Читать книгу The Gracie Allen Murder Case - Willard Huntington Wright - Страница 6

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(Saturday, May 18; 8 p.m.)

The Domdaniel café, situated in West 50th Street near Seventh Avenue, had for many years attracted a general and varied clientele. The remodeling of the large old mansion in which the café was housed had been tastefully achieved, and much of the old air of solidity and durability remained.

From either side of the wide entrance to the ends of the building ran a narrow open terrace attractively studded with pseudo-Grecian pots of neatly-trimmed privet. At the western end of the house a delivery alley separated the café from the neighboring edifice. At the east side there was a paved driveway, perhaps ten feet wide, passing under an ivy-draped porte-cochère to the garage in the rear. A commercial skyscraper at the corner of Seventh Avenue abutted on this driveway.

It was nearly eight o’clock when we arrived that mild May evening. Lighting a cigarette, Vance peered into the shadows of the porte-cochère and the dimly-lighted area beyond. He then sauntered for a short distance into this narrow approach, and gazed at the ivy-covered windows and side door almost hidden from the street. In a few moments he rejoined me on the sidewalk and turned his seemingly casual attention to the front of the building.

“Ah!” he murmured. “There’s the entrance to Señor Mirche’s mysterious office which so strangely inflamed the Sergeant’s hormones. Probably a window enlarged, when the old house was remodeled. Merely utilitarian, don’t y’ know.”

It was, as Vance observed, an unpretentious door opening directly on the narrow terrace; and two sturdy wooden steps led down to the sidewalk. At each side of the door was a small window—or, I should say, an opening like a machicolation—securely barred with a wrought-iron grille.

“The office has a larger window at the side, overlooking the tessellated driveway,” said Vance; “and that, too, is closely grilled. The light from without must be rather inadequate when, as the Sergeant seems to think, Mr. Mirche is engaged in his nefarious plottin’s.”

To my surprise, Vance went up the wooden steps to the terrace and casually peered through one of the narrow windows into the office.

“The office appears to be quite as honest and upright inside as it does from out here,” he said. “I fear the suspicious Sergeant is a victim of nightmares. . . .”

He turned and looked across the street at the rooming-house. Two adjoining windows on the second floor, directly opposite the small corner door of the Domdaniel were dark.

“Poor Hennessey!” sighed Vance. “Behind one of those sombre squares of blackness he is watchin’ and hopin’. Symbolic of all mankind. . . . Ah, well, let’s not tarry longer. I have amorous visions of a fricandeau de veau Macédoine. I trust the chef has lost none of his cunning since last I was here. Then, it was really sublime.”

We walked on to the main entrance, and were greeted in the impressive reception-hall by the unctuous Mr. Mirche himself. He seemed well pleased to see Vance, whom he addressed by name, and turned us over to the head-waiter, pompously exhorting our cicerone that we be given every attention and consideration.

The rejuvenated interior of the Domdaniel had a far more modern appearance than did the exterior. Withal, much of the charm of another day still lingered in the panels of carved wood and the scrolled banisters of the stairway, and in a wide fireplace which had been left intact at one side of the huge main room.

We could not have selected a better table than the one to which we were led. It was near the fireplace, and since the tables along the walls were slightly elevated, we had an unobstructed view of the entire room. Far on our right was the main entrance, and on our left the orchestra stand. Opposite us, at the other end of the room, an archway led to the hall; and beyond that, almost as if framed in the doorway, we could see the wide carpeted stairs to the floor above.

Vance glanced over the room cursorily and then gave his attention to ordering the dinner. This accomplished, he leaned back in his chair and, lighting a Régie, relaxed comfortably. But I noted that, from under his half-closed eyelids, he was scrutinizing the people about us. Suddenly he straightened up in his chair, and leaning toward me, murmured:

“My word! My aging eyes must be playing tricks on me. I say, peep far over on my right, near the entrance. It’s the astonishing young woman of the citron scent. And she’s having a jolly time. She is accompanied by a youthful swain in sartorial splendor. . . . I wonder whether it is her explorin’ escort in Riverdale, or the more serious teetotaler, Mr. Burns. Whoever it is, he is being most attentive, and is pleased with himself no end.”

