The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  A few moments later, he had left MacKenzie at the club and was walking down Newbury Street to Berkeley, where he crossed to the Natural History Museum and turned left toward Boylston Street. It was full dark now, cold, with a stiff wind from the west. He had checked the time before he left the club: four forty-two. He walked rapidly, passing from light to darkness to light again under the streetlamps. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, his thoughts on what he would attempt in the next few moments.

  As he waited to cross at Boylston, jostled by a clutch of young men emerging from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology building to his right, he eyed the bulk of the Hotel Brunswick opposite. The entrance and the first and second floors were ablaze with light—the new electric lights, harsh and glaring. People swarmed in and out, for the Hotel Brunswick was a popular meeting place as well as one of the busiest hostelries in the city. But around on Berkeley Street, to the side and rear of the building, it was darker. Which suited Ames's purposes exactly.

  He crossed and went on down Berkeley Street. At the alley at the rear of the hotel, he paused and glanced behind him. For a moment he thought he saw, silhouetted against the lights of Boylston Street, the figures of two men. But immediately they disappeared, melding into the dark bulk of the hotel building, so that he was not sure they had been there at all. Stop it, he thought; his nerves were getting the better of him.

  In the alley, the noise of the traffic was less, but in its place was the chuffing and snorting of the railway cars pulling into and out of Providence Station, one block away. Glancing up at the sky, he saw clouds of white steam from the engines.

  The alley was dark; like all Boston alleys, it undoubtedly harbored rats. He stepped carefully, alert for shadowy creatures slithering in the gloom. In a moment he had reached the door he sought, the rear door to the hotel. It was unlocked. Slipping in, he found himself in the well of an iron stairway. He ascended rapidly, past unmarked doors on each floor. If someone discovered him here, he would claim to be a guest, momentarily disoriented, trying to find his way back to his room.

  Past the kitchen floor; past the first floor. By the time he had reached what he estimated to be the fourth floor, where the Colonel had had his suite, he was slightly winded, but only slightly. He stepped into the corridor to look at his watch. Four forty-seven. Not bad. And if the return to the St. Botolph Club could be made in equally good time…

  He entered the stairwell again and started down. It was miraculous good luck that he had encountered no one, he thought; pray his luck held until he was outside again.

  In no more than a minute he had closed the outer door behind him and was safe in the alley once more. He paused to take a breath. The air smelled of coal smoke and horse droppings faintly overlaid by the sickly smell of gas—city air, familiar to him from childhood.

  If he'd made it here in quick time, Longworth could have done the same. Now get back to the St. Botolph, time the whole business, and home to dinner.

  Rapidly he loped down the alley to Berkeley Street. In the next moment, a blow caught him on the side of his head; it stunned him, but he stayed on his feet.

  Someone caught his arms, pinioning them behind him while a second man hissed: “Where's the money, then, Mr. Ames?”

  In the gloom of the alley, he couldn't see the fellow clearly, and in any case, he wore a kerchief tied over the lower half of his face, muffling his words.

  Struggling to free himself, Ames wrenched his arms, but the fellow—a big bruiser—had him fast in a grip of iron.

  The interrogator reached out and seized Ames's jaw, roughly shaking him. “Eh? Where is it?”

  What money? he wondered. The Colonel's? Well, he could tell them nothing about that.

  He gasped as the fellow's fist landed in his ribs. It was hardly a fair fight, but this was not Crabbe's Boxing and Fencing Club. Street toughs used brass knuckles; he'd be lucky if he escaped unscathed. A second punch landed just above the first, knocking the breath out of him, and for a moment, he thought he would lose consciousness. The fellow was asking him again, but the voice seemed faint now, and far away.

  And then, even fainter, he heard footsteps, someone shouting—“Ho! You, there!”—and suddenly the iron grip on his arms loosened for a second and he tore himself free. He whirled and, catching his captor off guard, landed a blow to his throat and a second to his jaw. He heard the crack of bone: not his.

  Behind him, a furious battle was taking place: the newcomer, whoever he was, flailing with his cane, beating the interrogator about the head and shoulders, beating him to his knees, beating him into submission until the fellow cried out for him to stop.

