For a moment the two backgammon players sat vaguely frustrated, watching the dark, straight figure vanishing into the shadows beyond the door—and then once more in the hall of the serenely lovely house that belonged to the fortunate Lady Parrish all was silent, save for the hushed rattle of the dice and the muffled imprecations of their votaries rising plaintively above them.
VII
Farewell Party
It was almost three quarters of an hour later when Sheridan brought the small, somewhat decrepit roadster to a careful halt half a block from the little Georgian house that for the past twenty-four hours he had called home, and took the flight of black-leaded steps that led up to the grass-green front door three at a time, though no one even a few feet away would have heard a footfall. Twenty past twelve, his hastily consulted watch told him—-those unfruitful calls from the corner cigar store had certainly consumed an ungodly amount of time.…
The shades were all drawn, and as far as one could see, the house was quite dark. Still with those long, heavy draperies, it was hard to tell.…
In the Yale lock of the green door, the key turned as noiselessly and precisely as though it had been oiled—which was not entirely extraordinary, as that was exactly the process that it had undergone some half a dozen hours previously.
Inside the diminutive hallway the silver lantern was shining reassuringly, and though, again, it was difficult to be certain, Sheridan thought that there was a faint glimmer of light under the dark panelled doors that led to Mallory’s study. For a moment he halted irresolutely, staring in its direction, only to turn away, with a quick shake of his shoulders, like someone emerging suddenly from a bitterly cold plunge. Not now—later, perhaps; after he had attended to that one really vital bit of business that would peg down the whole infernal affair—but not now. If there was one thing that he was clear about in a world of loathsome indecisions, it was that he did not want to see Dion Mallory at the present moment.
Even his noiseless feet on the twisting stairway, moving at last towards that final and urgent bit of work, were curiously reluctant. Strive as he would, he could not forget how gay a clatter Mallory’s had made as he raced up them only that morning, and the warm, brilliant voice running ahead of them to greet his guest. He had been singing, too—what was it that he had been singing?
“Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty’s to be done …
Oh, take one consideration with another,
A policeman’s lot is not …”
He paused on the top step almost as abruptly as though a hand had reached out and checked him, staring straight ahead of him into the semi-obscurity of the second floor. Something was wrong—a sixth sense more vigilant and alert than either sight or hearing called the warning loudly—something was definitely and distinctly wrong. His own senses moved swiftly forward to the rescue.
The door at the left that led to his bedroom was closed, just as he had left it; so, too, was the one at the right, that led to his sitting room. But the center one—the one that led to the hall closet that held Jerry Hardy’s chemicals and artist’s stuff—the third door was standing an inch or so ajar, and undoubtedly and inexplicably there was a faint light shining through the crack.
Sheridan, moving towards it on feet so entirely noiseless that they might have been shod in velvet, circled the knob with his fingers and jerked the door sharply towards him—and stood staring into the dimly lit little cavern before him with an expression of marked displeasure. Empty. That is, if you could describe any place as empty that was so’ thoroughly cluttered as to floor and crowded as to shelf as the closet of the late Jerry Hardy. True, someone had undoubtedly been in it during the evening. The dim bulb far up in the ceiling was burning as brightly as its limited capacity permitted, but that was the only sign that the intruder had left behind him.… Hardy must certainly have taken his experiments seriously—there was enough stuff here to equip a chemical laboratory and leave enough over to start a flourishing pharmacy. Shelf after shelf, lined with bottles and cans and jars, rose to the ceiling in unbroken rows. No, there was a break, in the third one to the right—that must be the empty space that Mallory had spoken of—the space that had once held poor Hardy’s hyoscine bottles, standing between a bottle of silver nitrate and a can of—He paused, his eyes narrowing in a sudden shock of surprise. There was the bottle of nitrate all right, but there wasn’t a can the whole length of the shelf—much less a can of cyanide of potassium. If it had ever been there, it had disappeared as completely and inexplicably as the hyoscine bottles.… Well, maybe Mallory’s visual memory wasn’t as extraordinary as he thought it was.… He reached up his hand slowly and pulled the cord that plunged the closet once more into its accustomed darkness. There was a little wind blowing from somewhere. It was spring, and late spring at that, but suddenly Sheridan felt cold.
