“A nunnery? Good Heavens! What for?”
“He said there was a lovely view from there, with benches and flowers and everything. But he didn’t know whether it was up the road from here or down. So I told him to find out first. I didn’t feel like going to a nunnery when I didn’t even know where it was. Would you go to a nunnery if you didn’t know where it was—especially if your shoes hurt you?”
“No, I think you were eminently sensible. But I happen to know where it is; it’s quite a distance down the other way.”
“Well, Jimmy—that is, Mr. Puttle—has gone in the wrong direction then. That’s just like him. I’m lucky I made him look first…”
* Chareau and Lyons was at that time one of the more exclusive and fashionable dress shops of New York.
CHAPTER THREE
The Startling Adventure
(Saturday, May 18; 5:30 p.m.)
THE GIRL LEANED forward, and looked at Vance with impulsive eagerness.
“But I forgot: I’m just dying to know what you were doing on the other side of the wall. I do hope it was exciting. I’m very romantic, you know. Are you romantic? I mean, I just love excitement and thrills. And it’s so thrilling and exciting along here—especially with that high wall. I know you must have been having a simply wonderful adventure of some kind. All kinds of thrilling and exciting things happen inside of walls. People don’t just build walls for nothing, do they?”
“No—rarely.” Vance shook his head in pretended earnestness. “People generally have a very good reason for building walls, such as: to keep other people out—or, sometimes, to keep them in.”
“You see, I was right!… And now tell me,” she pleaded, “what wild, exciting adventure did you have there?”
Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette.
“Really, y’ know,” he said with a mock seriousness, “I’m afraid to breathe a word of it to anyone… By the by, just how exciting do you like your adventures?”
“Oh, they must be terribly exciting—and dangerous—and dark—and filled with the spirit of revenge. You know, like a murder—maybe a murder for love…”
“That’s it!” Vance slapped his knee. “Now I can tell you everything—I know you’ll understand.” He lowered his voice to an intimate, sepulchral whisper. “When I came dashing so ungracefully over the wall, I had just committed a murder.”
“How simply wonderful!” But I noticed she edged away from him a bit.
“That’s why I was running away so fast,” Vance went on.
“I think you’re joking.” The girl was at her ease again. “But go on.”
“It was really an act of altruism,” Vance continued, seeming to take genuine enjoyment in his fantastic tale. “I did it for a friend—to save a friend from danger—from revenge.”
“He must have been a very bad man. I’m sure he deserved to die and that you did a noble deed—like the heroes of olden times. They didn’t wait for the police and the law and all those things. They just rode forth and fixed everything up—just like that.” She snapped her fingers, and I could not help thinking of Markham’s sarcastic allusion to Vance’s conclusive “lirp” the previous evening.
Vance studied her in sombre astonishment.
“‘Out of the mouth of babes—’” he began.
“What?” Her brow furrowed.
“Nothing, really.” And Vance laughed under his breath… “Well, to continue with my dark confession: I knew this man was a very dangerous person, and that my friend’s life was in peril. So I came out here this afternoon, and back there, in yon shady wood, where no one could see, I killed him… I am so glad you think I did right.”
His fabricated story, based on his conversation with Markham the night before, fitted in well with the girl’s unexpected request for an exciting adventure.
“And what was the murdered man’s name?” she asked. “I hope it was a terrible name. I always say people have just the names they deserve. It’s like numerology—only it’s different. If you have a certain number of letters in your name, it isn’t like having a different number of letters, is it? It means something, too. Delpha told me.”
“What names do you especially like?” Vance asked.
“Well, let me see. Burns is a pretty name, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “Incidentally, it’s Scotch—”
“But George isn’t a bit Scotch,” the girl protested indignantly. “He’s awfully generous.”
“No, no,” Vance hastened to assure her. “Not Scotch like that. I was going to say that it’s Scotch for ‘brook’ or ‘rivulet’…”
“Oh, water! That’s different. You see, I was right!” she chirped; then nodded sagely. “Water! That’s George! He never drinks—you know, liquor. He says it affects his nose, so he can’t smell.”
