The Crooked Lane

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “She has not learned yet how to be unhappy,” he said. “But that is a hard lesson, and she is still young.”

  “Oh, it’s wicked and stupid that she should have to learn it at all!” cried Tess Stuart, suddenly and surprisingly vehement. “When she came here first she was as friendly and amusing and hopeful as a puppy—” She pulled her-self up abruptly, nodding at the butler, still hovering assiduously with the white-swathed bottle. “I think I’ll have some, after all.… It isn’t a very pretty world, is it?”

  “Not very,” he assented quietly. “And the curly-headed gentleman next to her to whom she has not spoken for a week—is he, too, a friend of yours?”

  She said, carelessly:

  “I don’t have many friends—not so many as Dr. Byrd, probably. I understand that he’s very popular indeed—with some people.”

  “But not with you?”

  “But not with me,” said Tess Stuart evenly.

  Sheridan, seemingly absorbed with a recalcitrant cigarette, eyed the profile presented by the blond and handsome Byrd somewhat critically.

  “Nor with me,” he remarked finally. “The eye is just a trifle too blue and candid, should you not say, and the smile, like the hair, a trifle too curly?”

  “Everyone believed that he and Vicki were engaged,” said Tess Stuart, her low voice quite colorless. “But last week things apparently broke up.”

  “About the time that the news came of the lady’s vanished fortune?”

  “About a day after.”

  “He is not notably intelligent, then, our popular young doctor?” he inquired thoughtfully. “Or did he decide that his popularity was sufficient to stand any strain?”

  “I think that he decided that there’s always a plethora of rats on any sinking ship,” said the girl with delicate precision, and Karl Sheridan realized with a sudden odd contraction of his heart that here was a good friend—and a bitter foe.

  “Come, then, let us waste no more of our precious moments on this doctor. A jolly good fellow and a jolly bad egg, I fancy. Now, then, next to him—the little dark happy one in the dress like good Burgundy wine—who is she?”

  Tess Stuart’s face was suddenly warm with affection as her eyes followed his to the small, radiant creature holding the man on either side of her enthralled in a story that evidently called for an almost continuous play of expressive hands and extravagant eyelashes and dimples.

  “Oh, that’s Joan—Joan Lindsay. She has the finest pearls and the prettiest laugh in Washington, and she’s a treasure and a delight. Everyone’s head over ears in love with her, from the President to my street cleaner, and she’s in love with her husband. Isn’t that clever of her? That’s Allan directly opposite you; doesn’t he look like a gentleman who knows he’s lucky?”

  K’s approving glance traveled from the richly colored little face with its great fringed eyes and its small mouth, sweet and secret as a child’s, to the sunny head and friendly smile of his debonair vis-à-vis.

  “They are both lucky, it seems. I hope that you are going to help me to see more of your Lindsays.… Of Aunt Cara’s husband I know nothing save that in my youth he was a lavish purveyor of chocolates and fifty-cent pieces, and that he is now a brigadier general, an excellent judge of claret, and the owner of an admirably controlled mustache. Should I know more?”

  “I don’t think there is very much more,” said Tess, tilting the shining perfection of her head to a more judicial attitude. “He’s one of those nice naïve people who are frightfully good at their own job, and so simple about everything else that it’s downright touching. Just now he’s pretty morose about the state of the whole terrestrial globe, poor darling—wait till you hear him on the younger generation and free silver and modern music! You may not know it, K, but Stalin’s at the bottom of the whole thing.”

  “You confirm my worst suspicions,” replied Karl Sheridan gravely. “And Uncle Gregory is undoubtedly my real affinity at this feast of reason. I, too, am all for older and better generations, free gold instead of free love, and the kind of music that they play on April evenings on barrel organs.… And the amusing-looking one on his other hand—the one with the black satin hair and the nose and eyebrows that tilt?”

  “Andrée Chevalier. She’s the wife of the poor boy who’s still struggling with Freddy. Truly, you’re going to have to rescue him pretty promptly! I caught his eye a second ago, and he made a sound as though he were going down for the third time. Raoul’s the French naval attaché, and they’ve been here so long that they’re practically oldest inhabitants. Great friends of the Lindsays—and mine—and Dion’s. Very chic and very, very civilized. Andrée loves to flirt, and Raoul loves to be flatteringly jealous, and they sing hill-billy songs and tell fortunes and are tremendous additions to any party.”

