Читать книгу Crime Tears On - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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ALTHOUGH it seemed to Craig Madison that Friday would never come, the old earth kept up its stolid diurnal motion, and Friday did come.

Anita Boyce was the first of the house party to arrive. She came early in the afternoon; determined to get all of the occasion that she possibly could. She was a pretty little widow, short of stature, and would have been dumpy of figure but for the extreme cleverness of her modiste. She had been a friend of Florence, Harley Madison’s wife, and in their early married years the four had been a congenial quartet. Then Anita’s husband died, and almost immediately she assumed that it was written in the Book of Fate she should marry Harley.

Harley didn’t see eye to eye with her, but she still had hopes. She came frequently to Silver Hill; she used all her blandishments on a rather disinterested host. Anita was a strong believer in persistence. So, when she arrived she went at once to the best suite, which had always been hers when she visited there, and was rejoiced to find it was still hers. For she had greatly feared it would be given over to the celebrity whose coming seemed to be a matter of great pride to the entire household.

Cornelia Madison’s competent maid Jenny was a little absent-minded as she looked after Mrs. Boyce’s belongings.

‘Mind what you’re about, Jenny,’ Anita said, crossly. ‘I suppose you’re fair daft at the thought of having a motion picture actress to look after.’

‘I fear I am, Mrs. Boyce,’ and Jenny laughed good-naturedly. ‘I’ve seen the lady on the screen and she is so lovely I’m wondering if she can be like that in real life.’

‘You’ll soon have a chance to find out. Don’t stand there crumpling that organdy shirtwaist in your hands.’

‘No, ma’am,’ and Jenny tried to put her attention on her work.

Anita decided to wear a casual dinner gown, a very smart affair that was surely beyond the criticism of any glamour girl that ever stepped out of Hollywood. Jenny helped her into it with exclamations of approval. With a few final pokes and pats to her rolls of yellow hair, Anita went downstairs, paused in the doorway, with one hand on the door frame, and smilingly waited for applause.

Harley Madison knew his lines. ‘Welcome, my Anita!’ he cried out and rose, greeting her with outstretched hands. She knew Laura and George Lee, was delighted to meet a new man, Gifford Hale, and finally settled down beside her host with a rather definite air of proprietorship.

Harley, however, did not play up. He excused himself, saying he had important telephoning to attend to. Bidding Ames to come with him, he went to the study.

‘How are things going in the town?’ Anita asked as Craig Madison came over and sat beside her.

‘Not so good. There was rather a stormy meeting a few nights ago. and its results are developing, slowly but unpleasantly.’

‘Is Harley upset?’

‘Oh, he never gets upset, but it keeps him guessing.’

‘Tell me,’ Anita reached her goal at last ‘Tell me, Craig, about this fancy lady you’ve picked up. What is she like?’

‘If you mean Yvette Verne, I don’t like the term you use. She isn’t like any one else; she’s a goddess.’

‘Hard hit, are you?’

‘Oh, everybody is who sees her.’

Anita, who rather fancied herself one, was not pleased.

‘You’re not interesting to me any more. Go away and send that Hale man over here. He’s looking at me as if he wanted to come.’

She smiled, to take away any hint of ill temper.

Craig went on the errand, Gifford Hale came duly, and Anita promptly made eyes at him. Her eyes were large and blue, a beautiful cerulean. but with no shadows or reservations. Her carefully preserved blonde beauty was all her fancy painted it, but the slightly injured look she habitually wore was fatal to her otherwise pretty charm. Her really golden hair was done by the most famous coiffeur, in the most stilted and artificial style. Hetty, who had caught sight of her, told the cook that Mrs. Boyce’s head looked like a hayfield, cut and dried.

Cornelia, with her gracious ease, rescued Gifford Hale and gave him over to Laura Lee, while she sent Tom Sheldon to play round with Anita. Craig was outside patrolling the drive when, to his great relief and delight, Yvette’s car appeared, far down the long driveway.

The girl was smiling to herself; she was going to be one of a house party, only one member of which she knew anything about. And she could scarcely be said to know much about him, for that short interview at Tiny Crosby’s meant little by way of acquaintance. But, she told herself, a friendship with this Madison family might mean a lot to her, for she often felt the need of talking some other language than the jargon and argot of Hollywood. And since this opportunity presented itself, she was going to make the most of it, and she fully intended to become the joy of the party and the Golden Girl of Silver Hill.

She looked the part. The autumn brown tailored suit of soft wool twill she wore showed red glints here and there. A trifle of white at neck and sleeves and the smartest hat in the world were mere accessories to the charm of the lithe figure and vivid, sentient face.