“Smell?”
“Uh-huh. George has simply got to smell—it’s his job. Smelling odors, and knowing which one will sell big, and which one will make you a vamp, and which one is bad enough for hotel soap. He’s terribly clever that way. He even invented In-O-Scent—mixed it all himself. And Mr. Doolson—he’s our boss—named the new factory for George. Well, not exactly for George, but you know what I mean.”
Pride shone in her eyes.
“And oh!” she ran on; “George has five letters in his name—honest—just you count them—B-U-R-N-S. And I’ve got five letters in my last name, too. Isn’t that funny? But it means something—something important. It’s—it’s science. I vibrate to five. But six is awfully unlucky for me. I’m allergic—that’s what Delpha calls it—to six. It’s very scientific—really!”
“Mr. Puttle has six letters in his name,” said Vance, with a puckish glance at her.
“That’s right. I’ve thought of that… Oh, well… But I forgot—what was the name of the man you so bravely killed?”
“He had a very unpleasant name. He was called Benny the Buzzard.”
The girl’s head bobbed up and down vigorously in complete understanding.
“Yes, that’s a very bad name. It’s got—let me see—seven letters. Oh! That’s a mystical number. It’s sort of like Fate!”
“Well, he was sent to prison for twenty years.” Vance resumed his ingenious recital. “But he broke away and escaped only yesterday, and came back to New York to kill my friend.”
“Oh, then there will be headlines in all the papers tomorrow about your murdering him!”
“My word! I hope not.” Vance pretended a show of great concern. “I feel I have done a good deed, but I do hope, don’t y’ know, I am not found out. And I am sure you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?”
“Oh, no,” the girl assured him.
Vance heaved an exaggerated sigh, and slowly rose to his feet.
“Well, I must get into hiding,” he said, “before the police learn of my crime. Another hour or so and—who knows?—they may be after me.”
“Oh, policemen are so silly.” She pouted. “They’re always getting people into trouble. Do you know?—if everybody was good we wouldn’t need any policemen, would we?”
“No-o—”
“And if we didn’t have any policemen, we wouldn’t need to bother about being good, would we?”
“My word!” Vance murmured. “Do you, by any chance, happen to be a philosopher in disguise?”
She seemed astonished. “Why, this isn’t a disguise. I only wore a disguise once—when I was a little girl. I went to a party disguised as a fairy.”
Vance smiled admiringly.
“I’m sure,” he said, “it was quite a needless costume. You’ll never need a disguise, my dear, to pass as a most charming fairy… Would you care to shake hands with a dyed-in-the-wool villain?”
She put her hand in his.
“You’re not really a villain. Why, you only murdered one bad man. And thank you so much for the lovely new dress,” she added. “Did you really mean it?”
“I really did.” His sincerity dissipated
any remaining doubt. “And good luck with Mr. Puttle—and Mr. Burns.”
She waved solemnly as we made our way down the dusty road toward our car. Vance was occupied with lighting another Régie, and as we turned the bend of the road I looked back. A dapper young man stood before the girl; and I knew that Mr. Puttle, the perfumery salesman, had returned from his fruitless quest for the nunnery.
“What an amazin’ creature!” murmured Vance, as we climbed into the car and drove off. “I really think she half believes my dramatization of the Sergeant’s fears and my ribbing of Markham. There’s naïveté, Van. Or, mayhap, a basically shrewd nature, plethoric with romance, striving to live among the clouds in this sordid world. And living by the manufacture of perfume. What an incredible combination of circumstances! And all mixed up with springtime—and visions of heroics—and young love.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“Quite,” he repeated. “That was definitely indicated. But I fear that Mr. Puttle’s long jaunts from upper Broadway will come to naught in the end. You noted that she anointed herself with the fragrant aroma of Mr. Burns’ nameless concoction, even when transiently countrysiding with Mr. Puttle. All signs considered, I regard the mixer and smeller of the subtle scents of Araby as the odds-on favorite to win the Lovin’ Cup.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Domdaniel Café
(Saturday, May 18; 8 p.m.)
