The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  And before Ames could protest, she had set off, a small, determined figure in her dark gray walking suit.

  The two men watched her for a moment, Ames with something that was not quite exasperation—she might turn up something, after all—and MacKenzie with a kind of wistful admiration.

  Then Ames collected himself. “Come on, Doctor. I see a vacant herdic over there. Let us catch him before someone else does. I want to go downtown.”

  “EXCUSE ME, MADAM. AH! MRS. DANE! I BEG YOUR pardon.”

  Ames had nearly collided with her in the corridor as she rushed out of Richard Longworth's office.

  He was astonished to see that she was in tears.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She brushed at her face with her gloved fingertips.

  “Yes—yes, of course I am.” She took a breath and forced a smile. She was not a good-looking woman, but she had a certain imperiousness to her, a certain sense of her own not inconsiderable status in the city's social hierarchy—a status she had achieved by her own determined efforts. And for that, one had to admire her. Not like her—he knew that Caroline did not particularly like Isabel Dane, and with good reason—but admire her, yes. And if she were a trifle too obviously ambitious for her rather plain, rather shy daughter, Val's friend Alice, well, there were worse sins than that.

  But why was she at Longworth's? Was he, in fact, continuing the Colonel's dirty business, and had he settled on Isabel Dane as a victim? What could a clever, canny woman like Isabel Dane have done to merit a threat of blackmail?

  Ames felt the beginnings of righteous anger stirring in his bosom—not at Isabel Dane, but at Richard Longworth and his late employer. He put his hand on her elbow to lead her a little way down the dingy hall, away from MacKenzie.

  “Mrs. Dane,” he said softly. “Are you—have you had an encounter with Mr. Longworth?” As he gripped her elbow, he could feel her tremble, even under the good stout fabric of her woolen walking jacket.

  “I—it is nothing,” she said.

  He cast about for the right words. “If you will permit me—my cousin Valentine and your Alice are dear friends, and therefore, even though you and I are not well acquainted—”

  She was pulling away from him, and he released her.

  “Yes, Mr. Ames, but I am late for an appointment—”

  Of course, if Longworth was blackmailing her—but for what?—she wouldn't want to confess it to him, a virtual stranger.

  The blackguard! To persecute helpless females—!

  “Don't pay him,” he said firmly.

  “I beg your pardon?” She looked genuinely confused. Good, he thought; she can dissemble with the best of them.

  “I said, don't pay him. No matter what he threatens, don't give him a penny. It is the only way he can be stopped—from continuing the Colonel's business, I mean. Did you know he worked for Colonel Mann?”

  “No,” she said rather faintly.

  “Yes. He has told me as much. And he has threatened to carry on the Colonel's filthy work. If he tries it, he must be stopped now, at the beginning. Once let him get a foothold, let people start paying up to him as they did to the Colonel, and it will be too late.”

  She stared at him; he could not make out her expression. Astonishment? Dread? Then she seemed to stifle a laugh. Hysterical, he thought. What had happened between her and Longworth?

  “You are very—very kind, Mr. Ames,” she said a little breathlessly.“I—I am quite all right, I assure you. Mr. Longworth has made no threats against me.”

  Then why are you here, he thought but did not say.

  “You are sure?” he asked. “Because if I could be of help to you—if you would like me to speak to him for you—”

  “No!” she said a little too quickly. “No—it is quite all right. If you will excuse me—”

  She turned away from him and, nodding to MacKenzie, went down the stairs to the street.

  Ames stared after her, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then, remembering his own business with Longworth, he went to the door with its black lettering, “Longworth & Sprague.”

  As before, the outer office was deserted. Presumably, however, Longworth was inside. Ames crossed to the closed inner door, knocked, and without waiting for a reply, opened it.

  Longworth sat at his desk, his head in his hands. At the sound of the door opening, he did not look up. “I can tell you nothing more, Mrs. Dane,” he said.

