“My dear Miss Crofts, I beg of you!”
“I—Oh, I’m so damned sorry——”
The past year of adversity, the past week or two of indecision, the past sleepless night of calamity and its present consequence, were mostly responsible. With deepest horror, Bennett saw that Miss Crofts was about to weep. Her eyes were growing dim and moist. Her voice slipped awkwardly, her breath caught. She was terribly embarrassed, and he was equally so. There had been little warning for either of them. He said, “My word! Here! Not that!” and presented her with a glass of water. She drank some, looked at him, choked, and laughed. He was blushing, and his face looked like an enormous white-topped beet.
It is doubtful that even the nearest waiter noticed the disturbance. Ann recovered at once, murmured, “Something I had for breakfast, no doubt. I’ve never done that before!”
Bennett wiped his forehead with the broad handkerchief he pulled out of his cuff. He said, “How dreadful! Really!”
“Sorry.”
“No. My dear, dear Miss Crofts, not you! Damn this fellow Tussard!” He leaned over the table, like a kindly statue about to topple, and told her, “It’s rot, my dear. Rot, nonsense, conjecture, insanity. Listen to me. They believe Christien killed that poor chap. Well? He didn’t, and there’s no evidence, and they know it. So they assume Raymonds killed him. Well? He didn’t, and there’s no evidence, and they know that. Well? So they assume your aunt killed him. Again, well? No evidence, and they know that. Ah, my dear Ann, men and women aren’t hanged on fancies! They will assume, and assume, and you and others will suffer the torture of suspicion, because the police must unsettle some one’s confidence and assurance before they can get to the truth. These assumptions, and this torture, make up a system, practical, perhaps, if not admirable. Believe me, not one of these assumptions of the police is worth tuppence in itself. But they will turn more subtle and devilish, before they cease. Christien is in far greater danger than the present suspicions of the police even suggest. And you, too, will hear more than Tussard’s trivial yattering about your aunt. I pray you, therefore, don’t believe such rot! Keep your head above it! Scorn these wretched policemen’s penny dreadfuls! And be confident that the final outcome must be sane, or the silence of ignorance. And now, perhaps, another dry Martini, and our lunch...?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE LUNCH pulled itself together remarkably well. Everybody, the astonished Miss Crofts, the hairy man with the Planters’ Punch, the hairy man’s wife, the waiters, the manager of the restaurant, and even Bennett himself, had a feeling of pleasant surprise and of warmth, as if it had turned out to be an unexpected birthday, when Bennett demanded a cold bottle of champagne.
“I say, does our unfortunate subject distress you?”
“No, not in the least.”
“I mean, such a narrow squeak.”
“I’m not going to do that again.”
“I confess, I can’t think of anything else to talk about. The victim, particularly.”
“Have they identified him?”
“I think not. No.”
“I saw him once before, you know.”
“You saw him? Really?”
“Tussard thinks I ought to be able to tell him more about him, but I can’t.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Here, in the Lower Court Outside our shop.”
“When?”
“A week ago. The fifteenth. I’d just got a shipment of dolls that came through Customs that afternoon, and I stayed late to go over them. It was about ten o’clock at night, or a little after, when I saw him.”
“He came to your shop?”
“Yes. I don’t mind admitting I was scared a pale green. You know what he looked like, don’t you? Dead, that is. Alive, he gave you a shock. He wasn’t—exactly attractive.”
“No. You were alone?”
“Yes, alone in the shop. I had the door unlocked behind me. I was unpacking the dolls and checking them off on the list. I’m afraid my mind was way off; in fact, I was thinking about the theatre party I had to miss. I was kneeling on a rug, with my back to the Court and the front of the shop. I heard a sort of rattle and scrape at the door, a very peculiar kind of noise. I looked over my shoulder. There he was, standing outside the door, trying to open it. He had his cane in his hand, and it was scraping on the glass and tapping against it when he moved his hand. You know he had only one hand. The door is just a long pane of glass, and I could see all of him. I was—well, frightened out of my wits. I must have gaped at him like an idiot. He looked at me for a second, and then just turned and walked away. When I got up and went to the door—when I pulled myself together, you know—he was out of sight. There wasn’t anybody in the Lower Court at all.”
