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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Cosmopolitan, Feb 1915, with "The X-Ray Detective"
The marvelous Craig Kennedy—no miracle-worker, indeed, but one whose tremendous feats are performed by strict obedience to the laws of the universe as applied through the inventions and discoveries of the great modern scientists—clears up a mystery here that has elements of more than passing interest. It concerns a matter often brought into the law-courts, over which juries have been hopelessly unable to agree and experts have wrangled to no purpose. But the famous scientific detective is on the spot, as usual, with the latest of implements and theories, by means of which he uncovers a base conspiracy and crime and exposes the real offenders.
"I WANT to consult you, Professor Kennedy, about a most baffling case of sudden death under suspicious circumstances. Blythe is my name—Doctor Blythe."
Our visitor spoke deliberately, without the least perturbation of manner; yet one could see that he was a physician who only as a last resort would appeal to outside aid.
"What is the case, Doctor?" queried Craig.
The doctor cleared his throat.
"It is of a very pretty young art student, Rhoda Fleming, who returned to New York from France shortly after the outbreak of the war and opened a studio in the New Studio Apartments, on Park Avenue, not far from my office," began Doctor Blythe, pausing as if to set down accurately every feature of the "case-history" of a patient.
"Yes," prompted Craig.
"About a week ago," the doctor resumed, "I was called to attend Miss Fleming. I think the call came from her maid, Leila, but I am not sure. She had suddenly been taken ill about an hour after dinner. She was cyanotic, had a rapid pulse and nausea. By means of stimulants I succeeded in bringing her around, however, and she recovered. It looked like acute gastritis.
"But last night, at about the same time, I was called again to see the same girl. She was in an even more serious condition, with all the former symptoms magnified, unconscious after suffering severe pains in the abdominal region. Her temperature was one hundred and three. Apparently there had been too great a delay, for she died in spite of everything I could do without regaining consciousness."
Kennedy regarded the doctor's face pointedly. "Did the necroscopy show that she was—er—"
"No," interrupted the doctor, catching his glance; "she was not about to become a mother. And I doubt the suicide theory, too." He paused, and then, after a moment's consideration, added deliberately, "When she recovered from the first attack, she seemed to have a horror of death and could offer no explanation of her sudden illness."
"But what other reason could there have been for her condition?" persisted Kennedy, determined to glean all he could of the doctor's personal impressions.
Doctor Blythe hesitated again, as if considering a point in medical ethics, then suddenly seemed to allow himself to grow confidential.
"I'm very much interested in art myself, Professor," he explained. "I suppose you have heard of the famous 'Fête du Printemps,' by Watteau?"
Kennedy nodded vaguely.
"The original, you know," Doctor Blythe went on hurriedly, "hung in the chateau of the Comtesse de la Fontaine in the Forest of Compiègne, and was immensely valuable—oh, worth probably a hundred thousand dollars or more!" A moment later, he leaned over with ill-suppressed excitement. "After I brought her around the first time, she confided to me that it had been entrusted to her by the countess for safe-keeping during the war, that she had taken it first to London, but, fearing it would not be safe even there, had brought it to New York."
A moment later, he leaned over with ill-suppressed excitement.
"H'm!" mused Kennedy. "That is indeed strange. What's your theory, then—foul play?"
Doctor Blythe looked from Kennedy to me, then said slowly:
"Yes; but we can't find a trace of poison. Doctor Leslie, the coroner—I believe you know him—and I can find nothing, in fact. It is most incomprehensible."
I noticed that Kennedy was watching Doctor Blythe rather keenly and, somehow, I fell to trying to fathom both his story and himself, without, I confess, any result.
"I should like to look her apartment over," remarked Craig, with alacrity, needing no second invitation to take up a mystery that already promised much.
THE New Studio Apartments were in a huge, twelve-story, ornate Renaissance affair on upper Park Avenue, an example of the rapidly increasing cooperative idea which the impractical artistic temperament has proved soundly practical.
Rhoda Fleming's was a most attractively arranged suite, with a large studio commanding the north light and having a ceiling twice as high as the ordinary room, which allowed of the other rooms being, as it were, on two floors, since their ceilings were of ordinary height. On every side, as we entered, we could see works of art in tasteful profusion.
