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

by John Russell Fearn

  Maria frowned. Needle in the middle of the record? The radiogram was obviously a self-player, one of those instruments that handle a dozen records at one operation. Maria turned from it at last, still puzzled, and directed her attention to the polished wood surrounding the edge of the carpet.

  After a long search on hands and knees she came unexpectedly upon something. It had lodged in a crack between skirting board top and wall paneling. For a long time she fished carefully and finally pulled forth a short, powerful spring. It was about an eighth of an inch thick and two inches long. At each end a loop formed out of the spring itself, one loop larger than the other.

  Maria stood up, turned her find over and over in her fingers, pulled it gently open and shut and noted that dust had gathered on its greasy coils. Obviously it had been there some little time. The more she looked at it the more she searched round in her mind for something to fit it—and finally accepted the suggestion that a type­writer was the most likely article. Springs are not common things in a house unless connected with some kind of machine—and the most likely machine in this case was certainly a typewriter.

  It started her off on another search but she found no signs of a machine anywhere. Finally she sat down in the armchair and pon­dered the spring again. Perhaps it meant nothing: but equally it might mean something. So finally she put it away in her watch-chain locket; then she eased herself into the position in the armchair in which her brother had presumably met his death—according to Alice’s reenactment anyway.

  Maria found herself looking at the radiogram in the corner alcove. That seemed natural enough. Then she altered her position a little and found she was gazing right into the barrel of one of the two crossed guns high up on the right-angled wall of the chimney breast. She frowned, a thought twisting quickly through her head.

  She got to her feet, pulled up a small chair and stood on it. Even now she could not reach the crossed guns, but she stood surveying them from this closer viewpoint. They were very old and clumsy looking, but no doubt valuable as antiques. They graced the wall in an “X” fashion, with their barrels pointing downward at forty-five degrees. Their support seemed to be comprised of five nails, some­what rusted now with long standing. The nails supported the guns in five-spot dice fashion, the center nail passing through the trigger-guard on both guns, and the remaining four supporting barrels and butts respectively. Nothing peculiar about this, and probably it was pure coincidence that one of the guns pointed right at the arm­chair.

  Maria smiled regretfully. “Keep a grip on yourself, Maria. Always remember Calvin Brown’s treatise on Gradual Conclusions.”

  She prepared to descend, then paused again as she looked at the nails supporting the butt and barrel of the gun pointing at the chair. It seemed as though— She got down hastily, added a cushion to the chair, and climbed again. Now she was quite close. What she saw might have meant anything, but to her inquisitive mind it was not at least a natural thing....

  Briefly, the rust on the two end nails—but not on the center one through the trigger-guard—had been scored almost to brightness. The scoring took the form of a pin-thin scratch on the nail supporting the barrel; but on the nail supporting the butt it was wider—much wider.

  Maria frowned, looked at the nails from all angles. They pro­jected perhaps two inches beyond the gun itself. And the ends were scored? For a long time she thought, then she fished out her spring again and fixed it on the nail that had the wider scoring. A vague surprise filled her on discovering her guess was correct. The scoring exactly matched in width the smaller loop of the spring.

  She shook her head perplexedly and climbed down, returned the spring to the locket and fingered her watch-chain pensively.... Perhaps— She looked up sharply, her meditations interrupted by the faintest of sounds reaching her from somewhere in the hall. Instantly she moved to the switch and put out the lights. Opening the door cautiously she peered outside, just in time to see a dim figure with a tiny glow from a fountain-pen torch heading towards the front door. Every move was cautious; there was no necessity to draw back the bolts since they were left back in order that Dick could get into the house in the early hours.

  From the slenderness of the figure in its light summer dustcoat Maria judged it must be Patricia. She continued watching intently until at last Patricia had the door open. She slipped phantom-like outside, closing the door with her latchkey to avoid the click of the lock— It was enough for Maria. It was long after midnight, and for a girl to be slipping out at such an hour was not entirely indicative of a commonplace motive. Besides, Maria had remembered that Pat spent a lot of time sleeping. Why not indeed if this was the sort of thing she was up to?

