Читать книгу The Skeleton at the Feast - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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IN the country a house shut up for the night is a solemn proposition. Every window is examined as to its fastenings, every outside door is locked and bolted, and often various and sundry inside doors are also locked between rooms and halls.

Then, from the early closing hour until time to rise the next morning, there is no sign of life, no sound of moving humanity, nothing but black darkness and silence.

In the city it is different. There is little locking up to do. The front door is always fastened, the windows, most of them, likewise. Certain ones are used for ventilation, but the great ornate windows that disfigure the old-fashioned brownstone fronts are seldom if ever opened, and when the basement entrance and the area door are locked there is little else to do in the barricading line.

Also, the atmosphere inside the house is different. It is not unusual for people to move around the rooms, or to go up and down stairs at any hour. Whereas in the country this would bring about a frantic hopping out of bed, and opening of bedroom doors, and cries of “What’s the matter? Is anybody ill?” in the city, it is part of the natural routine, and nobody pays any attention to it.

All of which is respectfully submitted to show why no one in the Carleton house was disturbed or surprised at hearing various and sundry footsteps and voices off and on throughout the night.

It was about three o’clock when Manning Carleton was left downstairs alone save for a few of the servants.

He went at once to his library, a front room across the hall from the drawing room.

A beautiful room it was, in the fashion of an older day.

But heavy cornices and massive woodwork are not quite so anomalous in a library, where the very books themselves are oldtimers, as in a living room.

And the Carleton library was in no sense a living room. It was not used, as a library often is, as a family gathering place, for the simple reason that the family declined to gather there.

The family, outside of the master of the house, seldom read, and if they did they would never choose a tome from those old shelves.

So it had become more and more the exclusive haunt of Manning Carleton, to the satisfaction of all concerned.

Pauline had her own charming boudoir, back of the living room. Claude adopted for himself the cosy smoking room back of the library and separated from it by a cloakroom and lavatory.

Back of the smoking room was a good-sized office where Peter Gregg led his secretarial existence, and back of that again was a pleasant sunny little room devoted to the social correspondence of Mrs. Carleton as manipulated by the deft fingers of Emily Austen.

Opposite these two secretaries’ rooms and across a hall was the dining room, and, save for a pantry or two, the rest of the domestic and culinary offices were in the basement.

A big, comfortable home, worn smooth by the family life of four generations of Carletons, and standing firm on its old-fashioned foundations, though threatened now and then by fretful outbursts on the part of Pauline or Claude.

But Manning Carleton paid no attention to the advice and criticism of good-natured, easy-going Claude, and as for his wife, he knew when he married her she would behave like that, and he lent no serious ear to her pleas for a duplex apartment with penthouse and terraces.

Selfish, Manning Carleton was, in that he would have his own way. But, unless it interfered with his way, everyone else was welcome to his or her own way, and there was little if any friction in the family.

The other member, Miss Violet Carleton, was, like her brother, “set in her ways,” but her ways were usually for the interest and comfort of the household, and though what is known as strongminded, her strong mind was shrewd and well balanced.

With a few exceptions—one being a dread of anything gruesome or ghastly. The appearance of the skeleton had really thrown her into a nervous state of mind, which she was now trying hard to overcome as she sat in her pleasant little sitting room which adjoined her larger bedroom.

She had sat there ever since she left the drawing room, on the promise of Kenneth Carlisle to take the bony horror away from the house that night. And now her worry was a fear that he had not done so. She knew the guests had gone home or gone to bed, and she determined to go down to the drawing room and see for herself that the awful thing was not there.

But as she opened her door to the hall she saw Professor Scott going down the wide stairway. He was fully dressed, and the hall lights were still on full, so Miss Violet knew Fenn must still be about.

She concluded to wait a bit and returned to her rooms, where she took off her evening gown and donned a comfortable négligé. She had never had a personal maid and didn’t want one, though the services of Polly’s French Nadine were at her disposal when required.

Professor Scott went slowly down the stairs, not knowing he had been observed. He moved with some apparent hesitation, and reaching the lower hall, looked into the now empty drawing room. Fenn came to him.

“Can I do anything for you, sir?” he asked deferentially but with a curious glance at the old man.

“No, no—oh, no,” was the stammered reply. “You—you’re still around, are you?”

