UNIDENTIFIED
THE Maître d’hôtel, returning from an inspection of the main dining
room, paused in Peacock Alley to view with an appraising eye the men
and women who promenaded up and down or sat about, some waiting with
good grace for their chance to find a disengaged table in one of the
dining rooms while others, outwardly rebellious, expressed their candid
opinion of Washington in war-time. Suddenly the Frenchman’s air of
polite indifference changed to one of alertness as a man pushed his
way through the throng and stopped near the door of the Palm Room. The
Maître d’hôtel was at his elbow instantly.
“Ah, Monsieur Burnham, welcome, most welcome,” he said. “Have you had a
nice summaire?”
“Henri!” Peter Burnham surrendered his hat and cane to a waiting
attendant. “The summer has been so-so,” he added, turning back to the
Frenchman. “I am waiting for Mr. James Palmer; have you seen him this
evening?”
“But yes.” The Maître d’hôtel wormed his way into the Palm Room and
beckoned to Burnham to follow. “There, in that corner across the room;
this way,” and he darted among the tables and the palms, Burnham
following closely, until he reached a small table set for two persons,
and pulled out the unoccupied chair.
Palmer looked up from the menu he was studying and greeted Burnham with
warmth.
“Have a Martini?” he inquired as their waiter hurried up and the Maître
d’hôtel went back to his post in the doorway.
“Yes, and make it dry,” cautioned Burnham to the waiter. “And hurry it
along. I am worn out,” he added to his host.
Palmer glanced at him in concern. “You don’t look very fit,” he
admitted. “Had a bad trip down?”
“Devilish! Our train was sidetracked for hours waiting to let troop
trains pass; nothing to eat----” Burnham paused to empty his glass of
ice water. “At our rate of progress I was willing to believe we’d gone
back to stage-coach days, but Washington is an eye-opener; I had no
idea this place swarmed with people.”
“Washington’s ‘sleepy hollow’ has had a rude awakening,” remarked
Palmer cynically. “I don’t mind confessing I am weary of seeing
consequential looking people dash about Washington with an air of
having arrived just in time to save the Nation. Washington _was_ on the
map before Uncle Sam started on this war-path.”
Burnham laughed. “I confess I share your outraged feelings; had to wait
interminably at the Union Station before I could telephone you.” He
stopped to take the cocktail at that instant placed before him. “Here’s
how!”
His host raised his glass in acknowledgment and sipped his Martini with
due enjoyment.
“Better have another,” he suggested as Burnham set down his empty
glass, “against the time Washington goes dry.”
“I’ve stocked up my wine cellar with that in view,” admitted Burnham
and stopped to watch some newcomers who had taken possession of the
nearest table. “I suppose I can get a room here for the night in case I
find the servants haven’t arrived to open our house.”
“My dear Burnham!” Palmer looked actually shocked. “Empty rooms are
unheard of in Washington.”
“How about club chambers?”
“Nothing doing; they are even sleeping in the bathtubs there,” laughed
Palmer, and stopped speaking as the orchestra in the mezzanine gallery
commenced to play and, dinner arriving at that instant, the two men,
except for monosyllabic remarks now and then, completed the meal in
silence. As Burnham took one of the cigars proffered him he pushed
aside his dessert plate, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned
forward.
“I can’t understand why people want an orchestra playing while they
eat,” he grumbled. “I don’t enjoy having to shout when I talk.”
“Well, I suggested dining at the club----”
“I know, I know; but I forgot about the beastly orchestra,” he paused
to puff abstractedly at his cigar.
“What’s the trouble, Burnham?” asked Palmer quickly. “Is your wife ill?”
“No, no; it’s----” He bent nearer his companion, then paused to shoot a
glance over his shoulder and his confidences remained unspoken. “Jove!
Evelyn!” he ejaculated. “She wasn’t due here until to-morrow.”
Palmer, but half catching his remark, followed his gaze and saw Evelyn
Preston and her friend Marian Van Ness just taking their seats at a
table some distance away. Palmer pushed back his chair preparatory to
rising.
“Bless my soul, Burnham,” he exclaimed impulsively. “Why didn’t you
tell me Evelyn was with you? We could have waited dinner for her
and Mrs. Van Ness. Here--” beckoning to their waiter--“tell those
ladies----”
“Wait,” broke in Burnham. “We’ve finished, Palmer; suppose we go over
and sit at their table, but there’s no hurry, man.”
