BOX NUMBER THIRTEEN.
Of all the balls that have been given at Albert Hall within the past
ten or twelve years, none has approached in its splendor, or in the
luxury of its appointment and setting “the pageant worthy of Ancient
Rome,” as some of the newspapers termed it, which took place in July,
1919.
The whole of the interior of the vast building had been painted and
decorated in an amazingly artistic manner, and utterly regardless of
expense. All the seasons were presented in turn in a gigantic panorama,
which depicted also the most daring love scenes described in the
well-known classics. True, a few London journals and many provincial
papers clamored to know why so huge a sum should have been spent on
“decking out” one great ball-room, seeing that the ball had been
organized “ostensibly in aid of charity,” but the cavillers received
no answer. Heckled on the point by a Parliamentary representative of
advanced Socialistic views, Stapleton calmly replied that “if you set
out to make money you must spend money to make it,” an argument which
proved its soundness when the accounts came to be totaled up and an
enormous sum was handed to charity.
Long before the night every ticket had been sold. Nor could another
be obtained for love or money. By midnight the immense circle of boxes
sparkled with a blaze of diamonds, worn, on that occasion, not by
decrepit dowagers, as is the case so often at the Opera, but for the
most part by young and extremely beautiful women. Indeed, it was safe
to say that literally everybody who was anybody attended at the Albert
Hall that night, though as the faces of all were concealed by masks
which they were at liberty to wear throughout the night if so inclined,
even detectives would have been unable to say who was present and who
absent had they been ordered to make a report.
Preston’s party, which included Cora Hartsilver and Yootha Hagerston,
Harry Hopford, George Blenkiron, and about a dozen more, occupied a box
only six boxes away from Jessica Mervyn-Robertson’s. Her party, too,
numbered about a dozen, and her first appearance in the hall created a
sensation which few present that night are likely to forget.
Her dress! In the first place, of what did it consist? Certainly of
very little, but that little----
A great mottled snake with enormous eyes which, as the rays of the
electroliers caught them, assumed chameleon tints, becoming now a jet
black, now a sea green blending into different shades, now golden
copper, now blood red....
That was the impression which first struck the beholder as Jessica came
towards him.
In reality the “gown” was a mottled skin which fitted like a glove,
and from a distance conveyed the impression that it was covered with
real scales. But a closer inspection showed that the skin ended
half-way up the chest and back, the “scales” design being continued on
the bare flesh and painted thereon so marvelously that where skin ended
and flesh began could be discerned only with difficulty. The great
chameleon eyes which at first riveted the attention of all beholders
were on the mask itself, which hid her face entirely, and exactly
resembled the head of a giant puff adder. Indeed, Jessica’s costume, if
costume it could be called, was by far the most bizarre in the whole
of that vast assemblage, where weird and decadent gowns were plentiful
enough.
“Who can the woman with that horrible snake costume and the
extraordinary eyes be?” Yootha said as she leaned forward in Preston’s
box and scanned the astonishing vision through her opera glasses. “Have
you ever seen anything more abominable, Charlie?”
“A good many of the dresses here are abominable, in my opinion,”
Preston answered, “and plenty of the men’s costumes might with
advantage have been scrapped. Look at that creature over there with
nothing on, apparently, but a woman’s silk swimming suit. I wonder what
he did during the war, or if he did anything?”
“You do harp on that, Charlie,” Yootha said almost impatiently. “After
all, the war is over, so what does it matter what people wear at a
costume ball, so long as their costumes are not obviously indecent or
decadent, like that woman’s snake skin. Look, she is coming towards us.”
Escorted by male companions, the mottled snake approached. They were
close to Preston’s box now, and as they passed they walked more slowly
and stared up through their masks apparently straight at his party. A
little shudder ran through Yootha. Why, she did not know, and as it did
so the horrible chameleon eyes turned from copper to deep crimson.
“I must, at any cost, find out who that is,” Hopford murmured. “I
already have my suspicion; the attitude that tall man with her is
standing in now is quite familiar.”
“Oh, do find out,” Yootha exclaimed. “I am dying to know. Why, they
have that box close to ours,” she added as Jessica and her companions
joined the remainder of their party. “The box attendant will surely be
able to tell you, Mr. Hopford.”
“The little man at the back is unmistakable, anyhow,” Hopford said as
he kept his eyes riveted on the party. “Twenty masks couldn’t disguise
him! It’s Levi Schomberg, the Jew moneylender, who is said to lend
thousands to all the ‘best’ people in Society, cabinet ministers not
excepted. There shouldn’t be much difficulty in finding out now,” and
rising, he excused himself and left the box.
He soon found the attendant of the box occupied by Jessica and her
party, and, having slipped some money into the man’s hand he asked him
if he would tell Mr. Levi Schomberg that he was wanted.
“And who shall I say, sir?” the attendant inquired, looking into the
eyes which fixed him through the mask.
“Say a ‘gentleman,’ and that it is important.”
In a minute the attendant returned, accompanied by the little Jew who,
dressed as a troubadour, presented a far more grotesque figure than he
supposed.
“Yes?” he said as he came up. “You wish to speak to me? Who are you?”
He had not removed his mask, and the little black eyes seemed to burn
with curiosity behind it.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” Hopford said, “but _The Evening Herald_
wants to know if it would be possible to obtain a flashlight photograph
of Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson in the striking gown she is wearing to-night.”
Schomberg snorted.