Since the removal of the body of the beautiful but unfortunate young art student, no one had been left there except the maid, Leila. Leila was herself a very pretty girl, one of those who need neither fine clothes nor expensive jewels to attract attention. In fact, she had neither. I noticed that she was neatly and tastefully dressed, however, and wore a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. She seemed to be heart-broken over the death of her mistress; but how much of it was genuine, I could not say, though I am frank to admit that even before I saw her I had determined that she was worth watching.
"Show me just how you discovered Miss Fleming," asked Kennedy of Doctor Blythe, getting down to work immediately.
"Why," he replied, "when I got here she was lying half across that divan, as if she had fallen there fainting. On both my visits a little table had been set for a light dinner, and the dinner had been eaten. The table had not been cleared. And," Blythe added significantly, "each time there was a place set for another person. That person was gone."
Kennedy had turned inquiringly to Leila.
"I was engaged only for the day," she answered modestly. "Evenings, when mademoiselle had a little party, she would often pay me extra to come back again and clean up. She liked to prepare little chafing-dish dinners—but disliked the cleaning."
Doctor Blythe nodded significantly, as though that accounted for the reason why it had seemed to be Leila who had called him both times.
Kennedy and I had found the little pantry closet in the kitchenette where the maid kept the few housekeeping utensils. He took a hasty inventory of the slender stock, among which, for some reason, I noted a bottle of a well-known brand of meat-sauce, one of those dark-colored appetizers with a heavy, burnt-grain odor.
Craig's next move was to ransack the little writing-desk in the corner of the studio room itself. That was the work of but a few moments, and resulted in his finding a packet of letters in the single drawer.
He glanced over them hastily. Several, of an intimately personal nature, were signed, "Arnold Faber." Faber, I knew, was a young art collector, very wealthy, and something more than a mere dilettante. Other letters were of business dealings with the well-known Fifth Avenue art galleries of Pierre Jacot & Cie., quite natural in view of Miss Fleming's long residence in France.
The letters had scarcely been replaced when the door of the studio opened and I caught sight of a tastefully gowned young woman, quite apparently a foreigner acclimated to New York.
The door of the studio opened and I caught
sight of a tastefully gowned young woman.
"Oh, I beg pardon!" she apologized. "I heard voices and thought perhaps it was some of Rhoda's relatives from the West and that I could do something."
"Good evening, Miss Tourville," greeted Doctor Blythe, who was evidently well known to this colony of artists. A moment later he introduced us. "This, by the way, is Miss Rita Tourville, an intimate friend of Miss Fleming's, who has the studio overhead."
We bowed, exchanged the conventional remarks that such a tragedy made necessary, and Rita Tourville excused herself. Somehow or other, however, I could not resist the impression that she had come in purposely to see what was going on.
ON our way out, after promising Doctor Blythe to meet him later in the night at the office of the coroner, Kennedy, instead of going directly to the street, descended to the basement of the apartment-house and sought the janitor, who lived there.
"I'd like very much to see the rubbish that has come down from Miss Fleming's apartment," he asked, slipping into the janitor's hand a large silver coin.
"It's all mixed up with rubbish from all the apartments on that side of the house," replied the janitor, indicating a bulging burlap bag.
"Miss Tourville's, also?" queried Craig.
The janitor nodded assent.
Kennedy surely obtained his money's worth of junk as the janitor spread the contents of the bag on the cellar floor. With his walking-stick he pawed over it minutely, now and then stooping to examine something more or less carefully. He had gone through somewhat more than half of the rubbish that had come from the apartments when he came upon what looked like the broken remains of a little one-ounce, dark-colored, labelless bottle.
Kennedy picked it up and sniffed at it. He said nothing, but I saw his brow knit with thought. A moment later he wrapped it in a piece of tissue-paper, thanked the janitor, and we mounted the cellar steps to the street.
"I think I'll try to see Faber to-night," he remarked, as we walked down Fifth Avenue. "It will do no harm, at any rate."
Fortunately, we found the young millionaire art connoisseur at home, in a big house which he had inherited from his father, on Madison Avenue in the Murray Hill section.
"The death of Miss Fleming has completely upset me," he confessed, after we had introduced ourselves without telling too much. "You see, I was quite well acquainted with her."
