Читать книгу Feathers Left Around - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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DINNER at Valhalla that night was a brilliant affair.

Anna’s name for the place had caught on, and Loft began to like it as he heard it used by his guests.

Anna, as chaperon, graced the head of the table, and Curran sat at her right hand. This left Pauline for Loft’s guest of honor, and as she took her place beside him, he thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her great dark eyes seemed brighter than usual and her cheeks showed a flush that was quite obviously not rouge. She wore black, her only ornament a long slender neck-chain of small bright diamonds. She was in vivacious, almost perverse mood, quite unusual for the calm, gracious Pauline.

Anna, tonight, was demure and coy. She set herself the task of subjugating Hugh Curran, and so far as she could see she was putting it over.

Yet the man was tricky, she could see that, and more than likely, she thought, his devotion was insincere.

Though commonplace looking, Curran had an air of easy superiority that made him almost distinguished. But his round red face and sparse sandy hair precluded all pretension to good looks.

Countess Galaski was gorgeous. Robed in white satin, glittering with jewels and autocratic of manner, she appropriated the best of everything, was rude to everybody, and yet somehow charmed all by her gay naïveté.

Stella wore especially long and diaphanous draperies, of pale green and silver, and looked more than ever like the Blessed Damosel.

On the whole Loft had a right to feel proud of his guests, for aside from their appearance they were a group of mentally alert and even original talkers.

But when the Countess began to expatiate on her marvelous collection of miniatures, Anna gayly called a halt.

“Countess, darling,” she said, “we beg of you to don’t. Mr. Curran is a book collector and he’s crazy to talk Black Letters, or whatever they are, with Angel Bob, who is an Old Book Fiend too. Val, of course, collects everything, from books to old bandboxes, and I believe Mrs. Meredith collects postcards. But they’ve all promised not to talk Collect at the table. So, be goody-girl, Countess dear, and drop your miniatures.”

“Oh, very well,” and the Countess smiled at Little Anna, “the loss is yours not mine. But I have to talk. I’ll tell you about—”

“Wait a minute,” the incorrigible Roly dared to interrupt her, “since we have Mr. Curran here, and Lord knows when I’ll ever get a chance at him again, let’s talk Detective Stories. We all love ‘em.”

“Not all of us,” Anna dissented; “but you may talk on that subject for fifteen minutes, Roly. After that, I shall choose the theme.”

“To go back to a discussion we had the other day,” Angel Bob began, “what do you think the best and finest method of murder, Mr. Curran?”

Mrs. Meredith gave a little gasp at this, and her husband looked shocked.

But Curran took it as a matter of course.

“Each method has its advantages,” he began. “And too, much depends on the criminal. If he has any surgical training, stabbing is indicated, if he has a good aim, shooting is better. An athlete would, of course, strangle.”

“And a woman would give poison,” said Pauline, slowly.

“Yes,” and Hugh Curran looked at her, “yes, a woman probably would.”

“If this conversation keeps up,” Mrs. Meredith spoke hysterically, “I shall have to leave the table.”

“Don’t be a fool, Madame!” exclaimed the Countess. “If you would read De Quincey’s essay on Murder As A Fine Art, you would learn that the greatest minds are willing to discuss such matters. One does not have to be a spook to discuss Spiritualism!”

“Spiritualism is a decent subject,” Mr. Meredith said; “whereas, murder is, or should be, outside the pale of our thoughts.”

“Well, you have to be dead before you can be a spirit,” the Countess returned, “and if one is unfortunate enough to be murdered, there’s no reason why those still alive shouldn’t talk about it.”

“I’m for strangling,” Baldwin said; “then there’s no weapon,—no ‘feathers left around,’ you see. Also, granting one wants to kill a man, what a pleasure it must be to feel one’s fingers on his throat,—tightening, closing in—tighter,—a gasp—”

Angel Bob, in mischievous mood, portrayed his speech in dumb show, with such realism that Mrs. Meredith shrieked and rose from the table.

“Sit down!” commanded the Countess, in ringing tones, and Mrs. Meredith sat down,

“I’d shoot,” and Ned Knox, picking up the theme, acted the part of an intruder, taking aim at an unsuspicious victim. He chose Loft for his purpose, and aimed a fork carefully at his right temple.

“But I can see you,” Loft objected.

“Turn your head away, then,” Knox counselled.

“Shooting has disadvantages,” Curran said, musingly. “There’s the noise.”

