Black Maria, M. A.: A Classic Crime Novel

by John Russell Fearn

  “Snoop?”

  “An American term for implying a sense of inquisitiveness. I could, for instance, look into the details of my late brother’s death. I am taking a vacation and a business trip and I shall turn them both into an experiment.... Now you know why I must leave so quickly. Every day is vital.”

  “Yes, of course....” Miss Tanby hesitated over a presumption. Then she dived boldly, “Miss Black, maybe your hobby is not so secret as you imagine. After all—though I should not perhaps mention it—you are known among the girls as ‘Black Maria.’”

  Maria smiled icily. “So I am aware. But I fancy that is because the reversal of my two names lends itself naturally to our slang term for a prison van, not because my hobby is generally known. After all, I recall that when I was a girl we used to call the Headmistress ‘Flannel Feet.’”

  Tanby did not know whether to look amazed or relieved, so she sought refuge in a hurried assurance.

  “I can promise you everything will be treated in strictest con­fidence.”

  “Naturally. I shall expect that.” Maria gave a majestic sweep of her arm. “You have entire authority from now on, Miss Tanby. I shall be back here again for the next term. During the rest of my time here today I shall draw up a time-table for you to work from....”

  Maria snapped open her watch. “Nine forty-one precisely, Miss Tanby. That, I think, is all.”

  The Housemistress went out with odd notions chasing the algebra in her brain. She remembered Jekyll and Hyde but could not quite fathom how Maria had got that way too....

  * * * *

  Though Maria departed from the College with complete poker-backed dignity, though she maintained this attitude all through the car journey to Southampton—for fear the school chauffeur should note any lapses and trade them later as common gossip—she was glad to relax once she was within her cabin aboard the Queen Mary.... It seemed to her as the liner sailed on the late evening tide that the receding coastline of England in its soft glow of summer dusk was also taking away a mountain of cares and responsibilities, taking an immense slice out of herself. And deep down she was not regretful of it.

  She stood at the deck-rail and watched the seething activity of the quayside fade slowly into a blur. It all became a mist, vanishing as though it had never been.

  The next morning the ocean had completely replaced the land, and for five days and nights Maria forgot all about curricula, classes, and girls. She went through a round of sedate deck walks, lounged awhile, listened to the orchestras, read her favorite treatise on crime, went for more walks— That nobody ventured to strike up a voyage-acquaintance with her was no surprise. She knew she looked forbidding, and preferred it that way. Romance to her mind was only appropriate to the twenties.

  Altogether the trip was calm and uneventful; the weather perfect. By the time the towers of Manhattan loomed on the horizon Maria was reflecting with no little satisfaction on the benefits the sea air and sun had conferred upon her. The cabin mirror proclaimed she was browner, stronger-looking, well fitted for the private experiment she intended making. Yes, in some ways she even looked dissociated from the inexorable empress of Roseway College.

  It was with genuine interest that she watched the quayside draw near, saw for the first time the gray symphony of stone and endless windowed towers which up to now had always loomed upon her from the flat, two-dimensioned cinema screen. Now it was real! Within perhaps an hour she would set foot in it—

  Less as it transpired. The liner docked forty-five minutes later in the brilliance of the afternoon sunshine. A porter lumbering behind her with her smaller bags, Maria walked with as much majesty as she could manage down the gang-plank, and the exertion convinced her that her mannish black costume was not perhaps the ideal outfit for a New York mid-summer day.

  The press of surging people was bemusing to her searching gaze. It looked as though everybody was looking for somebody else—which they probably were. There was clangor, a hooting of tugs, grinding of cranes, blaring of taxi horns, and the grander, deeper throb of excited humans and their conversation. It was distracting, just a little crazy—then it all began to make sense for Maria as a young man in a soft hat and a lounge suit edged through the crowd. Up went his hat from his dark head and a wide smile broke the tan of his broad, good-natured face.

  “Aunt Maria!” he cried. “Aunt— It is Aunt Maria?” he asked uncertainly, as the cold blue eyes swept him.

  “Of course,” she said, rather brusquely; and at that he gripped her hand firmly.

