Читать книгу Paul Quentin - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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On the face of it, the commission looked simple, but from the very first Dugdale could not rid himself of the feeling that there was something sinister and underhand in it. Probably Quentin was a crank and a faddist, a china maniac who did not care about showing his hand. And so far as Dugdale could see, when he had traced the Dragon Vase, his mission was at an end. At the same time, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack and for the moment he was utterly unable to tell how to begin proceedings. He spent the best part of the day in thinking the matter out, deciding at length that Macpherson was the person most likely to help him. He found the genial Scotsman taking his ease at one of the minor literary clubs, and under the seal of secrecy disclosed the matter to him.

"It is very strange," Macpherson said. "Still nothing ought to surprise an old hand like myself, and I'll not say a word about it to anybody, my boy. What you want to get hold of is an expert in Oriental china. I don't mean a man who writes books which he gets up in the museums. You want an authority who is accustomed to handle these things. If you have got nothing particular to do this evening, I can put my hand on the very person you want."

"Is he a dealer?" Dugdale, asked.

"It isn't a he at all, sonny; it is a lady. She is a bit of a mystery, too. Frankly, I don't like this commission of yours much, and I only hope it won't get you into trouble. Paul Quentin is a queer sort, and there is something behind him that I can't make out. You know I interviewed him for our paper. I was with the man for the best part of an hour. It seems impossible that I could have made a mistake in the description of him. Murray, of the 'Telephone,' tells me that the Paul Quentin he saw was entirely different from my man. My man had a pallid face and grey hair, wonderful silver-grey hair it was, too, Murray swears that his Quentin had fair hair and grey eyes. But you have seen Quentin?"

"Only just for a moment," Dugdale said. "It was at the Blenheim Restaurant, as I told you. Most assuredly he had silver-grey hair and blue eyes, as you say. When I called upon him in Glover Street he was not to be seen, and I got my commission from his secretary Grenadus."

"Well, I don't like it," Macpherson repeated. "If you ask me, you are in with a funny lot and you had best be careful. Still, needs must when a certain gentleman drives, and I dare say you will come out of it all right. What you should do first is to see this china expert, who will tell you more in an hour than you can teach yourself in a month. If you have nothing on hand to-night I can introduce you to the lady."

"She is a friend of yours?" Dugdale asked.

"Well, no, she isn't. She is a mystery. But no one worries about that when London is full of them. She calls herself Rachel Varna. She is a rare beauty of the Southern type, marvellously intellectual and vivacious. There isn't a better dressed girl in London, but no one knows who she is or where she comes from. It is my belief she is a kind of Cinderella. She is to be met with at nearly all the smart subscription dances. She always leaves early and nobody has the least idea where she lives. I know she is a great authority on china, because when I was writing a series of articles about certain eminent collections Rachel was of the greatest possible assistance to me. I don't believe there is a single branch of the subject of which she is ignorant. You had better treat her quite in the spirit of bon camaraderie, but don't be inquisitive and don't follow her. Meet me here to-night at ten o'clock, and we shall go to the Magpie Dance at the Whitehall Rooms, where Rachel is sure to be in evidence. The Magpies are a colony of artists who have more money than genius, but their little dances are wonderfully well done, and you are certain to enjoy yourself."

"I shall be glad of the chance," Dugdale said grimly, "especially when I think of the time I have had lately. I'll be here at ten."

Punctuality was not one of Macpherson's virtues, and it was nearly eleven o'clock before the Whitehall Rooms were reached. Some two hundred people were gathered on enjoyment bent, and for the most part they appeared to be carrying out the programme successfully. Quite a sprinkling of well-known society people were present. There were plenty of smart toilettes, one of which stood out conspicuous from the rest and arrested Dugdale's eye immediately. It was a dress of coral pink, wonderfully light and artistic, and worn by a dark girl with raven hair, and the most magnificent pair of eyes Dugdale had ever seen. The girl was seated by herself and watching those around her with infinite amusement. There was a faint smile on her lips and a suggestion of lazy scorn in her eyes. Dugdale jerked his head in her direction.

"I suppose that is not Miss Varna by any chance?" he whispered.

"Oh, yes, it is," Macpherson responded. "Come along and I'll introduce you at once. You are in luck."

The girl looked up with a dazzling smile that fairly thrilled Dugdale. There was no scent about her, but she seemed to diffuse an atmosphere which was peculiarly her own. Dugdale could compare it with nothing he had ever noticed before.

"Why are you not dancing?" Macpherson asked.

"For the simple reason that there is no one in the room I happen to know," the girl said, in a low, sweet voice. "And you don't dance yourself, do you?"

Macpherson shook his head resolutely.

"No," he said; "but perhaps my friend here does. I wonder if you would help him. To be candid, I brought him here to-night on purpose to see you. This is Mr John Dugdale, and for the moment he is interested in Oriental china. He is looking out for a certain type of vase, and I told him he could not do better than ask your advice. He is a novice at the game."

The dark eyes flashed with kindly interest.

"I'll do what I can," Rachel said. "Besides, I don't feel a bit like dancing this evening. Now you run away and leave Mr Dugdale to me."

