The dream detective
less confident that it is a case of robbery, Searles, if you had heard
what I heard!”
I glanced at Coram, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Then Coram has not told you?”
“He has told me that something aroused you in the night and that you
left the studio to investigate the matter.”
“Correct, so far. Something did arouse me; and the thing was a voice!”
“A voice?”
“It would be, I suppose, about two hours after you had gone, and I was
soundly asleep in the studio, when I suddenly awoke and sat up to
listen, for it seemed to me that I heard a cry immediately outside the
door.”
“What kind of cry?”
“Of that I was not, at first, by any means certain; but after a brief
interval the cry was repeated. It sounded more like the voice of a boy
than that of a man and it uttered but one word: ‘Nicris!’”
“And then?”
“I sprang on to the floor and stood for a moment in doubt--the thing
seemed so uncanny. The electric light is not, as you know, installed
in the studio, or I should have certainly switched it on. For possibly
a minute I hesitated, and then, as I pulled the curtains aside and
stood by the door to listen, for the third time the cry was repeated
and was now coming indisputably from immediately outside.”
“You refer to the door that opens on to the garden?”
“Exactly--close to which stands my bed. This, then, decided me. Taking
up the small revolver which I have always kept handy since Nicris was
completed, I unlocked the door and stepped out into the garden----”
A vehicle, cab or car, was heard to draw up outside the house. Came
the sound of a rumbling voice. Coram sprang to the door.
“Moris Klaw!” I cried.
“Good morning, Mr. Coram!” said the strange voice, from the darkness
outside. “Good morning, Mr. Searles!”
Moris Klaw entered.
He wore his flat-topped brown bowler of effete pattern; he wore his
long, shabby, caped coat; and from beneath it gleamed the pointed
glossy toe-caps of his continental boots. Through his gold-rimmed
glasses he peered into the shadows of the hall. His scanty, colourless
beard appeared less adequate than ever to clothe the massive chin. The
dim light rendered his face more cadaverous and more yellow even than
usual.
“And this,” he proceeded, as the anxious sculptor came forward, “is
Mr. Paxton, who has lost his statue? Good morning, Mr. Paxton!”
He bowed, removing the bowler and revealing his great high brow. Coram
was about to reclose the door.
“Ah, no!” Moris Klaw checked him. “My daughter is to come yet with my
cushion!”
Paxton stared, not comprehending, but stared yet harder when Isis Klaw
appeared, carrying a huge red cushion. She was wrapped in a cloak
which effectually concealed her lithe figure, and from the raised hood
her darkly beautiful face looked out with bewitching effect. She
divided between Coram and myself one of her dazzling smiles.
“It is Mr. Paxton,” said her father, indicating the sculptor. Then,
indicating the girl, “It is my daughter, Isis. Isis will help us to
look for Nicris. Why am I here, an old fool who ought to be asleep?
Because of this girdle your statue wore. I so well remember when it
was dug up. I cannot know its history, but be sure it is evil. From
the beginning, please, Mr. Paxton!”
“I’m awfully indebted to you! Won’t you come in and sit down?” said
Paxton, glancing at the girl in bewilderment.
“No, no!” replied Klaw, “let us stand. It is good to stand, and stand
upright; for it is because he can do this that man is superior to the
other animals!”
Coram and I knew Klaw’s mannerisms, but I could see that Paxton
thought him to be a unique kind of lunatic. Nevertheless, he narrated
something of the foregoing up to the point reached at Moris Klaw’s
arrival.
“Proceed slowly, now,” said Klaw. “You left the door open behind you?”
“Yes; but I was never more than ten yards from it. It would have been
physically impossible for any one to remove the statue unknown to me.
You must remember that it was no light weight.”
“One moment,” I interrupted. “Are you sure that the statue was in its
place before you came out?”
“Certain! There was a bright moon, and the figure was the first thing
my eyes fell upon when I pulled the curtain aside.”
“Did you _touch_ it?” rumbled Moris Klaw.
“No. There was no occasion to do so.”
“How much to be regretted, Mr. Paxton! The sense of touch is so
exquisite a thing!”
We all wondered at his words.
“Stepping just outside the door,” Paxton resumed, “I looked to right
and left. There was no one in sight. Then I walked to the wall--a
matter of some ten yards--and, pulling myself up by my hands, looked
over into the street. It was deserted, save for a constable on the
opposite corner. I know him, slightly, and his presence convinced me
that no one could either have come into or gone out of the garden by
way of the wall. I did not call him, but immediately returned to the
studio door.”
“In all, you were absent from the studio about how long?” asked Moris
Klaw.
“Not a second over half a minute!”
“And on returning once more to the door?”
“A single glance showed me that the statue had gone!”
“Good Heavens!” I said; “it sounds impossible. Was the constable on
point duty?”
“He was; there is always an officer there. He stood in sight of the
double doors opening on to the street during the whole time, so that
‘Nicris’ unquestionably came out by way of the garden or melted into
thin air. Since the only exit from the garden also opens on to the
street, how, but by magic, can the statue have been removed from the
premises?”
“Ah, my friend,” said Moris Klaw, “you talk of magic as one talks of
onions! How little you know”--he swept wide his arms, looking
upward--“of the phenomena of the two atmospheres! Proceed!”
“The throne,” continued Paxton, who was becoming impressed as was
evident by the uncanny sense of power which emanated in some way from
Moris Klaw, “remains.”
