Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  “Don’t do that,” Harvey leaned toward him, touchingly moved. “Whatever you find, Connie is still my wife in my eyes. I want her buried with the Thornes, where I can sleep beside her when my time comes. Is there any objection to that? I’ll give you a letter to Lester and Simpson, who have charge of all my affairs. They’ll see to everything.”

  “No objection, old man,” Sam hesitated. “Only I’d like you to be out of the country before it became known. It’s sure to create talk and I don’t want to see you hounded by reporters.”

  “God, no I” Thorne passed a hand over his hair, brushing back the locks that had fallen forward on his forehead. “I’m in no state to endure a probing of my reasons. I’ll warn Lester to swear that I wirelessed him from Tahiti. No, that’s too far. Where could I have had the news? Europe? It was probably in the Paris Herald. Connie was greatly admired there.”

  “Lester will know the best lie to tell,” Sam assured him, soothingly. “The thing for you to do is to get out of town as fast as you can.”

  “I’m not going.” Thorne’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I mean to find Connie’s murderer, and then——”

  “And then?” Sam repeated, interrogatively.

  “Then I’ll kill him with my naked hands.” The words burst forth savagely and Sam asked himself whether this was the longing for a just retribution or an attempt to act as Harvey fancied an innocent man in his position would act.

  “You’d only hamper the officials if you stayed here, old man. But we’ll talk of that later. Meanwhile suppose you give me that authorization for your lawyers?”

  Obediently Thorne went into his room to write the necessary letter, and Miss Livingston popped out of her own chamber to talk to Sam.

  “How do you find him?” she asked.

  “Amazingly calm,” Sam answered. “But I haven’t yet broached any plan to get him away. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to suggest until I’ve seen Bill Martin. I hope to catch him at the Club when I leave here. After what you said about watchers, I had a sudden hunch that it might not be healthy to phone from my rooms.”

  “That sounds like sense to me,” Miss Livingston nodded. “I’ve notified my office that I have the grippe. My secretary is competent to carry on without me for a few days. I flatter myself my organization is well-nigh perfect. I’ll stay on guard here and see that he doesn’t go out or run any risks, but I’ll be happier when he’s gone.”

  “Do you think you can manage him?”

  The question was so ridiculous that she did not even answer it. She, not to be able to manage a mere man, forsooth!

  Sam went dose to her and spoke in a whisper.

  “Have you ever asked yourself if Harvey could have done this thing? In sudden jealousy, perhaps. I mean to protect him, you understand. What you say will make no difference with me, but I want the truth. What time last night did he get here?”

  Miss Livingston raised her single eyeglass from force of habit, then remembering Sam’s objection to it, charitably let it fall to the end of its platinum chain.

  “Certainly I’ve considered it,” she returned, tartly. “I’m not a moron. And the answer is that I know positively that he did not do it, so don’t give that another thought.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asked, naturally enough.

  Miss Livingston fronted him with an inscrutable expression on her face. “I may tell you some day, all in good time,” she replied. And Sam noted that his most pertinent question remained unanswered.

  Sam finally ran Bill Martin down at—of all impossible places to reach—the Aquarium, where, long after closing time, he was still deep in heated controversy with an authority on sponges and the lower forms of animal life to be found in tropical waters.

  Securing his attention under difficulties, Sam mentioned that Harvey wanted to know where the yacht was berthed and when he expected to sail? Whereupon Bill, an anemic-looking, bald-headed little man with a sunburnt nose, burst forth into unexpectedly lurid language, a son of a sea cook being about the mildest epithet he applied to Harvey.

  “We were ready to sail today, but where is he, I ask you? He never came in last night. I’ve been looking for him everywhere, shouting about all over town——”

  This alarmed Sam, anxious that Harvey’s presence in the city should not be advertised; but it developed that Bill’s idea of a thorough search was an amble through the Natural History Museum and the Aquarium, murmuring to himself, “I wonder where the damn’ fool has got to?”

