The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  PRAISE FOR

  The Death of Colonel Mann

  “A DELECTABLE POISON PUDDING… besides the local color, enough story for a TV miniseries.”

  —Boston Magazine

  “Cynthia Peale tells A FAST-PACED AND COMPLEX TALE while maintaining a fine period facade.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “A GREAT PAGE-TURNER… This is a leisurely book, one you won't want to zip through. The author pulls you into the setting and keeps you there… the killer was a complete surprise.”

  —Rendezvous

  “MOVE OVER, SHERLOCK HOLMES. Make way for Boston's own gentleman sleuth, Addington Ames, his sister Caroline, and their new boarder, Dr. John MacKenzie…. This series is off to a good start.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  FOR

  G.J.S.

  COLONEL MANN WAS DEAD. OF THAT INCONVENIENT FACT there could be no doubt.

  He lay sprawled, face up, on the garish Turkey carpet that covered the sitting room floor of his expensive hotel suite. A darkening crimson stain marred the bosom of his boiled white shirt. In his right hand he clutched a handsome silver-knobbed walking stick.

  Addington Ames stood quite still, staring at the body. Although he knew the Colonel by reputation—who did not?—he had never met him. For years he had heard it lamented throughout Boston Society that the Colonel was in robust middle age, no more than forty-five or fifty. He will live on and on, people said, spreading his poison, bleeding us dry.

  No more. Whatever harm the Colonel had done—and it was very great, Ames knew—he would do no more now.

  In the harsh glare of the electric lights, the Colonel's face—fleshy, bearded—looked not robust but old. Already, Death had marked it for his own. Old, thought Ames, and vicious and corrupt, like the man himself.

  He turned to glance at his companion, who stood behind him.

  “Doctor?” he said. He moved a little to one side so that MacKenzie could step close to the body.

  Dr. John Alexander MacKenzie, uncomfortable in the overheated room—in its advertisements, the hotel boasted of its central heating—crouched and felt the Colonel's forehead and then lifted his free hand. “Body's still warm,” he said. “No rigor.” The Colonel's skin was a sickly shade of blue-gray; his eyes, staring wide, were oddly flat. Dead eyes, thought MacKenzie: circles of black pupil, iris no longer visible. He'd seen eyes like these often enough during his service with the army on the western plains to know instantly when he was looking at a corpse.

  Ames grunted. “This is the night when the Colonel held open house each week,” he said. “I wonder, given his methods, that he did not keep a bodyguard with him.”

  Without touching the Colonel's bloodied shirtfront, MacKenzie scrutinized the neat little hole in the fabric to the right of the third gold stud. Then, with difficulty and with the aid of his cane, he stood up. “There is his pistol on the desk,” he said, gesturing. “But it looks to be a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Too large a caliber for a wound this size.” He sniffed; he thought he could smell a faint odor of gunpowder, but he could not be sure because it was overlaid with a heavy, sweet scent that might have been the Colonel's hair pomade—or a woman's perfume.

  Ames nodded. “So we may assume that he was not seized with a sudden fit of remorse and driven to kill himself.”

  “No,” replied MacKenzie. “He did not do that. And yet, for the wound to be so accurately placed, the weapon must have been fired point-blank—just outside powder-burn range.”

  Ames thought about it. “A bold man, then. And someone the Colonel knew well.”

  “Yes. Perhaps he did have a bodyguard”—MacKenzie flexed his bad knee—“who turned on him—?”

  “Possibly.” Ames looked away, contemplating the middle distance. He was a tall man, markedly taller than his companion, and whippet thin. His black hair was combed back straight from his high forehead; luxuriant dark brows arched over his brilliant black eyes. His nose was sharp and pronounced, his clean-shaven face as long and thin as he himself. He wore a gray Inverness cape over his dark coat and trousers; his neckcloth, of a good gray silk twill, was slightly frayed at the edges, as were the cuffs of his coat. He was two years younger than MacKenzie, who was forty-one.

  Ames seemed to have come to some decision. Moving with care, he stepped around the Colonel's body to the ornately carved desk.

