CONCERNS “DEAR JESSICA.”
Jessica Mervyn-Robertson was a remarkable woman. Tall, with a
wonderful figure, she looked even taller than she actually was owing
to her splendid bearing. Graceful in her every movement, wherever
she went she focused attention. Her hair was of that peculiar shade
of auburn blending into copper which seems, when the sun or the rays
of artificial light strike it, to be shot with golden red. Her pale
complexion contrasted oddly with the natural crimson of her lips, and
when she looked at you there was an expression in her deep-set, almost
green eyes which few men could resist. And yet perhaps what people
noticed most about her was the curious intonation of her voice, a voice
never forgotten by any man or woman who had once heard it. Had she been
a singer she would have been a rich contralto.
She had appeared in London for the first time some years before this
story opens, and within a few months had made hosts of friends. At that
time she had a suite of apartments at Claridge’s, where she entertained
largely and on a lavish scale. Though nobody could say for certain
whence she came, or from what source she derived her fortune, people
of rank and others of social standing flocked to her receptions in
their hundreds. She was said to have a husband, though no one had ever
seen him, and nobody seemed in the least to care who or what he might
be. People were satisfied to take so alluring a woman as they found
her, and so popular had she become before the end of her first year in
London, and so fashionable were her social functions, that not to know
Jessica Mervyn-Robertson was to admit that you were _hors concours_.
Aloysius Stapleton she had met for the first time, so people said,
on Gold Cup day at Ascot about nine months after she had settled in
London. Stapleton had for several years been a man about town; he was
a well-to-do bachelor with a flat in Sandringham Mansions, Maida Vale,
and a small place in the country, near Uckfield, whose calling in life
seemed to be the quest of pleasure and nothing else. Certainly he had
no profession, nor, apparently, had he need of one. Wherever people
belonging to _le monde ou l’on s’amuse_ were to be found gathered
together, there you would meet “Louie” Stapleton, dressed always in the
height of fashion and ever ready to entertain friends by inviting them
to dine or lunch, taking them to the theater, or even asking them to
spend week-ends with him at his place, “The Nest,” in Sussex.
A day or two after Froissart and Preston, Cora Hartsilver, and Yootha
Hagerston had spent the evening together at Cora’s house in Park
Crescent, Jessica Mervyn-Robertson, accompanied by Stapleton and Archie
La Planta and several other friends, sat in a box at the Alhambra
watching the Russian Ballet, then the fashionable attraction.
It was the first night of Scheherezade, and the house was packed.
Beautiful women gorgeously gowned, and men immaculately dressed crowded
every box, and filled the stalls to overflowing. In every direction
diamonds and other precious gems sparkled, and as the orchestra began
the wonderful overture the audience, which had been talking volubly
in anticipation of the silence which they knew must follow, became
gradually hushed.
The ballet ended, and the usual buzz of conversation followed. So
worked up had the audience become by the terrible scenes of lust,
followed by carnage, that several women in the stalls were laughing
hysterically. An elderly man in the box adjoining Jessica’s, who
obviously came from the provinces, and was witnessing Russian Ballet
for the first time, could be heard expostulating in a north country
accent against “such shows being permitted in a civilized land.”
“And look at the clothes they wear--or rather don’t wear!” he went on,
warming to his subject. “I maintain such shows should be put down by
law. If I had known it would be like this I should not have brought
you, my dear,” this to a faded woman, obviously his wife. “What has
become of the censor that a ballet like this is allowed?”
People in the theater exclaimed “Hush!” while in the boxes adjacent
there was much tittering. In spite of his protests, however, he
remained, and the next ballet apparently met with his approval.
Somebody knocked at the door of the box occupied by Mrs.
Mervyn-Robertson and her party, and La Planta got up to see who it was.
After an exchange of whispers with the attendant, he went out and shut
the door.
When the second ballet ended, and he had not returned, Jessica showed
signs of uneasiness.
“What can have become of Archie?” she said to Stapleton, who sat beside
her. “Do you know who wanted him?”
“No. I am going out for a minute, so I will ask the attendant.”
But when he succeeded in finding the attendant, she told him that the
inquiry had been for Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson. The gentleman to whom she
had given the message had said he would attend to it, and had gone into
the foyer.
“Did he take his hat?” Stapleton asked.
“No, he came out just as he was.”
“Then he cannot have left the theater. If you should see him will you
tell him, please, that I have gone down to the foyer to find him?”
But La Planta was not in the foyer. Nor, apparently, was he anywhere
else in the theater. Asked if a gentleman without a hat had gone out of
the theater within the last half hour, the commissionaire replied that
he had been absent a little while, so would not like to say.
La Planta had not returned to the box when Stapleton got back there,
nor did he return at all. Jessica, told by Stapleton that the inquiry
had been for her, looked at him oddly, but made no comment.
As usual, Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson--or as all her friends called her,
Jessica--entertained her theater guests at supper at her house in
Cavendish Square after the performance. Both she and Stapleton expected
that La Planta would put in an appearance there, but he did not.