Barry, Miss Verne’s capable chauffeur, had had no difficulty in finding the negligible New Plymouth, and he brought the car to the imposing entrance of Silver Hill with a flourish.

‘Pipe down Barry,’ the girl said, quietly. ‘This is ladies’ day for me. I don’t want to drive up like an army with banners.’

Barry assumed a correct stolidity, and Craig Madison came smiling to greet his visitor.

‘I don’t think I’ll dare show you to Uncle Harley,’ he said as he helped her out. ‘He’ll eat you up!’

‘Let me look round a minute first.’

The girl marvelled at the wide spacious lawns, the gigantic shade trees and the massed flower gardens, gay with riotous autumn blooms.

‘It’s heavenly,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad I came.’ She turned toward the big Colonial house, with additions that marred but did not completely spoil its proportions.

‘No,’ Craig disagreed, ‘the place isn’t grand; it’s just comfortable and homey, that’s all.’

They went inside, and Yvette realised he spoke truly. The great entrance hall had many old pieces of Colonial furniture, its polished surfaces rubbing elbows with some new pieces the young people had brought in, but somehow remaining harmonious through it all.

Craig led her to the living-room, where Harley Madison was the first to greet her. He came toward her, with outstretched hands.

‘Miss Verne, you are very welcome,’ he said, a little formally, but with growing admiration. ‘I hope you will be glad you came. This is my sister Cornelia.’

Miss Madison, tall and dignified, haughty and aristocratic, smiled far more cordially than she had meant to, for the girl’s charm was irresistible. Cornelia was not a snob, quite, but she had resented this rash move of Craig’s. To bring a movie actress into the hallowed halls of Silver Hill, where none but the elite had ever before been received, was a daring thing for even her favourite nephew to do.

Then Craig carried Yvette off for introductions, carefully putting Mrs. Lee before Mrs. Boyce, a slight for which Anita never forgave him. Needless to say, Yvette made good. They all liked her. She was so natural, so spontaneous, so free from any trace of artificiality or any suggestion of the stage.

‘I wondered,’ she said to Craig, ‘when I met you last Sunday, why you didn’t live in New York. Now I know.’

‘You mean that as a place to live New Plymouth is preferable to New York?’

This from Harley, who had managed to keep within speaking distance of the visitor ever since she came in.

‘I’d have to think that over,’ she smiled at him. ‘But I can say right off, I can see how it would be to one who had his home here. You couldn’t have a home like this in the city. Ooh, cocktails arrive. Let’s sit right down here.’

She chose a seat in the middle of a divan, and somehow Harley Madison was on one side of her and Craig on the other.

Cornelia Madison looked at the group and then cast a humorous glance at Anita Boyce. But Anita didn’t think it at all humorous, and being forced to put up with the attentions of either Tom Sheldon or Everett Ames, she was just about ready to go home. Even Gifford Hale was hovering round the magnet, sitting on the arm of the davenport or on a hassock at the divinity’s feet. Yet Yvette was saying nothing of special interest. It was the way she said it, the merry little laugh you found yourself waiting for, the quick, appreciative glance at a happy speech, and the glorious smile that flashed out now and then, when she was silent, and seemed to tell of happiness and content.

Wilkins the butler and Rosie the waitress, were completely bowled over, though nobody knew this. But their few words on the situation, as they went back and forth to the pantries, so roused Hetty that she marched in to see for herself. Cornelia saw her come in, and took the situation in hand.

‘This is our Hetty,’ she said, ‘our major domo, Miss Verne. If you want for anything while you are here, and I refuse to give it to you, just call on Hetty and you will get it.’

Cornelia’s smile gave Yvette her cue, and she held out a hand to Hetty, with a pretty word of appreciation, then turned back to Craig.

Hetty made for the kitchen, and found Mrs. Quinn, the cook.

‘Land o’ Goshen!’ Hetty breathed, in a scared whisper. ‘She’s got ’em all hypnotized. They’re grovellin’ at her feet, and she’s quite at home, thank you, fingerin’ of her cocktail glass.’

‘Forward piece?’ said Mrs. Quinn.

Hetty gave her a look of mingled pity and scorn.

‘A heap you do know, don’t you? That young lady is as much quality as any Madison who ever breathed! A king would be proud to shake hands with her, and―’ Hetty paused, with the intention of making Mrs. Quinn faint and fall to the floor, ‘and, she shook hands with me!’

‘She never!’

‘She did!’

‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’

And Miss Cornelia Madison was experiencing a similar apprehension that she would be blowed—though not in those words—as she quite understandingly watched her brother fall in love with Yvette Verne.