The Lovely Lady
To walk round Leicester Square in search of the mysterious Kitty gave
Ellery an uncomfortable feeling. Kitty appeared to belong to a type of
lovely lady which had not come much in his way, and his first
sensation was one of strong distaste. Moreover, he very soon realised
that the description given to him was not likely to be of much value.
There seemed to be a whole tribe of Kittys in the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square, and Ellery liked each one he set eyes on less than
the last. He came speedily to two conclusions—first, that he would
never spot the right one by means of the description which Walter
Brooklyn had given, and secondly, that it would be quite out of his
power to address one of these ladies, or to do anything but seek
refuge in flight if, as seemed most probable, one of them attempted to
address him. He tried to overcome this feeling; but it was no use.
Even though no one had yet spoken to him, he turned tail, and took
refuge in Orange Street for a few minutes’ reflection.
He knew that he could not do it. Moreover, to walk round Leicester
Square addressing strange females by a Christian name which might or
might not belong to them was probably an excellent prelude to
adventures of a sort, but hardly to the gaining of the particular
information of which he was in search. The way to find Kitty was not
to hunt for a hypothetical needle in a very unpleasant haystack, but
to go straight to some one who was likely to know. And who would be
more likely than Will Jaxon, who was celebrated as the devil of a
fellow with the women, and lived, moreover, in bachelor chambers
hardly more than round the corner in Panton Street? Ellery set off
there to find his man.
Jaxon had been with Ellery at Oxford, and, dissimilar as many of their
tastes were, they had kept up the acquaintance. They had in common an
intense absorption in the technique of the theatre, in which Ellery
was interested as a young and promising writer of plays, and Jaxon as
an equally promising producer. But Jaxon’s way of living was very
different from his friend’s. He was not a vicious man; but he said
that vice, and still more the shoddy imitation of it which passes
current in the London _demi-monde_, attracted him as a study. He liked
watching the game, and making little bets with himself as to its
fortunes. It was, he said, a harmless amusement, and, if the
professors of psychology based their views largely on a study of the
“diseases of personality,” why should not he, a mere amateur, follow
their example? So he passed much of his time among persons whose ways
of living were, to say the least, not in conformity with the dictates
of the Nonconformist conscience. It was his pride to know the Society
underworld; and, in particular, he was wont to boast that he knew the
“points” of all the important “lovely ladies” of London. It was ten to
one that he would know where to find Kitty.
Jaxon, fortunately, was in, and Ellery was soon able to explain his
business. He wanted a woman, none too young, and getting fat, whose
name was Kitty something-or-other. She was, he believed, often to be
found round about Leicester Square.
“You’re the very last man I ever expected to come to me on a quest
like that,” said Jaxon with a laugh. “Now, if it had been Lorimer or
Wentworth—but you of all men. Oh, I know it’s all right, and your
intentions are strictly honourable. But do you know that there are at
least a dozen Kittys, all of them celebrated in their way, who conform
fully to the description you have given me? How am I to know which one
you want?”
Ellery repeated his description, giving every detail that had been
told him—the golden, dyed hair, the smile that switched on and off
like an electric light—“That’s not much help. It’s part of the
professional equipment,” said Jaxon—the dark eyes, the slovenly walk.
“The golden hair and the dark eyes help to narrow the field; but there
are still half a dozen it might be—all of the fat and forty brigade,
and all of them no better than they should be according to the world’s
reckoning. Five of the six are just the ordinary thing; but the other
is something quite out of the common run. She’s not what you would
call an honest woman; but she’s a very remarkable person for all that.
I wonder if it is she you are after.”
“Tell me about her first.”
“Well her name—or at least the name she’s known by—is Kitty Frensham.
Kitty Lessing it used to be when I first knew her. In those days she
was more or less the property of a Russian Archduke, or something of
the sort. Or rather, he used to be altogether her property. Then, a
year or so ago, he died, and since then she has been rather at a loose
end. She’s fat and forty; but she’s a most fascinating woman. Awfully
clever, too.”
“Can you get hold of her for me?”
“Yes, I think I know where to find her; but you’d better understand
that she’s not at all the ordinary sort of street-crawler. If she’s
your woman, the description you gave was a bit misleading. She is most
often about with Horace Mandleham, the painter chap, nowadays. Come
round to Duke’s with me, and I dare say we shall find her.”