  No harm had been done, and when the little man (another who scorned the daily papers) heard the startling news that they contained and that if it was learned that he was within reach, his friend might he in danger of detention until the curiosity of reporters and police was satisfied, his one thought was to hasten their departure lest he find himself deprived of the services of an extra navigator and willing helper. The question of Harvey’s innocence, complicity, or guilt never troubled a mind that found anemones and sea snails of far more importance than human beings.

  It developed that Thorne’s gear was already on board, that Bill would sleep on the yacht that night in order to be ready to sail as early as possible; and, promising to deliver Harvey not later than 10 a.m. the next day, Sam left him amid the coldly glistening tanks with their strange inhabitants, to the more congenial society of the controversial expert.

  It remained to get Harvey away from the apartment undetected, and that, when he took a survey of the surroundings, did not look so easy.

  Rightly or wrongly, on his return he thought he marked down at least four unnecessary loiterers, plain-clothes men or reporters, who would be equally dangerous, in the immediate vicinity of the entrance; while within the doors which Thady opened for him was no less a menace than Detective McCurdy.

  McCurdy did not welcome him home with any enthusiasm, but Thady was undisguisedly glad to see him.

  “Sure now, Mr. Mellon, can’t ye tell this man to quit pesterin’ me? I’ve told him all I know and he’s all for puttin’ words in me mouth that I never said at all.”

  Sam was in a quandary. To side with Thady would further antagonize McCurdy, whom already he recognized as an enemy. He essayed a middle course, glancing humorously at the detective as though indulgent of old Thady’s peculiarities. But McCurdy was not of a friendly nature. He averted his eyes even when the Commissioner addressed him jocularly:

  “What’s it all about, McCurdy? Maybe I can help you out.”

  “It’s about a lady, Mr. Mellon. A lady in a white nightgown, that went away early from the party. She was cryin’, and that’s God’s truth if it was the last word ever I spoke. But I don’t know her name, nor ever did. And that’s no lie.” Thady had burst out in considerable indignation before McCurdy attempted to open his mouth.

  “A lady in a white nightgown?” Sam addressed the detective, while his heart sank at this mention of Alix in her Josephine costume. “That would he a domino, of course. There were numbers of them of all colors, McCurdy. You must have noticed that.”

  “And was they all crying?” The detective muttered, belligerently.

  “A good many were,” Sam returned. “There was a tragic interruption to that party.”

  “That come later, Mr. Mellon,” Thady volunteered, and Sam heartily wished he could have prevented this utterance. “This young lady left quite early in the evenin’.”

  “Are you sure of that, Thady?” Sam drawled, assuming an indifference he was far from feeling. “Don’t make any mistake. Detective McCurdy’s time is too valuable to waste running down false leads. It was some hours after the tragedy in the penthouse that you got word of it, remember.”

  Thady pushed his cap to one side and scratched his head.

  “I ain’t reelly sure of nothin’,” he declared. “That was a rare night for excitement. Good as a theayter it was, to see all them people dressed up so grand. Full of fun, they was, too, stickin’ masks and funny faces up close to me an’ sayin’ in squeaky voices:
‘Don’t you know me, Thady? Sure I came out of the same bog hole you did in the old country.’ An’ the like. But as for me rememberin’ that this lady asked were you in, I don’t remember it an’ there’s no use his insistin’ that I do.”

  Sam fixed his gaze on McCurdy’s red face with a pretense of amusement.

  “Still on the trail of your favorite suspect, McCurdy? I’ve no objection to that, but neither I nor Inspector Dolan will countenance manufactured evidence. Thady’s an honest man and there’s no use telling him what he thinks. You ought to have experience enough to know that such testimony won’t stand up under cross-examination. I don’t say forget about me, I merely suggest that you don’t let the real culprit crawl between your feet while you are watching me.”

  No sooner had he said it than he was sorry. There was Harvey to get off, whether between McCurdy’s feet or slipping through his outstretched fingers he didn’t care. But for the moment McCurdy was concentrating on the tearful girl, and Sam brought the conversation back to her: “If you really want to know, I’ll gladly tell you that no lady in a white domino called on me that night.”

