Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ slowly, studying the facades of the old-style buildings as she moved. There seemed to be a curious mixture of houses and business premises—then presently, on the other side of the road the sign CARDENWORTH STUDIOS caught her eye and she surveyed the building speculatively.

      It was high, skylighted, and old-fashioned, every bit as unprepossessing as the rest of the buildings. Worn steps led up to a paint-blistered front door.

      Elsa paused, musing, and staring at the place across the road—then as she was upon the point of walking away and forgetting all about the scheme Clive Hexley himself appeared at the top of the steps, the door swinging wide behind him. He was dressed in grey slacks and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Immediately he came hurrying across to her, a welcoming smile on his clear-featured face.

      “I saw you from my studio window,” he explained, shaking hands. “That scarlet hat of yours—I’d know it anywhere! You ought to have let me bring you in the car, you know. This is no place for a nice girl to wander round.”

      “You seem to find it quite satisfactory,” Elsa said, as he took her aria possessively and led her across the road.

      “For business, yes—but then, I’m not an attractive young woman! At night it isn’t a pleasant spot. I don’t live here, you know: I’ve a flat near Regent Street.”

      Elsa found that her suspicions of him had gone. Apparently he was a genuine artist after all—there were paint spots on his white shirt—and his personality was such that she found it hard to dislike him. He kept his hand on her arm as they went up the steps, then she preceded him into a short length of dreary, grimy hall.

      “Top floor,” he said, and came close behind her as she ascend­ed.

      The top floor was five stories up, and here there were two doors, both of them open. One gave on to a small dressing room and stor­age space, a big mirror hanging on the wall where it caught the light; the other opened into a studio of surprising dimensions, its entire roof composed of opaque glass through which the hot, diffused light of the morning sun was streaming. Elsa entered the studio slowly, interestedly, her last suspicions vanishing.

      There were easels, chairs, stools, and a platform at one end with scenery propped against the wall near it. There were clean canvas frames, others partly finished, still others covered with cloths. A table had a few crocks upon it piled neatly at one end. An oil stove, extinguished, was in another corner. The floor was wooden, liberally bespattered with drops of varihued paints.

      So much Elsa took in at a glance, then her eyes moved to the tall, blonde girl in a loose-fitting smock, idly smoking a cigar­ette, who came lounging towards her. She was definitely good-looking, and probably her figure also left nothing to be desired when divested of the formless covering she was wearing.

      “This is Babs Vane,” Clive said, motioning. “And here is Elsa Farraday, Babs, of whom I told you.”

      “Glad to know you, Miss Farraday.” Elsa’s hand was gripped by long, firm fingers. “Clive’s been telling me all about you. In fact he’s done little else since yesterday. Seems pretty sure he’s found in you exactly the type he’s looking for.”

      Elsa only smiled. She was thinking at that moment that it would have been hard to find a more beautiful girl than Barbara Vane, with her natural golden hair, clear blue eyes, and straight features.

      “I don’t look mystical, you see,” Barbara Vane explained, as though she had read Elsa’s thoughts. “Blondes never do....”

      “Excuse the untidiness of everything, Miss Farraday,” Clive broke in, pulling up a chair. “Artists are notoriously Bohemian and I don’t claim to be an exception. Let me have your coat, Miss Farraday.”

      “And hat, surely?” she smiled, removing it and patting her night-black tresses.

      Clive nodded and took the hat from her, then he took the light dust coat too. Barbara reached out a hand for them and took them into the adjoining dressing room through an open interconnecting doorway.

      “How about some tea before we start?” she enquired. “I don’t know about you, Miss Farraday, but I just can’t exist without it.”

      “Oh, I can survive—but as it happens I’ve had a long and thirsty walk this morning,” Elsa responded. “I’ll be glad of some, thanks.”

      With a nod Barbara lighted the oil stove and placed a kettle upon it. Then she returned to stand near Elsa and rested her arm on the back of a chair.

      “I can see what Clive means,” she said pensively. “About the mystical look, that is. You’ve certainly got it.”

      “Without doubt,” Clive Hexley agreed, turning to a bench and inspecting several tubes of colour lying thereon. “If I can just capture that look in the eyes, the turn of the head, and the general poise, I’ll really have something.”

      Barbara Vane seated herself, drew at her cigarette for a moment, then asked a question in her languid voice.

      “I believe you write, Miss Farraday, under the name of Hardy Strong? So Clive was telling me.”

      Elsa nodded. “Yes, but I shan’t feel offended if you’ve never heard the name. I do fairly well, but I’m not a world-beater by any means—”

      “Oh, but I do know your books. In fact I’ve read two of them, but....” Barbara frowned and examined the end of her cigarette.

      “But what?” Hexley asked, turning. “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard you mention Miss Farraday’s work. You never said anything about it to me yesterday.”

      “No, chiefly because I wanted to ask Miss Farraday herself Do you really mean,” Barbara asked deliberately, “that you—an obviously refined girl—write that awful stuff?”

      “Awful?” It seemed a hard glint crept into Elsa’s eyes.

      “Not in the usual sense of ‘awful’ I don’t mean. You write quite well—but the material is horrifying. In fact I should think you’ve started a new vogue in terror stories! I frankly admit, Miss Farraday, that after reading two of your books I got so nauseated I resolved never to read any more! I even pictured to myself what kind of a mind this Hardy Strong could have to conjure up such elaborate ways of murdering people and disposing of them— Then out of a clear sky you have descended upon me! Not a big-fisted man but a retiring young woman. I just don’t understand it.”

      “I simply write what the public wants,” Elsa responded, with a shrug. “And it pays. Certainly my work is in crime-horror thril­lers, but that doesn’t imply that I have the mind of an assassin, does it? As a matter of fact I only write at all as a sort of escape.”

      “Escape?” Clive repeated, puzzled. “From what?”

      “Myself.”

      At that moment the water in the kettle boiled and Barbara jumped up to attend to it. By the time she had prepared the tea and served it for the three of them the topic of Elsa’s writing had slipped out of focus. They talked instead of Clive’s work and everyday affairs, until Elsa was obviously at home enough to begin to pose for the portrait.

      Under Clive’s directions she took a seat by the window where the light fell diagonally across her face, and she found herself forced to gaze at the uninteresting view outside. СКАЧАТЬ