Читать книгу Sinfully Rich - Footner Hulbert - Страница 6

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At the same hour, in his little office in the Recorder-Press Building, Mike Speedon was sweating over his column. Few could have guessed the labor that went into the shaping of those screwy paragraphs, apparently tossed off with so idle an air. When he got stuck, Mike jumped up, took a turn between desk and door, and stretched to test his muscles. Hell of a job for a husky guy, he thought; writing these footling japes! By rights I ought to have an ax to swing!

The telephone rang and he picked it up. A sweet, uncultivated voice came over the wire: "Is this Mr. Speedon?"

"In person," said Mike. "Who is it?"

"Adele."

Mike ran over a swarm of girls' faces in his mind, trying to fix the name to one of them. "Adele who?" he asked.

She snickered. "Just Adele. You know, at Mrs. Ware's. Have you forgotten?"

"Now I get you!" cried Mike. "Adele with the dimpled shoulders. So nice to bite!"

She snickered again. "Oh, you!... I'm serious now, Mr. Speedon. Is it worth a ten spot to you if I give you an important piece of information?"

"Depends upon its importance, darling."

"It's important all right." After a moment's hesitation she went on. "All right, I'll trust you. You wouldn't let a girl down ... Mrs. Ware has disappeared."

"Good God!" said Mike. "Disappeared? Where to?"

"If they knew where she was, she wouldn't be disappeared, would she? Nobody outside knows it yet. Mr. MacKelcan has just telephoned the police."

Mike had been a reporter before graduating to the features, and all his old instincts leaped into play. "Be there in fifteen minutes," he said. "You'll get your ten if you don't tell anybody else."

He ran to the city room and spoke low to Warner Bassett.

"Boy! what a chance!" said Warner. "Will you take care of it? Nobody else could get inside the place."

"I'll take care of it," said Mike, and ran on.

He took the subway, the quickest method of getting through town, and bettered his quarter of an hour by a minute or two. Cummings opened the door of the Ware apartment and Mike, seeing by the butler's forbidding expression that he was not going to be admitted, adjusted his tactics accordingly.

"'Morning, Cummings. Can I speak to Miss Radnor for a moment?"

"Certainly, Mr. Speedon." Cummings knocked on the door of the office, and opening it, announced: "Mr. Speedon." When Mike went in he closed the door.

Day Radnor rose from her desk blushing pinkly. In order to divert attention from it, she said quickly: "Mike Speedon! You shouldn't surprise a girl like this!"

"Why?" asked Mike. Day had a way of taking him back.

"It's not fair! So handsome and shining! You drop from the clouds like the Archangel Michael and my heart goes pit-a-pat!"

"Ahh," said Mike, "I wish you were a little less frank in your admiration. Then I might think there was something in it."

"I mean every word of it."

"You do not. You think I'm a heel."

The blush had faded and Day was herself again. She pushed the cigarette box toward Mike and seated herself at the desk. "Not a heel, darling, a phenomenon. Sipping honey from every flower. If I was a man that's the part I'd play too. That is, if, like you, I had what it takes."

Mike changed the subject. "I must say you appear to be taking the situation coolly."

"What situation?"

"I hear that Old Miss has disappeared. Didn't you know it?"

"No. Nobody in this house tells me anything.... Anyhow, I don't believe it. You've been hoaxed."

"I don't think so—judging from Cummings' face."

"Then it's just some new publicity stunt."

"We'll see. Mind if I set the door open?"

"No. Are you afraid of me?"

"Absolutely."

Mike opened the door wide, and returning to his seat studied Day with mixed pleasure and exasperation. She had a distinguished profile; she used no make-up except lipstick and her light brown hair was drawn back in a loose twist. After all the chi-chi she had a tonic quality.

"What do you mean, nobody here tells you anything?" he asked.

"They all hate me," said Day calmly, "not that I care. From the Madam down."

"I can understand the servants," said Mike. "They're just spiteful. Why should the Madam hate you?"

"She suspects me of being critical, though I never say anything. Perhaps it's because I keep my mouth shut."

Mike chuckled. "If she hates you, why doesn't she fire you?"

"Because, God help me, she knows I'm honest. Anybody else in this job could do her out of thousands without her knowing it."

"You're too good for this crazy house. Why don't you fire yourself?"

"Because I need the money, dear one."

"You could always get a job, A girl like you."

"Sure. But not at the same pay."