Kennedy said nothing, but I could feel that he was longing to ask questions leading up to whether Faber had been the mysterious diner in the Fleming studio the night before.
"I suppose you are acquainted with Watteau's 'Fête du Printemps'?" shot out Craig, after a few inconsequential questions, watching Faber's face furtively.
"Indeed, I am!" replied the young man, apparently not disconcerted in the least.
The fact was that he seemed quite willing, even eager, to discuss the painting. I could not make it out, unless it might be that any subject was less painful than the sudden death of Miss Fleming.
"Yes," he continued voluntarily; "I suppose you know it represents a group of dancers. The central figure of the group, as everyone believes, is reputed to be the passionate and jealous Mme. de Montespan, whom Mme. de Maintenon replaced in the affections of Louis XIV.
"Why, no one thinks of Watteau, with his delightful daintiness and many graceful figures on such masterfully disposed backgrounds, as a portrait-painter. But the 'Fête' shows, I have always contended, that Watteau drew on many real faces for his characters. Yes; he could paint portraits, too, wonderfully minute and exact little miniatures." Faber had risen as he discoursed. "I have a copy of it," he added, leading the way into his own private gallery, while Craig followed without comment.
We gazed long and intently at the face of the central figure. Small though it was, it was a study in itself—a puzzle, distracting, enigmatical. There was a hard, cruel sensuousness about the beautiful mouth which the painter seemed to have captured and fixed beneath the very oils. Masked cleverly in the painted, penetrating dark eyes was a sort of cunning which, combined with the ravishing curves of the cheeks and chin, transfixed the observer.
Something in the face reminded me of a face I had once seen. It was not exactly Rita's tace, but it had a certain quality that recalled it. I fancied that there was, in both the living and the painted face, a jealousy that would brook no rivalry, that would dare all for the object of its love.
Faber saw that we had caught the spirit of the portrait, and seemed highly gratified.
"What crimes a man might commit under the spell of a woman like that!" exclaimed Craig, noticing his gratification. "By the way, do you know that Miss Fleming was said to have had the original—and that it is gone?"
Faber looked from one to the other without moving a muscle in his face.
"Why, yes," he replied steadily. I could not make out whether he had expected or been prepared for the question or not. At any rate, he added, half serious, half smiling, "Even for her portrait some one was ready to risk even life and honor to kidnap her."
Evidently, in his ardor, he personified the picture, felt that the thief must have been moved by what the psychologists call an "imperative idea" for the mere possession of such a treasure.
"Still," Craig remarked dryly, "the wanderings of the lost 'Duchess' by Gainsborough, stuffed into a tin tube for a quarter of a century, to say nothing of the final sordid ending of the capture of 'Mona Lisa,' might argue a devotion among art thieves a bit short of infatuation. I think we'll find this lady, too, to be held for ransom, not for love."
Faber said nothing. He was evidently waiting for Kennedy to proceed.
"I may photograph your copy of the 'Fête'," queried Craig finally, "so as to use it in identifying the real one?"
"Surely," replied the collector. "I have no objection. If I should happen to be out when you come, I'll leave word with my man to let you go ahead."
Just then the telephone-bell rang, and Faber reached for it before we could thank him and say good-night.
"Hello—oh, Miss Tourville, how do you do! Why—er—yes—yes, I'm listening."
They chatted for several minutes, Faber answering mostly in monosyllables. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought the conversation, at least at this end of the line, constrained. As he hung up the receiver, I fancied, too, that Faber seemed to look on us with a sort of suspicion. What was his connection with Rita, I wondered. What had Rita told him?
A moment later, we had said good-by and had gained the street, Kennedy still making no comment on the case.
"There's nothing more that we can do to-night," he remarked, looking at his watch as we walked along. "Let us go over to the city laboratory and see Doctor Leslie—as I promised Blythe."
DOCTOR LESLIE, the coroner, was an old friend of ours with whom we had cooperated in several cases. When we reached his office, we found Blythe there.
"Have you found anything yet?" asked Blythe, with what I felt was just a trace of professional pique at the fact that neither physician had been able to shed any light on the case, so far.
"I can't say—yet," responded Craig, not noticing Blythe's manner, as, from the piece of tissue-paper in which he had wrapped them, he produced the broken bits of bottle.
