Evening Star Newspaper, September 21, 1930, Page 96

14 THE SUNDAY S'l}\_R.__ —_— WASHINGTON, D. C., SEPTEMBER 21, 1930. THE MASTERPIECE MYSTERY. A Search for a Missing Model in a Short Story Worthy of an . Edgar Allan Poe Imagination. R P anatl UDWIG BREMSTED'S more than life- sized terra cotta statue of Brunnhilde won the first award, a gold medal and $2,000, at the Spring international exhibit, and at once raised the sculptor from the ranks of the promising younger men to a commanding position. The maiden was represented as she lay asleep waiting for the kiss of Siegfried to awaken her. She lay on a pedestal, clad in a short ligit tunic, one soft arm pillowing her head with its flowing hair, the other reaching out to touch the Walkure shield which lay at her side. It was a bold and noble piece of art, and well worthy of the prize; but perhaps it would not have received its immediate and universal regognition had it not been for the excitement, a few months earlier, ever the disappearance of its model. The first announcement that Bremsted made, after he was notified of his award, was that he offered the entire $2,000 for information which would lead to the finding of Honora Valschek, alive or dead. He was not unaware, of course, of the added publicity that this move gave him; but he seemed also to be sincerely anxious that Honora should be found, or at least that her tafe should be known, and that he should thus be relieved of the malicious gossip which had declared that he and his favorite model had quarreled, that in fact they had had a love affair which he had terminated, and that the jlited girl had hlddq& herself away to hide her chagrin and grief. Bremsted had made his announcement first at a private dinner which had been tendered him by a few of his fellow artists immediately after the award had been made. It was at this dinner that he first became acquainted with Orton Macklin, though the young man, a blond and diffident young fellow with a soft, ingrati- ating voice, had introduced himself at the ex- hibit itself. Macklin, shorter by a head than the giant Bremsted, had gazed admiringly into the shaggy beard and keen gray €yes of the sculptor, and Bremsted, who seldom liked people at sight, had taken an instant fancy to him. The lad was evidently only what Bremsted called a “gearner,” but his hero-worship was magnifi- cent, and Bremsted had had too many years of discouragement and defeat not to respond to an adoration so open and so ingenuous. LY HE even took the extraordinary step, for him, of asking Macklin to make one of the dinner party planned for the next night, and the hoy accepted with eager delight., And there Macklin ventured to ask if Bremsted would be free to dine with him any day tist week, and Bremsted accepted with alacrity. Then, after a week or two -uring which Bremsted was Macklin’s guest at least three times, their budding acquaintance seemed to strike a snag. It was gradually Borne in upon thegyoung man that though the sculptor was always glad to go wherever he was asked, he mever asked his host to visit hkim or to play guest in turn. Pinally Macklin plucked up his courage and inquired if it would be inconven- fent if some evening he showid drop ia st Bremsted’s studio. ' ’ Macklin kept his pistol pointed steadily between the sculptor’s eyes. “W here’s one of those chisels? Now with this chisel I shall just make a little incision in ”...“My God! No! My Brunn- hilde!” shouted Bremsted. Bremsted, who had been ;mmng genially, " suddenly became surly. “I do not ask people to visit me,” he said curtly. “My studio is not for show; it is for work."” “Oh, I understand that, Mr. Bremsted,” said Macklin shyly. “I shouldn’t think of bothering you when youre busy. But—well, in fact, it isn't just that I like you awfully and want to know sou better. I'm a writer, you see—or 1 suppose 1 have no right yet to call myself any- thing but a journalist. I've done a lot of spe- cia'garticles on art topics for some of the big magazines, and I thought I might be of use to you by doing an intimate sketch of you and your work. “For instance, you must have received some mighty big offers for your Brunnhilde, and 1 have no doubt you will be selling a lot of other things now that you couldn’t—that wouldn't have brought so much before.” “The Brunnhide is not for sale,” snapped Bremsted. Then he permitted a wry smile 0 cross his heavy features. “I am superstitious. That is my first big Juck; I shall keep it 21- ways to remember. But the other things—yes, of course, it is my business to sell what I make, like any other man. And here in America one must have publicity. Perhaps—no, I do not know. Since one unpleasant experience, I have not let any one come to my studio. And what am I doing now? Animal groups. Then they cannot say I jilted the animal and it went away to kill itself.” MACKLIN knew to what Bremsted was al- luding. Under the sculptor’s rough ex- perience there must be the sensitive feelings of the true artist, and whether he had loved Honora Valschk or not, the hue and cry fol- lowing her disappearance must have disgusted him. And yet what had he expected? Here was a girl, one of the most celebrated models in the comntry, & rarely beautiful girl; a gil, 00, of keen wit and sunny temper, loved by all who knew her. Every one thought that she and Bremsted had been sweethearts; every one knew she was the model for that massive and beautiful Brunnhilde, fruit of years of patient experiment in adapting terra cotta sculpture o large models. One day the statue was finished; that day Honora aVischek had gone for her last pose, had said good-by at the door, gone down the steps to the street—and from that moment had utterly vanished. Bremsted had been besieged by newspaper men. To them all, with increasing impatience, he told the same story. He had finished his statue; he had paid and dismissed his model; he had said good-by to her and seen her leave the studio, and he knew no more. But too many persons