The doorbell rang, and Cummings appeared in the foyer with suspicious suddenness. He cast a vicious glance into the office, but Mike was looking at him with a smile, and he did not venture to close the door. He admitted two men, keen, wary, stalwart, well-dressed; headquarters detectives, unmistakably.

"This way, gentlemen," Mike sang out. "Use this room for your office."

They came in, Cummings' face was black, but he was out-maneuvered; he couldn't say anything.

"Lieutenant of Detectives Radigan," said the first man, introducing himself. "This is Sergeant Hodges."

"Glad to meet you," said Mike. "I'm Michael Speedon, a friend of Mrs. Ware's. This is Miss Radnor, her secretary."

"Mr. Speedon is on the Recorder-Press," put in Cummings spitefully from the background.

"Sure, we all know who he is," said Radigan.

Cummings tried again. "Mr. MacKelcan, Mrs. Ware's attorney, is waiting to see you, gentlemen."

"Bring him in here," said Mike, and the butler was checkmated again.

MacKelcan, having heard the voices, was already approaching through the foyer with his lapels flying. He was none too pleased with the situation as he found it, but Mike was in control. Everybody drew up chairs—Cummings being invited to sit with the others—and the investigation opened. Mike and Day, without giving anything away in their faces, learned for the first what it was all about.

Cummings said: "Mrs. Ware invited some of her friends on a hay ride last night as a kind of novelty ..."

Radigan interrupted him. "We read that in the papers. Start at where she came home last night."

"They got here about twelve-twenty," said Cummings; "Mrs. Ware and eight guests." He named them. "They were all in country costume, you understand, boots and jeans and farm hats for the men; gingham dresses and sunbonnets for the ladies. But it was so cold they had to wear fur coats over them. Mrs. Ware seemed upset ..."

"What about?" put in Radigan.

"I couldn't say, Lieutenant. I had no conversation with her. She went upstairs and I served drinks to the others. I and Alfred, the second man. Other guests came in. There were thirty-one in all; just a small party." Cummings proceeded to name them. He had a remarkable memory.

"You were here," Radigan said to MacKelcan.

"Yes, Lieutenant. My client was kind enough to ask me to her social parties. Last night I had a bit of business to talk over with her, but I got no opportunity."

Radigan fixed on another name. "Norbert Besson? Isn't that the young fellow Mrs. Ware is engaged to?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Wasn't he on the hay ride?"

"It seems not. He came in later. He was in ordinary evening dress."

"Did he come alone?"

"No. He came with Mrs. Payne Laval."

Radigan whistled noiselessly. "Payne Laval! These are big names to throw around."

Mike, unobtrusively taking notes in the background, put in: "I might say for your information, Lieutenant, it's a matter of common gossip that Mrs. Payne Laval and Norbert Besson are, well, that way. Have been for a year."

"I wouldn't advise you to print it in your paper," said Radigan dryly.

"Not going to," retorted Mike.

"Did Mrs. Ware know about the affair between these two?"

"I doubt it," said Mike. "Who would tell her?"

Cummings continued: "In about twenty minutes Mrs. Ware came downstairs again. She had changed to evening dress and put on her jewels ..."

"Describe her jewels."

"You'll have to ask her maid, Lieutenant. All I noticed was, she was all aglitter.... When she came in Mrs. Prior went up to her...."

"Who is Mrs. Prior?"

"Mrs. Bethesda Prior. She... she ..." Cummings was at a loss how to explain her.

Mike came to his assistance. "Bethesda Prior is the Mistress of Ceremonies around here, Lieutenant. She puts on the shows."

Cummings continued: "Madam, I mean Mrs. Ware, was short with Mrs. Prior. She was angry...."

"What did she say?"

"I wasn't near enough to them to hear. Mrs. Prior tried to smooth her down, but she got more angry, and people began to look. I went toward them, and I heard Mrs. Prior say: 'But we can't talk about that here, darling.' And Mrs. Ware said, very angry, 'I'm not your darling! Come upstairs and we'll end this once and for all!'"

"And then?"

"The two ladies went upstairs. I accompanied them to the door of the elevator—I mean our private elevator, and my mistress said to me: 'I shan't come down again. Stop serving liquor at one-thirty, and let them go home.'"

"Was that the last time you saw your mistress?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"And Mrs. Prior?"

"In a little while, say fifteen or twenty minutes, she came down alone and went home without speaking to anybody. She was very upset."

"Did anybody see your mistress after that?"