  MacKenzie, as he always did when he was slightly unnerved, tugged at the end of his mustache. “Should we notify the staff?” he said. “Or the police—?”

  Ames thought of Deputy Chief Inspector Crippen and his officious, offputting manner. No, he thought. Not Crippen; not yet. “I will speak to the manager when we leave,” he said. “But before we do, I want to have a look around.”

  He tried the drawers on either side of the kneehole; all of them were locked. He paused, lifting his head to listen. He heard no sound. The noise of the city's streets, carriage wheels on cobblestones, the clop-clop of horses' hooves, the jingle of harness, all were muffled by the heavy plush draperies pulled shut against the night. Moreover, the Hotel Brunswick was an imposing structure, solidly built, its walls and doors heavy and thick enough to hide any sound from the other guests' rooms. Or, for that matter, from this lavishly furnished suite—heavily carved, serpentine-back sofa, overstuffed Turkish chairs—where the Colonel had lived.

  And died.

  There was a door on either side of the room. Ames went to one and opened it. It was a bedroom. The lights were turned on; he went in. He saw another door which, when opened, gave onto a gleaming white-tiled bathroom, a huge tub in a high mahogany surround, tall brass taps on the washbasin. He retreated and opened a door adjacent that revealed a large closet. He glanced at the Colonel's expensive clothing, neatly arranged; then he turned back to the bedroom. In contrast to the opulent sitting room, this was a sparsely furnished, oddly bare chamber, no personal possessions save a silver brush and comb atop the chiffonier. There was no exit, either into the corridor or into another suite.

  He returned to the sitting room and tried the other door. It had a bolt that was unshot; nevertheless, it was locked.

  He turned to face MacKenzie again. MacKenzie—and that revolting body sprawled on the carpet, seeming as menacing now in death as the man himself had been in life. Alive, Colonel Mann had known many secrets and had profited from them hugely. Now, in death, even though he would profit no more, he held those secrets still.

  Ames had come here tonight on a specific errand—a very urgent errand concerning one of those same secrets. Perhaps he could still accomplish it. Pressing his lips together as if to keep himself from gagging, he stepped to the Colonel's body and felt in the pockets of the dead man's green velvet smoking jacket. Nothing. The trouser pockets, however, yielded a heavy gold watch with a finely chased case, half a dozen coins, a gold money clip that held three folded hundred-dollar bills, a silver toothpick—and a key ring with several large keys and one small one.

  “Do you not think—?” MacKenzie began, but Ames silenced him with a look. They had not known each other long—for only six weeks or so—and the nature of their acquaintance made it difficult for the doctor to offer advice that was not asked for, let alone a reprimand.

  The small key worked. Ames slid open the top right drawer. It was empty save for a check made out to Colonel William d'Arcy Mann in the amount of eight thousand dollars. It was dated with today's date—November 9, 1891— and signed by one Edwin W. Redpath.

  Who was a man well known to Addington Ames, a fellow member of one of his clubs, a steady, solid, high-caste Boston citizen who led, to all appearances, a steady, solid, high-caste Boston life.

  But somewhere, somehow, he or someone dear to him
had slipped up, thus giving the Colonel the opportunity to extort from him this amazing sum of money.

  Ames took the check, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. He would return it to Redpath tomorrow: a secret favor from one club brother to another, no one—particularly Inspector Crippen—needing to be the wiser.

  The second drawer held a small leather case that, when opened, proved to be filled with jewelry. Some of it looked very fine: a diamond necklace, a pair of emerald earbobs, a gold locket engraved with the initials E.M.C.

  Ames closed the case, put it back, and went on to the next drawer. He was ordinarily the coolest of men, never allowing even the most disturbing circumstances to disturb him. But these were rather different from any circumstances he'd ever been in, so now he felt a little trickle of sweat run down his neck inside his starched collar, and he felt his heart, well tended through years of exercise at Crabbe's Boxing and Fencing Club, begin to pound a little too fast for comfort.

  The bottom drawer was empty.