  “I knew it! I never pull a boner with faces. Photograph at home, you see.”

  “Ah!” Maria gave a rather rueful smile. “I suppose it is silly of me but I have never visualized you as a grown man, Richard. In my mind you have always remained at two years of age, when you were brought to visit me in England.”

  “Some people still think I’m only that old,” he grinned. “But the fact remains I’m free, white and twenty-five— Say, I’ll take your bags.” He clutched them from the porter and flipped him a tip. “Come on, Aunt, I’ll see you through the barriers. They’re the devil!”

  Maria was silent as he propelled her with ardent haste through the mysteries of the Customs. Once through the ordeal she was glad to sink into the cushions of the monstrous Packard Dick Black had waiting for her. He plumped down beside her and pushed up his hat. Effortlessly the chauffeur eased in the gears.

  “Whew! Kind of warm, isn’t it?”

  Maria was aware of Dick’s quick eyes studying her as he spoke. He was pretty handsome, she reflected. Never do to tell him so, though: he was probably conceited enough already. A very straight nose, strong chin, black hair...hmmm!

  “I understand your summers are far hotter than ours,” she said gravely, answering his question, then she said no more for her attention became absorbed by the canyon of street through which they were moving, with its brooding giants of buildings on either side. After a long silence Dick hatched another routine question.

  “Have a good trip across?”

  “Excellent, Richard, thank you.”

  “Oh, call me Dick! Sounds more friendly!”

  “Frankly, I don’t approve of nicknames,” Maria shrugged. “You were christened Richard. Where was the purpose of it if it is to be abbreviated ever afterwards?”

  “You got me there,” Dick admitted, then relaxed and watched from under a raised eyebrow as Maria resumed her survey.

  “Remarkable!” she kept on saying, wagging her severely chap­eaued head. “Remarkable! The size and extent of it—!”

  “I suppose it is a bit overpowering. I guess you’ll find it a bit different from that ivy-bitten college of yours, eh?”

  “There is no ivy on Midhurst, Richard. And I would ask you not to be flippant when referring to a seat of learning with a very fine tradition. In the past even duchesses have received education at Midhurst.”

  “Oh! Well— Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant to say was that this place sort of knocks you for a loop the first time you set eyes on it. Does the same with all strangers. But I like it!” Dick went on, wagging his head admiringly. “After all, I ought to. I was born in it, brought up in it. Full of all sorts of people doing all sorts of things. There’s both poetry and power in it. Something happens—all the time.”

  “Including...murder?” Maria still gazed out of the window.

  “Yes.” Dick’s voice was quieter: he knew what she meant. “I hope it didn’t sound too horrible a suggestion to make in my letter, but I’m sure I’ve got good grounds for my suspicions. Don’t spring the murder news on mother too quickly, will you? For all she knows at the moment you are here just to see the family lawyer— Say, see that place?”

  He broke off and excitedly indicated an immense façade of granite and chromium across which sprawled six-foot letters proclaiming DICK BLACK’S TWELVE RHYTHM LOVELIES to the myriads.

  “Mine!” he announced proudly.

  Maria glanced at him sharply. “You
mean you own that theater?”

  “Gosh, no—only the dames. In polite circles I’m called a revue producer. I run late night cabarets, experiment with plays and things off the beaten track— You know!”

  “So that is what you have become. I rather expected that your late father’s business—”

  “Not me. I’m not cut out for tinned cabbage. And if it comes to that I’m not so exclusive in my inclinations. Theatricals seem to run in the family. There’s Janet, for instance. She’s a professional singer with a high C that can knock your eye out. She’s just finished a New York circuit and is resting up for a day or so before taking on a fresh engagement.... Then there’s Patricia; she’s a professional dancer. Adagio stuff.”

  Maria nodded slowly, telescoping intervening years.

  “Though you are my nephew, and Janet and Patricia are your sisters, I will insist on thinking of you still as children. It makes me thoroughly impatient with myself.... Let me think now. Janet was the first child—”

  “Right,” Dick acknowledged. “She’s twenty-eight. Pat was the last one. She’s twenty. Rather a funny kid is Pat.... Very headstrong and determined. Once she gets an idea nothing can shift it bar blasting.”

