Читать книгу Easy to Kill - Footner Hulbert - Страница 4

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Mme. Storey drove her own car up to Newport. According to instructions, we left it standing at the front door of the Van Tassel mansion, and made our way by a path around to the rear. This was to avoid coming in contact with the house servants.

In the darkness under the side windows our way was suddenly blocked by an armed guard. The unexpectedness of his appearance almost fetched a scream out of me. In a husky whisper he demanded to know our business. Mme. Storey gave him the password that had been furnished us—“Redwood”—and he drew back. I had the feeling that other men were watching us from the shadows of the shrubbery. Who would want to be rich, I thought, if you had to live in a state of siege like this.

At the back of the mansion, looking over the cliffs toward the sea, there was a wide outdoors room that would have been called a porch in any ordinary house, but at the Van Tassels', we learned, it was dignified with the name of terrace. It was glassed in all around for bad weather, and though now the June night was warm and sweet smelling, all the sliding panels were closed. Here Mr. and Mrs. Van Tassel had arranged to be waiting for us.

I glanced with strong curiosity at the bearers of so famous a name. Neither was very impressive.

Howard Van Tassel was an old man suffering from some form of heart trouble that forced him to keep his mouth always hanging open and to breathe with difficulty. You were always uneasy in his presence because he seemed likely to have a stroke at any moment. His wife had been a beauty. Her faded hair was tricked out in the puffs and whorls and kinks that went out of fashion years ago, and her faded cheeks were bright with rouge. They showed little of the dignity you would expect from people of their position.

But nobody appears to advantage, of course; when he is frightened. Both old people were trembling. Indeed, the whole place seemed to be held in a spell of fear. It infected me in spite of myself, and I kept glancing around at the glass sides of the terrace, half expecting to see a murderous face peering in from the dark.

Of the two, Mrs. Van Tassel had herself better in hand. “You are Madame Storey, the detective?” she said.

“I prefer to call myself psychologist,” said Mme. Storey, with a smile; “but it doesn't matter.”

Mrs. Van Tassel stared rudely. She was a stupid sort of woman in all her finery. “And who is this person?” she asked, with a nod in my direction.

“My secretary, Miss Brickley.”

“Can't she wait in the car?”

“She is my principal assistant,” said Mme. Storey, politely and firmly. “I depend on her for everything.”

Nothing further was said about bouncing me.

Mrs. Van Tassel was so frightened and suspicious, it was difficult to bring her to the point. Several times she seemed about to send us away without telling us why we had been summoned. Finally she blurted out, “My husband has been getting letters demanding large sums of money.”

“For how long?” asked Mme. Storey, coolly. By her calm air she sought to put them at their ease.

“The first one came last summer. It asked for twenty five thousand dollars. During the fall and winter there were two more, each demanding forty thousand....”

“These sums were paid?”

Mrs. Van Tassel nodded. “And now a fourth letter has come, demanding fifty thousand dollars.” Her voice scaled up hysterically. “This can't go on!”

“Certainly not,” said Mme. Storey. “You never should have paid anything!”

“I never wanted to pay,” said Mrs. Van Tassel, with a glance at her husband, “but Mr. Van Tassel was afraid.”

That shocking old wreck suddenly roused himself. “I have a bad heart condition,” he said, whiningly. “My doctor told me a shock would kill me. I would rather pay than live in terror of my life!”

“What good does it do you?” snapped his wife. “You live in terror, anyhow. And the demands are constantly increasing. It's got to stop somewhere.” She turned to Mme. Storey. “We are not as rich as people suppose. And our expenses are enormous.”

“Did these letters come through the mail?” asked Mme. Storey.

A shudder went through Mrs. Van Tassel's frame, causing her earrings to tinkle. “No,” she said, very low. “That is the worst of it. Somehow, a way was found to introduce them into the house. In each case Mr. Van Tassel found them on the desk in his study....Oh, it is awful, not to feel safe even in your own house!”

“Surely,” said Mme. Storey, sympathetically. “Have you saved the letters?”

“Only the last one.”

“May I see it?”

Mrs. Van Tassel glanced around her with haggard eyes. “I....I am afraid,” she stammered. “How do we know who may be spying on us from the outside?”

“There are guards stationed in the grounds,” muttered the old man.

“Where did you obtain these guards?” asked Mme. Storey.

“From the —— Detective Agency.”

Not wishing to increase their fears, Mme. Storey did not tell them that this protection was little better than none. Such men are nearly always to be bought. I knew it, and it did not make me feel any more comfortable. We were making entirely too good a target sitting there in the brightly lighted terrace.

“Let us go inside,” suggested Mme. Storey.

“The servants....” objected the old man.

“We can go in through the French windows,” said his wife, “and lock the room door.”

The upshot was that we adjourned to a room opening on the terrace that they called the breakfast room. After carefully pulling the curtains shut and locking the door, Mrs. Van Tassel produced a letter from the little bag she carried. It was a brief typewritten letter on a single plain white sheet. Mme. Storey read it, and afterward examined it through the magnifying glass she always carries.

She finally said: “From the style of the type I see that this was written on an Underwood. It was written by one who was not expert in using the typewriter, because the keys were struck with varying degrees of force. The machine has not been used very much, and the ribbon was a new one.”

She handed the letter to me to read. It began abruptly, without any form of address:

'Get fifty thousand dollars from the bank in bills: 100s, 50s, 20s, no higher, and keep it in the house until I send you instructions how to hand it to me. If my instructions are not followed out to the letter, or if you try to entrap me in any way, you will suffer the same fate that lately overtook your old friend Kip Havemeyer. He was said to have died of heart disease, but nobody saw him die. When I wish to strike, no locks can keep me out of your house or guards keep me from your side. Remember, old men are easy to kill!'

