Читать книгу Sleeping Dogs - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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The small and highly exclusive settlement of Crescent Cove, on the outskirts of which Graysands stood, was knocked galley-west the news of the death of Eileen Abercrombie.

Easily queen of the smart summer colony, Eileen had wielded her sceptre with such gracious tact and such tactful grace that she was the idol of the whole community, with the possible exception of some jealous upstarts who envied her supremacy.

Even the younger generation adored her, for when with them Eileen seemed almost of their own age and of the same interests, and when not with them she never criticized or censured them, whatever they might do.

She was the leading spirit in all entertainments, whether social, charitable, or philanthropic, and never refused a plea for aid, either financial or personal.

Her very appearance was a tonic, an incentive. Her breezy entrance in a room, though never undignified, arrested attention always and commanded a murmur of admiration. Her smiling enthusiasm imbued everyone with a sympathetic thrill of well-being and the joy of life.

And the sudden tidings of her death were well-nigh unbelievable.

It seemed impossible for Eileen Abercrombie to be anything but alive, superlatively alive from the crown of her handsome high-flung head to the soles of her dancing feet.

Her exquisitely toned voice, her light ringing laughter, her flashing eyes and radiant smile were all part of a vitality that seemed immortal.

Yet the reaction of Crescent Cove to this knock-out blow was not so much stunned grief as wonder and curiosity.

Rumours were rife, surmises were wild, assumptions were futile, and facts were hard to come by.

Unable to get at the Graysands people, the curious besieged Dr. Garth, who gave them no satisfaction, and Percy Van Antwerp, who gave them less.

Staying at the inn as he was Percy was an easy target, but he answered all comers with the same statement: that he knew nothing beyond the bare facts, and they were already common property.

Dr. Garth, too, had no further information to give out than that Mrs. Abercrombie had died suddenly and that an investigation was in order.

But somehow or other the hint of poison was whispered and repeated with exaggerations, until the whole place rang with conjectures and suspicions, breathed first in promised secrecy and then flung to waiting, receptive ears.

Nor did their high esteem and adoration of their idol waver. Rather, Eileen Abercrombie was elevated to the position of a saint and a martyr, and on every side were rumblings of vengeance against a possible human instrument that might have brought about her death.

Yet there were no broken hearts, no shattered lives because of this death.

Twenty years ago the tragedy would have brought unutterable woe to a dozen men whose sun rose and set in Eileen’s beautiful eyes.

But now, though admiration, homage, respect, and affection were all hers, romantic love was a thing of the past.

Ninon de Lenclos herself could scarce have been more charming at forty-two than this modern woman, yet passion’s fires must burn to embers as the long years drift by.

So comment was all on her grace and goodness, her personal magnetism, her well-preserved beauty, and her hold on the hearts of all who knew her.

No one suggested a lover; none hinted of a crime passionel.

Yet the word crime was in the air.

Not pronounced, not breathed as a syllable, but there, nevertheless.

It suggested the old, famous enigma that begins:

’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell;

And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell.

Yet none dared say in words that Eileen Abercrombie might have been murdered. Nor did any discuss suicide at least, not openly. All talk was wonderment and query.

But when the police went to the house, when the coroner followed them, and these things could not be kept secret, tongues were loosed and gossip began in earnest.

Those at Graysands knew nothing of this, but Dr. Garth and Percy Van Antwerp were ready to flee to mountain fastnesses to escape the driving, pounding force of the questions hurled at them.

Van Antwerp thought seriously of begging sanctuary at the Abercrombie home. A long-time friend of Eileen’s and now a devoted admirer of Maisie, he felt he would be welcomed in this emergency.

But Van Antwerp had a fine scorn for people who demanded hospitality. He looked upon Troy Loring as a sponging sort of person, and preferred, himself, to live at the inn, and go and come as Graysands called him.

Yet he couldn’t remain forever in his own room. Nor was he minded to. He went down and sat, as usual, on the broad pleasant verandah, and braved the fusillade of inquiry from the curious loungers of both sexes.

