Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  “I see what you mean, Lou. But I can’t laugh tonight,” Sam said, moodily. “Now I’m going back. If Alix is there, I’ll square things with her. Should I see her, I’ll try to let you know. If she isn’t there, you won’t fail to persist until you get in touch with her.”

  “One other thing before you go,” Louise was reluctant to stress this point, but felt that Sam ought to be told of it. “Some time ago—before you knew her well, in fact—there was a rumor that Hugh Oliver was devoting himself to Alix. I—I never heard that she cared for him, but I’m afraid that Connie cut her out.”

  “Is that all?” Sam asked, grimly.

  “No. When I passed her on my way home, she said to leave the door open. Some one else was coming up.”

  Sam started.

  “She didn’t say who that was?”

  “No, she didn’t. I’ve an idea it was a man.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. Just a hunch. Shall I ask her if he came?”

  “No,” said Sam, after a moment’s reflection. “No. If he’s implicated, she’d be too loyal to tell you. Did you recognize anyone on your way out?”

  Louise shrugged.

  “Not to be sure. Costumes make such a difference and there was quite a crowd in the entrance hall. All masked, too. A number of men tried to stop me, and one, dressed as Falstaff, called me ‘Lillian.’”

  “That may be a due,” Sam suggested, thoughtfully. “Some one in the profession, I’d say, and not too young...Well, keep on thinking it over. You may recall something else. And be sure to tell Ed nothing. A broker’s office is a hotbed of gossip.”

  “Don’t I know that?” Louise’s scorn was apparent. “I’ve learned to keep my own counsel. And, Sam, if it’s any consolation to you, your niece has grown up tonight. You won’t have any more trouble with her.”

  Sam kissed her and went out as she hurried to the telephone to call Alix Ruland at her rooms in the Gotham.

  To her surprise, she encountered no difficulty and gave her message at once.

  “Do I understand you correctly, Louise? I am to deny under any and all circumstances that I was in Sam’s rooms tonight. But why, why, why?”

  “Because Sam says you must,” Louise replied. “Can’t you trust Sam?”

  “Yes,” said Alix Ruland; then to Louise’s ear her voice took on a deeper note: “Yes, you’re right. I can trust Sam. I was not there tonight.”

  Both women hung up.

  Chapter V

  Back home Sam resisted an almost over-mastering temptation to turn in to his own rooms to rest. Mentally and physically he felt fagged. However, to see Alix was the vital necessity of the hour and he kept on up to the penthouse. It must be midnight or past. He looked at his watch. Yes, as he had thought; 12:17. He gave the stem a turn or two to make sure it did not run down. The masqueraders would be unmasked. He need not bother with that silly handkerchief, and it would be easier to locate Alix if she were there. She was dressed as the Empress Josephine. He must not forget that in hunting for her.

  He opened the door of the car and at once was again in the midst of hurly-burly and fantasy, there being no foyer in the penthouse. Large as the studio was, it was crowded and the gay costumes and dominoes made a pattern of color dazzling to eyes accustomed to pageants tempered by the black and white of male evening attire.

  Several people hailed him at the same time.

  “Here’s the Police Commissioner,” was the cry. “Let him decide.”

  This was taken up all over the studio and he found himself the center of a milling throng, through which Ed pushed toward him.

  “Lou all right?”

  Sam nodded reassuringly as he asked, “Have you seen Alix?”

  “No, she’s not hare, is she?—Here’s the question before the house,” Ed went on in a louder voice, then broke off to complain plaintively: “If you guys would just be quiet a second so that Sam could hear what I’m trying to tell him——”

  “I’m no Solomon,” Sam protested. “Whatever the dispute, I’m for an open vote. If I side with Ed, those opposed will say it’s because he’s my nephew; while if I vote against him my happy family life will be simply a shattered dream.”

  Merriment came easily at that stage of hilarity, and after the laugh this earned, it was made clear that the consensus of opinion demanded that Sam hear Ed out.

