Читать книгу The Black Carnation - Fergus Hume - Страница 5

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I am not so young as I was, therefore the catastrophe of the previous night unnerved me so much that I lay longer in bed the next morning than was my custom. Pointer was greatly concerned—Pointer is my man—and wished to send for a doctor, but this extreme proceeding I sternly forbade, knowing I should be quite recovered by noon, which indeed proved to be the case. After an excellent breakfast—for Pointer tempted me with my favorite dishes—I sent for the principal morning papers, in order to acquaint myself with the reports of this terrible calamity, which had so abruptly brought the performance of the previous night to a close.

It is not my intention to set forth a full report of what the papers contained, as anyone who so desires can turn up the case for himself, but merely to incorporate herein the gist of the matter so far as is requisite for an understanding of the events which followed the committal of the crime. Judging from the frank admissions of the press, the whole affair was veiled in mystery, and not even the most imaginative dared to put forward any theory as to the reason for the crime. All that was known appeared to be the barren fact that Mazzucata had been killed by the explosion of a dynamite cartridge concealed in the bouquet which she had held to her breast, but why such a crime should have been perpetrated in so bold and open a manner appeared to be quite inexplicable. Some of the papers indeed suggested that the dead woman had enemies, but so far as that goes, everyone in a public position has enemies, yet, as a rule, they refrain from letting their enmity carry them to such extreme lengths.

At all events, whatever theories were put forward to account for the affair, the actual fact remained the same, that Mazzucata had been killed by the explosion of a dynamite cartridge which formed the handle of a bouquet thrown to her on the stage. The whole question as to the detection of the crime lay in the discovery of the person who threw the fatal bunch of flowers. This, on the face of it, was utterly impossible, and one might as well try to find a needle in a haystack, as attempt to discover the owner of one particular bouquet flung at the feet of a prima-donna in company with several hundred tributes of the same kind.

Clearly, therefore, nothing was to be gained from the papers, so I placed them all on one side, and discarding them as useless, sought in my own mind for an explanation of this hideous mystery. Here was a beautiful woman barbarously done to death in a public manner by some unknown enemy. Now the question was to find that enemy, and to do so it would be necessary for me to make myself acquainted with all circumstances connected with the early life of this unfortunate singer.

In this respect I was absolutely ignorant, as, beyond the bare facts that Mazzucata had appeared in Italy, Vienna, Paris, and now London, with great success, I was quite in the dark regarding her previous history. Nowadays a public person’s private life is known to all, thanks to society papers, who search into matters better left alone, but hitherto Mazzucata had escaped their pryings, and beyond the gossip of clubs, little was known of her life or personality. As to the latter she was reported to be a singularly charming woman, attractive in the highest degree, not so much on account of her undeniable beauty, as for a certain magnetic influence she exercised over all who came in contact with her. Her life, according to common report was not by any means a blameless one, as she was said to affect the society of rich young men, and having squeezed all their money out of them, let them die broken-hearted at her scorn. Not that I believe any young man of the present day ever died of a broken heart; but whatever might be the cause of their death, it was undeniable that all who had anything to do with this modern Lamia, either perished in the flower of their youth when she tired of them, or were ruined through her extravagant caprices which in many cases were scarcely those of a sane woman.

All this information, however, I had gained from the gossip of clubs. It was not to be found in the papers, and the general public knew nothing of Madame Mazzucata save that she was a great artiste. Now, however, the tragic event of her death would inspire the press to find out and publish all they could about her, in which case something would be found in her past life which would probably point to a reason for the manner of her death. In an ordinary case I would have left all this unravelling to the papers, the detectives, to whomsoever it might concern, but having witnessed the death of the singer I was unwilling to await such a slow method of solving the mystery and therefore determined myself to find out the cause of the crime. In two words I had detective fever.

So far, so good, but the question was, how was this fever to be cured; and the obvious answer was, by finding the assassin of Mazzucata and handing him over to justice. The reason of the crime was to be found in her past life, so the first thing to be done was to seek information on this point from someone who had been intimate with her before she came to England. To find such a person I had not far to go—in fact two persons who could give me information were at hand, namely, Lawrence Dallas, and Gilbert Tressinger.