“Why did he go away?”
“The look on my face, I think. He may have been afraid I’d scream. Though I don’t think I’ve ever screamed in my life.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Just the same as last night. His face had the bandage over it, and the black muffler partly around the bandage. Horrible, isn’t it?”
“Threatening, do you believe, or friendly?”
“His eyes were very bright. I don’t think he was threatening, really, though he frightened me.”
“You noticed his eyes particularly?”
“I think I’ll dream about them in my dotage.”
“They frightened you?”
“No. Not his eyes. It’s dreadfully mixed, really. The way he stood there, the way he was crippled and—and empty, like a broken dummy that they’d thrown out at Macy’s, that frightened me. Like a horror at the wax-works, or something. But his eyes were nice, as I remember them. Rather hurt and disappointed, when he looked in at me.”
“And when he turned away?”
“He looked like a dog being kicked out of the house on a stormy night.”
“Ah. Graphic.”
“I couldn’t help it. I was alone, Mr. Bennett. I had a little money in the till. The shops in the Lower Court were all closed. It was a rainy night, and there weren’t any people coming down here. I couldn’t help being frightened. When he went away the first time, I thought of telling the guard. Then I thought I’d been silly to be so frightened. Just the same, I locked the door.”
“He returned?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just before eleven. I was finishing up.”
“He tried to enter again?”
“He came to the door while my back was turned, the same as before, and I heard him knocking the glass with his cane, making the same noise. He was trying the handle again.”
“And?”
“I asked him what he wanted. I talked through the door, without opening it. He frowned at me, and shook his head. I don’t suppose he could have done anything else, could he? I spoke to him twice, and he kept shaking his head and motioning for me to open the door. It would have looked awfully silly if anybody had been there to see us. Still, I didn’t want that door opened. I know now he couldn’t have done anything to hurt me, but I was scared as a kitten then.”
“He went away then?”
“Yes.”
“He walked with difficulty, of course?”
“He was queer and clumsy. He lurched when he moved.”
“He made no other sign to you, except to ask you to open the door?”
“That was all. When he had gone away, I had an idea he had been pleading with me, trying to say something to me, but only his eyes could show it. That pleading look stands out more clearly than anything else now. I’ve wondered over and over what he wanted to come to me for. If he wanted to buy anything, he could have come in the day-time. Why did he insist on coming back, after he’d gone away the first time?”
“Do you keep open in the evening?”
“Almost never.”
“Someone knew you would be in your shop, alone, on this certain evening?”
“John Boxworth had invited me to
the theatre. I told him I’d be working, when I begged off. He may have told the others.”
“Was Mr. Levison among the others?”
“Lowes Levison, yes. And Mr. and Mrs Christien, and Tony Suttro. Levison’s mother was coming, and another friend of Boxworth’s, I don’t remember her name.”
“Would your aunt have known?”
“Yes, of course, she knew.”
“She might tell others?”
“She told Hobey Raymonds, I’m sure.”
“Oh?”
“He came about eleven to take me home. He came about a minute or so after the other fellow went away.
The man may have seen Hobey coming from the end of the Lower Court.”
“Could he have left without being seen by Hobey?”
“Yes. There’s another stair.”
“Quite so.”
“I never saw the man again. I didn’t work alone in the shop evenings after that, till last night. And last night, I wasn’t bothered.”
“Extraordinary. I assume you aren’t a vender of drugs, or a spy with the stolen plans of a new submarine. Yet he risked appearing, to see you.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“It means that Tussard isn’t a ruddy fool. I’m very much afraid, Miss Crofts, you’re more important than I thought you were. I’m afraid I ought to be very polite to Tussard. I shall, next opportunity. Coffee? Now tell me what you know about Raymonds.”