“I am certain,” he answered, “that Mrs. Robertson would not consent to
be photographed by the _Evening Herald_ or any other paper, so it would
be useless for me to ask her.”
He was about to turn away, when he checked himself.
“Why did you ask for me instead of for Mrs. Robertson?” he asked
sharply.
Hopford laughed.
“I leave that conundrum to you to answer,” he said. “Good night, Mr.
Schomberg,” and he went off elated at his success, while the Jew stood
looking after him with a scowl which his mask concealed.
Hopford had suspected from the first the identity of the “snake
woman,” as people now called her; the dress was being greatly talked
about. Now he would be able to enlighten Yootha Hagerston; also in his
paper next day he would, he told himself, boldly name the wearer of the
very daring costume.
As the night wore on, the noise and merriment increased. Certainly no
Albert Hall ball had ever been less decorous. The most modern and the
most peculiar dances followed one another in quick succession. Yet
though the floor looked packed it was not unduly crowded.
Blenkiron stood apart with his friend, Captain Preston, whose wounded
leg precluded his dancing.
“I should like to possess a sum equivalent to a year’s interest on the
value of all the diamonds and other jewelry here to-night,” he said
lightly. “It would set some of us up for life!”
“And the war was supposed to have impoverished the nation!” Preston
observed dryly. “This sort of show isn’t much in my line, George.”
“Or in mine. But Cora is enjoying it, and Yootha too. Smart of Hopford
to have discovered the identity of the woman in the snake costume--eh?
I bet she’ll be annoyed when she sees her name in his paper to-morrow.”
“You think so? Why?”
“My dear fellow, would any woman with the least self-respect not be
ashamed to let it be known she wore a dress like that in public?”
“A woman with the least self-respect--yes. But has Jessica the least
self-respect?”
“Well, we know nothing against her, do we? We only think we have
reason to suspect she may not be--well, all she poses to be. Queer her
entertaining that Jew moneylender, don’t you think?”
“She may have a reason.”
“A woman with her income!”
“How do we know what her income is? Plenty of people with no money at
all spend recklessly. She may be up to her ears in debt, and her friend
Stapleton, too. The slim man talking to Stapleton is, I suppose, La
Planta.”
They looked in the direction where two men, masked like the rest, were
engaged in earnest conversation.
“I have not yet overcome my aversion from that young man,” Preston said
as he watched them. “Every time I speak to him I feel he rings untrue.
Ah, here come Yootha and Harry.”
Yootha, flushed with the night’s excitement, had probably never looked
better. Her eyes shone with pleasure, for Hopford was an excellent
dancer. It was nearly two in the morning now, and the revels were at
their height.
Presently the band struck up the newest Jazz, a wild combination of
almost every sound capable of being produced by musical and unmusical
instruments, a sort of savage discord in many keys which clashed and
blared to the accompaniment of human cries and trombone laughter.
Carried away by what passed for music, the dancers who now thronged
the floor performed the strangest evolutions. Some, locked in a
close embrace, seemed oblivious of all but their own emotions as they
gyrated in never-ending circles; others, barely touching, went through
contortions which in any other place and under any other circumstances
would have shocked some beholders, filled some with disgust, and
convulsed the remainder with amusement.
It was in the middle of this performance that a strange thing occurred.
Happening to look in the direction of Jessica’s box, now temporarily
deserted, Preston noticed two men in it. One he quickly recognized by
his costume to be Levi Schomberg; the other....
“George,” he said, turning to Blenkiron, “that thin man bending over
Levi Schomberg--the fellow dressed as a troubadour we decided must be
Schomberg, didn’t we?--is that La Planta, do you think?”
Blenkiron looked in the direction indicated.
“Hopford declared him to be La Planta,” he said.
“Well, what is he doing--I mean Schomberg, the man sitting down?”
Blenkiron watched him for some moments.
“He’s drunk, I should say,” he answered.
“Drunk! Not a bit of it. Look at his attitude.”
“It certainly is queer. Ah, La Planta has left him now. He is going out
of the box. I can see Jessica outside waiting for him.”
As Blenkiron stopped speaking, the man whom they believed to be La
Planta, accompanied now by the mottled snake, walked quickly into the
corridor behind the boxes, and were lost to sight.
Levi Schomberg, meanwhile, remained seated in the box. Bent forward,
and resting against the velvet balustrade, he appeared to be gazing at
the crowded floor. None noticed him, apparently, but Preston and George
Blenkiron, whose complete attention he now held.
“Strange,” Blenkiron said at last, “how motionless he is. He has not
stirred for fully five minutes.”
They went on looking. When some more minutes had passed, and the figure
still remained motionless, Preston linked his friend’s arm in his own.
“Let us go and see if he is ill,” he said. “I am sure something is
amiss with him.”
They went up the staircase and round to the back of the boxes until
they reached the box they sought. The door was shut. After knocking
several times, and receiving no answer, they went in search of the
attendant.
“There is a gentleman alone in Box Thirteen,” Preston said, “who
appears to be ill. We have knocked repeatedly, but can get no reply.”
“A friend of yours?” the attendant inquired.
“We know him, yes.”
The Jazz band was blaring still as Preston and Blenkiron passed into
the box, closely followed by the attendant. They spoke Schomberg’s
name, but he did not reply. Then they went over to him, and Blenkiron
put a hand upon his shoulder.
Still he made no response. Now thoroughly on the alert Preston stripped
off Schomberg’s mask, then jumped back with a start.
To all it was at once obvious that the little Hebrew was dead!