Death Wears a Mask

by Thérèse Benson

  Now he has been warned in time and I shan’t feel any obligation.”

  “Yes, that’s your trump card,” Sam agreed. “If he buys now, he is over-riding your very legitimate objection.”

  “Besides, no one even knows where Hugh Oliver is,” Alix reminded him, comfortably.

  “I’m afraid they soon will know,” Sam was forced to acknowledge, and forthwith plunged into a review of the events of the day, Gorman happily forgotten.

  Chapter XVIII

  Sam Mellon had hardly left Alix’s suite when her doorbell rang once more and Gorman entered unannounced, having brushed by Mary without ceremony.

  Alix, who was searching in her bookcase for something to read, turned to him with surprise and a total absence of pleasure. She did not doubt that he meant to begin his importunities again. She held herself armed against him by the clause in her contract originally inserted to guard her from being drafted to bolster a weak cast in some vulgar drama of the sort for which Gorman had earned a reputation, yet she shrank from the struggle she now felt to be inevitable.

  “You?” she exclaimed involuntarily, and then wished she had remained silent when Gorman replied in a nasty tone:

  “Yeah, it’s me. Did you hope it was your boy friend back again? He’s gone. I waited downstairs till I saw him go out. I was about fed up with that sap telling me how to run my business.”

  “Oh, I hardly think Sam meant to do that,” Alix managed to say lightly. “I fancy his hands are full enough with his own new job without his undertaking to crash into Broadway.”

  Gorman made no comment on this, and Alix, having found the book she was hunting, took it out of the bookcase, brought it over to the table, and stood idly turning its leaves.

  “Will you go out to dinner with me?” Gorman addressed her suddenly, and this was so far from what she had been dreading that she looked up in surprise.

  “Tonight, you mean?”

  “Yeah, tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not dining in public at present.”

  “Look here,” Gorman shouted, violently, irritated by any sign of opposition. “What’s the big idea? Don’t you know the safest thing you can do is to show yourself indifferent?”

  “Indifferent? Indifferent to what?” The girl was honestly puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean.”

  “I mean it’s bad policy to act as if you were so cut up over Connie Thorne’s death that you didn’t dare to show your face. Bad policy, see? That’s exactly what I mean.” The man spoke significantly, but still no ray of understanding pierced the dense obscurity of Alix’s incomprehension. There had never been any friendship between her and Gorman, although he had managed her the previous season, and an invitation from him at any time would have been unexpected. Under existing circumstances it was doubly so.

  “I’m not secluding myself from policy,” she said at last. “Please sit down, Mr. Gorman, and let me try to explain.” She seated herself as she spoke, with the light of the table lamp full on her face, and Gorman sank into a chair opposite to her. Hers was not a beauty to appeal to him, yet he recognized her histrionic qualities and value. “Consuela and I were really intimate. We were constantly seen together. We had similar tastes and she was a stimulating companion. I doubt if I realize even now how much I shall miss her.” She stifled a little sob. “Whatever Connie may have been with men, women had nothing to complain of in their relations with her. She was really helpful, always ready with her advice (and it was sound and well thought out) or even with money. I never needed that for myself, but she went fifty-fifty with me in several cases in the profession that I couldn’t have handled alone. It is known to the public—the newspapers have had so little to print about the case that they have had to expand every item that they got hold of—that Mrs. Harris and I have taken charge of the funeral. I’m sure you’ll agree, when you think it over, that I should be branded as heartless if I showed myself at a restaurant until some time after she was buried. That, if you like, is the policy side of it. The other side, the real reason for my decision, is that I don’t want to go out with anyone in the world. I have no heart for gaiety. Can’t you understand that? I’m sad. In no mood for jazz and dancing. I’ve lost a dear friend.” She pressed her hands over her burning eyes, and Gorman clapped softly.

  In utter amazement, she let them drop and stared at him.

  “Why did you do that?” Her voice was puzzled and faintly hostile, her expression at once bewildered and resentful. She felt an imputation on her sincerity, although as yet she had not formulated this.

