FullReads

Kennedy paused before drawing the conclusion. “The radiograph of an original picture reveals changes made by the artist in the course of his work. The counterfeiter, like other copyists, reproduces as accurately as possible the final result. That is all he can see. He makes errors and corrections, but of a different kind. There are no serious changes.

“So, a radiograph of even a part of a picture shows the layers of pigment that are hidden from the eye and the changes made during the composition of the work. One can easily distinguish the genuine from the spurious copies, for it is absolutely impossible for an imitator to make a copy that will stand the X-ray test.

“You see,” he went on enthusiastically, “the most striking feature of these radiographs is their revelation of details of the first sketch, which have been altered in the finished picture. We actually obtain an insight into the methods of an artist–” he paused, adding–“who has been dead for centuries.”

It was wonderful what Kennedy was getting out of those, to us, blurred and indistinct skiagraphs. I studied the faces before me. None seemed to indicate any disposition to break down. Kennedy saw it, too, and evidently determined to go to the bitter end in hammering out the truth of the mystery.

“One moment more, please,” he resumed. “The radiograph shows even more than that. It shows the possibility of detecting a signature that has been painted over, in order to disarm suspicion. The detection is easier in proportion to the density of the pigment used for the signature and the lack of density of the superposed coat.”

He had laid the radiographs on the table before him, with a finger on the corner of each, as he faced us.

“At the bottom of each of the paintings in question,” he shot out, leaning forward, “you will find nothing in the way of a signature. But here, in radiograph number two, for instance, barely discernible, are the words, “R. Fleming,” quite invisible to the eye, but visible to the X-ray. These words have been painted over. Why? Was it to prevent anyone from thinking that the owner had ever had any connection with Rhoda Fleming?”

I was following Kennedy, but not so closely that I missed a fearful glance of Rita from Faber to Jacot. What it meant, I did not know. The others were too intent on Kennedy’s exposure to notice. I wondered whether someone had sought to conceal the fact that he had a copy of the famous Watteau, made by Miss Fleming?

“Look at the bottom of the other radiograph, number one, further toward the left,” pursued Kennedy resistlessly. “There you will discover traces of an ‘A’ and a ‘W,’ which do not appear on the painting. Between these two are marks which can also be deciphered by the X-ray–‘Antoine Watteau.’ Perhaps it was painted over lightly so that an original could be smuggled in as a copy. More likely it was done so that a thief and murderer could not be traced.”

As Kennedy’s voice rang out, more and more accusatory, Rita Tourville became more and more uncontrollably nervous.

“It was suggested,” modulated Kennedy, playing with his little audience as a cat might with a mouse, “that someone murdered Rhoda Fleming with the little-understood poison, ergot, because of an infatuation for the picture itself. But the modern crook has an eye for pictures, just as for other valuables. The spread of the taste for art has taught these fellows that such things as old masters are worth money, and they will even murder now to get them. No, that radiograph which I have labeled number one is not a copy. It is of the genuine old master–the real Watteau.

“Someone, closely associated with Miss Fleming, had found out that she had the original. That person, in order to get it, went even so far as to–“

Rita Tourville jumped up, wildly, facing Craig and crying out, “No, no–his is the copy–the copy by Miss Fleming. It was I who told him to paint over the signature. It was I who called him away–both nights–on a pretext–when he was dining with her–alone–called him because–I–I loved him and I knew–“

Faber was on his feet beside her in a moment, his face plainly showing his feelings toward her. As he laid his hand on her arm to restrain her, she turned and caught a penetrating glance from Jacot’s hypnotic eye.

Slowly she collapsed into her chair, covering her face with her hands, sobbing. For a moment a look of intense scorn and hatred blazed in Leila’s face, then was checked.

Craig waved the radiograph of the real Watteau as he emphasized his last words.

“In spite of Rita Tourville’s unexpected love for Faber, winning him from your victim, and with the aid of your wife, Leila, in the role of maid, the third member of your unique gang of art thieves, you are convicted infallibly by my X-ray detective,” thundered Craig as he pointed his finger at the now cowering Jacot.