Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 13

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"IT sounds rather queer," Watney admitted. "However, it is no business of mine, and you will have to work this thing out in your own way. And now, as I am rather busy, the best thing you can do is to go off on your errand and come back presently with an account of your adventures. Then we can lunch together and talk about the future. Off you go."

Lawrence made his way towards Fitzroy Square. He found the studio of which he was in search—a low, rambling, dilapidated-looking place in a neglected garden which opened on the far side by means of a little green gate. There was an air of mystery about the house which struck him as sinister. He went through the ceremony of knocking at the door, but no reply coming he laid his hand upon the handle and found that the lock turned quite easily to the touch. Only for a moment he hesitated, then went boldly and determinedly in. It would be easy to explain his presence to Le Blanc if the latter happened to be upon the premises. If not, why, then, it was just possible that some useful piece of information might reward this bold and hazardous intrusion.

If the outer aspect of the place suggested decay, the studio itself was luxurious to the last degree. The room was large and lofty. A great sky window filled the studio with brilliant spring light, touching up the Cordova leather hangings on the walls, and glinting on the ancient armour. The polished oak floor was strewn with the skins of various animals. Here and there were carved oak chairs. The whole was very pleasing and restful to the eye, but after one look round the picture in the centre of the floor riveted the attention of the visitor to the exclusion of everything else. The canvas was a large one on a big easel. It was slanted at an angle that caught the full light from the roof. As to the rest, the work represented a female figure in a simple white gown with a bunch of violets at her throat.

She appeared to be standing by the side of a rustic table on which was a dark rose, lying upon an open letter. One hand touched the rose irresolutely, whilst the slender fingers of the other hand firmly clasped a diamond star. The allegory was quite plain—youth and innocence hesitating between love and the desire for power and riches. An exclamation of admiration came from Lawrence's lips. And yet the picture was irritating because it was not finished. The face which would have made the whole thing complete was represented as yet only by an oval staring blank in the centre of the canvas. Obviously the painting was still being worked upon, for there was a chair, whereon a model had been seated, with a silken wrap thrown carelessly across it. From an inner room came a little laugh and two or three words which struck Lawrence almost like a blow. It seemed to him that he was listening to the voice of Ethel Blantyre. Then he put the absurd supposition aside. A moment later and some one was addressing him by name. He came back to earth again with a start and a muttered apology.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me," he murmured.

"Surprise is not quite the word I should have chosen," the other man said grimly. "I allow no one to come here, and people respect my wishes. Why, therefore, do you intrude?"

Lawrence glanced fixedly at Le Blanc. He saw a slight, dark man with a strong powerful face and a wonderfully noble head. The face was handsome enough, though the effect of the whole was spoilt by the affected cut of the hair and the waxed moustaches. The eyes were a trifle furtive, too.

"Why should I be ashamed?" Lawrence asked. "Nobody in the wide world knows better than you that I have done no harm. You could have gone a long way to prove my innocence had I called you at my trial. If your mother had not been alive I should not have had the slightest hesitation in doing so."

"You were always considerate for the feelings of others," Le Blanc sneered. "But what can I do for you? If it is money you are after, then you have had your errand for your pains. All this looks like wealth, but it is not paid for. I can have my fame and its consequent future for the asking any day. But there is one thing I want first—revenge! There is a proud soul that I have to humble in the dust. . . . What do you think of my picture?"

"A pity it is not finished," Lawrence said. "There is genius in every brush mark. I should very much like to see it when the face is filled in. There is something about the figure which puzzles me, it is so suggestive—of—of——"

Lawrence paused in some confusion, conscious that Le Blanc's dark, burning eyes were upon him.

"You might as well finish," he said. "You were going to say that my heroine is suggestive of Ethel Blantyre."

"The resemblance is very strong," Lawrence stammered.

"You are as frank and as ingenuous as ever," Le Blanc sneered. "When you got into trouble Ethel Blantyre was no more than a child. You were nothing to her then, for people in our position only associated with the Blantyres on sufferance. Family pride was a disease with Sir Arthur. And yet you, fresh from gaol this very morning speak of the likeness of my heroine's figure to Miss Blantyre's. Why, you have told me your story and your errand as plainly as if you had put it into words. Sir Arthur has employed you to spy upon me and keep him au fait of my movements. I cannot congratulate the baronet upon his choice of a detective."

Lawrence flushed with deep annoyance. He had not expected to be read in this fashion.

"I can say a good deal about your past," he retorted. "I am practically in a position to drive you out of London."

"Really," Le Blanc sneered. "It would be easy for me to denounce you as a gaol bird who has attempted to blackmail me. I have only to declare that you came here to extort money by threats, and you would have to go back yonder at once to serve out the balance of your sentence. Prison rat, do you dare to measure your brain against mine!"

The voice was hard and grating, and it was all so cruelly true. In the eyes of the world, Lawrence Hatton was a convict. Nobody would have believed his story. It only needed the lifting of Le Blanc's little finger, and those dreadful doors would close upon him again. The artist's laugh stung him to the quick.

"Earthen pipkins cannot swim with iron pots," Le Blanc sneered. "Go back to your patron and tell him you have failed. And don't forget to inform him all about the picture."

There was a mocking suggestion in the last words that struck Lawrence like a chill. He was sure that there was some horrible significance behind them.

"The picture is to be of the most beautiful girl in the world," Le Blanc resumed with the same dread suggestion. "I call that picture 'The World's Desire.' Even one so futile as you can see the meaning of the allegory. Tell Sir Arthur all about it. Tell him of whom my heroine's figure reminds you. Tell him that the face will be painted in to-morrow, and that, in a day or two, the whole thing will be the gem of a Bond Street gallery, the talk of the day, another epoch in my career. Through that picture I will strike at Sir Arthur's pride. Through it I will stab him to the heart. He will understand."

Le Blanc had risen and was pacing up and down the room.

"There are revenges and revenges," he went on. "Some of them are clumsy and crude like the vengeance of the knife or the bullet. What avails you to strike your victim down and end his tortures before he can enjoy them? My father taught me that—there was no better or cleverer hater in the world. Sir Arthur slighted me once, but I told him I should get even with him. I have plotted and waited for my time which has come at last. If the face of my heroine were fitted into that picture it would fill you with delight and pleasure. Sir Arthur will regard it with disgust and loathing. Oh, you must not forget to tell him about the picture. I would give five years of my life to be there and see his face."

A dry chuckle broke from Le Blanc as he concluded his speech. His face had cleared and his eyes were laughing almost frankly.

"Go away, little sheep," he said, "go and report progress. But stop, I shall be quite curious to know what has happened. You will also be curious to know more, and I will gratify that weakness if you will come and see me again. You have not so many friends that your nights are fully occupied. I am going to take a lady to the theatre this evening and I shall be back by half-past eleven. Come and see me then—walk in with the charming absence of ceremony you displayed just now, and don't forget the picture. A la bonne heure. Now go away, little sheep."

Without another word Lawrence turned on his heel. He felt baffled and humiliated. It was degrading to realize how quickly Le Blanc had read him. And now he would have to go back to Sir Arthur and proclaim himself an absolute and complete failure. He could see the grinning triumph in the eyes of Le Blanc. And yet he had no retort ready upon which he could make a graceful exit.

It was at this moment that the door at the back of the studio opened and a girl looked in. Seeing that Le Blanc was engaged, she turned away again with a quick apology, but not before Lawrence had caught a glimpse of her face. Then he walked quietly into the road and wiped the perspiration from his face.

"Ethel!" he murmured, "there! Am I going Ethel mad?"