Van Antwerp was a general favourite, though not of a chummy sort. Always pleasantly polite, he invited no confidences and offered none. This was a cautionary attitude, for he well knew the all-taking propensities of summer idlers to whom he might give an inch.

So, knowing he would be besieged and badgered, he was prepared for it, and met all intrusive remarks with a kindly but decided reserve that left the curious ones pretty much where they were when they started.

It was Tuesday afternoon.

Eileen, he reflected, had not yet been dead twenty-four hours, yet it seemed ages. The autopsy had disclosed the fact that she had died from a large dose of the poison but was unable to determine whether she had had more than one dose. The coroner refused to express an opinion as to whether the poison was self-administered or not, declaring that the inquest must decide that question.

The inquest would be held the next day, and Van Antwerp after promising to attend had gone back to the Abercrombie Arms, greatly shaken by the ordeal of the morning.

But after luncheon and a rest in his room he felt refreshed, and now sat on the inn porch, wondering if Maisie would care to see him that evening.

He looked up as a motor came along the drive, and when a tall man jumped out and ran up the steps, Van Antwerp stared with a dawning recognition.

Surely he knew that lithe, agile walk, that swinging, graceful gait. It was, it must be, Kenneth Carlisle.

Now Kenneth Carlisle had been, until the last year, a moving-picture star of the highest magnitude.

A cinema hero, a movie idol, he had won all hearts from managers to fans, and from critics to flappers.

His work was of the best grade—sincere, talented, finished. He had put his honest efforts into it and had made a reputation that was hailed from coast to coast.

And then, surfeited with success, tired of praise and flattery, he had withdrawn from the game, and no offers of glory, fame, or lucre could tempt him to take part in another picture.

But what did happen was this. Owing to the popularity of crime plays and detective work Carlisle read and pictured much of that sort of literature.

And it got him at last. The game intrigued him, the field called to him, and unable to resist, he became a detective and went into the work with his whole soul.

He chanced to number among his friends a police sergeant of keen insight and wide experience, and the result was that when a specially difficult case turned up Kenneth Carlisle was called upon to help unravel the mystery.

He was a hard-working, hard-thinking detective of the modern school.

With no desire to imitate Sherlock Holmes, with no wish to be thought omniscient or transcendental, Carlisle wanted only a chance to use his wits and his ingenuity in the solution of mysteries that were seemingly unsolvable.

A success was to him a source of deepest satisfaction, but not a thing to be vaunted or boasted of. A failure was a grave disappointment and an occasion for searching inquiry as to his own mistakes or blunders.

And now, he had been urgently called, through the suggestion of Downing, to look into this Abercrombie matter.

For Sergeant Downing had seen at once that it was beyond his powers, and he had small faith in the revelations the coroner’s inquest would bring about.

So Carlisle had arrived, and though Van Antwerp hadn’t seen him in the flesh since their college days he was familiar with his presentation on the screen and recognized him at once.

Impulsively he sprang up and followed Carlisle into the office of the inn.

“Hello, Ken,” he said, and finishing his signature the detective looked up from the register.

A blank expression was quickly replaced by a smile of recognition and an outstretched hand as he exclaimed:

“Percy Van Antwerp—I’d know you among a thousand! How are you, Van?”

“Fine. It’s great to see you here. Of course I’m familiar with our screen king, but how did you remember me so quickly?”

“I’m not the forgetting sort, not of our college chaps, anyway. You staying here?”

“Yes. Are you here...”

“In the interests of the police, yes. Don’t say much in public. Can I see you after I get a room and all that?”

“Of course. Don’t let me intrude. I’ll be here on the porch, and you come to me or I’ll come to you when you’re ready.”

“Righto. I daresay Downing will show up soon. Are you a friend of the Abercrombies?”

“Oh, yes. An old friend of them all. I may be useful in the way of family history.”

“Yes, indeed. I want a good old hobnob with you as soon as we can get around to it. Any advice about rooms?”

“Yes. Choose the south side. Sunny in the daytime but lots cooler at night.”

He left Carlisle in confab with the room clerk and returned to the seat he had left.

But a bevy of girls with their attendant boy friends were waiting for him.

