It has been suggested to me more than once that the extraordinary crime which became known throughout the press as the Chelsea studio murder was the Waterloo of my eccentric friend, Moris Klaw; to which I reply that, on the contrary, it was his Austerlitz. This prince of criminologists, some of whose triumphs it has been my privilege to chronicle, never more dramatically established his theory of what he termed “Odic negatives” than in his solution of the mystery of the death of Pyke Webley, the portrait painter.
His singular power, which I can only term post-telepathy, of recovering thought-forms from the atmosphere, earned him the derision of the ignorant, as I have shown, but the grateful appreciation of the better informed--not least among these, Detective-Inspector Grimsby, of New Scotland Yard.
I cannot doubt that the recent experiments of Professor Gilbert Murray were based upon that law of “psychic angles” laid down by the strange genius of Wapping Old Stairs.
During lunch, I had been reading an account of the Chelsea tragedy in an early edition of the Evening Standard, and on returning to my chambers I found Inspector Grimsby waiting for me. A preamble was unnecessary. Simple deduction told me why he had come.
He was in charge of the Chelsea mystery--and out of his depth.
By several years the youngest detective inspector in the Service, Grimsby is a man earmarked by nature for constant promotion. He possesses a gift more precious than genius--the art of using genius; allied to which he has that knack indispensable to any man who would succeed--the knack of finding the limelight. Although he may have done no more than stand in the wings throughout the performance, Detective-Inspector Grimsby invariably takes the last curtain.
This is as it should be, and I accord him my respectful admiration. Therefore, on seeing him:
“The murder of Pyke Webley?” I said, interrogatively.
“Well, that’s wonderful!” he declared, trying to look surprised. “I shall begin to think you are Moris Klaw’s only rival if you spring things like this on me.”
“I see,” said I, tossing my paper on the table. “The case is not so simple as it appears.”
“Simple!” cried Grimsby. He threw the stump of a vicious-looking cheroot into my hearth. “Simple? It’s too simple. By which I mean that there is nothing to work upon--nothing I can see.”
He stood, his back to the hearth, looking at me appealingly; and:
“Have you ’phoned to Wapping?” I asked.
Grimsby nodded.
“I could get no reply,” he answered gloomily.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Well”--he hesitated--“I know your time is of value, Mr. Searles, but I was wondering--I have a taxi outside--if you had time to run down to Moris Klaw’s place with me for a chat?”
“Why not go alone?”
“Ah!” He selected a fresh cheroot and made it crackle between finger and thumb. “His daughter is the snag. She thinks I waste his time. I doubt if she’d let me see him.”
“Your own fault,” I said. “She’s a charming girl. You don’t handle her properly.”
“Ah!” he repeated, and became silent, fumbling for matches. Finally, taking pity upon him:
“Very well,” I agreed, “I have a couple of hours to spare, and if Klaw takes up the case my time will not be wasted.”
