by Rex Stout
“This is what comes of having a widowed sister with contemplations on humanity,” observed Canby, as he tossed the letter back in the drawer. ‘Here’s a nice job I’ve got. Pleasant task for an aged bachelor: playing croquet with Tired Working Girls! I’m not sure it’s even decent. Lord, what names! Manganaro!—Lavicci!—Somi! They won’t be able to speak English, their hands and feet will be in the way, and they’ll have their pockets full of garlic to nibble between meals! Sis says she’ll be back tonight or tomorrow, and maybe she will and maybe she won’t. Oh Lord! Hanged if I’ll go to the station, anyway; I’ll send Simmons.”
Downstairs, having summoned the chauffeur from the garage and delivered his instructions, and having ascertained from the housekeeper that the rooms of the expected guests were in readiness, Canby deposited himself in a shady corner of the piazza with a morning newspaper, a box of cigarettes, a bottle, a siphon, and a glass. Soon he saw Simmons, in a new seven-passenger touring car, winding along the driveway on his way to the station, seven miles distant. Canby sighed and returned to his paper. He had had a match on for this morning with Garrett Linwood, a guest at his own country home, some fifteen miles to the northeast, and he had expected at about this hour to be standing on the sixth tee, driving across the brook. That’s what comes of having a sister. . . .
Buried in the sporting page of his newspaper some forty-five minutes later, Canby came to with a start at the sound of the returning automobile whizzing along the driveway. Hastily tossing off his glass and throwing the paper aside, he reached the central arch of the main portico just as the car drew up at the foot of the steps.
The three young women from the East Side Vacation Club descended rather stiffly, with embarrassed movements. Canby glanced at them with idle curiosity and then spoke, welcoming them to Roselawn in the name of his sister, their hostess, and explaining her temporary absence. They mumbled something in reply, and Canby, somewhat embarrassed himself, was relieved to find the housekeeper at this elbow.
“Mrs. Garton will show you your rooms,” he finished. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
“I’m going back for the luggage, sir,” came from Simmons.
Canby nodded; in his indifference he had forgotten all about it; but, come to think of it, of course even working girls would have luggage. Having followed the housekeeper with his eyes as she led the visitors into the house, he returned to his corner on the piazza and took up his newspaper; but by the time he had finished the financial page he was vaguely uneasy. As host pro tem., he felt that he probably ought to do something; so a few minutes later, he started in search of Mrs. Garton. As he crossed the reception hall he heard footsteps above, and there, on the landing of the great staircase, stood his three guests, huddled together as if for protection and gazing down at him doubtfully.
“I was just looking for you,” said Canby, trying to make his tone pleasant and fatherly. “Thought you might like to come out on the piazza—quite cool and cheerful. Later I’ll take you over the gardens, when the sun isn’t so hot.”
There was a movement on the landing, and a “Thank you, sir,” came down to him. He reflected with relief that they did appear to understand English, at least; and when they had descended the stairs he led the way outside.
There, after they had been distributed among the comfortable wicker chairs and he had rung for a maid to bring cakes and lemonade, he took the trouble to look at them. The two nearest him were easily classified as Italian peasant girls, with their dark skin and hair and eyes, rather coarse features and large hands and feet. They wore brightly colored dresses and one had a large yellow imitation rose in her hair. The third was more difficult; in fact, the longer Canby looked at her the more difficult she became. Her soft brown hair, combed back from her forehead, revealed a well-formed brow, smooth and white; her features were regular and her skin of a delicate velvety texture; and the hand that rested on the arm of the chair was small and exquisite in shape. She wore a laundered dress of light tan with a black velvet bow at the throat, and the low collar permitted a view of a dainty neck between the softly curving shoulders. Nineteen, she may have been, or twenty, and was of that delightful size and figure that makes any other woman always seem either too large or too small.
Canby took in these details, or most of them, gazing at her with something like astonishment. Curious his eye hadn’t picked her out from the others as they got out of the car; but, after all, there was nothing noticeable about her, nothing startling. That was just it; it was only after you noticed her that you saw her. There was something decidedly attractive and appealing about the little red mouth, with the sensitive lips neither closed nor parted; and the total effect of her attitude and expression was of quiet, well-bred modesty as she sat there, all unconscious of Canby’s stare.
He turned to the girl nearest him:
“I know what your names are,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I don’t know how they’re distributed.”
Her black eyes, honest and patient, returned his look.
“Mine is Rose Manganaro,” she replied. “This,” she indicated to the girl next to her, “is Mildred Lavicci. And Miss Somi—Nella Somi.”
So her name was Nella Somi. That might be anything. He wished that she would turn her head so he could see her eyes. He ventured some trivial question, but it was Rose Manganaro who answered, and a conversation was started. She spoke of the hot city they had left behind, and the ride up the Hudson, and the beautiful homes they had passed on the way from the station. Then cakes and lemonade arrived, and Canby amused himself by watching their white teeth as they bit into the yellow squares. Nella Somi, he remarked, took no cake, but merely sipped her lemonade. After that their tongues were loosened and the two Italian girls talked freely and unaffectedly. Mildred had noticed some men playing golf on the way from the station, and Canby described the game in detail for their benefit.
