“Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?” exclaimed the figure.
“I meant to say, are you the only live one in—in the crowd?”
The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. “Oh, you mean these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork, do I? I—”
Mr. Van Pycke had recovered his dignity. “What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir? Explain yourself.”
The man picked his way carefully through the group of wax figures. He was a sturdy person whose evening clothes did not fit him, now that one observed him carefully. When he was clear of the group, he calmly turned back the lapel of his coat, revealing a nickel-plated star.
“Does that star signify anything, gents? It says I’m here on this job, that’s all. Just to see that nobody walks off with the sparklers. I’m from Wilkerson’s Private Detective Agency. See? Now, I’d like to know when and how you got into this room.”
He faced them threateningly.
The Van Pyckes started.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Bosworth, turning quite red.
“Just what I say, young feller. When did you come in here?”
“You say you are a detective!” sneered Bosworth.
The man from Wilkerson’s blinked his eyes suddenly. “I—I guess I dropped off to sleep for a couple of minutes. Up for three nights—”
“Do you recognize these trousers?” demanded the young man, pointing to his father’s ridiculous legs.
The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared at him through his glasses.
“By thunder, they don’t fit him, do they? Say, there’s something wrong with you guys. Where’d you get them pants, you?”
“Me?” murmured Mr. Van Pycke.
“Yes, you!”
“I’ll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!” roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy.
“Where’d you get them pants?” repeated the sleuth, steadily. “And them shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I’ll have to—here! What’s the matter with you? What you laughin’ at? It won’t be so blamed funny, young feller, let me tell you that. You guys can’t—”
“You’re a fine detective, you are,” laughed Bosworth.
“I’m Doxey, the star man of the agency,” retorted the detective, angrily.
“It’s a wonder my father isn’t wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It would have been quite as easy, and I really think they’d fit him better than they fit you. Don’t lose your temper, please. Good detectives never lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you’ll be good enough to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over there, you’ll—”
“Great Scott!” gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging.
“That’s right! Keep your eye on him. I don’t know who your friend is, Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers—and shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when Bellows took them off. You’ll find—”
“Come off!” growled Doxey. “The old man didn’t come here without pants, did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with—”
Bosworth held up his hand imperatively.
“Good detectives don’t discuss their deductions with—never mind! I sha’n’t say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We—”
“Don’t haggle with the demmed scoundrel,” protested Mr. Van Pycke, vigorously.
“Now, don’t get fresh—don’t get fresh!” said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip.
“Don’t bite it!” cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions.
“I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van Pycke,” said Bosworth, bowing very low.
“Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket. I’ll see if you’re among ’em. If you belong here, why ain’t you out there eatin’ with the rest of ’em?” Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. “I don’t like this pants gag. It sounds fishy.”
“Fishy?” murmured Mr. Van Pycke. “What the devil does he mean by that, Bosworth?”
“It’s his way of calling me a liar, dad, that’s all.”
“Say, there ain’t any Van Pyckes on this list. And this is the correct list, too. The butler gave it to me himself. I—”
Bosworth suddenly lost his playful manner. He was tired of the game.
“That will do, Mr. Doxey. Be good enough to go back to your corner,” he said coldly. “I mean it. Don’t stand there glaring. It has no effect on me. I am Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke. I don’t blame you for protecting the jewels—even from Van Pyckes—but there’s nothing more for you to do, so far as we are concerned. We are waiting for Mrs. Scoville and her guests. And, say, on your way back to your chair—or was it a couch?—be good enough to drape a table cover about the limbs of that unfortunate person with the bald head—and bald legs, I might add.”
Mr. Doxey looked from one to the other with interest, not to say curiosity. Something in the young man’s manner carried conviction.
“Are you the—the Buzzy Van Pycke who gave the supper for Carmen the other—”
“I am,” Bosworth interjected. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Doxey.”
Mr. Doxey snickered. “My wife wouldn’t ‘a’ stood for me—”
“My good man, there were a number of married men there. All of ’em, no doubt, were being shadowed by detectives. I thought perhaps you might have got in—but, there! I am tattling. Please sit down, Mr. Doxey.”
He threw himself into a comfortable chair and crossed his legs. Then he proceeded to light a cigaret.
Mr. Van Pycke, senior, had been sitting for some minutes, a strangely preoccupied look in his eyes, his lips twitching as if with pain.
“I guess I’ll just set out here,” said the detective, looking from one to the other shrewdly. “The town’s full of those Raffles crooks. How do I know—”
“Quite right, Doxey. How could you know? You sleep too soundly.”
“If you’re what you say you are, why don’t you call in the footman to identify you?”
“Bellows has already announced us, Mr. Doxey. I’m hanged if I’ll ask him to do it over again. Now that I think of it, he almost burst while doing it. It’s not my fault that you did not hear him.”
Mr. Doxey looked uncomfortable.
“Well, just keep your hands off from the jewels,” he said.
Mr. Van Pycke, senior, spoke for the first time in many minutes. It was easy to see where his thoughts had been directed during the trifling dialogue. His gaze was attached to the patent-leather shoes he wore.