Ellery knew about Duke’s, of course; but he had never been there. Just
at the moment, it was the latest thing in night clubs in London, and
everybody who fancied himself or herself as a bit in advance of other
folk was keen to go there. Ellery was not advanced, and it took some
persuasion to carry him along. He seemed to think that Jaxon ought to
cut out his prize for him from under the guns of Duke’s and bring her
home in tow. But Jaxon said he could find her, but he couldn’t
possibly bring her. Finally, Ellery agreed to go. After all, he
reflected, it was all in the day’s work. He had known what sort of man
Walter Brooklyn was; and he must not complain if the task of clearing
up his character meant going into some queer places.
Duke’s certainly did not rely for its popularity on external display.
It was approached by three flights of narrow and rickety stairs, and
the visitors had to satisfy two rather seedy-looking janitors, not in
uniform, at top and bottom. And, when they entered the Club itself,
Ellery had a still greater surprise. The famous Duke’s consisted of
one very long low room—or rather of three long, low attics which had
been amateurishly knocked into one. The decorations were old and
faded, and the places where the partitions had been were still marked
by patches of new paper pasted on to hide the rents in the old. The
ventilation was abominable, and what windows there were did not seem
to have been cleaned for months. The furniture—a few seedy divans and
a large number of common Windsor chairs and kitchen tables—seemed to
have been picked up at second-hand from some very inferior dealer.
Tables and floor were stained with countless spillings of food and
drink, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke made it quite impossible to
see any distance along the room. There was only one redeeming feature,
and Ellery’s eye fell upon it almost as soon as he entered the place.
Near the door was a magnificent grand piano, on which some one was
playing really well an arrangement from Borodine’s _Prince Igor_.
Jaxon drew Ellery to a vacant table. “We’ll sit down here and order
something, and then in a moment or two, I’ll go round and spy out the
land,” he said. “From here we shall see any one who goes out. And, by
Jove, there’s one of the six Kittys—not the one I told you about. I
shouldn’t be surprised if we found the whole half-dozen before the
evening’s out. Everybody looks in here just now.”
Ellery felt very uncomfortable when he was left alone to sip his gin
and water while Jaxon went round the room, exchanging a few words with
friends at several of the tables. But soon his friend came back to
report. “No, she’s not here now; but I’ve spotted another Kitty for
you. I forgot her: she makes the seventh on our list, and you’d better
have a word with the two who are here. Bring your drink across, and
I’ll introduce you to that one over there. She’s Kitty Turner, and the
chap she’s with is a fellow from Bloomsbury way called Parkinson—a
civil servant, I believe. I’ll do the talking, or most of it. You just
ask her if she knows Walter Brooklyn when you get a chance.”
They drew a blank at the conversation. Kitty Turner was certainly a
very bright lady, laughing immoderately both at her own and at Jaxon’s
jokes, and, it seemed to Ellery, a good deal relieved to get a rest
from her _tête-à-tête_ with the gloomy fellow who was sitting by her
side. He, at any rate, seemed to take his pleasures sadly. Indeed, it
struck Ellery, as he looked round the room, that very few of the
people there seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The women were
cheerful, but there was something forced about the gaiety of many of
them; and some of the men seemed to need a deal of cheering up. Ellery
found himself wondering why on earth so many people came to this sort
of place, if they did not even find it amusing. He at any rate was not
amused, even as Jaxon seemed to be, by regarding the place as a sort
of psychological study. He had come there for a definite purpose; and,
as soon as he had satisfied himself that Kitty Turner knew nothing of
Walter Brooklyn, he was ready to move on. A signal soon brought Jaxon
to his feet, and they strolled across the room to try the next Kitty
on the list.
Kitty Laurenson did know Walter Brooklyn, but not to any degree of
intimacy. She had met him a few times, and Ellery rather gathered
that, in her opinion, he had been less attentive than he should have
been to her charms. She had certainly not seen him on Tuesday, or
indeed for weeks past. Ellery liked her even less than the other; for
her attitude towards him seemed to be strictly professional, and, as
soon as she was sure that he could not be fascinated, she showed him
plainly that the sooner he went away the better he would please her.
Ellery again gave Jaxon the signal, and they left her table. They were
just discussing whether it was worth while to wait a time in the hope
that some more Kittys might turn up, when Jaxon said suddenly, “By
Jove, here she comes, and alone too. We’re in luck.”
Ellery turned, and saw entering the room a stout, rather
coarse-looking woman of about forty or forty-five, so far as he could
judge through the intervening smoke, and despite the artificial
obstructions which the lady herself had placed in the way of those who
might be minded to inspect her too closely. He saw at once that she
was a person to be reckoned with. The face was powerful, and the pair
of keen black eyes which were glancing penetratingly round the room,
as if in search of some one, were not easily to be forgotten. The
figure was without dignity; but the woman’s expression gave it the
lie. Certainly she was more likely to have owned the Russian Archduke
than to have been owned by him.
