Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  He wondered what lay behind her light words. He found now that, in thinking of Connie, it was not her sparkling prettiness, the challenge of her gay glances, her provocative humors that he remembered but rather the puzzle of her bitterness, so well hidden from the world that must only be permitted to think her happy, poised on the crest of the wave of success. Poor beautiful Connie. At least she had died without being disillusioned. Hugh Oliver, to her, was still a captive, and her most persistent ambition was on the way to fulfillment. Only, since she had cared for Alix enough to leave her that treasured ring in her will, how had she brought herself to deprive her friend of the play so necessary to her professional future? For even if Connie herself had made a success in “This Business of Being a Woman,” he had no faith that she would have stuck to the profession. One success with plenty of hurrah and adulation, that would have been fun; while the steady grind of theatrical production with its wearing work and its inevitable ups and downs, would soon have turned Connie’s thoughts to seeking a pleasanter channel for her energies. True, she had been on the stage earlier in her life and had seemed to enjoy it; but she was young then, the parts, not taxing, and she was in need of the money she earned. How she would have met Oliver’s denial of her claim that they were engaged to be married he could not conceive. It was a situation so brutal in its cruelty that he could only be thankful she was spared all knowledge of it.

  And what had become of Hugh Oliver? He was sure that reporters as well as police must be looking for him to ascertain what, if anything, he could suggest to furnish a lead to work on.

  That he was in any way concerned in the murder Sam did not believe. If the man had meant to put an end to Connie’s life, there would have been no need for the perfidy of his announcement.

  The Commissioner stepped out of the elevator in the lower hall just as one of the other cars brought down a chattering load of young girls. This was the best of luck. He hung back to let them precede him, sure that they would engage John’s attention to the exclusion of a mere man, and that he could slip out behind them while the doorman was putting them in taxis.

  And as he had planned, so it happened. John had no eyes for him, and he had reached the corner before he felt a touch on his shoulder.

  McCurdy. Of course it would be McCurdy.

  Chapter XIV

  “Commissioner Mellon!” McCurdy began, insistently.

  Sam was annoyed. And this was no time for a display of patience. He turned on McCurdy none too pleasantly.

  “If you have anything to say to me, McCurdy, you will find me in my office. I’m on my way there to meet Inspector Dolan. I’ve no time to waste on-you.”

  “I ain’t askin’ you to waste time,” McCurdy persisted, doggedly. “I want to know how come you went out first with Miss Livingston, and now, dressed all different, here you are by yourself when nobody seen you come back.” Sam stood on the curb and signaled to a taxi, which sailed on regardless. “And how come you come here to get a taxi instead of taking one at the house?”

  “McCurdy,” said Sam, “I’ve only one fault to find with you at present. Your idea of the science of detection seems to be that it’s a game of Twenty Questions.” A taxi stopped and he got in, discouraging McCurdy’s evident intention of following by slamming the door.

  “Step on it, driver,” he said, and gave the address.

  If McCurdy followed him in another cab, as he probably did, Sam had no way of knowing it. He wasted no time when he reached his office and had attended to some routine business as well as the selected mail his secretary had ready, before Dolan was shown in. Sam motioned him to a chair and continued to speak into the telephone.

  “Is that you, Miss Livingston? I just wanted to tell you that after I left you I took your advice. I went back and changed to warmer clothes. And, since I was so obedient, I’m hoping you’ll follow my suggestion. For one who has had the grippe, a whole day at your office is too much. Goodbye. I’m going to drop in soon, if I may, to find out how you are.”

  He hung up and turned an annoyed face to Dolan.

  “Listen,” he growled, “and see that my orders are carried out. If the city’s money is to he wasted on watching me, I insist on being well watched. Understand? I don’t want to be stopped on the street again by that ass McCurdy and called to account because it happened that he didn’t see me return to Beekman Place. I’m not responsible for his stupidity. Shooting craps, wasn’t he, instead of being on his job? Does he expect me to punch a time-clock when I go in or out? There’s no mystery about my movements. I’m perfectly ready to tell you anything that you want to know, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give an account of myself to that numskull who ought to be walking a beat in Flatbush. Now is there anything that you wish me to explain to you?”