  “Nor any dame in a white dress?” McCurdy asked, quickly, transfixing Sam with a cold greenish stare.

  “Nor any lady in a white costume,” Sam replied, steadily. “At least not while I was at home. You surely remember that I went out, not only to the masquerade, but also to see how my niece was getting along. She was far from well. Sing, my servant, was out. If you have reason to think such a call was made, all I can say positively is that I saw no such person and that if she called during my absence there was no one to admit her to my apartment.”

  He paused, then resumed his jocular manner.

  “And really, McCurdy, I’ve never known my guests to depart in tears, flattering as such grief at parting would be.”

  With a mutter of unintelligible words, McCurdy stamped out into the night, leaving Sam uncertain whether he had helped or harmed the cause he served.

  It might have comforted McCurdy had he known that the Police Commissioner was as much at sea in this case as he was.

  Cudgel his brains as he might, Sam could think of no motive for Connie’s murder if he dismissed jealousy on Thorne’s part, and Miss Livingston asserted his innocence positively.

  Yet surely no one killed without a reason, and who had any reason to wish Connie ill—to put an end to that bright if aimless life? That was the question continually before him, and he found no answer to it. When asked if he knew of any enemies, he had replied with an unhesitating “No.”

  There was nothing malicious or snobbish about Connie. Nothing at all that he knew of to justify or account for enmity. Who then had dealt her that blow in the back? He did not know.

  Chapter XII

  Sam was a youngish man, thirty-eight to be exact, and in good condition. Tall, fair, muscular, leading a regular life with enough amusement and no harmful dissipations, he was not accustomed to the feeling of physical exhaustion resulting from the strain on his nerves and his emotions during the previous twenty-four hours.

  He returned to Beekman Place with an absolute longing for home and bed. But before he could hope for that he must again see Miss Livingston and Harvey to arrange a plan for delivering the latter to the good yacht Nautilus, so christened in a burst of inspiration by Bill Martin, who had inclined rather coyly to the Sea Urchin, while refusing to be beguiled by certain bibulous friends who, with one voice, pleased by the connotation, voted for the Sponge.

  He rang Miss Livingston’s bell and was admitted promptly by the lady in person.

  “Eliza is at the movies again. It’s different now from my young days when the servants had to be in at ten o’clock promptly and say good night to their master and mistress on the way to bed. If the theater kept open all night Eliza would never get any sleep,” she said, adding: “Come in. Did you accomplish anything?”

  Sam followed her into her reception-room, and Harvey, who was seated in a stiff chair, doing nothing, turned at his approach.

  “Hello, Sam,” he said listlessly. “You back again?”

  “Yes. I wanted to tell you that I saw Bill Martin.”

  “I hope you warned him not to count on me for this cruise. He’ll get some one else easily enough.”

  “No,” Sam returned, “I didn’t. I hadn’t the heart. I found that his whole expedition hangs on your going with him. He has been searching for you all day, and the Nautilus will sail the moment you’re on board. Wait!” He held up his hand as Harvey was about to protest. “If you stay in the city, you will hamper and not help the search for Connie’s slayer.”

  Harvey stared at him incredulously.

  “How is that possible? It seems to me that you can’t have too much help in a case like this.”

  “Did you never hear that ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’?” Sam had begun, when Miss Livingston interposed:

  “Harvey is man enough to bear the truth, Commissioner Mellon. This house is under police surveillance, Harvey. I have a plan to get you off to the yacht undetected—with help”—she glanced at Sam—“and when you look at the case as if it concerned not you but another, you’ll acknowledge that if you are found here, your arrest is certain.”

  Harvey fixed his eyes on hers, opening and shutting his mouth foolishly without uttering a word. Then he ran a finger around his collar as if its tight fit strangled him.

  “You can’t mean that anyone would be so brutal as to fancy that I’d harm Connie, Miss Lucilla?” he burst out at last.

