Читать книгу The Disappearance of Kimball Webb - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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She made an impressive picture, as she swept the telephone from its little table, even while she sank into the attendant chair. For Henrietta Webb was a striking-looking woman,—only her Bostonian restraint kept her from being a stunning one. Tall, but very graceful, muscular, yet strictly feminine, her demeanor was marked by a calm composure, that was absolutely unshakable.

“Mistress of herself, though china fall,” would be a true but an inadequate comment on Miss Webb’s self-control. She ruled herself, as she did all with whom she came in contact; she dominated every phase and circumstance of her life and that of the household. This domination of others was not obtrusive, was not always even evident, but it showed itself upon occasion.

One person, however, her brother Kimball, Miss Webb could not always rule. Though in many ways, and up to a certain point, he was a veritable mush of concession, yet there came a moment, not infrequently, when he calmly but very decidedly put her in her place. To do Henrietta justice, she took these moments rationally, bowed to his will, and set herself about achieving her desired end by other means.

And rarely, perhaps never, did she fail of achieving her desired ends.

Personally, Miss Webb was the type of woman that is adjudged beautiful by some people while others say, “I can’t see how you can possibly call her good-looking!”

She had great grey eyes, with dark—well, say, darkened lashes. She would have had grey hair, but she preferred dark brown,—and had it. A faint pink flush showed, usually, on her smooth cheeks, and her firm, beautifully shaped lips were a lovely red.

Now, don’t run away with the impression that Henrietta was awfully made-up and artificial looking. She was nothing of the sort. All her aids to Nature were so skilfully achieved and so natural of effect that he who ran might read them as nature’s own. It would be only one who would peep and botanize who would discover the truth, and even he might not.

Miss Webb’s exquisitely proportioned figure, too, owed something but not all to the art of her corsetière and modiste. But her own good judgment and perfect taste kept them from overdoing anything, and the result came pretty near to being a perfect woman, nobly planned. And with the plans nobly carried out.

Her face, per se, was fine, aristocratic, and Bostonian of cast; so now you can get a pretty fair idea of Miss Henrietta Webb’s appearance. She had long arms, long fingers, long legs, and—if it interests you at all—long toes. She was that sort, you know, and those long limbs and digital extremities fairly shout a psychic nature. Which she had.

Her voice was charming. It had that indescribable, inimitable timbre,—that only New England birth bestows; and those wonderful inflections never inborn save in Massachusetts.

This voice and these inflections now sounded over the telephone, like the sound of a grand Hello!

For Miss Webb was too truly correct, too innately proper to descend to the silly subterfuges of “Yes?” or “What is it?” affected by the would-be refined.

But her “Hello,” with her inflection, was like the benediction that follows after prayer,—or like the harmonious echo of this discordant life.

“Hello!” returned Fenn Whiting, in his cheery way. “How are you? How’s old Kimmy?”

“Can you come up here right away?” asked Miss Webb, and catching the serious note in her voice, Whiting replied, “Why, yes; in a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I don’t want to talk over the telephone,” she informed him, “but do get here as soon as you possibly can.”

She hung up the receiver, which was her efficacious way of decreeing the conversation at an end.

“Mother,” she said, rising, “we may as well eat our breakfast. Thank Heaven we’re not the sort of people who fly into hysterics. I admit if I were that sort I should certainly do so, though, for this mystery is baffling me. I feel my brain reel when I try to think it out! Whatever the explanation of Kimball’s absence, no power on earth can explain how he got out of his room.”

“There are other powers than those of earth, Henrietta,” Mrs. Webb began, solemnly.

“There now,” spoke up her daughter, with some asperity, “don’t begin that jargon! You’ll be saying next that spirits carried Kim off!”

“Can you suggest anything more believable?”

“I can’t think of anything more unbelievable! I’d rather think he went up the chimney or oozed through the keyhole than any supernatural foolishness!”

“Simply a choice of foolishnesses, then,” observed Mrs. Webb, calmly, and she took her seat at the table and asked for hot muffins and fresh coffee.

“Where is the diamond pendant?” said Henrietta, suddenly.

“Gracious! I don’t know. It must be in Kim’s room, somewhere. You’d better hunt it out before anybody more goes searching around. Didn’t you say Oscar showed some curiosity?”

“Not exactly that; he searched with a sort of detective instinct, a systematic investigation to Kim’s clothes and that sort of thing.”