Thus the time passed somehow until luncheon, and after that they returned to the piazza. Canby had promised himself that, as soon as he had sat at the table with them, he would leave them to their own resources and drive back to Greenhedge for the match with his friend Linwood, who was waiting for him; but, now that the time had come, he didn’t go. The desultory conversation of that morning was resumed, and the afternoon dragged away. Nella Somi spoke hardly at all, but the others made up for it. Finally, the shadows began to lengthen and a cooling breeze arose from the direction of the river. Rose Manganaro spoke of the gardens.
“I’ll show you around if you want,” offered Canby. “Not so hot now.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t trouble you, sir,” replied Rose, getting up from her chair, “we can go alone, if it’s all right. Are you coming, Mildred? Nella?”
Mildred was already on her feet, but Nella Somi declared that she was too comfortable to move. Canby at once decided to stay where he was, but rose politely as the two girls passed in front of him on their way to the steps. A minute later they had disappeared around the bend of the garden path. When Canby sat down again he moved over to the chair left vacant next to Nella Somi.
“You don’t care for flowers?” he ventured after a little.
“Oh yes, I love them,” she replied quickly, “but it’s so hot, and I’m so tired.”
“In an hour it will be cool; we’re quite close to the river here, you know. In the evenings, on the water, it’s really chilly.”
“In a boat, you mean.”
“Yes; especially in a swift one.”
Suddenly she turned her eyes on him, and he saw them for the first time.
It took his breath. He had expected them to be brown, from the darkness of her hair, and their clear vivid blue almost startled him. The lashes, heavy and drooping, were even darker than her hair, and the effect was striking and strangely beautiful. If she had purposely kept them from him throughout the afternoon she appeared now to have changed her mind, for she returned his g
aze frankly and artlessly, to the point of disconcerting him. The vivid blue eyes held curiosity.
“You don’t do anything, do you?” she observed finally.
“Do anything?” he repeated.
“Work, I mean.”
“Oh! No.” He forbore smiling. “That is, no regular work. I have an office in New York, but I’m very seldom there.”
“How funny! I have to work so hard and you do nothing at all.” There was no resentment in her tone; her interest in the question seemed purely academic.
“Your hard work doesn’t seem to leave much impression,” returned Canby.
She calmly noted his gaze resting on her pretty white hands.
“I wouldn’t let it,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, it isn’t that kind. I sort candies, and I wear gloves.” She twisted about in her chair the better to face him, with a quick graceful movement of her supple young body. The blue eyes were half closed as if in speculation. “To think of a big ugly man like you with nothing to do, and me working all day long,” she continued. “I could be so pretty if I had time for things!”
“I’m not sure it would be safe for you to be much prettier,” returned Canby with a laugh. To himself he added, “Or possible either.” He went on aloud: “But am I so ugly as all that?”
The blue eyes flashed a smile, then were serious:
“All men are ugly,” she declared daintily; “it’s a part of them. They’re clumsy and not nice to look at. If only there were something else to marry!”
“Are you thinking of marriage?”
“Oh, yes; Tony, Rose’s brother. But I haven’t promised yet, and I don’t think I will. He’s very nice, but so—so ugly.” She paused a moment. “There were a lot of men on the train this morning and they were frightful.”
“Did they annoy you?” demanded Canby in the tone of a protector.
“No; they never do. Of course, they often speak to me, on the street too, but that’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I look as if I didn’t understand them and say something in Italian or French. They always look frightened and go away. Americans are so afraid of a foreign tongue.”
“You speak Italian and French?”
“Yes. My mother was French; she was born in Paris. But, my goodness!”—she laughed a little for the first time, a low soft ripple of sound that enchanted the ear—“I tell all about myself, don’t I? Parlons un peu à votre sujet, monsieur.”
Canby protested that the topic would be unutterably dull, and a moment later found himself somehow involved in a discussion of neckties, how started he could not have told. It appeared that Nella Somi favored black and gray, because none of the gayer colors went well with the coarse complexion of the male; and she particularly disliked such shades as orange and green. Canby remembered that a green four-in-hand was at the moment around his neck, and he felt uncomfortable. They talked on various subjects, and finally arrived at tennis. Miss Somi had spent her two preceding vacations at a girls’ colony on Long Island, where they had played daily, and Canby proposed a set.
He found racquets and balls, and sport shoes of his sister’s for Miss Somi, and together they walked to the courts, at the foot of the north terrace near the lake. Canby was so interested in watching his opponent that he forgot everything else until he heard her call, “Fifty-love,” and then he set to it in earnest; and though he lost the game he succeeded in carrying it to deuce. After that he stopped trying.
The girl’s movements, incredibly quick and graceful, charmed him by their appeal to his feeling for the beautiful; she was Diana and the racquet was her bow. The red lips parted and the white teeth flashed as she called the score; her flushed cheeks made her more lovely than ever; and once, at the net, in the middle of the fourth game, her blue eyes sparkled directly into his, and he stood there stupidly as the ball whizzed past his shoulder.