THE DOMDANIEL CAFÉ, situated in West 50th Street near Seventh Avenue, had for many years attracted a general and varied clientele. The remodeling of the large old mansion in which the café was housed had been tastefully achieved, and much of the old air of solidity and durability remained.
From either side of the wide entrance to the ends of the building ran a narrow open terrace attractively studded with pseudo-Grecian pots of neatly trimmed privet. At the western end of the house a delivery alley separated the café from the neighboring edifice. At the east side there was a paved driveway, perhaps ten feet wide, passing under an ivy-draped porte-cochère to the garage in the rear. A commercial skyscraper at the corner of Seventh Avenue abutted on this driveway.
It was nearly eight o’clock when we arrived that mild May evening. Lighting a cigarette, Vance peered into the shadows of the porte-cochère and the dimly lighted area beyond. He then sauntered for a short distance into this narrow approach, and gazed at the ivy-covered windows and side door almost hidden from the street. In a few moments he rejoined me on the sidewalk and turned his seemingly casual attention to the front of the building.
“Ah!” he murmured. “There’s the entrance to Señor Mirche’s mysterious office which so strangely inflamed the Sergeant’s hormones. Probably a window enlarged, when the old house was remodeled. Merely utilitarian, don’t y’ know.”
It was, as Vance observed, an unpretentious door opening directly on the narrow terrace; and two sturdy wooden steps led down to the sidewalk. At each side of the door was a small window—or, I should say, an opening like a machicolation—securely barred with a wrought-iron grille.
“The office has a larger window at the side, overlooking the tessellated driveway,” said Vance; “and that, too, is closely grilled. The light from without must be rather inadequate when, as the Sergeant seems to think, Mr. Mirche is engaged in his nefarious plottin’s.”
To my surprise, Vance went up the wooden steps to the terrace and casually peered through one of the narrow windows into the office.
“The office appears to be quite as honest and upright inside as it does from out here,” he said. “I fear the suspicious Sergeant is a victim of nightmares…”
He turned and looked across the street at the rooming-house. Two adjoining windows on the second floor, directly opposite the small corner door of the Domdaniel, were dark.
“Poor Hennessey!” sighed Vance. “Behind one of those sombre squares of blackness he is watchin’ and hopin’. Symbolic of all mankind… Ah, well, let’s not tarry longer. I have amorous visions of a fricandeau de veau Macédoine. I trust the chef has lost none of his cunning since last I was here. Then, it was really sublime.”
We walked on to the main entrance, and were greeted in the impressive reception hall by the unctuous Mr. Mirche himself. He seemed well pleased to see Vance, whom he addressed by name, and turned us over to the head waiter, pompously exhorting our cicerone that we be given every attention and consideration.
The rejuvenated interior of the Domdaniel had a far more modern appearance than did the exterior. Withal, much of the charm of another day still lingered in the panels of carved wood and the scrolled banisters of the stairway, and in a wide fireplace which had been left intact at one side of the huge main room.
We could not have selected a better table than the one to which we were led. It was near the fireplace, and since the tables along the walls were slightly elevated, we had an unobstructed view of the entire room. Far on our right was the main entrance, and on our left the orchestra stand. Opposite us, at the other end of the room, an archway led to the hall; and beyond that, almost as if framed in the doorway, we could see the wide carpeted stairs to the floor above.
Vance glanced over the room cursorily and then gave his attention to ordering the dinner. This accomplished, he leaned back in his chair and, lighting a Régie, relaxed comfortably. But I noted that, from under his half-closed eyelids, he was scrutinizing the people about us. Suddenly he straightened up in his chair, and leaning toward me, murmured:
“My word! My aging eyes must be playing tricks on me. I say, peep far over on my right, near the entrance. It’s the astonishing young woman of the citron scent. And she’s having a jolly time. She is accompanied by a youthful swain in sartorial splendor… I wonder whether it is her explorin’ escort in Riverdale, or the more serious teetotaler, Mr. Burns. Whoever it is, he is being most attentive, and is pleased with himself no end.”
