MRS3 The Velvet Hand

by Hulbert Footner

  "But you would hardly call Stanfield a village," said Mme Storey.

  "It was a village when I started to practise there," he said. "And I am afraid we old-timers like the self-dependent village that it was better than the great and wealthy suburb it has become."

  "What can I do for you?" asked Mme Storey, smiling. I could see that she liked the quaint little gentleman.

  "Well, in order not to waste your time unnecessarily," he replied, "I will ask you at once, plainly: would you be attracted by a fee of five hundred dollars (it is all I am empowered to offer) for a service which will require three hours of your time some afternoon; with the promise of an additional five hundred in the event that you are successful in the undertaking I am to suggest to you?"

  "The fee is sufficient," said Mme Storey, "provided the undertaking is one which I am qualified to carry out."

  "Oh, eminently, eminently," he said. "My friends and I have heard you described as a practical psychologist, specializing in the feminine. That is precisely what we require."

  "Is it a crime which has been committed?" asked my mistress.

  "No, Madame. It is a measure designed to forestall a crime."

  "So much the better," said Mme Storey. "Proceed." Helping herself to a cigarette, she prepared to listen.

  "We have in Stanfield," he began, "a conspicuous local character called Mrs. Genevieve Brager—perhaps you are familiar with the name?"

  "Vaguely," said Mme Storey, "but I cannot remember in what connection."

  "Doubtless you have heard of Hyman Brager, her husband, a wealthy manufacturer of enamelled ware. He created the enamelled-ware trust, and died a few years ago, leaving his widow upward of ten million dollars without check or hindrance."

  "Ah," said Mme Storey. "A nice little sum."

  "Mrs. Brager is sixty-seven years old," the lawyer went on. "She is childless; indeed, she has not a relative in the world. Moreover, she is a woman so flighty and ill-advised that she has never succeeded in making any friends in Stanfield, though she has lived there for over thirty years."

  "I begin to picture the situation," said Mme Storey. "The legacy hounds have tracked her down."

  "Exactly, Madame. An admirable phrase! These persons, both men and women, are of the most sinister types. God knows where she picks them up!"

  "Oh, they pick her up," put in my mistress.

  "It has become a public scandal. Brager's Asylum is the phrase coined by my townspeople to describe the establishment."

  "Then they live in her house?"

  "Yes, Madame, a swarm of them. Mrs. Brager is of a miserly character and keeps them all on short commons. She retains a hold on them by scattering promises of legacies. She plays them off one against the other. She is continually making new wills. You can readily conceive what hideous passions this must set loose. We feel certain that it must end in an appalling tragedy."

  "Which would sully the fair name of Stanfield," put in Mme Storey.

  "Exactly, Madame. For a long time the situation has troubled me vaguely, but it was not my province to interfere. It was nobody's business to interfere. There is no question of having the woman declared incompetent, even if it was anybody's interest to do so, because her wits are as sharp as yours or mine. She handles her great fortune skilfully; and since she spends nothing it increases by leaps and bounds."

  "What finally led you to act?" inquired my mistress.

  "Three days ago Mrs. Brager sent for me (she employs every lawyer in Stanfield by turn) and required me to make a will leaving everything she possessed to one of her hangers-on, a scoundrel who has the impudence to call himself 'the Honourable' Shep Chew."

  "A proved scoundrel or only a suspected one?"

  "Proved, Madame. I have learned that he has served a term in prison in Ohio for malfeasance in some minor political office: under sheriff, I fancy."

  "Hence the 'honourable,'" said my mistress drily.

  "His scoundrelly character is written in his face," Mr. Riordan went on. "I am convinced that he does not intend Mrs. Brager shall live to make another will."

  "Hm!" said Mme Storey; "a highly explosive situation. But what can I do?"

  "I drew up the will," said Mr. Riordan, "since nothing would have been gained by my refusal to do so. I then consulted with Thomas A. Braithwaite, the president of our Chamber of Commerce, who called in Mr. Eckford, president of the First National Bank, Mrs. W. Atlee Bryan, president of the Woman's Club, and one or two others of our leading people; and a committee was formed to deal with the situation."

