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MRS PEIXADA
By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska)
Author of “As It Was Written,” etc., etc.
Cassell & Company, Limited, 739 & 741 Broadway, New York.
1886
CONTENTS
MRS. PEIXADA.
CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED.
CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.”
CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL.
CHAPTER IV.—“THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE.”
CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.”
CHAPTER VI.—“THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES.”
CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA.
CHAPTER VIII.—“WHAT REST TO-NIGHT?”
CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL.
CHAPTER X.—“SICK OF A FEVER.”
CHAPTER XI.—“HOW SHE ENDEAVORED TO EXPLAIN HER LIFE.”
CHAPTER XII.—“THE FINAL STATE O’ THE STORY.”
MRS. PEIXADA.
CHAPTER I—A CASE IS STATED.
ON more than one account the 25th of April will always be a notableanniversary in the calendar of Mr. Arthur Ripley. To begin with, on thatday he pocketed his first serious retainer as a lawyer.
He got down-town a little late that morning. The weather wassuperb—blue sky and summer temperature. Central Park was within easywalking distance. His own engagements, alas, were not pressing. So hehad treated himself to an afterbreakfast ramble across the common.
On entering his office, toward eleven o’clock, he was surprised tofind the usually empty chairs already tenanted. Mr. Mendel, the brewer,was established there, in company with two other gentlemen whom Arthurdid not recognize. The sight of these visitors caused the young man apalpitation. Could it be—? He dared not complete the thought. That aclient had at last sought him out, was too agreeable an hypothesis to beentertained.
Mr. Mendel greeted him with the effusiveness for which he isdistinguished, and introduced his companions respectively as Mr. Peixadaand Mr. Rimo. Of old time, when Arthur’s father was still alive,and when Arthur himself had trotted about in knee-breeches and shortjackets, Mr. Mendel had been their next door neighbor. Now he madethe lawyer feel undignified by asking a string of personal questions:“Vail, how iss mamma?” and “Not married yet, eh?” and “LieberGott! You must be five-and-twenty—so tall, and with dot longmustache—yes?” And so forth; smiling the while with such benevolencethat Arthur could not help answering politely, though he did hope thata desire for family statistics was not the sole motive of the brewer’svisit.
But by and by Mendel cleared his throat, and assumed a look ofimportance. His voice modulated into a graver key, as he announced,“The fact is that we—or rather, my friends, Mr. Peixada and Mr.Rimo—want to consult you about a little matter of business.” Heleaned back in his chair, drawing a deep breath, as though the speechhad exhausted him; mopped his brow with his handkerchief, and flourishedhis thumb toward Peixada.
“Ah,” replied Arthur, bowing to the latter, “I am happy to be atyour service, sir.”
“Yes,” said Peixada, in a voice several sizes larger than thesituation required, “Mr. Mendel recommends you to us as a young manwho is smart, and who, at the same time, is not so busy but that he canbestow upon our affairs the attention we wish them to have.”
Notwithstanding Arthur’s delight at the prospect of something todo, Peixada’s tone, a mixture as it was of condescension andimperiousness, jarred a little. Arthur did not like the gratuitousassumption that he was “not so busy,” etc., true though it mightbe; nor did he like the critical way in which Peixada eyed him.“Indeed,” he said, speaking of it afterward, “it gave me very muchsuch a sensation as a fellow must experience when put up for sale in theTurkish slave market—a feeling that my ’points’ were being noted,and my money value computed. I half expected him to continue, ’Openyour mouth, show your teeth!’.rdquo; Peixada was a tall, portlyindividual of fifty-odd, with a swarthy skin, brown, beady eyes, a blackcoat upon his back, and a fat gold ring around his middle finger. Thetop of his head was as bald as a Capuchin’s, and shone like a disk ofvarnished box-wood. It was surrounded by a circlet of crisp, dark,curly hair. He had a solemn manner that proclaimed him to be a personof consequence. It turned out that he was president of a one-horseinsurance company. Mr. Rimo appeared to be but slightly in advanceof Arthur’s own age—a tiny strip of a body, wearing a resplendentcravat, a dotted waistcoat, pointed patent-leather gaiters, andfinger-nails trimmed talon-shape—a thoroughbred New York dandy, of theleast effeminate type.