  When Ames did not reply, he glanced up. “Oh,” he said. “I thought—”

  He looked terrible. His hair was in wild disarray; his eyes were sunk back into his head, and they had a haunted look, as if they had seen—what? His own ruin? His face was unshaven, his cravat loosened, his shirt collar dingy and awry. Before him on the desk was an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs; the air in the office was stale with smoke. As he reached for the cigarette box to take out another, Ames noticed that his hands were trembling.

  Longworth tapped down the cigarette, put it between his lips, and struck a match against the side of its box. He needed to strike it several times before it caught, and when it did, his hand was shaking so badly that he had trouble touching the flame to the cigarette's tip. After he succeeded, he inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke. Turkish, thought Ames, and rather cheap. “What do you want?” Longworth said.

  “I want what I wanted yesterday,” Ames replied. He was amazed that a woman like Serena Vincent would ever have had anything to do with this man. And he, poor devil, was infatuated with her. Was that the reason for his desperation? Neither Ames nor MacKenzie sat down, and Longworth, after that first glance up, kept his eyes on the desk in front of him.

  Longworth shook his head. “I can't help you, Mr. Ames. I thought I made that clear.”

  “But I believe you can.” Ames put his hands on the desk and leaned in close. “In fact, I believe you can tell me who killed the Colonel.”

  “No.”

  “And Mrs. Trask, as well.”

  Longworth looked up at that. “No,” he repeated; his voice was hoarse, and his hand, holding the cigarette between two slim fingers, still trembled visibly.

  “No? Why did her husband pay ten thousand dollars to the Colonel two years ago?”

  “He— I don't know.”

  “Yes, you do!” Ames slammed his hand on the desk, causing Longworth to jump.

  Go easy, friend, thought MacKenzie. He had been standing slightly behind Ames, but now he stepped forward. “Perhaps Mr. Longworth can—”

  “Go away, both of you!” Longworth exclaimed. “I can't help you! I can't even help myself, so how can I help you?”

  “Come on, man,” Ames persisted. “I don't care who did what, I have my own interests to pursue, and I need to know.”

  Longworth stared at Ames, but he said nothing. He looked like a whipped dog—like a man who had lost all hope. The sight of him gave MacKenzie the willies, and he looked away.

  “Make a bargain with me, then,” Ames said, straightening. “Perhaps, if I can help you, you will help me.”

  A slight sneer curled the corner of Longworth's mouth. “There is no way you can help me, Mr. Ames.”

  “Perhaps I can. What do you—”

  “For God's sake!” Longworth shouted. “You barge in here, you make demands, you hound me and hound me— I tell you, I don't know who killed the Colonel! I don't know what business the Trasks had with him! And I don't know who has your damned letters!”

  “Mrs. Trask's death is not what the police think it is,” Ames said. “I believe that whoever killed the Colonel probably killed her. I don't care who that is—I am interested only in finding a packet of six letters. You are one of the few people who can give me information—if you will. A young woman's future depends upon it. Can you really deny her whatever help you might give her?”

  “I deny her nothing,” Longworth said through clenched teeth, “but I repeat—why won't you listen to me?—I cannot tell you anything!”

  You
are lying, thought MacKenzie.

  Ames seemed to think the same. “Yes,” he said, “you can. Why were you at the theater last night?”

  “The—” Longworth was caught off guard at that. “I went to see the play,” he muttered.

  “You've seen it before, surely.”

  “No.”

  “You are a poor liar, Richard Longworth.”

  The insult had no effect; Longworth remained slumped in his chair, his face slack with fatigue and despair.

  “You saw what happened,” Ames went on. “Someone shot at Mrs. Vincent. Was it you?”

  “No! Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because you and she are—”

  He found that he couldn't say the word: lovers. Long-worth was infatuated with her, Caroline had said, recounting the maid's story. And he made threats against her—and against the Colonel as well.

  “I believe you had reason—in your own mind, at least,” Ames concluded.

  Longworth stared at him. “You are wrong, Mr. Ames. I would never—”

  “You threatened her.”