  “I always applaud a good performance,” Gorman replied. “It is the artist’s reward. You are a fine actress, my dear. I don’t suppose there’s another person in New York who would see through you.”

  “See through me?” Alix repeated his words. “Please tell me plainly just what you mean. I suppose I’m stupid. I can’t seem to make sense of it. Surely you realize, you must, even if you had a grudge against her, that Connie’s tragic death was a shock to all who cared for her?”

  “Now you’ve said something.” Across the table it appeared to Alix that the manager was regarding her with a leer on his saturnine countenance. “‘A shock to all who cared for her.’ And that list on the program does not include your name, dearie.”

  “Mr. Gorman!” Alix started from her chair, only to sink back into it again. “Our relations are a matter of business routine. I shall be obliged if you will bear that in mind. Endearments between us, however jocular, are entirely out of place.” She had not taken in the implication of his remark, so annoyed was she by his sudden assumption of familiarity.

  Across the table, Gorman nodded at her, and for a moment she wondered if, while waiting for Sam’s departure, the man had been drinking? But he was quite sober, with something deadly back of his strange new manner.

  “That’s all right,” he said, brutally. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not setting myself up as rival of your friend Sam. You’re not my type. Nothing like it. I can’t even guess why audiences go dippy over you, unless we’re underestimating them and they really know good acting when they see it. For my part, I don’t think you have a trace of S.A.—So don’t get nervous for nothing. What I pointed out was that you said something when you claimed Connie Thorne’s death was a shock to all who cared for her. True enough. And you didn’t care for her. So you may direct suspicion to yourself if you take’ the veil all of a sudden.”

  Alix still displayed an entire lack of comprehension.

  “I certainly must be an idiot,” she declared, “for some time you’ve seemed to be hinting at something unpleasant; but truly I don’t know what you mean. Is it your idea that the public will fancy that I feared a rival in Connie and therefore rejoice at her death? Are you implying that it may be said I’m hiding to conceal that delightful fact?”

  “That’s part of it.” Gorman grinned at her sardonically, a wide grin without mirth showing square yellow teeth. “You’re beginning to get it. Just go over the facts in your mind...She was Sam Mellon’s all-time sweetie, wasn’t she? Boyhood love and all that, and you don’t even try to hide what you think about him. Then she grabbed Hugh Oliver, with a fortune big enough to mean something, at the exact moment when he was getting serious over you. Next, she took your play away from right under your nose. (Nice, friendly act that, I don’t’ think.) That was a big blow and proved to be the last straw. But keep your spirits up and remind yourself that I’m your best friend. I don’t believe anyone else has mi inkling of it.”

  “Of what?” Alix cried, goaded beyond her endurance.

  “Of the fact that you killed her,” Gorman replied coldly, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  For a moment Alix could not seem to draw her breath. Then she smiled, a smile of utter derision.

  “That is a discovery!” she said, scoffingly. “On what do you base it?”

  “On the following evidence. You came down in the elevator in tears, told me that
Connie Thorne had stolen your play, refused to go to the party we were both bound for and wandered out into the worst snowstorm in years in a flimsy rag of chiffon, carrying your cloak bundled up in your arms.” Alix started to speak and he silenced her with a gesture. “It was plain to me even then that you were unhinged—I’d not hesitate to swear to that before a jury—I didn’t guess the reason for the bundled cloak till I ran the lift up to Mellon’s apartment and found Connie alone there, lying with your mask under her.”

  “And the reason for the bundled cloak?” Alix asked, with admirable fortitude. “Bloodstains, of course.”

  Alix rose and rang the bell.

