Читать книгу The Tapestry Room Murder - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

Table of Contents

THE room was black dark. The sort of darkness that is described as Cimmerian, Stygian, Egyptian, but is called by most of us, pitch-dark.

Though invisible by reason of the darkness, it was a beautiful room, filled with interesting and valuable pictures, tapestries, curios.

Nor were the people in the room visible to one another. Only could be heard the breathing of its occupants, calm, ordinary breathing, as of untroubled breasts and care-free minds.

Scents there were. Darkness could not conceal those.

Faint, elusive perfume of cyclamen; heavy, haunting fragrance of jasmine. A suggestion of tobacco. Another pungent familiar odor—indescribable but unmistakable—the clean, homely smell of mothballs. And over all, circling in invisible spirals, the oppressive yet poignant fumes of burning incense.

And then, with a sudden flash the place was illumined.

Not glaringly; save for a pair of shaded lamps, the lighting was indirect.

The room revealed itself as a man’s library or sanctum, four-square, each side a deep arched alcove, lined with bookshelves.

The arches framed mural paintings of beauty and worth. The shelves held books of all sorts; antique tomes and rare bindings neighbored by the latest novels and mystery stories.

The thick rugs were Oriental gems and the few pieces of furniture were masterpieces of celebrated designers.

On a small sofa, the sort known as a love-seat, sat a man; on either side of him was a girl.

The man was not sitting upright. He had slumped a little, and his head had fallen forward till his chin rested on his chest.

One girl, a vivid, scarlet-clad little figure, perched on the arm of the love-seat at his left. The other, a tall, serene, Moon-goddess type, stood, frozen with fear on his right a few steps from the couch.

A low moan that rose to a shriek came from one of these girls, as she paled, swayed, and fell to the floor.

The occasion was a small party in honor of the birthday of Gaylord Homer, the host.

Twin Towers, his small but charming home, was in Westchester, in the exclusive and highly restricted community of New Warwick. It was not a new place, but one of respectable age and tested and tried desirability.

So Gaylord Homer bought himself a place there, and now proposed to take unto himself a wife. He had decided upon his choice, and though he had not yet brought the lady to see the matter in the same light that he did, he had every hope of yet achieving that expectation.

The lady’s name was Diana Kittredge, and though that might seem formidable of itself, Gaylord Homer was not afraid of mere words and he was determined that this party of his should be the Rubicon which, when crossed, would change that surname to his own.

As to her Christian name she was mostly called Di, and also, Sky-eyes, a nickname not especially euphonious but wondrously descriptive.

Homer, himself, was a delightful chap, whose outstanding traits were geniality and capability.

Also, he was loyal to his friends, generous to his enemies and kind to his dependents. And if you think that writes him down a milksop, you’re dead wrong.

He had a bull-dog tenacity of purpose, and if he wanted a thing he got it by sheer persistence and perseverance.

That was the way he expected to win his Diana, and the fact that she had not yet said yes to his pleas discouraged him not a bit.

He loved her with the sort of love, he sometimes assured himself, that the wingéd angels of heaven had coveted Miss Annabel Lee.

In fact, he thought Miss Lee’s affair rather picayunish beside the surges of affection that swamped his own heart when he thought about Sky-eyes, and he resolved anew that this paragon of girls was for him and he must get the matter settled.

Hence the birthday party, which was to last over the week-end, and which he strongly hoped would develop into an announcement party before it closed.

It was Friday now, the party had materialized and dinner was in progress.

Diana, the azure-eyed divinity, sat at the right of the host. Her soft, fair hair, parted in the middle, waved over her ears in a curling riot, but was short at the back. Her exquisite face had a translucent effect, as if her soul was shining through, and her gentle, regular features were as serenely beautiful as those of the Mona Lisa.

Perhaps her greatest charm was her mouth and teeth, and the smiles which they helped to make proved the undoing of many a man who watched, fascinated for their return.

In an exquisite, though severely plain gown of silver tissue, Diana was a veritable Moon-goddess, and Gaylord Homer, glancing at her now and again, concluded she was perfect.

Save for one thing. She would scarcely look at or speak to him.

