The dream detective
“No,” said Klaw, placidly; “but _I_ have. Mr. Grimsby, it is
impossible to reach within three feet of the spot, from the stair or
from the gallery; and no live thing but a giraffe could reach it from
the floor!”
We were seated in the train, homeward bound.
“For this case,” grumbled Klaw, “I get no credit. It will be said that
it all came out without aid from you or from me. Never mind--I have my
fee!”
He patted the haft of the great ax, which ghastly relic in some way he
had arranged to appropriate. Grimsby was watching Isis Klaw out of the
corner of his eye. From a dainty gold case she offered him a
cigarette. Grimsby is no cigarette smoker but he accepted, with
alacrity.
The beautiful Isis took one also, and lay back puffing sinuous spirals
from between her perfect red lips.
FOURTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE
I
Where a case did not touch his peculiar interests, appeals to Moris
Klaw fell upon deaf ears. However dastardly a crime, if its details
were of the sordid sort, he shrank within his Wapping curio shop as
closely as any tortoise within its shell.
“Of what use,” he said to me on one occasion, “are my acute psychic
sensibilities to detect who it is with a chopper that has brained some
unhappy washerwoman? Shall I bring to bear those delicate perceptions
which it has taken me so many years to acquire in order that some ugly
old fool shall learn what has become of his pretty young wife? I think
not--no!”
Sometimes, however, when Inspector Grimsby of Scotland Yard was at a
loss, he would induce me to intercede with the eccentric old dealer,
and sometimes Moris Klaw would throw out a hint.
Beyond doubt the cases that really interested him were those that
afforded scope for the exploiting of his pet theories: the Cycle of
Crime, the criminal history of all valuable relics, the
indestructibility of thought. Such a case came under my personal
notice on one occasion, and my friend Coram was instrumental in
enlisting the services of Moris Klaw. It was, I think, one of the most
mysterious affairs with which I ever came in contact, and the better
to understand it you must permit me to explain how Roger Paxton, the
sculptor, came to have such a valuable thing in his studio as that
which we all assumed had inspired the strange business.
It was Sir Melville Fennel, then, who commissioned Paxton to execute a
chryselephantine statue. Sir Melville’s museum of works of art,
ancient and modern, is admittedly the second finest private collection
of the kind in the world. The late Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s alone took
precedence.
The commission came as something of a surprise. The art of
chryselephantine sculpture, save for one attempt at revival, in
Belgium, has been dead for untold generations. By many modern critics,
indeed, it is condemned, as being not art but a parody of art.
Given carte blanche in the matter of cost, Paxton produced a piece of
work which induced the critics to talk about a modern Phidias. Based
upon designs furnished by the eccentric but wealthy baronet, the
statue represented a slim and graceful girl reclining as in exhaustion
upon an ebony throne. The ivory face, with its wearily closed eyes,
was a veritable triumph, and was surmounted by a headdress of gold
intertwined among a mass of dishevelled hair. One ivory arm hung down
so that the fingers almost touched the pedestal; the left hand was
pressed to the breast as though against a throbbing heart. Gold
bracelets and anklets, furnished by Sir Melville, were introduced into
the composition; and, despite the artist’s protest, a heavy girdle,
encrusted with gems and found in the tomb of some favourite of a
long-dead Pharaoh, encircled the waist. When complete, the thing was,
from a merely intrinsic point of view, worth several thousand pounds.
As the baronet had agreed to the exhibition of the statue prior to its
removal to Fennel Hall, Paxton’s star was seemingly in the ascendant,
when the singular event occurred that threatened to bring about his
ruin.
The sculptor gave one of the pleasant little dinners for which he had
gained a reputation. His task was practically completed, and his
friends had all been enjoined to come early, so that the statue could
be viewed before the light failed. We were quite a bachelor party, and
I shall always remember the circle of admiring faces surrounding the
figure of the reclining dancer--warmed in the soft light to an almost
uncanny semblance of fair flesh and blood.
“You see,” explained Paxton, “this composite work, although it has
latterly fallen into disrepute, affords magnificent scope for
decorative purposes; such a richness of colour can be obtained. The
ornaments are genuine antiques and of great value--a fad of my
patron’s.”
For some minutes we stood silently admiring the beautiful workmanship;
then Harman inquired, “Of what is the hair composed?”
Paxton smiled. “A little secret I borrowed from the Greeks!” he
replied, with condonable vanity. “Polyclitus and his contemporaries
excelled at the work.”
“That jewelled girdle looks detachable,” I said.
“It is firmly fastened to the waist of the figure,” answered the
sculptor. “I defy any one to detach it inside an hour.”
“From a modern point of view the thing is an innovation,” remarked one
of the others, thoughtfully.
Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, who up to the present had stood
in silent contemplation of the figure, now spoke for the first time.
“The cost of materials is too great for this style of work ever to
become popular,” he averred. “That girdle, by the way, represents a
small fortune, and together with the anklets, armlets, and headdress,
might well tempt any burglar. What precautions do you take, Paxton?”
“Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always
someone here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred
last week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once
the property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III, and my model was
alone here for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I
heard her cry out, and when I came to look for her she was crouching
in a corner trembling. What do you suppose had frightened her?”
“Give it up,” said Harman.
“She swore that Nicris--for the statue is supposed to represent
her--had moved!”
“Imagination,” replied Coram, “but easily to be understood. I could
believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.”
“I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the
tales that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a
rather peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer
by whom it had once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was
unearthed at the same time containing an account of Nicris’s death
under particularly horrible circumstances. Seton--you fellows know
Seton--who was present at the opening of the sarcophagus, tells me
that the Arabs, on catching sight of the girdle, all prostrated
themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville Fennel’s agent
sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived the idea of
this statue.”
“Luckily for you,” added Coram.
“Quite so,” laughed the sculptor, and, carefully locking the studio
door, he led the way up the short path to the house.
We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the
gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having
listened to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they
neared the end of the street, we also prepared to take our leave.
“Just come with me as far as the studio,” said Paxton, “and having
seen that all’s well I’ll let you out by the garden door.”
Accordingly, we donned our coats and hats, and followed our host to
the end of the garden, where his studio was situated. The door
unlocked, we all three stepped inside the place and gazed upon the
figure of Nicris--the pallid face and arms seeming almost unearthly in
the cold moonlight, wherein each jewel of the girdle and headdress
glittered strangely.
“Of course,” muttered Coram, “the thing’s altogether irregular--a fact
which the critics will not fail to impress upon you; but it is
unquestionably very fine, Paxton. How uncannily human it is! I don’t
entirely envy you your bedchamber, old man!”
“Oh, I sleep well enough,” laughed Paxton. “No luxury, though; just
this corner curtained off and a camp bedstead.”
“A truly Spartan couch!” I said. “Well, good-night, Paxton. We shall
probably see you to-morrow--I mean later to-day!”
With that we parted, leaving the sculptor to his lonely vigil at the
shrine of Nicris, and as my rooms were no great distance away, some
half-hour later I was in bed and asleep.
I little suspected that I had actually witnessed the commencement of
one of the most amazing mysteries which ever cried out for the
presence of Moris Klaw.
II
Some few minutes subsequent to retiring--or so it seemed to me; a
longer time actually had elapsed--I was aroused by the ringing of my
telephone bell. I scrambled sleepily out of bed and ran to the
instrument.
Coram was the caller. And now, fully awake, I listened with an
ever-growing wonder to his account of that which had prompted him to
ring me up. Briefly, it amounted to this: some mysterious incident,
particulars of which he omitted, had aroused Paxton from his sleep.
Seeking the cause of the disturbance, the artist had unlocked the
studio door and gone out into the garden. He was absent but a moment
and never out of earshot of the door; yet, upon his return, _the
statue of Nicris had vanished!_
“I have not hesitated to ’phone through to Wapping,” concluded Coram,
“and get a special messenger sent to Moris Klaw. You see, the matter
is urgent. If the statue cannot be recovered, its loss may spell ruin
for Paxton. He had heard me speak of Moris Klaw and of the wonders he
worked in the Greek Room mysteries, and, accordingly, called me up. I
knew, if Klaw came, you would be anxious to be present.”
“Certainly,” I replied, “I wouldn’t miss one of his inquiries for
anything. Shall I meet you at Paxton’s?”
“Yes.”
I lost little time in dressing. From Coram’s brief account, the
mystery appeared to be truly a dark one. Would Moris Klaw respond to
this midnight appeal? There was little chance of a big fee, for Paxton
was not a rich man; but in justice to the remarkable person whom it is
my privilege to present to you in these papers, I must add that
monetary considerations seemingly found no place in Klaw’s philosophy.
He acted, I believe, from sheer love of the work; and this affair,
with its bizarre details--the ancient girdle of the dancing girl--the
fear of the model, who had declared that the statue moved--was such, I
thought, as must appeal to him.
Ten minutes later I was at Paxton’s house. He and Coram were in the
hall, and Coram admitted me.
“Do you mean,” he asked of Paxton, pursuing a conversation which my
advent had interrupted, “that the statue melted into the empty air?”
“The double doors opening on to the street were securely locked and
barred; that of the garden was also locked; I was in the garden and
not ten yards from the studio,” was Paxton’s reply. “Nevertheless,
Nicris had vanished, leaving no trace behind!”
Incredible though the story appeared, its confirmation was to be found
in the speaker’s face. I was horrified to see how haggard he looked.
“It will ruin me!” he said, and reiterated the statement again and
again.
“But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “surely you have not given up hope of
recovering the statue? After all, such a robbery as this can scarcely
have been perpetrated without leaving some clue behind.”
“Robbery!” repeated Paxton, looking at me strangely; “you would be