Burnham’s tone was so petulant that Palmer, curbing his impatience to
be with Evelyn, subsided in his seat and gazed at him in speculative
silence. What had come over easy-going, absent-minded Peter Burnham?
Six weeks had passed since his visit to Burnham Lodge at Chelsea, and
that the six weeks had not agreed with Burnham was plain to be seen;
his cheeks were a bad color and he seemed to Palmer’s appraising eye
to have shrunk in his clothes. A certain nervous tremor in the hand
holding his cigar also was noticeable, and Palmer wracked his brain
to recall some incident of his stay at Burnham Lodge which might give
him the key to Burnham’s altered demeanor. But to the best of his
recollection all had been harmonious, and he had been rather a captious
guest, for his prediction that the marriage would not turn out a happy
one had put him on the alert for matrimonial discords.
Palmer had not been alone in predicting a disastrous ending to the
marriage, for all Washington had heard first with incredulity and then
laughter of the engagement of the wealthy widow, Lillian Preston, to
Peter Burnham, a man considerably her junior, who had been uniformly
unfortunate in every business venture he had undertaken. Peter had
his good points, his friends contended, and as one of them remarked at
the wedding which had followed swiftly upon the announcement of the
engagement, his wife could keep him in the style he had been accustomed
to before his final financial venture had landed him in bankruptcy.
That Mrs. Burnham was honestly devoted to her husband and admired him,
Palmer had come to believe. She was not a woman given to concealing
her thoughts, her habit of plain speech frequently landing her in
hot water. Peter Burnham was well read, polished in manner, a born
_raconteur_, and a devoted chess player; he cared very little for
out-door sports and his greatest hardship was being dragged to
horseshows of which his wife was inordinately fond, having inherited
her love for horses from her Kentucky ancestors.
Society had speculated as to how Mrs. Burnham’s young daughter and only
child would take her mother’s second marriage, but as Evelyn was then
away at boarding school, society found little to build gossip upon.
Evelyn’s début the winter before had revived interest in the subject,
and when she left Washington early in the spring for an indefinite
visit in the West, tongues had wagged without, however, getting any
satisfaction from Mr. and Mrs. Burnham who went placidly on their way,
being entertained and entertaining in their hospitable home in the
fashionable Northwest.
The situation had decidedly piqued Palmer’s interest, for as intimate
as was his footing in the Burnham home he had never been able to decide
Evelyn’s status in the family circle; she was frequently and pleasantly
alluded to in conversation, but that was all. He had made no secret
of his desire to marry Evelyn, and that both husband and wife favored
his courtship he had ample reason to believe, though neither to his
knowledge had outwardly espoused his cause to Evelyn.
When called on the telephone about six o’clock that afternoon Burnham
had given Palmer to understand that he was alone in Washington; and yet
his young step-daughter was also in the city. It was of course possible
that Evelyn was visiting Marian Van Ness. Palmer frowned; he disliked
few people, but he most heartily disliked brilliant Marian Van Ness;
their natures were too utterly foreign for them ever to be congenial.
Palmer transferred his attention from Burnham to the latter’s
step-daughter and her companion, both of whom were busily engaged in
discussing the menu. Marian Van Ness’ dark beauty was an effectual foil
for Evelyn’s curly yellow hair and blue eyes. The entrance of both
girls, for Marian appeared little more, in their smart summer costumes
had attracted admiring low voiced comment from the other diners in
their vicinity, and several friends and acquaintances had looked up to
bow or wave their hands to them, for Marian was extremely popular in
society. When financial reverses had obliged her to find employment
upon her return to her native city after her divorce, she had acted as
social secretary for several Cabinet officers’ wives and through their
influence had received an appointment in the State Department five
years before.
Suddenly Palmer stirred in his chair. “I hardly think Mrs. Van Ness
is a staid enough chaperon for Evelyn,” he remarked. “Suppose we join
them,” and leaving Burnham no option in the matter he pushed back his
chair and rose.
Evelyn, whose healthy young appetite had asserted itself, in spite of
the tragic happenings of that afternoon, had been chiefly occupied in
selecting the most tempting dishes in the menu, and it was not until an
exclamation from Marian drew her attention to her step-father coming
toward them, Palmer’s big proportions towering behind him, that she
knew of his presence in the dining room. At that moment the diners
at an intervening table left their seats, thereby impeding Burnham’s
progress, and only Marian caught Evelyn’s low exclamation and noticed
her change of color.
“Are you going to faint?” she asked. “Drink some water, dear.”
Instead Evelyn laid trembling fingers on her cool palm.
“Don’t forget your promise,” she pleaded. “Remember, you are going to
stay with me....”
