"And de Lesseps has the original?"
"De Lesseps has the original. How did he get it? In any one of a dozen ways. He might have rolled it up and stuck it under his coat. He might have had a confederate. But I don't think that any ordinary method of theft would have appealed to him. I am giving him credit for being clever, as I must when we review the whole case.
"For instance, he asked for permission to copy the Whistler, which you saw was the same size as the Rubens. It was granted. He copied it practically under guard, always with the chance that Mr. Kale himself would drop in. It took him three days to copy it, so he says. He was alone in the room all that time. He knew that Mr. Kale had not the faintest idea of art. Taking advantage of that, what would have been simpler than to have copied the Rubens in oil? He could have removed it from the frame immediately after he canvased it over, and kept it in a position near him where it could be quickly concealed if he was interrupted. Remember, the picture is worth fifty thousand dollars; therefore, was worth the trouble.
"De Lesseps is an artist-we know that-and dealing with a man who knew nothing whatever of art, he had no fears. We may suppose his idea all along was to use the copy of the Rubens as a sort of decoy after he got away with the original. You saw that Mallory didn't know the difference, and it was safe for him to suppose that Mr. Kale wouldn't. His only danger until he could get away gracefully was of some critic or connoisseur, perhaps, seeing the copy. His boldness we see readily in the fact that he permitted himself to discover the theft; that he discovered it after he had volunteered to assist Mr. Kale in the general work of rehanging the pictures in the gallery. Just how he put the picture in Jenning's trunk I don't happen to know. We can imagine many ways." He lay back in his chair for a minute without speaking, eyes steadily turned upward, fingers placed precisely tip to tip.
"The only thing remaining is to go get the picture. It is in de Lesseps' room now-you told me that-and so we know it is safe. I dare say he knows that if he tried to run away it would inevitably put him under suspicion."
"But how did he take the picture from the Kale home?" asked Hatch.
"He took it with him probably under his arm the day he left the house with Mr. Kale," was the astonishing reply.
Hatch was staring at him in amazement. After a moment the scientist arose and passed into the adjoining room, and the telephone bell there jingled. When he joined Hatch again he picked up his hat and they went out together.
De Lesseps was in when their cards went up, and received them. They conversed of the case generally for ten minutes, while the scientist's eyes were turned inquiringly here and there about the room. At last there came a knock on the door.
"It is Detective Mallory, Mr. Hatch," remarked The Thinking Machine. "Open the door for him."
De Lesseps seemed startled for just one instant, then quickly recovered. Mallory's eyes were full of questions when he entered.
"I should like, Mr. Mallory," began The Thinking Machine quietly, "to call your attention to this copy of Mr. Kale's picture by Whistler-over the mantel here. Isn't it excellent? You have seen the original?"
Mallory grunted. De Lesseps' face, instead of expressing appreciation of the compliment, blanched suddenly, and his hands closed tightly. Again he recovered himself and smiled.
"The beauty of this picture lies not only in its faithfulness to the original," the scientist went on, "but also in the fact that it was painted under extraordinary circumstances. For instance, I don't know if you know, Mr. Mallory, that it is possible so to combine glue and putty and a few other commonplace things into a paste which would effectually blot out an oil painting, and offer at the same time an excellent surface for water color work."
There was a moment's pause, during which the three men stared at him silently-with singularly conflicting emotions depicted on their faces.
"This water color-this copy of Whistler," continued the scientist evenly-"is painted on such a paste as I have described. That paste in turn covers the original Rubens picture. It can be removed with water without damage to the picture, which is in oil, so that instead of a copy of the Whistler painting, we have an original by Rubens, worth fifty thousand dollars. That is true; isn't it, M. de Lesseps?"
There was no reply to the question-none was needed. It was an hour later, after de Lesseps was safely in his cell, that Hatch called up The Thinking Machine on the telephone and asked one question.
"How did you know that the water color was painted over the Rubens?"
"Because it was the only absolutely safe way in which the Rubens could be hopelessly lost to those who were looking for it, and at the same time perfectly preserved," was the answer. "I told you de Lesseps was a clever man, and a little logic did the rest. Two and two always make four, Mr. Hatch, not sometimes, but all the time."
_________________________.
MYSTERY OF THE GRIP OF DEATH.
I.
Deep silence, then a long shuddering wail of terror, a stifled, strangling cry for help, the sound of a body falling, and again deep silence. A pause, and after awhile the tramp, tramp of heavy shoes through a lower hall. A door slammed and a man staggered out into a deserted street, haggard, trembling and with lips hard set. He reeled down the street and turned the first corner, waving his trembling hands fantastically.
Another pause, and spears of light flashed through the black night from the second floor of a great six-story tenement in South Boston, then came the sound of stockinged feet hurrying along the hall. Half a dozen horror-stricken men and women gathered at the door of the room whence had come the cry, helplessly gazing into one another's eyes, waiting, waiting, listening.
Finally, from inside the room, they heard a faint whispering sound as of wind rustling through dead leaves, or the silken swish of skirts, or the gasp of a dying man. They listened with strained attention until the noise stopped.
At last one of the men rapped on the door lightly. There was no answer, no sound. Again he rapped, this time louder; then he beat his fists on the door and called out. Still a silence that was terrifying. Mute inquiry lay in the eyes of all.
"Break in the door," said some one at length, in an awed whisper.
"Send for the police," said another.
The police came. They smashed in the door, old and rotting from age, and two of them entered the dark room. One of them used his lantern and those who crowded the door heard an exclamation.
"He's dead!"
Peering curiously around the corner of the door the white-faced watchers in the hall saw a man, dressed for bed, lying still on the floor. Two chairs had been over-turned; the bed clothing was disarranged. One of the policemen was bending over the body, making a hurried examination. He finally arose.
"Strangled to death with a rope-but no rope here," he explained to the other. "This is a case for a medical examiner and detectives."
"What's his name?" asked one of the policemen of a man who stood looking in curiously.
"Fred Boyd," was the reply.
"Have a room-mate?"
"No."
The other policeman was fumbling about the table with his light. At last he turned and held up something in his hand.
"Look here," he said.
It was a new wedding ring. The bright gold glittered in the lantern light.
An hour later a man turned from a side street into the avenue where stood the big tenement house, and swung along in that direction. It was the man who had left the lower door soon after the cries were heard on the second floor. Then his face had been haggard, distorted; now it was calm. One might even trace a line of melancholy and regret there.
Around the street door of the tenement was gathered a crowd of half a hundred curious ones, half-clad and shivering in the chill of the night, all craning their necks to see into the hall over the broad shoulders of a policeman who barred the door.
From a score of windows the heads of other curious ones were thrust out; there was the hum of subdued conversation.
The stranger paused on the outskirts of the little knot and peered curiously into the hall, as others were doing. He saw nothing, and turned to a bystander.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Man murdered inside," was the short response.
"Murdered?" exclaimed the stranger, "who was it?"
"Fellow named Fred Boyd."
A flash of horror passed over the stranger's face and he made an involuntary motion with his hand toward his heart. Then he steadied himself with an effort.