"No, Lieutenant. Not as I know of."

"Not her maid?"

"She had sent her maid to bed before."

There was a silence. Each of the six persons present was pursuing his own grim thoughts. MacKelcan broke the spell by driving his fist into his palm and exclaiming: "By God! this looks bad for Mrs. Prior!" The faces of the two detectives were like masks.

"Mrs. Prior telephoned about an hour ago to ask for Madam," Cummings volunteered. "I told her she wasn't up."

"That may have been a stall," said Radigan. "What else can you tell us?"

Cummings spread out his hands. "Not much, Lieutenant. At half-past one or thereabouts, I locked up the liquor and went to bed, leaving Alfred to see the last of the guests out, and switch off the lights." Cummings then described his search that morning for Mrs. Ware.

"Whereabouts did the interview with Mrs. Prior take place?" asked Radigan.

"In the private sitting room upstairs, Lieutenant. What the Madam calls her boudoir."

"You're sure about that?"

"I am sure. Standing at the foot of the stairs, I heard the door of that room close when Mrs. Prior came out."

Kinsey's examination followed. Pretty Adele accompanied her to the door of the office, but as the girl was not invited to enter she had to go away again. The prim lady's maid had recovered from her hysterics. She was enjoying a certain feeling of importance now. The gist of her information was that Madam had returned from the hay ride all unstrung. She put her head down on her dressing table and cried like a baby. It seemed she had started out from the Monte Carlo on the hay ride feeling fine; had greeted the people in the streets and waved to them, but they only answered with bronx cheers and rude remarks. Somebody had called out: "Time you were home in bed, Granny," and the whole crowd laughed. So they drove home as quickly as possible through side streets. Madam blamed Mrs. Prior for getting her into it, and said she was done with her. And a good thing, too, because in her (Kinsey's) opinion that woman was no better than a crook. She had spent thousands and thousands of Madam's money, and got a rake-off on everything.

Kinsey went on to say that she had tried to soothe her mistress. She persuaded her to dress and go downstairs again to show everybody she didn't care. She put her in her blush-pink satin from Molyneux, freshened her make-up, and brought out jewels for her to choose from. Kinsey listed the jewels worn by Mrs. Ware; her diamond tiara with the emeralds; four diamond bracelets on her right arm, two on her left; her big diamond drop earrings, each having an emerald in the center; a ring on the third finger of each hand and an emerald and diamond brooch.

"Have you any idea of the value of these articles?" asked Radigan.

"Yes, sir. Madam often mentioned how much she had paid for them in my hearing. The emeralds were among her most valuable pieces. There's one in the middle of the tiara worth fifty thousand dollars alone." Kinsey borrowed pencil and paper from Day Radnor and made a list. When she handed it to the detective, he whistled.

"Over half a million!"

"Yes, sir," said Kinsey.

"All insured?"

"No, sir, only some of the pieces. Madam was careless. She kept putting it off."

"Why didn't her attorney see to it?"

"Madam wouldn't let him know how much she spent for jewels."

"When she was dressed," Cummings said, "she told you to go to bed."

"Yes, sir. Ordinarily I lie down for a nap in the dressing room and give Madam her treatments whenever she comes in, but last night she said she wouldn't bother with her treatments because she was going to Madame Rubinstein's today."

"And you didn't see her this morning?"

"Oh, no, sir. I never go in in the morning until she rings."

"Tell me," said Radigan. "This young man she was engaged to, Norbert Besson, was he in receipt of large sums of money from her also?"

Kinsey made a picture of outraged British propriety. "I'm sure I couldn't say, sir. You'll have to ask her legal adviser."

MacKelcan flung up his arms without waiting for Radigan to speak. "Not a word! Not a word! I must plead professional privilege, Lieutenant."

Radigan shrugged and turned to Cummings. "One more question. Did this man, Norbert Besson, have any talk with Mrs. Ware last night?"

"How could he, Lieutenant? Madam went upstairs as soon as she came in, and when she came down again it was only for a minute."

Radigan telephoned to Headquarters for two more detectives, a fingerprint expert and a photographer.

"Now let's look through the rooms," he said.

Day Radnor preferred to remain at her desk. The others accompanied the two detectives upstairs. They began with Mrs. Ware's bedroom, modernistic, a symphony in gray and chartreuse with a scarlet chair for a high note. The floor was covered with a thick-piled carpet, and Radigan made the others stand out in the corridor looking in. "A rug like this will keep the impression of footsteps for many hours," he explained.

