The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  You mustn't harden your heart, Caroline thought; you mustn't grow sour and bitter, never allowing yourself to fall in love again.

  Before she could speak, Val was getting up, preparing to take her leave. Just then they heard the door knocker, and then a man's voice in the front hall—not a voice that Caroline recognized. She tensed.

  Margaret pushed apart the pocket doors. In an unusual gesture, she pulled them shut behind her before she spoke. Her eyes were wide with alarm, but, well trained as she was, she kept her voice low.

  “It's the police, Miss.”

  “Did you tell them that Mr. Ames is not at home?”

  “It's just the one police, Miss. And he didn't ask for Mr. Ames. He asked for you.”

  SHE'S NOT AT HOME,” SAID SERENA VINCENT'S FORBIDDING maid.

  Ames felt a stab of disappointment, and he was surprised at how strong it was. Stronger, surely, than the occasion demanded?

  “Do you know when she will return?”

  “No.”

  “Or where I might find her? It is rather important.”

  “She's at her dressmaker's. She'll go from there to the theater.”

  So that was that; he could not envision himself barging in on a fitting to impart his news.

  He would pay another call, then, before he met MacKenzie: down Commonwealth Avenue to Arlington, across Arlington and through the Public Garden.

  It was a brisk autumn day, the sun flirting with the clouds. As he crossed at Charles Street and strode up the long slope of Beacon Street opposite the Common, preoccupied with his thoughts, he did not notice when an acquaintance, standing on the steps of the Somerset Club, spoke to him as he passed. The acquaintance felt no rebuff; Adding-ton Ames was known as a longheaded fellow given to much study and cogitation, often so absorbed in his meditations that he did not recognize even his closest friends.

  At the corner of Joy Street, he turned up to his destination, where he was shown to a cheerful upstairs sitting room at the front of the house. A woman stood to greet him.

  “Mr. Ames.” She held out her hand, and he took it.

  Grace Kittredge was a small, slight woman, unostentatiously dressed, with fading blond hair and a face that once must have been attractive. What remained of her youth lay in her eyes, which were blue and had an intelligent look to them.

  “How can I help you?” she added.

  He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out the letter he had found in the Colonel's desk, signed by “G.K.” He held it out to her. “Does this belong to you?” he said.

  She stared at it for a moment. She managed—just—to keep hold of her composure, but as she accepted it, he saw her face crumple into a grimace of pain.

  Instantly she recovered. How he admired these women, trained up from infancy to preserve their surface calm no matter what debacle they faced! His sister Caroline had never taken to her training completely; her emotions were often plainly reflected on her face regardless of how she tried to conceal them.

  Mrs. Kittredge held the letter, still staring at it; then, without unfolding it, she sank into a chair. He sat opposite her, watching her with some concern.

  “It does,” she said softly. “How did you—how do you come to have it?”

  “I took it from the Colonel's desk on Monday evening.”

  “Ah.” The ghost of a smile appeared for a moment on her lips. “I read in the newspapers of your—discovery. How very dreadful for you.”

  “Not as dreadful as for him,” Ames said with an attempt at gallows humor.

  “No. I suppose not.” She pressed her lips together as if nerving herself up to something very difficult. “I thought of Tuesday as execution day. I didn't have the money he demanded. I went to him—”

  “When?” Ames said sharply.

  “Oh—last week. He was implacable. Then I wrote him this letter, begging him for mercy, and I was literally counting the hours until Tuesday morning, when his paper would be published. Instead, I learned that you had discovered him, and his paper didn't come out. Do you know if it will?”

  “At this point, I doubt that it will, but—”

  He broke off at the look of terror that came to her face.

  “It probably will not,” he hastily amended. Briefly, he told her why he'd gone to the Colonel, and why, now, he was trying to speak to anyone who had had recent dealings with him.

  “I have no interest in discovering who did the deed, Mrs. Kittredge,” he concluded. “My only concern is to find those letters before one more person's life is ruined by the Colonel's devilry.”