  Dolan, a little red in the face, stuck to his guns.

  “How—how did you get back into the apartment in Beekman Place without being seen?”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders irritably.

  “It’s news to me that I did. I’ve never gone in any way save by the front door.”

  “McCurdy says the doorman didn’t see you, either.”

  “Isn’t that what I’m grumbling about? I don’t propose to report to the doorman.” Sam increased the heat of his complaint. “If my movements are under suspicion, it’s up to this Department to keep an efficient watch. Do you expect your criminals to come up and tip their hats for permission to go here, there, or the other place? Honestly, you break my heart you’re so innocent.”

  It had been long years since Dolan had been accused of innocence, and he felt it deeply. He rose ponderously from his chair and went out, leaving the door open and saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “Where are you going?” Sam called after him. Then, as an afterthought, he added: “If you meet McCurdy you might suggest that if John Scott didn’t see me go in, it’s possible he didn’t see me go out, either. It might be worth this Department’s while to inquire. You ought to find out if I’m still in my rooms or have a secret passage through the chimney and the coal cellar.”

  A rumbling in the distance came pleasantly to the Commissioner’s ears. Detective McCurdy was being told things.

  “You—you break my heart, you’re that innocent,” Dolan was saying. “Do—do you think a murder suspect is goin’ to ask your leave before he does what he’s a mind to? I ain’t a betting man and I don’t lose my shirt playin’ pinochle with wiser guys, but I’m ready to bet a nickel that that John didn’t see the C’missioner go in or out. And I don’t want any more nonsense from you or you’ll find yourself back in uniform walking a beat out in the sticks. Understand?”

  McCurdy said nothing, but it is probable he did understand. Inspector Dolan had not been ambiguous, and Sam smiled to himself, not ill pleased by the result of his diplomacy.

  Then he pushed a button, and when a man appeared in answer to the summons, he said: “Tell Detective McCurdy to wait in the outer office. I may need him.”

  Dolan came back, having worked off a good deal of his indignation, and sat down again.

  “Any more news of that car?” Sam asked.

  The Inspector shook his head and then began, in extenuation:

  “That ain’t surprising when you think that that murder took place around half-past nine and outside the snow was coming down heavy. It was just the night for a safe get-away. And a car like that, taking some chances in such a storm, could make up to eighty miles an hour and hardly more’n seem to be idling. Before daylight it could put five hundred miles behind it, and that’s a conservative estimate. Now draw a five-hundred-mile circle outside of New York and there’s a whole lot of country to hear from.”

  Sam nodded.

  “True enough. And here’s another thought. That’s a rich man’s car. The owner of it may have a number of others. Perhaps he even has a country place near here. What’s to prevent his storing this bus till we’ve forgotten all about it? It’s tying up quite a lot of money, y
et if his life’s in question-”

  Dolan gave his knee a resounding slap. “Sure. That dodge might work, C’missioner.”

  “Well, keep on looking for it. I suppose you tried to find out where it was bought?”

  “Not in the New York agency,” Dolan replied, “nor Boston, Chicago, or Philadelphia. They all seem to sell more sporty models. Open cars mostly, which you’d think should make it easier to turn this one up.”

  “Unless the agency thought it politic to conceal knowledge of it to oblige a rich customer,” Sam hinted. “Is that all you know?”

  “Every damn’ thing,” Dolan said, gloomily. “We don’t seem to be gettin’ anywhere.”

  “I’ve a bit of news that may lead us in a different direction,” Sam told him. “Aimée, Mrs. Thorne’s maid, reports that when her mistress left home she was wearing a large emerald ring.”

  The inference was plain and the Inspector emitted a loud whistle of incredulity.

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?” Sam was nettled.

  “I mean there wasn’t any emerald ring when we seen her, and this Frenchwoman has worked out a clever way to mop it up out of her mistress’s jewel-case, unsuspected—or at least she thought she had. How much was it worth?”