  “All right! Leave off!”

  The big one with the crunched jaw backed away from Ames and lumbered down the alley toward Clarendon Street. The interrogator lay in a crumpled heap on the cobblestones, seemingly unconscious. The rats will get him if he doesn't come to, thought Ames.

  He drew an experimental breath. Not bad. His ribs ached where he'd been hit, but he didn't think they were broken.

  MacKenzie's sturdy form stood beside him in the dark.

  “Doctor,” Ames said, “I am in your debt.”

  “Are you badly hurt? They looked as though they meant to do you serious harm.”

  “But didn't, thanks to you.” Ames shook himself and glanced again at the man lying at their feet. He nudged him with his boot toe and heard a groan in reply.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded.

  No reply except another groan.

  “Well?” he barked, nudging again, harder.

  The man moved, lifted himself to one elbow, shook his head.

  “Jimmy Doyle,” he mumbled.

  “Flash dresser, gaiters, diamond ring?”

  “That's him.” The man had levered himself into a sitting position, and now he peered up at Ames. His kerchief had slipped, but in the darkness, his face was only a pale smudge.

  “Did you know the Colonel?” Ames asked.

  “No.”

  “Never met him—never went to his rooms?”

  “No.”

  “Doyle thought he had money in his hotel suite? Thought I took it?”

  “Yes.”

  The man tried and failed to stand, falling back onto the cobblestones and groaning again, more loudly.

  “You can tell Mr. Doyle for me that he sent you on a fool's errand,” Ames said. “He missed getting the Colonel's money—if there was any—by a good hour or more on Monday night. If he's wise, he'll give up trying to find it now. Come on, Doctor.”

  They left Ames's assailant in the alley and started back toward Boylston Street. At the front of the hotel, a herdic-phaeton drew up and they climbed in. They traveled in silence for a while, and then Ames said, “What prompted you to follow me?”

  “I don't know,” MacKenzie admitted. He'd had a feeling, a hunch, call it what he would; and, feeling slightly out of place at the St. Botolph on his own, he'd ventured out.

  Ames grunted. “Good thing you did. In a fair fight, I could no doubt have beaten them, but as it was—I doubt it.”

  He fell silent, reflecting. Despite his misadventure, he was not disappointed. His trial run, from the St. Botolph Club to the Hotel Brunswick and back, had been interrupted, but still, he'd learned that an agile, limber man—a man like himself, a man like Richard Longworth—could have gone to the hotel and back, with time in between to accomplish his deadly purpose, in approximately fifteen minutes.

  So Longworth could have been at cards on Monday evening, and he could have excused himself for a brief time, gone to the hotel, dispatched the Colonel, and arrived back at the card table in considerably less than half an hour. Just a little break in an evening of cards, Ames thought grimly; just a little intermission to take care of some pressing business. And he had learned something else: perhaps it was money, after all, that had provided the motive for the Colonel's murder, and not some dark secret about to be revealed.

  More: they'd followed him, had perhaps
been following him for some time—ever since his name first appeared in the newspapers. He'd not been mistaken when he thought he'd seen them before he turned into the alley.

  MacKenzie, steadying himself as the cab jounced along, had grown thoughtful as well. He had never feared for his own safety, but now, given the incident just past, he had a thought for Ames's sister. Had they somehow put her into danger? Would the men who had attacked Ames attack her? He remembered his fear of an intruder at No. 161/2, the night he'd found Ames stargazing. Perhaps he'd been right to be afraid. He wanted very much to see her, to reassure himself that in his absence, she'd come to no harm. The cab drew up; they were home.

  CAROLINE HEARD THE FRONT DOOR OPEN, AND A MOMENT later the two men came in, MacKenzie limping a little. She noted the look on his face when he saw Crippen.

  “Doctor,” she said, smiling at him with genuine pleasure—and relief.

  “Miss Ames—Miss Thorne—Inspector.”

  He sat down; Ames stayed by the doorway. “I see you have accepted my sister's invitation to tea,” he said to Crippen.

  “How could I not, Mr. Ames?” Crippen replied with a self-satisfied smile.