“I suppose the name, Peixada,” the elder of the pair went on, “isnot wholly unfamiliar to you.”
“Oh, no—by no means,” Arthur assented, wondering whether he hadever heard it before.
“I suppose the circumstances of my brother’s death are still freshin your mind.”
Arthur put on an intelligent expression, and inwardly deplored hisignorance. Yet—Peixada?
Peixada? the name did have a familiar ring, of a truth. But where and inwhat connection had he heard it?
“Let me see,” he ventured, “that was in—?”
“In July, ’seventy-nine—recollect?”
Ah, yes; to be sure; he recollected. So this man was a brother of thePeixada who, rather less than half a dozen years ago, had been murdered,and whose murder had set New York agog. In a general way Arthur recalledthe glaring accounts of the matter that had appeared in the newspapersat the time. “Yes,” he said, feeling that it behooved him to saysomething, “it was very sad.”
“Fearful!” put in Mr. Mendel.
“Of course,” Peixada resumed, in his pompous style, “of course youfollowed the trial as it was reported in the public prints; but perhapsyou have forgotten the particulars. Had I better refresh your memory?”
“That would be a good idea,” said Arthur.—To what was the waybeing paved?
With the air of performing a ceremony, Peixada rose, unbuttoned hiscoat, extracted a bulky envelope from the inner pocket, re-seatedhimself, and handed the envelope to Arthur. It proved to containnewspaper clippings. “Please glance them through,” said Peixada.
The Peixada murder had been a sensational and peculiarly revoltingaffair. One July night, 1879, Mr. Bernard Peixada, “a retired Jewishmerchant,” had died at the hands of his wife. Edward Bolen, coachman,in the attempt to protect his employer, had sustained a death-wound forhimself. Mrs. Peixada, “the perpetrator of these atrocities,” asArthur gathered from the records now beneath his eye, “was a youngand handsome woman, of a respectable Hebrew family, who must have beenactuated by a depraved desire to possess herself of her husband’swealth.” They had “surprised her all but red-handed in thecommission of the crime,” though “too late to avert its direresults.” Eventually she was tried in the Court of General Sessions,and acquitted on the plea of insanity. Arthur remembered—as, perhaps,the reader does—that her acquittal had been the subject of muchpopular indignation. “She is no more insane than you or I,” everybody had said; “she is simply lacking in the moral sense. Anotherevidence that you can’t get a jury to be impartial when a pretty womanis concerned.”
“She was bad,” continued Peixada, as Arthur returned the papers,“bad through and through. I warned my brother against her before hismarriage.
“‘What,’ said I, ’what do you suppose she would marry an old manlike you for, except your money?’ He said, ’Never mind.’ She wasyoung and showy, and Bernard lost his head.”
“She was doocedly handsome, a sooperb creature to look at, youknow,” cried Mr. Rimo, with the accent of a connoisseur.
“Hainsome is as hainsome does,” quoth Mr. Mendel, sententiously.
“She was as cold as ice, as hard
as alabaster,” said Peixada,perhaps meaning adamant. “The point is that after her release fromprison she took out letters of administration upon my brother’sestate.”
“Why, I thought she was insane,” said Arthur. “A mad woman wouldnot be a competent administratrix.”
“Exactly. I interposed objections on that ground. But she answeredthat she had recovered; that although insane a few months before—atthe time of the murder—she was all right again now. The surrogatedecided in her favor. A convenient form of insanity, eh?”
“Were there children?” Arthur inquired.
“No—none. My nephew, Mr. Rimo, son of my sister who is dead, and Imyself, were the only next of kin. She paid us our shares right away.”Then what could he be driving at now? Arthur waited for enlightenment.
“But now,” Peixada presently went on, “now I have discovered thatmy brother left a will.”
“Ah, I understand. You wish to have it admitted to probate?”
