The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  She was sitting up in bed in a little blue silk jacket, her soft hair loose; there was a breakfast tray across her knees, white cloth, pink and white china, a pink rose in a little vase. The sun was shining into the room, there was a glitter of silver from the dressing table; the whole effect was luxurious and charming. And sweet. A delicate and beautiful young girl, having her breakfast on a spring morning.

  “Hello, Jocko, dear!” she said, with a little anxious smile.

  “Hello, Jocelyn!” he answered, and closed the door. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” she said.

  “But happy?” he asked.

  She took up the cup of coffee in both her thin little hands, and bent her head to drink it. Then she lay back on the pillow looking at him. “Take away the tray, will you?” she said.

  As he took it, he saw that she had eaten nothing at all, and that made him angry. “Here!” he said, with a frown. He sat down on the bed beside her, and cut two slices of toast into neat strips. “Here!” he said. She took a bite; she went on eating. He held the glass of orange juice to her lips, and she drank it. When the toast was all eaten, he took away the tray.

  “Give me a smoke, Jocko?” she said.

  “I don’t know if it’s good for you,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” she said. He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her; she leaned back, and took his hand. “I’m tired,” she said.

  “Tell me about this drug business,” he said.

  “Last night I asked Eric to give me something to make me sleep, and he did.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Maybe it was something new, that he didn’t understand very well,” she said. “Or maybe I was especially susceptible to it.”

  “You’re taking a very reasonable tone. Admirable.”

  “I’m saying what you’d say. There’s no use telling you the truth.”

  “The truth being that you’ve been murdered again?”

  “What’s the use of talking about it?” she said.

  “I’d like to hear,” he said. “I’d like to hear the whole story about you and Eric.”

  “That means you’ve heard somebody else’s version already,” she said. “You can hear mine, if you like.”

  “I won’t like.”

  “I don’t remember when it was,” she said. “About two years ago, I guess. I was just about crazy with pain from a sinus infection, and somebody sent me to Eric. He gave me something that helped a lot. It was cocaine, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t care, anyhow. It stopped the pain, and it made me feel glorious. Some people react that way to cocaine. I was wildly excited and happy. But that night the pain came back. I wanted that stopped, and I wanted to feel glorious again. I wasn’t reasonable. I don’t stand pain very heroically. Eric took a lofty tone. I think he told me the pain in my head wasn’t bad. I just didn’t agree with him. I tried everything. I drank God knows how much whisky. I went to Eric’s hotel. I didn’t know what it was he had given me, but I wanted more of it quick. Do you want the rest of it?”

  “I think so.”

  “He went all Continental,” she said. “Maybe it was just to keep me quiet. We went into a little sort of sitting room. I led him on. I wanted to get my pain-killer, and I thought it was worth a little love-making. But he went too far. The pain in my head was awful. I made him a scene, a good one. When I went out into the lobby, I was crying; and suddenly I had a terrific nosebleed. That made things worse. People thought Eric had hit me, or something. It cured me, though, and I went home. I didn’t know until later what all that had done to Eric. I didn’t care when I did know.”

  “Your family took an interest in it, didn’t they?”

  “My family’s always taken a wonderful interest in my career,” she said. “Do you want to hear that, too?”

  “If you feel like talking.”

  “I was fifteen, Jocko, when I met a man on a Fifth Avenue bus.”

  “That was the first man you’d ever seen,” said Killian.

  “I wasn’t a very nice kid,” she said. “I thought I was going to be the world’s greatest actress—without doing any work, of course. But I was a kid. He was old, and I thought he was being fatherly. He was sitting behind me, and he began to talk. I told him about my ambition, and he seemed to be impressed. He said I was a remarkable girl, and that I ought to have everything—clothes, education, and so on. That was just what I thought myself. He came that evening to see my mother and father. They thought he was the chance of a lifetime, and he began to ease things up for them and my brother.”

  “And you?”

  “And me. He bought me a fur coat. It was a lousy little coat, but I didn’t know much then. I wore it to school, and I thought I was a lucky girl. He talked about my taking dancing lessons and singing lessons and going to a private school, but that never happened. He took me around to restaurants and shows. He took me out in his car, and my great ambition sort of vanished.”

  “All this time you thought he was just your rich uncle.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. “I found out what he was like. But my mother and father knew, too, and they didn’t care. I made up my mind then that I’d look out for myself, and get all I could. For nothing. That didn’t help my disposition any. And it gave me a champagne appetite, Jocko. Well, he passed on, and he left me my little income, and I drifted around. That’s my story.”

  “Dictated, but not read.”

  “Do you believe it, Jocko?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t going to ask you any questions about your past, ever.”

  “I’ve never loved anybody but you. That sounds like old stuff, doesn’t it? Only it’s true. Nobody else ever made me eat toast. Maybe I can be nice now, Jocko.”

  “Maybe you can,” he said. Her cold little fingers hurt, he thought. A pain runs up my arm to my heart, and squeezes it. “Let’s skip the past,” he said. “How’s about the present?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Why did you get us all here?”

  “I wanted you here.”