Carefully he washed off the jagged pieces, as though, perhaps, some of the liquid the bottle had contained might have adhered to the glass.
"I suppose you have animals here for experiment?" he asked of Leslie.
The coroner nodded.
"Chickens?" asked Craig.
"A Leghorn rooster," returned Dr. Leslie, with a laugh.
"Good—bring him in!" replied Craig briskly.
Quickly Kennedy shot a small quantity of the liquid he had obtained by washing the bits of glass into the veins of the white Leghorn. Then he released the rooster.
In a corner, Chanticleer stood, preening his feathers and restoring his ruffled dignity, while we compared opinions.
"Look!" exclaimed Kennedy, a few minutes later, when we had almost forgotten the fowl.
His bright-red comb was now whitish. As we watched, a moment later it turned dark blue. Otherwise, however, he seemed unaffected.
"What is it?" I asked, in amazement, turning to Craig.
"Ergot, I think," he replied tersely. "At least that is one test for its presence."
"Ergot," repeated Doctor Leslie, reaching for a book on a shelf above him. Turning the pages hurriedly, he read:
"There has been no experience in the separation of the constituents of ergot from the organs of the body. An attempt might be made by the Dragendorff process, but success is doubtful."
"Dragendorff found it so, at any rate," put in Doctor Blythe positively.
Running his fingers over the backs of the other books, Leslie selected another.
"It is practically impossible, to separate ergot from the tissues so as to identify it."
"Absolutely," asserted Doctor Blythe quickly.
I looked from one physician to the other. Was this the "safe" poison, at last?
Kennedy said nothing, and I fell to wondering why Doctor Blythe, too, was so positive. Was it merely to vindicate his professional pride at the failure he and the coroner had had so far with the case?
"I suppose you have no objection to my taking some of this sample of the contents of the organs of her body, have you?" asked Craig, at length, of Doctor Leslie.
"None in the world," replied the coroner.
Kennedy poured out some of the liquid into a bottle, corked it carefully, and we stood for a few moments longer chatting over the developments, or rather lack of developments, of the case.
IT was late when we returned to our apartment, but the following morning Kennedy was up long before I was. I knew enough of him, however, to know that I would find him at his laboratory, breakfastless, and ray deduction was correct.
It was not until late in the forenoon that Craig had completed the work he had set himself to do as fie puzzled over something in the interminable litter of tubes and jars, reagents, solutions, and precipitates.
"I'm going to drop in at Jacot's," he announced finally, laying off his threadbare and acid-stained coat and pulling on the clothes more fitted for the city's streets.
Having no objection, but quite the contrary, I hastened to accompany him. Jacot's was a well-known shop. It opened on Fifth Avenue, just a few feet below the sidewalk, and Jacot himself was a slim Frenchman, well preserved, faultlessly dressed.
"I am the agent of Mr. Morehouse, the Western mine-owner and connoisseur," introduced Kennedy, as we entered the shop. "May I look around?"
"Certainement; avec plaisir, m'sieur," welcomed the suave dealer, with both hands interlocked. "In what is Mr. Morehouse most interested? In pictures? In furniture? In—"
"In almost anything that is rare and beautiful," confided Craig, looking Jacot squarely in the eye and adding, "and not particular about the price if he wants a thing, either. But I—I am particular—about one thing."
Jacot looked up inquiringly.
"A rebate," Kennedy went on insinuatingly, "a commission on the bill—you understand? The price is immaterial, but not my—er—commission. C'est entendu?"
"Parfaitement," smiled the little Frenchman. "I can arrange all that. Trust me."
We spent an hour, perhaps, wandering up and down the long aisles of the store, admiring, half purchasing, absorbing facts about this, that, and the other thing that might captivate the fictitious Mr. Morehouse.
Not satisfied with what was displayed so temptingly in the front of the store, Kennedy wandered back of a partition, apparently in search of some more choice treasures, before Jacot could stop him He turned over a painting that had been placed with its face toward the wall, as if for protection. I recognized the subject with a start. It was Watteau's "Fête"!
"Wonderful!"' exclaimed Kennedy, in well-feigned ecstasy, just as Jacot came up.
"Ah, but, m'sieur," interposed the art dealer, "that is only a copy—-and not for sale."
"I believe my friend Mr. Faber has a copy," ventured Craig.
