“Yes, that’s just it! How do we end it?”
“Only, I’m afraid, by setting the trap I’ve just finished outlining.”
“But we can’t do that!”
“Why can’t we do it?”
“Because it’s too damn dangerous, that’s why! Listen! You’re having dinner with the young lady you’re so fond of? Right?”
“Right. What if I am?”
“Not thirty minutes ago I bumped into her on Canal Street. She said she was shopping for a new dress to wear tonight. When I told her you’d have got a bullet through your dome at Major Magruder’s if Clay Blake hadn’t landed a baseball in that crook’s solar plexus, I thought she’d have a fit.”
“You told her that?”
“It’s no secret, is it?”
“Then one more little risk can’t do us any harm. Just drop a word in the right quarter, and that will set the trap. You can go even further, Lieutenant.” Jim sketched out an addition to the plan. “You want to nab the murderer, don’t you?”
“All right! All right! Against my better judgment, and still thinking you’re every bit as crazy as she thinks you are I’ll string along. The inquest on Mr. Shepley is set for tomorrow; it’ll be a feather in my cap, I don’t mind admitting, if I can nail this killer before they even hold the inquest. So this scheme had better work, that’s all. It sounds like something dreamed up by Count Dimitri in his villa at Monte Carlo. If it don’t work, where are we? We’ve got the explanation, but we haven’t got the Voice.”
“Are you sure we’ve got all the explanation?”
“Well, haven’t we? We know who, we know how, we can at least make a guess about why. What else is there?”
Conscious of a shadow lurking just beyond the various cards and notices stuck to the inside of the glass-panelled door, Jim rose casually to his feet.
“As in so many cases, Lieutenant, there are one or two extraneous matters to be dealt with before we can write Thirty. Someone, I am now convinced, did follow me in Washington on Monday night. More than once today I have thought (mistakenly, it seemed at the time) I was again under observation. Don’t get excited, now! Let it be repeated that these matters are (or seem to be) extraneous to our present investigation. We’re lucky we can confront them and get them over with now. Since I seem constantly if unexpectedly to be introducing you to one person or another, let’s try it again.”
He flung open the door, and lunged as fast as a striking snake. With his left hand firmly grasping the right arm of somebody standing just outside, he impelled across the threshold a tubby, moonfaced, balding man of just over fifty, whose sartorial elegance was somewhat marred by a bright green Tyrolean hat with a feather.
“Lieutenant Trowbridge, New Orleans Police Department,” he said, “meet my friend the Freiherr Franz von Graz, one and only original of Dimitri in The Count of Monte Carlo, sometime agent in the service of I won’t say whom. He followed me in Washington; he picked up my trail again three days later; and I think we had better learn why.”
18
WEARING A WHITE TIE AND tails, though he had not troubled with a silk hat, Jim entered the lobby of the Grunewald Hotel at seven-thirty.
The evening clothes he had acquired at the Canal Street shop would have excited no envy either in Brooks Brothers or in Poole of Savile Row. But, for a rush order without alterations, they fitted very well. It was the least he could do, he thought, since Jill had probably gone shopping for formal wear.
And Jill had.
At first glance the lobby of the Grunewald seemed so ornate as to be almost overpowering. Stately pillars of brown-and-white mottled marble, their capitals carved and gilded, soared to a beige-and-brown roof from which hung golden-glowing crystal chandeliers like glass castles. Deep carpeting of a soft pattern muffled the footsteps and muted the voices of slowly moving guests. But you soon got used to the decor; in fact, Jim liked it.
Then he saw Jill. In her silver evening gown, with a touch of blue at the low square-cut bodice, she was descending a broad marble staircase which presumably led to the mezzanine floor. Heavy constraint lay on them both as she greeted him.
“Then you decided to dress, Jim?”
“So did you.”
“Yes. It seemed…oh, I don’t know!…more fitting. Besides, I wanted to. Almost everybody else has, you see.”