  "Who suggested coming to me?"

  The little old gentleman's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "I did, Madame. I have long followed your career. I have made a study of your cases: the Ashcomb Poor case, the Teresa de Guion case; the strange murder of Mrs. Norbert Starr. And, if I may be permitted to say so, it is a great occasion for me thus to come face to face with you at last."

  He bowed with no little impressiveness. Mme Storey, smiling, bowed in return.

  "Nor were you by any means unknown to the other members of the committee," he went on. "When I mentioned your name they jumped at it. 'Madame Storey! Ah, if she will only help us!' they cried. They subscribed the sum I have named, on the spot, and pledged themselves to double it if you were successful."

  "What do they want me to do?"

  "Persuade Mrs. Brager to create a living trust, so that, although she will continue to enjoy her income, the control of her vast principal will pass out of her hands."

  "Hm!" said my mistress, "this is no small order."

  "With your extraordinary insight into feminine psychology, you are the one person for the job!" cried Mr. Riordan enthusiastically. "She is a timorous old woman—work upon her fears. And inordinately vain. Persuade her to leave her millions to found a great philanthropic institution. By announcing her intention in advance she can enjoy all the glory during her lifetime."

  "What sort of institution?"

  "Anything, anything she likes. My committee, in order to prove to you their disinterestedness, do not even stipulate that it shall be built in Stanfield—though of course it would be a fine thing for the town."

  "Oh, it might as well be Stanfield as any place else," said Mme Storey.

  "Then you will help us?"

  "One moment. How could I be introduced to Mrs. Brager in a natural-seeming manner?"

  "Oh, that will offer no difficulties, Madame. Mrs. Brager is always trying to get decent people to come to her parties."

  "Ah, poor soul!" murmured my mistress.

  "And if the great Madame Storey deigned to honour her house——"

  "No!" interrupted my mistress quickly, "that would be fatal. I should be introduced under a pseudonym."

  "Of course, if you thought best. Then you will...?"

  "I will," said Mme Storey.

  "Thank heaven!" cried the little lawyer.

  "I assume that Chew knows about the will in his favour," said Mme Storey.

  "Yes, Madame. Mrs. Brager gave him a copy."

  "Then we should act at once."

  "I am asked to a tea at Mrs. Brager's house to-morrow afternoon," said Mr. Riordan, with a rueful smile. "If you and your secretary could be at my office at four we might go together."

  "Expect us at three-thirty," said Mme Storey. "And have your committee on hand in your office so that I may have a few words with them before we start for Mrs. Brager's."

  "Yes, Madame."

  II

  We motored up to Stanfield on the following afternoon. It took a little longer so, but the quiet of our own car permitted us to do some work on another case. In Mr. Riordan's respectable office we found the committee waiting, all obviously impressed by the prospect of meeting the great Madame Storey face to face. The male members had brought their wives. My mistress plainly told these eminent ladies and gentlemen of Stanfield that if they had shown more neighbourliness to the lonely old widow they might have handled this case without outside assistance. They all pledge
d themselves thereafter to act exactly as she enjoined. With Mr. Riordan, we then proceeded to Mrs. Brager's.

  I was keenly interested in this case. The vastness of the sum involved arrested the imagination. Moreover, it was much more agreeable to be working to prevent a crime than to solve a crime already committed. But I must say there was nothing about the house to suggest ten millions. It looked more like a second-rate boarding house than the home of a woman rich beyond the dreams of avarice. It was on the Boston Post Road, just outside of town. Picture a big square wooden house with a cupola in the style of the 1870's, standing in full view of the street. The house was sadly in need of paint, the wooden fence was broken in several places, the evergreen trees were decayed and dying, and patches of naked earth showed amid the neglected grass. To come upon such a place in fashionable Stanfield, where everything was trimmed, cut, and rolled to a finish, was like finding a leering old tramp at a garden party.

