Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  He picked up the evening paper, but did not look at it, his mind still centered on Harvey. It was tragic that he had set his heart on a woman so sure to wreck him when all that he needed for happiness was her exact opposite. A home-loving girl who would have lots of babies, puppies, and flowers and a place on Long Island—a girl like Louise, for instance, who had turned down two men better suited to make her happy to marry Ed Harris.

  As if his thoughts had furnished a cue, in answer to an imperative ring he threw down the paper and opened the door to admit his niece in person.

  Mrs. Edwards Harris, youngest child of Sam’s eldest brother and the only girl in a family rich in boys, had been systematically spoiled from the day of her birth. After her father and mother died, her brothers had scattered. Two to South America, one to a diplomatic post in Italy, and one to California. Louise was sent to hoarding-school, not soon enough, however, to have any effect on an imperious temper that wanted what it wanted—and at once. School finished, Sam, as her guardian, arranged that a cousin should bring her out and gave the hall expected of a prosperous bachelor uncle. He was really warmly attached to his ward and cannot he said to have rejoiced when she announced her intention of marrying Ed Harris, mildly pointing out that Ed and she had few tastes in common; but he was not surprised that all his arguments were brushed aside, and he gave her away, all ivory satin and Irish point lace, at a very elaborate church wedding, with a feeling of relief that that responsibility was now shifted to other shoulders. Louise looked like a blond angel and he would have allowed no one else to criticize her.

  Indeed, only occasionally did he confess to himself that he would feel easier when she had a family of children at her heels to keep her from scrutinizing too closely certain of Ed’s contacts. For Ed was a very handsome, very popular customers’ man and bond salesman at a fashionable broker’s, and it fell to his lot, not altogether unwelcomed, to keep certain of the more difficult plungers among the ladies as happy, contented and, above all, ever-hopeful as was possible with the market what it was.

  Louise came in now, very regal in an ermine evening wrap, and before she took it off Sam sensed something wrong. Too accustomed to her moods to acknowledge it at once, he switched on more electricity and, taking her lightly by the shoulder, swung her around to face the glare.

  “Let a fellow look at you, Lou. Am I mistaken or are you particularly gorgeous tonight?”

  Louise smiled unwillingly as she handed him her furs, bag, and white satin mask.

  “Of course I’m gorgeous. I’m going to this fancy-dress ball as—can you guess, Sammie?”

  Sam stood off from her and regarded her critically. The style of her dress was of a date before his time. Her flaxen-yellow hair was drawn to the top of her head in puffs and adorned with a diamond star, once her grandmother’s. Her waist was sharply nipped in; her gown of pale blue silk, cut very low to display a plump and pretty neck, was over-ornamented and draped in panniers on the hips and at the back in a way most mysterious to a mere man; and wherever she could, Louise wore jewels. Her Angers, her wrists, her throat, across the front of her bodice, sparkled and glittered.

  A trifle too rounded perhaps for present-day styles, with her pale golden hair, her baby-blue eyes and apple-blossom skin, she had chosen wisely to go as——

  “Lillian Russell!” Sam exclaimed.

  Louise was gratified. She clapped her hands lightly.

  “You’re good, Sammie,” she complimented him. “So you think I’ll pass?”

  “Pass? You’ll take the shine out of everyone else. Give your aged uncle a kiss. He’s proud of you.” In his bones Sam felt that this was only a respite, yet he hoped by cajolery to put Louise in a better temper.

  And, as was to be expected, Louise saw through him.

  “No use trying to flatter me, Sammie. I stopped in here especially to tell you something you won’t want to hear.” She paused without lifting her eyes to his, then went on deliberately, her mouth settling into hard lines that made her look years older. “You’re not a woman, so you won’t say, T told you so’; but I’m about fed up with your young friend, Ed Harris.”

  “Tough luck for Ed,” Sam said, keeping his voice carefully free of emphasis. “What’s the special complaint?”

  “Now don’t jump, Sammie. You’re going to like this even less than the first statement. The special complaint is his very marked devotion to your old love, Consuela Thorne.”