  “Perhaps,” Maria reflected, “her father is being repeated.”

  “Possible. He was a tough old nut, though I say it—” Dick broke off, suddenly aware his remark was two-edged. “I say, Aunt, I didn’t mean to imply that you— Being his sister, I mean—”

  Maria smiled frozenly. “Don’t apologize, boy. I know you cannot dissociate me from a Headmistress, think of me perhaps as a frowsy old girl full of Latin and mathematical formulae. Maybe it’s even true—but maybe not. Believe it or not, Richard, I have had my moments. Brief ones, but still moments.... Tell me, how is your mother?”

  “Only so-so. Bit run down after the tragedy, I’m afraid. You will see for yourself in a moment.”

  Dick rested his hand on the door handle as the car moved in to the curb outside a vast Fifth Avenue residence....

  * * * *

  As she stepped into the hall of the Black residence Maria could not rid her mind of memories of Waterloo Station at home. The place seemed to have the same tendency to recede into infinite dis­tance, where it finally resolved itself into panels, mirrors, armory, a gigantic staircase, and innumerable doors. She was adjusting herself to the magnificence when the manservant returned from the front door, took her bags, then departed like a black-coated ghost into the distance.

  “What’s the matter, Aunt?” Dick asked, smiling. “Place too big?”

  She turned. “I was just mentally computing how many tins of broccoli it must have needed to indulge—this. I always knew your father had an extravagant streak but—”

  “Here’s mother,” Dick interrupted; then he raised his voice. “Here we are, mum—all in one piece.”

  Alice Black came sweeping forward from one of the endless door­ways with her hand extended. It looked as though she were dancing the Lancers solo.

  “Dear, dear Maria! So many years! So many miles!” She only came to a halt when she confronted Maria’s erect and challenging form. Gently she kissed her, then stood back and smiled. “So very, very glad to see you again, Maria. So much has happened since we last met.... When did we meet last—?”

  “Twenty-three years ago,” Maria said, rather grimly.

  “Twenty-three years! Well, well! Yet you have changed so little, Maria. I mean considering how much water has flowed under so many bridges. And the world is so full of bridges, don’t you think?”

  “I have never concerned myself unduly with bridges, Alice—and I think you are indulging in needless flatteries. I have changed—and so have you. Responsibilities and cares have left their mark on both of us. You were a slender girl then, with golden hair. I remember it so well. Now look at you!”

  Alice looked down at herself in regret. She had avoirdupois in the wrong places and her hair was graying to whiteness. Only in one thing was she unchanged—the frank generosity of her gaze. Her eyes were gray, always steady. They seemed to be the lie to her habitual manner of feathery, pointless gushings. Nature, it seemed, had cursed her with a penchant for saying two words where one would have more than sufficed.

  “Such a pity you could not have come at a happier time,” she said, discarding her personal study. “Poor, poor Ralph! He lived so hard and died so—so suddenly. But there, the winds of heaven blow on us all when we least expect it. Fate has always carried the sledge­hammer in her hand, don’t you think—? But this isn’t the time to talk of our troubles! Come along upstairs.”

  They started to move across the wilderness.

  “The girls are out right now,” Alice went on, as they began to mount the staircase. “They promised faithfully to be back for dinner this evening so as to meet you. In between you’ll want a rest perhaps and—and a cup of tea?”

  This last remark was uttered almost slyly. It made Maria glance at her watch, look surprised, and then nod.

  “Hmm! It is an hour past my usual time, but I’ll welcome a cup of tea just the same. Thank you, Alice.”

  She smiled. “You see, I remembered! You British have the quaint custom, have you not? Being an American I prefer coffee, or else I have just gotten that way through habit. Habits are hard to break, I think, because when you break one you sometimes form another in order to break it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, Alice, I suppose it is so,” Maria agreed rather irritably. She was wondering if the staircase went up to heaven.

