The man who would command events must be able to command sleep. This, at least, Freyberger was able to do. He cast himself upon his bed, closed his eyes and was immediately lost in oblivion.
At half-past four he awoke, made himself some coffee, lit a cigar and fell, for a moment, into meditation1. There was one point wanting to him in the case before it stood absolutely four square and to his satisfaction.
That point was the proof that the bust2 of Sir Anthony Gyde was by the hand of the same sculptor3 as the bust of M. Lefarge.
It was more than probable that Mademoiselle Lefarge would bring with her to London this very material piece of evidence. It was in her possession he knew, for, in the newspaper accounts of the tragedy it was numbered amidst the pièces de conviction, and the statement was made that it had been returned to the daughter of Lefarge, coupled with the statement that Mademoiselle Lefarge wept when it was returned to her and expressed her conviction of her father’s innocence4 and her determination to devote her life to the task of clearing his name from the terrible stain upon it. Antonides alone would be able to decide the question of the artist, and at five Freyberger left his rooms and took his way to Old Compton Street.
He did not call at the Yard on his way, knowing quite well that if anything important had turned up in reference to the Gyde case, the chief would have communicated with him immediately.
Antonides was in. He was eating a sausage roll behind his counter, or rather finishing it, when Freyberger entered. The old man was killing5 himself with indigestion. To save the price of a trustworthy assistant he looked after his business entirely6 himself, with the exception of what help a boy, hired at seven shillings a week, could give him. This meant that whenever he required a meal properly cooked he had to go to a café and lock the shop up till he returned, as this meant the possible loss of a customer, he was condemned7 to live on sardines8 and sausage rolls, sandwiches, anything, in fact, that did not require cooking or service.
Of course he could have had dinner sent in from a café, but he would have had to eat it on the counter for had he retired9 upstairs to devour10 it he would have been compelled to close the shop.
Not for one moment did he leave it open during his absence upstairs, save on very rare occasions, such as the morning before, when Freyberger, calling to inspect the bust, had found the boy taking down the shutters11 and the door open.
“Good day, Mr Freyberger,” said the old man.
“Good day,” said Freyberger.
“And what can I do for you Mr Freyberger,” asked Antonides, “any more busts12 to restore?”
“Not to-day, thanks, I want your opinion on a work of art.”
“Produce it.”
“Do you think I carry it about with me in my pocket?”
“I have seen works of art produced from a pocket before now. I have seen a snuff-box, worth a thousand guineas, and which I bought for,—no matter.”
“Well this is not a snuff-box but a bust.”
“Another bust!”
“Yes, another.”
“The subject?”
“A man.”
“The artist?”
“Unknown, but supposed to be the same who executed the bust of Sir Anthony Gyde.”
“Ha! ha!”
“Could you tell if it were the same artist?”
“Could I tell it in the dark by the touch of my fingers, could I not?”
“Well, I hope to show you it.”
“You know my fee for examining works of art?”
“No.”
“A guinea.”
“You shall have it.”
“At what hour will you bring it here?”
“That’s just the point, the thing can’t be brought here, you must go to see it.”
“Where?”
“At the Langham Hotel.”
“You know my fee for leaving my shop to inspect works of art.”
“No.”
“Two guineas, Mr Freyberger.”
“You shall have them.”
“And the cab fare?” shrieked13 Antonides, his face becoming pinched with excitement.
“And the cab fare.”
“There and back?”
“Yes, there and back, anything else? Mention it whilst we are about it, don’t be bashful, drinks on the way and a red carpet on the steps when you get there.”
“I never drink between meals. Three shillings is the cab fare. I never cheat my customers, nor do I allow cabmen to cheat me. At what hour shall I be at the Langham Hotel?”
“Oh, about half-past seven.”
“And the bust. If it is not asking an impertinent question, where is it coming from?”
“Paris.”
“Ah!”
“By the way.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of an artist and sculptor, named Wilhelm Müller?”
“Wilhelm Müller, a sculptor?”
“Yes.”
“Murdered eight years ago?”
“Yes.”
“By a M.—”
“Lefarge.”
“Yes, yes, that is the name. Oh, yes, I remember Müller. I only saw him once about nine years ago; I clearly recollect14 him for the fact of his murder, which I read of in the papers shortly after impressed our meeting upon me. It was at the chat noir. Oh, yes, I remember Wilhelm Müller very well indeed.”
“You are a judge of men.”
“I am a judge of art primarily, modern man is mainly a production of art, not of nature; yes, I am a judge of men.”
“What was your opinion of Müller?”
“You know my fee for examining and giving my opinion on works of art.”
“Yes, here, take a cigar and give me your opinion on Müller.”
“As a work of art or nature?”
“You said modern man was a work of art.”
“I said, mainly a work of art, there is a strong substratum of nature in some men.”
“Well I want your opinion on Müller, both as a work of art and a work of nature; cast some light on him for me out of your intelligence.”
“Give me a match.”
“There you are.”
“Thank you. As an artistic15 production, Müller was not so bad, for he managed fairly well to conceal16 from his fellow-men what nature had made him?”
“And what had nature made him?”
“A madman.”
“A madman?”
“Yes, and yet he was sane17.”
“That sounds like a paradox18.”
“Man is a paradox. I know twenty men in London who are as mad as hatters, yet they are sane for all practical purposes.”
“Could you fancy Müller committing a murder?”
“Easily. He was of the intellectual criminal type.”
“Yet he was a great artist.”
“Though I have never seen any of his work—”
“Pardon me, you have, for that bust of Sir Anthony Gyde’s was, I believe, from his chisel19.”
“Though I had never seen any of his work, judging from my recollection of the man, I would say he was a great genius. He had the brilliancy of eye, the concentration of gaze, which one rarely meets with in common-place people, and yet those eyes would, so to speak, fall apart, the concentration relax, the gaze become turned inward. Then it was that the essential madness of the man became visible to the man who could see. How many men of your acquaintance can see, Mr Freyberger?”
Freyberger laughed and turned to leave the shop.
“Well,” he said, “seven-thirty at the Langham. Be sure you are there and ask for Mademoiselle Lefarge.”
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1
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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2
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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3
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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4
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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5
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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6
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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7
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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8
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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9
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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10
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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11
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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12
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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13
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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15
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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16
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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17
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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18
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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19
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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