The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  “Possibly. But he is very stubborn, and once he gets an idea into his head—”

  “I understand. You have warned me, and I am grateful to you.”

  “If I can be of any help at all to you—” How inadequate that sounded.

  “Yes. I will let you know.” She was smiling at him, but what was in that smile he could not tell.

  She smiled at many men, he thought; and many men, no doubt, would offer to help her. But perhaps not now, not in this messy affair.

  He tried to think of something else to say to her—something to reassure her, to comfort her—but he could not. So he left her, reluctant as he was to do so, and went outside to find Caroline and the doctor.

  At once, Caroline told him her news, and as he listened to her, he felt the sharp pang of betrayal. Why hadn't Mrs. Vincent told him about Longworth's threats?

  But all he said was “Interesting.”

  “Interesting!” Caroline replied, keeping her voice low. They were standing in the crowd under the theater marquee. “More than that, I'd say.”

  “It doesn't jibe with what he told us, at any rate,” Ames said. “And if he absented himself from her for that particular hour, the hour when the Colonel was being killed—”

  “You'll tell Inspector Crippen,” Caroline said.

  “I—yes. I will.” And perhaps it will help to deflect Crip-pen's attentions from Mrs. Vincent, he thought.

  The night was cold, with a strong wind from the north. A long line of carriages and hackney cabs was inching along the curb in front of the marquee. At the corner of Tremont Street, a newsboy was crying his wares.

  “Extra! Extra!” he called. “Read all about it!” He was a ragged little fellow who looked undernourished and even sickly, but he was very loud. “Murder in the South End! Read all about it! Woman murdered!”

  People were hurrying up to him, crowding around. Ames shouldered his way in. Tossing two pennies to the child, he took the folded newspaper—it was a late edition of the Traveler—but he waited until he was away from the crowd and with his companions once more before he snapped open the heavily inked sheets and read, in the harsh glare of the streetlight, that at about five-fifteen that very afternoon, on Columbus Avenue in the South End, a woman had been shot to death.

  Her name was Marian Trask.

  “TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!” CAROLINE EXCLAIMED. SHE held her brandy glass, but in her astonishment at what Ames was saying, she had neglected to take even one sip.

  “Yes,” Ames replied. “A nice round sum.” He had told them about seeing William Trask's name in the Colonel's ledger.

  “What did the check mark mean?”

  “I assume it meant that the amount had been paid.”

  “Do you think Marian was coming here to tell you something about Colonel Mann?”

  “I have no idea. But I imagine she might have been, yes.”

  They were at home once more, having walked up Park Street and over the top of the hill. Ames had laid more coals on the fire, poured the three of them a small brandy apiece from his precious store, and taken his place by the mantel, one booted foot resting on the brass fender.

  Caroline tried to settle her thoughts. Ten thousand dollars was such an extraordinary sum—an unimaginable sum—that she could not quite grasp it.

  She glanced at MacKenzie, and he smiled at her. She felt suddenly reassured. In this world gone—apparently—mad, here was one sane and sensible man. Addington was another. You are luckier than you know, Caroline Ames, she thought.

  Her notice of him prompted MacKenzie to offer a thought. “They say they have no suspect.” He gestured toward the newspaper, which lay, black headlines uppermost, on the low table between them.

  “No,” Ames said curtly; Caroline recognized his tone, even if the doctor did not, as the one he used when he was being dismissive of something—or someone—stupid. Not the doctor in this instance, she understood, but the police. “They call it a random street crime. Ridiculous.”

  “But if it was not—” Caroline began, and then she hesitated, grappling with the implications of the thought she was trying to express.

  “Addington… if it was not a street crime, and if, as you say, Mr. Trask's name was in Colonel Mann's ledger—”

  He gave her a look. “Yes?”

  “Well—I mean—might Marian's death have some connection to the Colonel's?”

  He nodded. “It might, indeed.”

  “And so, if it was not random—if someone hunted her down”—she shuddered a little—“that person would have known where to find her. No—wait—she was coming to see you—”

  She was getting it wrong, she thought. Addington would only be further irritated if she went on.

