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

by John Russell Fearn

  “But the doctor can’t find anything wrong with her,” Dick grunted. “Maybe she’s temperamental—classy term for dyspeptic.”

  “At least she is honest about herself,” Maria reflected. “I think we should count that in her favor.... But where were we?” she went on, brisking to action. “Oh, yes, I remember. Tell me, Alice, can you remember in what position Ralph was found?”

  “Yes, yes, of course; I’ll show you.”

  Alice Black moved to the leather armchair and slumped into it so that her head just angled over the top of the big square back. She lolled her head sideways and tapped her right temple significantly.

  “The wound had slight powder marks about it,” Dick explained. “That indicated fire from pretty close range, of course. The re­volver was on the floor, about two inches from where mother’s left hand is dangling now. The only fingerprints on it were dad’s own. His own gun, of course, and a pretty hefty one—a thirty-eight auto­matic. He used to keep it in the desk drawer, mainly for his own protection. It’s in the drawer again right now if you’re interested. Fully licensed and all that, of course. One bullet had been fired from the gun, the one in his head....”

  Janet said: “He had apparently been listening to the radio because Mother told me it was blaring away when Walters broke in here. I suppose dad had been listening to me singing.... I guess I’ll never know now what he thought of my voice on the last night of the tour.”

  Maria went over to the radiogram and studied it. Presently she turned and asked a question.

  “Then the shot was not heard?”

  “I was upstairs in my room,” Alice responded, straightening up in the armchair. “I was there all evening as a matter of fact, reading. Now what was it about— Oh, but I don’t suppose it matters, does it? In any case I could not have heard the shot from my room. You know how big this house is. The only one who might have heard it is Walters—but he didn’t. So he said.”

  “Hmm....” Maria began to prowl, regarded the French win­dow with its newly-fitted glass, then walked to the door of the room and studied the lock. It bore no signs of tampering. At length she stood erect again and fondled her watch-chain.

  “The windows and doors were locked. Nobody was at home except you and the servants, Alice. And yet.... Tell me, Richard, what made you think it was murder?”

  “I’ll show you. Look here!”

  He crossed to the desk, unlocked one of the drawers and hauled a batch of papers to light. Quickly he sorted out about half a dozen and handed them over. Maria took them, sat down and read care­fully.

  The first one was a highly complicated business letter referring to the negotiation of loans and private securities. The amounts involved rather startled Maria; then her face became grim as she read the companion letter to it. It was brief but threatening, de­manding the honoring of the debts immediately.

  “I admit a certain suggestion of threats here, Richard,” she said at length. “But hardly enough grounds for murder.”

  Dick pointed to the memorandum. “See that name? V. L. Onzi? That man is a financial expert—or at least that’s what he calls himself. Actually he’s a loan shark of the lower breed, and when he doesn’t get what he wants he resorts to strong-arm tactics.”

  “But what on earth was your father doing mixed up with such a man?”

  “He could hardly help it, Aunt,” Janet said. “You see, dad started out with canned broccoli, as you know. From that, the business flourished. All sorts of canned things were added. A flock of chain stores developed.... Well, with such numberless organizations up and down the country dad could not possibly give each one his individual attention. That was why some of his branch managers fell into the wrong hands—and one of them into the grip of Onzi in particular. I don’t know the exact circumstances, but it looks as though this manager needed a loan to carry over immediate liabilities. He got it. But Onzi, when the time came for payment, did not apply to the manager but to dad, the fountain-head.... Isn’t that what you mean, Dick?”

  He nodded. “Right on the button, Jan. I believe that Onzi singled out dad as a possible victim to serve his own mysterious ends.... Oh, I know it sounds vague,” he admitted, seeing Maria’s unconvinced look, “but it can at least establish a motive for murder.... Besides, there may be others too! Look at the rest of these papers and you’ll find dad and his managers were mixed up with all kinds of unsavory folk. His vast business made that unavoidable. Briefly, these documents show that at least six or seven people had a good reason for wanting him out of the way. He was a pretty ruthless sort of man, as you may know. He allowed nothing and nobody to balk him. His death must have relieved quite a few people.”