“Would you like a drink first, or shall we have dinner now? I phoned to reserve a table.”
“Let’s go straight to the Cave, shall we? There’s only one elevator down to it. This way.”
As they approached the single cage which would whisk them below street-level, their constraint grew still heavier.
“With the last words I heard you speak this afternoon, Jill, you were putting me in the good graces of old General Clayton. Where did you learn of my family association with William and Mary?”
“I—I read it in the publicity about you. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s true. Always distrust publicity releases in general, but that one does happen to be accurate. You knew there was such a place as my alma mater, did you?”
“I’m not so ill-informed as you seem to think. There are only two American colleges that date back to the seventeenth century, and that’s one of them. Well,” she added, as they stepped into the elevator, “what perfectly mad things have you been doing for the rest of the day? Apart from almost getting shot, that is?”
“Damn it, woman, you talk as though I arranged these things! And as though I enjoyed looking at a rifle-barrel, or having a knife thrown past my head!”
“Somebody threw a knife at you, then?”
“No, that was yesterday.”
Jill made a gesture of hopelessness.
“This conversation, Jim, is becoming most frightfully mixed up! Let’s drop it, shall we, and stop nagging each other?”
“I was about to suggest it. Your eyes—”
“Well, here we are. It is like a cave, isn’t it?”
It was. The big cavern, with its circular white-covered tables and spindly gilt chairs, its grottoes and pools, its artificial stalactites and stalagmites, swam in a twilight of concealed illumination.
Jill had recovered both her good humor and her breathless interest in life.
“The lights,” she informed him, “are hidden behind those stalagmites and stalactites. But I can never remember which is which. Are the stalagmites the things like icicles that hang from the roof, and the stalactites that rise up from the floor? Or is it vice versa?”
“It’s vice versa. The stalactites hang from the roof, the stalagmites rise up. Often they unite, as some of these give the effect of uniting to form pillars. You see?”
When a Gallic-looking maître d’hotel met them and ushered them to their table, it was not all they saw.
The tables, as yet, had been only sparsely occupied. But there were other occupants for a more intimate atmosphere. Lifelike statues of nude nymphs, marble tinted to resemble flesh, lay face-down in shallow pools or perched on rock ledges with their legs in the water. The orchestra, beyond a small dance-floor at one end of the cavern, was playing “Everybody’s Doin’ It.”
At their table, a good one beside a pool whose blonde nymph bore some slight resemblance to Jill herself, Jim ordered mussel soup, lobster Thermidor, and a bottle of Château Yquem.
Jill’s gaze flickered round; she seemed to be repressing a giggle.
“There’s no dancing yet; that’ll be later. The first time I saw this place, you know, I thought those statues were real women. And I wondered how much the city fathers would allow by way of entertainment. It is pleasant, though! Whenever I come in here, I feel I’ve walked straight into the pages of The Count of Monte Carlo.”
“That’s already happened. The count himself turned up this afternoon.”
“Really, Jim—!”
“I’m not joking. Franz von Graz, whose real name I so carefully wouldn’t give you, camped outside a telegraph office where Lieutenant Trowbr
idge and I were conferring. So I reached out and hauled him in.”
“What did he want?”
“What he’s always wanted: money.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Neither did I, at first. When I told you about the car that seemed to be following me in Washington on Monday night, did I say it had no license-plate?”
“Yes. But I still don’t understand!”
“Franz has become very much an Austrian, for the time being; he’s got a post at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy. Some of the diplomatic crowd in Washington, it appears, think themselves above such mundane considerations as carrying license-plates, and won’t do it. Sooner or later they’ll have to conform when they’re outside the embassy itself, even if they have a special plate with C.D. for Corps Diplomatique. Meanwhile, the law often gets fractured; any policeman who stops ’em can’t make an arrest.”
“And Franz?”