  Maria made up her mind quickly as she crossed the dark hall. It was unlikely that Pat would use a car for fear of the noise of the engine. If she walked there might be the chance of keeping her in sight since the main street outside took a beeline for the town center. In that case— Maria hurried up to her room, bundled on hat and coat, grabbed her umbrella, then returned to the front door. She had to risk the click of the lock. As she descended the steps into the street she saw the white-coated figure of Patricia hurrying along under the street lamps perhaps five hundred yards ahead of her. There was not a great deal of traffic about at this hour; people on the pavement too were pretty sparse, so Maria found herself faced with but little difficulty in keeping track of the girl’s movements. Possibly she was not conscious of how conspicuous her light-colored coat made her. Maria marched on, umbrella firmly in hand, her pace strong and vigorous despite her tiring day. More than once had the denizens of Roseway had reason to remark their Headmistress’s iron endurance.

  Pat’s walk took her in a straight line into the heart of the city where the people became more frequent and the sky-signs and late night dance halls blazed their invitations to the dark. It was into one of these latter, to Maria’s astonishment, that Pat finally vanished from view.

  Maria crossed the street and stood surveying the garish façade of the establishment from the opposite side. It was clearly not high class, was sandwiched between two edifices that were probably offices by day. Bright neon lights proclaimed—

  MAXIES’ DANCE HALL

  Patricia—the lordly, wealthy Patricia Black—gone in here? And in the early hours of the morning? Maria was nonplussed for a moment; then she straightened her hat, took a firm hold on her umbrella, thanked God there was an ocean between herself and Roseway, and crossed the street again. Spurred on by memories of a myriad treatises on criminology, all of which seemed to add up to the fact that a good investigator never loses the quarry, she would allow herself no pause—not even when she got to the box office and spent a few moments reconciling English and American currency values. The maiden behind the cash grille watched her in lambent interest, chewing meanwhile.

  Maria found the coin she wanted at last, took a ticket, then marched between the dried palms into the foyer. So far all was well: she would have to rely on her personality for the rest. For a moment she paused, aware of a blanketing heat and the distant cacophony of an indifferent orchestra. She caught a glimpse of a mob of half-dressed women and shiny-faced men drifting round the dance floor.... Looking round her she saw the stairs, went up them to a low-built balcony scattered with wicker tables with glass tops, hemmed in on one side by a badly discolored wall further mortified by patches of faded gilt. The whole place reeked of cheap­ness.

  A waiter whose apron had once been white came towards her, stopped short as though mastering an emotion, then asked,

  “Table, lady?”

  “Naturally,” Maria replied coldly. “Preferably one overlooking the dance floor, yet not so that I am too much in view. Do I make myself clear?”

  From the waiter’s leer she gathered she did. He waved to a glass-topped table half-shielded by another of the prevailing dried palms, then stood aside and studied the ceiling speculatively while Maria laid down her umbrella and settled herself.

  The waiter beca
me apparent again. “We’ve a special supper on tonight, lady—”

  “I do not require supper, my man. I’ll take— Lemonade.”

  “Lemonade!” The man swallowed something and half-opened his mouth; then he met Maria’s blue-eyed gaze halfway. “Lemonade it is,” he agreed, with a hasty nod, and went off with one mystified glance over his shoulder.

  Maria sat back and stared unemotionally at the grinning girls and boys at the next-but-one table. The longer she stared, without a single tremor of her eyelids, the more uncomfortable the little party obviously became. At last they looked at each other, got up, and hurried off downstairs.

  “Sir Charles Napier was right,” Maria murmured contentedly to herself; then shifting her position a little she gazed over the balcony. Below there swarmed a varicolored mass of men and women working themselves into a state of semi-hysterical riot. They were spinning in circles, wagging their fingers in the air, thumping the polished floor with their toes, all to the accompaniment of the whanging, crashing band.

  Maria wrinkled her nose. “Jitterbugs, I presume,” she mused.