  The inside of the house was in keeping. You know the plan of such houses: a wide and lofty hall running through the centre, with two drawing rooms on one side, dining room, pantry, and kitchen on the other. The hall was cluttered with the stuff that was considered stylish thirty-five years ago: hall rack, "cosy-corner," statuettes and jardinières. I suppose all this had been expensive in the beginning, but it had never been in good taste and was now shabby and dilapidated to a degree. The air contrived to be both stuffy and chilly. I noticed that the only means of heating the house was an old-fashioned hot-air furnace. From the amount of heat issuing through the register, it must have been kept on short rations of coal. How strange that an old woman as rich as Mrs. Brager should not even permit herself the creature comforts!

  A maid, neat enough, and polite, admitted us and, indicating that we were to enter the drawing room on our left, disappeared at the rear. From the drawing room came a thin babble of talk. I shall never forget my first glimpse of that room. It was like an ugly old picture; like a second-hand salesroom. The two rooms together, I suppose, were nearly sixty feet long, yet they were so filled with stuff it was difficult to make one's way. There were fancy chairs and useless tables; what-nots, tabourets, stools, screens, ottomans, and big pictures on easels; and everything was encumbered with "drapes."

  At the front of the room with her back to the windows sat a caricature of an old woman with carmined cheeks; and ranged at each side of her were half a dozen of as scoundrelly looking "guests" as I ever expect to see, all dressed up, drinking tea, and going through the motions of fashionable conversation. While the tongues of the six dripped honey, their eyes were fixed on the wasted little woman with an expression which I can only describe as murderous; and in her eyes, while she twittered and simpered, dwelt a look of plain terror. I thought to myself we had not come any too soon.

  Can you conceive the effect of my mistress's entrance into that room? The beautiful and serene figure seemed to emphasize the second-rateness of it all. The six guests, as one, recognized an enemy in her and turned looks of fear and hostility in her direction. Their thought was—one could read it clearly: If such a one as this enters the chase, where will we be? Mrs. Brager herself looked at Mme Storey in a strained and confused way. It is likely that the old woman's sight was failing and she was too vain to admit it. Mr. Riordan hastened forward. He said:

  "Allow me to introduce Mrs. Pomeroy and Miss Hastings, whom I telephoned you I should bring this afternoon. They have long wished to make your acquaintance."

  The old woman put her head on one side and simpered. "Pleased to meet you.... Pleased to meet you," she quavered, extending to each of us, in turn, a claw of a hand covered with glittering old-fashioned rings. "You will find my house very out of date, I am afraid. We are plain people. Sit down, ladies. Signor Oneto, the bell, please. We will have fresh tea."

  False teeth, dyed brown hair, rouged cheeks, and those killing airs and graces. And all the time the faded old eyes looking at you so wistfully. One felt ashamed for her, and deeply sorry, as for a silly posturing child. She was wearing a very smart blue silk costume which hung strangely on her wasted frame; around her shoulders she had a little scalloped crocheted shawl of gray wool, which went better with the furnishings of the room. She was continually fidgeting with her draperies, putting her handkerchief to her nose, twisting her rings, or shoving the heavy bracelets up her skinny arms; and the simpering smile came and went without any meaning.

  Whenever she simpered, a reflection of the same simper promptly appeared in the six hard faces that surrounded her; whenever she spoke, the six voices murmured in agreement. Four women and two men: an incredible exhibition. They had placed their chairs as close as they could get to Mrs. Brager, and all held themselves as if brooding solicitously over her. The two women who had succeeded in getting places on either side of her were continually arranging the little shawl, patting her hand, and so on. When she dropped one of the rings the two men scrambled for it, all but bumping their heads together. Yet none of the six pairs of eyes ever lost what I called their murderous look. It was clear, too, that they hated each other poisonously. Oh, it was a sweet household.

  Fresh tea was brought by the maid. Mrs. Brager was obviously too shaky to manipulate the tea things, and it was poured by a fat blonde woman in a scanty pink slip, who had ex-manicure and beauty culturist written all over her. One expected her to address Mrs. Brager as "Dearie," and one was not disappointed. She handed us our cups with an expression in her glassy blue eyes that said she hoped it might poison us. And such a to-do about sugar and cream! For all her fatness she had a face that, as Mme Storey said later, you could have broken rocks on.

