Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936
- Автор: Вулрич Корнелл, Tinsley Theodore
- Год: 1936
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936». Краткое содержание книги:
“He took one to-night. Let’s hope he’s not shooed off!”
They were silent for a time and the drum of the rain formed a somber background to their thoughts. Then Irene glanced apprehensively toward the second floor.
“Ralph!” she said under her breath. “He’s cautious, too.”
“Yes, damn him!” Paget muttered, eyes furtive. He looked sideways at the woman, held his voice low. “You understand, Irene, there’s no going on with our — plans — tonight. Not with that damned girl in the house.”
The woman’s eyes went sullen. “I’m superstitious, Vance. I dislike postponing — plans.”
He stirred impatiently. “But you’re not so dumb as to think—” He turned quickly as the door at the rear opened and Mrs. Dilke entered.
“When will you have dinner, madam?” she asked in her emotionless voice, and waited, hands folded on her flat stomach.
The two by the fire watched her curiously, then Irene said, “Come here, Dilke.”
The woman advanced slowly, stopped, big feet firmly planted. Irene’s lovely eyes went slowly over her, contempt fighting with something that was strangely like fear.
“Dilke,” she spoke low, “you understand, we must postpone our — plans for tonight. We have a guest.”
“I presumed as much, madam!”
“How about the girl?” Irene continued. “What was in her dressing case?”
“Dry underclothes. Stockings Powder. Cream. Toothbrush and paste, a silk frock and a pair of pumps. Also pajamas and dressing gown.”
Irene smiled faintly. “You notice things, don’t you, Dilke?”
“Yes, madam. The young lady requested,” Dilke added tonelessly, “that she have her dinner served upstairs.”
Irene started. Paget frowned. “The devil!” he snapped. “She did, eh?”
“Yes. She complained of a very bad headache. Expects to retire early. There is no objection, I suppose?”
She held her brilliant eyes on the two faces before her, Susan Dilke, who served her betters so efficiently. Irene said slowly, “No objection, of course. Do as she asks.”
Paget laughed shortly. “Very accommodating young lady, I’d say. I don’t think Tavelli would have appreciated a guest.” He straightened suddenly. “There! That’s a ear. It’ll he Tavelli!” He strode to the door, threw it open, admitting a cold breath of wet air.
Irene turned, eyes bright with interest.
“Excellent,” she said. “Somehow, I never really believed—” She glanced at the servant. “Postpone dinner until Mr. Tavelli is ready.”
The woman bowed. Irene started toward the door, paused, came back and stood close to Dilke, looking down on her for all the old woman was not short.
“Dilke,” Irene breathed, “you wouldn’t be so foolish as to — well — attempt anything on your own?” Through the caressing sweetness of the tones ran a thin thread of hardness. In the shadow of her gorgeous hair, Irene Kessler’s pansy brown eyes were bleak as sleet. “You wouldn’t make any mistakes, would you, Dilke?” she repeated.
Dilke met that regard with dark, unwinking eyes, behind the gleaming spectacles. “No, madam,” she said tonelessly. “No mistakes.”
“Excellent. Your position in this matter is not too secure, Dilke, remember that. You rather forced yourself into the picture, you know.”
Dilke’s lips hardened slightly. Her eyes did not falter, “What I accidentally overheard between you and Mr. Vance—” she began, then paused. “I am an old woman,” she continued. “I have only myself to depend on. Surely the blame is not too great if I—”
“Muscle in on our deal?” Irene finished. “No, I suppose not, but don’t forget the answers, that’s all.” She turned toward the door.
Susan Dilke stood very straight and still, staring after her. Over the mahogany calmness of her face passed a quick spasm of feeling, contorting those impassive features into the semblance of a twisted mask. Then she shrugged, turned and marched back to her own domain.
Ralph Kessler came down the stairs, just then, looking stuffed and uncomfortable in a tux’. Above him, at the stair head, Ellen Conway appeared, hesitated, then backed swiftly into the shadows of the upper ball. She had evidently come from the bath, for her bare feet were thrust into Pullman pumps, and a Japanese crepe kimono was wrapped about her. Her brown hair clung damply to her flushed face. She stood there uncertainly, out of sight, but watching the arrival of Louis Tavelli.
He filled the doorway as he strode in, attended by tile: Kesslers and Vance Paget. He was tall, well set up, in his early forties, she judged, with heavy, dark hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, eyes concealed behind thick-lensed glasses and a rock hard chin which jutted aggressively. He laughed shortly, glasses gleaming as he fingered an ugly scratch along his cheek bone. Brief sentences reached her, filled by the ejaculations of the others.
“Little unpleasantness down the road,” he was saying. “Cheap red-hot — quick cash—” and something about a haystack where, the lad could sleep it off. Kessler was roaring, slapping his thigh and Paget’s rasping cackle chilled her spine.
Ellen shuddered, covering her eyes. Suddenly she was fearing and hating them all. What was so amusing about death? White-faced she turned, hurrying for her room.
Chapter III
Lock-Out
Kessler spoke of the girl’s presence in the living room, waiting for dinner to be announced. Paget slouched in a chair beside the fire. Irene draped gracefully on the end of the divan. Louis Tavelli, with a taped jaw, but looking otherwise fit, after a quick freshening, listened with a distinct frown.
“A damned nuisance,” Kessler admitted, “but we thought it best to hold her till morning. By then we’ll have all cleared. Paget’s fanned her car. She’s jake, I guess — just a little featherweight that believes in Santa Claus—” He turned sharply at a quick tap on the door. It opened and Ellen paused on the threshold.
“Oh, please pardon me,” she gasped, stepping into the room. “I am such a coward about storms. And I took an aspirin tablet and felt ever so much better. I just had to come down.” She stopped, seeming to see Tavelli for the first time. “I’m sorry,” she said uncertainly, and half turned away.
Kessler’s face flushed with quick anger. Irene was sitting up taut as a fiddle string. Paget was plainly glowering. Only Tavelli smiled, a very thin, hard-to-understand smile, as his eyes, behind the distorting glasses, went over the slim, girlish figure in the peach blow dinner frock of taffeta, with the innocent sprigs of rosebuds decorating it.
Kessler spoke with thinly veiled impatience. “Happy to have you join us, of course, Miss Conway. This is Mr. Tavelli.”
Ellen gave an old-fashioned curtsy. “How do you do, Mr. Tavelli?” she greeted in her flute-like voice, and little flames of color darted up her cheeks.
Tavelli straightened from where he leaned on the mantel, came forward, holding out his hand. A strong, muscular hand, with long spatulate fingers. Uncertainly, Ellen placed her own hand within his and it closed like a vise. He said, still with that queer unreadable smile, “I am happy to meet you, Miss Conway. It’s a beastly night, isn’t it?”
Just then Mrs. Dilke announced dinner.
Waiting dessert, Tavelli opened his cigarette case. Kessler said impulsively, “I’ve choice Russian ones I’d like you to try. Rather different.” He reached for the bell, let his hand fall. “Dilke couldn’t find them,” he muttered. “Excuse me. I’ll bring them. They’re upstairs.” He shoved back his chair and went out. Tavelli laid his case on the table. The door closed behind Kessler.