Fenn stiffened a little.

“Yes, sir. I’m cleaning up a bit.”

“Ah, yes. Do you have to do that overnight? Now, I should think that the morning—er, the morning, you know—”

Fenn began to feel sorry for him. He had always thought the old man a little dotty, and just now he looked it.

“Well, I do some things, sir. Empty the stale ash trays; take away used glasses or plates; pick up the bags and scarfs the ladies leave around. Not brushing up or dusting, you know—that lays over for to-morrow.”

“I see. I see. Well, Fenn, where is Mr. Carleton?”

“He’s in his library, sir.”

“Can I see him?”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid not. You see, it’s the rule, when Mr. Carleton locks himself in, he’s not to be interrupted or spoken to by anybody. Better wait till morning, sir. Anything urgent, may I ask?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Urgent, yes, exactly that. Now, shall I knock?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir. But I don’t think he will answer.”

A little timidly the old man tapped at the heavy closed door of the library.

There was no response, and though the professor put his ear to the panel he could hear no sound.

“Can you hear anything, Fenn?” he asked.

With an apologetic but obedient air the butler listened a moment.

“Yes, sir,” he said; “I hear his pen a-scratchin’, sir. But he won’t answer. He’s like that most nights. Writin’ or readin’ and answerin’ no knocks.”

“Nonsense!” cried Scott, annoyed now. “He must answer. Manning, Manning,” he called out, rapping a little more loudly. “It’s Scott, Let me in!”

“Not to-night, old man,” came Carleton’s voice, pleasant enough but decided. “See you to-morrow morning. Good-night.”

Professor Scott was decidedly upset. He was not accustomed to being treated like that.

He gave the unmoved door a scowl of indignation, and muttering some unintelligible but seemingly threatening words he moved off in the direction of the stairs. As he mounted the steps, his footfalls muted by the soft velvet carpet, the chimes of the hall clock rang out the quarter after three.

Violet Carleton, watching, saw the old man reach the top stair and turn in to the corridor that led to Claude’s apartments, which Scott was occupying for the night.

The second floor of the Carleton house was exceedingly attractive. It had really more floor space than there was below, for less area was devoted to the great front hall, and the various suites were spacious and beautifully appointed.

More guest rooms on the third floor gave ample accommodations for all, and as low lights burned in all the halls and corridors one could go about with ease, though, incidentally, there were shadowy nooks and partly screened alcoves where one might dodge another, if desired.

It was in one of these curtained alcoves that Violet waited for the return of Professor Scott.

Then she went downstairs.

Fenn, just about to turn out the hall lights, paused at her appearance.

“All right, Fenn,” she said, “go on to bed now. I’ll turn off the lights when I go up.”

“Very good, ma’am. Good-night, ma’am,” and the butler disappeared.

Miss Violet turned into the drawing room, and to her great relief saw no disturbing sight.

“Then Mr. Carlisle took it,” she said to herself, nodding her satisfaction.

She looked about the impressive if oppressive room and threw herself into one of the big easy chairs.

Fenn had put the smoking equipment in perfect order, so that the sight of a cigarette ready to hand impelled her to light one and take a few meditative whiffs.

Subconsciously she heard low voices in the library, but her brother’s affairs had no interest for her, and she only looked up with a mildly questioning glance when Donald Randall sauntered into the drawing room.

“Thought I smelled smoke,” he smiled, speaking low, as seemed natural in a closed house.

“And you were afraid the house was on fire and you came to help put it out?” rejoined Miss Violet, with fine sarcasm. “No, laddie, you thought—you hoped it was Polly who was having a goodnight cigarette here, and—you hoped she was alone.”

“Mind reader!” exclaimed Randall. “And pretty good at it. Where is her ladyship?”

“Gone to bed, of course. And now, I’m going. As I’ve no doubt your secondary errand down on this floor is to imbibe a cheering draught, don’t let me stand in your way.”

With a good-natured smile and a kindly pat on his broad shoulder, Miss Violet left him and started upstairs.

She reached the top, and, hearing a slight noise, stepped aside into the sheltering folds of a curtain that draped an arch in the hallway.

She saw Zélie, robed in a transparent and bewitching négligé, go slowly and gracefully down the staircase.

Miss Violet nodded her wise old head and drew down the corners of her cynical old mouth.

