Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  For a moment he was too enraged to speak to her.

  Yet how beautiful she was sitting there in that languidly graceful attitude, her red-gold head on its slender, rounded neck relieved against the primrose yellow of the wall, a shade which of a sudden took on a new significance because it was a fitting background for her subtle color scheme, in which blue, green, and gold achieved new harmonics. That was where she scored over other women. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a way of extending her beauty to her possessions and her surroundings.

  How quiet she was, waiting for him to exhaust himself in railing at her before she sprang up to hang on his arm and coax him back into a more genial humor. Perhaps Harvey was right in claiming, after all, that she was in fact an actress. With every moment he looked at her his anger was evaporating, while really this jest was too cold-blooded for excuse. His whole future would be wrecked by any such happening and Consuela, with her clear judgment, would be the first to realize that any scandal occurring in his quarters would infallibly mark the end of his career. She would visualize the newspapers, had it been a real tragedy, with MURDER AT THE POLICE COMMISSIONER’S screaming in headlines across the front pages.

  An experimentalist in the emotions, doubtless she had been curious to observe how he would react to such a shock.

  No, he would be in no hurry to forgive her. She had meant to give him this fright.

  “Listen, Connie”—he spoke with cold detachment—“I don’t like this game you are playing. Probably it’s very amusing from your point of view. I suppose I am deficient in a sense of humor. I confess it’s not the sort of joke I’m fond of. I’m running along. I’ll open the door into the apartment for you. It’s quite at your service. Sorry Sing’s out, but, as I said before, the cocktails are ready for you.”

  He turned away from her, fumbling for his latch-key, found it, and unlocked the door, even going so far in the interests of hospitality as to enter the foyer and switch on again the lights he had just extinguished. Then he went back to the vestibule.

  “I’m off,” he said, lightly. “I hope you enjoy your cocktail. I think it’s exactly as you like it. Don’t let it stand until the ice melts. Good night.”

  His finger was extended to press the button to summon the automatic elevator when again a cold chill ran over him. The figure on the bench was like a waxen image. He could detect no rise and fall of the bosom in breathing. Surely no living woman was ever as motionless as that form posed so lightly in the corner of the bench?

  Almost involuntarily he took a step toward her.

  “Con?” He whispered it, unaware that he did so. “Connie?” Still there was no response and he went nearer, trying to reassure himself by the thought that at last she was getting what she was playing for—a virtual confession that she had taken him in.

  Not knowing now whether to be angry or frightened, he put out his hand and gave her a gentle little shake.

  The equilibrium of the pose disturbed, her head fell forward and Sam’s grasp alone prevented the collapse of the whole body.

  Chapter III

  Shuddering, Sam set the body back in the corner of the bench, bracing it against the arm. He needed a moment when he was not touching it to regain control of himself; then he summoned his fortitude and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he bethought him of other tests to determine life, and held his watch with the crystal close to Connie’s carmined lips. There was no mist on the glass, yet he would not give up hope. He hastened into the living room to come back with a cocktail. A cocktail made at her imperious command.

  He offered this to her mouth, unaware that he was begging her to drink it, imploring her to make an effort for Sam, Sam who had always been so fond of her.

  The few drops he poured between her teeth ran out again and he knew the attempt to be futile.

  He stood erect, wondering what he ought to do next. Call a doctor? What use? Connie, so joyously vital and alive a short half-hour before, was now dead. Gone forever from the gay world she had so relished.

  Sam had long ceased to love her as a lover, but he had still loved her exuberant gaiety, and now he set his teeth hard and vowed to punish the hound who had done this deed. He gave no consideration to the possibility of a natural death, although he had seen no mark of violence. Delicate as she was to look at, Connie was never ill and never tired. She had been killed, how he did not know nor did it seem to matter. He never doubted that what he was looking at was the result of murder.