  She contemplated him. “Yes,” she said softly, “that is what it was, isn't it? Devilry.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have betrayed you to him?”

  “Who— No. None at all. And it wasn't I who was betrayed, Mr. Ames, it was my son.”

  “Ah.”

  “A few weeks ago, my son took what has been officially called a ‘medical leave’ from the College. The truth—and of course I speak to you in confidence—is that he was expelled for stealing.”

  Ames felt a little stab of surprise at that, but he said nothing.

  “Stealing from the Porcellian Club,” she went on. “He was deeply in debt from gambling. He was the treasurer of the club, you see, so he could easily doctor the books.”

  “How did the Colonel learn of all this?” Ames asked.

  “That is what I cannot understand. No one except a few fellow Porcellians—and the Dean of the College, of course—knew what had happened, and none of them, I am sure, would have gone to the Colonel.”

  “But someone did.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have no idea who that might have been?”

  “None.”

  “Your son—?”

  “No. I asked him, of course, but he had no idea either. It was the thought of that betrayal that sickened him, I think, more than anything.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No. He is taking the waters at Bad Nauheim. To keep up the story of his ill health, you see.”

  “It would be most helpful,” Ames said, not wanting to press her further but feeling frustration beginning to creep over him once more, “if you could think of even the most unlikely name, someone who worked as an informant for the Colonel, perhaps—”

  She shook her head. “I am sorry, Mr. Ames. I have done that over and over. I simply don't know.”

  There seemed to be little more to say, so he rose and took his leave. The afternoon was darkening toward evening, and a bitter wind blew up from the Common as he headed down Beacon Street once more toward the Back Bay and the St. Botolph Club where, he hoped, Dr. MacKenzie would await him.

  The theater tonight, he thought—to be endured with the knowledge that Crippen suspected Serena Vincent of the Colonel's murder. Somehow he must find a moment to speak to her, to warn her—but how? Not before the curtain went up; not in her dressing room at intermission. News like that might throw her off and ruin her performance. Impossible that she had done it; no woman could have done such a deed. All his life, he had been brought up with the belief that although women, frail sex that they were, might weaken in matters of the heart (as Serena Vincent had done, succumbing to an adulterous affair), they were in no way capable of felonious acts like murder.

  No. Crippen was on the wrong track altogether. And if Crippen was on the wrong track, he, Ames, must try to set him on the right one.

  DEPUTY CHIEF INSPECTOR ELWOOD CRIPPEN STRETCHED his stubby legs toward the sea-coal fire and accepted an iced lemon cookie from the plate that Caroline held out to him. He bit into it, raised his eyebrows in approval, and chomped down the remainder. “Well, now,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs, “this is very cozy, I must say. Very cozy indeed.”

  As his glance traveled around the room, Caroline was acutely conscious of the telegram propped on the mantel. Oh, why had she been so foolish as to put it there? She should have put it where it belonged, in Addington's st
udy. Now here it was in full view, and Inspector Crippen surely must see it, must wonder at it.

  She stared at him with a kind of fascinated dread. Why was he here? Was it some kind of trap? Were there other police waiting outside around the corner, ready to spring on Addington when he returned?

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself. She'd had to receive the inspector when he called; it would have been unthinkable—tactically unwise—to refuse him. And while she'd managed to seem calm and composed, inwardly she writhed with apprehension. He'd come for help, he'd said, in deciphering the Colonel's galley; it lay now on the low table between them. But then he'd chatted on as if he were paying a purely social call, and for this endless half hour since he'd arrived, the galley had lain untouched.

  Which was all for the best, Caroline thought, because the moment they began to look at it, Val's initials would spring out at them, and even Elwood Crippen would make that connection; few people in Boston had those particular initials.

  “More tea, Inspector?” she asked, smiling at him. She'd been smiling at him since he came in, and her face ached from it.