The girl tossed her racquet on the ground.
“You’re not trying, and I won’t play any more,” she declared. “I’m tired, anyway. I wonder where Rose and Mildred are.”
He picked up the racquet and followed her to the piazza, where they found the others returned from the garden. It was nearly dinnertime, and they entered the house. Half an hour later at the table, Canby found that Miss Somi’s loquacity had entirely disappeared. She did not look directly at him once during the meal.
The conversation turned for the most part on flowers, for Rose and Mildred were full of enthusiasm over the gardens. Such wonderful blossoms and so many they had never seen before! One of the gardeners had kindly told them the names of the plants. His name was Jensen, and they thought him a very nice man. Tomorrow he was going to show them how the water was forced into the fountain, and some Italian bulbs he had in the greenhouses.
After dinner Canby proposed an alternative: would they go motoring, or take a walk down by the river? Miss Somi professed indifference; the others, after a sustained discussion in their native tongue, declared for the river. Before they started, Canby telephoned to the Waring home, and was told that Mrs. Waring was much better and that his sister would return home that evening. Then, after sending a maid for wraps for the girls, for it was nighttime now and quite cool, Canby led the way along one of the broad paths leading to the rear of the park. Miss Somi was beside him, and Rose and Mildred, chattering in Italian, were at their heels.
There was a bright full moon and the stars were thick in the heavens; so that, though it was quite dark in the shadows of the grove, when they emerged on to the riverbank there was a shimmering track of light on the rippling water and a silvery radiance was everywhere. The bluffs of the opposite shore rose black and indistinct, and had the appearance of being at a great distance in the soft mysterious light; and the noises of the night, the cry of an owl somewhere in the trees, the chug of a motor boat far up the river, and, more faintly, the lapping of the water on the bank, came to them with the evening breeze, and when they spoke their voices were lowered as if in fear of disturbing the fairy scene. They wandered a space along the bank, speaking a little, and then, reaching the boathouse, Canby proposed a row. Out on the water it was quite cool and the girls drew their wraps about their shoulders. Canby pulled across to the opposite shore and a half mile or so upstream, then crossed back over and floated down with the current.
“It was such a nice ride!” declared Mildred Lavicci a little shyly, as they landed at the boathouse.
Rose agreed, and added something about Mr. Canby being so kind, not a bit like a rich man. Nella Somi said nothing.
They strolled slowly back up the bank, the bright moonlight throwing their grotesque shadows across the water’s edge. From the direction of the house came the sound of a motor car on the driveway.
“That’s my sister, Mrs. Haskins,” Canby informed Nella Somi at his side. “If she wants to know how I’ve substituted in her absence, I hope you’ll give a good account of me. Remember, I let you beat me at tennis!”
“Yes, but I could have won anyway,” retorted the girl with a little defiant toss of the head. “I didn’t half try, you know.”
The other two had moved on ahead and had now stopped to wait for them at the beginning of the path leading into the park. When Canby and Miss Somi came up they stood there a time looking out over the water. Then Rose and Mildred turned into the path, and the others slowly followed at a distance.
All at once, just before they reached the enveloping shadow of the trees, Canby was aware of a sudden startled movement from the girl at his side. Then she stood stiff, as though paralyzed, with her gaze fastened on the ground ten feet ahead; and, following the direction of her eyes, Canby saw a large black water-snake basking in the moonlight with its beady eyes glittering like diamonds.
“No danger,” he reassured her, “it’s just a—”
At that moment the snake moved swiftly toward them, and he was interrupted
by a cry of fear from the girl. She turned, and he saw her eyes filled with terror, and, the next thing he knew, his arms were around her protectingly, while she clung to him closely, like a frightened child.
“Where is it, where is it?” she cried, while he soothed her:
“Really, it won’t hurt you; really, it’s quite harmless! It’s only—”
There were footsteps on the gravel walk, and a voice suddenly sounded:
“Well, Fred!”
Canby looked up and saw his sister standing there, regarding the chivalrous scene with an expression decidedly ironic. Feeling rather foolish, he loosened his arms, and Miss Somi swiftly drew away.
“Hello, Janet!” he returned calmly. “Back already? This is Miss Nella Somi. We just saw a snake.”
II
Later that night Canby motored back to Greenhedge, his own estate, fifteen miles distant, where he found his friend Garrett Linwood mixing gin fizzes in pairs to while the hours away during the absence of his host. Linwood was a retired broker and capitalist, a widower a little over fifty, with an immense fortune and one aim left in life: to go around the Wanakahnda course in less than eighty. That was why he was at Greenhedge now; the Wanakahnda Country Club was distant only a ten-minute drive. He met Canby with the information that he had that day got a four on the long ninth and a three on the seventeenth.
The next morning they played the postponed match; then, leaving Linwood at the links, Canby jumped into his roadster and half an hour later, at Roselawn, announced to his surprised sister that he had come for lunch. He spent the afternoon on the tennis court with Miss Nella Somi of the East Side Vacation Club; he had the firm intention of inviting himself to dinner, but changed his mind when he learned that several guests were expected from neighboring estates.