  “Mary,” she said, on the prompt appearance of her maid, “I want that purple velvet cloak, the property cloak that I used the other night—from the revival of ‘The Princess Fla-via,’ I mean.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that, Miss Ruland. The lining was terrible sleazy stuff, all rotten. There were great pieces right out of it. You couldn’t possibly wear it again as it was, so I ripped it and was waiting to And out should I buy something to reline it with now or wait till you wanted to use it again. The velvet’s an awful pretty color.” Mary was distressed when she saw by the expression of her mistress’ face that this was far from satisfactory. “I’m sorry, miss——”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mary,” Alix said. “There’s no real need for it at the moment.”

  The woman went back to her own quarters, still murmuring her regret; and Alix faced her tormentor bravely.

  “I agree that that plays right into your hand,” she said. “Now suppose you explain why you are building up this case against me—for I can hardly credit that you believe in it yourself.”

  Gorman tried a little acting on his own account. He wished to look emotionally affected, but only succeeded in appearing smug.

  “If only I didn’t!” he exclaimed, sadly. “How happy I should be. Unfortunately, the evidence against you is all too plain. Only, so long as no one else suspects you, you are absolutely safe. Be sure nobody will learn of it from me, little woman, if only you’ll do exactly as I say. Just remind yourself now and then that Melbourne Gorman is your best friend and that you haven’t a tiling to be afraid of——”

  “And suppose I go directly to the District Attorney and tell him of the accusation you have lodged against me? What then?” Gorman’s eyes shifted uneasily.

  “Then you’d have to stand trial, of course,” he replied. He hesitated, going over this suggestion in his mind. “And, after all, I don’t feel so sure that mightn’t be a great stunt. They’d never convict you in the world. Not with my testimony and the experts I’d engage. Temporary mental aberration of a well-known actress. That’s what the verdict would be. And my God! What advertising we’d get! We could turn ‘em away from a place as big as the Madison Square Garden.”

  “You mean you’d still want to manage me after I’d been disgraced in the eyes of the whole world by such a charge?” Alix gasped.

  Gorman reached across the table and patted her hand soothingly.

  “Don’t you worry about that, my dear. I’m for you all the time, and it wouldn’t be a disgrace. Not the way we’d put it. Just a proof that you’re too high-strung and sensitive to stand the strain of discovering that your best friend had double-crossed you. Don’t you worry, I say. You’ll come out a sort of heroine. All the picture-paper fans’ll simply worship you.”

  Ali buried her face in her hands and cudgeled her brain for a way of escape, while Gorman fidgeted on the other side of the table, eventually comforting himself with an unlighted cigar. He wished to give her time to realize her danger and need for his help. When she met his eyes again it was with a different expression on her face.

  “After one considers the matter in all its bearings,” she began, “it becomes plain that the whole usefulness of this scheme depends on your securing Connie’s play.”

  Gorman pondered this point for a moment.

  “Yeah,” he said at last, “I guess that’s right. The sequence ought to he hooked up from end to end or we might ruin what we got now without enough return to make it worthwhile. It’s you and the accusation against you, and the play that was the cause of the tragedy, that’ll make the best publicity stunt that was ever pulled off.”

  “Then the thing for you to do,” said Alix eagerly, “is to go right out and get that play. Don’t wait for anything. Don’t forget that Hugh Oliver’s a business man, too. Tell him I’ll be a thousand times better in it than Connie could ever have hoped to be. Explain that you know all about her acting. You had her in your company and she was just no good. Pretty little fluff with no brains. You’ll know what to say. Lay it on thick. Make him see the profit to be made out of the advertisement. If he won’t sell the play outright, offer to take him in on some sort of a partnership basis. That might fetch him. He probably wants to swell around as a producer. Above everything bear down hard on how far I’d surpass Connie and what a pot of money is to be made if we don’t lose any time sentimentalizing.”

  Gorman leaped to his feet.

  “Where’s my hat and coat?” he shouted. “God, you’re a great business woman. I’d never have believed you had it in you. Between us we’ll stampede the town with this.”

  He went and, once she was sure he had actually gone, she took up the telephone in a hand that even her will failed to steady.

