“I’m sure one does,” said Bennett.
“I’m going to have an article about you in my magazine next month. I thought that would be nice.”
“Really?”
“If I had something back of me, I’m sure I could make my magazine pay. You have to push those things, you know. I brought you a copy to look over .. .”
She thrust it on him eagerly and breathlessly, only to be disappointed by the interruption of the arrival of Ann Crofts and Anthony Suttro. Ann was fresh and lovely, Suttro dignified and adoring. His manner towards Ann managed to be slightly possessive, but not silly.
“A cocktail, thank you. The aunt,” said Ann, “has been talking business. It shows on her like a rash. You promised me you wouldn’t, Aunt Emma.”
Aunt Emma sulked a little, like a scolded child, and accepted another cocktail. Ann was relentless.
“You’ll have your arthritis back, dear.”
“My dear girl,” said Aunt Emma, “when you get to be my age, you’ll understand these things better. I’m sure Lord Broghville and I are very good friends, aren’t we. Gin makes you thin. Sherry makes you nervous. Look at Cousin Edna, from drinking port.”
“But I thought that was a goiter?”
“What a dreadful thing to say!”
“Christien shows no improvement,” said Suttro. “I called up about an hour ago. I’m afraid it means he’s worse.”
“Devilish,” said Bennett. He saw Hope flagging him with an eye-brow, excused himself, and learned that Tussard had got through on the telephone to leave a message.
“What is it?”
“He asked particularly, sir, that I warn you to be very careful. I believe this Mapes person approached him with some tale or other. To make trouble, he said. Mr. Tussard assured me he ‘took care of him,’ sir. But he repeated his warning, sir.”
“Rot.”
“Dinner now, sir?”
“Yes, Hope. We’ll sit.”
2.
Aunt Emma sat on Bennett’s right, Ann at his left, Suttro facing him. The table gleamed. Hope and a waiter or two lurked in the shadows.
“Oh, turtle soup!” cried Aunt Emma gaily.
“Thin soup,” said Bennett. “Soup is either thick or thin, hot or cold. What’s all this nonsense about Epicureanism? Silly affectation. Affectations can’t afford to be silly.”
Suttro said, “Ann asked me to ask you to come to our wedding, Mr. Bennett. Informal invitation to an informal ceremony. But will you?”
“Flattered. When?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know. When circumstances permit. Neither of us care to look back all our lives to a holy moment that we have to recall as happening about the time of the Chelsea murder.”
“Quite.”
Ann said, “I’m not sure, but I think we want a present from you. Otherwise we wouldn’t ask you.”
“To be sure. How rational! Candlesticks?”
“A clock. With chimes. I hate them. It may be next Sunday.”
Aunt Emma lifted her head so suddenly, her glasses almost fell. She breathed deeply through her nose. Then relaxing with an effort and great sweetness she said, “Are you really having tea with the President tomorrow?”
“Indeed, though I’m sure he’d rather not. What is it, Hope? You skulk about so.”
“Telegram, sir.”
This merely asked an interview with Bennett. It was subscribed Joseph Marchus, Evening Express. Bennett wadded it up and dropped it into his soup, which Hope removed.
“Reporters,” said Aunt Emma, “are thicker than flies. And so insistent. I read somewhere—“ frowning at her niece “—that champagne is very good for arthritis.”
“What you’d call a Bad Press,” said Suttro. “They delight in a chance to throw darts at dignity. I can’t promise you much kindness in the morning papers. They’re making up for a lack of news with a rush of inferences.”
“Newspapers are preposterous. Never read them, myself.”
“Have you read The Last Puritan, Mr. Bennett?”
“After all,” said Ann, “newspapers have funnies in them.”
It took a bottle-and-a-half of champagne and quite a bit of time to get them through an adequate explanation of funnies, which Bennett had never heard of, and doubted at last if he could bear. Then, lifting a sticky fork out of her bouchée, and taking advantage of Ann’s occupation with Tony Suttro, Aunt Emma said, “Oh, I meant to ask you, will you do something for Hobey Raymonds? Such a nice boy. It would be no trouble for you, Mr. Bennett, I’m sure...”