At once I recognized the elegant young man of whom I had caught a glimpse as we rounded the turn on Palisade Avenue on our way back to the car. I informed Vance that it was undoubtedly Mr. Puttle.
“I’m in no way surprised,” was his response. “The young woman is obviously following the approved and time-honored technique. Puttle will receive, alas! an overwhelming percentage of her favors until the really important moment of final decision is at hand. Then, I opine, the beneficiary will be the neglected Burns.” He laughed softly. “The chicaneries of amour never change. If only Burns himself were on the scene tonight, separate and apart, glowerin’ with jealousy, and eatin’ out his heart!” He smiled with wistful amusement.
His glance roved about the room again as he puffed lazily on his cigarette. Before long his eyes rested quizzically on a man alone at a small table near the far corner.
“Really, y’ know, I believe I have found our Mr. Burns, the dolorous hypotenuse of my imagin’ry triangle. At least the gentleman fulfills all the requirements. He is alone. He is of a suitable age. He is serious. He sits at a table placed at just the right angle to observe his strayin’ wood-nymph and her companion. He is watching her rather closely and seems displeased and jealous enough to be contemplating murder. He has no appetite for the food before him. He has no wine or other alcoholic beverage. And—he is actually glowerin’!”
I let my gaze follow Vance’s as he spoke, and I observed the lonely young man. His face was stern and somewhat rugged. Despite the sense of humor denoted by the upward angle of his eyebrows, his broad forehead gave the impression of considerable depth of thought and a capacity for accurate judgment. His gray eyes were set well apart, and engaging in their candor; and his chin was firm, yet sensitive. He was dressed neatly and unostentatiously, in severe contrast with the showy grandeur of Mr. Puttle.
During an intermission in the floor show the lone young man in question rose rather hesitantly from his chair and walked with determined strides to the table occupied by Miss Allen and her companion. They greeted him without enthusiasm. The newcomer, frowning unpleasantly, made no attempt to be cordial.
The young woman raised her eyebrows with a histrionic hauteur altogether incongruous with the elfish cast of her features. Her companion’s manner was dégagé and palpably condescending—his was the rôle of the victor over a conquered and harassed enemy. His effect upon Burns—if it was Burns—must have been exceedingly gratifying to him. Combined with the young woman’s simulated disdain, it perceptibly enhanced the interloper’s gloom. He made an awkward gesture of defeat, and, turning away, went despondently back to his table. However, I noticed that Miss Allen shot several covert glances in his direction—which suggested that she was far from being the indifferent damsel she had pretended to be.
Vance had watched the little drama with delighted interest.
“And now, Van,” he said, “the canvas of young love is quite complete. Ah, the eternally sadistic, yet loyal, heart of woman!…”
Fifteen or twenty minutes later Mirche, beaming and bowing, came into the dining room from the main entrance hall, and passed on toward the rear of the room to a small table just behind the orchestra dais, at which one of the entertainers sat. She was a blonde and flashingly handsome woman whom I knew to be the well-known singer Dixie Del Marr.
She greeted Mirche with a smile which seemed more intimate than would be expected from an employee to an employer. Mirche drew out the chair facing her and sat down. I was somewhat surprised to note that Vance was watching them closely, and felt that this was no idle curiosity on his part.
I turned my gaze again to the singer’s table. Dixie Del Marr and Mirche had begun what appeared to be a confidential chat. They were leaning toward each other, evidently wishing to avoid being overheard by those about them. Mirche was emphasizing some point, and Dixie Del Marr was nodding in agreement. Then Miss Del Marr made some answering remark to which he, in turn, nodded understandingly.
After a brief continuation of their conversation in this overt, yet secretive, manner, they both sat back in their chairs, and Mirche gave an order to a passing waiter. A few moments later the waiter returned with two slender glasses of rose-colored liquid.
The Gracie Allen Murder Case Page 3