  Mrs. Brager introduced her to us. "My dear friend, Madame Rose La France, ladies."

  It was a full-blown rose, indeed!

  "Mr. Chew, will you pass the cake... The Honourable Shep Chew, ladies."

  I looked at him with strong curiosity. He was a big man dressed in a braided cutaway and striped trousers. The fashionable garments accorded ill with his coarse face. In his youth he may have been handsome, but it could not have done him much good, for nobody would ever have trusted those false and greedy black eyes. Now his features had taken on the flabby smoothness of the glib hypocrite. His loose, thick lips emitted a stream of sticky platitudes in a gobbling sort of voice; but his eyes always gave him away. He permitted himself a proprietary air in Mrs. Brager's drawing room which was no doubt due to his knowledge of the latest will.

  "Charmed, ladies, charmed. It gives me the greatest pleasure to welcome you to our little circle here. Mrs. Brager does not care for general society but prefers to gather a few choice spirits around her in her own home...." Gobble, gobble, gobble.

  "Oh, Mr. Chew, how can you!" protested Mrs. Brager, simpering. "An old woman like me is not interesting."

  All six raised a chorus of indignant denials. "Old! ... You! ... Oh, Mrs. Brager, how can you! ... Nobody would ever think of you as being old! ... You're the youngest among us!" etc., etc.

  When the chorus had died down the younger man, who had left the circle for the moment to get a cigarette, added in a languorous drawl: "You are not old, Genevieve."

  The poor old soul gave him a killing glance. "Perhaps not to you, Raymondo."

  He was of the type which nowadays is variously termed cake eater, lounge lizard, sheik. You can picture the slick black hair, the incipient side whiskers encroaching on his cheeks, the big, shallow black eyes. Though handsome in its way, he had, I think, the worst face of any there: slinking, mean, and cruel. But not so dangerous, perhaps, as the Honourable Chew's, because it was weak.

  "Signor Oneto and I are engaged," added Mrs. Brager, for our benefit, with her silly, tragic simper.

  You would have thought that even a lounge lizard must have blushed thus to have his shame exposed before a beautiful woman like my mistress; but not a bit of it; with perfect effrontery Oneto continued to grin at the old woman in the same cruel, die-away fashion. It was like a comic opera or a nightmare, whichever you prefer.

&nb
sp; I have forgotten the names of the other three women present. It doesn't signify, since they played no part in the tragic events which followed. They were all Stanfield wives in shoddy finery, a type which is common in every fashionable suburb; desperate hangers-on who will go to tea with anybody who does not expect to be asked in return.

  In the beginning Mme Storey and I had seated ourselves opposite the semicircle formed by Mrs. Brager and her admirers. This did not suit the old lady, and after a while she bounced the woman on either side of her and established us in their places. Thereafter she addressed her conversation to us, while the others darted little looks of suspicion and hostility in our direction and stretched their ears to hear what was said. Mme Storey, with her kind smile, and a word or two, friendly without being fulsome, had already established herself in the old lady's good graces.

  She asked with a curious eagerness: "Do you live in Stanfield, my dear?"

  "No," said Mme Storey, "but I have many friends here."

  "Whom do you know in Stanfield?" asked Mrs. Brager breathlessly.

  "Well, there are the Braithwaites, the Eckfords, the Bryans," said my mistress carelessly; "the Van Loars, the Teagues, the Dilwyns..."

  These were the most prominent families of the place. I silently commended my clever mistress's line of attack.

  "Oh!" gasped Mrs. Brager. "Do you really know all these people?"

  "Why, yes," said Mme Storey casually; "don't you?"

  "Oh, of course, of course," she said hurriedly, "but we do not exactly visit. I go out so little."

  "I am sure they would all like to know you better," said Mme Storey. "I have heard them speak about you so nicely."

  "Oh!" said Mrs. Brager excitedly, "do you think—do you really think ... how is one to make the first move? After all these years I couldn't be the first to call—and they couldn't be the first. Oh, dear!"

  "But a woman in your position," said Mme Storey, "why not write to these ladies and ask them to come see you?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't have the face! What! Mrs. Bryan! ... Do you think it would be proper?"