  “If you please,” he replied. He looked at her with a kind of greedy acquisitiveness that made her shudder. She had joked with Addington often enough about Crippen's supposed fancy for her; but now, here in her own parlor, it did not seem “supposed” at all but very real. The thought of being courted by him made her flesh crawl, and so that he would not see her thoughts plain on her face, before she picked up the teapot she bent down to pick a thread from her skirt.

  Oh, where was Addington—or the doctor? Why did they not come to rescue her and Val from this awful interview?

  She poured Crippen's tea and glanced over at Val, who had gone white and silent the moment Crippen came in. Caroline realized that she should think of some way to get Val out of the room, but she could think of nothing that would not draw attention to the girl.

  On the other hand, if she stayed…

  Cripped swallowed several gulps of the steaming tea and set down his cup and saucer with a little crash.

  “Now, then,” he said, suddenly all business. “About this here—ah—paper.”

  He picked up the galley and began to scan it. “I don't mind telling you, Miss Ames, I'm at a loss here.” He shot her a sly glance. “All these hints and initials that I can't make head nor tail of. I thought you might be able to help me a bit, deciphering. Your brother said you would. And you, Miss,” he added, nodding toward Val.

  Val made no reaction. She sat with her eyes downcast; Caroline had the sense that she was trying to will herself to be invisible.

  “ ‘L.M.,’ ” Crippen said, reading from the printed sheet. “ ‘Who should know better than to fib about his supposed inheritance.’ Any idea who that might be?”

  “I—no,” Caroline said. Her voice sounded odd, rather strained. That would not do, she thought; she must pretend to cooperate, at least.

  “How about this,” Crippen went on. “ ‘Mrs. F.D., bedecked with diamonds at Mrs. Gardner's crush—but who gave them to her?’ Any idea of that?”

  Caroline hesitated, and knew that he saw her do so. “It— I don't go to those big affairs, Inspector. So I really don't—”

  “All right,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was he becoming irritated with her? “Let's try this one. ‘A certain lady with dark hair not from Nature, who frequently escapes to the pleasures of Saratoga Springs, should be more discreet at the gaming tables.’“ He looked up at her, his pale eyes narrowed. “How about that, Miss Ames? Do you know any ladies with ‘dark hair not from Nature’?”

  “It might be—Mrs. Crawford Smyth.”

  Crippen had whipped out a small notebook, and now he wrote down the name. “With an i?”

  “Y,” she said. He crossed out and wrote again.

  Val looked as though she were going to faint.

  “And here we have…” Crippen scanned the page. Then he looked up—a sharp interrogative look that made Caroline's heart skip a beat. She reminded herself that this foolish-seeming little man must not be so foolish, or he would not have been promoted up through the ranks of the Boston Police to his present position.

  ‘“Miss V.T.,”’ he read. ‘The amorous correspondent who shows promise as a writer of ladies’ romantic fiction. She should be more careful about whose hands her efforts fall into.”'

  Caroline watched, fascinated, as he turned to Val. “Any idea about that, Miss Thorne?”

  Val started as if he'd slapped her. “I—I don't know what to say, Inspector.”

  “You'd best say the truth, Miss,” he replied, and his tone now was not sharp but almost kind. Clever man, thought Caroline.

  “The truth,” Val repeated.

  “Always the best policy, Miss,” Crippen said softly.

  Val blinked. Caroline saw with relief that her eyes were dry, no sign of telltale tears.

  Val gave a strangled little laugh. “The truth, Inspector, is often more complicated than it seems.”

  “All the same. Did you have business with Colonel Mann?”

  “Yes,” she said, and in that one short word Caroline heard all the misery of her young life.

  “And did you go to see him on Monday last?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what time would that have been?” He had his notebook at the ready, pencil poised like a dart.

  “About four o'clock.”

  Be careful, dearest, Caroline thought.

  “And did you see anyone else while you were there? Any other—petitioners, let us say?”

  “No. No one.”

  “Ah.” He sounded as if she had given him a significant piece of information.