  “Terrible thing about poor Ralph,” Alice went on, a little short of breath now. “Such a shock to us all! We never even suspected he had financial worries of any kind. But he had! Yes, we found out afterwards. Awful debts in some cases.”

  “Recalling Ralph in his early days I cannot say I am surprised to hear of his debts. And from what I have seen of this place he did not practice any great economy.”

  They had reached the vast corridor at last. It seemed full of stained-glass windows.

  “But, Maria dear,” Alice said wonderingly, “why should one practice economy when one is wealthy?”

  Maria’s eyes narrowed. “I understood you to say Ralph was in debt.”

  “Yes, yes, he was—but quite considerably below the amount of his assets. The proving of his will not only paid off the various debts but it also left each one of us wealthy.... You’ll hear about your share from Mr. Johnson, of course. He’s our attorney.”

  Maria said nothing though she had heard well enough. At the moment she was occupied in surveying her own room and mentally comparing it with her modest though comfortable quarters far away in Roseway. Here was a bedroom that seemed to be all mirrors and salmon-pink draperies. The bed was by the wall in the distance. The furniture was rosewood, polished nearly as brightly as the mirrors themselves.

  “I don’t think you’ll find it noisy,” Alice said, noting Maria’s all-encompassing survey. “New York is a rowdy city, of course—but then I always think sounds are a lot worse when you deliberately set out to listen to them, don’t you?”

  For answer Maria closed the window with a click.

  “Noises do not worry me, Alice, but draughts do. I prefer a room at boiling point to enduring a draught. I am rather subject to sinus trouble, you understand....”

  She crossed to the nearest mirror and straightened her severely drawn hair. Through the reflection she saw the manservant come in, set down a loaded tray, then depart again.

  “Milk or lemon?” Alice asked brightly.

  “Milk, Alice, thank you....” Maria turned and came forward, her face thoughtful. Finally she said, “I cannot say I admire your choice of servants, Alice.”

  “Walters?” Alice looked surprised, her eyes lowering to Maria’s face as she sat on the divan. “But how absurd, Maria! He is an excellent servant, and that’s all that really matters, is it not? He was with the family who formerly owned this place and so we—we just sort of bought him in with it.”

&n
bsp; Maria took the teacup handed to her and still pondered.

  “You have traced his connections?” she asked presently.

  “But of course. He is from a line of servants who originated in England. His father was employed by Lord Glendarlow—At least I think that was the name. These nobilities are so confusing, don’t you think?”

  “To Americans, perhaps.”

  “But Maria, what on earth does it matter what sort of a servant he is? We’re satisfied—so there it is.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” Maria said gravely. “If I ask silly questions just ignore it. You see, my profession has demanded of me that I find out all and everything about everybody. You would understand that if you had a college to control. I have developed a positive mania for knowing the inner affairs of all people with whom I come in contact— And I still say your servant does not impress me. For one thing his eyes are unsteady.”

  “A nervous affliction, I’m sure.” Alice said, looking rather astonished. “It doesn’t make him drop any dishes or anything like that. That’s a consideration. Gravy on a carpet is so unsightly, don’t you think?”

  Maria didn’t answer. She finished her tea in silence, put the cup and saucer back on the tray with a certain finality, then got up and moved to her luggage. Alice rose too and began to drift towards the doorway. She felt strong hints of dismissal in the air. It was the same ‘Get Out!’ aura that had afflicted many a Roseway inmate.

  “Mr. Johnson will be here tomorrow.” Alice spoke from the doorway. “Once that little matter is settled you’ll want to see New York, won’t you?”

  “In my own way,” Maria acknowledged. “When I am on holiday, Alice, I relax completely. The Headmistress is back in England embalmed among her books of learning. I shall go anywhere the mood takes me in this city of yours.”

  “Well, we can talk of that later. See you at dinner.”

  Maria nodded, stood gazing thoughtfully for a moment or two after the door had closed. Then resuming her unpacking she finally unearthed a strong tin box. Unlocking it, she withdrew a black bound book and opened it at the first blank page. She put the date, then began to write swiftly in her neat, scholastic handwriting—