  “Who told you that? Never mind—I can guess. Her maid doesn't like me, and I must admit, the feeling is mutual. No, Mr. Ames, I did not shoot at Mrs. Vincent last night. I would like to know who did.”

  Ames took a step back; he held Longworth in his gaze for a moment, and then he lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug and said, “Very well. As you wish.”

  He turned to go, and MacKenzie followed. They had crossed the outer office and reached the hall door when they heard Longworth cry, “Ames! One word more, if you please!”

  Longworth had come to the connecting door; Ames turned to face him.

  “Would you—I would ask a favor of you.”

  Ames waited.

  “If anything should happen to me—”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you look after Mrs. Vincent?”

  And you denied even knowing her, Ames thought.

  “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

  “IT IS SO KIND OF YOU TO COME WITH US THIS AFTERNOON, Doctor,” Caroline said as she dodged a small boy rolling his hoop down the Long Path across Boston Common. The branches of the tall, leafless elms that lined the path thrashed in the cold north wind, causing men and women both to hold on to their hats. Caroline's was gray, trimmed with purple plumes; she grasped its brim tightly as she half turned to speak to MacKenzie.

  “My pleasure,” he said, and he meant it.

  “It's Beethoven and Mozart today, so you're in luck. No Brahms. He is so very heavy,” she added.

  Since he didn't know one from the other, he merely nodded and clutched his own hat.

  Caroline glanced around to Val, who followed them. They were on their way to Friday afternoon Symphony at the Music Hall on Tremont Street. Euphemia, who attended with Caroline and Val ordinarily, had stayed home today, saying she felt the onset of la grippe.

  Val had been deeply upset at the news of Marian Trask's death; all during lunch, which she'd taken with the Ameses, she had kept coming back to it in a horrified way, until finally Caroline had had to tell her ever so gently to let it go.

  But Val hadn't been able to do that. “She was in the Christmas Revels a few years ago. In the chorus. And I believe she was a jester, too. I remember she wore slippers with bells on them.”

  Now, as they crossed the Common, she was aware of Val's silence, her lagging pace. Somehow, Caroline thought, we must prevent her going into a decline. Declines were fearsome things; some people went into them and never came out. It would have been helpful if I could have seen Marian's sister this morning, she thought, but the sister— grieving? away from town?—had not been in.

  At Tremont Street, Caroline saw several people she knew, and inside the Music Hall, after settling herself between Val and MacKenzie, she saw more: Mrs. Sears, and the Misses Curtis; old Dr. Leverett and his daughter, and a young girl whom Caroline recognized as a Leverett cousin. Mrs. Lee and her sister, Miss Abbott; Mr. and Mrs. Loring; Mr. Parker Wigglesworth, solitary as always.

  Despite her several layers of warm clothing, including her best flannel petticoat, and despite the warmth of the hall, she felt a sudden chill. It was the same chill she'd felt three evenings before at the Cotillion: who, among all these familiar faces, had been a victim of the Colonel's? And, more to the point, who had been his informants?

  Val touched her arm. “Alice isn't here,” she said.

  Caroline looked to their right, to the two vacant seats three rows down, usually occupied by Isabel and Alice Dane.

  “She must still be unwell.”

  “Yes,” Val whispered. “I just don't—I don't know, Caro. If only I could see her, talk to her—”

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” Caroline murmured soothingly. “Would you like me to call around and see? I could take her some jellied beef, or something like.”

  Val threw her a grateful smile. “Yes, would you? And perhaps Mrs. Dane would give you some news of Alice's condition—”

  She broke off as a little murmur swept the hall and the conductor, a stern, forbidding German, strode purposefully onto the stage. He waited, his back to them, until the murmur subsided; then he brought down his baton and the first strains of the “Pastoral” Symphony floated out.

  Caroline put aside all her forebodings as she gave herself up to the music. She loved these Symphony afternoons; she was sorry that Addington never wanted to come. After a few moments, she glanced at MacKenzie. His face bore an expression of polite interest, nothing more. He looked steadily at the platform, at the musicians laboring away under the conductor's baton; then, aware of her glance, he turned to her and gave her a smile of extraordinary sweetness.