Now what struck me as curious about these two young men was that each on the previous night had carried a bouquet of white flowers, and both bouquets had been thrown to Mazzucata shortly before the fatal event. Could it be possible that in one of those bouquets had been concealed the dynamite cartridge which caused the death of the singer? I could not believe it, as I deemed both my friends incapable of such a crime; and yet, when I recalled Dallas’s wild words regarding his intention of killing Mazzucata should she prove false to him, I confess that doubts began to creep into my mind.

“Dallas said he would kill her if she loved Tressinger,” I said to myself as I dressed slowly, “but then he did not know the truth of that until he met Tressinger, and between such meeting and the explosion he never left my side, therefore could not have prepared the bouquet with the intent of killing her. No! that infernal machine which formed the handle of the bouquet must have been carefully constructed, and as Dallas, in spite of his wild words, had no reason to think Mazzucata false until he met Tressinger, he could not have brought the flowers with the dynamite cartridge concealed therein. Clearly then Dallas had nothing to do with the death; and as to Gilbert—”

I sent Pointer out of the room at this moment, for having a habit of talking aloud to myself, I noticed he was eagerly listening, and not willing to admit him so far into my confidence, I got rid of him by some trivial excuse, and resumed my soliloquy.

“As to Gilbert, there is no doubt he did not commit the crime, for he had no reason to do so. He was Mazzucata’s favorite lover, and doubtless had seen her just before the performance, so, even granted he wished to kill her, he would hardly have done in public what he could have done in private. But there, such arguing is ridiculous—he had no reason to murder her, and therefore must be innocent. Dallas, even though he wished to kill her, had no time to prepare his infernal machine, therefore must also be innocent. It is apparent that neither of these young men is responsible for the death of Mazzucata, so the assassin must be sought elsewhere.”

It was all very fine arguing in this manner, but there was absolutely no clue to start from, and until some clue was discovered, the assassin of Mazzucata would certainly escape the consequences of his crime. I had no doubt that by this time the matter was in the hands of the police, but notwithstanding this, seized as I was with detective fever, I determined to search for a clue to the crime myself, and with this intent left my rooms to call on Dallas.

“If anyone be acquainted with Mazzucata’s past life it will be Dallas,” I said to myself as I walked along Piccadilly, “and he may be able to tell me of some jealous lover, some lyric rival, some unsuccessful suitor, who had a motive for desiring the death of the singer; once I find a motive for the crime, there will be no difficulty in tracing the criminal.”

So I spoke, but alas! too confidently, for I little knew how difficult was the task I had undertaken. It is just as well that detective fever is such a virulent disease, for were it not for the insatiable curiosity of the same, the strongest and boldest man would hesitate before venturing on such a difficult quest as searching for a criminal. The labor is intense, the fatigue terrible, and every nerve must be strained if the matter is to be brought to a successful issue. In spite of all dexterity and every care, the great factor in the discovery of crime is chance—and chance, although I knew it not, was guiding me in the right direction for the detection of Mazzucata’s assassin.

“Dallas,” I said to myself as I went upstairs to his rooms in Half-Moon Street, “Dallas will be able to tell me what he knows of her life; and where he fails Tressinger may possibly supply the information, so by putting this and that together I may arrive at some conclusion. The question is whether Dallas will tell me all I wish to know.”

I found the young man sitting in an arm-chair reading the Telegraph’s account of the crime, and by his white set face, his clenched hand, his dishevelled hair and red eyes, I saw that he was profoundly affected by the catastrophe which had robbed him of the woman he so much loved. With such a spectacle of despair before me, I knew it could not be Dallas who had committed the crime, and yet in my heart there was a doubt, a doubt which could only be set at rest by his solemn assurance of innocence.

“Major Granby,” he said, in a dull voice when I entered. “You here? Well!”

Sitting down in a comfortable chair near him I pointed solemnly to a glass of brandy and soda standing at his elbow.

“You should not fly to that for consolation.”

Dallas turned his lack-lustre eyes on the drink and then looked at me with a bitter smile.

