“It was not as though I had any choice in the experience. Once you led me to him, I found I could do nothing but give him your painting. With the assistance of Watson here, I swore off the evils of cocaine because I disliked the sensation of not being in control of my thoughts and senses. All the works you created under the alias of Algernon Redfern — they were meant for Ferregamo, were they not?”
I had some vague notion of what Holmes was driving at, but it seemed simply too fantastic to credit. “What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Ruber here...”
“Felix Ruber, in case you were wondering,” the man in the darkness interrupted.
“Very well,” Holmes continued, “Felix Ruber, you see, has... an ability. I cannot classify it scientifically, but it seems that his paintings are somehow able to affect their owner — adversely, I need hardly add. Hence, Mrs Serracoult’s fiery demise, the mysterious disappearance of James Phillimore, the invisible creature that clawed its way out of Molinet’s stomach, and so on. You have a very vivid imagination, sir, if more than somewhat disturbed.” Holmes touched my sleeve. Whether he could see my response or not, I nodded my understanding. “Given that you have achieved your goal,” he asked, “would you at least satisfy my curiosity and tell me your story?”
“If you’re hoping that my story will contain an explanation of my gift, I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed, Mr Holmes. But why not?” As Ruber spoke, I began to take short, silent steps, tracking the voice to its source. “I was living on the streets of Vienna, when I first met Julius Ferregamo. I was little more than a child, trying to make money any way I could. You might think you’ve seen some terrible things today, gentlemen, but believe me, nothing can compare to the horrors I experienced growing up. Ferregamo was there to see what artwork he could snatch up for the so-called civilized world. The man was no better than a vulture. He’d heard some talk about my work... my abilities. You’d think that would have made me blessed. But once the word spread, life became impossible... I was the miracle-worker, the modern-day messiah. Believe it or not, I simply just wanted to paint. It is what I do, what I am. Ferregamo promised me a new life, away from that hell. I believed him. But he just wanted to use me like all the others. To be richer than he already was, to see his enemies crushed. It was my job to see that those things came to pass.”
I remembered that Ferregamo had somehow retained his position as the premier art collector in London, perhaps even in Europe, but his competitors had all come and gone. Now I had some inkling of how they had gone. “So... you simply paint something and it happens?” I asked, and instantly regretted doing so. Had I given away my position?
“Not quite, Doctor. You have to possess the painting to feel its power. People must have thought Ferregamo was a very generous man — he was always giving them gifts.”
“And those gifts were your paintings,” Holmes responded. “Then you were his accomplice.”
“I was his prisoner! Locked in a cell in his home, with a guard watching over me at all times. But finally, during my one mealtime a day, I was able to scratch a drawing into a metal plate with my fork — it was a drawing of a heart exploding. The guard took my plate and... I was free.” In his rage, he did not seem to have noticed my approach. I continued, step by careful step, as he expounded.
“I disappeared, studied, changed my style. Then returned to destroy Julius Ferregamo. But that wasn’t easy if he had to possess my work. That was why, in addition to reinventing myself, I hid my revenge paintings under those rather more conventional landscapes. I found that using Brickfall and Amberley’s lead-based paint seemed to block the effects for a time. Don’t ask me to explain it; I don’t really understand it myself. But, of course, I couldn’t just send him one of my pictures, he would have known instantly. The only way was for him to buy one at auction. I had no idea he was out of the country until I saw it in the newspaper.”
“And tell me, Mr Ruber, does that make you any less of a murderer?” asked Holmes. In the gloom, I could see only the easel on which Ruber’s last painting still rested. Where was the devil?
“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. And I can’t ask for it over... over all those other people you just mentioned whose names I’m ashamed to tell you I’ve already forgotten.” I still could not see my quarry, but I was certain that I had traced the voice to its source, somewhere close to the easel.
“Of late, I’ve given a great deal of thought to questions of captivity and freedom... it strikes me that I have been a captive for my entire life — even these last few months, living in self-imposed imprisonment, unwilling to go out in public for fear that Ferregamo might recognize me. I have been my own jailer, Mr Holmes; perhaps, in a way, that is true of us all. And I think that, for once, I should like to taste real freedom. The whole of Europe is open to me.”
“I’m afraid that may not be possible. You must be called to account for the deaths you have caused.”
Another chuckle. I knew that I was close. “I would not have categorized you as a wishful thinker, Holmes. It seems you still possess the ability to surprise me, after all. But you recall I said earlier today that I would stay in London until my work was completed. Well, Ferregamo has been dead some time now... and I departed the moment I knew.”
I pounced. There was a crash — and then I experienced the sudden, overpowering numbness that comes seconds before the onset of great pain. My ribs burned, as I lay on the floor, and I could only hope that I had somehow succeeded in waylaying Felix Ruber as I fell. But I knew in my heart that I had not. Not only had he vanished without trace, but a search of the studio revealed no other entrance or exit. The windows had clearly not been opened in many a year, and we left some hours later, infinitely sadder but no wiser for our experience. Surely, I told myself, the voice could not have emanated from the self-portrait of Felix Ruber, which I had succeeded in knocking from the easel to the dusty floor?
Holmes and I did not discuss the incident upon our return to Baker Street, and we have talked little of the case since. If his own words are to be believed, Ruber is at large somewhere in Europe as I write, and though my friend could easily use his influence with the high officials of several international police forces to arrange a wide-scale search, he has not done so.
“Having given the matter further thought, it strikes me that it would be nearly impossible to bring the fellow to trial in a satisfactory manner,” he explained, some months later. “The average British jury is not composed of massive intellects, and a prosecutor might just as well accuse hobgoblins and fairies of the crime. I fear that the finer scientific points would be lost on the great, unobservant British public.”
For a man who has turned the docketing of fresh and accurate information into an art-form, it seems odd that he should be able to deny that these events occurred as they did, and as — so far as I am aware — the only other surviving witness, I fear that no one will place any stock in this account. So I lay it aside for now, in the hope that perhaps my friend is at least partially correct, and by the time it is published, long after my death, we will at last have come to comprehend the nature of Felix Ruber’s remarkable abilities.
I should add that I hear rumours, from time to time, of queer noises emanating from the vaults of Cox and Co, where the portrait of Felix Ruber is stored, but I have not felt a pressing need to investigate further.