  Chapter II

  Sam was not so surprised as Louise had anticipated and, to hide his prior knowledge, rather overacted his astonishment.

  “Really, Lou, isn’t it a little silly to flare up like that about an affair that is very plainly pure business on Ed’s part? Connie is a heavy plunger. She represents a steady income to the office. It’s up to him to keep her in a good humor. It wouldn’t get him anywhere with the firm if she took her account to another broker.”

  “She won’t,” Louise broke in, a sneer disfiguring her pretty face. “When a woman’s beginning to be passée, there’s no measure to her infatuation with a younger man.”

  Her uncle laughed naturally and spontaneously. However Ed might appear to his jealous wife, Sam had no illusions about that facile young man, and the picture of Connie madly in love with Ed Harris or anyone else of his caliber was to his mind too fantastic in its absurdity; as foolish as the suggestion that at thirty Consuela must be considered on the shelf.

  “Listen, Lou. You will acknowledge that I know Connie Thorne better than you possibly can. And Harvey Thorne, who had opportunities to know her better still, once said to me that she reminded him of an icicle lit up by torchlight, flaming to the eye and ice beneath. She has a very level head and isn’t going to throw away enormous alimony for the sake of Ed’s beaux yeux.” (He did not tell her that he had just seen Harvey. He had no wish that Connie should hear of her late husband’s presence in the city through him, however indirectly.) “She may flatter Ed a bit for the sake of the tips on the market she wheedles out of him. Believe me, aside from that, she doesn’t take him seriously.”

  “That’s what you think, and it’s entirely Connie’s point of view you’re considering. Naturally, I’m more interested in the state of Ed’s affections and, since he takes her seriously, we are right back where we began this conversation. I’m sorry to annoy you, Sammie, but I propose to make all the trouble I can for your beloved Connie.”

  “I wish I’d been a trifle quicker in getting off to the club,” Sam burlesqued his thought. “You’re red-hot now over something. You’ll feel differently once you’ve cooled off.”

  “Poor dear, your niece is an awful nuisance, isn’t she?” Louise laughed, with a change of mood. “I’m sorry for you. Only, you know you couldn’t have gone out when I took the precaution to warn Sing that I was coming.”

  “You did?” Sam seized at once on any chance to further another subject. “The little rat never told me. I ought to wring his neck, though I must acknowledge that it’s most unusual. I never knew him to forget a message before.”

  “Exactly,” Louise suggested, dryly. “You never knew him to forget—which doesn’t mean that he never has. Far from it. I can recall at least three previous occasions. Take my advice, hang a tablet close to the telephone and order him to enter every call that comes in...

  And now, after this digression, let us return to our muttons; our black sheep, I ought to call them...I am furious. And in my place, you would be, too. Mrs. Thorne and Ed are going to this party in your penthouse in complementary costumes.”

  “What do you mean—complementary costumes?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Louise shrugged. “I was given to understand that neither one was complete without the other, when I suggested that Ed should go with me as Lillian Russell’s first husband—Perugini, or some such name. An Italian singer, wasn’t he? Ed said he couldn’t, having a prior engagement with Mrs. Thorne.” She ended on a choke that was dose to a sob.

  In his own mind Sam acknowledged that this
was carrying things too far. He wished that Louise had refused the invitation to this party, fearing a public flare-up when she met the pair of masqueraders. He had declined to go, finding such mummery boring and not sure what duties might turn up, but now began to reconsider. On the spot, his influence might suffice to keep Louise calm. Certain of his support, she might even be content to bide her time.

  “That’s annoying—hardly incriminating in a legal sense,” he began slowly, wary of a misstep. “Now here’s where I stand in the matter and it’s just where I stood on your wedding day. If you mean to part from Ed, I’ll back you up, only it’s got to be final. There must be no backing and filling. A divorce giving you the right to remarry must be secured. I want to see you out of New York in a house in the country. I want half a dozen grandnieces and nephews to lavish my depreciated dollars on. So you’ve got to keep calm and not give either of them an inkling of what you have in mind until we secure some real evidence. Are you game enough to do this? Because, if not, I wash my hands of you.”