  “Yes. But why Chauverney? And Elly? And Angelo?”

  “Chauverney wanted to meet Luther. He loves rich people. And I asked Elly because she’s in love with Chauvie.”

  “All right. Now Angelo.”

  “I didn’t ask him. He came. He’d signed off, and he didn’t want to go back to sea. He begged me to get him a job on shore.”

  “Luther Bell seems to be very obliging.”

  “He’s no mystery,” she said. “He’s just a damned old fool. You can see that for yourself. He was married to one of these Ladies with a big bust and grey hair and pearls, very social. She kept him in order. But when she died, he went off the rails and married Sibyl, the artiste. She was in vaudeville a million years ago. A real old-timer in tights, winking at the boys.”

  “You’re a gentle little thing.”

  “I don’t like anybody but you,” she said.

  He was silent for a while. “All right!” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Anywhere you want,” she said.

  “The thing is, you’re rather exotic for my income,” he said. “I make all of thirty-seven fifty a week.”

  “I’ve got that income. Two hundred a month.”

  “You’re a clever little manager,” he said. “Traveling to Rio, so deluxe, on fifty dollars a week.”

  “I’ll tell you about that, if you want,” she said.

  “Never mind.”

  “Plenty of things I’d hate to tell you,” she said. “It’s a nasty little story. I’m a nasty little tramp. But maybe I could be nice, with you.”

  “I’m old-fashioned,” he said. “I want to get married.”

  “You want to marry me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I do. Only I don’t like your li
ttle income.”

  “I’ve been poor,” she said. “Mother had a sort of boarding house once, and I cooked for ten people.”

  He stroked her hair back from her temples. “Thirty-seven fifty a week?” he said.

  “Do you think I care about that?” she said. “All the other men I’ve known have hated me. They called it loving me, but it was hating. Nobody’s ever been kind but you. Go on feeding me little scraps of toast. That’s all I want.”

  “We could try,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We could try.”

  He unclasped her fingers, and laid her hand neatly at her side. “Get well,” he said. “I’m going to do some thinking.”

  But it wasn’t thinking. He went into his own room and stood by the window. “It’s so damn sad,” he said to himself. “It’s so sad. Not only Jocelyn and me, either. There’s Ponievsky, and Harriet. And Chauverney and Elly. The whole house is so damn sad, it chokes me. I’m going downstairs to see what’s going on.”

  He went down the stairs; and in the lower hall he stopped, listening for voices. Nothing to be heard, and he went out on the terrace. Luther Bell was sitting there in white flannels and a grey coat with a belt; he looked very handsome and very noble.

  “Oh, good morning, Killian!” he said, seriously. “Good morning!”

  “Good morning!” Killian answered.

  Bell put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I’d like to have a talk with you, Killian,” he said. “We seem to be alone for the moment.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Killian.

  “It’s a little matter of business,” said Luther Bell. “You probably know something about Bell, Fiske and Waters.”

  Killian sat down opposite him, and met Bell’s earnest glance with one just as grave.

  “There’s one thing a man learns in business,” said Bell. “And that is to size up people. I find that I do that almost subconsciously.”

  “I see!” said Killian.

  There was a brief pause. “I’m always willing to back my own judgment,” said Luther Bell. “I’ve studied you, Killian, and I believe I know you.”

  “I see!” said Killian again.

  “I believe you’re intuitive, forceful—and loyal,” said Luther Bell. “Excellent executive material. We’d like you in our organization, Killian.”

  “I scarcely know what to say, sir,” said Killian, looking modestly at his shoes.

  “We can start you at seventy-five a week,” said Luther Bell. “And your future is whatever you choose to make it, Killian.”

  “Well, I swan!” said Killian to himself. “This is so sudden, Mr. Bell. This smells, Mr. Bell.”

  “I propose,” Luther Bell went on, “that you stop over until morning, Killian. Then you can come into town with me, and I’ll introduce you to my partner, Harvey Fiske.” He waited, and a faintly uneasy look came into his blue eyes. “I’m a great believer in intuition,” he said.

  “I see!” said Killian.

  “Then we’ll take it as settled.”

  “If you don’t mind…” said Killian. “I appreciate this, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t go so fast. You see, I’ve got a job already.”

  “It’s possible that we may be able to do somewhat better in the way of salary,” said Luther Bell. “I’ll take it up with Harvey Fiske to-morrow, after he’s met you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Killian said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to take a little time to think, sir. That’s the sort of mind I have. Judicial.”

  He’s baffled, Killian thought. Judicial is a word he can’t help respecting, even if he doesn’t like to hear it used against him. I certainly need time to consider this offer. Seventy-five a week is bribery. But bribing me to do what? To keep still about something? What important secret do I know?

  Mr. Bell coughed—hem, hem. “If I’m going to think over this bribery, it’s only decent to go away and think privately,” Killian said to himself. And to Mr. Bell he said, “May I reopen this matter later, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bell indulgently. “This evening, no doubt.”