  “She didn't intend to walk here, surely?” MacKenzie put in. She caught his eye, and at once she felt better. He understood what she was trying to say, and apparently, he was ready to say it for her.

  Ames looked at him. “Doubtful,” he said.

  “So where was her carriage?” MacKenzie asked. “Or, if she wasn't to be called for by her own carriage, why was she not in a herdic?” He thought for a moment. “And how far away is Columbus Avenue from—what did you call it?” he asked Caroline.

  “Bertram's Bower.” Yes, she thought; this was the point she'd been trying to make. “It is in the South End, on Rutland Square—not far from the avenue. If she intended to come here in a herdic, she would have had to go to Columbus Avenue to find one, but— Where are you going, Addington?”

  He had finished his brandy and was getting up from his chair. “I am going to bed,” he said. “And first thing tomorrow morning,” he added, “I think I must go to the Trasks'. Doctor, will you come?”

  Caroline felt a little twinge of envy. It was not fair, she thought, that the men always got to do the most interesting things. “May I—I would like to come with you, Adding-ton.”

  “Really? It may not be pleasant. We may, in fact, not be allowed into the house.”

  “I don't care. I know Marian's sister, and if she will talk to me—”

  “Of course. In that case, you must accompany us.”

  THE TRASK MANSION—FOR THAT IS WHAT IT WAS, MACKenzie thought—was a large, white limestone edifice on Commonwealth Avenue near Gloucester Street. A police wagon waited at the curb, the horses' breath steaming in the cold air. The house showed no evidence of a family bereaved, no black drapery at the windows, no mourning wreath hung on the front door. But then, he thought, given the circumstances of Marian Trask's death, perhaps they did not want to draw attention to it.

  Ames pulled the doorbell knob, and through the heavy wooden panels, they heard the faint sound of ringing within. After what seemed a long time, the door opened.

  “Yes, sir?” On the butler's smooth, impassive face they could see no hint of what must be the turmoil inside the house.

  Ames handed over his card and asked to see Mr. Trask.

  “He is not at home, sir,” the butler said, not bothering to look at the little scrap of pasteboard.

  “I understand,” Ames replied. “But this is an extremely urgent—”

  “I am sorry, sir. Mr. Trask is not at home to anyone.”

  Caroline, peering past Ames, past the butler's stiff form, could see nothing beyond the vestibule.

  Ames tucked his card back into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said, and the three of them went back down the front steps to the sidewalk. The butler closed the door behind them.

  Ames stood for a moment, thinking, while Caroline and MacKenzie waited. It was a raw, chilly morning, threatening snow. On the mall, the spindly trees were spaced out, black and bare, looking hardly strong enough to withstand the long, cold New England winter that lay ahead. People hurried by, oblivious of the trouble within this imposing dwelling.

  “I will go to see—” Ames began, but just then the Trasks' door opened, and two men came hurrying down the steps.

  “… Medical Examiner,” Caroline heard one of them say.

&nbs
p; It was Inspector Crippen.

  “Why, Miss Ames!” Crippen exclaimed. His eyes lighted up with pleasure, and his rotund body, tightly encased in a brown Chesterfield, seemed to expand a little, threatening to burst his buttons.

  They exchanged greetings. Crippen looked even more self-important than usual, MacKenzie thought; his brown bowler was pushed back to expose a swath of graying hair, and as he spoke, he rocked back and forth on his tiny feet as if he were an oversized mechanical toy.

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” Crippen asked. He directed his question to Ames, but he cast a roguish glance at Caroline. MacKenzie felt his insides twist.

  “A condolence call, Inspector,” Ames replied smoothly.

  “But they won't see you, will they? No.” Crippen thought for a moment, and then he jerked his head. “A word, Mr. Ames? Won't be a moment, Sampson,” he added to his companion, who nodded and strolled in the opposite direction.