"By a Miss Fleming?" asked Jacot quickly, apparently all interest now.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Was Jacot hinting at something known in the trade?
"Might I photograph some of the things here to show Mr. Morehouse?" asked Craig, a moment later. "I see several things he might be interested in."
"Surely," answered Jacot. Then, after consideration, in which his beady eye seemed to size up Kennedy, he added sotto voce, craftily, "Would Mr. Morehouse be—er—interested in Watteau's 'Fête'?"
My heart almost stopped beating. Were we really on the right track at last?
Jacot leaned over confidentially to Kennedy and added,
"Why not sell as an original, not this—but another copy—a—a what you call it—a fake?"
I understood Kennedy, having invited crooked dealing by his remark about the rake-off, was being approached about another crooked deal.
"A fake Watteau?" he asked, appearing to meet Jacot half way.
Jacot nodded.
"Why not? You know that the same Botticelli belongs to collectors in Philadelphia and Boston—that is, each has a picture, and if one is genuine the other must be a fake. Possibly the artist painted the same picture twice. Why, m'sieur, there are Rubens, Hals, Van Dycks, Rembrandts galore in this country that hang, also, at the same time, abroad." Jacot smiled. "Did you never hear of a picture with a dual personality?"
Kennedy seemed to consider the idea.
"I'll think it over," he remarked finally, as we prepared to leave, "and let you know when I come back to snap some of the things for my principal."
"Well, of all brazen crooks!" I sputtered, when we had gained Fifth Avenue.
Kennedy shook his head.
"We can't be sure of anything in this game. Does it occur to you that he might think he was playing us for suckers, after all?"
My mind worked rapidly.
"And that picture of Faber's is the real original?" I asked. "You mean that, somehow, a copy by Miss Fleming has come really to Jacot, with instructions to palm it off on some gullible buyer?"
"Frankly, Walter," he said, as we walked along, "I don't know what to think. You know even the greatest experts sometimes disagree over questions like this. Well, Walter, art is long and time is fleeting. If we are ever to settle where that real Watteau is, we shall have to resort to science, I think."
THAT afternoon, after a trip up to the laboratory where Craig secured a peculiar and cumbersome photographic outfit, we found ourselves around at Faber's private gallery. Faber was out, but, true to his promise, he had left word with his man, who admitted us.
Kennedy set to work immediately, placing before the painting an instrument which certainly was not like a regular camera. I was further astonished when Craig set up something back of the canvas, which he moved away from the wall. As nearly as I could make it out, it consisted of a glass bulb of curious shape. A moment later, he attached the bulb to a wire that connected with a little rheostat, or resistance-coil, and thence, in turn, to an electric-light socket.
He switched on the electric current, and the apparatus behind the picture began to sputter. I could not see very well what it was, but it looked as if the bulb was suffused with a peculiar yellowish-green light, divided into two hemispheres of different shades. The pungent odor of ozone from the electrical discharge filled the room.
While Kennedy was working, I had noticed a little leather vanity box lying on a table, as though it had been forgotten. It was not just the thing one would expect in Faber's rooms, and I looked at it more closely. On it were the initials, "R.T." Had Rita Tourville visited him?
Craig had scarcely finished and was packing up his apparatus when we heard a noise outside. A second later, Faber himself entered with Rita.
"Oh, yes, Rita; here it is! Why, Kennedy, how are you? Did you get your photographs?"
Kennedy replied that he had, and thanked him. It was easy to see Rita's pleasure at being with the young connoisseur, but at the sight of Craig I fancied, for a moment, that I saw a flash of that passionate resentment which had caused me to find a resemblance between the expression of her face and that of De Montespan in the painting—a hint at what she would do or dare to protect the object of her affections. We departed shortly, leaving Rita and Faber deep in the discussion of some art topic.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we were able to revisit Jacot's. He received us cordially, but Craig, by a whispered word or two, was able to postpone the answer to the clever proposal which might have been a trap prepared for us.
Craig, with a regular camera, which he had brought also, set to work snapping pictures and objects of art with reckless profusion, moving them about to get a better light and otherwise consuming time.