  “I’m no jeweler. Plenty. I’d guess well over five thousand.”

  Again the Inspector whistled. “Five grand! That’s a lot in the Frogs’ money. What did it look like?”

  Sam, who could draw a little, rapidly sketched on a loose slip of paper and passed the result over to the Inspector, who folded it up carefully, preparatory to putting it in his notebook.

  “It was about that size, square, set in platinum, with large triangular diamonds supporting it on each side,” Sam explained. “We’d better have copies of that sent to all pawnshops and to private dealers in fine gems. But you are mistaken in suspecting Aimée of taking it.”

  “You’ve been seeing her. She’s put it over on you——”

  “No, I haven’t seen her. I preferred that we should go there together, although I don’t believe she’ll have anything more to tell us.”

  “If you weren’t there, how did you hear about this?”

  “My niece, who, as you know, is helping Miss Ruland with all the arrangements, called me up and told me.” Sam wondered if he were wrong in his belief that his telephone was tapped. It struck him that Dolan fancied he had not heard the news over the wire, but the Inspector’s face gave away no secrets.

  “This Aimée got around Mrs. Harris, then.”

  “No,” Sam said, positively. “Just listen to me, Inspector, and don’t theorize until you have all the facts in your possession.”

  “She’ll be trying to make out that the police swiped it. I can’t be fooled, I tell you. These Frenchwomen—“ Dolan sputtered, stubborn in his conviction that as a nation the French were born to duplicity. Sam interrupted him:

  “I have known Mrs. Thorne well for about eleven years. We were friends for nine months, engaged for about a year. Then she threw me over to marry Thorne. That lasted four years, most of which time they were abroad. For five years she has been living in New York. At least it was her headquarters. Now that ring was given to her while she was still engaged to me, and thereafter she always wore it.”

  “Who gave it to her? You?”

  “No. It was much too valuable for me to think of buying. I don’t know who gave it to her. She never would tell me. In fact, we quarreled over it. She acknowledged that it came from a man, and I insisted that she ought not to wear another man’s ring. Of course I was a jealous young fool, and quarrels never got you anywhere with Mrs. Thorne. She was like quicksilver. Fluid, glittering, impossible to grasp. Impossible to remain angry with. That ring—I think she was superstitious about it. I have a feeling that it was a sort of fetish with her.”

  “I get you,” said Dolan. “A mascot, sort of. Well, the P.D. never saw that ring.”

  “I know that,” Sam agreed impatiently. “When Ed and I went to her in the elevator and I tried to feel her pulse, there was something unfamiliar about her hand. I thought it was because it was—dead. Mrs. Thorne was not at all child-like, but she had a childish way of curling her fingers around yours. It was very winning, like a youngster who was eager to be taken walking.” He paused, carried along on the flood of his memories; then resumed abruptly, “I can swear that at that time the ring was already gone.”

  Dolan was mollified by this offer of evidence tending to protect the good name of the Police Department. He recognized that the Commissioner could hardly be expected to feel for it the jealousy he did, who had spent years in. its service; but it was good to have the promise of his support. He could not know how Sam was longing to tell him that, hours earlier, when he had first made vain efforts to reanimate Connie’s lifeless form, the same thing had been true. There had been no ring on her right hand.

  “I suppose we ought to go up there,” he suggested. “Will you call McCurdy in and give him that sketch and his orders while I dictate a note or two?”

  Between two short letters, he sandwiched a line to Lester, of Lester and Simpson. It was short:

  Dear Sir:

  The enclosed will speak for itself. When the matter has been attended to, will you kindly notify Mrs. Edwards Harris, 4— East Fifty-Seventh Street,

  And oblige

  This he signed with the others and addressed it himself, after folding it around Harvey Thorne’s letter of instruction, which had been clear and explicit. He would deliver this on his way uptown, since evidently there had been no hitch in the execution of Miss Livingston’s plan for Harvey, or she would have found a way to inform him of it in their recent short telephone conversation. He had now a high opinion of Miss Livingston’s resourcefulness. Consequently, without endangering Harvey, he felt free to give the order for the grave on the Thorne plot. That would open up a field of sentimental speculation to the reporters and might even awaken an interest in Harvey’s whereabouts; but he was secure in the vague destination of Bill Martin’s vessel and in the fact that he had warned him that temporarily his wireless had better be put out of commission.