  Crippen walked Ames far enough to be out of earshot before he spoke again. Then: “A nasty business, Mr. Ames. The lady was by herself—”

  “A casual street crime?” Ames asked. “Do you really think, Inspector, that—”

  “I don't think anything yet,” Crippen said a touch testily. “But here it is, Mr. Ames. You being friendly with these people and all—”

  “I hardly know them,” Ames interjected.

  “But you travel in their circle,” Crippen replied. “And you know them well enough to—ah—come to offer your condolences.” Despite the cold, his brow was filmed with a sheen of sweat. “Now hear this, Mr. Ames. Something very odd. The deceased's husband says she sent them a telegram yesterday afternoon. Asked that her carriage not call for her as it customarily did when she had an afternoon over at the Bower.”

  Apparently, Mrs. Trask had had a busy day at the Western Union office, Ames thought.

  “And what do you make of that?” he asked.

  “Nothing, at the moment. But it would seem that perhaps the man who perpetrated the crime was someone who knew her, after all. Knew her well enough to know where she'd be yesterday afternoon. And knew that she always had her carriage call for her there.”

  “And knew that she'd canceled it?” Ames asked.

  “Ah,” Crippen replied, nodding. “That's a question, isn't it?”

  “Have you spoken to the people at the Bower?” Ames asked. What with Crippen's touchy vanity, it was a delicate business to suggest a line of inquiry to him.

  “Not yet. We will, of course. But—”

  “Inspector, I think you should know that Marian Trask sent me a telegram yesterday afternoon, as well.”

  “Did she, indeed?” Crippen's eyes narrowed.

  “Yes. She said she wanted to see me, and would call about five-thirty. Which leads me to believe—”

  Crippen wagged an ungloved finger at him. “Don't leap, Mr. Ames. That's one thing I've learned. Never make that leap without you have a very good reason to do so.”

  Ames ignored the little man's patronizing tone. “Which leads me to believe,” he repeated, “that Mrs. Trask was, in fact, expecting her carriage. She would have wanted to get from the Bower to Louisburg Square on time.”

  “Now, that's not necessarily so, Mr. Ames, not at all,” Crippen said, still rather patronizing. “What if she didn't want her coachman to know she was coming to see you, eh? What about that? You know how servants gossip. So she would have canceled him and gone over to Columbus Avenue to find herself a herdic.”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” It was true, Ames thought; it made sense.

  “What did she want to see you about, anyway?” Crippen asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You're sure? Some little tempest in the social teapot, eh?”

  “I didn't know the woman at all well, Inspector. I cannot imagine why she wanted to see me.”

  “But she did, didn't she? Enough to set it up beforehand rather than just make a casual call in the hope of finding you at home?”

  “Yes, but—” He caught himself. It was bad enough that he had been the one to find Colonel Mann's body; it was downright dangerous to let Crippen know he'd rifled the Colonel's files as well.

  He leaned in, as if he were confiding a secret. Which, in fact, he was. “I heard, a while ago, that Mrs. Trask's husband paid a large sum to Colonel Mann.”

  Crippen shot him a wary look. “Did you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he pay it?”

  “Oh—two or three years ago, I believe. Just idle gossip, you understand. But if it was true, it might have some bearing on the death of Colonel Mann.”

  Crippen digested it. “So you're trying to tell me that this case has some connection to the Colonel's?”

  “Yes.”

  Crippen pursed his lips. “I don't think so, Mr. Ames. With all due respect—and I remember how helpful you were in that affair last year at the Somerset—but I don't think so.”

  “Have you compared the bullets?”

  Crippen stared at him. “You mean the one that did in the Colonel and this one here, with Mrs. Trask?”

  “Yes.” Ames realized that until he'd said it, the idea had not occurred to Crippen.

  “No,” the little inspector admitted. “No, we haven't done that yet, Mr. Ames. The M.E. had a hard time, I don't mind telling you, but he found it eventually. But listen, Mr. Ames, if Mr. William Trask was being leaned on by the Colonel, why would he have paid up—when did you say this was? two or three years ago?—and then waited until now to kill him? And waited to kill his own wife, too, if it was him who done it and if she was the one who caused the trouble? Why not take the action at the time?”

