
cry from Jack.
“Gad! There’s Nanette!”
“Where?” I asked.
“In that window, on the first floor there. She has seen us, I think.”
I followed the direction of his gaze. The window indicated belonged to
an expert organizer of female hair. An attractive wax bust was visible
but no Nanette. I turned to Milton.
“_Is_ Nanette there?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say,” he replied evasively.
Jack gave him a venomous glance and started across the street.
“We can see for ourselves,” he snapped.
I looked inquiringly at the young man in the doorway, but he returned
my regard with so high a challenge that I wondered, checked the words
on my tongue, and followed Jack.
We mounted the stairway to the first landing, and Jack threw open a
door bearing the simple legend “Pierre” with quite unnecessary
violence. We found ourselves in a discreet waiting room delicately
perfumed. A stout French gentleman, whose wavy gleaming locks were a
credit to his professional acquirements, greeted us. He bowed.
“I have called for a lady who is here,” said Jack. “Please tell her
Mr. Decies and Mr. Kelton.”
“But there is some mistake,” Pierre replied--assuming that this was
none other than the maestro in person. “No one is here at the
moment--unless you mean Mlle. Justine, my assistant.” He raised his
voice. “Justine!”
A trim figure in white appeared at the door of an inner sanctuary
sacred to hair.
“M’sieur?” said Justine, and bestowed upon us a swift glance of
roguish dark eyes.
“You are alone?”
“Yes, m’sieur. I am waiting for Lady Rickaby whose appointment is at
three.”
She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, and disappeared.
“You see?” M. Pierre extended apologetic palms. “There is no one.”
“What’s afoot?” Jack asked as we regained Bond Street. “That fat bird
was lying. The girl gave it away. Nanette is hiding from us.”
We stared at each other, badly puzzled. Then we looked across to where
Milton lounged in the entrance to the Modern Gallery, seemingly
oblivious of our existence.
“Come on!” said Jack savagely.
We joined the waiting Milton.
“Have you seen the famous picture?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “I haven’t.”
Jack made a snorting noise, then, paying a shilling each, we went into
the exhibition. We found it to be far from crowded, and, indeed, the
artistic donations were not of outstanding merit. Quite the most
interesting exhibit was the lady in charge of the sales department.
And, at the end of a ten minutes’ quest, we sought her aid.
“Perhaps you could tell me,” said I, “where the picture is that was
reproduced in to-day’s _Planet_--a portrait of a girl diving.”
Whereupon the lady addressed began to laugh!
Jack’s expression was worthy of study. In the eyes of poor Jack,
anything touching Nanette was sacred, and this was the second time in
one afternoon that inquiries concerning her had provoked merriment.
“I wish I could!” was the reply. “Really, it’s most absurd. But all