“I will.” Marian’s firm hand-clasp was reassuring. “Can’t you tell me
more of what took place this afternoon?”
“Not now.” Evelyn straightened up and turned to meet her step-father
and, with a poise and air of cordiality which Marian secretly
applauded, she held out her hand in greeting to Burnham and then to
Palmer. “When did you get here?” she inquired as the men took the
chairs proffered by attentive waiters, after first speaking to Marian.
“I might ask the same of you,” retorted Burnham. “You were not due here
until to-morrow.”
“I found I could take an earlier train,” responded Evelyn. “Why didn’t
you and Mother come up to the house when you arrived?”
“Your mother didn’t come down with me,” answered Burnham, waving away
the waiter’s offer of a menu. “She is in New York.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation slipped from Evelyn followed by another: “Oh,
waiter, don’t remove that place,” as the servant started to clear away
the extra silver and glass. “I am expecting another guest,” she added
as Palmer, thinking she did not know that he had dined, imagined she
referred to him and started to decline.
“Another guest?” questioned Burnham and his manner sharpened. “Whom do
you mean?”
Evelyn shot a half resentful glance at him, then curbing her hot temper
which his censorious air and manner invariably aroused, she answered
cheerily. “None other than your old friend, Dan Maynard.”
“Maynard in town!” exclaimed Burnham in pleased surprise.
“Not only in town but he is stopping at our house,” rattled on Evelyn,
noting with some surprise that Marian had permitted her “Honey-dew”
melon to be taken away uneaten. “The servants are putting the house in
order.”
“Upon my word!” Burnham polished his eye glasses and looked through
them at Evelyn. “Where is Mrs. Ward?”
“Ill,” tersely. “Dr. Hayden is looking after her; and Marian is coming
back to help me take care of her.”
Burnham stared at his step-daughter. “Mrs. Ward ill--what next? When
did you and she arrive in Washington, Evelyn?”
Palmer, stopping his exchange of small talk with Marian, glanced at
Evelyn and her expression caused his interest to quicken. Evelyn was
not used to subterfuge and the look she had favored her step-father
with was indicative of her feelings.
“We didn’t come together,” she explained. “Mrs. Ward only arrived this
afternoon, while I reached the house----” She stopped to help herself
to beefsteak and several vegetables.
“Yes,” prompted Burnham, and his restless glance passed from one
companion to the other. “You reached----” A hand was laid on his
shoulder and Maynard cut into the conversation.
“Found at last,” laughed the actor. “Evelyn, you told me to meet you at
the Shoreham and I have been waiting there until it dawned on me to try
this hotel. How are you, Burnham, and Palmer, too,” shaking hands as
the men rose.
“Marian, have you met Mr. Maynard--Mrs. Van Ness?” asked Evelyn, and
Maynard turned to encounter a pair of dark brown eyes raised to him
in earnest appeal. The next instant Marian’s hand was taken in a warm
clasp and slowly released as Palmer made room for Maynard to sit
between them.
“My wife will be delighted to know you have arrived in Washington,”
said Burnham. “She was overjoyed when your telegram came stating you
might get here any moment. What brings you back to this country,
Maynard?”
“War work,” began Maynard. “No, no soup,” he broke off to say to the
waiter. “Bring me whatever Miss Preston has ordered. Palmer, I hear you
have your hands full with government contracts for erecting temporary
office buildings here and at cantonments.”
“All architects are busy these days,” replied Palmer, accepting another
cigar from Burnham. “In fact every one is busy; I imagine you have your
hands full at the State Department, Mrs. Van Ness.”
Marian, directly addressed, looked up from the bread pellets she was
arranging in a neat pile before her. “Well rather, we work night and
day.”
“It must be a terrific strain,” acknowledged Maynard. “So much
responsibility rests in the State Department.” There was a haunting
quality in Maynard’s voice which, no matter how trivial his remark,
impressed his listeners, and Marian’s heart beat fast as memory of
other scenes rose to torment her, but her manner indicated only polite
attention and after a fraction of a second Maynard continued his
remarks.
“Washington is a changed city,” he stated. “The Shoreham reminded me
particularly of Paris in its military appearance, except that the
uniforms are not worn and faded. By the way, Burnham, among the French
officers I met there was René La Montagne.”
“René!” The startled exclamation escaped Evelyn before she could check
it; and her confusion was so great that she failed to observe the
lowered looks of two of her companions. Burnham and Palmer exchanged
glances, then their eyes dropped to their cigars and they smoked in
silence.