  “It’s like this,” Ed began. “I claim that no decision can be reached until all contestants are present. Mrs. Thorne hasn’t turned up yet. Shame on her for a deceiver!”

  Would this nightmare never end? Even while he was thinking that, Sam’s eyes were searching everywhere for Alix and failing to find her.

  “And I claim,” another man submitted, “a contestant should be disqualified who isn’t at the line when the pistol is fired.”

  (Sam conquered an insane desire to say: “But no pistol was fired. It was a dagger.” He was increasingly aware of the need to hold his impulses in check.)

  “The time was not specified,” Ed declared, aggressively. “I leave it to everybody—was there any hint that this was to be a Cinderella party? And Mrs. Thorne’s on her way. Her maid told me that she left home long ago. It’s this damn’ (pardon, ladies if you misunderstood) this damp though beautiful, fleecy white snow that’s responsible for her delay. In the words of the poet, ‘Snow, snow, beautiful snow, it messes things up wherever you go.’ She is held up in the traffic somewhere.” Ed did not believe in his own argument. Connie’s maid had expressed great surprise over the telephone, saying her mistress had left home shortly after nine; but he was playing for time.

  Before there was any reply a shout came from those guests nearest the elevator. Some one wishing to descend had opened the door.

  “Hold on a second. Mrs. Thorne’s here now.” They had glimpsed her, seated on the floor of the car, her loup adjusted, her bright head posed as if challenging their applause.

  Unable to believe his ears, unwilling to disbelieve them, Sam almost staggered as he crowded with the others in the direction of the lift. So Connie had been shamming, bent on convincing him that she was an actress, after all. Holding her breath so as not to mist his watch crystal. But the blood—surely that had been real blood? And that dagger hilt? Fastened in her hair, of course in some way. Like the one on her bodice. And aimed directly at him. She had never forgiven his disbelief in her powers.

  Ed had pushed his way to the front and now was declaiming dramatically:

  “Here she is at last, the peerless lady of my inspiration.” He plucked out his dagger and darted forward, stabbing downward, than stepped back that all might see. “Pity and envy me, for I, her cicisbeo, her Platonic and disinterested lover, have ended her life rather than that she should grow old and unlovely or unite herself to one unworthy of her intoxicating charm.”

  There was a laugh and a cheer or two and someone said:

  “The delay is explained. You can count on Mrs. Thorne to work up an effective entrance.”

  Over the heads of those in front of him Sam caught a glimpse of the shimmering silk of Connie’s skirt, crumpled in the corner of the elevator, and his suddenly aroused hopes died within him. Meanwhile Ed was going on, addressing himself now to Connie:

  “Do not fancy that I repent. For your sake, I have sacrificed what was more precious to me than life itself. The opportunity to worship your beauty from afar.” Turning to the crowd: “You’ll find my misericorde in her heart...And I demand for us the acclaim of the assembled company as the most thrilling of the many masterly representations here present, for surely no one save Mrs. Thorne would consent to die for your amusement.”

  There followed loud clapping and many expressions of admiration, amid which Ed entered the lift and offered Consuela his hand.

  “Come, bow to the nice ladies and gentlemen,” he said, jocosely. There was no answering movement from the figure posed in the corner. “Connie”—he spoke sharply—“let me help you up.” Sam, who had been through a similar ordeal, sy
mpathized with him but dared not betray his earlier knowledge, and of a sudden Ed drew back with a cry of fear, turning a startled face to his audience.

  “Sam!” he called, sharply, his Voice rising to a falsetto. “Come here. There’s something wrong.”

  Again there was a wave of clapping, this being taken as a part of the prearranged performance, but a way was opened for Sam who, too, might be an actor in the drama, and he passed through it to repeat in public the attempts he had previously made to detect the spark of life. Then he straightened, holding up his hand for silence, and appealed to his two hosts, who had joined him solicitously.

  “Is there a doctor here?”

