The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
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Charles replied. “But the police at Nice showed us two. Perhaps we might borrow them.”
“Until we get them,” Dr. Beddersley said, “I don’t know that we can do anything. But if you can once give me two distinct photographs of the real man, no matter how much disguised, I could tell you whether they were taken from one person; and, if so, I think I could point out certain details in common which might aid us to go upon.”
All this was at lunch. Amelia’s niece, Dolly Lingfield, was there, as it happened; and I chanced to note a most guilty look stealing over her face all the while we were talking. Suspicious as I had learned to become by this time, however, I did not suspect Dolly of being in league with Colonel Clay; but, I confess, I wondered what her blush could indicate. After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly called me away from the rest into the library. “Uncle Seymour,” she said to me—the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I am not in any way related to her—“I have some photographs of Colonel Clay, if you want them.”
“You?” I cried, astonished. “Why, Dolly, how did you get them?”
For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation in telling me. At last she whispered, “You won’t be angry if I confess?” (Dolly is just nineteen, and remarkably pretty.)
“My child,” I said, “why should I be angry? You may confide in me implicitly.” (With a blush like that, who on earth could be angry with her?)
“And you won’t tell Aunt Amelia or Aunt Isabel?” she inquired somewhat anxiously.
“Not for worlds,” I answered. (As a matter of fact, Amelia and Isabel are the last people in the world to whom I should dream of confiding anything that Dolly might tell me.)
“Well, I was stopping at Seldon, you know, when Mr. David Granton was there,” Dolly went on; “—or, rather, when that scamp pretended he was David Granton; and—and—you won’t be angry with me, will you?—one day I took a snap-shot with my kodak at him and Aunt Amelia!”
“Why, what harm was there in that?” I asked, bewildered. The wildest stretch of fancy could hardly conceive that the Honourable David had been flirting with Amelia.
Dolly coloured still more deeply. “Oh, you know Bertie Winslow?” she said. “Well, he’s interested in photography—and—and also in me. And he’s invented a process, which isn’t of the slightest practical use, he says; but its peculiarity is, that it reveals textures. At least, that’s what Bertie calls it. It makes things come out so. And he gave me some plates of his own for my kodak—half-a-dozen or more, and—I took Aunt Amelia with them.”
“I still fail to see,” I murmured, looking at her comically.
“Oh, Uncle Seymour,” Dolly cried. “How blind you men are! If Aunt Amelia knew she would never forgive me. Why, you must understand. The—the rouge, you know, and the pearl powder!”
“Oh, it comes out, then, in the photograph?” I inquired.
“Comes out! I should think so! It’s like little black spots all over auntie’s face, such a guy as she looks in it!”
“And Colonel Clay is in them too?”
“Yes; I took them when he and auntie were talking together, without either of them noticing. And Bertie developed them. I’ve three of David Granton. Three beauties; most successful.”
“Any other character?” I asked, seeing business ahead.
Dolly hung back, still redder. “Well, the rest are with Aunt Isabel,” she answered, after a struggle.
“My dear child,” I replied, hiding my feelings as a husband, “I will be brave. I will bear up even against that last misfortune!”
Dolly looked up at me pleadingly. “It was here in London,” she went on; “—when I was last with auntie. Medhurst was stopping in the house at the time; and I took him twice, tête-à-tête with Aunt Isabel!”
“Isabel does not paint,” I murmured, stoutly.
Dolly hung back again. “No, but—her hair!” she suggested, in a faint voice.
“Its colour,” I admitted, “is in places assisted by a—well, you know, a restorer.”
Dolly broke into a mischievous sly smile. “Yes, it is,” she continued. “And, oh, Uncle Sey, where the restorer has—er—restored it, you know, it comes out in the photograph with a sort of brilliant iridescent metallic sheen on it!”
“Bring them down, my dear,” I said, gently patting her head with my hand. In the interests of justice, I thought it best not to frighten her.
Dolly brought them down. They seemed to me poor things, yet well worth trying. We found it possible, on further confabulation, by the simple aid of a pair of scissors, so to cut each in two that all trace of Amelia and Isabel was obliterated. Even so, however, I judged it best to call Charles and Dr. Beddersley to a private consultation in the library with Dolly, and not to submit the mutilated photographs to public inspection by their joint subjects. Here, in fact, we had five patchy portraits of the redoubtable Colonel, taken at various angles, and in characteristic unstudied attitudes. A child had outwitted the cleverest sharper in Europe!
The moment Beddersley’s eye fell upon them, a curious look came over his face. “Why, these,” he said, “are taken on Herbert Winslow’s method, Miss Lingfield.”
“Yes,” Dolly admitted timidly. “They are. He’s—a friend of mine, don’t you know; and—he gave me some plates that just fitted my camera.”
Beddersley gazed at them steadily. Then he turned to Charles. “And this young lady,” he said, “has quite unintentionally and unconsciously succeeded in tracking Colonel Clay to earth at last. They are genuine photographs of the man—as he is—without the disguises!”
“They look to me most blotchy,” Charles murmured. “Great black lines down the nose, and such spots on the cheek, too!”
“Exactly,” Beddersley put in. “Those are differences in texture. They show just how much of the man’s face is human flesh—”
“And how much wax,” I ventured.
“Not wax,” the expert answered, gazing close. “This is some harder mixture. I should guess, a composition of gutta-percha and india-rubber, which takes colour well, and hardens when applied, so as to lie quite evenly, and resist heat or melting. Look here; that’s an artificial scar, filling up a real hollow; and this is an added bit to the tip of the nose; and those are shadows, due to inserted cheek-pieces, within the mouth, to make the man look fatter!”
“Why, of course,” Charles cried. “India-rubber it must be. That’s why in France they call him le Colonel Caoutchouc!”
“Can you reconstruct the real face from them?” I inquired anxiously.
Dr. Beddersley gazed hard at them. “Give me an hour or two,” he said—“and a box of water-colours. I think by that time—putting two and two together—I can eliminate the false and build up for you a tolerably correct idea of what the actual man himself looks like.”
We turned him into the library for a couple of hours, with the materials he needed; and by tea-time he had completed his first rough sketch of the elements common to the two faces. He brought it out to us in the drawing-room. I glanced at it first. It was a curious countenance, slightly wanting in definiteness, and not unlike those “composite photographs” which Mr. Galton produces by exposing two negatives on the same sensitised paper for ten seconds or so consecutively. Yet it struck me at once as containing something of Colonel Clay in every one of his many representations. The little curate, in real life, did not recall the Seer; nor did Elihu Quackenboss suggest Count von Lebenstein or Professor Schleiermacher. Yet in this compound face, produced only from photographs of David Granton and Medhurst, I could distinctly trace a certain underlying likeness to every one of the forms which the impostor had assumed for us. In other words, though