“All the same, Henrietta, I think the jewels should be secured. When Kim returns he won’t like it much if they have been stolen.”

“Very well, I’ll hunt for the pendant as soon as I finish breakfast.”

But as they rose from the table Fenn Whiting arrived and the story was told to him.

His face showed wonderment, even incredulity, and he had no sort of explanation to suggest.

“The only thing I can think of,” he said, “is that somebody has played a practical joke on Kimmy. You know we were pretty gay at dinner, last night, and there was a lot of guying of the prospective bridegroom. It was fun, because Kim is such an old sober-sides and so matter-of-fact, that—”

“He’s nothing of the sort,” contradicted Henrietta; “Kimball has the finest sense of humour—”

“Oh, that, yes! Doesn’t he write high-class comedies? But I mean he has no liking for personal badinage, no relish for practical jokes—”

“The kind of fun known as horse-play, I suppose you mean,” Henrietta observed, scathingly.

“Well, yes, Miss Webb, I suppose that’s just about what I do mean. Anyway, there was a lot of fooling last night that didn’t appeal strongly to our host, and though he behaved beautifully under fire, he couldn’t help showing his distaste for some of the speeches.”

“Well,” said Henrietta, impatiently, “what sort of a joke, and perpetrated by whom, would explain my brother’s present absence, and disclose his hiding-place?”

“Oh, Lord! I don’t know! I don’t know that any such thing happened,—I only caught at that as a possible way to turn.”

“Let’s turn that way, then,” and Henrietta looked at Whiting with an air of awaiting further instructions.

“I’m willing, Miss Webb; I’ll do anything I can to help you,—but what shall we do? Are you sure Kimball isn’t in the house?”

“I’m not sure of anything! I only know he is not in evidence; that his bed was slept in, but that he has disappeared,—and, disappeared, leaving his room locked on the inside.”

“What! impossible! How did he get out?”

“That’s the mystery. Oh, Mr. Whiting, think of the situation! Today is his wedding day—”

“Well, I ought to know that! I’m best man.”

“Of course you are. But you can’t be best man without a bridegroom!”

“He’ll turn up, of course. But it is queer! Who can be responsible for the performance?”

“Can you guess? Who, of all the men there last night would be the most likely ones?”

“Nothing like that happened, Mr. Whiting,” broke in Mrs. Webb, who till now had silently listened; “Kimball couldn’t have been tricked out of that room. A human being can’t leave a locked room by human means. He was supernaturally removed. I am a believer in Spiritism, I know all about its manifestations and I am sure my son was levitated—”

“Levitated? What does that mean, Mrs. Webb?” the puzzled visitor inquired.

“It is a well-known term among psychists. People have been levitated, while in an unconscious state, from one house to another,—simply wafted through the air—”

“Oh, rubbish! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Webb, but—do you really believe that?”

“Of course I do—”

“Hush, mother;” Henrietta reproved her; “those fads of yours are inopportune at this moment. She is a believer in all Spiritism, Mr. Whiting, but this is not the time for such suggestions. Do you know it is eleven o’clock? Something must be done! And oughtn’t we to let Elsie know what has happened? She has a right to be told.”

“Who will tell her?” asked Whiting, looking troubled.

Remembering his own hopeless admiration for the girl, Henrietta readily understood his disinclination to carry her the disturbing news.

“I’ll go and tell her,” she said, at last. “But you, Mr. Whiting, must do something toward finding Kimball. The cruel person who would do such a thing as to hide away a man on his wedding day is no less than a criminal. Only a wicked mind could conceive of such a deed!”

“Perhaps he went of his own accord?”

“I truly hope so; then he’ll come back soon. But we must take no chances. Leave no stone unturned to find out what has happened. Tell me frankly, what men at the dinner would you think capable of such an exhibition of cruelty and bad taste?”

“I hesitate to say; I can’t think any of them would be. Oh, don’t take my whilom suggestion as a fact! I can’t believe it myself. But—what else?”

“There is no other. And even that’s an impossible solution, remembering the locked door!”

“If you leave out the question of the locked door,” said Mrs. Webb, “then I should suspect a burglar, who came to steal the diamond pendant.”

“Is that missing?” asked Whiting, looking shocked.