In his own room he turned on the switch with a sudden uprush of gratitude for the warm flood of light. Light, and a great deal of it, had its decided merits.… The long desk with the shining microscope and its accessories was not a hand’s breadth from him; he took a step forward resolutely and pulled open the center drawer, his face pale for all its darkness.… Now was as good a time as any—or as bad. The red glass and the gray envelope with its red stamp neatly fixed in the corner were exactly where he had left them; he lifted them out with set teeth and drew the student lamp closer.
After a minute he lifted his head.… So that was it.… Even with his eyes closed, he could still see them clearly. Nine little slanting words—there had been nine words on that other stamp that he had read by a Christmas candle. Nine were enough, apparently, to send—Somewhere below a door closed, quietly and decisively, and as though it were a trumpet call, Sheridan was on his feet and at the head of the stairs in three long strides.
Tess was standing quite still at the foot of the stairs under the little hanging lantern, one hand on the newel post, her eyes on the lowest step. Sheridan saw once more, with the strange contraction of the heart that came to him at even the sound of her lightest footfall, her most distant whisper, that the ruby ring was back on her hand, and that the shadows still lay deep beneath the long, dark lashes when she dropped them, as she did now. And once more the lovely, reckless mouth was tinted to match the ruby, once more a white cloud of silvery gauze floated and clung about the tall young length, once more the bent head was smooth and lustrous as honey-colored satin. She was trailing a long cloak made of some supple heavy stuff, lustrous and silvery, from her left hand, careless of its subdued splendor, and one silver-sandaled foot was already on the first step. Staring down at her, the young man from Vienna thanked his gods—even while he thought bitterly that of late he had had singularly little to thank them for—that murder and treachery and cruelty and horror had still left her snow and gold as unflawed as on that first night that he had met her. How long ago—three thousand years? Three brief spans of hours? … He drew a deep breath, placed his own hand on the railing, and said quietly:
“I heard a door close down there and thought it was Mallory.… Is there, perhaps, something that I can do for you, Tess?”
The incredible eyelashes lifted, and the deep young voice said slowly:
“No, it wasn’t Dion. He’s in there. You don’t have to disturb him now, do you? He’s been pretty badly upset. I don’t think that there’s anything that you can do for me. Still—may I come up?”
“Surely. You do not prefer that I come down to you?”
“No, I’d rather come up, thanks. You have Jerry’s sitting room, haven’t you? Nobody will disturb us there—and I have rather a lot to tell you.”
He stood watching the fan of foaming silver following in her wake around the gracious curves of the stair, as she came slowly towards him closer and closer, her head once more bent, and the white shoulders a little bent, too, as though by some invisible burden. It was not until she was directly before him that she pulled together all her slim length from brow t
o heel and stood there smiling at him faintly, though she did not stretch out her hand.
“It’s this door to the right, isn’t it? Shan’t we go in and sit down? I’m just beginning to realize that I’m a little tired.”
“By all means. Wait one moment only until I find the lights.… There!”
The small green-and-white room was as fresh and fragrant and ordered as when he had left it—fresher, even, because the inimitable Timothy had emptied the ashtrays and placed a great bowl of peonies, waxen white, sumptuously ruffled and fragrant as May itself, in the bay window where a breeze stirred the organdy curtains, and on the table between the two great barrel chairs that flanked the unlit fire stood the nut-brown bottle of ancient sherry, and a small grayish crock marked “Finest Old Potted Stilton,” and a plate of thin, salted biscuits. There were two glasses waiting, too, sparkling and immaculate, and a slim Waterford goblet filled with the white bells and long gray-green leaves of lilies of the valley.