“Do what for him?”
“Help him.”
“Indeed. How, pray, am I to help him?”
“I told him this afternoon to be sure and come and see you and that I knew you’d fix something up for him. Have a long talk with him, Mr. Bennett. Give him advice, and make something of him.”
“Advice? No. Oh no!”
“Well, I told him to come anyhow and you can—”
“Aunt Emma! Stop cadging favors. And put down your fork. What does she want now, Mr. Bennett?” Aunt Emma drew herself back like a thwarted colt. “I wish you’d be more respectful of your elders,” she said plaintively. Then taking heart at Bennett’s smile, she destroyed the bouchée with a single chop of her fork. “Besides,” she said, “how do you know Mr. Bennett doesn’t like to be told these things? I would, if I were in his place, I’m sure I would.”
Ann said, “The most curious thing about us all, Mr. Bennett, is our lack of shame. The first minute we know you, we’ll pop schemes at you. We’ll try to sell you things. We’ll try to get your subscription to charity funds. We’ll try to get you to buy cars like ours. We’ll even try to borrow money from you outright, or get you to back our crackpot inventions, before you’re much more than off the boat. Really, Aunt Emma doesn’t—”
“I hoped you were going to make me an exception,” said Aunt Emma.
“No. It’s merely that you represent unlimited power to her. A genie out of a bottle, with three wishes if she rubs you the right way. You’ve dazzled her out of her wits. Really, you ought to talk to her about cheese. She knows a lot about cheese, but it’s awfully hard to get her started on the subject.”
They had got as far as coffee. Suttro suggested, “Why don’t we ask Mr. Bennett to come to the Chelsea Roof with us this evening? What do you think, Ann?”
“I’m sure he’d like it.”
“Ah? But what is it?”
“A place you dance,” said Ann, “and it’s up in Moore House—”
“And lovely music,” said Aunt Emma. “Do you like to dance, Mr. Bennett? Do you know, I like Cole Porter’s music ever so much, they say he’s ever so well liked in London, and I suppose you’ve heard Ray Noble in England many times. Do you know that thing dum-da-dah...”
Ann said, “Good Heavens, what if she should begin to whistle? They’ll think you aren’t used to champagne, Aunt Emma. You forget you’re in the Haut Monde—but you will come, won’t you, Mr. Bennett?”
“But I’m afraid I can’t.”
“How rotten.”
Aunt Emma narrowed her eyes. “I’ll bet my boots you’re going to look for the murderer.”
There was silence. Even the hardly perceptible rustling of Hope in the background stopped.
Aunt Emma, miraculously clairvoyant, rushed on, “Oh dear! It’s another of those things a lady doesn’t talk about, I suppose. But I’m dying to know. Will you act out the crime, and find out how the watchman got away?”
Bennett said, “Poor chap!”
“And somebody will be killed,” said Aunt Emma, “in exactly the same circumstances. Because the watchman had to come back and take away the incriminating evidence. I know it sounds silly, but I can’t help it. I seem to be seeing it all plain as day.”
Suttro said, “But is the watchman still missing? I haven’t had any news since this afternoon.”
“Chap’s very much missing,” said Bennett. “Yes.”
“Dead?”
“The way you said ‘poor chap’ just now.”
“I think we all ought to go to the Chelsea Roof,” said Aunt Emma, “and forget about this.”
Bennett said, “Perhaps I could join you later?”
“Of course,” said Ann. “Why not? I’ve got to work on Aunt Emma’s books for last month. Certified Public Accountant with an amateur standing. Things are a mess.”
“And I,” said Suttro, “could put in two hours now that my office is quiet. That is, if Mr. Bennett doesn’t think he’s being pressed to come with us when he doesn’t want to.”