  “And your investigation—”

  “Coming along.”

  There was an awkward little silence. MacKenzie eyed the inspector with a wary gaze, and Crippen seemed openly annoyed at the doctor's presence.

  Why is he here? MacKenzie thought. He said he had his suspect; why, then, does he bother to harass Miss Ames and her young cousin?

  In the next moment, to Caroline's surprise and relief, Crippen stood up. “I must be going,” he said to Caroline, picking up the galley and folding it into his pocket. “And I thank you for your hospitality—and your help.”

  Was he mocking her? As she pulled the bellpull for Margaret to show him out, she hoped he would not see she was glad to be rid of him. She remembered, later, having said something inane about how pleasant it had been to see him again. She remembered the little light that appeared in his eyes as she said it. Somehow, they got through the moments of his leave-taking. When he finally departed, Ames went with him into the hall to have a word, and Caroline sank into her chair with an exclamation of relief.

  “I am so glad to see you, Doctor! I mean, I am always—” No, she thought. Ladies do not speak so boldly. “I mean,” she corrected herself, “it was so good of you to appear just at that moment.” She looked at Val. “Are you all right, Valentine?”

  “Yes.” But she was still very white, and her voice was faint.

  “You must go upstairs and rest—” Caroline began.

  “No. No, I am all right. It is just that— Oh, Caro! What if George learns that I have been questioned by the police!”

  At that, all MacKenzie's gallant instincts rose up and nearly strangled him. “He questioned you?” he said. “But surely he cannot do that unless you have counsel present, and—”

  Caroline interrupted him. “It was not a formal interrogation, Val,” she said. “I mean, you just happened to be here when he called on me. I was the one he wanted to question, not you!”

  “But he did question me,” Val replied. “He—I—oh, what shall I do if he goes to Aunt Euphemia? If she finds out—and George—”

  “They will not. Inspector Crippen does not need to question Euphemia, and he knows that. Don't you agree, Addington?” she asked as he returned to them from seeing Crippen off.

  “Question Euphemia?” They saw a hint of humor in his dark eyes. “In that give-and-take, Crippen wouldn't stand a chance.”

  “Do be serious, Addington. And do reassure Val that he wouldn't waste his time—”

  Ames sat beside Valentine and took her hand. “Inspector Crippen is hardly the most brilliant man in the world, dear girl, but even so, he is no fool. And, no, I do not believe he would waste his time interviewing Euphemia. And even if he tried, she would send him packing. Is that for me?” he added, meaning the telegram.

  “Yes.” Caroline handed it to him. He ripped it open, extracted the flimsy yellow sheet, and scanned it. To Caroline's intense disappointment, he did not reveal its contents, and so she turned to MacKenzie.

  “Inspector Crippen came to ask me about the initials in the Colonel's galley,” she said. At once she saw his outrage, and she felt a sudden little surge of pleasure because of it.

  “But to subject you—and Miss Thorne—to questioning!” he began.

  Abruptly, Val stood up. “I must go,” she said.

  “I will walk with you,” Caroline offered. “It is dark—”

  “No. Really, I prefer to go alone. But thank you. Good day, Doctor. Cousin Addington.”

  MacKenzie half rose and sank back again. While the two women had a last word at the door, he thought about Inspector Crippen. Surely, despite his bravado, he wouldn't be so bold as to actually pay suit to Miss Ames?

  He gave himself a little mental shake. Let the fellow do as he would. Caroline Ames was a woman of great good sense. She would never entertain a courtship from the likes of El-wood Crippen.

  And meanwhile, he, John Alexander MacKenzie, had the advantage, living as he did in her household, seeing her every day. In the spring, he thought, when his knee had fully mended, when this wretched business with Valentine Thorne was over and done with one way or another—then he would see the lay of the land, so to speak, and perhaps, with luck, he would have some encouragement from this charming and sympathetic woman who had, somewhat to his surprise, stolen his heart.

  His reverie was interrupted as Caroline returned.

  “Thank goodness you two came home at last!” she exclaimed. “What a time we had of it! What does the telegram say, Addington?”