“Precisely. But first I wish to find Mrs. Peixada. The will isn’tworth the paper it’s written on, unless we can get hold of her. Yousee, she has about half the property in her possession.”
“There was no real estate?”
“Not an acre; but the personalty amounted to a good many thousands ofdollars.”
“And you don’t know where she is?”
“I haven’t an idea.”
“Have you made any efforts to find out?”
“Well, I should say I had—made every effort in my power. That’swhat brings me here. I want you to carry on the search.”
“I shouldn’t imagine it would be hard work. A woman—a widow—ofwealth is always a conspicuous object—trebly so, when she is handsometoo, and has been tried for murder. But tell me, what, have you done?”
“You’ll be surprised when you hear. I myself supposed it wouldbe plain sailing. But listen.” Peixada donned a pair of gold-rimmedspectacles, opened a red leather memorandum-book, and read aloud fromits pages. The substance of what he read was this. He had begun byvisiting Mrs. Peixada’s attorneys, Messrs. Short and Sondheim, thefirm that had defended her at her trial. With them he got his laborfor his pains. They had held no communication with the lady in questionsince early in January, 1881, at which date they had settled heraccounts before the surrogate. She was then traveling from place toplace in Europe. Her last letter, postmarked Vienna, had said that forthe next two months her address would be poste restante at the samecity. From the office of Short and Sondheim Mr. Peixada went to theoffice of his sister-in-law’s surety, the Eagle and Phoenix TrustCompany, No.—Broadway. There he was referred to the secretary, Mr.Oxford. Mr. Oxford told him that the Company had never had any personaldealings with the administratrix, she having acted throughout by herattorneys. The Company had required the entire assets of the estate tobe deposited in its vaults, and had honored drafts only on the adviceof counsel. Thus protected, the Company had had no object in keepingthe administratrix in view. Our inquirer next bethought him of Mrs.Peixada’s personal friends—people who would be likely still tomaintain relations with her—and saw such of these as he could get at.One and all professed ignorance of her whereabouts—had not heard ofher or from her since the winter of ’80—’81. Finally it occurredto him that as his brother’s estate had consisted solely of stocks andbonds, he could by properly directed investigations learn to what cornerof the world Mrs. Peixada’s dividends were sent. But this lastresort also proved a failure. The stocks and bonds, specified in thesurrogate’s inventory, had been sold out. He could find no clew to thereinvestments made of the money realized.
Peixada closed his note-book with a snap.
“You see,” he said, “I’ve been pretty thorough and prettyunsuccessful. Can you think of any stone that I have left unturned?”
“How about relatives? Have you questioned her relatives?” askedArthur.
“Of relatives—in America, at least—Mrs. P. has none. Her fatherdied shortly after her marriage. Her mother died during the trial.”
“But uncles, aunts, sister, brothers?”
“None to my knowledge. She was an only child.”
“Her maiden-name was—?”
“Karon—Judith Karon. Her father, Michael Karon, used to keep ajewelry store on Second Avenue.”
“About what is her age?”
“She was twenty-one at the time of the murder. That would make hertwenty-five or six now.”
“So young, indeed? Have you a photograph of her?”
“A photograph? No. I don’t know that she ever sat for one. But Ihave these.”
Peixada produced a couple of rough wood-engravings, apparently cuttingsfrom illustrated papers, and submitted them for examination.
“They don’t look any thing like each other,” said Arthur. “Doeseither of them look like her?”
“Not much,” Peixada answered. “In fact, the resemblance is soslight that they wouldn’t assist at all in identifying her. On thecontrary, I think they’d lead you quite astray.”
Said Mr. Rimo, “Bah! They give you no more idea of her than they do ofQueen Victoria. They’d answer for any other woman just as well.”
Arthur said, “That’s too bad. But I suppose you have brought a copyof the will?”
“Oh, yes, here’s the original. It is in my brother’s handwriting,dated a month before his death, and witnessed by two gentlemen ofhigh standing. I have spoken to each of them. They acknowledge theirsignatures, and remember the circumstances. I made a search for a willright after Bernard died, but could find none. This I unearthed mostunexpectedly. I was turning over the leaves of my poor brother’sprayer-book, when, there it was, lying between the pages.”