Tess, with a slight, expressive gesture towards the table, asked hesitantly:
“Oh—two of them? Perhaps I’m in the way, then. Were you expecting someone?”
“I did not even know that they were here. It must have been Timothy’s idea; Mallory and I had a drink together before we went out, and perhaps he thought that we might share a nightcap before we turned in. The sherry is really extraordinarily good—may I not give you some? If Mallory comes up later we can quite easily get another glass. You say that he was badly upset? He has heard, then, of Hardy’s death?”
His hand was already stretched halfway to the bottle before he felt her fingers on his arm.
“Yes—I told him.… K—wait a minute, will you? If I were you, I wouldn’t touch those things—not any of them. Leave them just the way they were when Timothy brought them in.”
Her voice was as soft and uninflected as though she were telling a servant to carry out the tea things, but he could feel the long, white fingers tighten about his arm, and through the cloth of the coat sleeve it struck him that they were cold—that they were colder than ice.… He checked the little shudder that he could feel closing in about his heart with such sharp and savage contempt that he could feel even his lips whitening under its lash. If he was going to spend the next few minutes letting a set of sick nerves play as much havoc with him as though he were a neurotic schoolgirl, he had better call quits now and ring for a nurse and a policeman to take over his duties.
After a moment he said lightly, but with raised brows:
“Oh, but naturally—I will do—or leave undone—whatever is possible to make for your comfort and happiness. That is why I am here, is it not? But by and by perhaps you will gratify a not wholly morbid interest that I take in why we must not touch those things. Is it possible that you are afraid of leaving fingerprints behind?”
She said, more softly and unemphatically still, taking her hand from his arm:
“No. No, that’s not what I’m afraid of. In fact, it’s the very last thing in the world I’m afraid of. Perhaps later on I’ll explain that, too, and then you’ll understand that, no matter how improbable it may sound, it was you that I was thinking of, not myself at all. I think that it would be much better, for your sake, if there wasn’t even a suggestion that you and Dion might have had that nightcap together—that you had seen him at all after the Lindsays’ party. I’m not sure how much I’m going to tell you yet, you see. I’m not sure how much I can tell anyone—ever. But I’m quite sure that I have to sit down for a minute. Can I use this sofa here by the window? Do you mind?”
He saw then for the first time that it was necessary for her to rest her hand on one of the chairs in order to steady herself; a fine tremor was running through her from head to foot—more like the vibration of an overcharged wire than an actual shudder—still, strange and terrifying enough.
Sheridan said swiftly:
“Tess, how could I mind? Let me, I beg you, give you only a small glass of the sherry—it will put new heart in you, poor child—and God knows that before this night is over you are going to need the bravest heart a girl ever had.”
Tess, dropping the silver cloak over the end of the green-glazed sofa, so that it flowed down like a little river hurrying to the green sea of the carpet, lifted her hand once more in sharp warning.
“K, please! I’ve asked you already—I beg you again—not to touch that tray. I’m not being hysterical; just now you’ll have to take my word that there’s an essential reason for not laying a finger on it. Later I’ll explain why—if I can. I don’t need the sherry. I’m not ever—” She sat down, slowly and uncertainly, as though for the first time she were learning what some day it would feel like to be old and tired—and for a second her lips shook uncontrollably. After a long moment she leaned her bright head back against the cushion and said steadily, looking at him with eyes that did not see him at all, “I’m not ever going to touch anything to drink again. Not as long as I live. Not ever.”
He thought of Fay, and the empty glass on the hearthrug, and the little brown bottle standing by that large brown one in the night nursery—and for a moment he thought, too, that he understood why she was never again going to touch even a drop to drink—even a little shining glass of old brown sherry to bring warmth to a heart chilled with strange terrors. But as he stood staring down at the still face, whiter than snow, at the unseeing eyes, blank as pools of silver rain, something in it made him pause and check back, wondering whether even Fay’s death had given it the look that it bore now—a look more haunting and profound than even she could conceal—deeper than the flesh that she could dominate, than the blood now draining away from it, and the bone that molded it to such serene enchantment—a look of controlled terror and desperation that rose from the very center of her being. She had worn no such look when confronted with the bright horror of Fay’s small crumpled body and ruffled hair.… No. Something had happened since then to bring that look. He did not greatly care to think what it might have been.… After a moment that seemed to him interminable, he asked:
“May I, too, sit down? We have many things to speak of, you and I.”