  Just then he heard the sound of the elevator starting from the entrance hall and, at that noise, for the first time since he had learned of her real fate, his thoughts reverted to his own career and the ruin discovery would spell for him. His future was in the balance; more, the future of the city he loved. He must decide on his course. If found with Connie’s body, he might even be accused of murdering her...His apartment was on the eighth floor.

  Before the elevator had reached the third he had made up his mind to give himself time to review the situation. Nothing was to be gained now by extreme haste. Stooping to set the cocktail glass beneath the bench where it would not readily be seen, his hand encountered something and mechanically his fingers closed on it. Presumably it was a possession of Connie’s. She was always dropping things for attendant swains to pick up, and nothing must be left behind to show that she had been there.

  He lifted her in his arms (so light she was, so pitifully light, even in death. What was it Harvey had said? ‘Bones like a bird’) and carried her into the foyer, where another bench received her; then, noiselessly, he shut the door into the vestibule and had turned off the electric switch before the elevator readied the floor below, standing with his ear to the crack until he was sure it was not going to stop. It was on its way to the penthouse, filled, no doubt, with hilarious guests. He caught the murmur of their voices and their merriment, diminishing as it ascended.

  Then he went into the living-room and collapsed into a chair.

  Rousing himself at last, he faced the unwelcome facts.

  This marked the end of all his unselfish plans for the betterment of the city. No public official, however guiltless, could survive the scandal that must follow the revelation of this crime. And in his case there was material for various injurious theories. Had he not once been jilted by the victim?

  He was in need of a stimulant to quicken his brain, sluggish from shock. The thought of the cocktails was distressing, but they were within reach and he was unequal to a search in the pantry for whisky and soda. He poured and gulped a cocktail and shortly felt a little better.

  He ought, he knew, to call Headquarters and ask that Inspector Dolan and his aides of the Homicide Squad be sent to him at mice. He reached for the telephone, then held his hand as a new horror presented itself.

  Without a realization that he was carrying anything, he had brought with him the small object that he had picked up under the bench and it now rested on the table between him and the telephone. Immaculate and innocent-looking, he yet drew back from it as though it were venomous. Louise’s little white satin loup!

  So it was Louise, his niece, who had done this frightful thing.

  He remembered her gusty tempers as a child. He recalled the concentrated bitterness of her tone when speaking of Connie. He remembered that her brothers had nicknamed her “the white Indian” because, incongruous as it seemed with her blond prettiness, she was implacable when roused. He recalled with horror how lightly he had thought that very evening that a girl might smile at you when ready to plunge a knife into you. He hadn’t meant it literally then. Now every new memory made it more sure that there had been trouble between the two women, after which Louise had killed Connie and fled, trusting him to protect her from the just retribution for her hasty act.

  And that, unquestionably, was exactly what he must do. He had no need of time to determine that. There was no doubt in his mind. He, who was bound and had vowed to see justice done in the city without fear or favor, must do his best at any cost to p
rotect the guilty. He dared not even salve his honor by resigning, because he must be in a position to know all that was discovered.

  How was he to set about it?

  First he must remove every trace of visitors. He took up the tray and went into the pantry, where deftly and quickly he washed the used dishes and glasses. He emptied the shaker down the sink and ran hot water to melt the ice in case Sing came in there before retiring, which he was hardly likely to do. The alcohol was in a five-gallon tin that concealed the amount used. The opened vermouth bottles betrayed that cocktails had been made. For a moment he was puzzled, then he filled the bottles up with the rest of the gin he had mixed. He would blow Sing up for not leaving gin prepared. Could say he had opened the vermouth, wanting a cocktail, before he discovered this lack. He put everything back in place and threw the skin of the lime he had squeezed, together with a cigarette stub or two he found marked with lipstick, down the toilet in the butler’s lavatory. He then turned on every light in the living-room in a search for anything else incriminating, to discover nothing.

  So far so good. It remained to dispose of the body and at once get speech with Louise. While he was at work cleaning up, he had puzzled out a plan of action and meant to go through with it.

