John Boxworth had an appearance of boisterous cheer, of unrestrained good nature, of Christmas festivities and the comic spirit of Charles Dickens; he was in fact, as Bennett discovered, a man of sound, sober judgment and amiable quietness. The little blue eyes were expressive. The small, amusing mouth gave out a grave voice, thoughtful, mature, a little dry.
“Your first visit to this place, Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Mine, too. I’m a poor roisterer. I’m afraid I only do this—“ a flicker of his eyes indicated the beautiful Miss Cushman “—when necessary.”
He ate some of a dish of eggs before him. He sipped sparingly at a whisky-and-soda.
“I was in Tony Suttro’s office this evening,” he continued, “when that fellow Tussard rang up. Something about a row at the theatre, and you involved in it. I’ve asked Mr. Levison for more news, but I didn’t get it. What was it about?”
“A prowler,” said Bennett.
“Serious?”
“Not serious, no.”
“I ask because—well, naturally, I can’t help wondering if it had a connection with the trouble last night. Suttro talked with Tussard on the telephone, and he seemed to think afterward that it was something very different. A thief, perhaps, or just an inquisitive stray.”
“Oh?”
“Naturally, it makes some difference to me. I’d very much like to know.”
Bennett considered Boxworth thoughtfully, as the little man went on eating his eggs. Still considering him, Bennett said, “It was the murderer.”
Boxworth’s eyes widened. He started perceptibly. The start he concealed somewhat by putting down his fork and sipping his whisky. Then he said, “I suppose you’re sure of it, Mr. Bennett. After all, you were there.”
“Yes. Fortunately, you and Mr. Suttro can account for yourselves. I fear the others are in jeopardy.”
Boxworth’s eyes widened more, then came under control and were normal again. “Damn fortunate. I was—by the way, what others? Who’s in jeopardy?”
“Those who can’t prove where they were, you know. Those who happened to be involved last night. The police are frightfully suspicious.”
“Then it wasn’t the watchman?”
“Did you think it was?”
“Yes.”
“The watchman,” said Bennett, “hasn’t been discovered. The police think he’s quite innocent, I believe.”
“I can’t follow the reasoning of that man Tussard,” said Boxworth uneasily. “It’s a nasty business. I can’t understand it, I can’t even believe it really happened. Tussard must be wrong.”
“Why?”
“It would turn my whole mind upside down, to believe that anybody I knew committed such a crime. I simply couldn’t do it. I’ve known all of them for years. Christien, Levison, Suttro, Ann Crofts, Miss Whit-tacker, even Holcomb. There isn’t one of them I could believe guilty of murder. I’d have to believe myself guilty first, and that would be a shock too great for me to imagine. I’d resist it instinctively. I wouldn’t be able to help it. Possibly that’s the real reason, Mr. Bennett, why I like to think the watchman’s guilty.”
“Because he’s quite impersonal?”
“That’s it.”
Bennett shrugged. “Enough, isn’t it, to be so fortunate? You and Mr. Suttro, I mean?”
John Boxworth said, “I don’t know,” and returned to his eggs. If Bennett’s intention had been to trouble Boxworth deeply, he had carried it out very well.
2.
Ann took Bennett to one of the windows, where they could look into the hazy glimmering gulfs below, and to the north to the bright mooring mast of the Empire State Building, a pillar of cool fire against the feverish clouds.
“Did you see Hobey Raymonds?”
“He called.”
“How did he look?”
“Quite well.”
“His clothes, I meant. I let him use my electric iron this afternoon.”
A russet shadow streaked her hair, her cheek, her smooth throat. The band had begun to play a tango, A Media Luz. The dancers gave up a faint whispering sound as they slowly revolved. From Bennett’s advantage on the terrace, he could overlook the polite and fashionable festivities, including the handsome Anthony Suttro, who stood in an attitude of interest near the lip of the floor, and John Boxworth, who stood beside him, talking to him. Boxworth talked gravely, emphatically, intensely. The round little man almost vibrated with urgency, beneath a superficial appearance of calm.
