“Fulfillment” is typified by a woman. She stands boldly forth against a languorous background of deep tones. Flesh tints are daringly laid on the semi-nude figure, diaphanous draperies hide, yet, reveal, the exquisite lines of the body. Her arms are outstretched straight toward the spectator, the black hair ripples down over her shoulders, the red lips are slightly parted. The mysteries of complete achievement and perfect life lie in her eyes.
Into this picture the artist wove the spiritual and the worldly; here he placed on canvas an elusive portrayal of success in its fullest and widest meaning. One’s first impression of the picture is that it is sensual; another glance shows the underlying typification of success, and love and life are there. One by one the qualities stand forth.
The artist was Constans St. George. After the first flurry of excitement which the picture caused there came a whirlwind of criticism. Then the artist, who had labored for months on the work which he had intended and which proved to be his masterpiece, collapsed. Some said it was overwork — they were partly right; others that it was grief at the attacks of critics who did not see beyond the surface of the painting. Perhaps they, too, were partly right.
However that may be, it is a fact that for several months after the picture was exhibited St. George was in a sanitarium. The physicians said it was nervous collapse — a total breaking-down, and there were fears for his sanity. At length there came an improvement in his condition, and he returned to the world. Since then he had lived quietly in his studio, one of many in a large office building. From time to time he had been approached with offers for the picture, but always he refused to sell. A New York millionaire made a flat proposition of fifty thousand dollars, which was as flatly refused.
The artist loved the picture as a child of his own brain; every day he visited the museum where it was exhibited and stood looking at it with something almost like adoration in his eyes. Then he went away quietly, tugging at his straggling beard and with the dim blindness of tears in his eyes. He never spoke to anyone; and always avoided that moment when a crowd was about.
Whatever the verdict of the critics or of the public on “Fulfillment,” it was an admitted fact that the artist had placed on canvas a representation of a wonderfully beautiful woman. Therefore, after awhile the question of who had been the model for “Fulfillment” was aroused. No one knew, apparently. Artists who knew St. George could give no idea — they only knew that the woman who had posed was not a professional model.
This led to speculation, in which the names of some of the most beautiful women in the United States were mentioned. Then a romance was woven. This was that the artist was in love with the original and that his collapse was partly due to her refusal to wed him. This story, as it went, was elaborated until the artist was said to be pining away for love of one whom he had immortalized in oils.
As the story grew it gained credence, and a search was still made occasionally for the model. Half a dozen times Hutchinson Hatch, a newspaper reporter of more than usual astuteness, had been on the story without success; he had seen and studied the picture until every line of it was firmly in his mind. He had seen and talked to St. George twice. The artist would answer no questions as to the identity of the model.
This, then, was the situation on the morning of Friday, November 27, when Hatch entered the reportorial rooms of his newspaper. At sight of him the City Editor removed his cigar, placed it carefully on the “official block” which adorned his flat topped desk, and called to the reporter.
“Girl reported missing,” he said, brusquely. “Name is Grace Field, and she lived at No. 195 — Street, Dorchester. Employed in the photographic department of the Star, a big department store. Report of her disappearance made to the police early today by Ellen Stanford, her roommate, also employed at the Star. Jump out on it and get all you can. Here is the official police description.”
Hatch took a slip of paper and read:
“Grace Field, twenty-one years, five feet seven inches tall, weight 151 pounds, profuse black hair, dark-brown eyes, superb figure, oval face, said to be beautiful.”
Then the description went into details of her dress and other things which the police note in their minute records for a search. Hatch absorbed all these things and left his office. He went first to the department store, where he was told Miss Stanford had not appeared that day, sending a note that she was ill.
From the store Hatch went at once to the address given in Dorchester. Miss Stanford was in. Would she see a reporter? Yes. So Hatch was ushered into the modest little parlor of a boardinghouse, and after awhile Miss Stanford entered. She was as a petite blonde, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, now reddened by weeping.
Briefly Hatch explained the purpose of his visit — an effort to find Grace Field, and Miss Stanford eagerly and tearfully expressed herself as willing to tell him all she knew.
“I have known Grace for five months,” she explained; “that is, from the time she came to work at the Star. Her counter is next to mine. A friendship grew up between us, and we began rooming together. Each of us is alone in the East. She comes from the West, somewhere in Nevada, and I come from Quebec.