“Wakeful! Going down to get a book!” she chuckled. “Don’t they always do it! Zélie is running true to form. But she won’t make any headway with young Randall. He’s over head and ears in love with Polly, who doesn’t care a picayune for him. Yes, she’s heading for the boudoir. Wonder if Randall will play up.”

She hung over the banister, watching, and was rewarded by seeing Randall come from the dining room, where he had doubtless achieved his cheering draught, and paused at the door of Pauline’s boudoir.

She could see no more, but she chuckled again at the thought of the man’s disappointment at finding Zélie there instead of Polly.

Yet Zélie, in that enticing robe and in adventurous mood, could hold him for a while, the wicked old lady concluded, and seeing no further amusement toward, she went to bed, safe and content in her knowledge that no fleshless skeletons were under the Carleton roof.

“What are you doing prowling about the place?” Randall inquired as he sat down beside Zélie on the chaise longue.

“I came down for a book I left here this afternoon.”

“Yes, you did! Produce the volume!”

“I don’t see it,” and the girl looked about. “I say, Don, who sent that horrible skeleton thing?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Some crony, or more likely enemy of the old man’s. Beastly thing to do. With his dizzy heart he might have gone straight to glory.”

“That would have been nice for you and Polly.”

“Ye-ah?” Randall smoked on in silence.

After a moment he said slowly, “Just what did you mean by that?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly cryptic,” Zélie smiled at him. “If an all-wise Providence should see fit to remove Manning Carleton to a higher sphere of usefulness, you and Polly could, perhaps, comfort and console each other in your mutual loss.”

“Why the mutual? Carleton doesn’t crowd any of my hours with glorious life.”

“No? But who’s talking? I hear voices.”

“Voices of the night? Well, if you’re really curious, I can tell you; I think. As I came out of the dining room, I heard those two precious secretaries hobnobbing in one of the rooms opposite.”

“Yes, those are the secretaries’ rooms.”

“Their offices?”

“Yes. Though Miss Austen’s is rather dressy for an office. Gregg’s is more orthodox.”

“But Miss Austen is social secretary to a very dressy lady.”

“Yes.” Zélie frankly yawned. “I see you’re in no mood for a flirtation, so I shan’t make any attempt. I wish Claude was home. Not a man in the house but two old fossils and the already bespoke secretary.”

“I thought you liked to flirt with Manning, and now you’re calling him names.”

“I do like him, but—”

“But he’s locked in his study, and—oho, that’s what you came downstairs for! All dressed up like a film queen!”

“Don’t be silly! I wish you’d keep out of things. Go back upstairs, won’t you?”

“Well, yes, after I get a nightcap. Have something?”

“No, thanks. Why don’t you ask Gregg to join you?”

“Don’t want him. Good-night, then.”

He brushed her cheek lightly with a butterfly kiss and went out of the room.

He listened a moment at the door of Miss Austen’s room and heard the low murmur of voices, then went on to the dining room.

An hour or so later, the noises in the street had become stilled; the holiday revelers, wearied by their boisterous activities, had sought their homes, or other shelter, and save for an occasional popgun or raucous rattle the celebration of the advent of the New Year was already a thing of the past.

Comparative quiet had also settled on the shadowy spaces of the Carleton mansion.

The only continuous sounds were the ticking of the great hall clock and the chiming of its quarter hours.

But any one near enough to the door of the library could have heard a repeated tapping on its sturdy old panels.

For outside that closed portal Pauline stood, her bare feet thrust into silken mules, her Oriental kimono held about her slender form, her knuckles already red and bruised as she pounded again and again on the insensate wood.

“Let me in! Manning!” she cried, and her voice rose to a higher wail. “Open the door! You must let me come in!”

But there was no response to her pleas, even though a barely perceptible crack at the sill showed a faint gleam of light beneath it.

Again she called, and, as might have been expected, her voice was heard in the upper rooms, and one after another doors were opened.

“For heaven’s sake, Pauline, what are you doing?” cried the irate tones of Miss Violet, while Don Randall’s heavy footsteps came thumping down the stairs.

“I want to get in here,” Pauline declared. “Make him let me in, Don.”

“How can I, dear? If he won’t open the door, he won’t.”

“Then he can’t,” said Pauline, her voice suddenly tragic and hollow.

