Skobolov’s attentions to Isis Klaw became very marked. Presently, following some whispered words from her father, I noticed with surprise that she had ceased to avoid the Russian pianist, indeed was consenting to smile upon him. Hence, when presently Moris Klaw’s car arrived, I was prepared for Skobolov’s acceptance of an offer of a lift as far as his hotel.
For my own part I confess quite frankly that I disliked the man. I had disliked him on sight, and nearer acquaintance did nothing to dispel that first impression. That Isis disliked him, also, I could not doubt. Therefore I divined that she was playing a part, although its purpose defeated my imagination.
Throughout the drive from Chelsea to the hotel Moris Klaw discussed music, a subject with which I had not hitherto believed him to be acquainted. Perhaps his intention was to exhibit Skobolov’s intense egotism, for indeed the man was a monument to his own colossal vanity. His genius I could not dispute, but his personality was detestable.
I had foreseen that he would try to detain the party at his hotel, or, rather, that he would try to detain Isis. (I had no doubt whatever that he would gladly have excused both Moris Klaw and myself.) But I had not been prepared for Klaw’s acceptance of the offer. However, as we descended from the car and I hesitated whether to accept Skobolov’s grudging inclusion of myself in the party, or to walk home, I detected an unmistakable expression in Moris Klaw’s queer eyes, twinkling behind the pebbles of his pince-nez.
Suddenly the fact came home to me that I was a minor actor in some mysterious comedy directed by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs.
The Russian occupied a luxurious suite, and Moris Klaw, with reluctance which I could see to be feigned, agreed at Skobolov’s pressing invitation to drink one glass of wine and then to depart for home.
Skobolov did his best to make himself agreeable, proffering cigars and cigarettes, and opening a bottle of Bollinger. Moris Klaw and I declined to smoke, but Isis accepted a cigarette and lay back in a deep lounge chair blowing smoke rings and watching the vainglorious Russian musician through half-lowered lashes.
There was a grand piano in the room, and Moris Klaw, who had not touched his wine, prevailed upon Skobolov to play for us once more the prelude which we had heard at Hassett’s studio.
The pianist shrugged, glanced at Isis, and then seated himself at the instrument. Placing his cigarette in a little ashtray, he laid his fingers caressingly on the keyboard, and once more my soul was harrowed by those indescribable strains.
As the sound of the last chord died away:
“Good,” said Moris Klaw, “excellent, most excellent. And now, please”--he stood up--“I am an old nuisance, an absent old foolish. Do you object that I telephone to my chauffeur? I just remember that Isis leaves her ermine cloak in the car. Is it not so, my child?”
“Good heavens, yes!” Isis exclaimed.
He crossed the room to the telephone, circling ungainly around the piano, raised the instrument, and:
“Will you be pleased to ask Mr. Moris Klaw’s chauffeur to bring in from the car the cloak,” he said, distinctly. “Yes, all right, very well.” He hung up the receiver and turned to face us again, shrugging his shoulders. “So greatly tempting,” he explained, “to some prowler thief.”
I now became aware that Isis had suddenly grown very pale. She had stood up and was watching Skobolov intently. He seemed rather to be enjoying the scrutiny of her fine dark eyes--when there came a peremptory rap upon the door.
“Come in!” said the Russian sharply.
The door opened--and Detective-Inspector Grimsby stood on the threshold!
Moris Klaw nodded in Skobolov’s direction, and, literally stupefied with astonishment, I heard Grimsby say:
“Serg Skobolov, I arrest you on a charge of having murdered Mr. Pyke Webley at his studio on the night of November the fourteenth. I must warn you----” But he got no further.
Uttering a sound which I can only describe as the roar of a wild beast, Skobolov leapt upon him, clasped his hands about the speaker’s throat, and hurled him to the floor!
To Moris Klaw, Grimsby owed his life. The Russian was kneeling on the detective’s chest and literally squeezing life out of him, when Klaw, surprisingly agile, sprang forward. He stooped over the would-be murderer and performed some simple operation which threw Skobolov upon his back.
In two seconds the madman was up again; and, even now, I sometimes see in my dreams that devil face, transfigured by such evil as I could not have supposed to reside in any human being. He opened and closed his hands in a horrible, writhing, suggestive movement, looked at Grimsby who was trying slowly, painfully to struggle to his feet, looked at Isis, looked at Moris Klaw, looked at myself. Then, bursting into peals of laughter, he ran to the French windows, threw one open, sprang on to the parapet outside, and uttering one final frenzied shriek, leapt into the courtyard sixty feet below!