“Grace has never said much about herself, but I know that she had been in Boston a year or so before I met her. She lived somewhere in Brookline, I believe, but it seems that she had some funds and did not go to work until she came to the Star. This is as I understand it.
“Three days ago, on Tuesday it was, there was a letter for Grace when we came in from work. It seemed to agitate her, although she said nothing to me about what was in it, and I did not ask. She did not sleep well that night, but next morning, when we started to work, she seemed all right. That is, she was all right until we got to the subway station, and then she told me to go on to the store, saying she would be there after awhile.
“I left her, and at her request explained to the manager of our floor that she would be late. From that time to this no one has seen her or heard of her. I don’t know where she could have gone,” and the girl burst into tears. “I’m sure something dreadful has happened to her.”
“Possibly an elopement?” Hatch suggested.
“No,” said the girl, quickly. “No. She was in love, but the man she was in love with has not heard of her either. I saw him the night after she disappeared. He called here and asked for her, and seemed surprised that she had not returned home, or had not been at work.”
“What’s his name?” asked Hatch.
“He’s a clerk in a bank,” said Miss Stanford. “His name is Willis — Victor Willis. If she had eloped with him I would not have been surprised, but I am positive she did not, and if she did not, where is she?”
“Were there any other admirers you know of?” Hatch asked.
“No,” said the girl, stoutly. “There may have been others who admired her, but none she cared for. She has told me too much — I— I know,” she faltered.
“How long have you known Mr. Willis?” asked Hatch.
The girl’s face flamed scarlet instantly.
“Only since I’ve known Grace,” she replied. “She introduced us.”
“Has Mr. Willis ever shown you any attention?”
“Certainly not,” Miss Stanford flashed, angrily. “All his attention was for Grace.”
There was the least trace of bitterness in the tone, and Hatch imagined he read it aright. Willis was a man whom both perhaps loved; it might be in that event that Miss Stanford knew more than she had said of the whereabouts of Grace Field. The next step was to see Willis.
“I suppose you’ll do everything possible to find Miss Field?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the girl.
“Have you her photograph?”
“I have one, yes, but I don’t think — I don’t believe Grace —”
“Would like to have it published?” asked Hatch. “Possibly not, under ordinary circumstances — but now that she is missing it is the surest way of getting a trace of her. Will you give it to me?”
Miss Stanford was silent for a time. Then apparently she made up her mind, for she arose.
“It might be well, too,” Hatch suggested, “to see if you can find the letter you mentioned.”
The girl nodded and went out. When she returned she had a photograph in her hand; a glimpse of it told Hatch it was a bust picture of a woman in evening dress. The girl was studying a scrap of paper.
“What is it?” asked Hatch, quickly.
“I don’t know,” she responded. “I was searching for the letter when I remembered she frequently tore them up and dropped them into the waste basket. It had been emptied every day, but I looked and found this clinging to the bottom, caught between the cane.”
“May I see it?” asked the reporter.
The girl handed it to him. It was evidently a piece of a letter torn from the outer edge just where the paper was folded to put it into the envelope. On it were these words and detached letters, written in a bold hand:
sday ill you to the ho
Hatch’s eyes opened wide.
“Do you know the handwriting?” he asked.
The girl faltered an instant.
“No,” she answered, finally.
Hatch studied her face a moment with cold eyes, then turned the scrap of paper over. The other side was blank. Staring down at it he veiled a glitter of anxious interest.
“And the picture?” he asked, quietly.
The girl handed him the photograph. Hatch took it and as he looked it was with difficulty he restrained an exclamation of astonishment — triumphant astonishment. Finally, with his brain teeming with possibilities, he left the house, taking the photograph and the scrap of paper. Ten minutes later he was talking to his City Editor over the ‘phone.
“It’s a great story,” he explained, briefly. “The missing girl is the mysterious model of St. George’s picture, ‘Fulfillment.’”
“Great,” came the voice of the City Editor.
2
Having laid his story before his City Editor, Hatch sat down to consider the fragmentary writing. Obviously “sday” represented a day of the week — either Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, these being the only days where the letter “s” preceded the “day.” This seemed to be a definite fact, but still it meant nothing. True, Miss Field had last been seen on Wednesday, but then? — nothing.
