XXI
THE STUDIO IN SOHO
Certainly, such impudence as that of Mr. Levinsky is rare even ineast-end London, and it may be worth while to return to the corner ofthe billiard-room and to study more closely this remarkable man.
He was sitting where the detectives had left him, and although theirdeparture might have been supposed to have depressed him, actually ithad had a contrary effect; he was chuckling with amusement, and, betweenhis chuckles, addressing himself to the contents of the pewter withevery mark of appreciation. Three gleaming golden teeth on the lowerrow, and one glittering canine, made a dazzling show every time that hesmiled; he was a very greasy and a very mirthful Hebrew.
Finishing his tankard of ale, he shuffled out into the street, the lineof his bent shoulders running parallel with that of his hat-brim. Hishat appeared to be several sizes too large for his head, and his skullwas only prevented from disappearing into the capacious crown by theintervention of his ears, which, acting as brackets, supported the wholeweight of the rain-sodden structure. He mounted a tram proceeding inthe same direction as that which had borne off the Scotland Yard men.Quitting this at Bow Road, he shuffled into the railway station, andfrom Bow Road proceeded to Liverpool Street. Emerging from the stationat Liverpool Street, he entered a motor-'bus bound westward.
His neighbors, inside, readily afforded him ample elbow room; and,smiling agreeably at every one, including the conductor (who resentedhis good-humor) and a pretty girl in the corner seat (who found itembarrassing) he proceeded to Charing Cross. Descending from the 'bus,he passed out into Leicester Square and plunged into the network ofstreets which complicates the map of Soho. It will be of interest tofollow him.
In a narrow turning off Greek Street, and within hail of the popularBohemian restaurants, he paused before a doorway sandwiched between aContinental newsagent's and a tiny French cafe; and, having fumbledin his greasy raiment he presently produced a key, opened the door,carefully closed it behind him, and mounted the dark stair.
On the top floor he entered a studio, boasting a skylight upon which therain was drumming steadily and drearily. Lighting a gas burner inone corner of the place which bore no evidence of being used for itslegitimate purpose--he entered a little adjoining dressing-room. Hotand cold water were laid on there, and a large zinc bath stood upon thefloor. With the aid of an enamel bucket, Mr. Abraham Levinsky filled thebath.
Leaving him to his ablutions, let us glance around the dressing-room.Although there was no easel in the studio, and no indication of artisticactivity, the dressing-room was well stocked with costumes. Two hugedress-baskets were piled in one corner, and their contents hung uponhooks around the three available walls. A dressing table, with atriplicate mirror and a suitably shaded light, presented a spectaclereminiscent less of a model's dressing-room than of an actor's.
At the expiration of some twenty-five minutes, the door of thisdressing-room opened; and although Abraham Levinsky had gone in, AbrahamLevinsky did not come out!
Carefully flicking a particle of ash from a fold of his elegant,silk-lined cloak, a most distinguished looking gentleman stepped outonto the bleak and dirty studio. He wore, in addition to a gracefulcloak, which was lined with silk of cardinal red, a soft black hat,rather wide brimmed and dented in a highly artistic manner, andirreproachable evening clothes; his linen was immaculate; and no valetin London could have surpassed the perfect knotting of his tie. Hispearl studs were elegant and valuable; and a single eyeglass was swungabout his neck by a thin, gold chain. The white gloves, which fittedperfectly, were new; and if the glossy boots were rather long in thetoe-cap from an English point of view, the gold-headed malacca canewhich the newcomer carried was quite de rigeur.
The strong clean-shaven face calls for no description here; it was theface of M. Gaston Max.
M. Max, having locked the study door, and carefully tried it to makecertain of its security, descended the stairs. He peeped out cautiouslyinto the street ere setting foot upon the pavement; but no one was insight at the moment, and he emerged quickly, closing the door behindhim, and taking shelter under the newsagent's awning. The rain continuedits steady downpour, but M. Max stood there softly humming a littleFrench melody until a taxi-cab crawled into view around the Greek Streetcorner.
He whistled shrilly through his teeth--the whistle of a gamin; and thecabman, glancing up and perceiving him, pulled around into the turning,and drew up by the awning.
M. Max entered the cab.
"To Frascati's," he directed.
The cabman backed out into Greek Street and drove off. This was thehour when the theaters were beginning to eject their throngs, andoutside one of them, where a popular comedy had celebrated itsthree-hundred-and-fiftieth performance, the press of cabs and privatecars was so great that M. Max found himself delayed within sight of thetheater foyer.
Those patrons of the comedy who had omitted to order vehicles or who didnot possess private conveyances, found themselves in a quandary tonight,and amongst those thus unfortunately situated, M. Max, watching thescene with interest, detected a lady whom he knew--none other than thedelightful American whose conversation had enlivened his recent journeyfrom Paris--Miss Denise Ryland. She was accompanied by a charmingcompanion, who, although she was wrapped up in a warm theater cloak,seemed to be shivering disconsolately as she and her friend watchedthe interminable stream of vehicles filing up before the theater, andcutting them off from any chance of obtaining a cab for themselves.
M. Max acted promptly.
"Drive into that side turning!" he directed the cabman, leaning out ofthe window. The cabman followed his directions, and M. Max, heedless ofthe inclement weather, descended from the cab, dodged actively betweenthe head lamps of a big Mercedes and the tail-light of a taxi, and stoodbowing before the two ladies, his hat pressed to his bosom with onegloved hand, the other, ungloved, resting upon the gold knob of themalacca.
"Why!" cried Miss Ryland, "if it isn't... M. Gaston! My dear ... M.Gaston! Come under the awning, or"--her head was wagging furiously--"youwill be... simply drowned."
M. Max smilingly complied.
"This is M. Gaston," said Denise Ryland, turning to her companion, "theFrench gentleman... whom I met... in the train from... Paris. This isMiss Helen Cumberly, and I know you two will get on... famously."
M. Max acknowledged the presentation with a few simple words whichserved to place the oddly met trio upon a mutually easy footing. He was,par excellence, the polished cosmopolitan man of the world.
"Fortunately I saw your dilemma," he explained. "I have a cab on thecorner yonder, and it is entirely at your service."
"Now that... is real good of you," declared Denise Ryland. "I thinkyou're... a brick."...
"But, my dear Miss Ryland!" cried Helen, "we cannot possibly deprive M.Gaston of his cab on a night like this!"
"I had hoped," said the Frenchman, bowing gallantly, "that this mosthappy reunion might not be allowed to pass uncelebrated. Tell me if Iintrude upon other plans, because I am speaking selfishly; but I was onmy way to a lonely supper, and apart from the great pleasure which yourcompany would afford me, you would be such very good Samaritans if youwould join me."
Helen Cumberly, although she was succumbing rapidly to the singularfascination of M. Max, exhibited a certain hesitancy. She was nostranger to Bohemian customs, and if the distinguished Frenchman hadbeen an old friend of her companion's, she should have accepted withoutdemur; but she knew that the acquaintance had commenced in a Continentalrailway train, and her natural prudence instinctively took up a brieffor the prosecution. But Denise Ryland had other views.
"My dear girl," she said, "you are not going to be so...crack-brained... as to stand here... arguing and contracting...rheumatism, lumbago... and other absurd complaints... when you knowPERFECTLY well that we had already arranged to go... to supper!" Sheturned to the smiling Max. "This girl needs... DRAGGING out of... hermorbid self... M. Gaston! We'll accept... your cab, on the distinct...understanding
that YOU are to accept OUR invitation... to supper."
M. Max bowed agreeably.
"By all means let MY cab take us to YOUR supper," he said, laughing.