  “Sam!” she cried when she got his number. “Thank Heaven you’re there. You know where Hugh Oliver is—you said you did. Find him at once. You must. And tell him under no circumstances to see Gorman, my manager. Oh, Sam, make sure of this, because if they meet you’ll have another murder on your hands. Hugh will kill Gorman and I’ll be to blame. I gave a real performance, hut I had to make certain that Hugh wouldn’t sell him that play.” She hung up without giving Sam a chance to reply, and throwing herself down on the couch, burst into deep and bitter sobs.

  Chapter XIX

  Consuela Thorne was buried the next day with as much privacy as the well-known enterprise of the Metropolitan press permitted.

  One of the morning papers had an exclusive item (at a price) concerning the blanket of white orchids Hugh Oliver had sent from a famous florist’s.

  The evening papers all flared out with the astounding information that she was laid to rest with generations of the Thornes. How much more would their readers have marveled had they known that she, who died a Thorne, had been born a nameless nobody. Praise for Harvey Thorne’s devotion and chivalry was unanimous, and there interest in the affair might have died a natural death had not the loss of the emerald ring leaked out through the search being made for it.

  The drag of the city pawnshops and high-class dealers in second-hand jewelry had proved fruitless. The ring had not been presented anywhere, and for the moment, save for a notification sent to other cities, the activities of the police seemed at a standstill for lack of material evidence of any sort.

  Sam settled down to work the next morning at the congenial tasks he had projected when he had decided to accept the Commissioner-ship. This was a job he was fitted for. He had never flattered himself that he would make his mark as a detective, nor was it a requirement of his position, and while he still remembered his promise to Harvey Thorne and intended to press to the utmost any line of inquiry that promised results, so far, as Dolan had said, their case had seemed to blow up, leaving no least clue save for the emerald ring, of which nothing might be heard for years.

  Hugh Oliver had again vanished mysteriously from the city, doubtless gone to rejoin his mother in the safe retreat in which he had hidden her. No one had seen him before he left, and Melbourne Gorman had been trying to find him ever since, without result. The theatrical manager was in a fever lest the Thorne case should he forgotten before he could announce his purchase of the play.

  Sam, who had been as unsuccessful as everyone else in re-establishing communication with Hugh Oliver, had finally typed a letter and sent copies to his hotel and to his favorite c
lubs, marked “Urgent. Please Forward.” In this he had stated simply that Miss Ruland, a sincere friend of Consuela, felt an emotional shrinking from appearing in the part designed for her in “This Business of Being a Woman,” and hoped he would see his way clear to refusing to sell it to Melbourne Gorman, her manager, who, once it became his property, would certainly try to force her into accepting the lead in it under her contract, and who would exploit every angle of its acquisition mercilessly.

  That appeared to be all he could do beyond urging the police to leave no stone unturned, and he returned with vigor to the monumental tasks before him. These seemed simple in comparison with the Thorne case and its multiple calls on his emotions.

  On that particular morning Louise Harris was sitting quietly at home, sewing. So far as she was concerned, the murder was a thing of the past. She did not care whether the perpetrator of the crime was brought to justice or not. Tragedy had come close to her. Its heavy shadow had lifted quickly when she had destroyed the last trace of it in burning Sam’s mutilated shirt bosom after Ed had gone to his office on the day following the crime.

  She made a very pretty picture amid the vivid chintzes of her living-room where her blond head and delicate coloring seemed to have found their appropriate setting. She was singing softly to herself as she thorn-stitched a piece of fine nainsook. Anyone who had seen her would have known at once that here was a happy woman.

  In answer to a ring at the doorbell she heard the soft footfalls of Millet, the butler, as he went to open the door.

  An instant later he came to her.

  “It’s that Sing. Commissioner Mellon’s man, ma’am. He says he has a message for you.”

  “Tell him to give it to you.”

  “I did, madam. He refused. He said he was to deliver it to you, personal.” Millet’s tone was disapproving. He had no liking for Chinese or Japanese housemen. He was English himself and held all other races under very natural suspicion.