At once I recognized the elegant young man of whom I had caught a glimpse as we rounded the turn on Palisade Avenue on our way back to the car. I informed Vance that it was undoubtedly Mr. Puttle.

“I’m in no way surprised,” was his response. “The young woman is obviously following the approved and time-honored technique. Puttle will receive, alas! an overwhelming percentage of her favors until the really important moment of final decision is at hand. Then, I opine, the beneficiary will be the neglected Burns.” He laughed softly. “The chicaneries of amour never change. If only Burns himself were on the scene tonight, separate and apart, glowerin’ with jealousy, and eatin’ out his heart!” He smiled with wistful amusement.

His glance roved about the room again as he puffed lazily on his cigarette. Before long his eyes rested quizzically on a man alone at a small table near the far corner.

“Really, y’ know, I believe I have found our Mr. Burns, the dolorous hypotenuse of my imagin’ry triangle. At least the gentleman fulfills all the requirements. He is alone. He is of a suitable age. He is serious. He sits at a table placed at just the right angle to observe his strayin’ wood-nymph and her companion. He is watching her rather closely and seems displeased and jealous enough to be contemplating murder. He has no appetite for the food before him. He has no wine or other alcoholic beverage. And—he is actually glowerin’!”

I let my gaze follow Vance’s as he spoke, and I observed the lonely young man. His face was stern and somewhat rugged. Despite the sense of humor denoted by the upward angle of his eyebrows, his broad forehead gave the impression of considerable depth of thought and a capacity for accurate judgment. His gray eyes were set well apart, and engaging in their candor; and his chin was firm, yet sensitive. He was dressed neatly and unostentatiously, in severe contrast with the showy grandeur of Mr. Puttle.

During an intermission in the floor show the lone young man in question rose rather hesitantly from his chair and walked with determined strides to the table occupied by Miss Allen and her companion. They greeted him without enthusiasm. The newcomer, frowning unpleasantly, made no attempt to be cordial.

The young woman raised her eyebrows with a histrionic hauteur altogether incongruous with the elfish cast of her features. Her companion’s manner was dégagé and palpably condescending—his was the rôle of the victor over a conquered and harassed enemy. His effect upon Burns—if it was Burns—must have been exceedingly gratifying to him. Combined with the young woman’s simulated disdain, it perceptibly enhanced the interloper’s gloom. He made an awkward gesture of defeat, and, turning away, went despondently back to his table. However, I noticed that Miss Allen shot several covert glances in his direction—which suggested that she was far from being the indifferent damsel she had pretended to be.

Vance had watched the little drama with delighted interest.

“And now, Van,” he said, “the canvas of young love is quite complete. Ah, the eternally sadistic, yet loyal, heart of woman! . . .”

Fifteen or twenty minutes later Mirche, beaming and bowing, came into the dining-room from the main entrance hall, and passed on toward the rear of the room to a small table just behind the orchestra dais, at which one of the entertainers sat. She was a blond and dashingly handsome woman whom I knew to be the well-known singer Dixie Del Marr.

She greeted Mirche with a smile which seemed more intimate than would be expected from an employee to an employer. Mirche drew out the chair facing her and sat down. I was somewhat surprised to note that Vance was watching them closely, and felt that this was no idle curiosity on his part.

I turned my gaze again to the singer’s table. Dixie Del Marr and Mirche had begun what appeared to be a confidential chat. They were leaning toward each other, evidently wishing to avoid being overheard by those about them. Mirche was emphasizing some point, and Dixie Del Marr was nodding in agreement. Then Miss Del Marr made some answering remark to which he, in turn, nodded understandingly.

After a brief continuation of their conversation in this overt, yet secretive, manner, they both sat back in their chairs, and Mirche gave an order to a passing waiter. A few moments later the waiter returned with two slender glasses of rose-colored liquid.

“Very interestin’,” murmured Vance. “I wonder. . . .”