Never rude or noticeably neglectful, an unobservant guest might have thought Miss Kittredge was all a host could desire in the matter of cordiality. But Homer saw the effort she made when she voluntarily addressed him, the veiled indifference in her larkspur-blue eyes.

He fully sensed that she had no intention of saying yes to his pleadings, but that only made him the more determined and the more sure of ultimate success.

Truly, the human genus is a strange proposition.

Now on the other side of Homer sat a girl who was positively eaten up with her love of him. With all the strength of her exotic nature she adored this man.

Marita Moore, whose father was an undistinguished, average American citizen, had had foremothers of Spanish descent, and all their amorous impulses, all their tricks of temperament, had merged and flourished in this youngest scion of the hot-blooded line.

Marita, who looked the part, was small and lithe and sinuous. She was dark and her air was both domineering and defiant.

Her long, black eyes were now sleepy and langorous, now provocative and daring. Her short frock was red—the red of the hibiscus, of the cleft pomegranate—and in her black hair, though it was short, she had managed to thrust a high gold comb, that gave the final touch to her Castilian effects.

Her little hand continually clutched at the sleeve of Gaylord Homer’s coat. She almost seemed as if trying to take him by force.

In a way, it was absurd.

Marita loved the man as he loved Diana. He scorned Marita, as Diana scorned him. Marita was determined to win him, as he was determined to win Diana. And he was as determined that he would never marry Marita as Diana was determined she would never marry him.

A triangle, indeed. An infernal triangle. Whatever happened, one heart must be broken, if not two—or three.

Three strong wills in a mortal clash. One, at least, must give way.

Then, there was another element.

The other side of Diana sat Ted Bingham, a chum of Homer’s. He, too, adored Sky-eyes, and he thought, he hoped, she cared for him. But who could tell what she meant when those red lips and those mother-of-pearl teeth smiled at him?

And what had he to offer, a poor young sculptor, with nothing but faith in his own work? While Gay Homer had everything—everything a goddess could ask for on this earth.

With a suppressed sigh, he turned to his other neighbor, Mrs. Bobbie Abbott, a rollicking young married woman, the scapegrace of the party, and, incidentally, its chaperon. One of the most frivolous, vain and rattle-pated of her set, she still had a fine sense of relative values and a good bit of perception.

She saw how things were going and in a low tone, advised Ted not to give up the ship as yet.

The rest, round the table, were Rollin Dare, opinionated, but likable, Polly Opdyke, a flapper neighbor, and Cale Harrison, the confidential secretary of the host.

That was the party of Gaylord Homer’s birthday dinner, and as they were all fairly well acquainted, conversation was hilarious and repartee untrammeled.

“Why not give up the ship?” Bingham growled, in an undertone to Bobbie. “No girl could stand out against Gaylord’s arguments. He is fine, himself, and he lays at her feet all a woman can ask for. Wealth, position, power, and a love that is mad adoration, How can Diana resist all that?”

“Now, now, lamb, don’t take it thataway. What’s it to her, if she cares for somebody else—you, for instance. And she does—that is, I think she does,” she hastily amended, for Ted seemed about to burst into song.

“You must get ahead of him some way,” the wiseacre went on. “I, too, can’t see how Di can hold out against that charmer. He’s mad about her. Oh, if he’d only turn to the little vamp in red! She’s determined to snatch him from Di’s very grasp.”

“Di isn’t grasping him—look at her.”

“No, but that may be her clever way of egging him on.”

“She’s no egger.”

“Well, good Lord, Teddy, what do you want me to do? I try my best to pet you up, and you only growl at me. If I can help, I will.”

“You can’t, nobody can. When Gaylord gets that queer little set look in his eyes, I know he means to fight to a finish.”

“Fighting won’t get him Diana Kittredge.”

“It may. He may keep at it till she gives in from sheer exhaustion. And, Bobbie, she mustn’t marry him! No, that isn’t just jealousy, there’s another reason.”

“What is it?” the alert mind sensed gossip.

“Never mind, now.”

“Oh I hate those blind hints. They never mean anything, anyway. Well, I must babble a bit to this incubus on my other side. But look at the secretary person. He, I happen to know, is consumed with a burning passion for the firebrand in red.”

