Читать книгу Easy to Kill - Footner Hulbert - Страница 7

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Dinner at the Dump was a showy affair. About thirty people sat down at the table, and many more came in afterward. Mme. Storey had the seat of honor. It was such a meal as one might dream about. I was soon informed that Nick Van Tassel employed a twenty five thousand a year chef, and that he had a cellar of vintage wines and an acre or so of greenhouses in orchids. All this represented the fastidious and blue blooded side of Nick.

It was an astonishing house. We gathered in a royal salon filled with priceless Louis XIV furnishings, and proceeded down a long corridor across the front to a superb dining room paneled in English oak and hung with rare sporting prints. After this, imagine the shock when I was introduced later to a frontier dance hall of the days of '49. This room represented Nick the rough neck.

Except for the corridor I have spoken of, it occupied the whole of the central block of the house, a wide, low room lined with rough logs in which little crooked windows had been set. There was a bar at one end, and a rude stage at the other, with a gaudy painted curtain and a row of footlights behind leaning tin reflectors. It all made a piquant background for the elegant company of Nick's guests.

Not that all the company was elegant. The best looking and most attractive of the sporting element mixed with the guests; jockeys, airplane mechanics, vaudeville performers, and young pugilists. I saw the aristocratic Mrs. Welch Goadby talking to a horse trainer in a fawn colored topcoat. The smartest people in Newport angled for invitations to the Dump because they thought they saw life there.

Nick Van Tassel naturally was the head and front of the show. He looked princely in evening clothes.

He sat at our table, scornful and good humored. It made me savage every time I looked at him. I could feel my finger nails growing. I wished that I were beautiful so that I could put him in his place.

There was a black face jazz band all rigged out like old time minstrels in striped satin suits and wing collars with points sticking out beyond their ears. Their music was as smooth as egg nogg. At intervals girls came out on the stage dressed like soubrettes of the period, and sang exaggerated sentimental songs. The audience guyed them, but they didn't mind. It was part of the comedy. A make believe sheriff acted as master of ceremonies—an immensely tall man with a broad brimmed hat and a pair of six shooters at his waist.

“Childish, isn't it?” drawled Nick to Mme. Storey; “but it seems to amuse them.”

And makes an effective blind for your real business, I thought.

“A little too realistic,” murmured Mme. Storey, glancing at the guns.

“Property guns,” said Nick. “Wooden.”

I wondered.

Some friends of Mrs. Lysaght's presently joined us, and Nick drifted away. I watched him moving among the tables with his insolent smile. Everybody made room for him, but he passed on with a wisecrack. He was never at a loss. After a somewhat aimless course around, he went through the door. After a moment or two the tall, handsome Ann Livingston followed him out, and I wondered if this had any significance. At the dinner table they had seemed like good pals, ragging each other unmercifully.

At this moment I happened to catch sight of the face of Evelyn Suydam, the charming little blonde I had met at Mrs. Lysaght's. She was at the next table but one, and I had picked her out as one of the gayest of the gay. But now for a second I surprised her big blue eyes fixed on the door with a desperate look. I pitied her. I could wish no worse fate to a woman than to fall in love with Nick Van Tassel. Immediately afterward she was laughing again.

A demon of restlessness seemed to possess the crowd. They milled around, drifting in and out; nobody did one thing for long. Some danced, some played faro or shot crap on the dancing floor; some merely made a racket.

In a few minutes Nick was back again, bringing a young man to our table. Mrs. Lysaght and her friends got up to dance. The newcomer was introduced as Bill Kip. He was as lean and handsome as a race horse. Nick left him at our table and went away again. Bill was every inch a dancer, and I was a little surprised when Mme. Storey pleaded fatigue.

Bill sat down and made amusing conversation.

Presently Colonel Franklin, an old friend of Mme. Storey's, hove in the offing, and she eagerly summoned him. “Run along. Bill,” she said, offhand. “I'll see you later.” I suppose I betrayed my surprise in my face. She shaped the word “spy” with her lips. Bill went away unabashed, and sat down at the same table with Evelyn Suydam. He presently had them all laughing there, but I noticed that he was watching our every move.

Colonel Franklin was a member of the Knickerbocker Club, and a considerable figure in society.

“Dick, you're the very man I want,” said Mme. Storey. “Stand by me, old fellow. I need one like you to keep me in countenance in this madhouse.”

He sat down obediently, but a little mystified. “Yours to a cinder, Rosika.”

“Talk to me,” she said.

He was a nice man, but not very quick on the up take. “What about?” he asked.

“Oh, Shakespeare and the musical glasses.”

He laughed as if she had made a priceless joke.

Next to Nick Van Tassel, Mme. Storey was the chief attraction for all the eyes in the room. Whenever new people came in you could see the whispers go back and forth: “That's Rosika Storey, my dear.”

“No!” The servants were no less impressed. This was shortly after the Jacmer Touchon case, and every newspaper reader had followed that.