  The top drawer on the left held a letter. For a moment he felt a little surge of triumph—at last!—until he remembered that he was looking for not one letter but a packet of six.

  There was no envelope. He unfolded it and scanned it to the bottom of the page. It was written in a flowing, delicate, feminine hand; it begged the Colonel for mercy. It was signed with the initials G.K.

  Ames knew a woman named Grace Kittredge; she was one of his sister Caroline's friends. She was a lovely woman of young middle age, a member of one of the best families in the city. Had it been she who had written this pathetic letter? What had she done to expose herself to the Colonel's cruelty? How had she put herself into his pudgy, greedy hands?

  He refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket alongside Redpath's check.

  The bottom two drawers on the left were empty.

  He straightened, conscious of MacKenzie's worried gaze. He understood: at any moment they were likely to be interrupted by another of the Colonel's supplicants—victims, rather. Such an interruption would be embarrassing at best, incriminating at worst.

  Nevertheless, he had promised a young woman in difficulty that he would do what he could to help her, and he must keep that promise.

  There was one more obvious place to look: a safe in the corner, its door slightly ajar. It was a large safe, four feet high; when he pulled open the door and peered inside, he saw that it contained a jumble of papers. They looked as though someone had riffled through them, leaving them in disarray. He lifted a handful, searching for the packet of letters.

  He did not find it, but he did turn up a small ledger. He opened it, glancing through its pages. It seemed to consist entirely of lists of names written in a large, firm hand. With a little jolt, Ames realized that he knew most of them: they were the names of people prominent in Boston Society, pillars of the community, many of them noted for their good deeds, their upright moral character, their spotless reputation.

  The Colonel, it seemed, had known differently.

  Each name was preceded by a date—the first was some seven years before, 1884—and followed by a sum of money marked by a tall, elaborately drawn dollar sign. Beside each dollar amount, almost without exception, was a check mark.

  Except at the last page, where the date was today's. There he saw a list of names and sums—Mrs. Kittredge, $5,000; Benjamin Paddock, $15,000; Edwin Redpath, $8,000. Only Redpath's name and sum were followed by a check mark—presumably, evidence that the money had been paid.

  And at the bottom of the page, the last name: Valentine Thorne, $6,000. Without a check mark.

  He remembered how she'd wept, that unfortunate young cousin of his and Caroline's. “He says he will put me into his dreadful scandal sheet, Cousin Addington! And you know that George will never marry me if I am involved in such a mess!”

  True enough, he'd thought. George Putnam was a sober, steady, very proper and even stuffy young man, and his family were a proper and stuffy lot, even for Boston. Even he himself, a member of one of the city's oldest families, admitted it: New York was flashy, Philadelphia was genteel, Boston was—well—proper. And often stuffy. And cold and unforgiving, he'd added to himself. Once ruined—as she would be if the Colonel printed his scandal about her—Val would have no hope of ever marrying a Boston man. She would have to go elsewhere, probably abroad, if she hoped to marry; and what would she find in one of those foreign places? Some foreigner, obviously.

  No. Impossible. Val must stay here, free of scandal, and she must marry her very proper George Putnam. Ames had been appalled when, day before yesterday, she'd come to him and Caroline with the tearful story of her misadventure two summers before at Newport: an unfortunate escapade with a young man, indiscreet letters that she'd written to him.

  Ames thought of him as a cad, but still, the fellow had had the decency to return them to her. It was, in the end, someone else who had betrayed her—stolen them, sold them to the Colonel, and thus put into his hands the means to blackmail her now, on the eve of her marriage to the very wealthy, very eligible, oh-so-proper (and stuffy) George Putnam.

  “Six letters, Cousin Addington,” she'd sobbed. “He wants a thousand dollars for each one. I told him I didn't have any money of my own, but he wouldn't listen. I'd find a way to get it, he said. Oh, what shall I do?”

  It had been his sister, Caroline, who'd soothed the girl, cradling her head on her shoulder, gazing at Ames with a challenging look, promising Val that yes, Addington would go to see the Colonel, would somehow manage to put things right—and no, would never breathe a word to their Aunt Euphemia, the girl's elderly and famously intimidating guardian.