  Maria glanced through the documents, finally tossed them down.

  “If all this is true why didn’t the police follow the obvious trail to a proper conclusion?”

  “They said the idea was illogical,” Dick grunted. “They in­terpreted the documents as clear proof that dad was beset by numberless difficulties and chose suicide as the only way out. Besides, the locked room, the total absence of any clues to suggest murder, made suicide the only solution. Only dad’s fingerprints were on the gun. There were no signs of anybody having been near the house— But Aunt, I still think one of these many people mentioned here, and Onzi in particular, might have had a motive. Don’t ask me how it was done. I’m no detective.”

  Maria got to her feet, stroked her chin slowly. “Frankly, Richard, I can’t help feeling you have based your conception of murder upon a very flimsy pretext. All these notes and letters are threatening; but one cannot base a murder motive on nebulous threats.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am assured of it from my private study of criminology.... Of course, there is a certain interest attaching to this Onzi person— Would it be possible to meet him?”

  “Lord, no! At least not in safety.”

  “I am not concerned for safety; only for facts. Where can I find him?”

  Dick reflected. “Hanged if I know, really. The Onzi Financial Building is on Fifty-Sixth, but whether you’d find Onzi himself there or just an assistant I don’t know. So far as I remember dad was about the only person who ever saw Onzi personally—excepting for a few business big shots of course.”

  “Is this Financial Trust illegal?”

  “Not as you’d notice,” Dick answered dryly. “That’s where the trouble comes in. There are dubious quantities in every great city. How long they operate without making a slip-up depends on the cleverness of their legal advisers. So far Onzi has gotten away with it.”

  “I see. Fifty-Sixth, you said? I shall probably visit the place before long.’’

  “Which means you do believe Onzi may have had something to do with dad’s death?” Janet asked quickly.

  “I did not say that, Janet. Accusation is a dangerous thing. One must first make contacts: that is the first law of investigation, I believe,” Maria added, looking round gravely.

  Dick gathered up the documents silently and returned them to the desk. Janet glanced at her puzzled mother. Then Maria turned to them again.

  “Who is in charge of Ralph’s business now, Alice?”

  “Flock of directors,” Dick said. “But they’re all reputable. Dad was only the nominal head.”

  “They would not, for instance, gain anything by your father’s death?”

  “No; you can rule that out. On the contrary I think it’s put them in rather a spot. It means a whole mass of complication sorting things out. That will be done gradually in conjunction with attorney Johnson. You’ll be seeing him tomorrow anyway: perhaps he can tell you one or two things.”

  Maria nodded, changed the subject by asking a question.

  “Were you fond of your father, Richard?”

  “Huh?” He looked surprised for a moment, then gave a shrug. “Why sure, I liked the old man. Can’t say I loved him, though. He was too much like a granite statue for that.”

  “A man of tremendous ambitions—d
ogged resolve,” Alice sighed. “Maybe he had changed a lot from the man you used to know, Maria.”

  “Maybe, though I was always impressed by his desire to master every problem.... Richard, you told me you didn’t go into the business because you preferred the theatrical world. Was there ever a chance for you to go into the business?”

  “Oh, yes, but— Well, I guess the idea of sitting in an oak chair and directing the destinies of chain stores didn’t appeal to me. I wanted the bright lights, same as Jan and Pat. We all burst into stage work—Jan as a singer and Pat as a solo dancer. Incidentally, Pat’s between engagements at the minute in case you’re wondering why she’s at home. Summing it up, Aunt, I don’t think dad quite approved of my revue work. He had the oddest notions on con­vention. Certainly he would never advance me a red cent to finance anything new. I had all my own spadework to do....” Just for a moment Dick’s face set in grim lines; then again he was smiling. “There it is, right off the record.”

