Evening Star Newspaper, January 5, 1930, Page 86

THE SUNDAY STAR, VWAS"INGTON.LD_: _C.. JANUARY 5, 1930. By H. C Bailey. -'AKDIG ene thing with another, Mr. Fortune decided that he had better go te Paris. This often happens in April. In sunshine and limpid air he strolled along the quays. A quick, light step came aft:r him, a bulky man walked up to him. He found himself looking up at the large face ot Monsieur Dubois of the Surete, a face ©of renown in the world of crime. “My dear friend! I was sure of it. I knew that back! What a pleasure to see it. You some to Paris for business.” “Oh, hush. That's a horrible idea. to feel alive.” Dubois chuckled. “Aha—Paris in April— it is dgelicious. You are alone? That was wicked not to bring madame. But you must Junch with me.” “Rather. Yes. My wife’'s in Italy. Just now I was fe:lin’ sirong enough to look at the pictures. What's the Silon like this year?” “Not so bad.” Dubois shrugged. “Come then—I give myself the morning.” They turned into the Grand Palais. The earnest crowd of the first days was working its way round th: walls, taking the duty of criti- cism seriously. 5 Dubois also bsgan at the beginning. But Mr. Fortune does not look at pictures like that, and these pictures did not compel his attention. He drifted on. It wsas in one of the less fashienable corncrs that Dubois found him again. “Parden, my friend, I dosert you.” “My fault.” Reggie looked dreamily at a queer picture. “I was just wondering. You take your pleasures so s:riously in France. I've heard more principles of art than I thought there were.” He drew closer to the queer picture. “What's the rule for that?” Dubois stared at it, shrugged, made a grimace. “None. It has broken them all.” The picture was on the first glance a stiff pattern in dark gray and pal: yellow, rays of yellow straight up and down in front of sharp, angular masses of gray. “A problem of geometry illustrated in color,” said Dubois with contempt. % “I wouldn't say that,” Reggie murmured. “No. I wouldn't say that.” His eyes saw the two colors take many shades in such a conflict of light and dark as comes when the sun is fighting through storm-clouds, and the sharp pattern passed into a darkness which had ferm, and the light came from far, and in the heart of light was a face. A very queer picture. Reggie sighed. “Look at the face,” he said. “I do not know him. He is perhaps the god in the sun.” “It would be,” Reggie murmured. Built up of light, the face was a part of the pattern— yet a face distinct, of a Grezk beauty, but pitiful with a knowledge of sorrow. “Yes. I wonder. Do you knew the feliow who did it?” I came DUBOIS looked at his catalog. “One named Artus. Maurice Artus. He is of the young ones. But not quite so young as he used to be. He begins to arrive, they say. I did not kncw he did horrors like this.” He turned the pages of the catalog. “Aha. Here is another picture by Monsieur Artus. ‘Harvest.” Shall we try?” “One moment. What docs he call this?” Regeie lingered. “This nightmare geometry? He calls it ‘Diversions in Hell.”” Dubois shrugged. “He is not even serious with his horrors. Come, Jet us sce if he has painted anything in his other picture.” He had. There was nothing obscure about that. It showed that Monsieur Artus could paint with an easy command of his craft. The picture was in gray tones, but sharp and a farmstead in a barren country, a asant and his wife harnessed to a cart of sodden sheaves—old folk, bent and straining Out of the craftsmanship came a vision of the ug'iness of age and the misery of its futile sufiering. “Yes,” Reggie murmured. “A picture painted to say how clever it is and make you wish you'd never been born.” Dubois looked at him with tolerant affection. “Dear friend, you want art to make you feel comfertable. But come. You shall have your comforteble art. Lunch, my friend.” The Carbonicux had a fresh vivacity and Reggie drank and drank again. “Yet you are pensive, my friend,” Dubois protested. “He hazunts you with his affected nightmare, that advertiser.” “Oh, no. I rather liked his nightmare. It's the other thing bothered me. I was wondering about him.” A woman was coming into the Yestaurant, slim and graceful in the blue of forget-me-nots. “I think you're wrong about that queer picture. I think he'd felt it all. I did.” Dubois put up his eyebrows. For me, 1 felt nothing. with it, he is mad.” “What then? If he was sincere “I wender,” Reggie murmured. He sighed at his empty plate and gianced reund the vestaurant. The woman in blue had a table near. He saw her face, fair and full-browed, the faee of a child whom womanhood had hurt, hut of a counstant strength. “But he did the rther just to hurt,” he added. “Well, you do not like him.” Dubois smiled. “No. But I'm not sure I don't like him,” JFrvggie said, slowly. The quizzing wrinkles on Dubois’' big face d:opened. “Ah, my friend! To the doctor, a.l men are ill. To th: detective, everything i+ a mystery. But you are on a holiday. Pily me—I go back toc my cfiice to make mystery of a simple murder.” He pushed back his chair. “I'm at the Lucullus,” said Reggie. “You must dine