Jaxon left Ellery standing by himself and went up to her. She greeted
him pleasantly. “Oh, Will, I was looking for Horace. Do you know if he
is here?”
Jaxon replied that he had not seen him and asked her to join him and
his friend while she was waiting. She agreed, and Jaxon led her across
and made the introduction.
From the moment when he was introduced to Kitty Frensham Ellery had a
feeling that he had found what he wanted. She was very gracious; but,
as Jaxon introduced her, she smiled, and the coming of her smile was
for all the world as if she had suddenly pressed the switch and turned
it on like the electric light. Both the other Kittys had smiles which
they turned on and off at will; but their smiles came into being
gradually, whereas this woman smiled, and stopped smiling, with quite
extraordinary suddenness. Ellery was so sure that she was the right
woman, and also, as he told Jaxon afterwards, so sure of her common
sense, that he plunged straight into his story.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said, “indeed, I got Jaxon
to introduce me on purpose. You know Walter Brooklyn, don’t you?”
Her face at once became serious. “Yes, I do. I have just seen the
terrible news in the evening paper. Do you think he can have done it,
Mr. Ellery? I suppose you know him too.”
“Yes, I know him, and I am quite sure he had nothing to do with it. I
want you to help prove that I am right. You saw him on Tuesday night,
did you not?”
“I had quite forgotten it; but I did. I spoke to him for a minute or
two. I was coming out of the Alhambra with Horace—Mr. Mandleham, that
is—and Horace had left me for a minute to look for a taxi. The Old ’un
came up and spoke to me, I remember.”
“The Old ’un? Is that a name for Walter Brooklyn?”
“Yes, we used to call him ‘The Old Rip’; but it got shortened to ‘the
Old ’un.’ He goes the pace rather, even now, you know.”
“I dare say he does; and of course that is likely to make it all the
worse for him with the jury—if it’s the usual sort.”
“But if he didn’t do it, surely he’s all right, isn’t he?”
“The fact that you remember meeting him may be the means of saving his
life. Can you tell me at what time that was?”
“Oh, Lord, Mr. Ellery, I never know the time. It was some time in the
evening, fairly early. We left before the show was over. Horace would
probably know.”
“Did Mr. Mandleham see Mr. Brooklyn?”
“Yes, he did. When he came back he asked me who it was I had been
talking to.”
At this point a new voice struck into the conversation. “Hallo, Kitty,
you seem very deep in something. Haven’t you even a word for me?”
“Why, here is Horace,” said Kitty. “I’ve been waiting for you for
hours, Horace. It’s really too bad. But now you come over here, and
make yourself really useful for a minute. It’s not a thing you do
often.”
Horace Mandleham was fortunately quite precise about the time. They
had left the Alhambra a few minutes after half-past ten, and he had
come back with the taxi just about a quarter to eleven. Walter
Brooklyn had at that moment taken his leave of Kitty Frensham. Yes,
that was the man. He recognised at once the photograph which Ellery
passed across to him. He was quite ready to swear to it, if it was of
any importance. He had seen the evening paper, and knew the chap was
in trouble.
A good deal to his surprise, Ellery found that he definitely liked
Kitty Frensham, and before he left he had even promised to go and see
her soon in her flat in Chelsea, which, as she told him, was hardly
more than round the corner from his own rooms. She had promised, and
had made Mandleham promise as well, to give every help that could
possibly be given in clearing Walter Brooklyn, although she had made
it plain that she did not like him, and although her reluctance to
find herself in a court of law was evident enough. Still, she had
recognised that she ought to do what she could; and Ellery
half-believed that a part of her willingness was due to the fact that
he had impressed her favourably. He had come prepared to spend money
in securing the evidence of a “lovely lady” of unlovely repute: he had
secured the willing testimony of an exceedingly clever and, even to
his temperament, fascinating woman. Kitty Frensham was certainly not
the sort of person to whom money could be offered for such a service.
It puzzled Ellery that such a woman should have, as he put it to
himself, “gone to the bad.” She was worthy of something better than
that anæmic specimen, Mandleham.
It was by this time too late to do more; but, before going home,
Ellery ’phoned through to Joan, who was waiting up for a message from
him and told her briefly what he had accomplished. The quest, he said,
had taken him to some strange places; he would tell her all about it
on the morrow. Joan, too, had news of a sort; but she said that it
would keep. Both of them retired for the night well pleased with the
results of their first evening’s experience of practical detective
work. It had been easy going so far; but, Ellery said to himself,
fortune had a most encouraging way of smiling on the beginner.
Probably their troubles were still to come.