“Franz picked up my trail by accident. He’d been after somebody at the Senate Office Building, probably dunning him for cash, and was on his way back uptown when he saw me go into the Congressional Apartments just before it got too dark to see anything.
“Even Franz didn’t have the nerve to follow me in. He was in an embassy car with an embassy driver. He hung around for a good length of time and in a good deal of a dither. Later it seemed easier; I was headed for the station. When I got down to challenge the car, he lost his nerve again and bolted, only to return soon afterwards with a full description of me and find from the redcap who carried my bag I had just left for New Orleans.
“On Tuesday he decided to follow me, and must have arrived this morning by the same train as Charley Emerson, who’s here, too. Inquiry at hotels, one after the other, soon located me. Franz still kept his distance, awaiting what he thought was a good opportunity, when I pulled him into the telegraph office.
“Lieutenant Trowbridge scared him badly. But Zack went away, on a little errand we’d planned. It wasn’t until Franz tagged along to the clothing store, where they fitted me out with evening kit, that I learned what was really on his mind.”
“You haven’t yet told me, you know.”
“When I finished that book, early in 1911, I let Franz read the manuscript. He agreed he couldn’t be recognized, said I might publish with his blessing if I paid him five hundred dollars quittance. I paid him the five hundred, not thinking much would come of it; most first novels fall dead from the press. But—well, the unexpected happened.”
“And now he wants more money? For any particular purpose?”
“Yes. He says he’s tired of being a glorified office boy at the embassy. The Wilhelmstrasse will take him back at his old work, he says, if he can get himself to Berlin. He could probably get to Berlin under his own steam, only he won’t stir unless he can go in a luxury suite aboard a North German Lloyd liner. That’s what he wants.”
Vividly, here in the Cave, Jim could remember Franz dodging after him amid the men’s clothing, trying to keep the salesman from hearing when he voiced his never-ceasing refrain.
(“This book, Jimmee, is my book. Wizout me, you agree, there vould be no book and no profit. You vill giff me some of the profit, I think?”)
Jill was up in arms at once.
“Really! Of all the sheer cheek I ever heard of! You didn’t give him any money, I hope?”
“Oh, but I did. I wrote him a check that ought to suffice. First, there was a kind of justice in what he said. Second and more important, your obedient servant could sing a refrain that was a happy refrain: ‘My first try at detective work is almost finished; I am seeing Jill tonight, and all is gas and gaiters.’”
“Did it mean so much to you that you were seeing me tonight?”
“You know it did—and does. Here’s the soup; it deserves our attention.”
Despite such words, despite the excellence of the potage aux moules and of the lobster which followed, neither of them ate with much appetite. Each was too acutely conscious of the other’s presence. They found themselves darting little glances, beginning to speak at the same time and then pulling up short with more of an explosive laugh than the coincidence warranted.
But they drank the wine, finishing their bottle before coffee. The Cave gradually filled up; the orchestra played a series of selections from various comic operas, including Naughty Marietta, Victor Herbert’s latest. And, amid nude statues, the intimate atmosphere twined them round.
Who gave the signal for dancing to begin, or if anybody gave a signal at all, Jim never remembered. It was getting on towards ten o’clock when one well-dressed couple took the floor, then another. Jill, who here felt justified in smoking publicly, had just crushed out her second cigarette. Jim did the same.
“Would you care to dance, Jill?”
“Yes, please; very much!”
“Over to the left, then. Nowadays,” he went on, “there’s much talk about a new kind of music that’s supposed to have started in New Orleans. But you won’t hear it in the Cave.”
“No,” Jill agreed. “And, except for a constant repetition of ‘Everybody’s Doin’ It,’ you won’t hear music for the turkey trot, the bunny hug, the grizzly bear, or any of the new dances people write to the newspapers about as being revolting and low. It’s still selections from comic operas, mostly. This is the Merry Widow waltz, isn’t it? You dance very well, Jim.”
“I dance very badly. But at least I can keep off your feet.”
