“Mr. Oliver has not communicated with the apartment here?” Sam demanded.
Aimée shook her head.
“M’sieur Oliver must be crazy with grief—“ she began. It was Alix who interrupted her, speaking with a harshness unusual in one so gentle.
“After what was in the papers this morning, I have no faith in Mr. Oliver’s affection for Mrs. Thorne. He didn’t show her even decent respect in disavowing their engagement publicly.”
“You’re right.” Sam’s concurrence was heartily positive. “The man must be an utter cad. I wish Connie had a brother to take on the job of horsewhipping him.”
Aimée made a motion as if craving permission to speak.
“Yes, Aimée?” Alix addressed her. “There is something else you have thought of?”
“No, mademoiselle, nothing new. Only I ask permission to say you are wrong. It seems a dreadful thing that M’sieur Oliver has done. A cruel thing. Yet there must be some explanation. Never doubt that he loved my mistress. You would only need to see his eyes following her everywhere to know that. To see him touch the least thing belonging to her. It was a great passion. She had an attraction for him that he could not resist. He—he was enslaved by her—enchanted. Had she been a snake and he a little bird he would have hop-hop-hopped right down her throat. I do not know where M’sieur Oliver is that he has not come here; but wherever that may he, he is, I am sure, a man crushed—heartbroken.” Aimée had made a good special plea.
“Meanwhile,” Sam said dryly, taking this, nevertheless, for a hit of Gallic effusiveness due to generosity on the part of Oliver, “it devolves on some one else to make the necessary arrangements. I presume there’s little hope Mrs. Thorne was far-sighted enough to make a will? Few young women can bring themselves to do that.”
Aim&e threw up her hands in the attitude of one astounded.
“The letter—“ she stammered, “the letter for m’sieur. Why didn’t I remember it before? Certainly I am beside myself. It is in madame’s escritoire. She showed it to me again not a week ago.”
The woman went to the desk that stood near a front window, to return carrying an envelope in her hand, which she held out to Sam with a gesture of apology.
“It is for you, m’sieur.”
Having turned over to him the strong manila envelope, very unlike Consuela’s usual ornate taste in stationery, Aimée, with innate delicacy, left the room, murmuring that she would be in her quarters within call of the bell if needed.
Sam slit open the tough paper with a paper-knife Alix handed to him and took out two documents. One was unmistakably a formal will. The other was a letter to Sam. Tears, unashamed, stood in his eyes as he saw that it began, Dear old Sammie:
You are, I believe, the nearest thing to a friend that I possess except, possibly, Harvey, and I’ve imposed on him so much that I shall spare him now, at your expense. After all, I treated you better than I treated him. At least I didn’t marry you.
I want you to act as sole executor of my estate, be it large or small. My will is not complicated. I leave everything to Harvey, save two thousand dollars to Aimée Cocteau. Sell my effects, other than the square emerald ring which I wish Alix to have.
This is repetition. You will find the dull details set forth legally in the accompanying Last Will and Testament.
I think it very unlikely that anyone will make a claim as a relation, but to warn you against such a possible fraudulent claimant, you can verify the fact that I was a foundling, abandoned in the traditional manner on the doorstep of Captain Seth Winthrop’s house in Salem, Massachusetts. The story does not go on in story-book fashion. I did not become the light of their eyes and the comfort of their old age. Neither Captain Winthrop nor his wife being interested in a red-headed, nameless infant, I was turned over to the Poor Farm. I shall not go into any further details of my delightful childhood. I escaped by running away. I flatter myself that I have some strength of character and perhaps some of the histrionic ability you always refused to allow me, because I had vowed to learn to act like a lady and I claim I gave a creditable imitation. I suppose you can’t be the real thing unless you are born to it.
If I go out with the band playing, the lights flaring, and a jolly good time being had by all, you are not to be sorry. Look up at the sky some night and when a nice bright star twinkles down, say: “There’s Connie winking at me. I’m glad she went when she did. She had nothing that would have helped her to bear defeat or even old age. It’s hard for a girl to he horn without a name—even harder to he born without a heart. She had some good times and I don’t grudge her one of them, no matter what they cost. Cheerio, Con.”