Tess Stuart whispered, more as though she were echoing than answering him:
“Oh, yes, K—a great many things.”
Sheridan, who had seated himself before she even lifted her voice, leaned forward, struck a match, and inhaled three deep breaths before he spoke again. Then he remarked, casually and pleasantly:
“I tried to reach you tonight at your house by telephone, but it did not answer.”
Tess replied, still from that wide-eyed and unseeing distance:
“From Joan Lindsay’s, you mean? Oh, by that time I’d probably left.”
“Had you, indeed?” He could feel, wondering and contemptuous, the bitterness in a voice that did not seem to belong to him at all. “It was at some time around quarter to twelve. I thought that possibly once more the telephone was off the hook, and the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign swinging from the night-nursery door.”
Tess answered, unmoving and unmoved:
“Children’s tricks. I gave them up a long time ago.… I’d been gone a good half-hour by quarter to twelve.”
“Have you no servants, then, Tess, to answer bells that ring?”
At that she fixed her eyes on him, no longer blind, but startlingly luminous and alert.
“Yes, we have quite a lot of servants. The bell used to ring in their quarters, and there was always someone only too willing to answer it, day or night, unless the circuit was deliberately disconnected—as Fay used to do by leaving her receiver off the hook when she didn’t want to be disturbed.… It wasn’t until today that I arranged with the company to fix it so that I could switch off everything except my own telephone in my room. I did switch it off tonight before I left—that’s why you couldn’t reach me.”
“Your own telephone? But that, Tess, I do not understand.”
She murmured, her eyes on the long cool hands, fast-locked now against any
tremors:
“Oh, don’t you see why? I’ve told you that our servants are nothing more than thoroughly corrupted spies—Dad’s paid them to be a cross between watchdogs and stool pigeons as far as we’re concerned—so that now that the newspapers have gotten hold of the story of Fay’s death, the house has simply been the lowest circle of hell for me. I told them to say that I was out, of course—but if any enterprising young reporter called up and suggested that there was fifty dollars in it for a good little butler or a bright little maid who would get them five minutes over the wire in the presence of the surviving Stuart sister, there wasn’t any lie or trick that my loyal servitors wouldn’t resort to. They’d tell me that it was someone from the lawyer’s office, or the doctor’s, or the police, or the—the undertakers—or someone that Dad had cabled about something vitally important—and I simply didn’t dare risk not seeing them—and under the circumstances I didn’t dare to be too insistent about credentials. If they were the real, bona-fide people that they claimed to represent, it would have been rather bad luck—and bad management, too—to antagonize them or stir up their suspicions, shouldn’t you think? So this morning I lined the whole lot of servants up and told them that from now on, as far as telephones went, I’d handle my own calls, and they’d have to get on without any.”
“Yes. You are quite right. I am beginning to find out that you are generally quite right—or did I find that out a long time ago? Now I understand perfectly. You had your switch put in so that you could close the others out and keep matters in your own hands.”
“You see, this way, I can just pull a little black catch from one side to the other, and leave every single one of the demons—oh, what do you call it—incommunicado, isn’t it? I’m going to do it every morning from now on as soon as they finish with the marketing. And all I have to do when mine rings is to say that this is Miss Stuart’s maid speaking, and that Miss Stuart is far too ill to see anyone at present, but if the gentleman will just leave his name and address, she will communicate with him the very first moment that the doctor permits her to see anyone. It’s a very comfortable arrangement, especially as now the entire domestic colony can’t listen in to every last word of my more or less private conversations.”
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