During the dancing a page from the front door came to the table, saying that Mme. Storey was wanted on the phone. Bill Kip was watching us, and she said, with a careless shrug: “Oh, I can't be bothered now”; adding, in a lower tone, “Take the number and say that I will call up directly.”

When the dancing stopped, two or three minutes later, she took advantage of the confusion as people returned to their seats, and arose saying, “Take us out for a breath of air, Dick.”

We avoided meeting Mrs. Lysaght and her friends, who were heading back to the table. I ought to say that Mrs. Lysaght knew we had not come to Newport for the social season; but she was a wise woman and a good friend to my employer; she preferred not to be told anything about our real business.

As we left the dance hall a girl came out on the stage and started singing “The Face on the Barroom Floor” amid hoots and catcalls from the audience, and the banging of glasses on the tables.

In the corridor Mme. Storey whispered, “Wait for me out in front,” and disappeared.

Outside the front door there was a brick paved terrace with a balustrade. Below, Nick's landing field stretched with a gentle slope down to the Sakonnet, which was not a true river here, but a wide arm of the sea. The riding lights of many little yachts gleamed against the dark water. After the uproar and the tobacco smoke inside, the starry night was as peaceful as a benediction.

We were not permitted to enjoy it long. Mme. Storey rejoined us, sniffing appreciatively. “What good cigars you smoke, Dick! Have you plenty in your pocket?”

“Yes, my dear, but....”

She urged us toward the steps. “I want you to do something for me, old fellow. Walk up and down the drive, out of sight of everybody, smoking your cigars until we come back. It is twenty minutes to eleven. We'll be back at eleven twenty if all goes well. You need not wait longer than that. I want you for an alibi, my dear. A man like you is above suspicion.”

“Certainly, Rosika”—the gallant colonel's voice sounded a little flabbergasted—“but, my dear girl....”

“Can't stop to explain now. Later, perhaps.”

We had left the crowd behind us. Taking my arm, she fairly raced me to the spot where we had left the car parked. Benny Abell, dressed up in a chauffeur's uniform, was in the driver's seat. Benny was a small man with an admirable poker face and nerves of steel.

“Back to Newport, Benny,” she said. “And step on it!”

It was about ten minutes' drive to town. As we sped along the road she said, both for Benny's benefit and mine: “The telephone call was from Mrs. Howard Van Tassel. She said they had just received a command over the telephone to do up the money in a paper packet, and give it to Dickerman, Mr. Van Tassel's valet, on the stroke of eleven. Dickerman is to carry it down the drive to the front gates and hand it in the window of a car that will pass in the road outside.”

“Do you think this Dickerman is in with the gang?” I asked.

“It is unlikely. He has been waiting on Mr. Van Tassel for thirty five years, and every circumstance of his life is known to the family. However, we'll see.” Switching on the dome light for a moment, she consulted her watch. “Quarter to. We have lost a precious ten minutes. Unfortunately, I don't know which way the car will be heading, so I must lay a trap for it at each side of the house....Did you rent the cars as I told you, Benny?”

“Yes, madam. Three cars. They are parked in Mount Vernon Street with Crider, Stephens, and Scarfe at the wheels.”

“Two will be enough. But let the men double up on the front seats. Let Crider take his brother, and Morrison go with Stephens....Are you all thoroughly familiar with the neighborhood of the Van Tassel place?”

“Yes, madam. I spent the afternoon walking about. Borrowed a dining room girl from the Perry House to make it look more natural. But there are plenty of rubber necks in Newport. I didn't attract no notice. Afterwards, I passed it all on to the boys, and drew them a map.”

“Good!”

“The Howard Van Tassel place is called Balmoral and the entrance is on Ochre Point Avenue, a quiet street,” he went on. “The grounds are extensive, above five acres I should say, and run to the edge of the cliffs behind the house. Just below the level of the grounds, at the back, a public walk runs along. They call it the cliff walk. On either side of the Van Tassel place there's another big house in its own grounds—the Lawrence mansion to the south, and the Bleeckers' to the north.”

“Are those houses occupied at present?”

“Yes, madam; both occupied for the season.”

“I noticed some handsome ornamental gates directly opposite the Van Tassels'. Who lives there?”

“J. Warner Van Zile.”

“Is the family in residence?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Is the Van Zile house visible from the street?”

“No, madam; the driveway winds in behind the shrubbery.”

“Good!...No streets cross Ochre Point Avenue, but several run into it from the west. What are the streets to the north and to the south of the Van Tassel place?”

“Leroy Avenue and Shepard Avenue, madam.”

“Let Crider wait in Leroy and Stephens in Shepard, each near the corner of Ochre Point Avenue with his car heading east. Their instructions are exactly the same. Let them wait in front of a house, if possible, and shut off their engines. At three or four minutes past eleven a car will pass along Ochre Point Avenue toward the Van Tassels'. Whichever man it passes will follow it. He is to obtain the license number, to find out where it goes if he can, and he must get a good look at the man who drives and the man who rides in the rear if it is a sedan. Make sure that all our men have flashlights.”