The will was brief and vigorous. In the name of God, amen, (on ahalf-sheet of legal-cap), it devised and bequeathed all the property,real or personal, of which testator should die seized or possessed, tohis dearly beloved brother, Benjamin Peixada, and his dearly belovednephew, Maurice Rimo, for them to hold and enjoy the same, in feesimple, share and share alike, absolutely and forever, provided thatthey should pay annually to testator’s widow, (until such time as sheshould re-marry, or depart this life), the sum of three hundred dollars.It was attested by a well-known Jewish physician and by a well-knownJewish banker.
“It would seem from this,” said Arthur, “that your brother gotbravely over his illusions concerning his wife. It’s lucky he had noreal estate. She would be entitled to her dower, you know, as a matterof course.”
“Yes, I know; and I guess that was the reason why my brother convertedall his real estate into personalty shortly after his marriage—so thathe could dispose of it as he chose. The reference to real estate here inthe will is doubtless an inadvertence. He was probably following a form.He couldn’t trust his wife. She made his life wretched.”
“Well,” Arthur began—but Peixada interrupted.
“I want you,” he said in his dictatorial way, “to name a sum forwhich you will undertake to continue this investigation and bring itto a successful issue; that is, find Mrs. P., have the will proved,and compel her to refund the property—upwards of one hundred thousanddollars, unless she has squandered it—that remains subject to hercontrol.”
“Oh, I can’t name a lump sum off-hand,” replied Arthur, “neithercan I guarantee success. I would of course do my utmost to succeed, butthere is always the chance of failure. The amount of my compensationwould be determined by the time I should have to spend, and thedifficulties I should have to encounter.”
“That sounds reasonable. Then suppose I should agree to defray allexpenses by the way, pay a fee, as you suggest, proportionate to yourservice at the end, and now at the outset give you a retainer of—saytwo hundred and fifty dollars; would you be satisfied?”
Arthur’s heart leaped. But to exhibit his true emotions would beunprofessional. He constrained himself to answer quietly, “Yes,I should be satisfied.” It was, however, with a glow of genuineenthusiasm for his client that he folded up a check for the tidy sum oftwo hu
ndred and fifty dollars, and tucked it into his pocket.
Said Peixada, “I shall trust the entire management of this businessto your discretion. Only one thing I shall suggest. I think an adroitlyworded advertisement in the principal newspapers of this country andEurope—an advertisement that would lead the reader to suppose that wefelt friendly toward Mrs. P.—would be a wise measure. For instance, anotice to the effect that she could learn something to her advantage bycommunicating with you.”
“Oh, that would be scarcely honorable, would it?”
“Honorable? In dealing with a murderess—with a woman, moreover, whois enjoying wealth not rightly hers—talk about honorable! All meansare fair by which to catch a thief.”
“But even so, she would be too shrewd to take the bait. Anadvertisement would merely put her on her guard. Mustn’t bell the cat,you know.”
“That’s one way of considering it. On the other hand—However, Isimply offer the suggestion; you’re the pilot and can take whatevercourse you please.”
“Well, then, we’ll reserve our advertisement till other expedientshave failed. The first thing to do is—” But Arthur stopped himself.He did not clearly know what the first thing to do was. “I’ll thinkabout it,” he added.
“Good,” said Peixada, rising; “there’s nothing further for me todetain you with to-day.”
“Give my regards to mamma, when you write, Arthur,” said Mr. Mendel.
“I leave you my memoranda,” said Peixada, laying his note-book uponArthur’s desk.
“Take care of yourself,” enjoined Mr. Rimo, smiling and waving hishand.
The three gentlemen filed out. Arthur remained seated in his arm-chaira long while after their departure, his eyes fixed upon the wall,his fingers busily twirling his mustache. For three years he had beenenrolled among the members of the bar. This was the first case he hadreceived that seemed really worthy of his talents.
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