At last came the opportunity he had been waiting for—a customer occupied Jacot's attention in the front of the store. Quickly Craig set up the peculiar apparatus which he had used at Faber's before the copy of the Watteau in the rear of the shop, switched on the electricity, and, amid the suppressed sputtering, duplicated the work I had seen him do before.
Quickly Craig set up the peculiar apparatus which he had used at
Faber's before the copy of the Watteau in the rear of the shop.
As he was packing the apparatus up, I happened to glance toward the front of the store. There, were Leila and Jacot in earnest conversation. I whispered to Kennedy, and, a moment later, Leila caught sight of me, appeared not to recognize me, and left. Jacot sauntered back to us, I thought, concealing his haste.
Before he could speak, Kennedy asked,
"Who was that woman?"
He had finished packing up, and even if Jacot had heard something that caused him to change his mind, it was now too late to stop Kennedy.
"Why," hastened Jacot, apparently frank, "that is the maid of the Miss Fleming, the artist who has just died. She has come to me to see whether I can get her a position with another artist."
"I thought I recognized her," remarked Kennedy. "I remember when I saw her once before that she had on a wedding-ring. Doesn't her husband support her?"
Jacot shrugged his shoulders.
"She is looking for another position—that is all I know," he said simply.
Kennedy picked up his apparatus.
"You will think over my proposition?" asked Jacot, as we left.
"I'll let you know in a day or two," nodded Kennedy.
AS we walked up Fifth Avenue, I confess to have felt all at sea. Who had the real masterpiece? Was it Faber or Jacot or was it some one else? If Rita had warned Faber against us and Leila had warned Jacot, which had copy and which original? Or were they both copies and had the original been hidden? Had it been stolen for money, or had some fiend with a knowledge of this mysterious ergot stolen it simply for love of art, stopping not even at murder to get it?
It was apparent that quick action was necessary if the mystery was ever to be solved. Kennedy evidently thought so, too, for he did not wait even until he returned to his laboratory to set in motion, through our old friend Commissioner O'Connor, the machinery that would result in warrants to compel the attendance at the laboratory of all those interested in the case. Then he called up Doctor Leslie and, finally, Doctor Blythe.
Back again in the laboratory, Kennedy employed the time in developing some plates of the pictures he had taken, and by early evening, after a brief study of them, his manner indicated that he was ready.
Doctor Leslie, whom he had asked to come a little before the rest, arrived early, and, a few moments later, came Doctor Blythe, very much excited by the message he had received.
"Have you found anything?" he asked eagerly. "I've been trying all sorts of tests myself, and I can't prove the presence of a thing—not a thing."
"Not ergot?" asked Kennedy quietly.
"No," he cried; "you can't prove anything—you can't prove that she was poisoned by ergot!"
Doctor Leslie looked helplessly at Kennedy but said nothing.
"Not until recently, perhaps, could I have proven anything," returned Kennedy calmly. "Evidently you didn't know, Doctor Blythe, that the first successful isolation of an alkaloid of ergot from the organs in a case of acute ergotism had been made by two Pittsburgh scientists. True, up to the present, toxicologies had to rely on the physical properties of this fungus of rye for its identification. That may have made it seem like a safe poison to some one. But I have succeeded in isolating ergotinin from the sample of the contents of the organs of the poor girl." Without pausing, he picked up a beaker. "Here I have the residue left from an acid solution of an extract of the organs treated with chloroform. It is, as you see, crystalline." In his other hand he held up another beaker. "Next, I got the residue obtained by extraction of the acid aqueous liquid with ether. That, too, is crystalline."
Kennedy displayed something in the shape of long needles, the sides of which were not quite parallel and the ends replaced by a pair of faces.
Quickly he dissolved some of the crystals in sulphuric acid. Then he added another chemical from a bottle labelled "Ferrichlorid." The liquid changed quickly to a brilliant orange, then a crimson, next a green, and finally became a deep blue.
"What he has derived from the body responds to all the chemical tests for ergotinin itself," remarked Doctor Leslie, looking quickly across at Blythe, who said nothing.
I smelt of the stuff. Odors with me, as, I suppose, with other people, have a psychological effect, calling up scenes associated with them. This odor recalled something. I strove to recollect what it was. At last it came with a rush.
"The meat sauce!" I exclaimed involuntarily.