2.
“He’s really very nice, Mr. Bennett.”
“I agree.”
“I’m glad you like him.”
“Why are you glad I like him, pray?”
“Because very few people do. At least, nobody runs a high fever trying to help him when he’s in trouble.”
“Is he often in trouble?”
“Almost always.”
“Why?”
“He’s so much of an idiot. So off-hand, and honest. He doesn’t care in the least what he says about—about the people who would help him if he’d be more respectful of them. He hasn’t a cent. If he weren’t so completely broke, he wouldn’t seem so silly. His family was very wealthy at one time, and he’s used to that sort of thing, and now he has to make his own living, and he can’t take it seriously.”
“Incompetent?”
“Not in the least. Rags to riches, you know, doesn’t appeal to him. If he found himself in anything that interested him, anything that had real work in it, not simply fussing and being polite and dim, he’d do wonderfully well. Hobey’s one of the really swell people in this world.”
Bennett looked at the diamond engagement ring on Miss Crofts’ finger. “Quite so. Admirably courageous chap, an excellent arrangement. You must be very happy.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
With patriarchal benevolence, Bennett added, “May I propose the proper compliments, what does one say?”
Ann looked sternly at the ring. Bennett finished his coffee.
“As for Raymonds being completely broke, as you put it;” Bennett continued. “I dare say his poverty is relative. Please believe I’m not in the habit of putting a price to the jewels of every passing lady. Nevertheless, that is a remarkable diamond. Its value, I fancy, exceeds your—”
“Do you think Hobey paid for it?”
“Rude of me. Hire-purchase, or what’s it called? Quite usual these days.. My word, you will think me a ruddy bold scoundrel!”
Ann laughed suddenly and rather wetly into the remains of her coffee, put down the cup with a clatter, and sat back in her chair. “No,” she said, “I don’t mean that. Not what you mean. I thought you knew, I suppose. It’s awfully hard to tell you now. You see, I’m not engaged to Hobey at all. No. It’s Tony Suttro. I—we had planned on getting married this morning, but this—the trouble at the Theatre, you see—we had to put it off. At least till Tony can get away (or a few days afterward, and he can’t do it now, of course. It’s quite different, isn’t it? Now I’ve got to go. I left Aunt Emma in the shop, and she’ll be hopping. If you don’t mind—”
That was the end of the lunch, for good and all.
3.
Whereas Ann Crofts and Geoffrey Bennett had an excellent lunch and good wine inside them, Percy Tussard came streaking out of the Westfalen Foundation offices in the Clarke Building, painfully unfed. He moved at a kind of official canter, and bumped out of his way anybody who got in it, without pausing for apologies. His mind seethed with small wars, and cooked up fresh campaigns.
Just as Bennett and Ann came to the Basque Shop, Tussard was descending from the heights of the Clarke Building towards the same place, descending at the rate of 1650 feet a minute in an elevator, and thinking almost precisely the same thought as Bennett.
Tussard’s troubles had better be explained at once. In the first place, Tussard was a sound Tammany Democrat groping a cautious way through the Fusion Administration blizzard. He had strong fears about this case. It involved extremely prominent and dignified people, powerful financial interests, an institution (the Project) of incalculable importance in public matters. Tussard recognized the need for delicacy. More than recognizing it, he saw and feared sinister shapes looming beyond every person involved. The littlest slip might lead to dismissal from a position he had won by long years of effort, persistence and personal expense.
With this troubling him, he had gone up for an interview with a man as nearly in ultimate authority as any he could get an immediate appointment with. It was from the interview that he descended in the elevator, not entirely enlightened.
