Читать книгу Masks Off at Midnight - Valentine Williams - Страница 3

Table of Contents

Had he but known it, the sandy-haired young man who stood in the shade just inside the open doors of the service station, all the events in Laurel that day were converging on the tragedy of the following night. Not that he could have guessed it from the placid spectacle the main street presented, spread out in the hot morning sunshine. Right and left, under his rather desultory regard, the street lay in the ban of one of those spells of emptiness which occasionally overtake the chief traffic artery of even a town of twenty thousand people. With tail uplifted a thin cat picked its way delicately across the tarmac to a gate opposite, where it paused to contemplate with an attitude of bored indifference the plump robins hopping about on the velvety turf beyond. The air was so still that one could hear the click as the traffic light at the foot of the hill conscientiously changed from green to red. From the shipyard under the bridge, where the Sound poked a long, glittering finger into the heart of the little Long Island town, came the rhythmic sound of hammering.

Across the street the door of the Laurel Real Estate Office opened and two men appeared, one, a heavy, red-faced man in a Palm Beach suit, wearing a hat. Their voices drifted over the stillness to the quiet figure in the garage entrance.

‘Well, petition or no petition,’ the red-faced man was saying, ‘I mean to stop it. And Waverly and the rest of them are with me...’

‘Quite, Mr. Tallifer,’ his companion replied—he was a small, thin-faced individual with a very deferential air. ‘But we’ll need to hurry—from what I hear he’ll lose no time in submitting it to the court...’

‘Leave that to me, Denny,’ the other rejoined firmly. ‘I’m going to the lawyer’s now. Mrs. Tallifer is shopping in town—she said she’d pick me up with the car at Jackson’s.’ He nodded to the other and stepped into the brilliant sunshine.

Catching sight of the figure in the garage doorway he waved his hand. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he called across the road. ‘We’re seeing you and your lady at lunch, don’t forget!’ ‘Rather!’ the young man called back, and Henry Tallifer, large and rather condescending, with his big head and features clear-cut in a solid way, like a Roman emperor’s, strolled composedly up the street.

The belfry of the Episcopalian Church, thrusting its clean, gray stones above the clump of maples at the top of the hill, began to strike. The walker halted and took out his watch. He liked to hear the belfry sound the hours—it was a Tallifer telling the town the time. Presently, on gaining the crest of the slope, he would stop again and contemplate the stone let into the foot of the tower—‘This belfry was presented by Henry Tallifer, in memory of his mother, Edith Parton Tallifer, benefactrix of this town, 1896.’

The clock struck eleven. At the garage entrance the young man, counting the strokes, smothered a yawn. He was bareheaded and the July sunshine struck high lights on his flaming copper hair and the lenses of the large, horn-rimmed spectacles he wore. His blue jacket was irreproachable, his white flannels and shoes, spotless; but he was the sort of young man who looks untidy in whatever he wears. If one had not known him for a stranger to Laurel, it would have been evident from the attitude of a youth in grubby jeans who, propped against the wall just inside the garage doors, jaws moving silently, was eyeing him with an air of rapt absorption.

For the time being the stranger paid no heed to this scrutiny. He was thinking that, although he was three thousand miles from London, Laurel seemed to be as sleepy as any country town at home. There, however, the resemblance ended. Laurel knew no Queen Anne façades, no gabled houses, no thatch. Its shops, for the most part, were replicas of the shops in the cheaper parts of New York. With their garish window displays, their winking electric signs, red and green and blue, their slot-machines and magazine-stands at the doors, they looked grotesquely out of place beside the old colonial houses which still lined the street in places.

It was the homes with their white-pillared fronts and long, cool verandahs and glimpses of lawn spread out under majestic, hoary trees, which lent Laurel a placid, Old-World atmosphere that defied the challenge of commerce. The shops, the brand-new Doric bank, the luncheon counter baldly announcing ‘Eats’ in Neon light, the drug-store placarded with ‘breakfast specials,’ they seemed like upstarts that had crept in by stealth and installed themselves there, impudently, overnight. Notwithstanding the shops, the new bank, and the traffic light, notwithstanding the fact that New York was no more than an hour away by car, Laurel was still what it was when George Washington, as the legend ran, had spent the night at Hazard House there—a drowsy, little country town.