  He laid a hand on Ames's coat sleeve. “Listen here,” he said, and suddenly his voice was soothing and gentle— a policeman's trick, Ames thought. “I know you want to get back those letters you told me about, but the letters are one thing, and this business here is something else again. And it's not a job for civilians, Mr. Ames, really it isn't. Why don't you just take that sister of yours back home and leave it to us. We'll sort it out on our own, see if we don't.”

  Ames choked back the retort that sprang to his lips. He realized that Crippen was eager to leave. “About the incident last night at the Park Theater—”

  “Incident?” Crippen frowned.

  “Someone shot at Mrs. Vincent.”

  Crippen's face cleared. “Yes, I had the report on my desk this morning. As far as my men could tell, it never happened.”

  “What do you mean, it never happened? I was there, I heard it—”

  Crippen shook his head. A condescending, almost pitying expression came over his ugly little face. “If someone took a shot at Mrs. Vincent, where is the bullet?”

  “In the scenery, of course.”

  “Ah, but they looked for it in the scenery and they couldn't find it.”

  Ames remembered the stage set: a country drawing room, overdecorated, plush draperies and garishly patterned wallpaper. An easy thing, to overlook a bullet in a place like that.

  Crippen was smiling at him now, still unbearably smug. “Those actresses will do anything for publicity. Anything. And I wouldn't put it past her—”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Ames snapped. “The woman was nearly killed right there on the stage. If she hadn't moved—”

  “D'you know what I think, Mr. Ames? I think—if someone did take a shot at her, and I'm not saying they did—but if they did, it was a put-up job, and we don't need to worry ourselves about it.” He nodded in the direction of the Trask mansion. “Now, I've got to get me on the warpath, so to speak. My detective looks nervous, pacing back and forth, and I've got to keep him busy. So I'll see you soon, Mr. Ames, and I wish you a very good day.”

  And with that, he betook himself down the sidewalk. As he passed Caroline, he swept off his hat to her and gave her a cheery farewell; then he and his detective climbed into the police wagon that waited at the curb, and they were gone.

  Ames strolled b
ack to Caroline and the doctor.

  “Well?” said Caroline. Her pretty face was pink-cheeked with the cold, and her eyes were alive with interest. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing much,” Ames replied. “I tried to alert him to the fact that there was some connection between Mrs. Trask's death and the Colonel's, but he didn't seem to take to the idea.”

  “Pshaw.” Caroline shook her head. “Of course there is a connection, Addington! Isn't it obvious?” She lowered her voice, although there was no one about to overhear. “After what you discovered in the Colonel's ledger about Mr. Trask making that enormous payment—” She thought about it. “What on earth could have happened that the Colonel could extort such an amount from them?”

  “From him,” Ames corrected her. “It was his name written down, not hers. Still,” he added, “I suppose it could have been an indiscretion of anyone in his family, and he would have been the one the Colonel blackmailed. Do they have children?”

  She blinked, trying to remember. “A daughter, I think. Not quite of an age to come out.”

  “So if this happened two years ago—”

  “She would have been far too young to have done anything that warranted such a large demand.”

  “And payment,” he reminded her. “The man paid. That is evidence enough, I should think, of some kind of—shall we say, misbehavior.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly she brightened. “Addington, I wonder if Marian's sister is here this morning.”

  “You said you know her?”

  “A little. More than I know—knew—Marian. She lives around the corner in Gloucester Street. She is best friends with Frances Adams,” she added as if that explained her connection to the woman.

  Without waiting for his permission, she turned and hurried up the Trask steps once more, but after a brief exchange with the butler, she rejoined them.

  “Not there,” she said, puzzled. “I wonder why. She lives so close by, why didn't she come at once?”

  “Perhaps she did, last night,” MacKenzie offered.“

  “Yes. But she should be here this morning, as well. If ever there was a time for family to gather, it is a time like this.” She made up her mind. “I will go to her, Addington. Surely she will be at home. And perhaps she can tell me something.”