CHAPTER XIX
THE X-RAY DETECTIVE
"I want to consult you, Professor Kennedy, about a most baffling case ofsudden death under suspicious circumstances. Blythe is my name--Dr.Blythe."
Our visitor spoke deliberately, without the least perturbation ofmanner, yet one could see that he was a physician who only as a lastresort would appeal to outside aid.
"What is the case, Doctor?" queried Craig.
The Doctor cleared his throat. "It is of a very pretty young artstudent, Rhoda Fleming, who returned to New York from France shortlyafter the outbreak of the war and opened a studio in the New StudioApartments on Park Avenue, not far from my office," began Dr. 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 MissFleming. 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 wascyanotic, had a rapid pulse, and nausea. By means of stimulants Isucceeded in bringing her around, however, and she recovered. It lookedlike acute gastritis.
"But last night, at about the same time, I was called again to see thesame girl. She was in an even more serious condition, with all theformer symptoms magnified, unconscious, and suffering severe pains inthe abdominal region. Her temperature was 103. Apparently there had beentoo great a delay, for she died in spite of everything I could dowithout regaining consciousness."
Kennedy regarded the Doctor's face pointedly. "Did the necropsy showthat she was--er--"
"No," interrupted the Doctor, catching his glance. "She was not about tobecome a mother. And I doubt the suicide theory, too." He paused andthen after a moment's consideration, added deliberately, "When sherecovered from the first attack she seemed to have a horror of death andcould 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'spersonal impressions.
Dr. Blythe hesitated again, as if considering a point in medical ethics,then suddenly seemed to allow himself to grow confidential. "I'm verymuch interested in art myself, Professor," he explained. "I suppose youhave heard of the famous 'Fete du Printemps,' by Watteau?"
Kennedy nodded vaguely.
"The original, you know," Dr. Blythe went on hurriedly, "hung in thechateau of the Comtesse de la Fontaine in the Forest of Compiegne, andwas immensely valuable--oh--worth probably a hundred thousand dollars ormore."
A moment later Dr. Blythe leaned over with ill-suppressed excitement."After I brought her around the first time she confided to me that ithad been entrusted to her by the Comtesse for safe-keeping during thewar, that she had taken it first to London, but fearing it would not besafe even there, had brought it to New York."
"H'm," mused Kennedy, "that is indeed strange. What's your theory,then,--foul play?"
Dr. Blythe looked from Kennedy to me, then said slowly, "Yes--but wecan't find a trace of poison. Dr. Leslie--the Coroner--I believe youknow him--and I can find nothing, in fact. It is most incomprehensible."
I noticed that Kennedy was watching Dr. 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 withalacrity, needing no second invitation to take up a mystery that alreadypromised many surprises.
The New Studio Apartments were in a huge twelve-story ornate Renaissanceaffair on upper Park Avenue, an example of the rapidly increasingco-operative idea which the impractical artistic temperament has provedsoundly practical.
It was really a studio building, too, designed for those artists whopreferred luxury and convenience to the more romantic atmosphere of the"Alley"--which is the way the initiated refer to the mews back ofWashington Square, known as Macdougal's Alley, famous in fact andfiction.
Rhoda Fleming's was a most attractively arranged suite, with a largestudio commanding the north light and having a ceiling twice as high asthe ordinary room, which allowed of the other rooms being, as it were,on two floors, since their ceilings were of ordinary height. On everyside, as we entered, we could see works of art in tasteful profusion.
Since the removal of the body of the beautiful but unfortunate young artstudent, no one had been left there, except the maid, Leila. Leila washerself a very pretty girl, one of those who need neither fine clothesnor expensive jewels to attract attention. In fact she had neither. Inoticed that she was neatly and tastefully dressed, however, and wore aplain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. She seemed to beheartbroken over the death of her mistress, but how much of it wasgenuine, I could not say, though I am frank to admit that even before Isaw her I had determined that she was worth watching.
"Show me just how you discovered Miss Fleming," asked Kennedy of Dr.Blythe, getting down to work immediately.
"Why," he replied, "when I got here she was lying half across thatdivan, as if she had fallen there, fainting. Each time a little tablehad been set for a light dinner and the dinner had been eaten. Theremains were on the table. And," Blythe added significantly, "each timethere 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 whenMademoiselle had a little party she would often pay me extra to comeback again and clean up. She liked to prepare little chafing-dishdinners--but disliked the cleaning."
Dr. Blythe nodded significantly, as though that accounted for the reasonwhy it had seemed to be Leila who had called him in both times.
Kennedy and I had found the little pantry closet in the kitchenettewhere the maid kept the few housekeeping utensils. He took a hastyinventory of the slender stock, among which, for some reason, I noted abottle of a well-known brand of meat sauce, one of those dark-coloredappetizers, with a heavy, burnt-grain odor.
Craig's next move was to ransack the little escritoire in the corner ofthe studio room itself. That was the work of but a few moments andresulted in his finding a packet of letters in the single drawer.
He glanced over them hastily. Several of an intimately personal naturewere signed, "Arnold Faber." Faber, I knew, was a young art collector,very wealthy and something more than a mere dilettante. Other letterswere of business dealings with well-known Fifth Avenue art galleries ofPierre Jacot & Cie., quite natural in view of Miss Fleming's longresidence in France.
