Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn
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Elsa pouted for a moment. “I suppose so. I’d hoped we’d never see her again. All right, just as you say. I’ll just sit around and wait and keep on the watch in case she tries anything.”
Clive gave a somewhat incredulous smile. “What do you imagine she would be likely to try?”
“Anything! A jealous woman doesn’t know any limits. She might even try and ruin that painting of me.”
“I could do another one even if she did.”
Elsa turned away and settled herself on the broad, fabric-covered top of the chesterfield under the main window. She lighted a cigarette and reclined, watching. After a while the superb, partly-draped figure of Barbara came into view again, and although she did not betray herself Elsa had, to silently admit that her own smaller proportions would never have succeeded in duplicating the sweeping curves and graceful lines of Barbara.
Barbara gave one glance of her cynical blue eyes and then took up her position on the platform at the end of the studio.
“‘Water Nymph’?” Clive asked, searching through the canvasses.
“Might as well; it’s the most advanced.”
Clive nodded, found the required canvas and perched it on the easel. He had hardly made three strokes with the brush, however, before there was a sharp rapping on the door.
“Now what?” he demanded irritably, and Barbara glanced round, drawing her draperies closer about her.
“Sounds like Terry,” she said. “I know that triple knock.”
“Whoever you are, come in!” Clive called out, and then waited.
The door handle rattled and a shortish young man with very broad shoulders, dressed in grey, entered. He had dark hair, thickly brilliantined, a sawn-off nose, and an infectious grin.
“Terry,” Barbara commented. “I thought as much.”
From the chesterfield Elsa considered him with languid interest as she smoked.
“’lo, you two,” Terry greeted, grinning. “Up to the old painting game again eh? Can’t think what you see in it. Sooner do acting any time— Oh!” he broke off, catching sight of Elsa. “I should have said you three,” he apologized. “Sorry.”
“Miss Farraday, my fiancée,” Clive introduced. “This is Terry Draycott, Elsa. Remember I mentioned him to you?”
Terry hurried over and shook Elsa’s extended hand, then he gave a somewhat puzzled frown.
“Is there anything wrong in here?” he asked. “Atmosphere seems sort of—chilly. Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” Clive told him frankly. “I’m finishing a painting of Babs. To put it mildly, old man, either get out or dry up. I don’t care which.”
Terry did not seem to hear. He stroked the end of his turned-up nose for a moment and then glanced from Clive to Barbara—and back to Clive again.
“Wait a minute,” he exclaimed. “I missed something. You said ‘fiancée’, didn’t you? Miss Farraday?”
“Well?” Clive looked at him in silent challenge.
“I’m muddled,” Terry confessed. “I thought Babs was the one you were going to—er— Wasn’t it?’ he asked bluntly.
“I never said so,” Clive replied. “In fact I got the impression that you and Babs were ‘that way’ about each other.”
Terry shook his head, his frown changing to a scowl.
“Never. We’re just good friends. Same interests, that’s all. You jumped to conclusions, Clive.”
“So did Babs,” Clive sighed. “Anyway, that’s the way it is. Do you mind if I get on with my job?”
“Eh? Oh, no. Sure—sure.”
Barbara, however, stepped down from her pedestal on the platform, walked into the dressing room for a gown, then came back tying the gown sash about her waist.
“Am I permitted to ask what my model thinks she’s doing?” Clive asked bitterly, waiting.
“I can’t sit there motionless whilst I’m waiting to know why Terry is here,” Barbara answered; and she looked at him questioningly. “Something on your mind, Terry? That why you called?”
“Nothing more than usual. I simply dropped in to know how you’ll be fixed for a date on Sunday afternoon. It’s when we usually go out together, isn’t it? I called at your rooms and they told me you’d probably be here.”
“I’ll be free Sunday,” Barbara replied. “And from the look of things I’ll be free quite a deal once I’ve finished off what I have to do for Clive.”
Terry gave Clive a glance as he lounged near the easel, smoking. Elsa still remained silent, watching.
“To my way of thinking, Clive, you’ve handed Babs a pretty raw deal,” Terry said grimly. “And me too, come to think of it. I’ve held off telling Babs how I really feel about her because I thought you were in earnest—and she thought you were too. I don’t like to see a girl like Babs two-timed.”
“Oh, talk sense, you damned fool!” Clive snapped. “How can you expect me to be responsible for the silly delusions you both had?”
Terry turned to Babs again. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “And be mighty glad to as well. Sunday then, same time.”
She nodded; then when he had got as far as the door Terry paused and turned, feeling in the inside pocket of his jacket. To the surprise of Clive and Elsa he brought into view what appeared to be a beautifully carved dagger with a long, wicked blade.
“All right, don’t get alarmed,” he said dryly, seeing Clive’s look. “It’s only a trick dagger. Babs said she wanted to see it. I’m using it in the play I’m in.”
He went over to Barbara and showed it to her. Suddenly he stabbed at her and the hilt crosspiece apparently struck level with her breast and then the blade jumped out again.
“Mmm, very nice,” she laughed, taking it and studying it. “Spring blade into the hilt, of course? I’ve heard about them and seen cheap ones, but never one as good as this. What do you think of it, Clive?”
“I’m not particularly interested,” he responded. “All I know is that you’re holding up my work. Why the sudden interest in that bit of theatrical property, anyway?”
“Oh, it just happens to fascinate me, that’s all. I’ve seen the play and I just couldn’t believe that such a beautifully made dagger could be phony. Now I’m satisfied.”
She poised it above her palm, drove the knife down, and the odd effect of the hilt on her palm and no blade visible through it made Clive smile a little. He held out his hand and took the knife from her.
“It is tricky at that,” he admitted. “Take a look, Elsa.”
“What good would it do me?” she asked, without stirring.
Clive shrugged and drove the blade at his right hand—then he gave a sharp gasp of anguish, dropped the knife, and, cupped his palm in his left hand. Through his clenched fingers blood suddenly brimmed.
“What in—?” Terry stared blankly as he picked the knife up. “What happened?”
“The damned thing didn’t work!” Clive retorted. “It feels as though I’ve flayed my hand to the bone. You blasted idiot, bringing a fool thing like that in here—!”
He dashed across the studio and into the adjoining dressing room, Elsa fleeing after him. With his free hand he yanked some soft lengths of cloth out of a cupboard and bunched them into his palm, tying them in place.
“Clive,