  It was strange to feel snobbish about such a matter, but it struck him that poor Connie’s burial in the Thorne family lot must appear in a measure a vindication of her; and he was glad to remember that of the two men whose names must be connected with hers, Harvey held a position far more secure in the eyes of the social world. Oliver had money to recommend him. No more, since, if he had roots anywhere, they were not embedded in the soil of Manhattan.

  As he sealed his letter Sam caught the unfriendly eyes of Detective McCurdy fastened upon him. He turned the address so that it could be read.

  “I’d hate you to go away unhappy, McCurdy,” he said, carelessly, “although I should think you could trust me to Inspector Dolan for a little while. I’m sure he will guarantee to keep me out of mischief. Yes, the letter’s to a lawyer. Not a criminal lawyer, McCurdy. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not preparing my defense yet. And one word in your ear: If you manage to turn up that ring, you’ll be doing something more useful than anything I’ve learned of your attempting yet.”

  His telephone buzzed and he picked it up.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?...Yes, I’ll try to stop in for a minute or two later. That is, if I can escape the vigilance of the Police Department. If I can’t, I’ll bring Inspector Dolan with me.”

  He hung up, then glanced at Detective McCurdy in considerable amusement.

  “I know you’d love to know who that was,” he said lightly. “And strange as it seems, I’m not going to tell you. There’s always the chance that if I tell you everything you may lose interest in me, and that is something I simply couldn’t bear. Shall we get going, Inspector?”

  Chapter XV

  “That letter to Lester was to settle the place of Mrs. Thorne’s burial,” Sam explained, after leaving the letter at the office of Lester and Simpson. “It’s an order to open a grave for her in the Th
orne lot at the cemetery.”

  “How come you to be able to give an order like that?” Dolan was interested rather than suspicious. He had settled in his mind that the Police Commissioner was above suspicion.

  “Oh”—the explanation had been thought out and was given easily, Sam having at once seen that it was useless to claim a cable from Thorne when the Police Department could obtain access to all cable records—“Harvey Thorne was a forward-looking, fellow. He wanted some one to be authorized to see to things here in case either he or Mrs. Thorne died. A friend, not just a lawyer. So of course I was the goat. And I know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t grudge her this. In the eyes of the public it will seem a vindication of her. And I’m all for her as against that swine Oliver.”

  “An’ so am I,” Dolan agreed. “Tell me more about this Oliver. The way he disappeared now—that ain’t natural, is it? Do you think maybe he’s mixed up in this murder?”

  “I think it more likely he’s ashamed to show his face—“ Sam began. Dolan placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “I don’t mean he killed her himself. But for some reason he was mad clear through at the announcement in the evening papers. And there was that masked ball. Could you think of a better opportunity? There certainly ought to be a law—Suppose Mrs. Thorne stood in his way fhore’n we know? Suppose he had another woman? He could have got some one else to do his killing for him just as easy. Why, it’s done every day.”

  “Of course it’s possible,” Sam agreed. “Only I can’t seem to make myself believe it. Oliver was a peculiar type. You’ve seen his picture. Rather morose-looking fellow.”

  “Yeah,” Dolan agreed. “The kind a woman’d call han’some. Regular heman, sort of.”

  “Yes—in his picture,” Sam said, significantly; “only his lower half and his upper half didn’t match. His legs were too short and slightly bowed. An inheritance from his father the jockey, perhaps, which took away from his impressiveness. And while he had plenty of chin, he didn’t seem to me to be a man of strong character. Yet Ed Harris, who saw much more of him than I ever did, claimed he was.”