  “Good! And the next is the lucky Mr. Lindsay. Should I know more of him than that?”

  She knitted conscientious brows.

  “I don’t think so—anyway, you’ll find out for yourself. I couldn’t possibly produce anything nicer for you to play with than Allan, and Allan’s heavenly place in Virginia, and Allan’s heavenly babies, and Allan’s heavenly Joan. They’re giving a party at Green Gardens Monday; I’ll get you an invitation to it tonight, and you’ll spend the rest of your life being grateful to me.”

  “That,” said the young man from Vienna, “I have suspected for some time since.… And the one in the green dress that matches her eyes, and whose taffy hair is as neat as Alice in Wonderland’s?”

  “Oh, Abby Stirling!” Laughter ran once more contentedly below the level of her voice. “I promised Freddy that she could do the honors for her; they have a battle to the death as to which one gets the title of the rudest woman in Washington. I suppose that it actually comes down to whether you believe that a rapier or a cannon ball can do the more damage.”

  “Both being in the hands of an undisputed expert, I gather? Am I supposed to gather, too, that Miss—or is it Mrs.?—Stirling is not the wielder of cannon balls?”

  “No, no—you’re still batting a thousand on omniscience!” she assured him with an amused twist at the corner of the too expressive mouth. “It’s most certainly rapiers for young Mrs. Stirling! Bill isn’t here tonight; he must be at the dinner that the press is giving to the prime minister. He’s one of our leading newspaper lights—special correspondent of the Baltimore Planet and he and Abby put on the most magnificent longshoreman’s brawls that crisp the hair on their pleased friends’ heads—but I’m rather afraid that they adore each other. The one between Abby and Cara is Freddy’s Sir Oliver, and—”

  “Just suppose you leave Freddy’s Sir Oliver to Freddy, you greedy young magpie!” remarked a loud, threatening voice that caused Sheridan and his ex-guide to exchange diverted and despairing shudders. “Good God, don’t you ever stop talking, De Tessaincourt Stuart? You must breathe through your ears.… Dion Mallory, if you can’t think of anything to say to Tess, try growling and counting up to a hundred by fives. That’s how they get all those swell mob effects.”

  Dion Mallory leaned towards her, and Sheridan noted with reluctant approval the easy Irish magic of the swift smile, the warm, brilliant voice, and the dark blue eyes that swore that life was a good enough friend to the merry and the gallant.

  “Freddy, angel, there’s not a day dawns nor a night falls that’s long enough by twelve hours to get me half through with what I have to say to the girl.… If it weren’t that Vicki here’s cast a spell over me—”

  The brown child spoke across him, her voice taut with its effort at lightness.

  “Tess, what’s that divine place we went to in New York? You know—the one that had real vodka and quails wrapped up in vine leaves—”

  “Somewhere in the Fifties, you mean? Well, aren’t they all called Toni’s? This is Karl Sheridan, Vicki. You must be especially nice to him, because I kicked him so violently on the shins when I was six that he says it still hurts. Miss Wilde and Mr. Mallory, K—I think you’ve
already met Lady Parrish?”

  “Shut up,” commanded Lady Parrish succinctly. “If I hear another squeak out of you I’ll murder you.… And as for you, my elegant young policeman, kindly look straight at me; I don’t want to see that classic profile of yours again tonight!… Just keep perfectly still, Caroline; it’s no use trying to make a scene.”

  Cara Temple said with a somewhat embittered smile:

  “You aren’t even funny, dearest. If I hadn’t been having such a perfect time with Noll and Raoul I’d have stood you in the corner a long time ago.” She rose with a charming sweep of rosy lace and feathered fan. “Just one cigarette, please, Greg? There’re a few people coming in to dance. Coffee and liqueurs in the living room, Dalton.”

  Sheridan, on his feet, smiled down companionably at the airy impudence of the tall, red-headed minx in the Pierrot ruff.