To the next part of the fragment Hatch attached the greatest importance. It was the possibility of a threat — “ill you.” Did it mean “kill you” or “will you” or “till you” or — or what? There might be dozens of other words ending in “ill” which he did not recall at the moment. His imagination hammered the phrase into his brain as “kill you.” The “to the”— the next words — were clear, but meant nothing at all. The last letters were distinctly “ho,” possibly “hope.”
Then Hatch began real work on the story. First he saw the bank clerk, Victor Willis, who Miss Stanford had said loved Grace Field, and whom Hatch suspected Miss Stanford loved. He found Willis a grim, sullen faced young man of twenty-eight years, who would say nothing.
From that point Hatch worked vigorously for several hours. At the end of that time he had found out that on Wednesday, the day of Miss Field’s disappearance, a veiled woman — probably Grace Field — had called at the bank and inquired for Willis. Later, Willis, urging necessity, had asked to be allowed the day off and left the bank. He did not appear again until next morning. His actions did not impress any of his associates with the idea that he was a bridegroom; in fact, Hatch himself had given up the idea that Miss Field had eloped. There seemed no reason for an elopement.
When Hatch called at the studio, and home, of Constans St. George, to inform him of the disappearance of the model whose identity had been so long guarded, he was told that Mr. St. George was not in; that is, St. George refused to answer knocks at the door, and had not been seen for a day or so. He frequently disappeared this way, his informant said.
With these facts — and lack of facts — in his possession on Friday evening, Hatch called on Professor S. F. X. Van Dusen. The Thinking Machine received him as cordially as he ever received anybody.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“I don’t believe this is really worth your while Professor,” Hatch said, finally. “It’s just a case of a girl who disappeared. There are some things about it which are puzzling, but I’m afraid it’s only an elopement.”
The Thinking Machine dragged up a footstool, planted his small feet on it comfortably and leaned back in his chair.
“Go on,” he directed.
Then Hatch told the story, beginning at the time when the picture was placed in the art museum, and continuing up to the point where he had seen Willis after finding the photograph and the scrap of paper. He had always found that it saved time to begin at the beginning with The Thinking Machine; he did it now as a matter of course.
“And the scrap of paper?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“I have it here,” replied the reporter.
For several minutes the scientist examined the fragment and then handed it back to the reporter.
“If one could establish some clear connection between that and the disappearance of the girl it might be valuable,” he said. “As it is now, it means nothing. Any number of letters might be thrown into the wastebasket in the room the two girls occupied, therefore dismiss this for the moment.”
“But isn’t it possible —” Hatch began.
“Anything is possible. Mr. Hatch,” retorted the other, belligerently. “You might take occasion to see the handwriting of St. George, the artist, and see if that is his — also look at Willis’s. Even if it were Willis’s, however, it may mean nothing in connection with this.”
“But what could have happened to Miss Field?”
“Any of fifty things,” responded the other. “She might have fallen dead in the street and been removed to a hospital or undertaking establishment; she might have been arrested for shoplifting and given a wrong name; she might have gone mad and gone away; she might have eloped with another man; she might have committed suicide; she might have been murdered. The question is not what could have happened, but what did happen.”
“Yes, I thoroughly understand that,” Hatch replied, with a slight smile. “But still I don’t see —”
“Probably you don’t,” snapped the other. “We’ll take it for granted that she did none of these things, with the possible exception of eloping, killing herself, or was murdered. You are convinced that she did not elope. Yet you have only run down one possible end of this — that is, the possibility of her elopement with Willis. You don’t believe she did elope with him. Well, why not with St. George?”
“St George?” gasped Hatch. “A great artist elope with a shop-girl?”
“She was his ideal in a picture which you say is one of the greatest in the world,” replied the other, testily. “That being true, it is perfectly possible that she was his ideal for a wife, isn’t it?”
The matter had not occurred to Hatch in just that light. He nodded his head, with a feeling of having been weighed and found wanting.
“Now, you say, too, that St. George has not been seen around his studio for a couple of days,” said the scientist. “What is more possible than that they are together somewhere?”
“I see,” said the reporter.
“It was understood, too, as I understand it, that St. George was in love with her,” went on The Thinking Machine. “So, I should imagine a solution of the mystery might be reached by taking St. George as the center of the affair. Suicide may be passed by for the moment, because she had no known motive for suicide — rather, if she loved Willis, she had every reason to live. Murder, too, may be passed for the moment — although there is a possibility that we might come back to that. Question St. George. He will listen if you make him, and then he must answer.”