It was quite a big supper-party, for people kept arriving in cars until
past one o’clock, so that when at last it came to an end, the guests
grouped about the card tables in the room adjoining, playing “chemmy”
and other games, numbered over thirty.
“What can have become of him?” Jessica said to Stapleton in an
undertone as she drew him aside. “And without his hat, too. I can’t
imagine where he can have gone, or who it can have been who inquired
for me. Archie ought to have told me!”
“I have telephoned twice to the Albany, but can get no reply.”
“You wouldn’t, at this time of the night.”
“Why not? He has an extension to his man’s bedroom.”
“Then do ring again, Louie. I am anxious about him.”
This time Stapleton was more successful, for after two futile attempts
the operator got through, and a sleepy, rather irritated voice asked
huskily:
“Hello! hello! Who is that ringing?”
“It’s Mr. Stapleton, James. I am sorry to wake you up, but can you tell
me if Mr. La Planta has come in?”
“If you will please to hold on, sir,” the voice replied in a different
tone, “I will ascertain and let you know.”
For some minutes Stapleton waited with the receiver glued to his
ear. He was beginning to think the man had gone to sleep again, when
suddenly he heard him returning. He sounded as if he were running.
“Are you there, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. La Planta is lying on his sofa, sir, fast asleep. I’ve called him
and shaken him, but he won’t wake up. The light in his room was full
on. He must have been drugged or something. He is breathing very heavy,
very heavy indeed, sir. I’m going to ring up the doctor.”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll come round at once and see him; the doctor may
not be wanted. Be ready to let me in as soon as I arrive.”
The card-players still grouped about the little tables were busy with
their games. In a small room beyond the drawing-room could be heard the
rattle of the little marble as it spun merrily round in the well of the
roulette, and a voice murmuring at intervals: “_Faites vos jeux_,” and
“_Rien n’ va plus_.”
Jessica came forward as she saw him approaching.
“Come into the hall,” he said in a low tone, “and I will tell you.”
In a few words he explained to her what had happened.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he ended. “I will go there now, and will ring you
up and report progress.”
Taxis were waiting in Cavendish Square, and within five minutes he
alighted at the Albany.
La Planta’s face was very pale. He lay with lips slightly parted,
breathing heavily. His eyelids were but half closed, and though
Stapleton drew one of them up, the sleeper did not awake.
“Obviously doped,” he said to James, who stood by with a frightened
look.
He bent over his friend until their faces were very close.
“And I think I know with what,” he added, thinking aloud. “You have no
idea, James, how long he had been in?”
“None at all, sir. I didn’t know he was in until you rang me up.”
“There is no need to send for a doctor,” Stapleton said, as he
straightened himself. “It is nothing dangerous. His pulse is strong,
and he will sleep off the effects of the drug. By the way, did anybody
call to see him, or ring him up, while he was out this evening?”
“Nobody called, sir, but a lady rang him up.”
“A lady? At about what time?”
The man thought for a moment.
“As near as may be, I should say it was nine o’clock, sir.”
“Anybody you know? Did she give any name?”
“No, sir. It was not a voice I recognized.”
“Leave any message?”
“No, sir. Just asked where Mr. La Planta was, and I told her at the
Alhambra. Then she asked who was with him, and I said you and Mrs.
Mervyn-Robertson I knew for certain, and I said I fancied there were
others. Then she said ‘Thank you’ and rang off, sir.”
Suddenly a thought struck Stapleton, and he slipped his hand into his
friend’s pockets. But apparently nothing was missing. From the breast
pocket he withdrew a wallet containing notes, and from the trousers
pocket a handful of silver.
Then he went to the telephone and rang up Jessica. But the voice which
answered was not hers.
“Ask Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson to come to the telephone, please,” he said.
“Is that Mr. Stapleton?”
“Yes.”
“John speaking, sir, the footman. I am afraid she can’t, sir. She has
been taken suddenly ill.”
“Ill! How? In what way?”
“She fainted dead off, sir, not five minutes after you had gone.”
Stapleton paused for an instant. All at once an idea flashed in upon
him.
“John!”
“Sir?”
“Is anybody near the telephone? Can anybody hear you speaking?”
“One moment, sir.”
Stapleton heard a door being quietly closed.
“Nobody can hear me now, sir.”
“Then tell me--don’t speak loud--did Mrs. Robertson take anything, I
mean drink or eat anything, after I had gone out just now?”
There was a brief pause, then:
“Yes, sir, she drank a glass of champagne at the sideboard.”
“Was anybody with her? Or near her? Did anybody ask her if she would
have a glass of wine?”
“Well, yes, sir. A gentleman asked her. I happened to be near. And I
did notice that a lady was by when she drank it. They each had a glass
of wine.”
“Do you know the lady and gentleman?”
“I know them well by sight, sir, but not their names. They have been to
supper before; once or twice, I think, but they don’t often come.”
“Do they come together?”
“I think so, sir.”
“And you could describe their appearance to me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thank you, John. Of course you will say nothing of all this to
anybody. You won’t forget that?”
“You can rely upon my absolute discretion, sir.”
“Good. I shall be back at Cavendish Square within an hour, and I will
see you then.”