  At last a realization of tragedy communicated itself to the throng, an ominous silence replaced the noise and merriment, and two men were pushed or came forward in a hush so profound that their soft footfalls rang out like drumbeats. They examined the body only to turn grave faces to the company that of a sudden stirred nervously, giving out a rustling sound like dry leaves swept by a rising wind.

  “Dead—for some time,” was the answer to Sam’s questioning look.

  “A stab in the back. An unusual stab, I’d judge,” the second man volunteered.

  At once the crowd burst out with expressions of horror. How was she killed? Where was she killed? Who had done this frightful deed?

  Ed, down whose face tears were now running, plucked at the doctor’s sleeve.

  “Tell them my dagger was only a fake,” he begged. “That’s paint on her gown. I swear it is. My blade’s only tin foil. It wouldn’t cut anything. See, here it is. All crumpled up. My God! We thought it was such a wonderful stunt—and now—“ He covered his twitching face with his hands, unable to regain command of himself.

  Sam entered the car and set the safety device. It was his duty to take command and he faced Mutt and Jeff gravely.

  “Place a guard at your rear door,” he ordered. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is obvious that nobody here present can be implicated in this terrible crime, yet I am forced to see to it that no one leaves before the arrival of the police.”

  Murmurs of protest rose on all sides, mingled with repeated queries: How was she killed? How long had she been dead? Who had been in the elevator with her? And one woman cried hysterically: “But we want to go home. We don’t want to be involved in the publicity of this.” Her words were taken up by others voicing the same sentiment, one man even suggesting that the ladies at least might be permitted to leave.

  “There will be as little publicity as possible,” Sam promised, soothingly. “I’m sure you all wish to help, not to hinder, the law in this case. Also remember that to try to go away in a hurry might look like an attempt to escape. Believe me, the wisest course for everybody is to stay quietly here. I am now going to call Headquarters. If you will reflect, you will see that the elevator is out of commission until the police have inspected it.”

  The orchestra, its instruments silenced and deserted, huddled in a corner of the balcony, fearing even to speak to one another; and from the dining-room, where a buffet supper was in readiness, waiters peered anxiously forth as a shriek greeted his last words. From whom it came he could not determine. He was directed at once to the telephone, over which, after he had used it, he set a guard. On the whole, though there were tears here and there, he felt that the women present had stood the shock extremely well..

  It was a relief when at last he had poured the available facts into the ear of Inspector Dolan of the Homicide Squad, a square-shouldered, heavy veteran in whom it was safe to repose confidence and from whom results were confidently demanded.

  Thereafter Sam reminded himself that all he had to do was to remember that he knew nothing of the case before the elevator with its ghastly burden had been opened by some one who was sneaking home early to bed.

  The wait before the arrival of the Inspector was really remarkably short. A summons from the Police Commissioner in person admitted of no delay, and he came accompanied by six of the Homicide Squad, including the police photographer carrying his heavy kit, all of whom looked very large, substantial, and efficient when contrasted with the frightened guests in their fanciful costumes.

  These men silently took over the charge of the exits. Owing to the snow, the little roof garden, coated in white, proclaimed its innocence at once. No one had passed that way, while the fire escape betrayed that it had been used for a distance of two flights.

  The policeman who had gone to the window opening on it from the servant’s room came back hastily to whisper his discovery, and Dolan looked reproachfully at Sam.

  “My fault, Inspector,” he acknowledged. “I ordered no one to leave and set a watch on the telephone. I forgot the fire escape. However, I think we’ll find it’s only some zealous reporter bent on beating the City News man, who’ll be here with the Medical Examiner.”

  “We’ll find out about that,” Dolan said, gruffly, and sent one of his men to knock up that floor and ask who had taken a short cut to liberty.

  He came back with an Irish cook in tow, divided between rage at being haled from her bed for the second time that night, fright that she might be implicated in a murder, and a sense of importance at her sudden prominence.