  “And still you have left the famous Mrs. Stirling quite unscathed?”

  Lady Freddy cast a really virulent glance in the direction of the flawless serenity of the small, pale face vanishing through the crystal doors.

  “One word is all that girl rates,” she remarked distinctly. “One short, snappy, little Anglo-Saxon word—only Noll’s a bit fussy about having me use it. I tell him that what’s good enough for the Theatre Guild ought to be good enough for him, but he can’t see it that way. Very, very early Victorian, that lad! Give you three guesses.”

  “You flatter me,” he assured her. “Being quite late Victorian, I need only one.… This is only a very temporary parting, I trust?”

  “Try to lose me!” she laughed over her shoulder. “Just try, that’s all.… Hey, Joan, wait for baby!”

  Halfway across the room Tess Stuart had paused, her fingers linked about the Wilde girl’s thin brown wrist. She glanced up, caught his eye, and he was at her side quicker than the smile that she had flashed him. Vicki Wilde slipped by them with the briefest of nods.

  “Aunt Cara has promised us dancing, has she not? Then may I have the first dance—and the last dance—and twenty or thirty dances in between?”

  “The first one belongs to Dion; but since he’s deserting us early, maybe the twenty or thirty next ones. Don’t you hope they’re all waltzes? I’m pretty good at waltzes.”

  She smiled again and was gone. After a moment, he turned and went slowly back to the table, stopping for a moment short of his place to hold out his hand to the tall soldier who was his host.

  “It’s good to see you again, sir. You and Aunt Cara have made me feel that now I have actually come home.”

  “My dear fellow, that’s excellent! How did you leave our enchanting Hannele?”

  “More enchanting than ever, thanks. She sent you a thousand messages, and will have a thousand more to deliver in person when she comes over this fall.”

  “We’re counting on it. You’re going to try a little of this cognac? I can recommend it.”

  Sheridan bowed, smiling, and resumed his seat in time to preside over the ceremonious transfer of a conservative inch of brandy from the impressively antediluvian bottle to the impressively enormous goblet of crystal.

  “Cigarette?” inquired Dion Mallory hospitably, pushing a well-worn, severely handsome case of Russian leather towards him. “I’m afraid these are rather good ones. You have to apologize for anything better than Luckies these days—the smarter one is, I gather, the worse the tobacco. If you’re royalty, it’s gaspers or nothing!”

  Sheridan eyed the slim white cylinder with its elaborately gilded inscription appreciatively. “Benson & Hedges—Old Rare Vendije Gulaks, no less—and vintage crop at that. Many thanks!”

  “I can’t get along without them for more than ten minutes, I’m afraid. Tess has been telling me that you’re to be with us for a bit.” Mallory lifted the great glass in a friendly gesture of welcome. “I understand that you’re practically an oldest inhabitant, and make denizens of three or four years’ standing like myself seem sheer upstarts! Are you well fixed for lodgings?”

  “Well, just for the present I’m impersonating a transient at the Mayflower. You might be able to help me—is there anything in these parts to correspond with that admirable British institution, the service flat?”

  “Oddly enough, I think I’m the lucky possessor of about the only one—rather the only two. I leased a fine little midget bandbox of a house over in Georgetown two years ago; it has a garden the size of a pocket handkerchief, and my brilliant predecessors—a pair of promising young architects—fixed up the first floor with a living room, bedroom, and kitchenette, and the second with a bedroom and a sitting room. There’s a fairly well-stocked cellar, plenty of books, and a jewel of a darky butler and his even greater treasure of a wife who are common property for both floors. My housemate’s just deserted me for a month or so, and Tess was wondering whether it might appeal to you while you were finding your way about?”

  Karl Sheridan put his glass down, a quick flush of amazed pleasure under his dark skin.

  “But how uncommonly—how extraordinarily kind of you! It would prove a godsend, naturally. You’re in earnest?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I’d kidnap you and install you tonight, if it weren’t that I’ll be having to dash off to New York in something short of an hour. The most revolting nuisance; wasting hours and hours of my valuable young life dashing off cross country in the rattletrap that I rate as a car simply because that old blighter Harrington who left last night forgot an attaché case of what I suspect are highly unimportant documents; we’ve been turning the embassy upside down hunting for them ever since he wired this morning, because the chief thinks that it would be jolly for him to have them before he sails.”