  “Could it be that your father’s odd notions on convention have anything to do with Pat’s complete disregard for his memory?”

  “Pat,” Janet said calmly, “is a little fool. She wanted to marry a man who later turned out to be a thief, and because dad knew it was all wrong and forbade the marriage she never forgave him for it. That’s all that’s wrong with her.”

  Maria mused over that. Then: “Tell me, Janet, what was to prevent your father visiting your first and last nights personally at the theater instead of listening in over the radio?”

  “Work!” Janet grimaced. “He never went to a theater if he could help it. He would listen to my singing over the radio, and when it came to the turn of the other singers he would get along with his work until it came to my turn again. We sing in relays, you see. I am the soloist, with three songs at the commencement and usually three at the end. Father was the kind of man who just couldn’t sit patiently through anything which did not directly concern him. So he combined pleasure with business so to speak, and thereby never lost a moment.”

  “How could you tell all this if he always locked himself in?”

  “Oh, merely from the information he had given me at different times. He was a man of punctilious habits, and never varied from them. For instance, you notice that all the chairs in this room are of what one would call the uncomfortable type: he used them strictly for business. On the other hand, for pleasure, he had this huge armchair fixed just so—in fact immovably, for you can see the castors are in wooden blocks. His idea, I gathered, was so that the chair could directly face the radio. Anyway, I know this was the one chair he always used when listening to me. It comprised one of his main relaxations....”

  “The chair, then, cannot be moved?” Maria questioned.

  “It can—but it rarely was. I think the staff were afraid to move it without dad’s permission for fear of him flying into a rage. It’s easily the heaviest and biggest armchair I’ve ever seen—like a baby bed almost....”

  “Hmmm...,” Maria said, and surveyed it—but not as closely as she intended doing later on.

  “I suppose,” Janet went on reflectively, “that dad and I got along together perhaps better than either Pat or Dick. However, I always had the impression that he was not half so interested in me as a daughter as he was in my ability to sing. Singing to the public, from his point of view, represented power, money, fame—the things he loved so much. Maybe it is a silly impression I have got, but there it is.”

  “In other words,” Maria summed up, “he was so busy a man that he had become estranged from his own children. Pat openly resented it: you, Richard, took it more or less as a matter of course but disliked it just the same. But in none of you was there any real love of child for parent.”

  “It sounds awful,” Janet said, after a long pause, “but I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Does—does all this mean anything?” Alice put in vaguely. “Really, Maria dear, it seems there is an awful lot of talking going on which is leading nowhere. I think that thinking to no purpose is a dreadful waste of time, don’t you? Or—or haven’t I got the idea right?”

  “After all, Alice, I did warn you that I like to know about every­body and everything,” Maria said. “Call me a busybody if you like.... But I’m satisfied now.”

  “You mean you think dad was probably murdered?” Dick de­manded.

  “I can perhaps tell you better when I have seen Mr. Johnson tomorrow. Then there is this Onzi person....”

  “Well,” Janet said, smiling, “now the third degree is ended maybe we can go back to the lounge. This room is hardly the place for congenial conversation. And by the way, Dick, time’s getting on.”

  “Eh?” He glanced sharply at his watch. “Holy cats, you’re right! I’m going to be late for my show. See you later, every­body.... Good hunting, Aunt!”

  * * * *

  It was eleven-thirty when Maria retired to her room—but she did not prepare for bed immediately. She sat thinking for a long time, brows down, fingering her watch-chain. She heard Alice and Janet, and afterwards the domestics, pass in procession along the corridor to their rooms. Since Patricia had not put in an appearance all evening it seemed that she had made good her threat to be rid of her tiredness by going to bed. This was a point that somehow intrigued Maria. Bringing out her black book she began to write—