“Isn’t that Kenneth Carlisle?” they demanded. “Oh, Mr. Van Antwerp, will you introduce him to us? Oh, isn’t it thrilling? What is he here for? Is he going to stay? Is he a friend of yours? Oh, I’m wild to meet him!”

A never-ending babble of this sort went on, until Van Antwerp began to wonder what would happen when Carlisle made his reappearance.

But probably he could look after himself. He seemed capable of anything, to judge from the impression Percy had received of him.

However, he thought it more decent to warn him.

So he sought an enclosed telephone and called the room.

“I felt I ought to tell you, Ken,” he began, “that about a dozen youngsters are camped on the verandah waiting for you, and more are arriving rapidly. You’ll be taken possession of as soon as you heave in sight. I know you’re used to this, but I felt it the kind deed for to-day to let you know.”

“Good for you, Van,” Carlisle laughed. “Yes, I’ve been through it before, but I evade it when I can. Guess I’ll stay up here for dinner. Come along up and dine with me, won’t you? We can do up old Downing in short order and then have a powwow about old times.” Pleased at the prospect, Van Antwerp willingly agreed.

He waited until nearly dinner time and then went up and rang the buzzer at the door of Carlisle’s suite.

Though not large, the inn was well appointed and catered to the best people. It received the overflow of many of the big country houses and its patrons were well cared for.

Admitted by an understanding-looking personage, who was quite clearly Carlisle’s own man, Percy was shown into a small sitting room, where the detective sat at a table in conference with Sergeant Downing.

“Oh, here’s Mr. Van Antwerp,” the sergeant said in evident relief. “He can tell you all about the family. I never saw any of them until to-day.”

“Yes,” Percy said, speaking gravely, “I know them all, of course. I’ve known them for years. But as to the case, if you call it a case, I don’t know a thing. I’ve been thinking it over. I’ve sometimes imagined I had detective leanings myself, but I can’t find any peg to hang suspicion on. I incline to the accident theory, as Hugh Abercrombie himself does.”

“Too early yet for theories, old man,” said Carlisle decidedly. “And I don’t want opinions or suggestions. Those I invent for myself; all I want from you two chaps is the plain, straightaway facts.”

If Van Antwerp resented being thus classed with the lowly sergeant, he found himself disarmed by a friendly smile.

Carlisle was past master in the art of charming people, and men and women alike were captivated by his personality and held as in a snare by his winsome charm.

“You’re a fine detective,” exclaimed Percy, sensing this cajolery at once. “Don’t you know you ought to be hard and cynical and imperturbable and sarcastic and—”

“And snobbish and cryptic and generally insufferable,” Carlisle interrupted him.

“Yes, all those things and then a few. Instead of that you’re chummy and friendly and—and personable!”

“Well, I’m just my own kind of detective. I’m not modelling myself on anyone else. Now let’s get busy. At the inquest to-morrow I shall learn all the witnesses can tell me, and that will doubtless be a lot. But I want you to tell me about the witnesses. Begin with Mr. Abercrombie.”

Van Antwerp sat a few moments before he obeyed this behest.

Carlisle gave him no help, and Downing sat looking down at the floor.

“Hang it all, Carlisle,” said Percy at last, “can’t you dig it up for yourself somehow?”

“Of course I can, old chap. Is it unpleasant going?”

“No, not quite that. And I’d rather, maybe, you heard it from me first. You’ll hear enough outside.”

“Go to it, then.”

“Well, then, Eileen is—was, twelve years older than her husband.”

“Unusual but not a unique case.”

“No. And so far as I know, there never was a ripple of unpleasantness or trouble of any sort between them. I say, so far as I know.”

“I see. There are or have been rumours.”

“Oh, rumours! Yes. Now, I’m about Eileen’s age—I’m forty. How old are you? Ken?”

“Thirty-five. You know, you were a senior when I was a freshman.”

“Yes. Yet we were good friends. Well, we’ll have a good chat over those days. Now Eileen is forty-two—was forty-two when she died. But nobody would ever have believed that. Would they, Downing?”

“So everybody tells me. They all say she looked more like thirty or less.”

