THE DISTINGUISHED old gentleman in the silk hat encountered the pretty girl with flowers in her hair, almost directly beneath the great canvas representing the Civil War draft riots, and he said, “I own twelve hundred slaves in West Africa. Liberate them? Maudlin hysterical nonsense. Where is your aunt?”
“Late, it seems. Looking in the wrong places for me.”
“And Mr. Suttro?”
“Upstairs by now. Who is that man?”
“Bauer. He has me in charge.”
“Shall we walk round the Moore House Lobby, Mr. Bennett? I’ve been standing here so long, my knees are beginning to be afraid I’m an elephant.”
“Of course.”
“This is the Livingston School display, and these are the New York History murals.”
“Art?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You know, I think the Bovril posters are very cheerful, and I seldom go higher.”
“Let’s not wait any longer. She’s not here.”
The Chelsea Roof has its own elevator in the evening. They ascended, and found Aunt Emma waiting with Anthony Suttro at one of the little tables in the Lounge.
“My dear child, I thought you said—”
“Not here,” said Ann. “Come argue with me while I leave my coat.”
Suttro said, “Nothing very serious seems to have happened to you, Mr. Bennett. From the way Tussard spoke to me on the telephone, I was afraid at first you’d been really injured.”
“Silly misadventure.”
“How about the newspapers?”
“I don’t think so, really.”
“Tussard may let them have the news.”
“I don’t think so. Indeed, there was no news.”
“Good. Latest thing is, the dead man came from Boston. He was identified, possibly you heard—?”
“No.”
“By a train porter and a conductor. They’d seen him a year ago. The hunt is on in Boston now. It’s a reasonable theory. If he’d lived in New York, he’d have been reported missing by somebody, his family or friends or his landlord by this time.”
“Very probably. Ah, there’s Miss Crofts coming—“
They advanced into the Chelsea Roof, which is not a roof at all. Suttro had managed to arrange a table on the square raised terrace which surrounds the oval dance floor, like the curb of a giant well. At the table sat a beautiful and ineffectual blonde angel, who had the very best manners and vaguely distressed eyes, as if she were wondering what people thought of her. She came from California. Her name was Cushman. Her father made motion pictures. With her sat John Boxworth, whose bright, polished red cheeks and fine white hair looked especially grandfatherly. He had been asked, it was eventually explained to Bennett, to take the strange girl from California on a mild tour of the city out of the kindness of his heart, and because nobody else would do it, and because it was one of those things that had to be done. Boxworth brightened with relief at the sight of Suttro and his guests.
(The beautiful Miss Cushman danced beautifully with Suttro once or twice, but confined her conversation to intense, empty stares, and nods and shakes of her head, and was soon given up. She drank buttermilk.)
Boxworth, like Bennett, did not dance. They had much time to themselves. Ann seemed to know several formidably upright young men who dressed a great deal like Hobey Raymonds, and several very fresh and bright young ladies. Aunt Emma worked diligently to catch the eye of an august and icy female novelist (taking her husband out for the evening) and thereafter drank two cups of tea at the novelist’s table while she let it be known she was in the company of Lord Broghville. Bennett himself marveled at the fluid gentle light in the silver ceiling, and at the luminous dance floor itself, and at the great windows which made the room seem a fragile shell floating unsupported in a void of night.
John Boxworth had an appearance of boisterous cheer, of unrestrained good nature, of Christmas festivities and the comic spirit of Charles Dickens; he was in fact, as Bennett discovered, a man of sound, sober judgment and amiable quietness. The little blue eyes were expressive. The small, amusing mouth gave out a grave voice, thoughtful, mature, a little dry.
“Your first visit to this place, Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Mine, too. I’m a poor roisterer. I’m afraid I only do this—“ a flicker of his eyes indicated the beautiful Miss Cushman “—when necessary.”
He ate some of a dish of eggs before him. He sipped sparingly at a whisky-and-soda.
“I was in Tony Suttro’s office this evening,” he continued, “when that fellow Tussard rang up. Something about a row at the theatre, and you involved in it. I’ve asked Mr. Levison for more news, but I didn’t get it. What was it about?”
“A prowler,” said Bennett.
“Serious?”
“Not serious, no.”
“I ask because—well, naturally, I can’t help wondering if it had a connection with the trouble last night. Suttro talked with Tussard on the telephone, and he seemed to think afterward that it was something very different. A thief, perhaps, or just an inquisitive stray.”