  Hat and coat resumed, he was all ready for the next act in the drama when a violent ring at his doorbell made him jump nervously. That would never do. He must bring even his reflexes under control.

  “I am as jittery as a woman,” he thought, his ear again close to the crack.

  Ed’s jovial voice was clearly to be distinguished, and there were others with him.

  If admitted, Ed, who was proud of his connection with the Police Commissioner, was capable of sitting talking for an hour or more. Further than that he was persistent, he might camp in the vestibule for an indefinite period, and Sam was bent on disposing of that inanimate figure as quickly as possible.

  The boldest action to take would doubtless be the best. For the second time that evening Sam opened his door quickly and whipped out, closing it smartly behind him.

  Ed Harris and two friends, all in elaborate fancy-dress costumes, stood without; and Sam, glancing downward, why he could not have told, for the young gentlemen were already far advanced on a hilarious evening and had noted nothing, saw on his own shirt front a large spot of blood. Even before he sensed the full horror of this incriminating blot, he had instinctively buttoned his overcoat across his chest.

  “Here’s our young uncle, the distinguished Police Commissioner,” Ed announced. “I’ve brought m’ friends, Jim Cassatt and Bud Lauder, to have a cocktail with you, Sam.

  We’ve jus’ come from drinking the Princeton Club dry.”

  “I’m honored,” Sam said, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the party. Sing’s not in.”

  “Listen, Sammie, we’re not calling on Sing. I’ve not been out of kindergarten so long that this hand has lost its cunning. I’ll guarantee to produce an article that will give satisfaction to all parties.”

  “Sorry.” Sam almost forgot to be diplomatic. “I can’t go back with you. I’ve got a date.”

  “Who’s asking you to go back?’ Ed inquired, blandly. “Didn’t you hear me say I’d be bar-keeper? Hand over your keys. They’re all I want. We can get along without you if you’re such a grouch.”

  “Give you my keys and give New York a good laugh at the new Police Commissioner who can’t even get into his own house? No, thank you! Moreover, I can assure you on my •honor that there’s not a drop of gin in the place. Sing’s fault. He deserves to be confined to barracks for the rest of his time of service.” Sam moved toward the elevator, the others perforce following, when Ed suddenly doubled up with laughter.

  “Listen, you fellas!” He exclaimed, still chuckling. “This joke is certainly on me. I didn’t come here for a drink. There’ll he nothing else but upstairs. I came for m’wife. Now isn’t that amusing? A chap who doesn’t remember his own wife.”

  His companions also seemed to find this extremely funny, although one of them remarked owlishly that it wasn’t the first case of the kind he’d heard of, thus giving Sam a respite in which he decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “Louise?” he said, interrogatively. “Why come here for her? The poor girl’s probably waiting for you to fetch her from home.”

  “She certainly isn’t,” Ed replied. “I dressed early to go to the Club, but she said this morning that she’d meet me here.”

  “That was this morning,” Mr. Cassatt, upholstered, so far as Sam could determine, in the guise of a purple macaw, made his first contribution to the conversation. “ ‘S morning’ I said I never would take another drink as long as I lived.” He readjusted his beak morosely.

  “And now look at the damn’ thing!” Mr. Lauder remarked in mild wonder. “Trouble is, women aren’t logical like us. Shouldn’t ever expect ‘em to do what they say.”

  “Le’s all go to Mutt and Jeff’s brawl,” Mr. Cassatt suggested as a brilliant new idea. “They’ll be surprised to see us. Right here this might as well be a prohibition state, an’ I’m a conscientious wet. I was brought up on the bottle.”

  Sam managed a laugh. “Come on, we’ll all go,” he said.

  Ed, however, held him back.

  “Can’t let you disgrace the family by displaying ignorance,” he pointed out. “Even Lauder’s disguised as a bootlegger in memory of the dear dead days. Maybe you thought that was his own nose. ‘Tisn’t. His is worse. Fancy dress obligatory. Said so on the invitations.”