  “Harrington? Oh, yes; he’s your big tariff expert, isn’t he?”

  “Isn’t he just! I’d be considerably more impressed with him if he could remember for five minutes together where he left his overshoes. I only discovered his thrice-accursed papers behind the guest-room sofa at five minutes to eight tonight, and his appalling boat sails at six tomorrow morning. The last train that could catch him was just pulling out, of course, and as I unfortunately happen to possess an ancient car and a reputation for amiability that borders on lunacy, I naturally find myself cast for the rôle of John Gilpin! Never be a second secretary, Sheridan. I give you my word that old Uncle Tom led a carefree existence, compared to mine!”

  His laugh was better than his smile, decided Karl Sheridan, and his smile was heart-warming enough to disarm Herod.

  “If I hadn’t half a dozen all too professional engagements tomorrow, I swear I’d make you take me along. Riding at night I love now better even than when I was ten! How long will it take you?”

  “With luck, I’m counting on something around six hours. It’s running it a bit finer than the chief would approve, I suspect, and I don’t promise that I’ll slow down at every corner, but I particularly didn’t want to miss this dinner. After all, that ought to allow me an hour or so’s clear margin for wrong turns and blowouts and miscellaneous deviltry.”

  “More power to your elbow! Are you returning also like Jove’s thunderbolt or will you linger awhile in New York?”

  “I rather think I’ll turn round in my tracks. I’m booked for what promises to be an amusing shindy at the Stirlings’ tomorrow night, and New York doesn’t hold any particular charms for me.… Let’s say that I’ll get in touch with you late in the afternoon, and you can move in bags and baggage, lugs and luggage, sometime before dinner. Will that suit you?”

  “Better than I can say. If you’re really sure that it’s not an imposition—”

  “My dear fellow, it’s a kindness, I swear. I’m a gregarious, sociable sort of a cove, and I’ve missed Hardy rather badly. We’ll consider it settled, then.… Tess told me something about your job. Are you actually getting down to work tomorrow?”

  “Actually, not for several days. I stipulated that length of time to get my bearings in what’s rather a tricky business. Outside experts are apt to be prophets witho
ut honor, I imagine.”

  “Well, there’s a danger there, of course—though I’d be inclined to think that you’ll get around it in good shape.” He smiled reassuringly over the bubble that held the brandy. “You don’t strike me as being loaded down with the overweening cockiness that is apt to tip the average expert over flat on his face. I’m not wrong in suspecting that you are an expert, am I?”

  “From the point of view of the Criminalistic Institute of Vienna, you’re indulging in the grossest flattery! But they are somewhat exigent. I myself, taking a more liberal view of the matter, consider that I am an expert of the very first water in my own particular line.”

  “Which is—”

  “Which is chemistry, and more especially the violet ray—the fluoroscope—used in connection with inks, graphites, paints, engraving and printing—the whole field of forgery, counterfeiting, and questioned documents.”

  “But doesn’t the Vienna institute give a general training in—what do they call it?—all-round sleuthing?”

  “Scientific crime detection,” Sheridan submitted, in a tone of regrettable levity. “Believe me, you would not hesitate to describe it as such if you had once endeavored to pass the examinations! You must be a college graduate before you can even qualify as a student, of course, but by the time that they have put you through three or four semesters of criminalistic microscopy, criminalistic optics, toxology, psychiatry, industrial technology, photochemistry, legal medicine, and anthropology, both you and they have agreed to forget about any such juvenilia as the average college education.”

  “But, God of our fathers, what for?” demanded Dion Mallory, his vivid face stricken into violent protest. “What does it profit you when you’ve lost your own soul and substituted that unholy conglomeration for it? What happens to you then?”

  “You are then qualified to mount the first rung of the ladder that leads to promotion above the rank of noncommissioned officer in the police force of Vienna.” Sheridan laughed outright at the blank incredulity in his attentive listener’s eyes. “Do not let it upset you. It is only the preliminary qualification!”