Suttro was almost certainly being told what Boxworth himself had lately been told; that the recent Chelsac Theatre prowler had been the murderer. But Boxworth, who had been profoundly agitated by the news, got little more than polite interest from Suttro, it seemed.
“I must go soon,” said Bennett.
“Boxworth wants to go, too. He’s talking Tony into a coma.”
“Distressing.”
“Boxworth says everything on his mind before he leaves a place, always. Everything has to be perfectly arranged and understood. You expect to be back Friday, don’t you? I think our wedding is set for Sunday morning. At Tony’s church in Brooklyn. He sings in the choir there, and—it would be nice. Of course, I have to tell Aunt Emma.”
“She won’t be pleased?”
“Not in the least. I think I shall let her enjoy tonight, and tell her tomorrow. She takes those things better at—”
Ann Crofts, too, had been watching the pantomime. A solemn head-waiter or assistantmanager had skirted the dancers and approached Suttro. Brief exchange of statement, question and answer. A sweep of the arm, indicating the entrance. There an uncomfortable man carrying a brief case and wearing a gray suit stood looking about him. Because their voices were inaudible, Suttro’s little group appeared to stand out in noticeable concentration. The movement of a finger or the shift of an eye was distinct.
Suttro was startled. The answer to his question then, left him blankly and openly horrified. Without a word, with the utmost haste, he thrust his way through the polite migration of dancers.
Ann said nothing. She touched Bennett’s arm for apology, and made off in the direction of Suttro, who had joined the man with the brief case at the door. Like a tide obliterating marks in the sand, the dancers moved through the room to their tables, and when, after some gentlemanly popping up and down, they were mostly seated, Suttro, Ann and brief-case-bearer had vanished. Boxworth was worriedly sipping the last of the whisky. Aunt Emma was talking vivaciously to Miss Cushman, the beautiful mummy. Bennett turned his back to the room and stared out the window.
The case had readjusted itself for Tussard that night; and now to the affecting melody of The Blue Danube, the case readjusted itself for Bennett, though very differently. It was scarcely a new suspicion, or a prejudice against another man. It was a large alteration of the design as it appeared to Bennett. It was a shift and unexpected settling which allowed to fall into obviously proper places, several of the puzzling and irrelevant blocks. He was greatly, contentedly, pleased.
This readjustment had nothing to do with John Box-worth’s supposed guilt, and only a little to do with his agitation. It had nothing to do with Suttro’s astonishment at the arrival of the insurance agent. It had nothing to do with Ann Croft’s coming marriage.
It had, possibly, a great deal to do with the identity of the dead man, who had once used a train between New York and Boston.
3.
Ann Crofts touched his arm. Her chin had become remarkably firm. She said, “This is going to be unforgivable. I’m going to ask you to talk to Tony. He wants to resign.”
“Resign what?”
“Oh, he wants to resign from everything. You know, don’t you, about the Directing Board of the Theatre?”
“Mr. Levison, I think, told me there was a vacancy to be filled.”
“Tony expected to fill it. There was to have been a meeting this afternoon. It was put off till tomorrow, and tomorrow they’ll put it off again, until this troubl
e is straightened out. I’m terribly afraid Tony’s going to make a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“You won’t say I told you? I don’t know if it’s lawful to beat a girl before she’s married to you, but Tony would have a moral right. I’m interfering. But somebody has to interfere.”
“I shan’t tell him.”
“It’s very secret and rarefied, and everybody knows about it. Tony expects to be put into the vacancy on the Directing Board. He’d be a link, you know, between the parent Foundation and the company that operates the theatre. He has to pretend he doesn’t know. It means a great deal to him, to both of us,, because he plans to give up his writing soon and be more active in business. And it’s a terrific honor, the Directing Board, even for him. The least word against Tony at a time like this would ruin it all. He told me so while we were dancing.”
“What sort of least word?”
“Anything that would mix him up in the case. Everybody talks. A suspicion is as bad as an accusation. The Directing Board will be very touchy about anything or anybody connected with the murder.