“We don’t know,” said Henrietta. “Kimball had it last night, he showed it to mother after he came home—”

“He had it at the dinner,” vouchsafed Whiting; “he showed it to us all. Oh, he wasn’t parading it,—he chanced to have it in his pocket, and Wally Courtney, I think it was, asked to see it. Courtney’s a gem fancier, I believe. Well, we all looked at it with interest. It’s a great little old jewel, you know!”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Webb, “I never saw finer stones; and the four of them, so perfectly matched, yet of graduated sizes, make a wonderful pendant. As they hang, below one another, they look like dripping water.”

“An exquisite gift,” said Whiting. “Have you searched for it thoroughly?”

“Haven’t looked at all,” declared Henrietta. “You see, it would take a careful search. For if Kimball hid it from possible thieves, he hid it very securely, I’ve no doubt.”

“Under his pillow, maybe?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. But I’ll look everywhere. Just now, I’m more anxious to find my brother than his diamonds.”

“I don’t blame you. Now, to be practical, suppose I name over all the guests of last night’s dinner, and let’s see if we can fasten suspicion on any one of them.”

But listing the guests meant nothing to Henrietta. The ones she knew, she was certain would do nothing of the sort; and the ones with whom she was unacquainted, she could not, of course, judge.

Whiting, also, couldn’t bring himself to accuse anybody. The greatest jokers, even buffoons, present, were, as a rule, the most kind-hearted chaps, and quite incapable of so distressing a prospective bridegroom.

“It can’t be that!” he said, at last. “I’ve rounded them all up in my mind. I’d rather adopt Mrs. Webb’s theory than to suspect any of those jolly, good-natured fellows! Every one is a friend of Kimmy’s, and though they were hilarious, they were nothing more, and we all parted in kindliest feeling.”

“You said some of them annoyed Kimball.”

“Oh, hardly annoyed; embarrassed him a little, perhaps. But I’ve been to dozens of bachelor dinners, and I can assure you old Kim was let off pretty easily last night. Most of them respected his dislike for overintimate chaff.”

“I’m glad they did! It’s a horrid thing.” Miss Webb looked disdainful. “But the time is simply melting away! What shall we do? Oh, Mr. Whiting, do help us,—or, if you can’t, suggest somebody who can!”

“Honest, Miss Webb, I feel helpless. I am distressed, beyond all words,—but I don’t seem to be able to think of anything to help. I brought Kim home; there were four of us in my car, and he was the first to get out. That was near two, I should say. Then I took Courtney home, and then Harbison and then went home myself. Honest, I can’t suspect any of those men. As to the others, I know nothing of what they did. We separated as we left the Club, and I’ve not seen anybody this morning. Shall I go up and give Kim’s room the once over? I might find a clue—or something.”

“I hate that word ‘clue!’ It always seems to connote a crime!”

“Oh, not necessarily. Anyway, I can’t see any crime in this case, but I confess it’s mysterious beyond anything I ever heard of.”

“Go up, if you like, Mr. Whiting. But I can’t see any use in it. Kim’s room is exactly as it ought to be, there’s nothing upset or out of place. Only,—we had to break in to get in at all!”

“He must have left the room by some other door, then.”

“There is no other door.”

“Window?”

“All fastened with special catches. But, do go up, Mr. Whiting, you might chance on something that I overlooked. Hollis will show you the way. Now, I’m going to Elsie’s. It isn’t right not to tell her.”

“Shall I go, Henrietta?” Mrs. Webb asked, docilely.

“No, mother. I’d rather go alone. I’ll take the little car. Hollis, tell Oscar to bring it at once, and then do you take Mr. Whiting up to Mr. Kimball’s room.”

With her usual quiet efficiency, Henrietta set the wheels moving, and was ready, dressed for the street, when the car arrived.

She rode the few blocks down Park Avenue that brought her to Elsie Powell’s home, in a deep study.

She was marshalling and formulating her thoughts. Possessed of great mental concentration, she had her mind in order, so far as her knowledge allowed, when she reached her destination.

The Powells’ apartment was one of the fine modern ones that cost more than a house and are also more livable. The large rooms, light, airy and attractive, were furnished in the best of taste, though of a very different type from the Webb home. Everything was light, bright and pleasing to the eye. But Miss Webb scorned the lack of all that she deemed desirable; old mahogany, family portraits and heirlooms.

There wasn’t a “Treasure Table” to be seen, and the window curtains were suspiciously spick and span.