“Don’t preach, major,” he said, harshly, “you don’t know what it is to have loved and lost, therefore you are no judge as to what means should be taken to quieten one’s conscience.”

“Quieten one’s conscience,’’ I repeated, significantly, “is there need of that?”

“Need of that,” he said, rising to his feet with a frown, “yes, great need.”

“Why, did you treat her badly?”

“On the contrary, she treated me badly,” he cried, walking to and fro in a state of uncontrollable agitation, “still I might have restrained my temper and we would not have parted.”

“Parted where?”

“In Italy. Oh, yes! we were great friends in Milan, I saw her at the opera and she was so beautiful that I fell in love with her. Del Orto introduced me to her, and as I was English she took a great fancy to me.”

“Why because you were English?”

“Like drawing to like I suppose. She was English also.”

“What?” I cried, in amazement, “Mazzucata English?”

“Or Irish if you wish to be particular, major. Yes, her real name was Magallan, but of course she took an Italian name when she went on the stage, and from Mary Magallan changed to Marietta Mazzucata.”

“I never knew that before.”

“There are a good many things you don’t know.”

“You are right. For instance: how she came by her death.”

Dallas was leaning against the mantel-piece, looking listlessly at the carpet; but at my last remark he looked up with blazing eyes.

“What the deuce has that to do with you?”

I am an old man, but, nevertheless, my temper is as fiery as that of a young one, and I would have resented Dallas’s remark very promptly, but that a thought of my desire to learn all about Mazzucata from him restrained me. With this in my mind, I therefore answered quietly, though I was much disposed to show my sense of the man’s impertinence by leaving the room.

“It has nothing to do with me, certainly, but I would like to know who killed the woman.”

“So would I! So would I!” he repeated, viciously; “if I did I would strangle him—or her.”

“Do you think the crime was committed by a woman?”

Dallas looked at me keenly, then crossing the room resumed his seat and finished his brandy and soda.

“How should I know? It’s none of my business.”

“Considering what you said last night about killing her and what you say this morning about quietening your conscience, I should think it was a good deal of your business.”

The young man sat quite still as I said these words, but I saw the knuckles of his fingers grow white as he suddenly clutched the arms of his chair.

“Major Granby,” he said at length, in a measured voice, “do you think I killed Mazzucata?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you, major, I am much obliged to you for your good opinion. So you have come here to spy out traces of the crime, and put a rope round my neck, eh?”

I kept quiet as long as I could, but evidently I was not born to be a detective, for at this last insulting speech I arose to my feet and poured forth the vials of my wrath on Dallas.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself speaking like that to a man old enough to be your father,” I cried, excitedly. “I came to you out of friendship and to ask you to put my mind at rest. You say I suspect you of killing this woman. God knows, I do not wish to suspect you, but look at the way you spoke last night—look at the way you speak this morning. If you are not guilty, why do you act as if you were?—I only came to warn you not to speak to others as you did to me, lest they suspect you of what I am sure you are innocent.”

“Oh!” he said, sneeringly, “so you are sure I am innocent.”

“I bid you good-morning, Mr. Dallas,” I replied, in a dignified manner, and walked towards the door. Before I reached it, however, he bounded across the room and stood with his back to the door, thus barring my exit.

“Major Granby,” he cried, in a voice shaking with passion; “I want a plain answer to a plain question, and until I get it you do not leave this room. Do you think I am a murderer?”

I certainly felt that I occupied a very undignified position, for in my desire to begin unravelling this mystery I had unwittingly sought to know more of my friend’s inner life than I had any right to. It seems to me that in becoming a detective, it is absolutely necessary to cast off all gentlemanly feeling so that one can press home questions which good taste demands should not be asked. Now, at this eleventh hour, I felt inclined to retreat from the position I had taken up, but so strongly was I seized with the detective fever, that crushing down all objections on the part of my conscience, I answered Dallas, if not directly, at least boldly,

“I think you know more about the affair than you admit.”

“Admit,” he retorted, scornfully, “I have admitted nothing.”

“And will admit nothing, I suppose?”

“I may do so—to the proper authorities.”

“In that event you may get into trouble.”