“Silencer,” returned Knox.

“Not always practicable. Then, there’s the weapon.”

“Easy enough to dispose of,” Knox laughed, “except in fiction, where it is needed as a clue,—if it has initials on it, or is one of a pair.”

“Righto!” and Curran laughed appreciatively. “I’m glad to learn how you readers are on to our hackneyed tricks. Stabbing is a good way—”

“Yes,” Loft agreed; “with the library paper-cutter. Used to be an old Italian dagger, and the victim many times said it ought not to be left around, as it was a suggestion and a temptation to any murderous-minded bystander.”

“Oh, Lord, you know all the tricks of the trade!” Curran sighed in mock despair. “I confess it’s hard to get a novelty for a story nowadays.”

“But it’s easy to murder,” said Bob.

“It isn’t,” contended Loft; “it’s possible, but it’s a delicate and difficult affair to put over artistically. I’m not talking of yeggs and gunmen.”

“Except for them, it’s impossible.” Ned Knox averred. “I don’t propose to try it for that reason. I know I’d fail.”

“Of course you would,” and Anna giggled. “If you could put it over, you’d have tried it on me long ago. I’ve given you sufficient provocation, I know. Anyway, time’s up,—No more murder talk. Now, we’ll discuss Mr. Curran. How do you all like him?”

“Top hole!” cried Roly Mears. “But I want to know more about him. What does he eat for breakfast? What—”

“Wait till morning and you’ll find that out,” Loft interrupted. “I want to know his real name. No secret, is it, Mr. Curran?”

“Not a bit. I had another name, but I lost it, somehow. It’s my besetting sin,—to lose things. I lost my wife, then I lost my ambition. I found that again, though. But mostly I lose material things. I can’t keep a pencil or a rubber or a sheet of paper, no matter how many I buy. I’m just naturally untidy. My room always looks like Broadway the day after Election night. My brushes just won’t stay on my dresser; my clothes crawl out of their wardrobes and drawers. I can’t help it,—are you like that, Miss Fuller?”

Apparently he addressed Pauline because she was looking at him intently, seemingly interested in his tale of his personal derelictions.

“N—no,” she replied, looking startled at being thus spoken to. “I don’t think so,—I—I never thought about it.”

“Goodness, Pauline,” said Anna, staring at her, “don’t take it so seriously. I can vouch for your tidiness. I never knew a girl who kept her top bureau drawer in order as well as you do.”

“That is a sure test,” declared the Countess. “I’ll bet Miss Lawrence’s is a kaleidoscope of laces and ribbons, gloves and handkerchiefs.”

“It is!” said Stella, good-naturedly. “And I want it so—With my temperament, I couldn’t be methodical or systematic or anything like that. Fate rules me—”

“And you leave it to Fate to clear up your bureau drawers,” said Roly, laughing. “Good idea, so do I.”

“I don’t,” said Mrs. Meredith primly, but no one seemed to care deeply.

The Merediths were out of place, but had been asked because of some social obligation of Loft’s. They were shocked several times during dinner, but perhaps Mrs. Meredith’s sensibilities were most greatly jarred, when, leaving the dining room, she chanced to overhear Hugh Curran ask the butler for a toothpick.

The capable Binns didn’t allow himself to be jarred, but he was bothered, for the request caught him unprepared. However, he quickly bethought himself of the tiny Japanese wooden toothpicks that the cook used to pin rolled morsels and he soon supplied the distinguished guest.

Angel Bob noticed the incident and was more amused at Mrs. Meredith’s disdain than at Curran’s unconventionality.

The party broke up into smaller groups.

Anna seized upon Curran, who went, nothing loath, with her to see the moonlight from the upper terrace.

Loft and Pauline went for a stroll in the rose garden; Roly Mears set himself to tease Stella and to please the Countess, succeeding well with both.

As it neared bedtime, all gathered for good-nights in the library.

“Tomorrow,” said Curran, as he looked at the filled shelves, “I want to spend the morning in here. You have wonderful treasures, Mr. Loft, and I anticipate joyous hours with them.”

“I am clairvoyant, Mr. Curran,” Stella said, looking at him dreamily, “and I can read your soul.”

“Good Heavens, don’t, Miss Lawrence! It’s not fit reading for a young girl!”

“But I’m not like other girls,” Stella was determined to have her innings, “I’m apart,—alone.”

