The Murder on the Enriqueta: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  She had evidently just come in, and Mellish’s appreciative eye rested with approval on the quiet perfection of her closefitting black hat and admirably cut coat and skirt. The furs she threw carelessly on a chair by the door were unostentatious, but perfect of their kind. He heaved himself out of his chair and went forward to greet her.

  “We were talking of the crowd on the Riviera,” he said. “Carol seems to have suffered rather at their hands.”

  She nodded.

  “Those hands would soon have been in her pockets if she had given them the chance,” she replied, her eyes full of meaning. “We must take care of her, Mr. Mellish, you and I.”

  She slipped off her hat and passed her hands over her smooth, fair hair. Mellish noted, with a certain secret amusement, that she had followed the prevailing fashion and had it cut short. It was too thick to shingle, and clustered round her head in natural waves. He had to admit that it suited her, and added character to the well-shaped head and straight features.

  “May I share your tea, Carol dear?” she asked. “The fire is out in my room and you are so comfortable here. I shall not disturb you?”

  “Of course not,” answered Carol. “Sit down and talk to Jasper while I make some fresh tea.”

  The conversation ran easily enough, but a more finished psychologist than Carol might have discerned the reserve that lay behind the apparently innocent small talk of these two able fencers. Antagonism would be too strong a word for their attitude towards each other; caution would, perhaps, be nearer the mark. Lady Dalberry, in spite of her almost disconcerting bluntness and lack of subtlety, was too astute ever to give herself away, and Mellish, bland and imperturbable, was always difficult to fathom. He was there, in his capacity of trustee, to spy out the land, and Lady Dalberry was perfectly aware of the fact. Whether or not she had anything to hide from him made very little difference to the fact that each was subtly aware that the other was on the defensive. Only once was she betrayed into giving a hint of her true feelings, and then the indication was so slight that Carol missed it entirely. It did not escape Mellish, however.

  He had asked Carol what time Dalberry was going to fetch her for dinner, casually letting drop the information that he intended to join them. As he spoke he happened to catch sight of Lady Dalberry’s face, and he knew in a flash that the news had not pleased her. While listening to Carol’s answer he watched the other woman, covertly but intently, and waited anxiously for her to speak. When she did so her voice was just a shade too uninterested and casual.

  “You are going on to the club?” she asked. “I did not imagine you would care for such frivolities!”

  “I’m not such an old fogey as all that,” he answered good-humouredly. “Besides, I shall only drop in for a few minutes to see how the children are enjoying themselves.”

  He thought he detected a flicker of relief in her eyes, but she answered naturally enough.

  “Carol must persuade you to stay, once you are there,” she said, with a pleasant smile. “A little dissipation is good even for us too, sometimes.”

  If he was tickled at the graceful way in which she bracketed herself with him in point of years, he did not show it.

  “I trust you will have many years of dancing before you yet,” he said courteously. “At least you will be saved my fate. ‘Fat and scant of breath’ will never apply to you.”

  She took his complaint with characteristic seriousness. “You should do exercises, Mr. Mellish,” she assured him earnestly. “It is wonderful how much they help. Exercises and massage. Those are things my country understands.”

  “If I did exercises I should die,” was Mellish’s calm rejoinder. He spoke with such conviction that even Lady Dalberry was impressed.

  He certainly looked singularly out of place as, some hours later, he made his majestic entry into the crowded supper-room of the Terpsychorean and let himself carefully down on to a little gilt chair that trembled beneath his weight.

  Carol, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, took in the scene before her with eager curiosity.

  “Like it?” asked Dalberry, his eyes on her flushed face.

  She nodded.

  “It makes me feel as if I’d still got hayseed in my hair,” she said ruefully.

  “Hullo! here’s our friend,” put in Mellish.

  Carol looked round quickly. Lady Dalberry’s next-door neighbour was coming towards them, picking his way among the throng of dancers with an ease and dexterity that suggested long practice. In evening clothes he looked sleeker and more perfectly groomed than ever.

  He halted at their table and bowed over Carol’s hand.

  “It is a great pleasure to see you here,” he said. Except for his accentuation of the letter r, and a certain neatness and finish in the rounding off of his words, his English showed very little trace of a foreign accent. “Captain Bond asked me to say that he has reserved a table for you near the orchestra. He will be with you in a moment. If you will come with me—”

  Carol introduced him to the two men, and together they followed him to a larger and more comfortable table, decorated with trails of smilax and a great bowl of hot-house roses.

  He did not offer to join them, and, having seen them settled, excused himself gracefully and melted into the crowd of dancers.

  A few minutes later Bond appeared, profusely apologetic.

  “I was kept,” he whispered. “Some trouble in the kitchen. De Silva tells me that you did not find your table. I’m so sorry. I left special directions with that fool of a head-waiter.”

  At Dalberry’s invitation he pulled up a chair and joined them, and for the next ten minutes or so made himself useful, pointing out people whom he thought might interest Carol.