“Pooh! Of course he can, but he won’t,” Violet stated. “You know how stubborn he is, and if he’s made up his mind not to speak, nobody can make him speak.”

“No,” Pauline persisted, “it isn’t that this time. He’s had a heart attack or something. Where’s Fenn? Get him, somebody.”

The butler, who had a way of turning up when wanted, came from the back of the house. He had pulled on his trousers and wore an old dressing gown, but he seemed aware of no incongruity.

“What is it, Miss Polly?” he asked. “What you want me to do?”

“Get in that room, Fenn. I don’t care how you do it, but get in!”

“Yes’m. But I’ll have to think a minute, ma’am. You see, that ain’t a room we can break in—no, not exactly.”

“Of course you can break in,” declared Randall. “Why, Fenn, you and I together can smash that door right through.”

“Yes, sir, but why do it? Why not try a window or the like of that?”

“I say so,” agreed Professor Scott, who had slowly negotiated the stairs. “You know, in detective stories they always smash in the great massive doors and never think of breaking a windowpane!”

“All right, then,” Randall assented, “make for a window. Only the two front ones, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” and Fenn unfastened the front door and flung it open.

The cold fresh air of the early morning was frosty and damp, and the women scurried back to warmth.

Zélie had joined them, her great dark eyes wide with wonder, but asking no questions. Zélie seldom asked questions, she gathered facts from what she saw and heard.

In a moment Randall had jumped from the stone rail of the front steps over the balustrade of the balcony that held the two library windows and tried to peer inside.

“Can’t see a thing,” he announced. “Both shades down.”

“Have to break the window,” Professor Scott said in his decided way, but another voice made itself heard, and Peter Gregg said:

“No need to break the glass. Fenn, get a strong thin-bladed knife from your pantry.”

“Yes, sir,” and Fenn disappeared.

Before he returned they heard the sound of a window above being hastily raised.

Randall, Gregg, and the Professor all turned their faces upward and saw that it was not a window in the Carleton home but in the other house.

Jack Mortlake stuck his head out and shouted:

“What’s going on down there?”

“We’re trying to get in the library,” Gregg told him. “We think Mr. Carleton may be ill or something.”

“Want any help?” asked Mortlake, without, however, much enthusiasm.

“No,” said Randall, resenting the half-hearted offer. “We have enough men here to take care of the situation. Go back to bed.”

“Guess I will,” said the disinterested one. “Good-night.”

“Well, I like that!” cried Emily Austen, who had wrapped herself in an afghan and stepped outside. “Oh here comes Fenn.”

The butler brought the knife desired, but it proved to be of no avail, for the old window frames were tight fitting, and the fastenings were a trifle rusted.

Meantime the policeman on the beat appeared and inquired the reason for the disturbance.

He listened with interest to the chorus of answers and marched inside the house.

“Better bust the door down,” he said, at last. “But ain’t there some other door, a lighter one, say?”

“Yes, of course,” Gregg told him. “I should have thought of that. There’s a door in the back of the library; it opens into a cloakroom and then on into the smoking room.”

The men filed through the front door, the secretary and the butler chagrined that they were so stupid, but the guests of the house paying little heed.

The door from the cloakroom into the library was locked on the library side, but it was a much smaller door than the hall entrance, and it soon gave way under pressure.

The policeman, whose name was Garvin, was first in the room, closely followed by Gregg and Randall.

Professor Scott, bringing up the rear, gave one glance and hastily turned away without entering.

This left room for Fenn, who stepped inside just as he would have entered had everything been normal.

“Guard the door, Fenn,” warned Gregg. “Keep the ladies out.”

For the scene was an awful one.

Manning Carleton, seated at his wide table-desk, had fallen in a limp crumpled heap, and no second glance was needed to know the man was dead.

His left arm lay stretched out on the desk, and this the policeman gingerly felt at the wrist.

“Dead,” he said succinctly. “Any of you men related to him?”

“No,” they all said, and Gregg took it upon himself to mention their names.

“Women folks?” asked Garvin, then.

“Yes, several,” Gregg told him. “His wife, his sister, and a visitor. Also a lady secretary.”

“Well, I’ll call the medical examiner and the Homicide Bureau. But, look here, you. How did the murderer get out, or is it suicide?”