The service station with its row of pumps and concreted forecourt was smart and up to date. Sundry sounds coming from within the large, well-lit interior—the clank of machinery belting, the scream of a lathe—showed that it was mechanically well-equipped. The young man, turning from his contemplation of the quiet street to survey it, found himself under the unyielding gaze of the worker in overalls. He was not embarrassed. With imperturbable mien he made a cursory inspection of himself and his attire and, seemingly satisfied with his scrutiny, gravely devoted himself to the task of staring the other out.

A grubby mechanic, a goblin-like figure of indeterminate age, emerged from the garage.

‘Are you Mr. Trevor Dene?’ he said hoarsely to the customer.

With a faintly bored expression the young man shifted his eyes from the youth in overalls. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied.

‘You’re wanted on the ’phone,’ the mechanic announced.

‘Is that you, Trevor?’ said a voice when Dene took the call—a girl’s voice, crisp and clear.

‘My senses’ idol!’ exclaimed Mr. Dene.

‘Are you aware that it’s eleven o’clock, that we promised to take those books over to Aunt Julia at Rosemount before lunch, and that we’re lunching with the Henry Tallifers at the Yacht Club at one?’

‘Nancy, sweetness, I...’

‘Does it really take an hour and a half to get a tire repaired, even in Laurel?’

‘My soul’s delight, I had a blow-out coming here. That makes two tires instead of one...’

‘I think it’s too bad of you to keep me waiting...’

‘I think we want a brace of new tires. But, hold your horses, honey, I shan’t be long now. The gnome in waiting’s on the job...’

‘Please hurry up. You know what Aunt Julia is. We can’t dash in and out as if we were going to a fire...’

‘Nancy...’

‘What?’

‘How long have we been married?’

‘Two years, isn’t it?’

‘No more, no less. Shall I tell you something extraordinary?’

‘No! Chase those garage people instead!’

‘I’ve run them ragged. Twice the gnome has knocked off work to have a good cry. He says he envies Uncle Tom who had only Legree to deal with...’

‘You’re an idiot!’

‘You’re sweet. I was going to tell you, we’ve been married for two years and the sound of your voice still sends shivers up my spine...’

‘Anyone would think I was Dracula. It’s odd, Mr. Dene, but I kind of like you, too. But I won’t if you keep me waiting much longer!’

‘I fly on the wings of desire!’ said Mr. Dene. And hung up.

Crouched on the garage floor the gnome-like mechanic was dealing flail-like blows at a tire. Outside the youth in overalls had not budged from his position. On Dene’s reappearance he proceeded to resume his prolonged and silent survey of the customer.

At length, shifting his gum, he said, ‘Stayin’ over to Heathfield, are you?’

‘That’s right,’ said Dene.

‘For the costoom ball tomorrow, likely?’

‘That’s right,’ said Dene again.

The youth’s eye rested on him stolidly. ‘Didn’t I see Miss Ayleswood as was, that used to live over to Rosemount, ridin’ by with Mrs. Waverly yesterday?’

‘It’s quite possible,’ Dene agreed. ‘She’s staying with the Waverlys at Heathfield, too!’

‘Married an Englishman, didn’t she?’

‘I believe so!’

The youth nodded impressively. ‘There was a piece in the paper about it. It said he was a famous detective. From Scotland Yard. Is he staying there, too?’

‘I believe so!’

The other removed his gum and dropped it in the road. ‘I never saw a Scotland Yard man, ’cept in the movies. What’s he like?’

Dene shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. You see, he’s mostly in disguise...’

The youth stared at him. ‘No kiddin’?’

‘No kidding!’ was the imperturbable rejoinder.

A young man in a light suit came swinging blithely up the hill. He was fair-haired and fresh of face with a serene, merry expression. As he passed he nodded to Dene’s companion. ‘Grand day, Harry!’ he called out.