  “You see those two?” he said, indicating two of the best dancers in the room. “They’re one of the mysteries of the dancing world. Barring their names, nobody knows anything about them, except that they apparently do nothing but dance all the year round. They’ve been away till about a month ago, probably in the south of France, and now they’ll come here night after night till London empties, when they’ll move on to Munich or some other big town where the bands are good and the night clubs worth going to. They always stay at the best hotels, and, apparently, have plenty of money, though I fancy the lady supplies the funds. They are not husband and wife, and, so far as one knows, their relations are quite platonic; they are never seen in the daylight, and seem to have no friends. At night they come out and dance. They’ve been a familiar feature of every well-known dance club in Europe for the last two years.”

  Carol watched them with interest. The woman was thin to emaciation, with blue eyes set beautifully in a colourless face and a close-fitting cap of shingled auburn hair; the man was of a more ordinary type, tall, well-built, with fair hair and moustache. His face was almost as colourless as that of his partner. They both looked fit, trained to a fine point, but it was the fitness attained by dancers and acrobats, people who take their exercise between four walls.

  Mellish watched them too, his fingers tapping gently on the table in time to the music. He was trying to remember. Ever since his retirement he had made it a habit to drop in occasionally at New Scotland Yard. Only a week ago he had been there and had looked idly through a collection of photographs which had been brought to Shand’s room from the record office. This man’s portrait had been among them. Of that he felt certain, and in a moment he would remember the report that went with it. Bond was speaking again.

  “You’ll try our special cocktail, won’t you? We’re rather proud of it. You won’t get another like it in London.”

  Mellish rose.

  “Not for me, thank you,” he said, with his fat chuckle. “I’m too old to face the morning after, and in any case, my bed calls me. Bless you, children, and enjoy yourselves.”

  Bond accompanied him to the door.

  “I’m sorry you missed the exhibition turn,” he said. “It’ll be on in another ten minutes.”
<
br />   “I’m conscious of being something of an exhibition turn myself,” remarked the fat man, as a couple collided heavily with his great bulk and recoiled laughing. “This is no place for the likes of me!”

  In the cloakroom he ran into a friend, a stockbroker, a thin, wiry little man, older than himself, who had lately fallen a victim to the universal craze for dancing. Mellish beamed on him paternally.

  “Lucky chap!” he said. “As long as a man can still see his own feet he can dance, I suppose. What do you feel like in the morning?”

  “Twenty years younger than I did six months ago,” responded the other cheerfully. “Try it yourself.”

  They chatted for a few minutes. As they parted Mellish suddenly bethought himself.

  “Know anything about a man called de Silva?” he asked. “A slim, dark chap.”

  “I know one thing about him,” laughed his friend. “He’s kept it mighty quiet, too, but things get out in the City.”

  Then, in answer to Mellish’s glance of interrogation:

  “He owns this place. It was bought in Bond’s name and it’s registered as his, but the money was de Silva’s. Bond’s merely his paid man.”

  In the cab going home Mellish’s brain played him a trick well known to those who have tried in vain to pin down an illusive memory. He had completely forgotten the two dancers who had engaged his attention at the Terpsychorean, and was meditating on the information he had just gleaned about de Silva when, inconsequently, he found himself in full possession of the facts concerning the man whose photograph he had seen in Shand’s room. He remembered him now as a confidence-man and card-sharper, well known to the police, who had “worked” the continental trains and the big London stations for a time until a term of imprisonment put a stop to his activities. On his release he had “gone straight”—in other words, had become an “informer.” That, at any rate, was his job in London, and probably he performed the same service for the continental police. The woman was no doubt in the same line of business.

  After Mellish’s departure Carol and Dalberry gave themselves up to dancing. They found both the floor and the orchestra first-rate, and when they got back to their table, just before the exhibition turn of the couple from Monte Carlo, they were more than ready for the cocktails Bond had suggested.

  They had hardly sat down before he brought them himself, full of apologies for the delay.

  “The poor little beggar always seems to be making excuses for something,” reflected Dalberry, as he took the glass the other handed him. “Must be a dog’s life, this secretary-business.”

  But the drinks needed no apology, and Bond’s eulogy was amply justified. The exhibition dancing, too, was good of its kind. After it was over Carol and Dalberry danced once more, and on their return to their table they found de Silva waiting for them. He held a glass in his hand.

  “May I join you for a little?” he asked. “My friends have gone, and soon I must go home myself. But perhaps, before I go, Miss Summers will do me the honour of dancing with me.”

  Dalberry sat down opposite to him and tried to look more pleased than he felt. He did not like the man, and he had an uneasy conviction that he was going to turn out to be a far better dancer than himself. Also he suddenly became conscious of the fact that he was very tired—so tired that it was all he could do to sit upright in his chair. While he was dancing he had not noticed it, but now an immense fatigue seemed to have descended on him, and he would have given anything to put his head down on his arms and let himself drift into the slumber that he craved with all his being. He put his sudden exhaustion down to the fact that he had been motoring all day, and had grown unaccustomed to late nights and a vitiated atmosphere.

  He passed his hand over his damp forehead and squared his shoulders resolutely. As he did so, de Silva looked across at him.

  “Let me order you one of these,” he said, indicating the tall glass at his elbow.