This was signed, “The Leveler.”

I handed the letter back.

“Written by a man accustomed to the forms of good speech,” said Mme. Storey. Mr. and Mrs. Van Tassel exchanged a startled glance. “How did Mr. Havemeyer die?”

“He was found dead in his garden,” muttered Mr. Van Tassel. “They said heart disease...but he had a terrible look on his face.”

“You are prepared then, to hand over the money when a demand is made for it?”

“I wouldn't,” said Mrs. Van Tassel, with an ugly look at her husband.

“Certainly I am!” cried the old man, shrilly. “I'm not going to be shocked to death like Havemeyer!”

“If you're going to pay, what can I do for you?” asked Mme. Storey.

“We want you to undertake a quiet investigation,” said Mrs. Van Tassel. “Find out where the money goes. It can be marked. Get evidence against this scoundrel so that we can confront him with it, and make him stop!”

“Confront him with it?” echoed Mme. Storey, struck by this phrase.

Mrs. Van Tassel said nothing.

After a little thought my employer said: “I am willing to take the case. But I ought to point out to you that if anything happens, I should not be in as good a position to protect you as the police. The men you have now are worthless. I advise you to consult the police.”

Both became wildly agitated. “No! No! No!” they cried together.

“Why not?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Van Tassel sharply. “You have your instructions.”

Nobody can talk to Mme. Storey like that and get away with it. Her smile was like polished glassware. “I cannot serve you,” she said, “unless you furnish me with complete information.”

“We have no information.”

“You suspect somebody.”

“No! No!” they muttered, wretchedly. “It is too terrible!”

“Then you had better let me retire,” said Mme. Storey, gently. She was sorry for the old pair, with all their wealth.

Mrs. Van Tassel weakened. “Why not tell her?” she said to her husband. “It's her business to keep her mouth shut.”

“All right,” he mumbled, turning away his head.

Mrs. Van Tassel put her handkerchief to her lips.

I wondered what was coming. “We have no evidence,” she stammered, “but...but we suspect that Nicholas Van Tassel, my husband's nephew, is behind it all.”

Mme. Storey was surprised into an exclamation. “Good God! Nicholas Van Tassel! I thought he was the head of the family and the richest of you all.'”

Mrs. Van Tassel shook her head. “He was left a pauper,” she murmured.

Some moments passed before we could get a coherent explanation out of her. She finally said: “It is forgotten now, but my husband's father, who was the fourth Nicholas Van Tassel, cut off his eldest son, Nicholas, with six million dollars, and left the bulk of his fortune to my husband. His eldest son had displeased him by marrying an actress. This one, the fifth Nicholas, caused the story to be circulated that his brothers had equalized their shares with him. This was untrue, but it did not seem worth while to deny it. Later it was reported that he had made a great fortune in Wall Street, but this was also untrue. As a matter of fact, he spent every cent he possessed and committed suicide.”

“Suicide?” said Mme. Storey. “I never heard of it.”

“It was supposed to be an accident. When his money was all spent, he and his wife drove their car over a cliff in Switzerland. Nobody outside the family knows it, but the present Nicholas, the sixth of the name, was left nothing but two big houses that were mortgaged to the limit....Yet he is reputed to live at the rate of a million a year. It must come from somewhere.”

“Quite! It must come from somewhere!” murmured Mme. Storey.

There was a silence. My employer turned her brilliant eyes on me. Good God! What a case! her expression said. As for me, I was staggered by the prospect.

As we were leaving, Mrs. Van Tassel said, patronizingly—even in her distress of mind she could not overcome the habit of arrogance: “Of course expense is no object. We think you should live here in Newport incognito, and conduct a quiet investigation.”

Mme. Storey declined to be patronized. “Sorry,” she said, smiling, “but that would be impossible. I have a hundred acquaintances here in Newport. I should be recognized the first time I went out....My arrival must be publicly announced. I can let it be supposed that I am here for the social season. My friend, Mrs. Lysaght, will sponsor me.”

Mrs. Van Tassel ran up her aristocratic eyebrows at the notion of a mere detective (as she thought) crashing the exclusive gates of Newport. She had a lot to learn. She was not accustomed to having her wishes opposed, and for a moment the two pairs of eyes contended; Mrs. Van Tassel's haughty, Mme. Storey's smiling. It was the haughty eyes that bolted first.

“Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Van Tassel, with assumed indifference. “You may communicate with me here by telephone at any time. I will see to it that there can be no listening in at this end.”

As Mme. Storey was starting her car, the guard who had stopped us on the way in showed his brutal face at the window beside her.

“Say, sister,” he said, with crude insolence, “if you enjoy life, you better steer clear of this burg, see? I happen to know it's damned unhealthy for you.”

We drove away with the sound of his ugly chuckle in our ears. Mme. Storey's answer to the threat was to stop in at the central telephone office and summon six of her best men to Newport; the two Criders, Stephens, Morrison, Scarfe, and Benny Abell. We then left a social note at the office of the local newspaper stating that Madame Rosika Storey was the guest of Mrs. George Lysaght at her cottage on Catherine Street, and drove on to that lady's.

My brain was still spinning with what had happened. “It is scarcely worth a hundred and fifty thousand a year to keep that old hulk alive,” I remarked.

“Apparently Mrs. Van Tassel agrees with you,” replied Mme. Storey, dryly, “but he does not.”