Time passed and no arrest was made. Other matters engaged public attention, and the Chelsea studio murder gradually dropped out of sight, occupying less and less space in the press and presently disappearing altogether.
Between Inspector Grimsby and Moris Klaw a definite breach occurred.
“He’s either bluffing or else hiding something,” the Inspector declared to me. “Why did he keep that cigarette? What the devil was the sound he heard, or thought he heard, or pretended he heard? All I know is that I’ve made a fool of myself. There’s not a ghost of a clue.”
I was not without sympathy for Grimsby. He had grown so used to finding his difficulties resolved by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs, that beyond doubt in the Chelsea case he had promised more than he had been able to perform, optimistically trusting Klaw to provide light in the darkness; and the great man had proved to be fallible.
It was a dreadful blow to Detective-Inspector Grimsby, and, I must confess, a surprise to me. Although I had no definite evidence, I nevertheless had certain reasons to suppose that Moris Klaw was not entirely inactive during this time. Twice I met him, accompanied by the dazzling Isis, in the neighbourhood of Queen’s Hall, and on the second occasion as he entered a car which was waiting for him:
“Mr. Searles,” he said, “tell him, that Detective Inspector, that all work and no play makes of Jean a dull fellow. Recommend to him music. Tell him he should sometimes steal an afternoon and at a concert relax himself.”
I reported the conversation to Grimsby in due course and had never seen him more angry.
“He’s pulling my leg!” he said. “It’ll be a long time before I ask him to help me again. Concerts! What time have I got for concerts?”
Such, then, was the state of affairs at the time that Len Hassett, a black-and-white artist of my acquaintance whose work was beginning to attract attention, leased the house and studio of ill-fame where poor Pyke Webley had met his death.
Hassett was ultra-modern and very morbid, but although he professed to have taken the place because its murderous atmosphere appealed to him, I had more than a suspicion that the low rental, consequent upon its evil reputation, had done much more to influence his decision. However, in due course I received an invitation to the house-warming, and on the same day a telephone message from Moris Klaw.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles,” came his rumbling greeting over the wires; “it is very wet again. This appalling English climate becomes disastrous. I have lost in one week two marmosets and a Peruvian squirrel. They see the fog and rain, they sneeze, they cough, they die. I have to make to you a request, Mr. Searles: it is that you secure for myself and Isis the invitation to Mr. Len Hassett’s party at his new studio.”
“Certainly, Mr. Klaw,” I replied, trying to keep a note of surprise from my voice; “Hassett and I are old friends. I have only to mention your name and you will be heartily welcomed.”
That Isis would be welcome I did not doubt, but, mentally picturing the eccentric figure of Moris Klaw at such a gathering, I could not deny that it seemed out of place. However, I doubted not that some purpose deeper than amusement underlay the request, and the matter was arranged accordingly.
Moris Klaw called for me in a Daimler, wherein, queenly, Isis reclined in an ermine cloak. I think I had never before become so fully conscious of the mystery enshrouding the life of this oddly assorted pair as I did during that drive to Chelsea.
Who, I asked myself, was Moris Klaw, the inscrutable genius who so gladly offered his services to the guardians of law and order?--who dealt in beasts and birds and reptiles, old furniture and fusty books?--who lived in one of the most unsavoury quarters of London?--whose daughter was an unchallenged beauty, possessed of clothes and jewels which never were purchased out of the profits of the Wapping business? My reflections, however, availed me nothing.
Arrived at Chelsea, we met our host in the lounge hall of the house, and, introductions being over and the beauty of Isis having annoyed every other pretty woman in the place, I presently found myself escorting Morris Klaw’s daughter through the garden to the studio, whither some of the party had preceded us. We paused for a moment and looked in at the window.
A group of a dozen people or so gathered around the piano at the farther end of the place; but, nearer to us, seated in a high armchair before the blazing fire and caressing a black cat which rested upon his knee, was a strange-looking, gaunt-faced man. Upon his harsh features the dancing firelight painted odd shadows, so that at one moment it was a smiling, benevolent face, and, in the next, the face of a devil.
It was a mere illusion, of course, but when I turned again to Isis and we proceeded toward the door, I saw her biting her lip in sudden agitation, and:
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied--“but what a queer-looking man that was sitting before the fire.”
Presently we met him, however, as well as the black cat (which proved to belong to Len Hassett). He was Serg Skobolov, a Russian pianist whose reputation was growing by leaps and bounds. Upon Isis his curious small eyes rested greedily; and that she was repelled, the girl was unable to disguise. In due course, when the merriment was in full swing, there were songs, and a certain amount of dancing took place; and then melting at the right moment to the entreaties of Hassett, Skobolov agreed to play.
“You know,” said a lady journalist who was sitting on the floor near me, “Skobolov has composed numerous works but not one of them is published.”
“Ah!” came a hoarse whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Moris Klaw standing in the shadow behind us. “How strange! Does he refuse then to publish his compositions?”
“Absolutely,” the lady declared earnestly. “He maintains that no one else could play them.”
“Is that so?” wheezed Moris Klaw. “Perhaps he is right. Presently we shall hear and judge for ourselves.”
He became silent, as the pianist, seating himself, began to speak:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his broken English, “you know that the friend of us all, our good Hassett, takes this studio because it is haunted. Here, murder is done, yes, and so I shall play to you a prelude newly composed in which--it is appropriate--I try to express in music the lust of slaying.”
He paused amid an uncomfortable silence, and then:
“Some of you must know,” he resumed, “that all my compositions are emotions, attempts to paint in chords things experienced. Some experiences one cannot have and so can never paint--for atmosphere, atmosphere, is everything! Now I shall paint for you the story of this studio.”
With that, he began to play; and although I had never heard him before, I realized from the outset that he was a master of his instrument. Indeed, I thought, a genius. His theme and its treatment alike were unusual, grotesque. There was some quality in the man’s technique which I found myself unable to define. He possessed uncanny power. When, at last, the prelude ended, it was greeted by a silence more eloquent than any applause.
It was only momentary, of course. Then came a wild outburst of enthusiasm. Yet it had been long enough, that moment of stillness, for me to hear the squirting of Moris Klaw’s scent spray immediately behind me. And when at last the clapping and shouting died down:
“That prelude,” came his voice, almost in my ear, “it has a bad smell. Soon, Isis my child, we must go. It grows late. But perhaps Mr. Hassett will permit me to telephone to my chauffeur, as I allow him to go away? It is all right? Very well. How wonderful is that prelude.”