  Dalberry accepted the offer. He was beginning to realize that without the help of some sort of stimulant he would not be able to get through the evening.

  With a word of excuse to Carol the Argentino rose and made his dexterous way through the crowd to the bar. In a few minutes he was back again.

  “If you want a thing done, do it yourself,” he said with a smile, putting a glass down in front of Dalberry. “The waiter would have taken half an hour to get this.”

  Dalberry thanked him and drank thirstily. He was feeling more seedy each moment. If the whisky did not pull him round he would have to go home. It was idiotic, he told himself angrily, to go to pieces like this. He put down the empty glass.

  “I say, this is pretty strong!” he said, with a laugh that even in his own ears sounded vague and unnatural.

  The Argentino shrugged his shoulders.

  “Not stronger than one needs in this atmosphere,” he answered carelessly. “It is drink that keeps all these people going night after night, far into the morning, and drink, and the profit on drink, that makes it possible for places like this to keep open at all. In fifteen minutes the bar will close for the night, and you will see the people getting more and more fagged, until at last they drift out to private houses where no license is needed, and where they can dance to a gramophone and drink what they like. Before the bar closes you will do well to order another, my friend!”

  Dalberry did not answer. He was watching the dancers with almost unnatural absorption, and Carol found herself criticizing him a little impatiently. He looked sulky, she thought, as if something had happened to annoy him, and it occurred to her that he might have resented de Silva’s intrusion on their privacy. But it was unlike Gillie to be so stupid. She was roused by de Silva’s voice. “Shall we dance?” he suggested.

  She glanced at Gillie, but he did not even turn his head, and with a little flush of resentment on her cheeks she nodded to de Silva and rose.

  He was, as Dalberry had suspected, a beautiful dancer, and it was some time before they returned to the table. They found Dalberry sitting much as they had left him, turning an empty glass slowly round in his fingers, his eyes still fixed on the dancers.

  “So you had your second drink, as I predicted,” said de Silva, laughing. “You were wise. It’s too late for another now—the bar is closed.”

  Dalberry stared vacantly at the glass in his hand. He knew that he had only had the one whisky and soda, but it did not seem worth while to say so. Nothing seemed worth while, except to get out of this place as soon as possible.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Carol,” he said, speaking very slowly and in a curious, thick voice that sent a thrill of mingled surprise and apprehension down Carol’s spine. “But I’ve got to go home. At once, I mean. We’ve both got to go home. Sorry—sorry to spoil your evening—”

  His voice trailed off into silence. He swayed towards Carol, and would have fallen if de Silva had not caught him under the arms and lowered him into a chair. He sat there, speechless, his eyes fixed stupidly on Carol. His skin was livid, and she could see the perspiration glistening on his forehead.

  “Gillie!” she exclaimed, in consternation, fighting against the conviction that was slowly being forced upon her.

  At the sound of her voice he smiled foolishly, evidently trying to reassure her, then, suddenly, his face became a blank.

  “It’s no good,” he murmured. “Sorry.”

  Then, without warning, he toppled forward across the table, dropped his head on his folded arms and went to sleep.

  De Silva cast a swift glance in the direction of Carol.

  “I think it will be best if you will let me see you home,” he said gently. “I will speak to Captain Bond; he will, ah, take care of Lord Dalberry. He is accustomed to situations of this sort. You need not be anxious—Lord Dalberry will be all right with him.”

  Carol hesitated, looking down at the helpless figure before her.

  “I don’t think we ought to leave him,” she said anxiously. “He
looked horribly ill.”

  Even as she spoke she knew that he was not ill, and that it would be kinder to him to go.

  “Believe me, he is not ill,” de Silva assured her. “When I get home I will telephone to his valet to expect him. Bond will see him home. He will be all right.”

  Carol flinched before the bitter contempt in his voice, and for a moment, angry as she was beginning to feel with Dalberry, she loathed de Silva more. What right had he to judge Gillie, who, whatever he might do, was worth a dozen of him? Her glance swept round the crowded room, resting at last on Dalberry’s head, pillowed on his arms on the untidy table. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Gillie!” she said softly.

  He did not move. She might not have existed so far as he was concerned.

  Until now her ever-growing indignation had been tempered with a pity that was half contempt. Now, as she realized how utterly he had let her down, it flamed suddenly beyond control.

  She turned to de Silva, her eyes ablaze, her cheeks scarlet.

  “Will you please take me home?” she said.

  Then, without another glance in Dalberry’s direction, she left him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  In the taxi on their way back to the Escatorial Carol and de Silva tacitly refrained from discussing the events of the evening. The girl’s cheeks still burned with humiliation, but she had herself well in hand, and forced herself to talk easily and naturally to the Argentino, who, in his turn, showed himself an adept at dealing tactfully with a difficult situation.

  It was a relief to hear from the hall porter that Lady Dalberry, who was an inveterate bridge player, had not yet come back from her club. All the way home Carol had been dreading the inevitable explanation she would have had to make of her early return without Dalberry.

  De Silva accompanied her to her door, and it was not until he had said good-night, and was about to cross the landing to his own flat, that he referred to the subject they had both avoided so carefully.