“But his place is all closed up,” said Hatch. “It is supposed he is half crazy.”
“Possibly he might be,” said The Thinking Machine. “Or it is possible that he is keeping to his studio at work — or he might even be married to Miss Field and she might be there with him.”
“Well, I see no way to ascertain definitely that he is there,” said the reporter, and a puzzled wrinkle came into his face. “Of course I might remain on watch night and day to see if he comes out for food, or if anything to eat is sent in.”
“That would take too long, and besides it might not happen at all,” said The Thinking Machine. He arose and went into the adjoining room. He returned after a moment, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is just nine o’clock now,” he commented. “How long would it take you to get to the studio?”
“Half an hour.”
“Well, go there now,” directed the scientist. “If Mr. St. George is in his studio he will come out of it tonight at thirty-two minutes past nine. He will be running, and may not wear either a hat or coat.”
“What?” and Hatch grinned, a weak, puzzled grin.
“You wait where he can’t see you when he comes out,” the scientist went on. “When he goes he may leave the door open. If he does go on see if you find any trace of Miss Field, and then, on his return, meet him at the outer door, ask him what you please, and come to see me tomorrow morning. He will be out of his studio about twenty minutes.”
Vaguely Hatch felt that the scientist was talking rot, but he had seen this strange mind bring so many odd things to pass that he could not doubt this, even if it were absurd on its face.
“At thirty-two minutes past nine tonight,” said the reporter, and he glanced at his watch.
“Come to see me tomorrow after you see the handwriting of Willis and St. George,” directed the scientist. “Then you may also tell me just what happens tonight.”
Hatch was feeling like a fool. He was waiting in a darkened corner, just a few feet from St. George’s studio. It was precisely halfpast nine o’clock. He had been there for seven minutes. What strange power was to bring St. George, who for two days had denied himself to everyone, out of that studio, if, indeed, he were there?
For the twentieth time Hatch glanced at his watch, which he had set with the little clock in The Thinking Machine’s home. Slowly the minute hand crept around, to 9:31, 9:311/2, and he heard the door of the studio rattle. Then suddenly it was thrown open and St. George appeared.
Without a glance to right or left, hatless and coatless, he rushed out of the building. Hatch got only a glimpse of his face; his lips were pressed tightly together; there was a glint of madness in his eyes. He jerked at the door once, then ran through the hall and disappeared down the stairs leading to the street. The studio door stood open behind him.
3
When the clatter of the running footsteps had died away and Hatch heard the outer door slam, he entered the studio, closing the door behind him. It was close here, and there was a breath of Chinese incense which was almost stifling. One quick glance by the light of an incandescent told Hatch that he stood in the reception-room. Typically, from floor to ceiling, the place was the abode of an artist; there was a rich gradation of color and everywhere were scraps of art and half-finished studies.
The reporter had given up the idea of solving the mystery of why St. George had so suddenly left his apartments; now he devoted himself to a quick, minute search of the place. He found nothing to interest him in the reception-room, and went on into the studio where the artist did his work.
Hatch glanced around quickly, his eyes taking in all the details, then went to a little table which stood, half-covered with newspapers. He turned these over, then bent forward suddenly and picked up — a woman’s glove. Beside it lay its mate. He stuffed them into his pocket.
Eagerly he sought now for anything that might come to hand. At last he reached another door, leading into the bedroom. Here on a large table was a chafing dish, many dishes which had not been washed, and all the other evidences of a careless man who did a great deal of his own cooking. There was a dresser here, too, a gorgeous, mahogany affair. Hatch didn’t stop to admire this because his eye was attracted by a woman’s veil which lay on it. He thrust it into his pocket.
“Quite a haul I’m making,” he mused, grimly.
From this room a door, half open, led into a bathroom. Hatch merely glanced in, then looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had elapsed. He must get out, and he started for the outer door. As he opened it quietly and stepped into the hall he heard the street door open one flight below, and started down the steps. There, half way, he met St. George.
“Mr. St. George?” he asked.
“No,” was the reply.
Hatch knew his man perfectly, because he had seen him half a dozen times and had talked to him twice. The denial of identity therefore was futile.
“I came to tell you that Grace Field, the model for your ‘Fulfillment,’ has disappeared,” Hatch went on, as the other glared at him.
“I don’t care,” snapped the other. He darted up the steps. Hatch listened until he heard the door of the studio close.