The letters had scarcely been replaced when the door of the studioopened and I caught sight of a tastefully gowned young woman, quiteapparently a foreigner acclimated to New York.
"Oh, I beg pardon," she apologized. "I heard voices and thought perhapsit was some of Rhoda's relatives from the West and that I could dosomething."
"Good-evening, Miss Tourville," greeted Dr. Blythe, who was evidentlywell-known to this colony of artists. A moment later he introduced us,"This, by the way, is Miss Rita Tourville, an intimate friend of MissFleming, who has the studio above."
We bowed, exchanged the conventional remarks that such a tragedy madenecessary, and Rita Tourville excused herself. Somehow or other,however, I could not resist the impression that she had come inpurposely to see what was going on.
On our way out, after promising Dr. Blythe to meet him later in thenight at the office of the Coroner, Kennedy, instead of going directlyto the street, descended to the basement of the apartment and sought thejanitor, who lived there.
"I'd like very much to see the rubbish that has come down from MissFleming's apartment," he asked, slipping into the janitor's hand a largesilver coin.
"It's all mixed up with rubbish from all the apartments on that side ofthe house," replied the janitor, indicating a bulging burlap bag.
"Miss Tourville's, also?" queries Craig.
The janitor nodded assent.
Kennedy surely obtained his money's worth of junk as the ja
nitor spreadthe contents of the bag on the cellar floor. With his walking stick hepawed over it minutely, now and then stooping to examine something moreor less carefully. He had gone through somewhat more than half of therubbish that had come from the apartments when he came upon what lookedlike the broken remains of a little one-ounce dark-colored, labellessbottle.
Kennedy picked it up and sniffed at it. He said nothing, but I saw hisbrow knit with thought. A moment later he wrapped it in a piece oftissue paper, thanked the janitor, and we mounted the cellar steps tothe street.
"I think I'll try to see Faber tonight," he remarked as we walked downthe avenue. "It will do no harm at any rate."
Fortunately, we found the young millionaire art connoisseur at home, ina 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 afterwe had introduced ourselves without telling too much. "You see, I wasquite well acquainted with her."
Kennedy said nothing, but I could feel that he was longing to askquestions leading up to whether Faber had been the mysterious diner inthe Fleming Studio the night before.
"I suppose you are acquainted with Watteau's 'Fete du Printemps'?" shotout Craig, after a few inconsequential questions, watching Faber's facefurtively.
"Indeed I am," replied the young man, apparently not disconcerted in theleast.
The fact was that he seemed quite willing, even eager to discuss thepainting. I could not make it out, unless it might be that any subjectwas less painful than the sudden death of Miss Fleming.
"Yes," he continued voluntarily, "I suppose you know it represents agroup of dancers. The central figure of the group, as everyone believes,is reputed to be the passionate and jealous Madame de Montespan, whomthe beautiful Madame de Maintenon replaced in the affections of LouisXIV.
"Why, no one thinks of Watteau, with his delightful daintiness and manygraceful figures on such masterfully disposed backgrounds as a portraitpainter. But the Fete shows, I have always contended, that he drew onmany 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 and I followedhim without comment.
We gazed long and intently at the face of the central figure. Smallthough it was, it was a study in itself, a puzzle, distracting,enigmatical. There was a hard, cruel sensuousness about the beautifulmouth which the painter seemed to have captured and fixed beneath thevery oils. Masked cleverly in the painted penetrating dark eyes was asort of cunning which, combined with the ravishing curves of the cheeksand chin, transfixed the observer.
Something in the face reminded me of a face I had once seen. It was notexactly Rita's face, but it had a certain quality that recalled it. Ifancied that there was in both the living and the painted face ajealousy that would brook no rivalry, that would dare all for the objectof its love.
Faber saw that we had caught the spirit of the portrait, and seemedhighly 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 knowthat Miss Fleming was said to have had the original--and that it isgone?"
Faber looked from one to the other of us without moving a muscle of hisface.
"Why, yes," he replied steadily. I could not make out whether he hadexpected and been prepared for the question or not. At any rate headded, half serious, half smiling, "Even for her portrait someone wasready to risk even life and honor to kidnap her!"
Evidently in his ardor he personified the picture, felt that the thiefmust 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 byGainsborough for a quarter of a century stuffed into a tin tube, to saynothing of the final sordid ending of the capture of Mona Lisa, mightargue a devotion among art thieves a bit short of infatuation. I thinkwe'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 Fete?" queried Craig finally, "so asto use it in identifying the real one?"
"Surely," replied the collector. "I have no objection. If I shouldhappen to be out when you came, I'll leave word with my man to let yougo ahead."
Just then the telephone rang and Faber reached for it before we couldthank him and say good-night.
"Hello--oh, Miss Tourville, how do you do? Why--er--yes--yes, I'mlistening."
They chatted for several minutes, Faber answering mostly inmonosyllables. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought theconversation, at least at his end of the line, constrained. As he hungup the receiver, I fancied, too, that Faber seemed to look on us with asort of suspicion. What was his connection with Rita, I wondered? Whathad Rita told him?
A moment later we had said good-by and had gained the street, Kennedystill making no comment on the case.
"There's nothing more that we can do tonight," remarked Craig, lookingat his watch finally as we walked along. "Let us go over to the CityLaboratory and see Dr. Leslie, as I promised Blythe."