by Freeman Wills Crofts
We introduce a story by Freeman Wills Crofts — a story typical of the British school, and illustrating again the three S’s of Anglo-Saxon sleuthing — the soft, slow, smooth style which, like an English tweed suit, wears well and long...
Mr. Nicholas Lumley, commission agent, laid his fountain pen on his desk, straightened himself up with a sigh of relief, and glanced at his watch. To his satisfaction, it told him that the close of what had been a hard day’s work had been reached, and that in a few moments he must leave his office if he wished to catch his usual train home.
But Fate ruled otherwise. As he rose from his desk an office boy entered and laid a card before him. It appeared that Mr. Silas S. Snaith, of Hall’s Building, 105 Broadway, N. Y., wished to see him.
“Show him in,” said Mr. Lumley, stifling a sigh of disappointment.
Mr. Snaith proved to be a tall, slim man of some five-and-thirty, with clear-cut, strongly-marked features and two very keen blue eyes, which danced over Mr. Lumley and about the room as if to leave no detail of either unnoticed. He was well dressed in dark clothes of American cut, but a huge ruby ring and diamond sleeve-links seemed to point to a larger endowment of money than of taste. In his hand he carried a leather dispatch-case of unusually large dimensions.
“Mr. Nicholas Lumley?” he began, speaking with a drawl and slight American accent. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
He held out his hand, which Mr. Lumley shook, murmuring his acknowledgments.
The other seated himself.
“You take on jobs for other people,” he said, “odd jobs — for a consideration?”
Mr. Lumley admitted the impeachment.
“Why, then, I’d like if you would take on one for me. It’s a short job, and easy in a way, and if you can put it through there’ll be quite a little commission.”
“What is the job, Mr. Snaith?”
“It’ll take a minute or two to tell you. But first, you’ll understand it’s confidential.”
“Certainly. Most of my work is that.”
There was a hint of coldness in Mr. Lumley’s voice which the other sensed.
“That’s all right. No need to get rattled. Have a cigar?”
He pulled two from his waistcoat pocket, holding one out. Mr. Lumley accepted, and both men lit up.
“It’s this way,” went on Snaith. “I’m in lumber, and I’ve not done too badly — house on Fifth Avenue and all that. I’ve more spare time than I had, and you mightn’t believe it, but the hobby I’m fondest of is pictures. I’ve toured Europe for the galleries alone, and a mighty fine time I had. And my own collection runs to quite a few dollars.
“A year ago last fall I struck a picture that beat anything I’d seen before — at Poictiers, in France — and when I left that town the picture came too. It cost me a cool $15,000, but it was worth it. It was a Greuze, a small thing, not more than ten inches by a foot — just a girl’s head — but a fair wonder. The man I bought it from told me it was one of a pair, and since then I’ve been looking out for the other one. And now, by the Lord, I’ve found it!”
Mr. Snaith paused and drew on his cigar, which he held pipewise in the corner of his mouth.
“I went up to see your Lord Arthur Wentworth this trip — Wentworth Hall, Durham. My word, that’s some place! I had business with him about some acres of trees; he holds land in N’York State. Well, he had to go to some other room to get a map of his domains, and I had a look round the study to pass the time till he came back — idle curiosity, as you might say. Well, I’ll be jiggered if there, on the wall behind where I’d been sitting, wasn’t hanging the companion picture. I’d seen photographs of it, so I knew. I reckoned it might be only a copy, so I had a good squint at it before his lordship came back. I thought it was the gen-u-ine thing, but I just wasn’t plumb sure.
“I had time to take a couple of snaps of it with my pocket camera before his lordship came back. Then we got the lumber deal through. For all he’s a member of the effete British aristocracy, and about as ro-bust as a wisp of hay at that, he’s all there, is Lord Arthur. A hard nut, as maybe you’ll find.
“I said nothing about the picture, but all the time I was figuring how to get wise to its gen-u-ineness. When I got back to London I went to the best man I knew in the trade — Frank L. Mitchell, of Pall Mall. What Frank L. Mitchell doesn’t know about pictures wouldn’t be worth hearing. I had him promise to go down and see the picture for me.
“He went the next day. He waited about till he saw his lordship and friends go out hunting, then he went to the house and, with lubricating the butler’s palm, got a look round inside. He saw the picture, and he’s satisfied it’s the real article. But he went one better than that. The holders of all these gen-u-ine pictures are known, and when he got back he looked up the records, and found that when the present lord’s father purchased it fifty years ago it was recognized to be the real thing, and paid for as such.
“So that’s bedrock. It’s likely the present owner knows that, but, of course, it’s not certain. Mitchell figures that bit of canvas is worth three thousand of your pounds — $15,000. Now, Mr. Lumley, I want that picture, and I want you to get it for me.”
The American sat back and looked expectantly at Mr. Lumley. The latter’s interest, which had been aroused by his visitor’s story, suddenly waned.
“That’s easier said than done, I’m afraid,” he answered slowly. “Ten to one his lordship won’t sell.”
“I reckon he’ll sell — on my terms. Note the connections.” Mr. Snaith demonstrated on his fingers. “Here you have a lord that’s hard up — I got wise to that. It takes him all he can do to keep his end up. Three thousand may not be much, but it’s a darned sight more than he can afford to drop for nothing. You say he’ll not sell. I’ll agree, and ask, Why not? Why, because he’s a proud man. He’s not going to have that space on his study wall to remind him and his friends and his servants what he’s done. But that’s where I come in.”
Mr. Snaith picked up his dispatch-case and, opening it carefully, drew out a tissue-covered object and laid it on Mr. Lumley’s desk. With thin, nervous fingers he unwrapped the paper, revealing to the commission agent’s astonished gaze a small oil-painting in a heavy and elaborate gilt frame.
It was a charming study of a girl’s head; light, elegant, dainty work. She was beautiful; blue-eyed, creamy-complexioned, and with masses of red-gold hair. But it was not her beauty that held the observer. It was the soul which shone behind the face.
“Warm stuff,” murmured Snaith appreciatively; “and that’s only a copy. The picture’s celebrated the world over, and there’s scores of copies. It’s so good, is this one” — he shot a sidelong glance at Mr. Lumley — “I can hardly tell it isn’t gen-u-ine, and I doubt if you or Lord Wentworth could either.”
Mr. Lumley felt slightly uncomfortable, though he could not say exactly why. But something faintly unpleasant in his visitor’s manner grated on his rather sensitive nerves.
“Now, my proposition is this,” the American went on. “You see his lordship and show him this picture. Tell him straight it’s a copy, but so good a copy that only a few men in the world could tell the difference. That he’ll be able to see for himself. Tell him your client offers him £2,000 to let you change the pictures.”
“Why not deal with him yourself?”
“Two reasons. First, he don’t love me any over that lumber deal. He was polite and all that, but I could sense he was glad to see my back. Secondly, I have business in Paris tomorrow, and I’ll only have time to call here passing through London on my way to the States next Friday.”