“No! I can’t imagine Cale Harrison being consumed with anything for anything. He is the timidest bunny I know! He wouldn’t dare raise his eyes to Marita’s mascara-dipped lashes!”

“Oh, wouldn’t he? I know he has that, Friday afternoon, speaking pieces air, but secretly he feels himself superior to Gaylord himself.”

“Superior!”

“Yes. He scorns Gay’s money and leisure, just as he scorns your sculping. You know these inferiority complex people are really exhibitionists, their humility is just part of their pose.”

“But Harrison is really a mush of apology, he’s always afraid of being in the way or something.”

“Yeah, that’s the way it takes him. But look at him, he’s watching Marita vamp Gaylord, and it’s picking out his stitches. See him squirm!”

“Yes, he looks as if he was just wishing he had the nerve to pick up Marita and run away with her.”

“He has nerve enough but he’s a creature of habit. He has behaved himself so long he wouldn’t know how to set about doing anything desperate or even unconventional. Now I must love my neighbor as myself, on the other side.”

Bobbie turned to Rollin Dare who drew a long breath of relief.

“Well, I thought you hadn’t any bringing up at all! So you remembered I was here.”

“I haven’t had another thought since we sat down! Been jus’ a waitin’ for you!”

“All right, all right. But if you flirt with Teddy Bingham I’ll tell your husband on you. Anyway, you waited too long. Gaylord’s going to chase us out now. You stay by me.”

Homer was a law unto himself in his own house. He had coffee at the table, and then the whole party, men and women, rose together and adjourned to the lounge or wherever they chose.

But it was Gaylord Homer’s invariable custom, for a reason of his own, to go always, from his dinner table to a small room next the dining-room, which was called the Tapestry Room, by reason of some bits of choice and valuable tapestry which adorned its walls.

The house was built with what Bobbie Abbott called the front door on the side.

This was literally true.

The house was of that old-fashioned type whose large front room is a living-room or lounge. The back room is a dining-room, with a breakfast-room annex, and these two ends are connected by a long hall and another room.

Perhaps a plan would be advisable here.

From the pleasant candle lighted dining-room, they went to the hall, and from there, dispersed as they chose.

Rollin Dare, having corralled the elusive Mrs. Abbott, held on to her arm, and piloted her to the lounge and to a pleasant divan in a corner, where he provided her with a cigarette and then sat beside her.

Ted Bingham followed the pair, but Gaylord Homer paused at the curtained entrance to the Tapestry Room.

“Come in here with me, Di,” he said, his low, delightful voice taking all sense of command from his words.

“No,” she began, but he took her hand and led her over the threshold.

She couldn’t draw back without seeming too ungracious, and reluctantly she went along with him.

Marita, bounded to his other side, and clasped her two fluttering hands round his arm.

Seeing this, Diana tried to leave the group, but Gaylord held her fast.

“No, no, my lady,” he cried, laughing low. “You can’t get away! You can, Marita.”

“But I won’t,” she said, obstinately, her lovely face leaning near his own. “I want to come, too.”

So the trio went together into the room.

A perfect room, four-sided, in each side an alcove of bookshelves. Here and there pictures and draperies, including the rare tapestries that gave the room its name.

Through the draped portières they came from the hall, and Marita gayly drew Homer down on a small couch, one of those short sofas called a loveseat, and then perched herself on the arm of it.

Diana still stood at Gaylord’s other side.

He was looking at her, though Marita was striving to gain his attention.

Ted Bingham, who had gone into the lounge, came to the door between the lounge and the Tapestry Room, and looked in to note the situation.

Polly Opdyke, childishly curious, drew near Ted, to see what he was looking at.

Ted glanced at a clock.

All knew what would happen next.

The village of New Warwick, during the day and evening was supplied with electricity for lighting and power from a five hundred horse-power dynamo, driven by a Diesel engine. But after ten o’clock, most of the town retired and the street lights and those of residences that used electric light were supplied from a fifty horse-power generator and engine.

So each night when the larger engine was shut down, the engineer disconnected the lighting circuits from the main bus and transferred them to the bus supplied by the small generator, after which the voltage was raised and the light burned at normal brightness.