“I’m sure he wants to,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s early. I don’t know what time it is, but it feels early. Can’t you join us, Mr. Bennett, after you find the you-know-what? Mr. Suttro can do his work, and Ann can do hers, and I can go to the movies by myself, I suppose. I hope I shan’t be cheated out of this treat. Even though I’m not used to High Life, as my niece tells me. We could meet at the Chelsea Roof at eleven, or eleven thirty? I’m sure Mr. Bennett needs the outing as well as I do...”
The upshot was an elastic agreement to meet before midnight in the Chelsea Roof, after Aunt Emma had insisted enough, and Ann had exchanged a glance, the sort affianced people exchange in these circumstances, with Tony Suttro.
Thus the dinner ended.
3.
The sky, this Wednesday evening, had clouded over, and the city seemed covered by a dim and effulgent tent. The air was still, and thickened with a curious haze. Traffic along Madison moved as if it were drugged into lethargy. Bennett turned away from the sitting room window, looked at his watch, and asked Hope, “An electric torch. Have I one?”
“Here, sir.”
“How clever. Eavesdropping, or gossip with Bauer? And my coat, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait for me here. Explain to Podham-Jones, will you? Shan’t be too late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Embarking on the adventure that brought the case as near as two pins to being an International Incident, Bennett doubled a black satin scarf about his throat to conceal his white tie and shirt. He crooked a finger, outside his door, to the bulky Chas. Bauer.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
They descended in the elevator. Turning towards the Forty-sixth Street entrance, Bennett caught sight of a familiar face. Hobey Raymonds. The young man, negligent, perfectly dressed, carrying a coat over his arm and a folded opera hat in his hand, might have been waiting there on the verge of the Palm Court for any sort of festivity. He brightened at the sight of Bennett, made a diffident step towards him, then waited, presumably to see whether or not he was wanted. However, when Bennett caught Bauer’s arm and stopped, the boy approached.
“Chap would be useful,” Bennett whispered to Bauer. Then, as Hobey came up to him, he said, “How d’you do. Waiting for friends, I presume?”
“For you, Mr. Bennett.”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can’t pretend I understand. What were you going to do?”
“Anything you say.”
“Come, this is absurd!”
“Miss Whittacker told me—”
“Oh, of course. Miss Whittacker. I say, Raymonds, you know the premises of the Chelsac Theatre, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Care to come with us? Trespassing, I dare say. Taking unwarranted liberties with the place. Eh?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Good. But gently. Reporters, you know. Bauer, will you scout for us, there’s a good chap? A cab.”
The three crammed themselves undiscovered into the cab, and the cab rolled off in a devious loop towards Eighth Avenue.
“I want to visit the Executive Offices at the Chelsac Theatre. Can you take us to them?”
“Got a pass, sir?”
“No.”
“Not through the stage door, then.”
“Secretly, if possible.”
“I think I can show you, if you’ll treat to tickets to the theatre. I haven’t a cent on me, as it happens. There’s a little risk we’ll get caught, but I think I can work it if you’re careful.”
“Good.”
Raymonds leaned forward and directed the driver westward to Ninth Avenue, and thence down towards the brilliant nimbus about the entrance to the Chelsac Theatre, where a moderate belated crowd still moved about, fumbling with purses, considering the entertainment billed, buying tickets and going in, or merely looking vaguely up and down the vista of Ninth Avenue as if hoping something unexpected would happen to them.
4.
The Chelsea Opera House and Academy of Music had been designed originally to replace the old Metropolitan and the barren Carnegie; and so to make the Chelsea Project a center of the city’s musical life, as well as its artistic carryings-on. The Foundation lacked funds to subsidize an opera season. Concert artists were reluctant to try the huge new hall, in a strange part of town. Inevitably, the Chelsea Opera House and Academy of Music became a cinema palace. A sore bruise to pride, this, and the august governors of the Foundation, if touched on the spot, wince and draw away.