And somewhere, Sam, I’ll be saying cheerio to you.
Consuela.
Having read it, he handed it to Alix without comment and began to glance through the will. It was exactly as Connie had written, and uncomplicated by further instructions or bequests save that she left to Sam a small bronze figurine that he had claimed was enough like her to be a portrait.
When he turned again to Alix she was weeping without disguise.
“It is so sad, so unbearably sad,” she sobbed, “to think that under all her fire and glitter there was hidden so much bitterness.”
“There was more bitterness than I ever suspected and more heart than she ever owned to, even at the last.” Sam picked the letter off Alix’s knee where it had fallen, folded it, and replaced it in the envelope with the will. “Knowing her beginnings explains her savage determination to justify her pride in herself. I can’t he sorry she died before she had made a failure, because you can see she dreaded it...Now I want to call Louise to help you. Then I’ll arrange the details of the funeral and tell Dolan what I’ve done. Also that I’m the executor in charge of her estate. That will make my directing things here more natural.”
“Had Connie anything to leave?”
“Strangely enough, she may have had considerable. Ed told me she had made a lot of money since Oliver had been advising her about her operations. That man appears to have the Midas touch.”
“About the little lady in black?” Alix asked. “Do you think the police should be told? The whole tenor of that letter seems to indicate Connie’s belief that her life might be short.”
“Yes,” Sam agreed. “But that might have been only a premonition, soon forgotten in the ordinary course of events. However, I do think Dolan should know of it.” He felt that he was concealing far too much from Dolan already, to add the serving-maid’s contribution to the list unnecessarily. “You’d better prepare Aimée for Dolan. He’s something of a rough diamond.”
Alix went to talk to Aim&e and Sam hurried through his proposed program. When she rejoined him, he had just hung up with finality.
“I offered to come here to stay or to send Mary,” she began, abruptly. “Aimée’s only fear was of a return of the little black lady, and when I told her the police guard would not permit her to enter, she said she did not mind staying alone. She is quite without superstitious fears. However, she has a married friend, a Mrs. Milhau, who has been here once already today and who will return later, prepared to remain. I think that is a satisfactory arrangement.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Sam agreed. “I’ll notify the men at once that Mrs. Milhau is to be admitted, as well as Louise.” He opened the door and sent the guard there downstairs to pass the order on to his mates.
When he turned back into the room, Alix had resumed her seat and he placed himself beside her.
“Sam,” she said, deliberately, “I’ve a confession to make.”
Sam’s heart stood still. All his suspicions on learning the ownership of the white mask trooped back upon him in full force.
“Fire away,” he returned, vainly trying to steady his voice.
“When Louise telephoned to me, I couldn’t understand, and this morning, when I read the account, I thought that you had killed Connie and perhaps were afraid that I knew something—or at least that I would be forced to testify because I saw her last night in your apartment—“ She broke off, uncertain how Sam was taking her revelation.
“Well then,” said Sam, “I’ve a confession to make, too. When I found your mask under the bench where Connie was seated, I thought it was Louise’s. Since she had hers all right, I jumped to the conclusion that it was yours and that you knew something of the murder. So you see that we were equally foolish.”
Instead of relief on Alix’s face, Sam surprised a look of horror.
“You found my mask under the bench where Connie was seated?” She whispered the words as if she could hardly trust the evidence of her own ears. “You mean she was dead when you found it there?”
“Yes,” said Sam. “Pull yourself together, Alix. You mustn’t go to pieces now. Dolan may be here any minute. I found her, and suspecting Louise because of the mask, I was forced to conceal that the crime had occurred there. Then when I learned that Louise was definitely out of it, I had you to consider instead. I arranged the disposal of the body.
It was horrible, but forget all that. It’s done and can’t be undone. I want to learn exactly what happened on your arrival on the scene.” With an almost heroic effort Alix controlled even the trembling of her hands.