  Her heart thudded for a beat or two and then settled back. It had been a long time since a man smiled at her like that; it had, in fact, happened only a few times, and then—

  And then he went away, the voice in her mind said. But she had promised herself, long ago, not to think about him. He was gone; he would never come back. And even if he did, now, after all this time, would she welcome him?

  Probably not, she thought. No: definitely not. For a moment, aware of the doctor's solid, comforting presence beside her, she ceased to hear the music. Over the past few weeks, she had come to rely on him—to think of him as a friend in a way that she'd never thought of Addington. Addington was her older brother, her protector; as she'd grown up, he'd been almost a father to her (their own father being always so busy with his practice, and he'd died years ago). And women needed men to guide them, to protect them; everyone knew that.

  It was just that sometimes Addington's guiding hand grew rather heavy. Truth to tell (but she never would have told it, never would have confessed it to anyone), she'd been looking forward to his absence this winter. So there had been a small bit of regret for herself, as well as her larger regret for him, when the expedition had been canceled. Poor Professor Harbinger….

  The first movement ended. To her horror, she saw MacKenzie lift his hands as if to clap, and before she could stop herself, she reached over and put her hand on his. She shook her head, smiling to take the sting from any reproof.

  He was not offended. He smiled back at her, and shrugged as if to say, I am an uncouth westerner, unschooled in classical music.

  The second movement began. She took back her hand. She could still feel the sensation of it—ungloved, naked— touching his. She didn't mind that he didn't know when to applaud. She didn't, she realized, mind at all.

  It was dark outside when the concert ended, and colder than ever. Caroline asked Val, “Will you come to tea, dear?”

  Val started as though her thoughts had been miles away. “Didn't I tell you? George promised to meet us for tea at Bailey's.”

  This was a Boston institution, a fabulous ice cream parlor and tea shoppe a few doors down Tremont Street.

  “He did? Oh, but that will be lovely,” Caroline exclaimed. Bailey's had a kind of enchantment to it, dark wood and tiny, p
olished marble tables and stained glass lamps; surely there, in that warm, bright place, over a cup of tea and a plate of ice cream and tiny, sweet iced cakes, George would begin to behave well once more.

  The sidewalk was crowded, people jostling by, and Caroline found that somehow her hand had been tucked into the crook of Dr. MacKenzie's elbow. This felt odd at first— Addington never let her take his arm—but after a moment, she found that it felt quite pleasant as well, so she let it stay.

  At Bailey's, they managed to find a table in a far corner. “He said he'd be here,” Val said, anxiously scanning the crowd. “He especially promised, because he knew I was upset about the other day.”

  “Perhaps he has been held up—” Caroline began, but Val cut her off.

  “He promised,” she said. Caroline heard a note of coldness in the girl's voice that she had not heard before.

  They waited. George did not come. At last, when the waitress had appeared for the second time, they asked for three ice cream teas.

  Valentine sat mute and stricken, but there was a stubborn set to her mouth. As Caroline looked at her young cousin's pale, still face, she thought: just as Val said, her heart is beginning to harden. And that, in the end, may be what saves her when her letters, as surely they will, turn up at last.

  “MR. AMES—HOW KIND OF YOU TO COME SO PROMPTLY.”

  Serena Vincent rose to greet him, holding out her hand with a look of genuine relief. She was as lovely as ever, but with an air of tension that for all her actress's skill, she could not conceal. Hardly surprising, he thought as he took her hand and felt, like a small shock to his system, the pressure of her grasp.

  He had not thought of his coming to her as kind; after receiving her telegram, he'd hardly been able to get through lunch, so eager was he to see her. To learn what she had to tell him: apparently something urgent. Or, at least, that was what he told himself: that he wanted to see her only to hear what she had to say, and for no other reason. Almost, he believed it.