The bedroom gave them nothing important, and they proceeded to the dressing room adjoining. This was an unadorned chamber, surrounded on three sides by deep wardrobes, and having a continuous window in the fourth side. The whole room focussed on the dressing table, which stood with its back to the long window, spread with all its appurtenances like an altar. There was a wall safe in this room. The combination, written on a piece of paper, was in the drawer of the dressing table. The balance of Mrs. Ware's jewels were found to be intact, so far as could be established at that moment. There was also a box of keys in the safe; nothing else.

During the examination of these rooms the additional men arrived from Headquarters. Detectives were placed at the front door and the service door of the apartment with instructions to allow nobody in the household to leave. Fingerprint expert and photographer went to work in Mrs. Ware's rooms.

As the search proceeded from room to room, the tension increased. Nobody spoke. The last was the boudoir, a pleasant corner room with south and west exposures. Here the old lady spent all her time when she was alone, and she had refused to have any surrealist paintings or modernistic sculpture in it. The decorator had furnished it with beautiful pieces of no special period; the floor was strewn with priceless Oriental rugs. Mrs. Ware had never been seen to leave this room, and the observers looked into it with eyes full of dread. Kinsey was pressing a handkerchief to her lips.

Radigan immediately placed his hand on a high, carved, oaken cabinet standing against the north wall. It was an ancient Jacobean piece, waxed to a high finish, standing on turned legs about four feet above the floor. It had double doors with long hinges and an escutcheon of wrought iron. A panel of antique velvet was thrown over the top. The cabinet was about five feet long and eighteen inches high. All stared at it, struck with horror by its significant shape.

"What's kept in here?" asked Radigan.

Kinsey answered tremulously: "Nothing, sir. It's just a showpiece."

Radigan tried the door with his thumbnail. It was locked. "Where's the key?"

Kinsey's jaw dropped. "Why... why... why..." she stammered, "the key was in it. I've seen it there hundreds of times!"

Radigan beckoned to his partner. Each took an end of the cabinet and lifted it from the floor. It was too heavy to be empty.

When attention was first directed to the cabinet, Cummings had gone downstairs. He presently came running back with a strong steel claw such as is used for opening packing cases. His face was livid and sweating. He handed the tool to Radigan, saying huskily: "Force it! Force it!"

The detective inserted the point between the two doors of the cabinet and one flew open. Inside they saw a huddle of pale-pink satin; one elegantly shod foot; Radigan, hardened as he was to such sights, started back. The lady's maid screamed insanely. Cummings turned on her in a passion.

"Quiet, you fool!"

Radigan said harshly, "This can't be kept a secret now."

Kinsey sank down fainting. Mike picked her up, and turning through the corridor, kicked open a door at random and dropped her on a bed. He shouted for Adele—the household might as well be roused now, and in ten seconds he was back in the boudoir.

The two detectives were lifting out the pitifully twisted figure in its silken garments. They laid her on a sofa and straightened the stiffened limbs as well as they could. Her dress was partly unhooked and slipping off one scrawny shoulder. The sunken face was terrible to see. Cummings had turned his back on the sight, but the grotesque MacKelcan was staring as if turned into stone. There was no visible wound on her; no stain of blood. Her jewels were gone. Radigan examined her with a puzzled scowl.

"Can't make it out," he muttered. "Looks as if she might have died naturally—she was old; then robbed afterwards and stuck away to hide the robbery." He produced a magnifying glass from his pocket. "There's a slight abrasion on the ear lobe where the earring was pulled off. It didn't bleed."

Mike borrowed the glass and confirmed it.

Radigan addressed his comrade: "Report it to Headquarters, Hodges. Ask for a medical examiner." He turned to the others. "Where does this Mrs. Bethesda Prior live?" Three voices furnished the address. "All right. After you've phoned Headquarters, go there, Hodges. Try to get her to come back with you. Tell her anything you like, but handle her with gloves. We've got no case yet. If she refuses to come, phone for further instructions, and don't let her out of your sight."

Hodges went out. As Mike was making to follow him, Radigan said somewhat sourly:

"I suppose you're going to phone your paper."

"Anything against it?" asked Mike good-naturedly.

Radigan shook his head. "If I could conduct this investigation without publicity I might get somewhere," he grumbled. "But that's impossible. Go ahead. Only don't point the finger of suspicion at anybody yet."

"I shan't," said Mike. "The story is good enough without it."