“I passed Louise, who was going home with one of her terrible headaches. I told her to leave the door open because I expected Gorman to follow me——”
“Did he?”
“No. There wasn’t time. I stayed only a few minutes. As soon as I went in, Connie flew at me and told me of her engagement and that Hugh had secured the play that I thought was mine. I—I was terribly distressed, Sam. You see, I had told Connie how much I wanted that particular play and what a wonderful find I considered it. Of course I realize now that she probably hadn’t listened to me. As Aimée said, she was a bad listener. At the time, it seemed to me that she had deliberately seized on what she knew I considered desirable and the loss of it marked for me the downfall of all my ambitions. It was the vehicle I had been searching for for three years. I don’t believe I can make you understand what a blow it was. I said something about its being my play. She laughed and declared that she needed it far more than I did—something like that. I felt queer—almost sick—and after congratulating her and hearing that you were mixing cocktails, I made an excuse of going to find Gorman and went down again, leaving her alone. He was still in the entrance hall, where I had left him with quite a crowd. Until I saw them, I’d forgotten that I was unmasked. Then I realized that I had lost my loup, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to the party. I simply couldn’t. I drew Gorman to one side and told him the news, and of course he was furious. He simply raved. He had played fast and loose with the idea, but once he had given in on price, he considered the play his property. He insisted that his was the prior claim. The agents had no right to enter into negotiations with any other party until they had broken with him. He’d produce their correspondence. He’d get an injunction.
I urged him not to make up his mind to any such action. Connie and I were friends. It was too late. He simply snorted, throwing his head around like a bull—you remember the way he has—and I saw he wasn’t listening to me. Anyway, that was no place to talk business, so I told him I was going home, and went!”
“Alix, do you remember if you closed my door when you left Connie?”
Alix wrinkled her brow in an effort at concentration.
“Honestly, Sam, I can’t say that I remember; but I don’t believe I did. I had a sort of coronation robe for Josephine, that I’d worn as an evening wrap, hung over my arm. I’d taken it off because people were stepping all over it in the hall. It was heavy. Burdensome to carry, and I don’t believe I thought of the door or the light or anything but running away to hide my disappointment.”
Sam bit the ivory paper-cutter reflectively.
“That explains how another person got in without ringing the bell. I guess we can take it as proved that the door was open. Your ring was the only one after Connie came.”
“Then it was my fault that she was killed.”
“Not at all. I wasn’t answering the bell. I’d told Louise to do it and I didn’t know she was gone. To my mind another ring would only have called for the addition of a couple more cocktails. And Connie would have opened it. Ed was expected, you know. It simply means that I have no data on how many more visitors I may have had.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find out who did it?”
“Dolan’s a sort of bulldog. He may. Personally, at the moment I’ve not even a suspicion” (he justified this statement by thinking that he didn’t—couldn’t—suspect Thorne), “unless the lady in black silk offers a peg to hang one on. Of course if he knew of it, the Inspector’d be warranted in accusing me of confusing the case by removing the body; yet I swear to you, Alix, that there wasn’t a tiling to point to the presence on the scene of any other person except your little white mask.”
“Then I am the legitimate suspect.” Alix drew a long breath. “You must tell Dolan that I was there, Sam, and that you found my mask. I won’t do a thing to increase the difficulties of the police.”
“Bless your heart,” Sam said, sardonically. “And what about my personal difficulties? Connie killed in my apartment with a dagger I gave her, on the very night that her engagement to another man had been announced. And, to cap the climax, I removed the body. Sweet child, once the detectives of the Homicide Squad attach themselves to me in a serious way they need not trouble to look any farther; and believe me, they’d like nothing better than to be saved the trouble. Can you think of greater glory for any man on the force than to lock the handcuffs on the Police Commissioner?”
On the whole, Sam and Detective McCurdy were of much the same mind in this matter.
Not knowing this, Alix yet stared at him, a new and horrifying dread clutching at her heart.