“Yes, she did. And when I was ‘long about twenty-five I met her first—a veritable angel she was—and I fell desperately in love with her. She had scores of suitors, and I was merely an also ran. She was a widow then and a stunning beauty. But it wasn’t only her beauty, she had an allurement that can’t be described in words. Well, never mind all that. She finally married Hugh Abercrombie, a man twelve years younger than herself. I lost sight of her for years. Lately I’ve known the family on visiting terms, and—well, you’ll discover it anyway, so I might as well tell you that I’m crazy about Maisie, Eileen’s daughter. Daughter of her first husband, of course, though the girl goes by the Abercrombie name. No, we’re not engaged, for Maisie’s an uncertain little proposition. I think she’s fond of me, but I suppose I do seem old to her. Yet she often promises to marry me—only to back out of it the next day. Of course I love her because she is like a youthful edition of her mother. A saucy, impulsive sort, full of deviltry and witchery. So, there’s the situation as far as I’m mixed up in it. I think it’s better for you to see just how things are. I don’t mind Downing’s hearing this. It’s no secret. Everybody knows I’m engaged to Maisie one day and it’s broken off the next.”

“Glad of your frankness, Van. Now as to the husband.”

“He’s one of God’s own noblemen. I don’t know a finer man than Hugh Abercrombie, yet I can’t help feeling he must be trying to live with.”

“Why?”

“He’s too perfect. Kind, gentle, self-sacrificing by nature, always ready to do a favour or help a friend, never speaks ill of anyone, and all that. Sort of superman, and that always makes us second-rate chaps feel small.”

“Strong? Manly?”

“Oh, yes, all of that. But no temper, I mean ill temper. He’d be honestly too proud to fight if occasion called for a tussle.”

“He sounds rather attractive to me.”

“He is attractive.”

“Devoted to his wife, of course?”

“Oh, devoted. But—hang it all, Ken—a man can’t be in love with a woman twelve years older than he is.”

“Why not? When the woman is all that is claimed for Mrs. Abercrombie?”

“Yes, I know. But he can’t stay in love.”

“Who is the other lady?”

“Good Lord, I don’t mean anything like that.”

“Who is she, Downing?”

“Well, sir, they do say—”

“Shut up, Downing.” Van Antwerp looked stern. “I say, Carlisle, get that, if any, from somebody else, can’t you?”

“He can’t help getting it,” murmured Downing, but he didn’t divulge any name.

“Leave it for the present,” agreed Carlisle. “Mrs. Abercrombie still loved her husband?”

“Worshipped him,” Van Antwerp declared. “And there was never the slightest sign of discord. Don’t get at the case from that angle, Carlisle.”

“From no angle, Van. But I must get all points of view, you know, and as soon as may be. Any other principals in the house?”

“I don’t know as you’d call ’em principals. There’s a social secretary that’s a bit of an enigma to me. A tall, not very attractive girl, though she has marvellous red hair and the whitest skin in the world. She may be all right, and doubtless is, but I can’t see sterling worth sticking out all over her.”

“What do you think of her, Downing?”

“She seems all right to me, sir.”

“Because you don’t see beneath that delicate epidermis,” Van snorted. “And small wonder, for she loads it with powder and rouge until it’s nearly hidden from sight. I never saw a girl so addicted to her compact!”

“Sounds like an interesting crowd,” commented Carlisle. “What about the daughter? Does she look like her mother?”

“She does and she doesn’t,” said Percy slowly, and Carlisle chid himself for letting a lover get started on the subject of his affections. “She is prettier, and yet she hasn’t her mother’s winsomeness. I expect it’s the difference in the times.”

“Probably,” Carlisle agreed. “The younger generation have more go and less static charm.”

“Yes, something of that sort,” and Van Antwerp nodded his head. He was wondering what Carlisle would really think of Maisie and whether he would try to steal her away.

“Anybody else, much? We want to turn our attention to dinner pretty soon.”

“There’s Troy Loring. He’s Eileen’s lawyer, and he’s hanging about the place eternally. Can’t stand him myself, but he’s a necessary evil and he does keep her affairs in shape. She has no head for business herself, and Hugh prefers not to meddle with her finances.”