with me. What about tomorrow?” “But with delight—and also with alarm.” Dubois went away chuckling. Reggie sat for a while in the Champs Ely- sees with a cigar. But when it was donz he went back to the Salon. The queer picture would not be denied. Some people were look- ing at it. As they moved away. th: woman in biue came by. She saw the picture, gave it a puzzled look, a weary little smile. Then she came nearer. Her face was whit> and her lips parted. She b:nt over her catalog and the pages ftuttered. She looked again at the pic- ture, bewild red, deecply intent. When she turned away, her light grace had gone. She moved slowly and vaguely, as if she could not sce where she went. Reggie followed h'r. It scemed to him that she was likely to faint. But she made her way to the outer air, and a taxi carried her away. He wandered on into the Bois. As he walked he struggl’d in vain to classify the woman. She had the clothes, the air of leis- uréd wealth. She had not come to see the queer picture. She took it on her way around th: room, and she was looking at it some mo- ments before she found anything in it. She did net know that it was by M. Artus. When she turned up his name in the catalog it told her nothing. She did not go on to his other picture. Yet his queer bit of work meant a mighty lot to her. Why? R-ggie felt in- adequate. The next day Dubois asked if he might bring another man to dinner, an old friend. HE man had a swagg'r and a pair of fierce mustaches. He was much impressed to meet M. Fortune and_expected M. Fortune to be impressed by meeting him. But Reggie had no notion who M. Beaucourt might b2, And Dubois beamed. Reggie made expliora- tory small talk, and it emerged that M. Beau- court was a painter. Dubois chuckled, Reggie talked about the Salon and discovered that M. B-aucourt painted fantasies. “And M. Fortune found a mystery in the Salon,” Dubois exclaimed. “It is incredible, is it not? But what would you have? Making mysteries for the poor policeman—that is his trade.” Dubois began to expound: “It was that geo- metric horror by Artus——" “Aha,” Beaucourt nodded. “His ‘Div:rsions in Hell''~that is what intercsts you?” “Yes, chiefly. But taking the ohe with the other.” “Aha,” said Beaucourt again. “You have the eye, M. Fortune. His ‘Diversions'—no, it is not a picture, it is a viol:nce of the emotions. But one must confess the thing makes its ef- fect. It appears that he interests you, this Artus.” o “Doesn’t he interest anybody in Paris?” Reggie said. “But yes. He arrives. Without doubt, he arrives. I will tell you. Artus has been a young man with a future this 10 years. He has tried almost everything—portrait, land- scape, subject. The painting is brilliant, clever, mocking, hard. Well, you conceive, that sort of thing makes enemies, But at last he begins to be somebody.” “Established is he?” asked Reggie. Beaucourt shrugged. “He makes money. The critics talk of genius. I—I say he is a clever fellow. And you-—you are still interested, M, Fortune?” “Oh, yes. It's that picture with the face. I don't think that's clever. Does M. Artus live in Paris?” Beaucourt ate a grape. “Do you know, you are the second person who has asked me that today.” “Well, well,” Reggie murmured. Beaucourt smiled. “Permit me, my friend— do you perhaps know Miss Everard—Miss Alice Everard?” “No. Do you?” Reggie opened his eyes, Dubois 1&hed across the table. “Miss Alice Everard—are you sure that says nothing to you, my dear Fortune?” “Well, I thought you fellows were nursing something for me,” said Reggie sadly. He sheok his head at Dubois. “So this is it, what? You've found a lady in the case. Miss Alice Everard? I never heard of her. Slight? Fair? Like an early Italian sadonna?” THE FACE IN THE PICTURE A Mystery Which Begins in an Art Gallery and Ends in an Attempted Murder—A Story Which Will Hold Your Interest to the Very Last Word. She saw the picture, gave it a puzzled look, a weary little smile. Then she came nearer., B:aucourt slapped his hand on the table. “But it is she! A Lippo Lippi madonna, yes. And you never heard of her.” He turned to Dubois. “Explain to me that, then. Is it that he is clairvoyant? You put him before that cursed picture and he sees Miss Everard, whom he has never heard of?” “My faith, it is very possible—by what they say of him. A sixth sense, is it not?” “No it isn't. It isn't sense at all.” R-ggie was shrill. “It isn’t possible. I saw the wom- an when I looked at the picture because she was th're. And I'd seen her once before. She was the woman in blue in the restaurant, Du- bois.” “I remember,” Dubols cried. “Well. you went back to the Salon—to this horror of a pictur: again—and she was there looking at it. Well! Afterward?” “It hit her. It hurt her. I thought she was going to faint. But she got away. That's all.” “And what do you deduce from that, my friend?” & “Well, I should say it made her remember something rather ghastly. But it wasn't M. Artus she rem:mbered,” Reggie murmured. “Was it not!” Dubois cried, twinkling tri- umphantly. Beaucourt smiled. “After all, you do not divine everything M. Fortune. It is a little