From an early hour this Wednesday morning, Tussard had been enjoined from a dozen formidable sources to lay off John Boxworth, to lay off the Whittacker and Crofts women, to go easy on the eminent Anthony Suttro and young Levison, to be sure of himself about Frederick Christien, and to fear the great Lord Broghville, lest he put a foot in it. What the hell could a man do? Sound at heart, Tussard had taken his troubles to the man of authority in the Clarke Building, to find out what toes might be stepped on with most impunity. He had learned little enough. The management of the premises had no authority, of course. They would like to see an unprejudiced solution of the crime, but on the other hand would deplore greatly any unnecessary badgering of their people, any irresponsible publicity, or unconsidered accusations. Of course, they would cooperate with the police enthusiastically. And so on. All garlic salami to Tussard’s blunt nose.
So, knowing Raymonds to be under control for the present, and believing the two females to be good for a little more squeezing before their howls of distress would bring him more injunctions from high places, he made up his mind where he would try his next step into the general obscurity. He had an idea the old girl (Miss Emma Whittacker) could give him a strong lead to the identity of the dead man. And that would put him on to Christien. Christien, or Raymonds. He was sure of it, and he relit a cigar on the strength of it.
Bennett and Ann Crofts made their way across the Tower Court, and stopped at the Basque Shop. In these early days, before the completion of the underground passages to the Subway, some shops were unoccupied. The feeling of the place was like that of a new and quiet suburb on a Sunday.
“Forgive my wretched blunder,” said Bennett.
“It doesn’t matter, really.”
“Dinner with me?”
“Alone?”
“Your aunt, too. And Mr. Suttro, of course.”
“Thanks. When?”
“This evening, shall we say? Eight? My hotel?”
“I’d love to. Aunt Emma would give her fair name to eat with a king. You’re being awfully kind to us.”
The Basque Shop was bright. It had little wooden dolls in the window, peasant costumes of red and blue and green, samples of lace, an entirely undesirable yoke for oxen, some small hams and an assortment of pieces of modern glass and silver. Among a display of these things, and at a finely carved desk in the middle of the shop, sat the stern Emma Whittacker, unconsciously making faces at an open ledger which lay
before her. She wore benign, glittering glasses, and a curious hat, a miniature lobster-pot of straw and plush.
She scribbled vigorously with a pen. Then seeing them looking at her through the window, she smiled vaguely and invitingly and waved the pen in a reckless swoop to encourage them to come in. She seemed to be under the misapprehension that they were possible customers.
Ann said, “I’m afraid she’s wearing her reading glasses again. You will come in, won’t you?”
Bennett would. Among the wooden dolls and the glassware he was introduced. Miss Whittacker took off her glasses, rose from her chair, and stared at him. She stood, it seemed to Bennett, a good six feet tall.
Despite efforts to correct it, she still looked fresh and bucolic, a fine farmer woman. Her eyes looked vague and startled, and habitually bewildered; yet they had some native shrewdness, some keen spirit in them. It was evident that Aunt Emma was a great deal less of a dithering fool than she tried to make herself appear.
Her voice quavered affectedly, fluted and trilled, and seemed to be getting always out of control. Her long pink good-natured face yielded not an inch nor a shade to artifice. Her fine silver hair, poked up into a shockingly inappropriate girlish stack on the top of her head, was forever trying to get down where it should be. Her overly cultivated manner persisted in turning direct, natural, unworldly, and quite agreeable. Poor Aunt Emma, all of her, like a clipper ship forced through insane circumstances to sail inland canals; she stood always in mild conflict with her true self, always a little ill-at-ease and agitated, always a bit preoccupied and insecure.
Tussard stepped out of his elevator, turned towards the shop. Bennett listened apathetically to a whimsy about the breath of spring, and how it seemed (said Aunt Emma) to penetrate even underground to the shop, though it came on wafts of air that had been washed, dried, tempered and exposed to stimulating rays before it reached their noses. She offered this (having filched the germ of the idea from the New Yorker) in the unhappy thought that it would make nice chat for the sweet old gentleman. The old gentleman was trying to get in a word of his own. Ann interrupted bravely, saying, “Spring my eye. Dear Aunt, it’s probably a cat with a batch of kittens in the ventilating pipes.”
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