  “Why should a perfectly healthy girl like Patricia suffer from an extraordinary tiredness? Certainly not because of her work for I am assured she is at the moment between engagements. From a preliminary study of her I have the impression she is hiding something and resents my presence for fear I may find out what it is. Altogether, what I have seen—i.e., documents and so forth, leads me to believe the murder motive as rather unconvincing; unless this has been done deliberately to deflect suspicion from a real culprit.... Viewing the family objectively and not as relations, I note that each one, save perhaps Alice, admits having but little regard for Ralph. Another thing: all save Alice were absent from the house on the night. Was that done to provide an alibi? I have intimated that I do not believe Ralph was murdered, but privately I think he was—though exactly how will provide a neat problem. For instance, why was Dick so anxious to assert it was murder...? Tomorrow I meet Johnson, the family lawyer. I shall also hope to contact one V. L. Onzi, a shady financier, I understand.”

  Maria read the notes through, nodded to herself, then locked the book away again. Again she meditated, this time upon the library, recalling numerous little things it had been impossible to examine thoroughly in the twilight and with the eyes of the family upon her. Finally she came to a decision.

  Quietly she left her room, walked silently down the heavily car­peted staircase and descended into the hall. All was quiet and abysmally dark, but she could determine her position from the friendly pedantic ticking of the massive clock outside the library door. She went across the hall, opened the library door and stole softly inside.

  “Who’s that?”

  The sharp voice rather startled Maria for a moment, then she recognized it as Alice’s even as the lights came up. Alice was standing beside the big armchair, dressed in a kimono-like gown and lace cap. A variety of expressions went over her features.

  “Oh, it’s you, Maria. Whatever are you doing here? Dressed too!”

  Maria came forward. “I can assure you, Alice, that I have a perfectly good reason for being here.... It simply occurred to me that I might be able to learn a little from a quiet look round.”

  “Of course.... Yes, of course. I—” Alice stopped, seemed to be trying to get possession of herself. “You’re wondering what I’m doing here, I suppose?” she asked abruptly. “You must be! You’re wondering what on earth I could be doing in the dark.”

  “You are at perfect liberty to do whatever you wish in your own home, Alice. Certainly I did think I heard you go up to your room....” Maria stopped, studying Alice’s attire. “But you must have done! I never heard you leave again.”

  “No, these
boudoir shoes don’t make a sound.... As a matter of fact I came down to sit and think. Remember how I told you I do that sometimes? Often, especially at night.... Associations seem to be so near at night. One can nearly feel the other world always so close to us. But you’re thinking I’m very foolish? Such a strong-minded woman as you can have no time for such silly in­dulgences, perhaps?”

  “My dear Alice, you sound as though you owe me an explanation for every little foible. I think your sentiment is a very laudable one.... You were very fond of Ralph, weren’t you?”

  Alice nodded absently. “Something went out of my life when he died. I have nothing but the memories.... But that means nothing to you, Maria, and I expect you want to be left alone so you can look around. Just do whatever you wish. The house is yours....” She turned to the door, glanced back. “I’ll say good night, then.”

  “Good night, Alice.”

  The door closed and Maria glanced about her, mystified. The explanation had sounded logical enough, but she had made up her mind to accept nothing as logical until she had proven it to the hilt. Not that she could prove anything at the moment, so instead she set about the task for which she had come and began to prowl. It was second nature to her. Her Headmistress’s eye did not miss a thing.

  She made a meticulous study of the walls, examined the book­shelves, went again through the documents in the desk drawer, and looked once more at the No. .38 automatic. Nothing there to add to what she already knew.

  She tried raising the armchair, but its weight defeated her. Then she studied the wooden blocks. Besides serving the purpose of preventing the castors cutting into the costly carpet they definitely made that chair a stationary piece of furniture for all practical pur­poses. From which Maria inferred that her brother could hardly have sat anywhere else had he wished to relax and enjoy the radio.

  Then she glanced inside the radiogram and puzzled for a moment. The needle had stopped in the middle of a record. The record itself was some unpronounceable Italian aria sung by Janet herself.