  Take the ledger or put it back? He hesitated even as he was aware that he had no time to hesitate, no time to consider what must be done next.

  He'd come for Val's letters. Apparently they were not here. He hadn't time for a more thorough search; he'd have to trust that the police wouldn't find them here either. Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow he'd go down to Newspaper Row in Washington Street, where the Colonel had an office. The proprietors of the city's reputable sheets—the Globe, the Transcript, the Post, the Herald—scorned the Colonel, of course, and would not accord his despicable rag, Town Topics, the dignity of the name of newspaper; nevertheless, the Colonel maintained the fiction, to himself if not to others, that he was one of their fraternity and kept his office alongside theirs.

  There must be an assistant, Ames thought; and the assistant would have to be spoken to. He'd ask his friend Dela-hanty about it. Delahanty was the proprietor of a modest literary periodical; he knew even more people in Boston than Ames did, and more people of vastly differing social classes. Yes. Delahanty would know how to proceed.

  He thrust the ledger back into the safe.

  “All right,” he said to MacKenzie. “Let us go.”

  But as he moved past the desk, something on the floor underneath it caught his eye. It was small, white, gleaming, with a bit of gold trim. He picked it up, holding it between finger and thumb as he examined it.

  It was a pearl in the shape of a teardrop, with a gold filigree cap and tiny gold loop.

  “What do you make of this, Doctor?” he asked, handing it to MacKenzie.

  MacKenzie looked at it briefly before handing it back. “From a necklace, perhaps. Or an earbob?”

  “Yes. Whose owner—or her husband—was in this room tonight on business with the Colonel.”

  Ames placed it on the desk and took from the breast pocket of his jacket a small morocco-bound notebook and a silver pencil. Rapidly he made a sketch of the pearl; then he replaced it on the floor beneath the desk. It was time to go.

  He picked up his black, low-crowned trilby hat from the side table where he'd put it, crossed to the hall door, and cautiously cracked it open. The corridor was empty. With MacKenzie limping behind, he slipped out and closed the door softly behind them.

  To their right, the elevator was just ascending. They turned left and, at the end of the corridor, duc
ked into a service landing that led to the back stairs. They heard the clank of the elevator's doors opening. Ames opened the door an inch or two and peered out. He saw a man emerge from the elevator, hesitate for a moment, and then turn toward them—and the Colonel's room.

  He was of middling height with a fine full mustache and flashily dressed—brocade waistcoat, showy stickpin in his cravat, congress gaiters. He carried a bowler hat and yellow kid gloves, and on the third finger of his right hand he wore a large gold-and-diamond ring. He stopped at the Colonel's door, knocked, and went in.

  “Come on,” muttered Ames.

  They went down the stairs to the ground level, out into an alley, and around to the front, where they entered the hotel once more. The lobby was as crowded as it had been earlier. The clientele was a prosperous one: fur-swathed women wearing silk and satin evening gowns and elaborate jewelry, and men in opera capes and carrying crush hats— collapsible top hats. In such a crowd, Ames's tall, lean, dark-clad figure did not attract attention unless one met his glance, in which case he was a compelling figure indeed. He made his way directly to the reception desk; MacKenzie limped behind at a little distance.

  The clerk, a nervous young man who seemed out of his depth in such a position, hesitated when Ames asked for the manager.

  “Who shall I say—?”

  “At once, man!” Ames snapped.

  In a moment more, the manager appeared.

  “Yes, sir?” he said. Despite the fact that two men awaited him, there was no question about which of them had demanded his presence; he spoke to Ames, hardly seeming to notice MacKenzie.

  His name, lettered on his office door, was Harris. He spoke with a touch of hauteur, but Ames could sense his anxiety. All kinds of things could happen in a big, fashionable place like the Hotel Brunswick, and many of them might spell disaster for the man in charge. And so the manager presented a smooth, bland face to the world, but his eyes were sharp, alert for catastrophe.