  “Once they knew you were here, they’d think of nothing and no one else.”

  Noting the impression this made, Sam hastened to confirm the fear he saw growing in the other’s face, and Harvey clutched at him, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of panic.

  “Get me away, Sam. I couldn’t bear it. I’d go crazy if I had to stand trial. If I were—were accused of—of——Why, you know I loved her—always. There might not have been another woman in the world, for all I cared. I loved her, I tell you. I swear it!” He was babbling, on the verge of hysteria, and Sam slipped a hand through his arm.

  “We’ll get you away, don’t you worry. The thing for you to do now is to go to bed and try to sleep so that you’ll be on your toes in the morning and ready to help rather than to hinder us.” He urged Harvey toward the door of the room he was occupying. “And remember, old chap, that I’m here at the head of the police force of New York and that I’ll never rest until we find and convict—and convict, mind you—the real murderer. Until that day you are to stay out of the city. The less attention is drawn to you and your whereabouts the better I’ll be pleased.”

  He shut the door on his friend, who had again lapsed into a listless docility, and rejoined Miss Livingston.

  “You look as if a drink wouldn’t hurt you. What will you have? Some of your own benedictine, or Scotch? I warn you I haven’t any soda.”

  “Thank you,” said Sam. “I’ll take the Scotch. I want to sleep, myself.”

  Miss Livingston selected benedictine and, over their drinks, explained her proposed plan, which Sam approved. Then he rose to go.

  “We’ll call that settled and I’ll be here in the morning. What time do you usually start for your office?...Nine?...Good. I’ll get downstairs on the dot.”

  At last he was at home, but the telephone was ringing madly. Would he never find rest and quiet? He dropped his coat and hat in the foyer and picked up the nearest instrument, which happened to be the one in the pantry, thus doubtless disappointing Sing, who was emerging from his room, expectant of listening in.

  “Commissioner Mellon speaking...Sorry. My man is supposed to be here to take messages in my absence...You did?...Good work!” Evidently there followed quite a recital, for it was some minutes later that Sam said: “Hm. How strange! Still, it’s a step forward and we may learn something more about it tomorrow. It didn’t disappear into thin air. It’s dark green, not a very usual color.”

  Hearing this, Sing’s own colo
r took on a greenish hue until Sam’s next words reassured him.

  “And two uniformed men on the box. That will attract notice anywhere. Well, tell Inspector Dolan I’ll be in my office as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

  The message informed him that the police had located the garage, the Mammoth, patronized by the very rich of Park Avenue; but the mysterious car was there no longer. The bill had been paid without haggling and it had left the day before. It had been entered there about ten weeks previous in the name of the chauffeur, Benoit Sansrancune. A funny name, but the man was a foreigner. In fact, neither he nor the footman spoke much English, and while there were plenty of other chauffeurs ready to be friendly, men who talked their language, too, the two men kept very much to themselves. The general impression around the garage was that it was a case where unusual discretion was called for. The car, perhaps, of the “friend” of some very prominent man. No one so far had been found who had seen its owner. It was operated under a Florida license and telegraphic inquiry there had only uncovered the fact that it was issued under the name of the aforesaid Benoit Sansrancune. It might, of course, he a case where the chauffeur owned his own automobile and rented it out. The men at the garage took no stock in this theory, the car being a Hispano-Suiza, very expensive. A guy with the money to buy it would be more likely to start a garage of his own, or at least a filling station.

  That was the sum of the information that had reached him over the telephone and, tired out as he was, standing first on one foot and then on the other, he noted with interest that the time of the car’s arrival in the city coincided with Connie’s return from the Hot Springs and the first appearance of the little lady in black.

  It might be well to send some one to the Hot Springs to inquire what had happened there to account for this pursuit of her, for pursuit it appeared to have been. Inspector McCurdy, that human ferret, would be the man for the job. Sam was distinctly bored by his attentions and nothing short of a direct order, which he did not care to give, seemed likely to rid him of the annoyance.