“I don’t see how that demmed dummy ever got into these shoes. They’re almost killing me. Confound it, Bosworth, don’t grin like an ape! You are tight, sir,—disgustingly tight!”
“I’ll lay you a fiver I’m not so tight as the shoes, dad.”
Mr. Doxey snickered. Van Pycke, père, glared at him in a shocked sort of way for a moment, and then, disdaining the affront, fell to tenderly pressing each of his insteps, very much as if trying to discover a spot that had not yet developed a pain.
The detective took a seat where he could watch the two gentlemen and at the same time keep an eye on the door through to the dining-room far beyond. Bosworth smoked in silence for some time.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” he asked, after a while, indicating the group of dummies with a comprehensive sweep of his hand.
“I’m not here to answer questions,” said Mr. Doxey, succinctly.
“Oh!” said Bosworth.
Mr. Van Pycke stirred restlessly. “By Jove, I think I’ll—’I’ll have to go upstairs and change these shoes for my own, wet or dry. I can’t stand ’em any longer. I dare say my trousers are dry by this time, too.” He arose w
ith great deliberateness. He took two delicate steps toward the hall door; then Mr. Doxey’s irritatingly brusque voice brought him up with a jerk.
“Hold on, there! None o’ that—none o’ that! You set right where you are, mister. I guess I’ll just keep you in plain view for a while. Fine work, me lettin’ you go upstairs, eh? Fine work, I don’t think!”
“Confound you, sir, I’ll—” began Mr. Van Pycke, drawing himself to his full height with a spasmodic effort that brought its results in pain.
“Sit down, father,” advised Bosworth, gently. Mr. Van Pycke sat down. “There’s some one coming,” added his son a moment later. He arose and turned toward the portières at the upper end of the room, prepared to greet the beautiful Mrs. Scoville.
The portières parted at the bottom. All eyes were lowered. The most unamiable looking bulldog that ever crossed man’s path protruded his squat body into the room, pausing just inside the curtains to survey the trio before him in a most disconcertingly pointed manner. His whole body seemed to convert itself into a scowl of disapproval.
Bosworth sat down dismayed. His father swore softly and drew his feet a bit nearer to the legs of the chair. Both of them knew the dog. They knew, moreover, that the only living creature in the whole world exempt from peril was the beast’s mistress, the fair lady to whom they had come to pay coincidental devoirs. All other persons came under the head of prey, so far as Agrippa was concerned—Agrippa being the somewhat ominous name of the pet.
“How—how does he happen to be loose?” murmured Bosworth, with a side glance at the detective.
“Is he dangerous?” asked Mr. Doxey.
“He’s a man-eater,” said the other, quite uncomfortably.
“Nobody told me about a watchdog.”
“Ah, now I understand why he’s loose,” said Bosworth, promptly. Mr. Doxey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened his lips to resent the imputation, half rising from his chair to obtain greater emphasis in his delivery.
Agrippa emitted a prophetic growl. Mr. Doxey resumed his seat in some haste.
“Will he bite?” he demanded instead.
“Bite? Hang it all, man, he’ll chew us to ribbons if we move. I—I know that dog. We don’t dare to twiddle until Mrs. Scoville comes in to call him off. He’s got us treed, that’s all there is to it. I wouldn’t move my little finger for fifty dollars cash. Look at his eyes! Observe the size of his incisors!”
“I believe you,” said Mr. Doxey, with a belated shudder.
“Demmed outrage!” sputtered Mr. Van Pycke. “Now I can’t take them off.”
Mr. Doxey was seized by an inspiration. He smiled. “Why don’t you go upstairs and change ’em?” he asked. Mr. Van Pycke moved one foot, evidently agitated by a desire to kick Mr. Doxey. Agrippa growled. “Just to see if he will bite,” added the detective, with a nervous laugh.
“You go to the devil, sir!” grated Mr. Van Pycke, but entirely without muscular emotion.
Conversation lagged. For five minutes the three men sat immovable, staring with intensely wakeful eyes at the grim figure of Agrippa, who had eyes for all of them. He had moved farther into the room, possibly for the purpose of indulging in a more or less unobstructed scrutiny of the mysterious group of ladies and gentlemen beyond. Agrippa was puzzled but not disturbed. He was not what you would call an inquisitive dog.
“I have never been so insulted in my life,” said Mr. Van Pycke, without raising his voice above a polite monotone.
“Neither have I,” said Mr. Doxey.
“You, sir? You are the insult, sir. How can you be insulted? It is impossible to insult an insult. I won’t put up with—”
“Keep cool, father,” warned Bosworth. “You came very near to moving your leg just then. I warn you.”
“I’m quite sure a dog couldn’t add anything to the pain I’m already suffering from these demmed shoes. Come here, doggie! Nice doggie!” The wheedling tones made no impression on Agrippa. “What an unfriendly beast!”
The figures in wax down the room were not more rigid than the four creatures above—three men and a dog. A little French clock on the mantelpiece clicked off the seconds in a more or less sonorous manner; Mr. Van Pycke’s sighs and the detective’s heavy breathing were quite plainly distinguishable, even though the wind howled with lusty lungs at every window in an effort to monopolize attention.