‘Hiyya, Paul!’ the youth returned phlegmatically. ‘That’s Paul Kentish who edits our newspaper,’ he explained. ‘It’s he who’s getting up the show for the Waverlys’ ball...’ He pointed up the hill to where ‘The Laurel Advertiser’ was strung up in tarnished gold letters across the front of a two-story building. ‘That’s th’ office. The paper don’t come out but once a week—Saturdays. Thursdays and Fridays, Paul’s kinda busy, gittin’ his news together. Else he mostly always stops fer a talk. A feller picks up a heap o’ news round a gas station,’ he added self-consciously.

A small convertible had glided to a halt outside the garage. It was a woman’s car—the gay chintz covers, the nosegay of fresh roses in a silver holder on the dash, proclaimed as much. A dainty figure was at the wheel, in white with a floppy Leghorn hat and beige gauntlet gloves. A pair of vivid emerald-green eyes, oddly slanted, looked out coolly from under the broad-brimmed hat, eyes that went well with a milky skin and hair that had the rich, reddish glow of Australian gold.

The youth hurried forward.

‘Five gallons, please, Harry,’ the woman said.

‘It’s the high test you have, isn’t it, Mrs. Harrington? Or is it the regular?’

‘The high test, please!’ Expertly she backed her car towards the pump.

Her voice was low and thrilling. The Englishman was immediately conscious of its effortless allure which had galvanized the garage helper into flustered, servile activity. She gave Dene the briefest of glances and then fell to arranging her scarf; but in the instant in which their eyes met he felt the thrust of an unusual personality. With her dazzling skin and vivid colouring he found her as brilliant as a bird of paradise and reflected idly that in a small community of that kind a woman of her type might be as potentially dangerous as a packet of dynamite. She was expensively but quietly dressed, and evidently well-bred. He wondered who she was.

‘Has Mr. Hordern been by this morning, Harry?’ she asked as she paid the bill.

The youth shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, Mrs. Barrington. He didn’t catch the nine-seven, for I was down at the depot when it pulled out—that’s his regular train, ain’t it?’

She made no answer, but smiling at him absently, put the car in gear and drove away.

‘Who’s the pretty lady?’ Dene wanted to know.

The youth wagged his head knowingly. ‘Some baby, whew! That’s Mrs. Harrington. She’s a widow and lives in one of the bungalows up on the golf course...’

A long maroon Rolls was crossing the bridge. Effortlessly it shot up the hill. A man in a gray suit was inside, reading a newspaper, so that he failed to notice the youth’s rather shambling salute. It was a fantastically sumptuous car, a stream-lined cabriolet, powerfully engined, dark maroon in colour and gleaming with nickel plating. A chauffeur in smart plum-coloured livery, harmonizing with the general colour scheme of the car, was driving.

‘Nice bus,’ said Dene. ‘Who’s that?’

His companion chortled. ‘You ain’t been in Laurel long if you don’t know Brent Hordern...’

Dene swung round to gaze after the fast-receding car. ‘Was that Brent Hordern—Brent Hordern, the millionaire?’

‘Sure!’

‘But I know him. What’s he doing in Laurel?’

‘He lives here. Up at the Ridge House—after the Waverly place it’s about the biggest place round here!’

‘Well, I’m jiggered. What does he do?’

The youth sniggered. ‘He owns most of Laurel, I guess. This gas station is his, and the bank, and the power station, and a block of shops right here on the main street...’

‘You don’t tell me!’

‘Yeah, and I’ll tell you somep’n else, mister—he’ll put this old burg on the map before he’s through!’

He spoke boastfully as though Brent Hordern, in his fifteen-thousand-dollar Rolls, was something he owned and was proud of. For that the future is mercifully veiled from men’s eyes, neither he nor his listener divined that he spoke with the tongue of prophecy, that, ere forty-eight hours were run, the name of Brent Hordern and of the obscure Long Island township, where he was to meet his death, would be emblazoned on the front page of every newspaper in the country. But now, the gnome appearing with the car, Dene paid his bill, and drove off at breakneck speed to Heathfield to pick up his wife.