“Yes?” said Curran, not thinking of anything better to say.

“Yes. And in your soul I read a longing for all that is beautiful and good—”

“I like them beautiful,—I’m not so insistent on the good,” and Curran smiled. This line of talk always bored him.

“Things, I mean, not people. Oh, I can read you, Mr. Curran.”

“And I can read you, Miss Lawrence. I’m clairvoyant, myself.”

“Oh, are you?” cried the Countess. “Read us all, won’t you? I don’t care for Stella’s foolishness,—you shut up, Stella.”

“Want a table?” asked Loft, “or any paraphernalia?”

“Oh, I’m not a parlor Magician,” Curran protested. “I don’t know anything about legerdemain or hocus-pocus. But I have a natural gift of reading minds.”

“Don’t do it!” exclaimed Roly Mears. “If these people know what I’m thinking they’d never speak to me again!”

“You’re joking,” said Curran, “but there are some really quaking in their shoes, lest I tell something they don’t want told.”

“I know!” said the Countess, “it’s Mrs. Meredith! I always suspected she led a double life! Well, much as I want to know the truth about it, I beg of you, Mr. Curran, don’t tell it all out in public.”

“Mrs. Meredith blushed angrily, but said nothing. She had learned it was better not to irritate Countess Galaski.

“Go on,” urged Anna. “Tell us something to prove your powers. I hate people who say they can do things and then do nothing at all!”

“Yes,” said the Countess, “go on! Tell anything you like about me.”

“Very well,” said Curran, “you’re thinking that you wish you had worn your old slippers after all, for the new ones are a bit tight and they do pinch.”

“You’re perfectly right!” and the Countess joined in the general merriment. “But that isn’t clairvoyance. I’ve had my face screwed up with pain all the evening!”

“Well, how’s this, then? In the mind of one of you is a most disquieting thought, which I may suggest by Black Pansy.”

“That’s me!” said Ned Knox, as Curran waited for some response. “I’ve a lot of stock in that mine, and unless she picks up soon, I’ll probably start ‘Over the hills to the poorhouse!’ ”

“How did you know it, though?” and Anna looked at Curran, incredulously.

“Clairvoyance,” replied Curran, not caring to say that he had seen a newspaper thrown down, with a marked notice about the mine.

“Also,” he went on, “as I look around, I feel vibrations from others of you.”

He glanced from one face to another, all breathlessly watching him.

“If I should say,” he spoke very slowly, “if I should say Rosalie—would I reflect the word in anybody’s mind?”

A dead silence followed.

Removing their regard from Curran, one looked at another, but no one spoke.

Nor did any one look especially self-conscious. Loft looked inquiring, Angel looked bewildered. The women looked merely interested, except Pauline, who seemed bored. She moved restlessly, and stared hard at Curran.

“Right,” Curran said; “it’s better not to recognize the reference.” He nodded his head as in satisfaction.

“Suppose I say, ‘Mr. S.’ ” he went on. “Is he in any one’s thoughts?”

Again the silence fell.

Anna, frankly curious, glanced quickly from one to another. From the faces, as she read them, the reference might mean something to Valentine Loft or to Bob Baldwin. On the other hand, they might look disturbed, as they both did, merely from interest in the proceedings.

“Oh, well,” Curran resumed, “I see, the people who recognize my allusions prefer not to say so. I don’t blame them. Now, Mrs. Knox, shall I tell what’s in your mind? Shall I mention the name of—”

“No!” screamed Anna, “no! If you do, I’ll kill you!”

But she told her husband afterward that she only said this to make a sensation.

“Then,” said Curran, “I’ll read Miss Lawrence’s mind. Last night Miss Lawrence dreamed—”

“Stop!” Stella cried, her eyes staring; “if you dare divulge that dream—”

Curran smiled. He had made a stab in the dark, feeling sure that the psychic Stella, would always be dreaming and interpreting her dreams according to Freud.

“Guess we’ve had enough of this sort of thing,” and Loft rose. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Curran, to read my mind, I can read it for myself.”

“Nothing startling in it just now,” Curran said; “but there will be soon. I’m slightly prophetic as well as clairvoyant, and I prognosticate a lot of surprising, even tragic thoughts for your mind soon.”

“All right, I’ll go to bed and sleep while the sleeping’s good, then,” and Loft inaugurated good-nights, and the party dispersed.