“Oh?”
“Naturally, it makes some difference to me. I’d very much like to know.”
Bennett considered Boxworth thoughtfully, as the little man went on eating his eggs. Still considering him, Bennett said, “It was the murderer.”
Boxworth’s eyes widened. He started perceptibly. The start he concealed somewhat by putting down his fork and sipping his whisky. Then he said, “I suppose you’re sure of it, Mr. Bennett. After all, you were there.”
“Yes. Fortunately, you and Mr. Suttro can account for yourselves. I fear the others are in jeopardy.”
Boxworth’s eyes widened more, then came under control and were normal again. “Damn fortunate. I was—by the way, what others? Who’s in jeopardy?”
“Those who can’t prove where they were, you know. Those who happened to be involved last night. The police are frightfully suspicious.”
“Then it wasn’t the watchman?”
“Did you think it was?”
“Yes.”
“The watchman,” said Bennett, “hasn’t been discovered. The police think he’s quite innocent, I believe.”
“I can’t follow the reasoning of that man Tussard,” said Boxworth uneasily. “It’s a nasty business. I can’t understand it, I can’t even believe it really happened. Tussard must be wrong.”
“Why?”
“It would turn my whole mind upside down, to believe that anybody I knew committed such a crime. I simply couldn’t do it. I’ve known all of them for years. Christien, Levison, Suttro, Ann Crofts, Miss Whit-tacker, even Holcomb. There isn’t one of them I could believe guilty of murder. I’d have to believe myself guilty first, and that would be a shock too great for me to imagine. I’d resist it instinctively. I wouldn’t be able to help it. Possibly that’s the real reason, Mr. Bennett, why I like to think the watchman’s guilty.”
“Because he’s quite impersonal?”
“That’s it.”
Bennett shrugged. “Enough, isn’t it, to be so fortunate? You and Mr. Suttro, I mean?”
John Boxworth said, “I don’t know,” and returned to his eggs. If Bennett’s intention had been to trouble Boxworth deeply, he had carried it out very well.
2.
Ann took Bennett to one of the windows, where they could look into the hazy glimmering gulfs below, and to the north to the bright mooring mast of the Empire State Building, a pillar of cool fire against the feverish clouds.
“Did you see Hobey Raymonds?”
“He called.”
“How did he look?”
“Quite well.”
“His clothes, I meant. I let him use my electric iron this afternoon.”
A russet shadow streaked her hair, her cheek, her smooth throat. The band had begun to play a tango, A Media Luz. The dancers gave up a faint whispering sound as they slowly revolved. From Bennett’s advantage on the terrace, he could overlook the polite and fashionable festivities, including the handsome Anthony Suttro, who stood in an attitude of interest near the lip of the floor, and John Boxworth, who stood beside him, talking to him. Boxworth talked gravely, emphatically, intensely. The round little man almost vibrated with urgency, beneath a superficial appearance of calm.
Suttro was almost certainly being told what Boxworth himself had lately been told; that the recent Chelsac Theatre prowler had been the murderer. But Boxworth, who had been profoundly agitated by the news, got little more than polite interest from Suttro, it seemed.
“I must go soon,” said Bennett.
“Boxworth wants to go, too. He’s talking Tony into a coma.”
“Distressing.”
“Boxworth says everything on his mind before he leaves a place, always. Everything has to be perfectly arranged and understood. You expect to be back Friday, don’t you? I think our wedding is set for Sunday morning. At Tony’s church in Brooklyn. He sings in the choir there, and—it would be nice. Of course, I have to tell Aunt Emma.”
“She won’t be pleased?”
“Not in the least. I think I shall let her enjoy tonight, and tell her tomorrow. She takes those things better at—”
Ann Crofts, too, had been watching the pantomime. A solemn head-waiter or assistantmanager had skirted the dancers and approached Suttro. Brief exchange of statement, question and answer. A sweep of the arm, indicating the entrance. There an uncomfortable man carrying a brief case and wearing a gray suit stood looking about him. Because their voices were inaudible, Suttro’s little group appeared to stand out in noticeable concentration. The movement of a finger or the shift of an eye was distinct.
Suttro was startled. The answer to his question then, left him blankly and openly horrified. Without a word, with the utmost haste, he thrust his way through the polite migration of dancers.