“You said at lunch that the police are going to work up cases against everybody on the smallest grounds. Tony’s been walking a tight-rope today. Why should the death of a man who’s never been seen before, smash everything to pieces?”
“It’s quite unreasonable, my dear Ann. No doubt Mrs Christien asks the same question.”
“I’m sorry for her.”
“Of course.”
“The Directing Board is waiting to see what happens. Tussard seems to be waiting to pounce.”
“What has this to do with Mr. Suttro’s resigning?”
“He thinks he will have to, so that any scandal he gets mixed up in, won’t involve anybody else.”
“Scandal, my dear Ann?”
“Talk to him, before you go away. Somebody’s trying to implicate him, and he’s discouraged. There was that awful letter. You heard about it? mid now there was a fire.”
“Fire?”
“A mysterious fire, if there’s anything mysterious about a house getting burned. He wants to resign from Suttro and Faunce, and his directorships, and the Museum, because he’s afraid. His house caught fire, you see, and the police won’t even let the insurance people go in, and Tussard will be told, and the newspapers, of course...”
“The police are inquiring, then?”
“Is a fire so suspicious?”
“I don’t know. Talk to Tony. He wants to give up everything and go away. He’s merely angry and discouraged. And he can’t explain how the house could have caught. I think it’s somebody trying to ruin Tony.” “Financially?”
“There’s plenty of money.”
“His reputation?”
“Yes. He has a reputation, Anthony Suttro, hasn’t he? He’s in his office. It’s in the College across the street. I’ll show you the way. You can tell him you’re leaving, and wanted to say goodbye, something like that.” Tin floor was crowded with dancers again. Bennett got his coat, hat and stick, and told Bauer to find a cab, and wait for him inside it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ANN HELD THE elevator at Suttro’s floor in the college. They stood in a silent stone court shaped remotely like a star. The stone floor had marked on it a great star in gold and blue mosaic. A glass star lighted by glass tubes gave a soft and shadowless glow in the center of the ceiling.
“That door,” said Ann, pointing. She vanished in the elevator.
“What an extraordinary college!” said Bennett.
The door was polished wood. Like other doors opening from the court, it stood at one of the truncated points of the star. Bennett opened the door a little, looked in upon a very dark and unresponsive room. Thinking he might have mistaken the direction of Ann’s point, he tried the other doors, four of them, opening on larger offices for clerks and writers, or on corridors filled with small offices for assistants and various specialists. All were dark and deserted. The business of brushing up Dignity and pushing it out on a ribald world, was entirely still for the night.
Bennett stood under the lighted star and got out his pipe. He filled it. Before he put it in his mouth, he bellowed, “Ho! Anybody here?” No immediate response. He put the pipe in his mouth, then, and struck a match, and sighed. The door he had first tried, opened briskly. Suttro appeared in it.
“Hello,” said Bennett.
“Didn’t know you were here. Sorry.”
“Came for a talk.”
“Yes. Ann sent you, I suppose. No, I don’t mind at all. I’d be glad of the chance to talk. Come in. I shan’t put on the light, if you don’t care. I’ve been sitting in the dark, thinking, and...”
“Quite,” said Bennett. “Sorry to intrude. I shan’t stay very long.”
2.
The room was compact, beautifully furnished, and lighted now by the glow from two large uncurtained windows. Bennett’s eyes quickly grew accustomed to this. It was a deep glow, faintly orange, faintly blue and yellow, a strange dust of illumination shed by the city below and reflected from the clouds above.
“I’m afraid Ann,” said Mr. Suttro, “took me too seriously. I’m not giving up and running off in a corner to sulk.”
Suttro’s voice was emphatic and passionate. Bennett said, “Believe me, I scarcely thought you would.”
“I made up my mind this morning,” said Suttro, “to resign my connections with everything, and retire, if I were placed in a position like Christien’s.”
“Are you being placed in one?”
“Yesterday I was above reproach. Today I was questioned by the police no less than twice. Damn it, Mr. Bennett, isn’t that getting pretty hot?”
“The awkward letter?”