  “Do you know this woman?” he asked, handing it to her. She read the words pasted in narrow strips along the paper:

  Will call today at 5:30 stop Important stop Marian Trask

  She nodded. “Yes. And you do, too—or you've met her, at least. She was at the Cotillion. Small, dark, rather vivacious. I don't know her well, but I see her from time to time. And she is on the committee at Agatha's. As a matter of fact—” She thought for a moment, remembering her promise to look for clean secondhand clothing as Mrs. Trask had requested. She'd forgotten all about it. “Today is her day at the Bower. She must intend to come here straight from there.”

  She glanced at the little Gothic clock on the mantel. It was nearly a quarter to six.

  “Whatever can she want of me?” Ames muttered. He was not happy at the thought of an interview with a woman he hardly knew, probably about something of no interest to him—some new charity committee, perhaps.

  On the other hand, Trask was a name he'd seen recently. In the Colonel's ledger, in fact, dated over two years before and with a hefty sum attached to it. And a check mark.

  “While you wait for her, you can have your tea,” Caroline said. “Did you”—and she gave him a look along with his tea—”did you tell Inspector Crippen that I would be happy to help him, Addington?”

  “I—yes. I told him to call any afternoon. As you yourself instructed me to do, if you remember.”

  “Well, his visit was most poorly timed, I must say. Poor Val nearly went out of her mind worrying that he would take it into his head to pay a visit to Euphemia. Never mind that George might learn she had been questioned by the police.”

  Ames made a small sound of irritation. “Crippen's prize suspect is the wrong one, to begin with, and now he comes here and badgers you and Val—”

  The clock struck the hour. Ames sipped his tea. It was hot and reviving, soothing to the ache in his ribs. Should he tell Caroline he'd been attacked? No.

  “Marian's late,” Caroline murmured. “I hope she won't stay too long,” she added, her natural instincts for hospitality at war with her wish not to be late for the theater. She seldom went to the theater, except for the occasional performance of Shakespeare (she'd seen Edwin Booth's Hamlet, a life-changing experience); and of course the play itself, this evening, might not be an
ything much. But to be the guest of the star, to sit in a box—and, yes, to see a work that was perhaps on a par with her beloved Diana Strangeways—that was a treat indeed. Neither Diana Strangeways nor the unknown author of Mrs. Vincent's play was in the same league as Shakespeare, of course; but, she reminded herself, not everyone needed to be. There was a place in the world for lesser talents.

  The little clock ticked relentlessly on. It was five past six. In the square, lamps on their tall posts glowed brightly in the darkness. Caroline lifted her head to listen for the sound of a carriage, but she heard nothing beyond the soft ticking of the clock and the faint hiss and murmur of the sea-coal fire.

  She took up her petit point, part of a set of new seat covers for the dining room chairs. It was a floral arrangement in blue and yellow; she was only halfway through this first piece, and already it was beginning to bore her.

  Ames shifted restlessly in his chair. “Where is the woman?” he muttered irritably. He wanted to go upstairs to wash and change in plenty of time for dinner.

  Caroline thought, perhaps Agatha had had some emergency that required Marian to stay late. Perhaps Marian's carriage had not arrived at the Bower on time to pick her up. Perhaps—

  Ames stood up. “I am going up to wash,” he said. “If she comes, give her some tea and tell her I will be down directly. Women have no sense of time,” he added—gratuitously, Caroline thought, since she herself was always punctual to a fault.

  MacKenzie said that he, too, would go upstairs, and shortly Caroline heard the whine of the little elevator. She worked the last of a purple-blue iris and stared for a moment at her basket of yarns. Should she start on the yellow rose?

  No, she thought. With a secret sigh of relief, she thrust the canvas into her workbasket and closed the lid. One canvas a month if she was really faithful to it, she thought. There were twelve chairs.

  She got up and went to the window. Louisburg Square lay dark and quiet, as it always did; no sign of a carriage bearing their caller. Time to go upstairs and change to her gray silk that she had worn to the Cotillion; she had no other dress that would be remotely suitable. She'd leave the gas turned up so that if Marian finally did arrive, she would not be greeted by a darkened parlor.