Dugdale sat down by Miss Varna's side feeling that the gods were kind to him. He was by no means insensible to the beauty of the girl. It flattered him to find that she was taking an interest in his adventure.

"It is rather a strange story," he said, "and I am afraid I must not tell you how it came about. But I am looking for a peculiar form of Dragon Vase, of which only two are known to exist. One is in this country, the other I know is in the Summer Palace at Pekin, because I saw it with my own eyes. Perhaps you can guess what I mean?"

As Dugdale turned eagerly to his fair companion he saw to his surprise that the beautiful carmine flush had faded from her face and that her cheeks paled to the hue of old ivory.

"The Dragon Vase," Rachel Varna said in a whisper. "Do you really mean what you say, Mr Dugdale? But, no, it is impossible, incredible. We must be thinking of different things. Would you mind describing the object of your search?"

"I can do better than that," Dugdale replied. "I can show you exactly what it is like. I can send you a drawing of it if you are interested. Possibly you have seen a copy of this month's 'Marlborough Magazine?'"

Once more the white and the roses were at war in Rachel Varna's cheeks, and she was breathing rapidly through parted lips. Dugdale noticed the uneasy fluttering of her hand.

"There is no need to ask further questions," she said. "I see we are both thinking of the same thing. I have seen the 'Marlborough Magazine' for this month, and an illustration of the story called 'The Purple Curtain' contains a drawing of the Dragon Vase, in every respect——"

"That's it," Dugdale said, eagerly. "The very thing. It is rather strange that I should have seen one of the pair in the Summer Palace at Pekin and that I should be in search of its fellow. But I suppose you know the history of these wonderful specimens of Chinese ceramic art?"

"I may say without boasting that there is practically nothing about china that I don't know," the girl replied. "I am in a position where I am bound to learn all about it. From my childhood I have been brought up in the midst of artistic things. Is it a secret who your principal is in this matter?"

The question was asked with a vivid eagerness that puzzled Dugdale. Rachel Varna seemed to be hanging on his rely.

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that," he said regretfully. "I am very sorry to appear discourteous, but that must be my secret. I suppose there is no doubt that the vase drawn in the 'Marlborough Magazine' is actually the fellow to the one in the Summer Palace at Pekin. It seems fascinating, but isn't it possible that the 'Marlborough Magazine' artist copied it during a flying visit to Pekin?"

"No, I don't think so," said the girl promptly. "I don't see how any artist could paint a vase like that from a casual glance. It would have to be done elaborately and carefully. And, besides the colouring is absolutely correct. A photograph would be altogether useless. You may be quite sure, Mr Dugdale, that the artist used for his model the missing Dragon Vase."

"Oh, it is missing, then?" Dugdale asked.

Rachel Varna laughed a little awkwardly.

"I didn't mean to say that," she said. "The vase in question was stolen some years ago from the collection of a wealthy man who is now dead. The robbery caused a great sensation at the time, because the piece of china is unique. There is nothing like it in Europe for size, for colouring or beauty of outline. If the Dragon Vase came into the market now I should not be in the least surprised to find that it fetched six figures. You are incredulous."

"Well, I am," Dugdale admitted. "Six figures!"

"Well, why not? More than one piece of china has changed hands lately for sixteen or seventeen thousand pounds. You would have collectors from all over the world after it. And think what a splendid opportunity it would be for the millionaire to advertise his wealth!"

"I hadn't thought of that," Dugdale confessed. "At any rate, you know now what I am looking for, though I cannot tell you the name of the person on whose behalf I am engaged. Perhaps you can tell me where the missing vase is?"

Dugdale put the question half in jest. He was surprised to see how seriously it was taken. There was something almost of terror on the girl's face as she turned her splendid eyes on him.

"You must not ask that," she whispered. "It is not fair. I have told you all I can for the present. I have let you know that the thing you are looking for is more valuable than half a dozen historic diamonds. It is a thousand pities that there is a flaw in the cover of the vase, but in the course of a few days I hope to see that matter——"

The girl paused and bit her lip, conscious perhaps that she was saying too much. Then she turned the conversation gaily but resolutely and began to talk of other things with wit and brilliancy. Dugdale was too fascinated by the grace and beauty of his companion to keep a cool, level head. He had never seen any one like Rachel Varna before. He had never seen a girl at once so beautiful and so alluring. He had a fair knowledge of society and its ways. He knew that the girl was perfectly dressed and that there was no flaw in her manners. He laid himself out for enjoyment. But, with all his questions, he left off at the end of an hour as wise as he had begun. Who Rachel Varna was he had not the least idea. He went off presently at a hint from the girl that she would like an ice, and when he came back she had vanished. Macpherson, with an amused look in his eyes, indicated the vacant seat.

"Gone 'like the baseless fabric of a vision leaving not a wrack behind,'" he quoted. "My dear fellow, for the sake of your peace of mind do not allow your thoughts to dwell upon Rachel Varna. She is like some beautiful dragon-fly; she emerges from the pool of obscurity to dazzle and coruscate, and when you think you have her in your hand she becomes elusive as a beam of sunshine."