“Absolute moonshine. I’d like to get my hands on the devil who wrote it.”
“The fire?”
“The same sort of thing. Who started it?”
“An accident, I presume.”
“Would an accident happen tonight? Isn’t that too damned much of a coincidence? Nobody’s been in my flat since I left it this morning. That is—“ he sagged with doubt “—I don’t think so. The furnace is out, no fires were lighted all day. It started in my flat. The wiring was put up more than twenty years ago, and it’s never been defective. The police gave orders the ruins weren’t to be touched.”
Suttro thumped his fist on the table, stamped to the window, and stood with his silhouetted back turned to Bennett. To the north, Broadway flared in baleful colors like the gaseous flickers above an immense volcanic fissure. Everywhere below, tiny streams of traffic flowed, brilliant and erratic little gouts of quicksilver. To this, almost more than to Bennett, he said in a stifled voice, “It’s my nature to put up a fight.”
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing to fight. Nothing to do. I have to sit here and wait, like a dying man under an anesthetic.”
“What could you fight against? I recognize your difficulty; every unusual movement or statement you make will be interpreted; just as Christien’s heart attack was so horribly interpreted; but even if the necessity for discretion were removed, what could you fight against? Do you think you have an enemy?”
“That’s nonsense. Ann gave you that idea. I don’t expect to find some Iago making mischief, and neither do you. Men haven’t time to be villains.”
3.
Bennett said, “This, too, may be nonsense. However, the question has risen in Tussard’s Unimaginative mind.
Is there any intrigue among the officers of the Chelsac Theatre Company that could account for this?”
“No. That is nonsense.”
“Remember that no advantage to any man, no direct advantage, has shown itself. The murder, I presume, brought about some advantage we have not been shown. Its effects? It destroyed Christien’s reputation. It may destroy yours. Less obviously, it has brought suspicion on Mr. Levison and Mr. Boxworth. More obviously, it has brought about much of very undesirable publicity, involving the Theatr
e and Chelsea Project itself. Would anybody wish to damage the Theatre, or the Project?”
“No. Absolutely.”
“Or damage Mr. Christien, or you?”
“No. I can’t believe such a thing. Sounds like the wildest yellow journalism.”
“Mr. Christien will resign. Honor much like yours, or his illness, will make it necessary. Who will succeed him?”
“Who will succeed Christien? I don’t know.”
“You?”
“Perhaps.”
“Mr. Levison?”
“Perhaps.”
“Mr. Boxworth?”
“No. Not meaning to reflect on him, of course. But it’s impossible.”
“If you were made ineligible? If you retired? Would Mr. Levison succeed to——”
“There’s no intrigue, Mr. Bennett. Levison wouldn’t do such a thing. I wouldn’t do such a thing. There’s no fighting over jobs, like school-boys. It’s foolish to talk about such things. We’re grown men, with some dignity and responsibility. It’s laughable, even having to deny such foolishness. For the love of Heaven, put Tussard right before he—”
“Quite.”
“And even from that point of view, it gets you nowhere. We’ve all been tarred with the case, even Levison.”
“Quite.”
“It was like a lightning bolt. Crazy. Irresponsible. It struck us. It’s unaccountable. You can’t do anything but take the consequences of it.”
“It will have to be explained, Mr. Suttro.”
“Let the police explain it.”
“You believe the watchman was the murderer?”
“Of course I do. Any sane man would. This embroidery is what is ruining us, Bennett. And I can’t stop it, I can’t even protest against it.”
“You seem to protest almost volubly.”
“Sorry,” said Suttro, wheeling and slumping into his chair. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bennett. You may as well know why I’m bitter. If my life has any meaning now, it’s concerned with this place. These buildings, this project. Lately I’ve put all my energy and imagination into it. It’s something to me like a fine dream, and an art, and a practical business, all at the same time. I have a right to be ambitious, I think. And every last drop and fiber in me revolts against the rotten turn things have taken. Today, Mr. Bennett, has been the worst day of my life.” He laughed.
There was a Crooked Man Page 16