Читать книгу The Gracie Allen Murder Case - Willard Huntington Wright - Страница 5

Table of Contents

(Saturday, May 18; 5:30 p.m.)

The girl leaned forward, and looked at Vance with impulsive eagerness.

“But I forgot: I’m just dying to know what you were doing on the other side of the wall. I do hope it was exciting. I’m very romantic, you know. Are you romantic? I mean, I just love excitement and thrills. And it’s so thrilling and exciting along here—especially with that high wall. I know you must have been having a simply wonderful adventure of some kind. All kinds of thrilling and exciting things happen inside of walls. People don’t just build walls for nothing, do they?”

“No—rarely.” Vance shook his head in pretended earnestness. “People generally have a very good reason for building walls, such as: to keep other people out—or, sometimes, to keep them in.”

“You see, I was right! . . . And now tell me,” she pleaded, “what wild, exciting adventure did you have there?”

Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette.

“Really, y’ know,” he said with a mock seriousness, “I’m afraid to breathe a word of it to anyone. . . . By the by, just how exciting do you like your adventures?”

“Oh, they must be terribly exciting—and dangerous—and dark—and filled with the spirit of revenge. You know, like a murder—maybe a murder for love. . . .”

“That’s it!” Vance slapped his knee. “Now I can tell you everything—I know you’ll understand.” He lowered his voice to an intimate, sepulchral whisper. “When I came dashing so ungracefully over the wall, I had just committed a murder.”

“How simply wonderful!” But I noticed she edged away from him a bit.

“That’s why I was running away so fast,” Vance went on.

“I think you’re joking.” The girl was at her ease again. “But go on.”

“It was really an act of altruism,” Vance continued, seeming to take genuine enjoyment in his fantastic tale. “I did it for a friend—to save a friend from danger—from revenge.”

“He must have been a very bad man. I’m sure he deserved to die and that you did a noble deed—like the heroes of olden times. They didn’t wait for the police and the law and all those things. They just rode forth and fixed everything up—just like that.” She snapped her fingers, and I could not help thinking of Markham’s sarcastic allusion to Vance’s conclusive “lirp” the previous evening.

Vance studied her in sombre astonishment.

“‘Out of the mouth of babes——’” he began.

“What?” Her brow furrowed.

“Nothing, really.” And Vance laughed under his breath. . . . “Well, to continue with my dark confession: I knew this man was a very dangerous person, and that my friend’s life was in peril. So I came out here this afternoon, and back there, in yon shady wood, where no one could see, I killed him. . . . I am so glad you think I did right.”

His fabricated story, based on his conversation with Markham the night before, fitted in well with the girl’s unexpected request for an exciting adventure.

“And what was the murdered man’s name?” she asked. “I hope it was a terrible name. I always say people have just the names they deserve. It’s like numerology—only it’s different. If you have a certain number of letters in your name, it isn’t like having a different number of letters, is it? It means something, too. Delpha told me.”

“What names do you especially like?” Vance asked.

“Well, let me see. . . . Burns is a pretty name, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “Incidentally, it’s Scotch——”

“But George isn’t a bit Scotch,” the girl protested indignantly. “He’s awfully generous.”

“No, no,” Vance hastened to assure her. “Not Scotch like that. I was going to say that it’s Scotch for ‘brook’ or ‘rivulet’. . . .”

“Oh, water! That’s different. You see, I was right!” she chirped; then nodded sagely. “Water! That’s George! He never drinks—you know, liquor. He says it affects his nose, so he can’t smell.”

“Smell?”

“Uh-huh. George has simply got to smell—it’s his job. Smelling odors, and knowing which one will sell big, and which one will make you a vamp, and which one is bad enough for hotel soap. He’s terribly clever that way. He even invented In-O-Scent—mixed it all himself. And Mr. Doolson—he’s our boss—named the new factory for George. Well, not exactly for George, but you know what I mean.”

Pride shone in her eyes.

“And oh!” she ran on; “George has five letters in his name—honest—just you count them—B-U-R-N-S. And I’ve got five letters in my last name, too. Isn’t that funny? But it means something—something important. It’s—it’s science. I vibrate to five. But six is awfully unlucky for me. I’m allergic—that’s what Delpha calls it—to six. It’s very scientific—really!”

“Mr. Puttle has six letters in his name,” said Vance, with a puckish glance at her.

“That’s right. I’ve thought of that. . . . Oh, well . . . But I forgot:—what was the name of the man you so bravely killed?”

“He had a very unpleasant name. He was called Benny the Buzzard.”

The girl’s head bobbed up and down vigorously in complete understanding.

“Yes, that’s a very bad name. It’s got—let me see—seven letters. Oh! That’s a mystical number. It’s sort of like Fate!”

“Well, he was sent to prison for twenty years.” Vance resumed his ingenious recital. “But he broke away and escaped only yesterday, and came back to New York to kill my friend.”

“Oh, then there will be headlines in all the papers tomorrow about your murdering him!”

“My word! I hope not.” Vance pretended a show of great concern. “I feel I have done a good deed, but I do hope, don’t y’ know, I am not found out. And I am sure you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?”

“Oh, no,” the girl assured him.

Vance heaved an exaggerated sigh, and slowly rose to his feet.

“Well, I must get into hiding,” he said, “before the police learn of my crime. Another hour or so and—who knows?—they may be after me.”

“Oh, policemen are so silly.” She pouted. “They’re always getting people into trouble. Do you know?—if everybody was good we wouldn’t need any policemen, would we?”

“No-o——”

“And if we didn’t have any policemen, we wouldn’t need to bother about being good, would we?”

“My word!” Vance murmured. “Do you, by any chance, happen to be a philosopher in disguise?”

She seemed astonished.

“Why, this isn’t a disguise. I only wore a disguise once—when I was a little girl. I went to a party disguised as a fairy.”

Vance smiled admiringly.

“I’m sure,” he said, “it was quite a needless costume. You’ll never need a disguise, my dear, to pass as a most charming fairy. . . . Would you care to shake hands with a dyed-in-the-wool villain?”

She put her hand in his.

“You’re not really a villain. Why, you only murdered one bad man. And thank you so much for the lovely new dress,” she added. “Did you really mean it?”

“I really did.” His sincerity dissipated any remaining doubt. “And good luck with Mr. Puttle—and Mr. Burns.”

She waved solemnly as we made our way down the dusty road toward our car. Vance was occupied with lighting another Régie, and as we turned the bend of the road I looked back. A dapper young man stood before the girl; and I knew that Mr. Puttle, the perfumery salesman, had returned from his fruitless quest for the nunnery.

“What an amazin’ creature!” murmured Vance, as we climbed into the car and drove off. “I really think she half believes my dramatization of the Sergeant’s fears and my ribbing of Markham. There’s naïveté, Van. Or, mayhap, a basically shrewd nature, plethoric with romance, striving to live among the clouds in this sordid world. And living by the manufacture of perfume. What an incredible combination of circumst’nces! And all mixed up with springtime—and visions of heroics—and young love.”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Quite,” he repeated. “That was definitely indicated. But I fear that Mr. Puttle’s long jaunts from upper Broadway will come to naught in the end. You noted that she anointed herself with the fragrant aroma of Mr. Burns’ nameless concoction, even when transiently countrysiding with Mr. Puttle. All signs considered, I regard the mixer and smeller of the subtle scents of Araby as the odds-on favorite to win the Lovin’ Cup.”