"Exactly," replied Kennedy. "I have obtained that bottle. There was ergot in it, cleverly concealed by the natural smell and taste of the sauce. But who put it there? Who had the knowledge that would suggest using such a poison? Who had the motive? Who had been dining with her that fatal evening?"
Kennedy had no chance to answer his questions, even if he intended to do so.
THE door of the laboratory opened, and Rita Tourville, in charge of one of O'Connor's men, who looked as if he might have enjoyed it better if the lady had not been so angry, entered. Evidently, O'Connor had timed the arrivals closely to what Craig had asked, for, scarcely a moment later, Faber came whirling up in one of his own cars. Not a word passed between him and Rita; yet I felt sure that they had some understanding of each other. Leila arrived shortly, and it was noticeable that Rita avoided her, though for what reason I could not guess. Finally came Jacot, blustering, but, having made the officer the safety-valve of his mercurial feelings, quickly subsiding before us. Doctor Blythe appeared amazed at the quickness with which Kennedy moved.
"In ordinary times," began Kennedy noting, as he spoke, the outward attitude of our guests toward each other, "the world would have stood aghast at the disappearance of such a masterpiece as the 'Fête,' by Watteau. It would have ranked with the theft of Gainsborough's 'Duchess of Devonshire,' Da Vinci's 'Mona Lisa,' the brown-skinned 'Madonna' of the Mexican convent, Millet's 'Goose Girl and the Shepherd and Flock,' the portrait of Saskia by Rembrandt, and other stolen masterpieces.
"But to-day the vicissitudes of works of art in war-time pass almost unnoticed. Still, there is a fascination exercised over the human mind by works of art and other objects of historic interest, the more so because the taking of art treasures seems to have become epidemic in northern Europe."
He laid down what looked more like rough sketches than photographs—yet they were photographs, though the relative brightness of color in photographs was quite different. Outlines were displaced, also. Ugly spots and bands marred the general effect. They were peculiar.
"They are X-ray images, or radiographs, of two oil-paintings, both claimed to be copies of Watteau's famous 'Fete,'" he explained, picking up one of them.
"In a radiograph of the body," he continued, "the difference of brightness that distinguishes the heart from the lungs, bones from flesh, is due to the different densities of tissues. In these pictures, the same effect is produced by the different densities of the pigments, especially of their principal and heaviest elements." He paused and laid down a chart. "For any one who [doubts what I am] about to prove, I have made [a sequence of] colors arranged in accordance to their transparency to Roentgen rays by applying standard pigments to canvas in patches of equal thickness.
"I think you can see what I am driving at. For instance, a design drawn in a heavy pigment will show through a layer of a less dense pigment under the influence of the X rays—just as bones show through flesh. In other words, an ordinary photograph reproduces only the surface of a painting. A radiograph represents all the pigments underneath, also, producing effects in proportion to their densities.
"Let me show you the practical result of all this in studying such radiographs, as worked out by a German student. I have made several very interesting and conclusive discoveries, which these radiographs I have taken illustrate."
He paused a moment, for the sake of emphasis. "You will notice," he resumed carefully, "the lace frill above the bodice on the figure of Madame de Montespan in the radiograph. In the painting, the frill is sharply defined and can be clearly distinguished from the bodice. But look at this radiograph. It appears tattered. It overflows the bodice.
"That led me to suspect that the bodice was widened as an afterthought—perhaps to diminish the area of white. That is the reason why the white shows through the bodice in the radiograph. But in this other one, the bodice and frill are substantially as they must be in the original."
Again he paused, as if taking up a new point. "This radiograph—number one, I may call it—shows a broad light-band on the right hand of the figure, of which not a trace is to be found either in the other radiograph or the painting itself. It represents the first rough sketch of an arm and hand.
"Again, in the first radiograph the ring and little fingers are close together, and a sixth finger appears between the index finger and middle finger. From that, I infer that the hand hung limp with the fingers nearly in contact in the first sketch and that the fingers were afterward separated. But in this second radiograph the arm, hand, and fingers are perfect."
It was fascinating to listen to Kennedy as he delved down into the invisible, beneath the very oils, and dug out their hidden mystery.