  The smoky air wafting up to her was charged with a surfeit of odors that had an admixture of strong drink, cheap perfume, cosmetics, dead flowers, and perspiration. Her unaccustomed ear­drums were throbbing by now with the din of the orchestra; her eyes were somewhat dazzled by the naked glare of lights from shoddy electroliers. In the distance a sailor was dancing so earnestly he looked as though he were strangling his girl partner.

  “Here y’are, lady....” The glass of lemonade descended from the heights. “A quarter,” the waiter added, seeing her questioning eye.

  She handed it over and he took it solemnly; then as he turned to go she caught his arm.

  “One moment, waiter—perhaps you can tell me something. Do you happen to know if a young lady named Patricia Black ever comes here?”

  “I wouldn’t be known’, lady. I only work here. I don’t dance.” He reflected, eyes on the ceiling, lips tight. “What’s she like?”

  “Slender. Twenty-two years of age. High forehead, golden hair.”

  “Mmm, swell looker, eh? Nope, I ain’t seen her; and I don’t know her name neither. I’m rather struck on blondes, lady, and I know most of ’em, friendly like. I’ve not seen her, ’cos if I had I’d know of it, see?”

  With that he nodded briefly and blundered off.

  “Amazing!” Maria murmured, and leaving her lemonade un­touched for the moment she scanned the floor below once more, searching anxiously for that head of spun gold that was in itself an utter betrayal. But it was not apparent. There were honey-colored heads, plastered in ringlets; corn-colored ones with frizzing; peroxided ones mousy at the roots from this exalted angle— But a head of pure gold? Nowhere! Yet Patricia had come in here. Maria was convinced of it.

  Puzzled, she turned to her drink, tasted it, then making a wry face she set it down again. Warm water with amber tinting was not much to her taste. But she tried again because she was genuinely thirsty, and as she sipped her gaze traveled across the floor to a distant alcove in a backwater of the sea of dancers. Within the alcove sat three scantily-dressed girls in backless gowns, rather like modern versions of the three little maids from the Mikado. They seemed to be boredly occupied in watching the swirling throngs.

  Presently a man with extra large feet and very shiny hair approached them, said something and handed over a ticket. The girl at the left of the trio got up and started to dance gracefully in his arms. Maria lowered her glass slowly, her eyes wide, watching intently from the palm tree’s camouflage as the pair floated under the balcony.

  That slender body, those green eyes gazing absently into space. Patricia, beyond doubt! But now long black hair reached in curls to the top of her creamy shoulders.

  Maria compressed her lips, wondering why the idea of a wig had not occurred to her before. Never once in following the girl had she had the chance to see her hair, and now— Now she wondered at its purpose. Ceaselessly she watched as the pair circled the floor once or twice during the course of the pandemonium that passed for music; then as Pat retired to the alcove again to join her two companions and the dancers streamed off the floor for refreshment, Maria snapped her fingers sharply.

  The waiter hurried forward. “Somethin’ more, lady?”

  “Yes. Information I mean. Here!” Maria dived in her bag and handed over what she understood to be a ‘buck.’ “You can tell me something which perhaps you may know. Those three girls over there in the alcove: what are they doing? I saw one man hand across a ticket. Are they—ushers?”

  “Ushers? What in heck do you think this place is—a church? They’re professionals.”

  “Professional dancers?”

  “Yeah. Their job is to partner guys who come in without a dame to hoof with.”

  “Ah! And the girl at the left end with the black hair. Who is she? Know her name?”

  “Sure—Maisie Gray. Been here around three weeks.”

  “Hmm!” Maria said, and relaxed with a frown. The waiter narrowed his eyes, sucked his teeth, and waited.

  “Who is the manager of this place?” Maria asked abruptly.

  “Just who wants to know?” the waiter snapped. “Want to com­plain or somethin’?”

  Maria flashed him an icy look. “Kindly be civil, my man! I asked you a perfectly straightforward question.”

  “Well, it’s a question I ain’t goin’ to answer, so what are you goin’ to do about it? Anyway, the manager ain’t here.”