  “And you didn't see him again?”

  “No.”

  “You can account for your whereabouts on Monday from—let us say—four-thirty on?”

  “I can, Inspector, but—”

  “But—?”

  “I live with my aunt.” Val's voice was calm, through what effort of will Caroline could hardly imagine. “She is elderly, and rather old-fashioned. She knows nothing of—of my business with Colonel Mann. She would suffer a shock if she did know—possibly a shock that would be detrimental to her health.”

  Crippen waited. How predatory he looked, Caroline thought.

  “And so while I say that I can account for my whereabouts after I saw Colonel Mann, I must beg you to take my word. I was with her—with my aunt. But if she were to find out that the Colonel was—” For a moment, Val's calm shattered; then she went on. “If my aunt were to discover that I was being blackmailed by the Colonel, I do not know what that discovery would do to her. It is bad enough in her view that Cousin Addington found his—found him and got into the newspapers because of it. Please, Inspector Crippen, please do not question my aunt about what I have told you. The shock might kill her, and I say that quite honestly.”

  Crippen, ignoring his notebook for the moment, fixed her in his sights still as if she were some kind of prey.

  Which she was, Caroline thought. Oh, Val!

  Suddenly Crippen smiled—a broad, comforting smile that made him look like an overgrown—and very ugly— cherub. “All right, Miss Thorne,” he said. “I won't bother your aunt—or not just yet, at any rate.”

  AT THE ST. BOTOLPH CLUB, THE MEMBERS DOZED IN THEIR chairs before the fire. It was late afternoon: the quiet time. The only activity was in the card room at the back, where the play went on more or less uninterrupted around the clock. Here, the heavy draperies were drawn against the fading light, the air was thick with tobacco fumes, and the men's faces around the green baize table were intent—ferocious, even—as they seized their cards, played them, won or lost, and played again.

  When Ames appeared in the doorway, no one looked up. He waited until the hand was finished and the players relaxed a bit—not much—and sipped their drinks while the tally was made. A balding man with dark whiskers—En-right, thought Ames—looked up and saw him and nodded.<
br />
  “'Afternoon, Ames,” he said. “Care to join us?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Ames approached the table. Enright had been shuffling the deck, but now he stopped.

  “Longworth,” Ames said. Was it his imagination, or, when he spoke the name, did a sudden tension enter the room—a tension greater than was there already?

  “What about him?” Enright said.

  “Was he here on Monday evening?”

  Everyone looked blank. Then the man sitting to Enright's left said, “I can't remember.”

  “I can,” said a man whom Ames recognized as Daniel Weld, a notorious high liver. “Yes—he was.”

  “No,” said Enright. “I don't think so.”

  “He lost—what?” Weld said, as if Enright had not spoken. “Five hundred?”

  “More than that,” said another man. “Nearer a thousand, I'd say. But it wasn't Monday. It was Tuesday.”

  “Monday,” said Weld. “I know it was Monday.”

  Enright shrugged and glanced up at Ames with a grimace. “There you are,” he said. “Not very definite, is it?”

  “No matter,” Ames said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  But already they had forgotten him. Enright was dealing, and all their concentration was fixed once more on the small slips of gaily colored pasteboard that would determine their fate.

  He returned to the lobby where, impatient for MacKenzie to arrive, he began to pace under the disapproving gaze of the steward.

  The outer door opened; two men came in, neither of whom was MacKenzie. It was four-thirty; he and the doctor needed to be at No. 161/2 by six o'clock for early dinner if they were to arrive at the theater on time.

  The outer door opened again, and MacKenzie came in.

  “I hope I didn't keep you,” he started to apologize as he approached. “Dr. Warren had a full house today, and an emergency case as well.”

  “What was his verdict on your knee?”

  “Oh, very positive. I don't seem to have done myself any lasting damage.”

  “Good. Now. Here is what I want to do.” Ames led the doctor to a quiet alcove away from the steward.