  “I’m game,” Louise’s eyes sparkled; she knew the value of the proffered aid. “If you’ll help me, I’ll do exactly as you—“ The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her. “That’s probably Ed. He condescended to promise he’d meet me here.”

  “Remember,” Sam warned her, “you’re to do or say nothing to give yourself away. We don’t want any babbling about this affair before we’re ready.” This was all diplomatic, an endeavor to prevent an embarrassing scene. He still hoped that Louise’s resentment would exhaust itself if given time, being sure her complaint had no more serious grounds than thoughtlessness.

  “Trust me. I can keep my temper when I see a reason for doing it,” Louise averred as he opened the door.

  Consuela Thorne, the upper part of her features concealed by a black loup, stood in the elevator vestibule, and a more unwelcome visitor it would have been difficult to find.

  There was nothing Sam could do to prevent a meeting, and resigning himself to it on the ground that if a flare-up must come, it had better occur in the privacy of his apartment rather than in the crowded studio on the roof, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter.

  “Come in, Connie.” He tried to infuse something of his wonted hearty welcome into his voice and was amazed that Connie, usually so observant, did not sense the difference. Mrs. Thorne, however, was full of her own concerns and crossed the threshold gaily, taking off her loup to disclose a radiant face.

  “How disappointing you are, Sam!” She flashed a smile at him. “I hoped no one would recognize me.”

  As they entered the living-room side by side Louise came forward and, to Sam’s relief, greeted this new arrival as if they were the best of friends. (Mentally he registered a belief that the duplicity of womankind could not be measured. “They’d smile at you when they meant to stick a knife in your gizzard,” he phrased it, inelegantly, to himself.)

  In the brilliant light which he had not modified, Consuela made an amazing figure. Not wishing to stir Louise to anger, he expressed no admiration; and it was his niece who took up that task, fulfilling it with seeming enthusiasm.

  “Do let me look at you. But you are marvelous, Mrs. Thorne. Drawn by Botticelli, painted by Titian—I trust Ed will prove worthy of you.”

  Unconscious of double entendre, if one were intended, Consuela made her a deep curtsy, rising as lightly as a flower bowed by the wind.

  “To slip back gracefully over the additional century, a lady from the pages of the Decameron. Do you truly like me? I had a delightful time looking up the old costumes at the Metropolitan and the Library.”

  “You are too marvelous!” Louise spoke sincerely, and beyond doubt Connie, aglow with life and color and simply bubbling over with some inner joy, made an irresistible picture.

  This woman passée—past her prime—what was it Louise had said? Sam permitted himself an ironical grin. Beside her, his niece’s blond prettiness paled as a wax candle is outshone by an electric light. If Ed were really infatuated with Connie (which he still did not believe), Louise pitted against her, would have no chance.

  “And you, Sam? What do you say? I am avid for appreciation tonight. I’ve a serious reason for wishing to look my best.”

  “Let me take your cape and then we’ll see you in all your splendor.” He still felt it politic to avoid any expression of enthusiasm.

  At once she resisted his suggestion, drawing the short, full, velvet cape more closely across her breast.

  “No. I’m only staying here a minute. This party upstairs is to get under way early, as we unmask at midnight, and I’m only half the tableau. It can’t be fully revealed until we arrive at the penthouse...Oh, Sam, those two hopes of the architectural future are such bad judges of liquor! What they serve so innocently is only fit to be used in case of dire necessity as an antidote for snakebite. Won’t you be an angel and give us a decent cocktail before we go up? I’m sure Mrs. Harris needs a bracer as much as I do.”

  “Sing is out—“ Sam began, loath to leave the two women alone together.

  Consuela, who was all sparkle and did not seem at all in need of the requested bracer, gave a crow of delight.

  “Better and better,” she declared. “I know no one else who makes a cocktail to equal yours, and since repeal, they all seem to be worse rather than better. I fancy it’s the bought gin that lacks the proper sting. And this is my day. You can’t refuse me anything today.”

  “Why not?” Sam asked, not unnaturally, being a matter-of-fact person, and Louise listened for Consuela’s reply.