“Guess that’ll do for now. I’ve a sort of ground plan to work on. I won’t keep you longer, Downing, and I’ll see you to-morrow at the inquest. Good-bye. Look over a book or something, Van, while I dictate a dinner on the telephone.”

Carlisle gave curt but clear orders and then disappeared into his bedroom for a time.

Returning, he said pleasantly, “You’ve helped me a lot, old man. Lucky for me you chanced to be here. Downing is a sort of village idiot, isn’t he?”

“Oh, not quite that. He has his points.”

“How comes it you’re here instead of at Graysands?”

“I always stay here when I’m in Crescent Cove. They urge me and all that, but I feel more independent over here, and my time’s my own.”

“I understand. Visiting is a bore.”

“And I get sick of seeing Loring about.”

“Dr. Fell?”

“Yes, rather. Besides, Maisie is mad at me so often, I might be embarrassed to have to stay under her roof.”

“You mean seriously?”

“It’s a little complicated. The girl is fond of me, but both parents declared me too old for her.”

“Small wonder, with their own mistaken union staring them in the face.”

“But it’s a different matter when it’s the other way. A woman older than her husband is a tragedy, but a man older than his wife is a not unusual state of things.”

“Yes, I grant you that. Now, let’s cut it all out till after dinner. If the food is fit to eat, I’ve selected a balanced ration.”

“Oh, you’ll find it all right, I’m sure. How are you going to entertain me? Telling me of your Hollywood days or of your later exploits?”

“Both,” said Carlisle, smiling.

And he spoke truth, and moreover he told his tales so well that Percy Van Antwerp lost all track of time and enjoyed himself to the full.

A contrast, the two men were, physically.

Percy, the perfect Percy, as Maisie called him, was of average height and weight, but his small bones and daintily made physique caused him to seem smaller than average. His light hair and pale blue eyes gave him an effect of delicacy but with no suggestion of effeminacy. His clothes were carefully chosen and worn with an air of distinction. He was sure of himself and of his own importance, yet he showed a certain something that had a touch of diffidence but was not exactly that. It was more like extreme caution or fear of seeming to obtrude his own personality.

Carlisle, on the contrary, and doubtless because of the publicity of his career, had an assured manner and showed every sign of a thorough self-understanding and self-reliance.

His dark strong face was the very sort best adapted to a screen hero, and his physical effects were full of power and grace.

His thick hair, almost black, was brushed straight back, which left big vacant triangles of brow above his temples. His mouth beneath a short, carefully shaped moustache was chiselled, and the underlip distinctly curled over the hollow beneath it, which ended in a firm, clear-cut chin. His nose, the only feature he allowed himself to be proud of, was straight and beautiful and proclaimed him an aristocrat.

He had a trick of looking downward with his whole face but rolling up his eyes till his brow-shaded gaze was eloquent of whatever emotion he cared to suggest.

He cultivated a masterly inactivity and even a monumental calm, but on occasion these gave way to impulsive enthusiasm which showed him at his best.

“Yes, I enjoyed the pictures,” he told Van Antwerp as they talked, “for it is great to feel that you’re succeeding. But all of a sudden I got to the end. They palled on me, and I felt I never wanted to do another. They have no room or almost none for the exercise of mind or brain. Oh, yes, I know that statement wouldn’t hold water. But I wanted something to work my thoughts on. Some puzzle to solve or problem to conquer. And when I got mixed up in a lot of detective-story plays I realized that there was my field. So I jumped into another bramble bush at once. And I love the work. I’ve not had a really big case yet, but this one seems to be a bit intricate.”

“But you haven’t the earmarks of a detective at all.”

“Fine! You must be quoting from a detective story. Did you ever read one that didn’t start out by saying that the detective was the farthest possible remove in appearance from the preconceived notion of a detective? Of course, I look like Kenneth Carlisle of Hollywood, but I don’t care what I look like; I shall yet be known as Carlisle, the famous detective. See if I’m not!”

“I don’t doubt it in the least. But I can’t feel that this case will help you along, for I can’t see any chance of its being a murder case.”

“Maybe not, but if I can find out what sort of case it is, that’s a step in the right direction.”