“I shall have that dog shot the very first thing,” mused Mr. Van Pycke aloud.
“I guess not,” protested Bosworth. “He’s a corker. I wouldn’t take a thousand for him.”
Then they shot simultaneous glances of apprehension at each other. Each wondered if he had let his cat out of the bag.
Bosworth was quick to say to himself: “I see through the governor’s game. Well, I’m a dutiful son. I’ve tried for three of them tonight and Fate has been against me. It means that I’m intended for something better than matrimony.”
Bosworth’s father was thinking: “If I don’t ask her at once, he’ll propose. And she’ll take him in a second if he does. I’ll not give him the chance. I’ll get it over with inside of five minutes. And I will kill that demmed dog.”
Agrippa pricked up his ears and turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of the portières behind him. A moment later the light, quick tread of some one was heard in the adjoining room, accompanied by the swish of silky garments.
Three pairs of eyes were lifted to the portières. A young woman appeared between the heavy silk curtains. For a second she held an attitude of polite inquiry. Then a wrinkle of perplexity crept into her smooth, white forehead. She looked in surprise from one to the other of the motionless gentlemen, ignoring the detective as completely as if he had not been there at all.
What surprised her most was the fact that the Messrs. Van Pycke, noted as the most courteous of men, remained rooted to their chairs.
“Good evening,” said Bosworth, allowing his gaze to stray from her now indignant face to the commanding jowl of Agrippa. “Pardon me for not arising—pardon all of us, I might say,—but it is quite out of the question. By Jove! Do you happen to know Agrippa? If you don’t, please escape while you can. He’s—”
“Agrippa? Oh!” She had a very soft, musical voice. It was doubly attractive because of an uncertain quaver that bespoke amazement. “Are you Mr. Van Pycke?” She looked at the young man with unmistakable interest—or was it curiosity?
“I am Mr. Van Pycke’s son,” said Bosworth, cautiously inclining his head.
The young lady smiled suddenly. “You poor men!” she cried. “Agrippa! Come here, sir!”
Agrippa’s dominion was ended. He turned to her, a very humble dog. She leaned over and boxed his ears with a soft, white hand—but so gently that Agrippa would have smiled if he knew how. He did wag his stubby tail by way of acknowledgment. “Please don’t stir,” she said to the three appalled observers. “I’ll take him away. He’s a very naughty dog.”
She departed, Agrippa’s collar in her fingers. A moment later she returned. The three men were standing, but, by curious coincidence, each had taken a position behind the chair he had occupied.
“Mrs. Scoville begs me to say that she is sorry to have kept you waiting so long, and that she will be down as soon as she has changed her gown.”
“Her gown?” murmured Bosworth.
“Changing it for what?” muttered Mr. Van Pycke, dreadfully bewildered.
“For a street gown. She’s going out, you see.”
Mr. Doxey coughed by way of attracting attention. “Do you know these gents, Miss Downing?”
The smile deepened in her face. Bosworth never had seen a smile so ravishing. He smiled in sympathy, without knowing just why he did it.
“It isn’t necessary to watch them any longer,” she said very sweetly. Mr. Doxey retired to the group near the windows.
“Thanks,” said Bosworth, bowing to her.
“Pardon me,” said his father, “but I understood Mrs. Scoville was at dinner.”
“Spilled something on it?” he queried. “These confounded servants are so—”
“Won’t you sit down?” she interrupted. Bosworth noted a sudden touch of nervousness in her manner. For some reason she bit her lip as she looked in the direction of the dummies.
“If you don’t mind,” mumbled Mr. Van Pycke, “I think I’ll go upstairs and change my shoes and trousers.” He started for the door.
Miss Downing stood aghast—petrified.
CHAPTER III
THE AMAZING MARRIAGE
No one opposing him, Mr. Van Pycke carefully made his way to the door and disappeared into the hall. Miss Downing continued to stare after him for many seconds, plainly perplexed. She was not so transfixed, however, that she failed to note the grotesque misfit of his trousers; nor did his manner of locomotion escape her attention. Could this hobbling, ill-dressed person be the fastidious Van Dieman Van Pycke, of whom she had heard so much?
And he was going upstairs to—by the virtue of all the saints, what did he mean?
A blush raced into her fair cheek. She turned to young Mr. Van Pycke with parted lips, half inclined to smile, half to protest. She found him smiling, yes, more than that; he had his hand over his mouth. Plainly, he was having a struggle of an inward character.
“I—I don’t understand,” she murmured, the flush growing.
“And we don’t understand,” he responded after a moment, waving his hand in the direction of the dummies.
She smiled brightly. “You’ve noticed them?”
“Noticed them?” he repeated. He intended to say more, but a sudden, sickening doubt interfered. However, a quick, rather penetrating glance reassured him. Mr. Doxey had wrapped a rug about the unfortunate gentleman and was now engaged in making room for him behind the Steinway grand. The young lady’s glance followed Bosworth’s.
“What is he doing?” she demanded, starting forward. “Those wax figures are not to be disturbed.”
Bosworth stayed her with a gesture. “You must not interfere with an officer in the discharge of his duty,” he said with great gravity.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 210