"Take the head and shoulder," he continued. "Radiograph number one clearly shows flaking of the painting, which had been painted over to conceal it. Ordinary light reveals no trace, either, of a long crack on the shoulder which evidently was filled with a thick mass of pigment containing too little white lead to obliterate the crack in the radiograph. White spots above the ear, in the radiograph, probably indicate an excess of white lead used in retouching. At any rate, radiograph number two contains no such defects."
Kennedy paused before drawing the conclusion.
"The radiograph of an original picture reveals changes made by the artist in the course of his work. The counterfeiter, like other copyists, reproduces as accurately as possible the final result. That is all he can see. He makes errors and corrections, but of a different kind. There are no serious changes.
"So, a radiograph of even a part of a picture shows the layers of pigment that are hidden from the eye and the changes made during the composition of the work. One can easily distinguish the genuine from the spurious copies, for it is absolutely impossible for an imitator to make a copy that will stand the X-ray test.
"You see," he went on enthusiastically, "the most striking feature of these radiographs is their revelation of details of the first sketch, which have been altered in the finished picture. We actually obtain an insight into the methods of an artist—" he paused, adding—"who has been dead for centuries."
It was wonderful what Kennedy was getting out of those, to us, blurred and indistinct skiagraphs. I studied the faces before me. None seemed to indicate any disposition to break down. Kennedy saw it, too, and evidently determined to go to the bitter end in hammering out the truth of the mystery.
"One moment more, please," he resumed. "The radiograph shows even more than that. It shows the possibility of detecting a signature that has been painted over in order to disarm suspicion. The detection is easier in proportion to the density of the pigment used for the signature and the lack of density of the superposed coat."
He had laid the radiographs on the table before him, with a finger on the corner of each, as he faced us.
"At the bottom of each of the paintings in question," he shot out, leaning forward, "you will find nothing in the way of a signature. But here, in radiograph number two, for instance, barely discernible, are the words, 'R. Fleming,' quite invisible to the eye, but visible to the X-rays. These words have been painted over. Why? Was it to prevent anyone from thinking that the owner had ever had any connection with Rhoda Fleming?"
I was following Kennedy, but not so closely that I missed a fearful glance of Rita from Faber to Jacot. What it meant, I did not know. The others were too intent on Kennedy's exposure to notice. I wondered whether some one had sought to conceal the fact that he had a copy of the famous Watteau made by Miss Fleming.
"Look at the bottom of the other radiograph, number one, further toward the left," pursued Kennedy resistlessly. "There you will discover traces of an 'A' and a 'W' which do not appear on the painting. Between these two are marks which can also be deciphered by the X rays—'Antoine Watteau.' Perhaps it was painted over lightly so that an original could be smuggled in as a copy. More likely it was done so that a thief and murderer could not be traced."
As Kennedy's voice rang out, more and more accusatory, Rita Tourville became more and more uncontrollably nervous.
"It was suggested," modulated Kennedy, playing with his little audience as a cat might with a mouse, "that some one murdered Rhoda Fleming with the little understood poison, ergot, because of an infatuation for the picture itself. But the modern crook has an eye for pictures, just as for other valuables. The spread of the taste for art has taught these fellows that such things as old masters are worth money, and they will even murder now to get them. No; that radiograph which I have labeled 'number one' is not a copy. It is of the genuine old master—the real Watteau.
"Some one, closely associated with Miss Fleming, had found out that she had the original. That person, in order to get it, went even so far as to—"
Rita Tourville jumped up wildly, facing Craig.
"No, no—his is the copy—the copy by Miss Fleming," she cried. "It was I who told him to paint over the signature. It was I who called him away—both nights—on a pretext—when he was dining with her—alone—called him, because—I—I loved him and I knew—"
Faber was on his feet beside her in a moment, his face plainly showing his feelings toward her. As he laid his hand on her arm to restrain her, she turned and caught a penetrating glance from Jacot's hypnotic eye.
Slowly she collapsed in her chair, covering her face with her hands, sobbing. For a moment, a look of intense scorn and hatred blazed in Leila's face, then was checked.
Craig waved the radiograph of the real Watteau as he emphasized his last words.
"In spite of Rita Tourville's unexpected love for Faber, winning him from your victim, and with the aid of your wife, Leila, in the role of maid, the third member of your unique gang of art thieves, you are convicted infallibly by my X-ray detective," thundered Craig, as he pointed his finger at the now cowering Jacot.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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