“I shouldn’t mind, really, if you stepped all over ’em. What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” he said, “that you had better stop thinking about Franz von Graz. Franz following me in Washington, and, though you may not have heard this, Clay Blake innocently giving us all a start when he rapped on the door of Leo’s drawing-room at midnight, are both part of the pattern but extraneous to its real meaning. Forget Franz! Forget Clay, even! Let’s concentrate on ourselves. What are you thinking now?”
“I—I don’t think I’ve got the nerve to tell you.”
The music stopped. He released Jill reluctantly, and they both applauded like those about them.
“I will tell you something, though! May we go back to our table now?—I wonder,” she added a few moments later, “if you’d mind drawing your chair round a little closer to mine? These tables are circular, which makes it easier. There!”
“Will you have a brandy now, Jill? You refused one earlier, but…”
“Later, perhaps. Not just for a moment, though.”
They were sitting close together; Jill had turned towards him and looked up.
“I will tell you something,” she repeated. “You mustn’t mind, you mustn’t p-pay any attention at all, when I go on about you doing mad things all the time. Provided you keep out of danger, I want you to do mad things; I love it! Do you understand?”
“I hope so, because…”
“Because why?”
The orchestra had begun again, once more with a Victor Herbert song from Mademoiselle Modiste. After a rather long lyric, it approached the chorus. Though nobody sang it, not a listener could have failed to remember the words as the music soared in that gray-green twilight.
Sweet summer breeze, whispering trees,
stars shining softly above;
Roses in bloom, wafted perfume, sleepy birds whisper of love;
Safe in your arms, far from alarms,
Daylight shall die but in vain…
“I’ll just bet,” Jill said in a low voice, “you’re thinking of something quite mad at this minute!”
“Yes, I am.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll show you.”
And he took her in his arms.
The kiss was a long one, with ramifications; they were gripping each other so tightly that the world seemed blotted out. It may have been a full minute, even many minutes, before Jim raised his head.
“Yes,” he said, “I know it’s a public place. And this is an exhibition of bad manners which should
never have occurred to me. But at that moment, my dear, I didn’t give a damn!”
Jill opened eyes which slowly came into focus.
“I didn’t give a damn either,” she whispered, “and I still don’t! Do you—do you want to know the real reason I wouldn’t accept the drawing-room on that train?”
“I want to know anything that concerns you. I love you, you elusive little devil, and—”
“Am I so very elusive now? I never wanted to be elusive, not for a minute! You see…”
“Well, well,” interposed another voice, “and whom have we here? Another of these fellow-newspapermen meetings, eh?”
Exasperated by the interruption, but with much less confusion than he would have expected, Jim looked up to see Bart Perkins, managing editor of the Sentinel, in his customary untidy-looking lounge suit. Beside him, resplendent with white tie and tails, stood the silver-haired gentleman to whom Jim had been introduced at Guilfoyle’s Garage as Raymond P. Chadwick.
“My friend here,” said the managing editor, “has been trying to pump me about Leo Shepley’s death. He seems to think we know more than we printed today.”
“Well, don’t you?” asked Raymond P. Chadwick.
“If you want it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Bart Perkins told him, “you’d better speak to Mr. Blake here. Mr. Blake is a former newspaperman who writes popular novels. He was slap on the scene of the crime when it happened.”
“I’ve already made Mr. Blake’s acquaintance, Bart, though we had no chance to speak of Leo Shepley or anybody else. I was wondering—”
Jim stood up, and formally presented both of them to Jill. Raymond P. Chadwick was gracious.
“My wife,” he said, inclining his head towards the other side of the room, “is waiting for me at a table over there. Why don’t all three of you come and join us?”
“I can’t, as I’ve explained,” Bart Perkins answered. “I promised to meet Charley Emerson at the Absinthe House, and I’m late already.”
Jim said that he and Miss Matthews couldn’t either. The managing editor did not immediately take his leave, but he did not seem satisfied either.
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