Ann said nothing. She touched Bennett’s arm for apology, and made off in the direction of Suttro, who had joined the man with the brief case at the door. Like a tide obliterating marks in the sand, the dancers moved through the room to their tables, and when, after some gentlemanly popping up and down, they were mostly seated, Suttro, Ann and brief-case-bearer had vanished. Boxworth was worriedly sipping the last of the whisky. Aunt Emma was talking vivaciously to Miss Cushman, the beautiful mummy. Bennett turned his back to the room and stared out the window.
The case had readjusted itself for Tussard that night; and now to the affecting melody of The Blue Danube, the case readjusted itself for Bennett, though very differently. It was scarcely a new suspicion, or a prejudice against another man. It was a large alteration of the design as it appeared to Bennett. It was a shift and unexpected settling which allowed to fall into obviously proper places, several of the puzzling and irrelevant blocks. He was greatly, contentedly, pleased.
This readjustment had nothing to do with John Box-worth’s supposed guilt, and only a little to do with his agitation. It had nothing to do with Suttro’s astonishment at the arrival of the insurance agent. It had nothing to do with Ann Croft’s coming marriage.
It had, possibly, a great deal to do with the identity of the dead man, who had once used a train between New York and Boston.
3.
Ann Crofts touched his arm. Her chin had become remarkably firm. She said, “This is going to be unforgivable. I’m going to ask you to talk to Tony. He wants to resign.”
“Resign what?”
“Oh, he wants to resign from everything. You know, don’t you, about the Directing Board of the Theatre?”
“Mr. Levison, I think, told me there was a vacancy to be filled.”
“Tony expected to fill it. There was to have been a meeting this afternoon. It was put off till tomorrow, and tomorrow they’ll put it off again, until this trouble is straightened out. I’m terribly afraid Tony’s going to make a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“You won’t say I told you? I don’t know if it’s lawful to beat a girl before she’s married to you, but Tony would have a moral right. I’m interfering. But somebody has to interfere.”
“I shan’t tell him.”
“It’s very secret and rarefied, and everybody knows about it. Tony expects to be put into the vacancy on the Directing Board. He’d be a link, you know, between the parent Foundation and the company that operates the theatre. He has to pretend he doesn’t know. It means a great deal to him, to both of us,, because he plans to give up his writing soon and be more active in business. And it’s a terrific honor, the Directing Board, even for him. The least word against Tony at a time like this would ruin it all. He told me so while we were dancing.”
“What sort of least word?”
“Anything that would mix him up in the case. Everybody talks. A suspicion is as bad as an accusation. The Directing Board will be very touchy about anything or anybody connected with the murder.
“You said at lunch that the police are going to work up cases against everybody on the smallest grounds. Tony’s been walking a tight-rope today. Why should the death of a man who’s never been seen before, smash everything to pieces?”
“It’s quite unreasonable, my dear Ann. No doubt Mrs Christien asks the same question.”
“I’m sorry for her.”
“Of course.”
“The Directing Board is waiting to see what happens. Tussard seems to be waiting to pounce.”
“What has this to do with Mr. Suttro’s resigning?”
“He thinks he will have to, so that any scandal he gets mixed up in, won’t involve anybody else.”
“Scandal, my dear Ann?”
“Talk to him, before you go away. Somebody’s trying to implicate him, and he’s discouraged. There was that awful letter. You heard about it? mid now there was a fire.”
“Fire?”
“A mysterious fire, if there’s anything mysterious about a house getting burned. He wants to resign from Suttro and Faunce, and his directorships, and the Museum, because he’s afraid. His house caught fire, you see, and the police won’t even let the insurance people go in, and Tussard will be told, and the newspapers, of course...”
“The police are inquiring, then?”
“Is a fire so suspicious?”
“I don’t know. Talk to Tony. He wants to give up everything and go away. He’s merely angry and discouraged. And he can’t explain how the house could have caught. I think it’s somebody trying to ruin Tony.” “Financially?”
“There’s plenty of money.”
“His reputation?”
“Yes. He has a reputation, Anthony Suttro, hasn’t he? He’s in his office. It’s in the College across the street. I’ll show you the way. You can tell him you’re leaving, and wanted to say goodbye, something like that.” Tin floor was crowded with dancers again. Bennett got his coat, hat and stick, and told Bauer to find a cab, and wait for him inside it.