“And the statue--it was attached to it?”
“As to the figure being attached, I may say that it was only partially
so. Materials for completing the work were to have arrived to-day.”
“How long would it have taken to detach it?” growled Klaw.
“Granting some knowledge of the nature of the work, not long--for, as
I have said, in this respect it was incomplete. Half an hour or so, I
should have believed!”
“Then,” I said, “the matter, in brief, stands thus: In the course of
thirty seconds, during which time a constable was in view of one
entrance and you were ten yards from the other, someone detached the
statue from the throne--an operation involving half an hour’s skilled
labour--and, unseen by yourself or the officer, removed it from the
premises.”
“Oh, the thing is impossible!” groaned Paxton. “There is something
unearthly in the affair. I wish I had never set eyes upon that
accursed girdle!”
“Curse not the girdle,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Curse instead its wearer,
and inform us, on finding Nicris to be missing, what did you do?”
“I hastily searched the studio. A brief investigation convinced me
that neither statue nor thief was concealed there. I then came out,
locked the door, and, having examined the garden, hailed the
constable. He had been on duty for four hours at that point and had
observed absolutely nothing of an unusual nature. He saw you fellows
come out by the garden entrance, and from that time until I hailed
him, nothing, he declared, had come in or gone out!”
“He heard no cry?”
“No; it was not loud enough to be audible from the corner.”
“Lastly,” said Klaw, “have you informed Scotland Yard?”
“No,” answered the sculptor; “nor will the constable lodge
information; moreover, I withheld from him the object of my inquiries.
If this business gets into the papers I shall be a ruined man!”
“I have hopes,” Klaw assured him, “that it will get in no papers. Let
us proceed now to the scene of these wonderful happenings. It is my
custom, Mr. Paxton, to lay my old head down upon the scene of a
mystery, and from the air I can sometimes recover the key to the
labyrinth!”
“So I have heard,” said Paxton.
“You have heard so, yes? You shall see! Lead on, Mr. Paxton! No time
must be wasted. I am another like Napoleon, and can sleep on an
instant. I do not know insomnia! Lead on. Isis, my child, be careful
that it brushes against no object in passing--my odically sterilized
cushion!”
We proceeded to the studio.
“I feel that I am responsible for dragging you here at this unearthly
hour,” said Paxton to Isis Klaw.
She turned her fine eyes upon him.
“My father is indebted for the opportunity,” she replied; “and since
he has need of me, I am here. I, too, am indebted.”
Her supreme self-possession and tone of finality silenced the artist.
So far as I could see, everything in the studio was exactly as before,
save that Nicris’s throne was vacant. The top of the studio was
partially glazed, and Moris Klaw peered up at it earnestly.
“From above,” he rumbled, “I should wish to look down into below. How
do I reach it?”
“The only stepladder is that in the studio,” answered Paxton. “I will
bring it out.”
He did so. The gray light of dawn was creeping into the sky, and
against that sombre background we watched Moris Klaw crawling about
the roof like some giant spider.
“Did you find anything?” asked Paxton, anxiously, as the investigator
descended.
“I find what I look for,” was the reply; “and no man is entitled to
find more. Isis, my child, place that cushion in the ebony chair.”
The girl stepped on to the dais, and disposed the red cushion as
directed.
“You see,” explained Morris Klaw, “whoever has robbed you, Mr. Paxton,
runs some one great danger, however clever his plans. There is, in
every criminal scheme, one little point that only Fate can
decide--either to hitch or to smooth out--to bring success and riches
or whistling policemen and Brixton Gaol! Upon that so critical point
his or her mind will concentrate at the critical moment. The critical
moment, here, was that of getting Nicris out of your studio.
“I sleep upon that throne where she reclined--the ivory dancer. This
sensitive plate”--he tapped his brow--“will reproduce a negative of
that critical moment as it seemed in the mind of the one we look for.
Isis, return in the cab that waits and be here again at six o’clock.”
He placed his quaint bowler upon a table and laid beside it his black
cloak. Then, a ramshackle figure in shabby tweed, reclined upon the
big ebony chair, his head against the cushion.
“Place my cloak about me, Isis.”
The girl did so.
“Good morning, my child! Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning, Mr.
Coram and Mr. Paxton!”
He closed his eyes.
“Excuse me,” began Paxton.
Isis placed her finger to her lips, and signed to us to withdraw
silently.
“Ssh!” she whispered. “He is asleep!”
III
At five minutes to six sounded Isis Klaw’s ring upon the door bell.
Paxton, Coram, and I had spent the interval in discussing the
apparently supernatural happening which threatened to wreak the
artist’s ruin. Again and again he had asked us, “Should I call in the
Scotland Yard people? If Moris Klaw fails, consider the priceless time
lost!”
“If Moris Klaw fails,” Coram assured him, “no one else will succeed!”
We admitted Isis, who wore now a smart tweed costume and a fashionable
hat. Beyond doubt, Isis Klaw was strikingly beautiful.
At the door of the studio stood her father, staring straight up to the
morning sky, as though by astrological arts he hoped to solve the
mystery.
“What time does your model come?” he asked, ere Paxton could question
him.
“Half-past ten. But, Mr. Klaw----” began our anxious friend.
“Where does it lead to,” Klaw rumbled on, “that lane behind the
studio?”