It should have been the work of a minute or two, but owing to the slowness of Old Tom, the engineer, the operation often consumed two or three minutes and sometimes even more.

Hence a few moments of complete darkness occurred every night shortly after ten o’clock, and so accustomed were the citizens of New Warwick and vicinity that it raised no comment and seldom interrupted their occupations.

Talk went on without cessation, readers merely held their books or papers ready for the light which would soon return.

Bridge players held their cards and chatted a moment, then resumed their play.

But, whether from a nervous fear of burglars, or for what reason, Homer never said, he always spent those dark moments in the Tapestry Room.

The assumption was that he wanted to be on the spot if some evilly inclined intruder should attempt to walk off with some of his treasures. For the room was full of curios and rarities that represented a large sum in value and were too, in many cases, unique and irreplaceable.

All of the guests knew of the dark time, as it was always called, and though it often came as a surprise to those not noting the hour, yet they immediately bethought themselves, and waited for the flash of returning light.

And so, as Gaylord Homer sat on the miniature sofa, with Marita on the arm of it, and with Diana standing, haughty and inaccessible at his other side, the lights went out.

There was a little squeal from Polly in the lounge.

Polly always squealed when the lights went off, though living next door, as she did, her home invariably had the same experience.

Bobbie Abbott, still devotedly attended by Rollin Dare, was curled up on her divan, her cigarette just about consumed.

She put it out and dropped the stub in an ash tray, saying she liked it all dark better.

As Dare’s arm stole round her shoulder, she wriggled a bit, not knowing how long the darkness would last.

It seemed a long time though, to the others, and it was nearly three minutes. Astonishing how much longer three minutes is in the dark than in the light. But at last the lights flashed on, and Bobbie straightened up, quickly and calmly returned the curious glance Polly Opdyke shot at her.

And then a scream came—a short, sharp, frightened scream, that came from the Tapestry Room.

It was followed by a soft thud, as if someone had fallen.

Bingham, standing near the entrance to the Tapestry Room, from the lounge dashed through the archway and stood gazing.

He seemed so stunned for a moment, he made no sound at all, then, hastening forward, he helped Marita, who had fallen, to her feet.

But the girl could not stand, and Ted placed her gently in a chair and then turned to the slumped down figure of the love-seat.

Gaylord Homer sat, huddled, his chin resting on his chest, his arms sprawling, and his shoulders beginning to give way.

Near him, Diana was backing away, farther and farther away, with a dreadful look of fear on her beautiful face.

Marita, from the chair where Ted had landed her, had roused and was staring at the scene.

She began to scream but thought better of it and clapped her hands over her mouth.

Then Rollin Dare came bursting into the room, and stepping toward that awful figure that was so strangely still and huddled, he called out “Help!” As he came nearer, he caught the gleam of metal and saw that Gaylord Homer had been stabbed in the back, stabbed with a jeweled dagger, a weapon familiar to them all; a weapon that had long lain on the curio cabinet near by, that was one of Homer’s choicest and most valuable treasures.

Dare touched the dagger, was about to withdraw it, when Bobbie Abbott, who had followed Dare, cried out:

“Oh don’t Rollin! Don’t touch it! Get a doctor, quick!”

This bit of sound common sense brought reaction from Dare, and he said, “Where is one? Is anybody here a doctor?”

“Dad’s a doctor, shall I fetch him?”

It was Polly Opdyke who spoke in a frightened voice but determined to help.

“Yes, child, run!” cried Dare, as he tried gently to raise Homer’s head.

And then Cale Harrison suddenly appeared.

“What’s this?” he cried, harshly. “What’s the matter?”

“Gaylord’s been stabbed,” said Ted Bingham, himself trembling with horror.

“Stabbed! Heavens!” Harrison’s exclamation was lusty enough, but next moment he almost collapsed, himself, and leaned against the jamb of the doorway for support.

In an incredibly short time, Dr. Opdyke appeared and took charge of the situation.

A moment’s examination brought the decision.

“He is dead,” Dr. Opdyke said, solemnly. “Who did this thing?”