had seen them together all these months, in cafes and at parties; too many knew that there was more between them than the relation of employer and employe. Bremsted assumed a double life; outside his studio he was a social creature, within it a her- mit, who must not be disturbed. Yet Macklin persisted. some HEW' bervité, Heiped a'little to give you the great fame that is your due,” he murmured. »ie “T should come whenever you pleased and stay only long enough to be able to report first hand your surroundjngs and your methods of work. Won’t you let me—master?” Nobody had ever called Bremsted “master” before. In spite of himself, he relented. “You may come,” he said. But not yet. T am in the midst of a plece of work; let me finish it. I have interrupted it to come every day to the exhibit—I know that is my vanity. I told you I was superstitious about my Brunnhilde; it is very precious to me. Every day I must know that it is here and safe. Terra cotta is not bronze; I am in terror that something may hap- pen to hurt it. It is glazed, you know—a very fine glase, which a rough touch might injure, Next week I shall have it back in my studio, where it will be safe. Telephone to me the first day of the month and I shall make an appoint- ment.” PROMPTLY on the first, Macklin called up. But to his disappointment Bremsted seemed to have forgotten his promise. “I do not know,” he said over the telephone. “I do not think I want you to come.” Macklin let his sorrow creep into his soft voice. “Oh, master, I had so much hoped—— Listen, let me do this. I just had an inspiration. Have you had your dinner?” “My dinner? No, not yet.” “Let me bring up some things with me, and we can eat together while we talk. That way you won't be losing any time from your work.” “Well——" Bremsted considered. Then he decided. “Very well; you may come,” he said. Half an hour later Macklen knocked at the door with his free hand. In the other he carried a heavy basket. Mindful of the sculp- tor's vast appetite, he had rifled a delicatessen store of a mighty array of food. Footsteps crossed the floor, and to his sur- prise he heard two heavy bolts drawn back. The door opened, just enmough to permit his entrance, and then Bremsted, before he greeted his visitor, relocked both bolts. ‘““You will excuse me,” he said. “I wish to keep out those I have not invited. Here is my kingdom; I wish to be alone in it.” HE must indeed have been alone—not even a charwoman, apparently, passed that door. The studio was littered with clay and papers, and the windows needed washing, all but the huge one to the north, which evidently the sculptor himself kept scrubbed so as to get the light he needed. All around were models and completed pieces, mostly in terra cotta; and along all one side of the room W the great Brunnhilde. “You are the first one,” said Bremsted, “ex- cept me to enter that door since the men from the exhibit brought me back my statue. What have you brought to eat?” He cleared a rough table in the center of the room, by the simple process of sweeping its _ various contents onto the floor, and took Mack- lin’s basket from him." He started to unpack it. “Let_me,” said Macklin quicly. He ; ““‘on the fable'the food he had brought—fortae i By_ M. A. De ,For'd. ; nately he had hemembered plates and glasses and cutlery; then closed the lid of the baske$ and laid it on the floor beside the chair which Bremsted drew up for him. All the time his eyes were roving around the studio, taking im everything. “This will make a corking story,” he cried boyishly. “Let’s eat. And while we eat, I wan$ you to tell me about your work. What made you first want to be a sculptor?” BREMSTI:D was launched on his life story. Macklin listened in silence, once' in & while jotting down a note on the pad of paper. The meal and the story ended together, and Macklin produced a pack of cigarettes. “I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” he said then, as the sculptor leaned back in his chair, replete with food and satisfaction. “I think this will be a dandy article. I just bor- rowed these dishes and things; is there some- where I could wash them before I put them back in the basket?” “Give them to me; I will do it,” said Brem- ted abruptly. He stacked the dishes and car- ried them to a curtained alcove that evidently served as a bathroom. Macklin listened until he heard the waler running. Then very softly he slipped off his shoes, fished into the basket by his side for several articles in the bottom, and tiptoed to the ins which covered the alcove. “Hands up!” he cried sharply, in a new, loud voice. “I have you covered with a revolver. Don't make a move, or I'll shoot.” With his other hand he pulled the curtain from its rusted- hooks. Bremsted stood there, ludicrous enough, in one extended hand = half-washed plate, his face a mixture of as- tonishment and terror. “I could shoot you down right now,” said Macklin, his teeth bared in his ashen face, his blue eyes boring through the frightened man, “like the dog_you are. But I'm going to talk to you first. Come here.” Hesitantly the sculptor advanced a step. With a lightning movement, Macklin = threw over his head the looped rope he carried on his left arm, tightening it around Bremsted's arms, pinning them to his body, then whipping a bight around his legs ‘and tightened that as well. “Are you insane?” cried the sculptor hoarsely, “Far from it,” answered the young man calmly. He seemed, now that Bremsted was helpless, to have recovered his poise. “I've been a cowboy in my time. You never saw a neater job than that, did you?” ; “Is this a joke? You have strange ideas of humor, my good friend.” “Oh, no, it’s not a joke. Just a minute— here, I'll lean you against the wall while I take & hitch in the rope to drag you in by. Don't spit at me; that isn’t nice. Il just throw you on the studio floor where we can talk comfortably.” ¢¢JJELP!” shouted Bremsted at the top of his voice. “Now, now!” admonished Macklin soothingly,