Without knowing why, Dugdale felt irritated. It seemed to him that he had been fooled. He managed to avoid Macpherson, and presently took his overcoat and left the rooms. He was restless and uncomfortable. He could not get Rachel Varna out of his mind. He would not have hesitated to follow her, if he had had the chance. Hardly knowing in which direction he was walking, he strode along till the streets began to get meaner and narrower, the roads more dirty, and the locality less desirable. In front of him a woman in a black cloak trudged along. Dugdale vaguely noticed her stout, serviceable boots and heavy cloak. Out of the darkness there came one of those prowling night hawks who render the dark hours of London hideous and repulsive. The first whine for assistance turned to a threat as the villain realised that he had the lonely passenger entirely at his mercy. There was a little cry for assistance, and Dugdale crept silently forward. The next moment the man was lying on his back in the gutter, and the woman, with a broken murmur of thanks, hurried along.

Only for a moment had Dugdale caught sight of her face, but it sufficed. Despite the middle-class garb and the thick respectable boots, he recognised the delicate features of Rachel Varna. He dropped back feeling satisfied that the girl was secure in her disguise. It was not for him to show that he had penetrated that disguise, for he had made up his mind to follow her home. He dropped behind until the figure of Rachel Varna was nearly out of sight and then saw her disappear into an overhanging doorway at the side of a low-browed shop which bore over the casement window the name of Varna, and the information that he was a dealer in gold and silver and precious stones. For the present Dugdale had learnt enough. He would look round casually in the morning and drop into the shop on some pretence or another on the off-chance of seeing Rachel again.

It was nearly eleven o'clock next day before he was able to put his project into execution. When he reached the shop he was surprised to see behind the small leaded panes a dazzling array of antique gold and silver ornaments and precious stones. As he entered the establishment Rachel herself came from behind the desk and looked questioningly at the intruder. She was plainly enough dressed, but nothing could deprive her of her beauty or her air of distinction. The exquisite features coloured slightly, and there was anger as well as reproach in the dark eyes.

"Why do you come here?" the girl whispered.

"How did you know I did come?" Dugdale said somewhat lamely, "I mean you have no right to imply that I followed you here."

"But, all the same, you did. I suppose you recognised me last night. It was not a pretty thing to do, Mr Dugdale, and I am not at all pleased with you."

"I am sure I beg your pardon," Dugdale said contritely. "In any case, let me assure you that your secret is safe in my hands. And, besides, it is natural that a girl should like a little change sometimes. I dare say it is a monotonous kind of life you lead here——"

Dugdale paused, and the words died away upon his lips, for he was absolutely fascinated by a small object which lay on the counter, a round, flat lid evidently belonging to some pieces of china, a lid of the most extraordinary Mazarin blue, decorated with figures and butterflies of various shades. The thing was beautiful in itself, but what astounded Dugdale was that a small triangular piece of the cover was missing, exactly as in the case of the Dragon Vase depicted by the artist of the 'Marlborough Magazine.' Dugdale had hardly time to avert his eyes from this object before the figure of a bent old man with shining bald head and long, straggling grey beard tottered into the shop from behind the desk. In a way he bore a ridiculous resemblance to Rachel Varna, much as the caricatures of some prominent statesman bear to the real personality.

"He is back again, my dear," the old man said in querulous accents which shook with fear. "The devil has come back again. He is in my private office and I don't know what to say to him. Oh dear, oh dear, what have I done that I should be persecuted in this way? Why does this devil of a man worry me?"

"Soothe yourself, father," Rachel said imperturbably. "I will go and speak to him. And you, sir? It will be as well if you keep in the background."

The girl slipped calmly away, leaving Dugdale staggered and surprised. Why had Rachel Varna conveyed this warning to him? For it was a warning, as her speaking eyes told him. Almost instinctively he stepped back in the gloom at the end of the counter whilst the old man stood wringing his hands and wiping the moisture from his yellow forehead. The silence of the shop was broken by angry voices in the inner office, and one of the voices struck on Dugdale's ears with a sound both familiar and sinister. Where had he heard it before? Surely he connected it with his call upon Paul Quentin. Yes, undoubtedly, it was the voice of the secretary Grenadus. But it was not Grenadus who emerged from the office and strode angrily along the shop—it was the pale, languid, bent form of Paul Quentin himself. The sombre light fell upon his face and the silver-grey hair and the figure shone out like one of Rembrandt's portraits. Without saying a word to anybody or looking from side to side, and as his shadow cleared the window the old man ceased to wring his hands and a wonderfully alert look came into his rheumy eyes.

"You are a wonder, my dear, a positive wonder. But perhaps you will attend to this gentleman whilst I pack up the parcel to go to Silverdale."

As the old man spoke he laid his hand on the china lid tenderly and lovingly. Dugdale waited for Rachel to speak. Her eyes flashed as she pointed to the door.

"You had better go," she said in a sibilant whisper. "You have done mischief enough for one day."

Feeling small and mean, Dugdale crept from the shop.