In its assumed character, the theatre is like a grand dame compelled to earn her living as a bum-boat woman. There is something unsuitable in the air. The tiers of boxes and loges are converted into ornamental banks of artificial flowers; the dress circle is a place now where smoking is permitted; the amazing facilities of the great opera stage are put to ingenious service; but the general effect is that of a monument to a mouse.
Even as a cinema theatre, it is barely profitable in its efforts to compete with the more centrally established houses, the larger Music Hall, the more ornate Paramount, the more stately Capitol, all in the proper theatre district. The wonder is, that it can attract as many patrons as it does to an uncustomary neighborhood. However, under the earnest and intelligent management of Frederick Christien, it had begun to assume a positive character, to draw a consistent and alert audience...
Roughly, the theatre is in the shape of a scooped-out half of a melon, placed upside down inside a shoe-box. If you were under the inverted melon, you would be inside the theatre, with the great arching shell above you. Above and outside this shell, yet within the shoe-box, in the irregular space remaining, offices and dressing rooms and audition rooms and the hospital and the rest of it are ingeniously tucked away. The shoe-box represents the outer walls of the building. Expand this illustration enormously, and take away any irrelevant qualities of melon rind or shoe-box, and you might have some idea of the place.
The theatre entrances succeed in combining dignity with a hint of gay doings, in this old neighborhood still stubbornly given over to surly delicatessens, stationers’ shops, and grim employment agencies. The Elevated Railroad crashes heavily past it overhead.
Bennett sent Bauer to buy the tickets. They strolled in single file past a tall commissionaire, and entered the inner lobby. There was music. “Damn it all,” said Raymonds. They stopped.
They stood in the center of a vast, rich carpet beneath an enormous glass dome. To Bennett, everything seemed a thousand tinges too big. The grandeur dwarfed him like a nightmare. They stood there, three tiny creatures, at the bottom of a huge closed well, inside a colossal figure of solid geometry, bathed in gusts of hushed music, staring up at great panels of mirror and high galleries, surrounded by immense luxury and impressive space...
“Listen,” said Raymonds. “The stage show isn’t over. We have to go back-stage to get in. We have to wait. The picture will start, then the stage will be clear. What do you want to do?”
“Wait, by all means,” said Bennett.
“Want to walk around?”
Bauer looked as if he wished they’d sit down somewhere. Bennett, astonished, gazed aloft at the far-off ceiling. “You know, if you liked, you could send up a balloon here, couldn’t you?” He sighed.
“Better not stand here,” said Raymonds.
>
“No?”
“Louis Holcomb might come by. Some of the ushers know me. Be better for us to sit down inside and look at the show for a while.”
They followed him from the bright foyer into the dusk of the theatre. They took seats near the left aisle, somewhat at the back of the house. On the distant stage, the figures of a ballet wavered and spun in precision, fixed to the movement of music from a symphony orchestra. It was Semana Santa in Spain—Seville or Granada or Malaga—and the space and color of the setting served as a frame for something that was part ballet, part variety, part representation of the parade and the fiesta, combined with the music of Albéniz.
Sloping down from Bennett towards the orchestra, and over his head in the balconies, were the four thousand or so humans who tasted the draftless and tempered air, bathed their senses in the soft darkness, and absorbed at their perfect ease the ingenious diversion before them. They paid their way, and rejoiced inwardly in a delicate hush, a pleasing mechanical dream, a smooth and caressing sensation of wonderful security. All about, the vigilant and skillful small army of ushers waited unseen, and watched over them.
Bennett couldn’t smoke downstairs. He sucked on a cold pipe. The curtains descended upon the stage, the orchestra sank quietly into darkness below, as the stage show ended. The audience began to thin out somewhat when the feature picture began. The great cavern settled under its spell. Then Raymonds touched their arms, and rose quietly, and walked down the aisle in the darkness, towards the stage.
They kept in the deepest shadow along the left wall of the theatre. Raymonds whispered, “Go easy. If one of the ushers starts for us, we grab the nearest seats. Pretend we were just moving further front.”
There was a Crooked Man Page 13