“Suppose there is a chase, madam, and the police interfere?”

“Let our men call on the police to help them, and continue the chase. They can trump up some charge against the man ahead, and then make believe to be mistaken when they overtake him. I don't want anybody arrested, but my men must be able to identify the racketeers when confronted with them later.”

“Yes, madam; and what's my job?”

“Everything will be over at the Van Tassel place by ten minutes past eleven. Leave this car parked in Mount Vernon Street, and bring the third hired car through Ochre Point Avenue to pick up Bella and me.”

“Yes, madam.”

In the center of Newport we alighted from our car—we made sure we were not followed into town—and engaged a taxi. Mme. Storey told the driver to take us to the Warner Van Zile residence. She paid him at the foot of the steps, and let him drive away before she rang the bell. To the manservant who opened the door she said:

“Is this Mr. Howard Van Tassel's residence?”

“Why, no, madam. Mr. Van Tassel lives on the other side of the avenue. The gates are opposite our gates.”

Mme. Storey affected great surprise. “The taxi driver brought us here.”

“I can't understand it, madam. They all know the Van Tassel place.”

“He must have been drunk.”

“Shall I call another taxi for you?”

“Oh no, thank you! If it's just across the way it isn't worth while.”

We returned down the steps, and the door was closed. It was perfectly dark in the grounds. We had a minute or two to spare, and we concealed ourselves in the shadow of the shrubbery until we heard a church clock strike eleven. Then we proceeded toward the gates.

When they came into view, we separated, Mme. Storey taking one side of the driveway, and I the other. We walked on the grass and took care not to expose ourselves to the rays of an electric light hanging in the avenue between the two pairs of gates. Mme. Storey concealed herself behind one great stone post at the entrance, and I behind the other. My particular job would be to watch Dickerman, the valet, when he appeared opposite. If he did not appear, we would know that he had pocketed the money.

This was not the kind of task that I enjoyed. The beating of my heart nearly suffocated me while I stood there waiting. Less than a minute perhaps. It was as still as if we were buried in a forest. Suddenly I heard a slight click behind me, and whirling around, was just in time to see a flashlight thrown across the road on Mme. Storey. She turned instinctively, and her face was strongly illumined in the light. It was then thrown on me. Just a flash and darkness. A shrill whistle pierced the silence.

Mme. Storey came running across the drive.

“Seize him! Seize him!” she cried, for I was the nearer.

In the actual presence of danger all fear left me. I sprang, and succeeded in grasping an arm in the dark, but it was wrenched away with such violence that I was thrown full length on the grass.

And so he got away. He must have been familiar with every bush and tree, because he made not a sound.

My employer's chagrin was deep and bitter. “No car will come now,” she said. “They have beaten us at our own game. Did you get a glimpse of this man?”

“Just a vague shape in the darkness,” I said. “A slender figure, fairly tall. It was a man's rough coat that I grasped, but the arm inside felt like a woman's.”

“Very likely,” she said.

Nothing happened, of course. The valet, Dickerman, appeared through the gates opposite with the packet in his hand, and hung around, waiting. He was still there when Benny Abell came through the street to pick us up. Dickerman was prepared to pass the packet through the window of our car, but Mme. Storey, sticking her head out of the window, told him to take it back to his master. He was one astonished valet.

“Take us back to our car in Mount Vernon Street,” said Mme. Storey to Benny.

She was bitterly silent as we rode. Thinking to cheer her, I said, “Well, anyhow, we saved the Van Tassels fifty thousand dollars.”

“Quite,” she said, dryly. “But suppose the letter writer carries out his threat?”

“Surely he wouldn't kill the goose that lays the golden eggs,” I said, with a sinking heart.

“I don't know. It depends on how many geese he has on his string. He may be compelled to sacrifice this one to keep the others in line.”

I shivered inwardly. This was a possibility I didn't want to face.

Ten minutes later we arrived at the Dump, having been gone just three quarters of an hour. The smooth syncopation of the jazz band was coming through the open windows, and the tall figure of Colonel Franklin with his cigar waited in the drive.

“Thank God!” he said, fervently, as we got out. I'm sure I don't know what he thought we had been up to. “You are all right, Rosika?”

“Quite,” she said dryly. “Please take us back to the dance.”

He gave us each an arm. He was a nice man.

As we entered the foggy, noisy dance hall with the black face musicians cutting capers in their satin suits. Nick Van Tassel hastened to meet us with his infernal grin. So much self assurance seemed inhuman. “Here you are!” he said to Mme. Storey. “I've been looking for you everywhere!”

Liar! I thought. You haven't been back here long!

“Won't you dance?” he said.

“Charmed!” said Mme. Storey, with a serene smile.

She floated away on his arm, and I danced with Colonel Franklin.