“Oh, that’s your opinion, is it, major?” he said, derisively. “But you are wrong. I am afraid you will find but little romance in this affair.”

“A beautiful woman with two lovers, both at the theatre on the night of her death. It seems to me, Dallas, that there is a good deal of romance there.”

“Oh! so you suspect Tressinger also,” said Dallas, returning to his seat, and flinging himself down with a frown on his mobile face.

“I don’t suspect Tressinger and I don’t suspect you,” I retorted, irritably; “if you will give me leave to speak plainly, I will tell you what I think.”

“Very well! Speak as plainly as you will.”

He filled himself a glass of soda and leaned back in his chair, while I sat down on the sofa and began to talk freely.

“Lawrence, have you ever had detective fever?”

“No!”

“Then I hope you never will have it, for it makes one feel the meanest man out.”

“Oh! and you have detective fever?”

“Very badly! That is why I came to see you this morning.”

“But what have I to do with your disease?”

“Simply this. Mazzucata is dead—murdered by an unknown person, and I wish, for the sake of gratifying my own curiosity, to find out the name of that person.”

“You will never find out,” replied Lawrence, gloomily. “How can you trace the owner of a bouquet thrown from the centre of a crowded theatre?”

“Perhaps not in that way; but you know Mazzucata’s early life, and can perhaps tell me of some one who wished her death.”

“Beyond myself I know no one who wished her death.”

“You don’t mean to admit that you killed her?” I cried in a horrified tone.

“No, my friend. I’m too fond of my own skin to admit such a thing. It is true that I said I wished her death, but that was merely an expression of rage from a jealous man.”

“Then who do you think killed her?”

Dallas turned away his face.

“I don’t know,” he said at length, in a husky voice.

“But you suspect,” I persisted, feeling sure he was concealing something from me.

“No! No!”

“Yes, you do, Dallas. Tell me her name.”

“Her name!” he cried, fiercely. “What right have you to think a woman is guilty of the crime?”

“Well, from what you said—”

“I said nothing, and I say nothing. Major Granby, if you are a wise man, you will leave this affair alone. Mazzucata is dead—I am sorry she is dead in one way, because I loved her. I am glad she is dead in another way because she deceived me. What my suspicions are I decline to say, but merely tell you that you will never find the person who threw the bouquet.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” I retorted, now growing suspicious; “at all events I will try.”

“As you please. Try, and fail.”

“I will not fail—if you will help me.”

“I won’t help you,” retorted Dallas, harshly, rising to his feet. “I will not lift a finger to avenge the death of a woman who deserved to die.”

I arose to my feet and walked slowly towards the door.

“Where are you going, major?” asked Dallas, coolly.

“I am going to see Gilbert Tressinger, and find out from him what you refuse to tell me.”

“He can tell you nothing.”

“You are wrong. He can tell me what parted you and this woman in Italy.”

Dallas grew pale. As I looked at him steadily I seemed to see a guilty look on his face, but this was probably only my fancy, and I therefore opened the door to depart when he called me back.

“Major Granby.”

“Yes!”

“You are going to see Gilbert Tressinger?”

“I am.”

“To ask about my former acquaintance with Mazzucata?”

“Precisely!”

“Well, if you want to learn more than you think, ask him about that flower.”

“What flower?”

“The Black Carnation.”

“What do you mean?”

Dallas came swiftly across the room and pushed me gently outside the door with a mocking laugh.

“Ask him about the Black Carnation,” he said, sneeringly. “Good-day, Major Granby.”

Major Granby’s Theory Number One

I firmly believe that Lawrence Dallas murdered the singer Marietta Mazzucata, and my reasons for such belief are as follows:—

Last night he said if he discovered she loved another man he would kill her.

Last night he discovered she was in love with Gilbert Tressinger, and doubtless thereupon determined to kill her.

Mazzucata was killed by the explosion of a dynamite cartridge concealed in a bouquet of white flowers, with one dark one in the centre.

Dallas threw Mazzucata a bouquet of white flowers with a dark one in the centre, and immediately after it was thrown the explosion occurred.

To-day Dallas says he is glad she is dead, and refuses to tell me anything about his past connection with this singer.