  “Why wouldn’t I let her in out of the snow?” she demanded, truculently. “It wasn’t like as if it was one of you maraudin’ cops. One of the Holy Sisters, it was, come knockin’ at me window. ‘Faith, you’re a fine bird to be on the fire escape at this hour,’ I sez, for I’ll not deny I was not expectin’ her. ‘Let me in, child, an’ say nothin’,’ sez she. ‘It’s the telephone I’m wantin’ to get at.’ An’ when I heard her tell some one there’d been a killin’ done, I’d little wonder she wanted out of there.”

  “You let her out?” asked the Inspector.

  “I did not then. She waited for no lettin’. ‘Thanks, Bridget,’ she sez, and was off down the back stairs before ever I could open my mouth to tell her it wasn’t me name.”

  “Would you know her again?”

  “I’ve me doubts. Woke up sudden like,

  “What is your name?”

  “‘Tis Jane Toole. I never seen the man worth changin’ it for, glory be to God.” She tossed her tousled head and the Inspector made a note.

  “That’s all for the present, Jane. Don’t leave your place without the permission of the Police Department.”

  “What has the police to do with me?” Jane demanded, her courage rising as she found that she was not to be arrested. “I’m an honest girl an’ I want no truck with the police. Mrs. Ford’s my mistress an’ I’m stayin’. I’m satisfied with her. Leastwise I’ve stood her nonsense three years——”

  “Very good, Jane. I’ll let you know if I’ve further need of you.” The Inspector nodded with a ghost of a smile to Jane’s escort; and the stout, middle-aged figure in a red blanket robe over purple pajamas waddled away, sniffing contemptuously. Her opinion of the police force as a terror to malefactors was never to be the same again.

  “Undoubtedly it was a reporter,” Sam asserted. “You’ll hear an extra on the street in record time. Really, Inspector, I kept them for you, but I think these people are exonerated by the fact that they were here. My nephew, who is terribly shot to pieces over this, was Mrs. Thorne’s team mate in a stunt they had worked up together for this party, and he has been on edge all the evening, waiting for her to arrive.”

  “What’s that?” Dolan pricked up his ears. “Been on edge, has he? And did he go out to find her?”

  Sam smiled. The suspicion was only natural.

  “He phoned and was told she was on her way. In fact, his alibi is so perfect that, according to all the detective stories I’ve ever read, it’s highly suspicious. He dined at home, dressed and went to the Princeton Club to meet two other fellows. The three of them came to me, begging cocktails, which I refused them, thinking they had a good enough start on the evening already, and we came up here together...We’ve all been pretty intimate with Mrs. Thorne for years and
we’re used to putting up with her irresponsibility. She was never on time. She might be early or she might be late and that was as close as anyone could calculate with her. I may add, whenever she came she made herself welcome. She was a gay and delightful guest. I was out of the building for a while—and I’m a legitimate suspect, I suppose, since I was once engaged to her.”

  “You were?” Dolan veiled his glance, but Sam could feel him studying him.

  “Ten years ago. Before she married Thorne. One recovers from those early affairs, Inspector. Mrs. Thorne and I were always warm friends.”

  “And why did you go out? It’s not the night I’d select for takin’ the air.”

  “I went to see how my niece, Mrs. Harris, was. Ed was worried about her. She is subject to migraine-headaches, you know—and a bad attack kept her from this party. So, as he had this engagement with Mrs. Thorne and couldn’t leave till she came, he asked me to go see if his wife was all right.”

  “Couldn’t you telephone?”

  “As a matter of fact I did, only, as I wasn’t satisfied with her reply, I went up to Fifty-seventh Street to see if she needed a doctor.”

  “And did she?”

  “No,” Sam acknowledged, wishing he could say “yes,” “she’d dosed with aspirin, which sometimes works for her and sometimes doesn’t, and after she’d given me a drink of Scotch, told me she was ready for bed and that I was to take myself off, which I did. She’s my only niece and I’ve always obeyed her.” He ended with a smile. Smiles were coming easier as he warmed to his role.