comforting. Yes, she finds herself very in- terested in Artus. She has come to me asking for an introduction.” b “Oh, yes. Yes. She'd want to know what he meant by it,” Reggie murmured. “Have th-y met?” “Not yet. I do not know the fellow—to bring him strangers without warning. I have writt'n to Miss Everard, and now I wonder if I bave done right. I ask old Dubois here—and he brings me to tell you all about it.” “Oh, she ought to meet him if she thinks s0.” Reggie opened his eyes. “Why not? Anything noxious about Artus?” Beaucourt shrugged. “Nothing more than others. You see, Miss Everard was once a student of mine—perhaps 10 years ago. She took her painting with great earnestness, poor child. She worked long, two years, I think, be- fore she gave up. Fortunately, it did not mat- ter. She is rich. But you will understand that I do not wish to sacrifice her to our Artus.” “No. Was Artus about with your students in those days?” “Oh, my friend! Not in my studio, at least. I have no responsibility for him. Be- sides, sh: does not know him, that is clear. She says she has seen his pictures and wants to meet him. That is all.” “If she wants, she will meet him,” said Du- bois. “That is sure. She had better meet him in a way that we know of.” “Yes, I think so.” Reggie looked at him. “You don't like it much, either?” “Not too much.” Dubois’ big face twisted. “Bah, I tell myself I am an old fool. It is not my affair that a rich woman wants to worship an artist. But there is something devilish in that picture.” “I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “There are pomts. Yes. I'd like to meet Artus, too. Take me te him with her—I'll be another admirer.” SO the next morning Reggie went to Beau- court’s studio. Miss Everard was there already. It seemed to him that the shock of the picture had left marks. Her delicate face was more eager, more wistful. Beaucourt introduced him. “My friend, Monsieur For- tune, English like yourself, mademoiselle——" “Mr. Fortune?” It was evident that she had heard of him, and his presence frightened her. “And also,” Beaucourt went on, “an ad- mirer of the work of our Artus. Monsieur Fortune saw that picture of his in the Salon"—Beaucourt smiled—"“his ‘Diversions in Hell” and was much interested, like you, modemoiselle.” “You thought it was rather a wonderful thing?” Reggie said gently. “I—I—oh, it—it's very modern, isn't it?” she said faintly, and turned on Beaucourt, “Is he coming here?” Beaucourt shrugged. “I make my apologies. I have no luck. 1 write to him, There is no answer. I telephone to him this morning. One replies, Monsieur Artus left Faris last night.” - “Oh—oh, well, then. It’s no use waiting.” She made for the door. Beaucourt turned with a droll grimace on Reggie. “She is afraid, the little one.” “Yes, that was my fault. Sorry. My mis- take. I hadn't thought of that. You see, people in England believe I'm a detective. And she’s English.” “But she has never done any wrong, I would swear it!"” “I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Somebody else is afraid, too, you know. Our Artus. It begins to look like a case for the professional hand, I'll talk to Dubois. Coming?" In his rooms at the Surete, Dubois listened to the story, his face like a mask. “Very well” He moved at last. “There are a thousand possibilities. Which do you choose, my friend?"” “No, thank you. Not like that,” Reggie smiled. “Take the facts. The man’s afraid to meet the girl. The girl's afraid of an English detective. Particularly horrified at an English detective being interested in that picture. The only possible inference is that the picture could tell something which the man doesn’'t want to talk about to the girl, and which the girl be=- lieves might set the English police working in a way to hurt her.” “That is clear, yes. But if you can divine what that picture has to tell, then—why, then you are more than human.” “Not me. No,” said Reggie sadly. “It tells me that a man has been in hell and still believes in good. That's all. I suppose it told her who the man is.” “The face?” said Dubois. is not any one” “No. Not human, no,” Reggie murmured. “His ideal, I suppose " “And then?” Dubois put up his evebrows. “You present me the little problems: ‘Why does a man paint his ideal and call it ‘Diversions in Hell’?” “Yes. Yes. I was wondering about that’ said Reggie dreamily. “Lots of answers, of course. He was feeling bitter and he jeered at himself. Or the man who painted the picture isn’t the man who gave it a title. Or—-" Dubois’ big mouth went up at one side. " “In fact, the man who painted the picture is not Monsjeur Artus. For some time I have been thinking that is possible.” “Fancy!” Reggie smiled. “Yes. It could be. It don't explain anything, you know.” “Oh, my friend! If she could recognize the picture as the work of some other man, that explains perfectly why Artus is afraid to meet her.” “Yes. The man whose work she knew, who meant a lot in her young life, and also an une known criminal wanted by the police. Yes, But Artus has been showing pictures in this style for some time, and it never occurred to “But no, the face