By next morning Loft had forgotten the irritation he felt at Curran’s strange speech, and after his breakfast he went to the library to await the coming of his guest to talk books.

The women breakfasted in their rooms, the men dropping into the breakfast room whenever they pleased.

Loft was down first, but was soon joined by Angel and Ned Knox, both of whom wanted to hear Curran discourse on the subject of rare books.

“Keep your ears open, Bob, and find out what he wants,” advised Loft. “You ought to be able to make a sale or two.”

“Hope so,” Bob assented. “He wants only Incunabula, though, and that’s not so easy come by just now.”

But the hours passed, and no sign of Hugh Curran.

At last, Loft, looking at the clock, said, “I’m annoyed. I have to go over to the Club before luncheon, and the time is growing short. I’ve a notion to send for Curran. I don’t believe he’s still asleep.”

The butler was despatched to learn as to this, and was directed to be discreet.

Discretion itself, Binns returned to say that he could hear no sound from Mr. Curran’s room and that though he had softly tried the door, it was locked.

They waited another half hour, and then Loft said, nervously, “You don’t suppose anything has happened, do you? Maybe the man is ill.”

“Nonsense,” said Knox, “Men don’t get ill overnight. He looked a healthy chap.”

“All the same, I’m going up myself,” and Loft went out to the hall.

He soon returned, saying, “There must be something the matter. I knocked and even pounded on his door, but got no response. I even listened at the keyhole, and I couldn’t hear any breathing. Do you suppose he left in the night?”

“Through the window?” asked Angel.

“Well, it’s queer. If we can’t get anything from him, I’m going to break in.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Knox. “Send Binns up outside—to the windows, you know.”

“Can’t,—it’s so high.”

“Ladder?”

“Yes,—but—oh, I suppose it’s all right.”

But after another hour, Loft declared he was going to get into that room.

“I’m responsible for him,” he said; “he’s my guest, and if he’s merely sound asleep, he can’t do more than curse me for my intrusion.”

No response being made to continued knockings, and no sound heard by any of them listening, Loft ordered Binns to get a ladder and climb up to the window.

The butler did so, and returned to say that he could see Mr. Curran, fully dressed, sitting in an arm chair. The window was fastened. “Should he break in?”

“Yes, by the door,” said Loft, suddenly determined. “That man must have had a stroke or something, if he’s still dressed. In his evening togs, Binns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To work, then. You and I, together.”

Loft and the butler put their shoulders to the bedroom door, and after one or two efforts burst through.

Hugh Curran sat in an arm chair, slightly relaxed in posture and as they immediately discovered, stone dead. The body was cold, proving he had died some hours previous.

The four men looked at him and at each other.

“Method?” asked Ned Knox, grimly.

Loft looked about him.

“I don’t see any weapon,” he said, shuddering, “but we can’t think about that now. There’s too much to do. Binns, call up Doctor Gilvray.”

“What earthly good can a doctor do?” asked Angel, his blue eyes staring at the dead man.

“We have to have him,” returned Loft, positively.

“Yes,” agreed Knox, “he can tell whether it’s natural death, accident, suicide or murder.”

Angel looked at him curiously as he glibly rolled off these possibilities.

“Then,” Loft went on, “we must call the police—”

“Not unless the doctor says so,” put in Angel. “If he says it’s a stroke—”

“That’s so, we’ll wait for his report. Now, the worst is, telling the women. Ned, you tell Anna and let her tell the others. No, she’s too emotional. Here’s a better plan. Angel, you ask the maids to get the Countess to give you an interview. Then you tell her about it, and let her tell Stella and the Merediths. I’ll tell Pauline, myself.”

“Are the girls up?”

“They’d better get up. The housekeeper can tell them to do so, but let them hear of the—this—from one of us.”

“I suppose there’ll be fainting and hysterics,” said Bob, apprehensively, as he started on his unhappy errand.

“Maybe,—from Stella. Not the others,” said Knox. “I won’t let Anna make a scene,—not outside our rooms, anyway.”

The two men went away, and Binns having gone to telephone, Valentine Loft was left alone with his dead guest.

He looked about the room. It was clear that Curran had not begun to get ready for bed. He had not even removed tie or collar.

Yet the room was in disorder. Near the dead man’s chair were two books on the floor, several newspapers, a few scattered cigar ashes, some bits of torn paper, two lead pencils,—

Loft’s mental cataloguing of these articles was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.