As Evelyn set down her goblet of water a page stopped at her elbow.
“A telephone has just come from your butler, Miss Preston,” he
explained, “to ask you to return home. He said Mrs. Ward was quite ill.”
Evelyn pushed aside her plate. “I’ll go at once,” she announced. “But
the rest of you need not come until later.”
“I have finished.” As she spoke Marian rose and Maynard also tossed
aside his napkin and stood up.
“Wait a minute,” remonstrated Burnham. “We’ll all go with you, Evelyn.
Here, waiter, bring me the check, and, Maynard, engage a touring car
outside, will you?”
Nodding assent, the actor sped on his errand, leaving the others to
follow more slowly. He was fortunate in securing a seven-passenger car,
and Burnham bundled his party into it with small ceremony.
“We are right in your neighborhood,” he said as Palmer drew back, “the
car can leave you after it has taken us home. There’s plenty of room,
Palmer, jump in.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Evelyn, “it would expedite matters to stop for Dr.
Hayden.”
“If he is not at your house I can go for him and bring him right over,”
answered Palmer, and Burnham agreed.
“Good idea,” he said shortly. “I hope I am not crowding you, Evelyn?”
as she shrank against Marian in making room for him on the back seat.
“Oh, no,” she replied and sat silent, grateful for the cool night
air which fanned her cheeks. She had tried to forget the mysterious
tragedy while in the hotel; had even barely mentioned it to Marian
when she picked her up at her apartment to take her out to dinner, but
the sudden summons home had brought it vividly before her. Suddenly
she caught Maynard’s eyes and his cheery smile gave her a sense of
comfort. As the car turned into Connecticut Avenue he leaned forward
and addressed Marian Van Ness.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously. “You have no extra wrap
and the night air is chilly.”
Marian looked at him then glanced away. “I am very comfortable,” she
murmured.
Palmer, who had chosen to take the vacant seat by the chauffeur in
preference to trusting his weight on one of the small pivot chairs
in the tonneau of the machine, addressed Burnham several times, but
apparently his words were drowned in the rush of wind occasioned by the
speed of the car, for Burnham made no response. A short time later the
car drew up to the curb, and stopped before the Burnham residence.
Maynard was the first out of the machine and turned at once to help
Marian. For a brief second her hand rested lightly on his arm, then
was removed as she sprang to the sidewalk. Evelyn was no less quick
in getting out and, not waiting to see what became of the others, she
caught Marian by the elbow and hurried her into the house and upstairs.
Burnham was slower than the others in leaving the car. “Wait a second,
Palmer,” he said, “I’ll send word if we need Dr. Hayden,” and, turning,
he accompanied Maynard up the steps. His words were overheard by the
anxious faced butler who had been on the outlook for the car and opened
the front door when it first drew up to the curb.
“The doctor’s here, sir,” and Maynard was quick to detect the faint,
very faint trace of accent in the man’s subdued voice.
Burnham faced about and called to Palmer: “Don’t wait, Palmer, thanks;
Hayden is here. See you to-morrow,” and he waved his hand in farewell
as the car moved off.
“Come in the billiard room, Maynard,” he said turning to his companion.
“We might as well have a game until Hayden comes down----”
“Just a moment, sir,” broke in Jones, the butler. “There’s several
gentlemen waiting to see you.”
Burnham halted. “Their names----”
A man standing in the shadow of the drawing room door came forward.
“Detective Mitchell, sir, of the Central Office,” he said politely.
“I was sent to investigate the case of the man found dead here this
afternoon.”
“A man found dead here!” shouted Burnham, stepping backward and
colliding against Maynard. “Who is he?”
“We don’t know,” acknowledged Mitchell. “But we are trying to establish
his identity. Your step-daughter found him in the library.”
Burnham stared at the detective wide-eyed. Suddenly he took out his
handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“A dead man here!” he ejaculated feebly. “An unknown man?”
“Perhaps if you will step in here you may be able to help us identify
him,” suggested Mitchell. “We have brought the body down into the
billiard room preparatory to taking it to the morgue.”
It seemed almost as if Burnham did not comprehend what the detective
was saying, and but for Maynard’s guiding hand he would not have found
his way into the room. The body lay on the billiard table covered by
a sheet. Stepping forward, Mitchell pulled down the sheet, signing to
Burnham to step nearer, and both he and Maynard watched Burnham as he
bent over the body. After what seemed an interminable time to Maynard,
he straightened up.
“I have no idea who he is,” Burnham stated.