  “Sure it’s obligatory.” Sam reached into a pocket and pinned on a badge. “I expect to take first prize, if there is one. I’m going as a Police Commissioner disguised as a gentleman.”

  This passed muster as a witticism, and all crowded into the elevator, where Sam folded his handkerchief cater-cornered and tied it around his head below the eyes.

  That blood spot—that ghastly blood spot on his shirt. If anyone discovered it how could he explain it? Even a cut when shaving would not he so liberal with blood and who ever shaved in a dress shirt? It was a risk he must take. He put up his hand to find that the top button of his overcoat was far from secure. But Ed was speaking.

  “You’re good, old man. No one’s denying you’re no end clever. But you’ve not got a look-in for first prize. Didn’t you see my costume? Real silk tights. Real fourteenth century, right out of the Decameron. (That’s a naughty book, which I hope you never read.) Though we’re perfectly proper, I’d have you know. Even Louise can’t object if she remembers her history. Cicisbeos were always purely Platonic. I’m her cicisbeo and Connie’s my murdered mistress.”

  Sam’s horror was veiled in a measure by his handkerchief mask, while Cassatt saved him from any need to reply by saying:

  “You’d better be Platonic, in view of what was in the evening papers.”

  There was no time to inquire what that item was. They had reached the penthouse and the party, amid the wail of saxophones and other instruments of torture and the babel of raised voices. At once they revealed themselves to their hosts who were receiving the guests and plunged into the colorful throng.

  The evening paper? Sam had forgotten previously that Connie had made a mystery of what it contained. But this was not the place to puzzle over that. His immediate need was to find Louise and warn her to be silent about her visit to his apartment, and while he searched for her to keep that incriminating spot hidden.

  He moved hither and yon in the crowd, seeing powdered heads, the bald pates of Pierrots, Basque berets, huge Mexican hats, paste crowns and pirate handkerchiefs; but nowhere the blond puffs and diamond star of his niece. And mechanically he replied to jibes and jests, although afterward he could recall no word of these exchanges.

  The hosts, two merry lads popularly known as Mutt and Jeff, whose names were Sidney Taylor and Tom McCain, were the only people unmasked at that stage of the entertainment. He approached Taylor and was about to inquire if anyone answering Louise’s des
cription had come, when a sudden memory swept over him. Her mask. She could not venture here without it, even had she been able to harden her heart and brace her nerves to the task.

  He turned away abruptly, meaning to leave at once, only to run into Ed.

  “Do you know,” that gentleman said fretfully, “I believe you’re right and Louise is waiting for me at home. I can’t find her anywhere. Won’t I catch it for neglecting her.”

  “You’d better go fetch her,” Sam suggested, well aware that Ed would feel free to do nothing of the sort.

  “I know who you are,” a squeaky voice at his elbow asserted. “You’re Richard Dix. ‘At’s who you are.”

  “Wrong,” Sam replied, impatiently. “I’m Greta Garbo.” Then to Ed, having disposed of the domino, “In fact, you’ll have to go——”

  “Can’t,” Ed said, sourly. “Women sure are the devil. Wish I owned a pickle factory. My team mate was to have met me here at ten and she hasn’t shown up yet.”

  He did not again mention Connie by name, for which Sam was thankful, and, a bright thought striking Ed, his voice became more cheerful as he appealed to his wife’s uncle. “I’ll tell you what, old fella, you go after her, like a good scout. Save my life, that will. Relations have been a little strained lately. Go after her and bring her here, and earn the blessing of a broken-spirited broker.”

  “That’s right, get some one else to do your work for you and call it executive ability,” Sam grumbled, simulating unwillingness. “Go after Lou yourself.”

  “What time is it?” Ed demanded, plucking at Sam’s overcoat. “I’ve no place for a watch in this rig.”

  Almost convulsively Sam threw off his hand. He had no idea of the time but answered promptly:

  “It’s quarter past eleven. I just looked.”