  On that observation the waiter turned away impatiently and headed toward a new group of customers pouring up from the hall below. Maria sat on, eyes narrowed and lips tight—then she looked again at the alcove where Patricia sat with her two colleagues. A man had joined them now, a big fellow in evening dress with thick greasy hair and a pale, babyish-looking face. At length he sat down and threw an arm about Pat’s shoulders. Maria watched intently, not sure whether to be horrified or revolted at Pat’s obvious passiveness in his grip. Far from repelling his advances she actually caught at his free hand and squeezed it affectionately.

  Maria pulled out her notebook, wrote down a brief description of the man, then put it away again. Grabbing her umbrella she got to her feet, flashed a look of withering scorn on the waiter as he hurried past with a tray full of colored water, then she descended the stairs and made her way outside again. She stood drinking in the cool night air, thankful for the relief from the fumes and clotted atmosphere in which she had been sitting.

  “So Patricia welcomes the attentions of that—creature,” she reflected, her face screwed into thought as she marched steadily along the pavement. “She goes out at night to this appalling dive and uses her dancing ability to partner those—apes! And the name of the manager remains a mystery.... We shall see! According to Selby’s Unearthing the Culprit it is now necessary for me to have an assistant, preferably one versed in crime if possible.... Hmm—on the East Side perhaps. I understand that is a likely spot.”

  She let herself into the Black residence quietly and went upstairs without a sound. She was rather surprised to discover when she came to relax that she was nearly too tired to undress.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If anything had happened during the night Maria was certainly not aware of it. She opened her eyes to the warm glare of summer sunshine streaming through the windows and the rather pert face of the maid leaning over her.

  “Morning, m’m,” she said, smiling. “It’s half after eight and mistress said you’d like some tea.”

  “How right indeed,” Maria murmured, rising up to watch the girl’s quick hands over the silver tray. Then she added, “I don’t think I know you, do I?”

  “No, m’m. I’m Lucy.... Cream or lemon, m’m?”

  “Cream—always cream.” Maria hugged her faithful bed-jacket more closely, then a recollection of the previous night began to steal on her awakening brain. She took the tea with a nod of thanks, then the trend of her thoughts caused her
to ask a rather surprising question.

  “Tell me something, Lucy. Do you keep the library in order?”

  The girl looked surprised. “Why yes, I do.”

  “Do you ever recall your late master using a typewriter?”

  “No m’m....” Then after a respectful pause, “Will that be all?”

  “I think so,” Maria nodded. “For the moment, anyway.”

  She sat thinking of her excursion in the dance hall for a long time after the maid had left; then she refreshed her mind by tabulating her experiences in her black book, making heavy underscorings concerning Pat’s mysterious behavior. This done, she set about the task of dressing.

  When she got downstairs she found breakfast out on the terrace. So far only Pat herself was present, dressed in canary yellow, sprawled in the hammock chair engrossed in the morning paper. She glanced up as Maria approached.

  “’Morning, Aunt,” she said perfunctorily, and went on reading.

  Maria returned the greeting calmly, frowning. Pat looked tired despite her efforts with cosmetics to hide the fact. And whatever she was reading did not seem to please her much for her mouth was screwed into a red pout of annoyance.

  “Hallo there! And how is my favorite Aunt this morning?”

  Dick came in view with rapid strides, dressed in an easy lounge suit. He smiled good-humoredly as he caught Maria’s arm.

  “Everything okay?” he murmured.

  “Everything is splendid, my boy, thank you— You look particularly cheerful this morning. What’s happened?”

  “Oh, nothing exceptional; just that I feel good, that’s all. I put over a new group of girls last night, and they’re the tops, believe you me. They always make me feel good, bless their hearts! Oh, that reminds me!” Dick frowned a little and went on quickly, “As I was coming home in the early hours, somewhere around three o’clock I think it would be, I thought I saw you, Pat, ways ahead of me. I hadn’t the car else I’d have overtaken you. You had on that light coat of yours.”