  “Haven’t you read the evening paper?” The newspaper, still in its folds and cast aside in a chair, answered for itself, and she seized on it to put it behind her. “Well, then, you shan’t until I’m gone. You’re to make that cocktail because you’ve always spoiled me, because we’ve always been friends through thick and thin, and always will be. It’s to be a sort of pledge between us.” Laughingly she pushed him toward the door into the pantry passage, and after another attempt at protest, although her words reminded him of his new sympathy for Harry, Sam gave in. There seemed to be no plausible excuse for a refusal.

  Once in the pantry, his path was beset with unforeseen difficulties. He was something of a stranger in his own kitchen quarters, where Sing was apt to make him feel an intruder, and he had to search to find the ingredients he required. There was no gin ready. To make the cocktails requested, he needed his own gin with his own specially compounded flavoring extract. Connie was too expert to be satisfied with any substitute. There was alcohol in plenty, that he laid his hands on almost immediately, and once he had mixed his gin he expected all to be plain sailing. A ring at the bell did not interrupt him, since Louise had been warned to admit Ed; but bottles of both French and Italian vermouth had to be opened; a hunt through the icebox revealed no limes, yet, knowing limes were there somewhere, his growing irritation made him persist in the search, prying into cupboard after cupboard and slamming doors in disgust, till he came across them by chance in a little bowl in the china-closet.

  Swearing never again to give Sing a night off, he assembled olives, pret-sticks, glasses and shaker on the tray and at last re-entered the living-room only to find it deserted.

  For a moment he suspected that some childish trick was to be played on him in retaliation for his delay. It hardly seemed possible that all his guests would leave without a word of farewell. He shook the cocktails vigorously and poured out a drink, thinking that would make them break cover. Nothing happened. He glanced into both his bedroom and the dining-room. No one was there and Louise’s wrap was gone from the foyer. Assuredly he was alone in the apartment.

  Naturally he was annoyed and in no mood for a solo cocktail party. However, the drinks had been made with care and he took the one he had poured out, pondering on his future movements. His conclusion was that there had probably been some sort of a row between the women, which it was now too late to prevent. In consequence his attendance at the masquerade would s
erve no good purpose. Once there, he might be forced to take sides openly, and if he was to be of use as a mediator, he must preserve an appearance of neutrality. Such being the case, he was free to go to the Club. Taking his hat, coat, and stick out of the closet, he put out all the lights save one in the living-room. Then he turned the switch for the vestibule, illuminating it brightly, and threw open his front door with an impatient jerk, slamming it sharply behind him. Only then did he realize that on the small Italian bench placed there to accommodate messengers Consuela was sitting with her usual nonchalant grace.

  Sam was indignant.

  “Honestly, Con,” he burst out, heatedly, “I’ll be damned if I know what you’re up to. I made the cocktails you asked for. You can go in there and drink them. Then take yourself off to your party. I’ve no more time to waste on you. I’m going out.” His outraged dignity demanded this much of a show of independence, and he waited, expecting some apology from Consuela. She knew, none better, how to make excuses that sounded plausible. Grimly he told himself that she had had plenty of practice.

  Through the holes in her mask he fancied that her eyes were regarding him mockingly and there was no reply of any kind. Plainly, she was playing a game with him and meant to do it in her own way.

  He stared at her coldly, determined not to let her propitiate him too easily when she made the move he confidently expected.

  Then it seemed to him that his blood congealed; his outraged nerves sent electric shivers racing over his body. He drew back, afraid to test what his eyes warned him was the ghastly truth.

  The velvet cloak, brilliantly blue as a kingfisher’s feathers, had fallen away, displaying over Consuela’s heart the protruding handle of a dagger, and beneath, on the delicate brocade of her costume, was a horrible, horrifying stain.

  Struck dumb and trembling, Sam bent closer and put out a shaking finger tip. Then he straightened, quite beside himself with anger. That was not blood; it was paint. And the dagger was a fake, having no blade. It was the heartless trick of an actress bent on making a sensation. It was abominable. It would have been bad enough to try such a hoax on a stranger. How dare she try to befool him?