It was ten minutes to ten o’clock when Hatch left the building. Now he would see Miss Stanford and have her identify the gloves and the veil. He boarded a car and drew out and closely examined the gloves and veil. The gloves were tan, rather heavy, but small, and the veil was of some light, cobwebby material which he didn’t know by name.
“If these are Grace Field’s,” the reporter argued, to himself, “it means something. If they are not, I’m simply a burglar.”
There was a light in the Dorchester house where Miss Stanford lived, and the reporter rang the bell. A servant appeared.
“Would it be possible for me to see Miss Stanford for just a moment?” he asked.
“If she has not gone to bed.”
He was ushered into the little parlor again. The servant disappeared, and after a moment Miss Stanford came in.
“I hated to trouble you so late,” said the reporter, and she smiled at him frankly, “but I would like to ask if you have ever seen these?”
He laid in her hands the gloves and the veil. Miss Stanford studied them carefully and her hands trembled.
“The gloves, I know, are Grace’s — the veil I am not so positive about,” she replied.
Hatch felt a great wave of exultation sweep over him, and it stopped his tongue for an instant.
“Did you — did you find them in Mr. Willis’s possession?” asked the girl.
“I am not at liberty to tell just where I found them,” Hatch replied. “If they are Miss Field’s — and you can swear to that, I suppose — it may mean that we have a clew.”
“Oh, I was afraid it would be this way,” gasped the girl, and she sank down weeping on a couch.
“Knew what would be which way?” asked Hatch, puzzled.
“I knew it! I knew it!” she sobbed. “Is there anything to connect Mr. Willis directly with the — the murder?”
The reporter started to say something, then paused. He wasn’t quite sure of himself. He had uncovered something, he didn’t know what yet.
“It would be better, Miss Stanford,” he explained, gently, “if you would tell me all you know about this affair. The things which are now in my possession are fragmentary — if you could give me any new detail it would be only serving the ends of justice.”
For a little while the girl was silent, then she arose and faced him.
“Is Mr. Willis yet under arrest?” she asked, calmly now.
“Not yet,” said the reporter.
“Then I will say nothing else,” she declared, and her lips closed in a straight line.
“What was the motive for murder?” Hatch, insisted.
“I will say nothing else,” she replied, firmly.
“And what makes you positive there was murder?”
“Good-night. You need not come again, for I will not see you.”
Miss Stanford turned and left the room. Hatch, sadly puzzled, bewildered, stood staring after her a moment, then went out, his brain alive with possibilities, with intangible ends which would not be connected. He was eager to lay the new facts before The Thinking Machine.
From Dorchester the reporter took a car for his home. In his room, with the tangible threads of the mystery spread out on a table, he thought and surmised far into the night, and when he finally replaced them all in his pocket and turned down the light it was with a hopeless shake of his head.
On the following morning when Hatch arose he picked up a paper and went to breakfast. He spread the paper before him and there — the first thing he saw — was a huge headline, stating that a burglar had entered the room of Constans St. George and had tried to kill Mr. St. George. A shot had been fired at him and had passed through his left arm.
Mr. St. George had been asleep when the door of his apartments was burst in by the thief. The artist arose at the noise, and as he stepped into the reception room had been shot. The wound was trivial. The burglar escaped; there was no clew.
4
It was a long story of seemingly hopeless complications that Hatch told The Thinking Machine that morning. Nothing connected with anything, and yet here was a series of happenings, all apparently growing out of the disappearance of Miss Field, and which must have some relation one to the other. At the conclusion of the story, Hatch passed over the newspaper containing the account of the burglary in the studio. The artist had been removed to a hospital.
The Thinking Machine read the newspaper account and turned to the reporter with a question:
“Did you see Willis’s handwriting?”
“Not yet,” replied the reporter.
“See it at once,” instructed the other. “If possible, bring me a sample of it. Did you see St. George’s handwriting?”
“No,” the reporter confessed.
“See that and bring me a sample if you can. Find out first if Willis has a revolver now or has ever had. If so, see it and see if it is loaded or empty — its exact condition. Find out also if St. George has a revolver — and if he has one, get possession of it if it is in your power.”
The scientist twisted the two gloves and the veil which Hatch had given to him in his fingers idly, then passed them to the reporter again.
Hatch arose and stood waiting, hat in hand.
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