Newness was a crime in the Webb calendar, and Kimball’s choice of a wife was a very sharp thorn in the patrician sides of his mother and sister.

Yet few could find fault with the girl who came running into the room to greet Henrietta.

“Oh, my dear,” cried the lovely little voice, “I’ve just had the most wonderful gift from your cousin,—Kimball’s cousin, Mrs. Saltonstall! It’s a set of old china,—a whole set! and really old! Do come and look at it!”

Henrietta couldn’t help gazing kindly at the speaker. The shining eyes, the soft pink cheeks, the smiling, curved lips,—even if the old china was wasted on this chit of a girl, she was a very engaging chit.

Dark curls, stuffed into a tiptilted, rosebudded lace cap; dainty slender white throat rising from a hastily tied together negligée; fluttering little pinky hands and dancing feet, all were part of the gladsome whole that was Elsie Powell. Happy enthusiasm, childish glee, were combined with a touch of wistful shyness that always attacked her in the presence of her critical sister-in-law to be.

But so gravely did Miss Webb look at her, that Elsie intuitively felt something unusual.

“What is it?” she cried. “Henrietta, what is it?”

The big, brown eyes were full of a frightened premonition, the red lips quivered, and the little butterfly hands clasped themselves in trembling fear.

For Henrietta Webb had a speaking face, and Elsie Powell was by no means dull or unobservant.

“Where is Kimball?” Miss Webb said, first of all.

“Why, I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the girl. “I saw him last night,”—she blushed divinely,—“he was on his way to his dinner,—at the Club, you know. Of course I haven’t seen him since.”

“Nor heard from him?”

“No; and that’s queer, too; for he told me,—” the blush deepened, “that he would telephone me this morning the moment he woke up,—to greet me on my wedding-day. Oh,—nothing has happened—tell me!”

“Oh, probably nothing to worry about, my dear. But,—well, we don’t know where Kimball is.”

“Didn’t he come home from the dinner?” The brown eyes wondered.

“Yes; and spoke to mother, and then went to bed. At least, we assume so. But this morning, he is gone, and—we had to break open the door to get into his room!”

“But,” Elsie smiled, “how could he get out and leave the door locked?”

“That’s just it! That’s the queer part!”

“Queer? It’s impossible!”

“Impossible or not, he did it! Or, that is to say, all we know is that he’s missing, and he disappeared, leaving the room securely fastened.”

“I don’t understand.” Elsie became suddenly very grave and sat down beside her guest. “How can what you tell me be true?”

“I can give no explanation,—I simply state the facts.”

Henrietta Webb looked coldly at the girl now; perhaps because Elsie was looking very sternly at her.

“May I ask,—would you mind—stating them again?”

Patiently, Miss Webb repeated what she had told, and amplified it until she had described the entire episode of entering her brother’s room by force. She told, too, of calling Fenn Whiting, and of his suggestion of a practical joke.

“Not at all,” said Elsie, decidedly. Her cheeks showed a redder flush, her eyes were very bright, and though she repressed it, she was trembling with excitement.

“May I call my mother?” she said, at last, in firm, even tones. “Will you tell this to her?”

She left the room and returned immediately with her mother.

Mrs. Powell was an invalid, and had been for years. But her bright eyes and strong, fine face told of an indomitable will and a capable personality.

Again Miss Webb told her story. She liked none of the Powells, and though she concealed this, yet there was no magnetism in her manner,—no sympathy in her voice.

She told a straightforward tale, precisely as she had told it to Elsie. She did not soften the facts, she held out no hope or encouragement; she talked with a peculiar effect of giving statistics, as a conscientious reporter might do.

At the close of the recital, Mrs. Powell promptly went to pieces. She always did this on exciting occasions.

“Try not to, mother,” was Elsie’s softly spoken advice, and then she turned to Miss Webb.

“You cannot deceive me,” she said, quietly, but with flashing eyes; “I do not believe a word of your story! You have hidden Kimball somewhere so that he cannot marry me today! You are desperately opposed to our marriage, and you have resorted to desperate means to prevent it! Your invention of the locked room business is too silly for words, and you must think me an utter idiot if you think I would swallow such nonsense. You have made no secret of your opposition to me, you have tried every way possible to break off the match, and, failing, you have taken matters into your own hands and you have done this despicable thing! You have hidden or confined your brother,—what have you done with him?”