  Killian moved away, with a serious and purposeful face. He had no idea where he was going. He walked deliberately to the end of the terrace and turned the corner. All very sad, he thought, but in a way I’m happy. Happy, because Jocelyn really was murdered. It wasn’t a lie. She sat in Ponievsky’s office, and she cried, and she was seventeen years old. A nice family, she must have. She’s been well brought up. She ate because I fed her. That’s symbolic, of something. It might mean that she needs me. Maybe that stimulates and inspires me, and maybe it paralyzes me with fright. I fed her, and she held my hand.

  From this side of the house he saw a little plantation of pines and, through the trees, the roof of the garage. A chauffeur in uniform was coming through that little wood, very slowly, in a wandering way. He stopped, looking at Killian, and Killian looked at him. Everything here was peaceful, in the morning sun, and everything had been quiet at The Maples. After a while this sunny peace gets on your nerves. You think it’s the quiet before the tempest, or something like that.

  The chauffeur came out of the little wood, and stopped again; a stolid, thickset young man with blue eyes. He stared and stared at Killian.

  “What’s the idea?” Killian asked.

  “Could I speak to you for a moment, sir?” he said.

  Killian went down the steps. “There’s a man out in the road, sir,” the chauffeur said, very low. “It looks to me like he’s dead.”

  “Where?” asked Killian, brisk and business-like.

  “If you’ll get in the car, I’ll take you, sir,” said the chauffeur.

  “I’ll come,” he said to the chauffeur, and went with him, through the wood, to a clearing in front of the garage.

  They got into the car that stood there, and off they went down the drive. It’s Chauverney, thought Killian. Someone had to be dead. For days and days everything’s been working up to that. Up to murder. A good old-fashioned murder, with a body.

  They went out on the highway. Very quiet there at this hour of a Sunday morning; no cars passed. The trees stirred in the light breeze, there were little clouds, white as milk, in the blue sky. The car stopped just where the wall of Bell’s place ended. There was a man lying free down on the side of the road. Not Chauverney. It was Angelo.

  He’s dead, all right, thought Killian, standing in the grass and looking down at him. Jocelyn was murdered, and she’s still alive. But Angelo is dead, all right.

  “Looks like he’s been run over,” said the chauffeur.

  “Yes, very much so,” said Killian, and suddenly felt sick.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I guess I ought to tell Mr. Bell,” said the chauffeur.

  “You’d better tell the police,” said Killian.

  “Well, I’d better tell Mr. Bell first,” said the chauffeur.

  “Why? What’s this got to do with Mr. Bell?”

  “Well, he hired this man yesterday.”

  “Even at that, it’s a matter for the police.”

  “Well, I better tell Mr. Bell first,” said the chauffeur. “See what he wants done about it.”

  “Afraid he won’t like this?” asked Killian.

  “He’s funny about things,” said the chauffeur.

  “Funny about people getting killed?”

  “About anything getting in the papers,” the chauffeur explained.

  “This will get in the papers,” said Killian. He lit a cigarette and drew on it, not looking at Angelo.

  “Hit-and-run driver,” said the chauffeur. “Only there’s elements in it.”

  “Elements?” Killian repeated.

  “Yes, sir, I’d say so. Look how far on the side of the road he’s lying. Straight road, too.”

  “As if someone had moved him, after he was run o
ver?”

  “He was some kind of an Eyetalian,” said the chauffeur. “That’s another element you got to consider.”

  “Undoubtedly!” said Killian.

  “They’re great ones for that, the Eyetalians are,” said the chauffeur.

  “For getting run over?”

  “Well, for revenge,” said the chauffeur.

  Killian threw away his cigarette; it had a bitter taste. “Where’s the police station?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to tell Mr. Bell first, sir. I’d lose my job if I didn’t.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” asked Killian.

  “Well, like a witness, sir,” said the chauffeur. “The cops ask you how the body was lying and all.”

  They got into the car and drove away, leaving Angelo lying in the sun. It’s happened, thought Killian. It had to happen. After all this talk about murder, somebody had to be dead. In a way, it’s a relief. Everything’s been working up to a crisis, and this is it.

  “Maybe he was chased,” the chauffeur proffered.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, for revenge,” said the chauffeur.

  Chased? thought Killian. I’m sorry you said that. It gives you images. After all, a murder isn’t a relief. It causes a lot of unpleasantness. It causeth the cops to come. It casteth a shadow upon the dwelling, and all those within. All those. Let’s call it an accident. Let’s forget it. Let’s skip it. Let’s not think who was driving around this morning.

  He was glad to find the terrace deserted. “I’ll tell Mr. Bell,” he said. “Or Mrs. Bell.”

  “Thank you, sir!” said the chauffeur. He sprang down to open the door, and stood as if frozen. Another car was coming. It was a sedan, driven by a cop, with two men sitting side by side in the back seat. It drew up beside them, and the two men in the back seat got out.

  “Mr. Bell around?” said one of them, a severe, youngish man in spectacles. “Tell him that Captain Warren would like to see him.”

  “Well, if you’ll ring the door-bell, sir…” said the chauffeur.

  Captain Warren and his companion, burly and red-faced, went up the steps shoulder to shoulder. The Captain rang the bell; they stood there very straight until the butler opened the door, then they marched in.