HARMONY--AND DISCORD
“Is that all, Mr. Starr?”
“It’s something to go on, isn’t it?” Austin countered. He had decided
to take counsel with Snell upon that problem he was endeavouring to
solve, and the detective had listened in silence to his account of the
interview with Cacciola and Maddelena, and the curious incident that
had terminated it.
“Well, if you want my opinion,” said Snell dryly, “it is that you’ve
discovered--or created--quite a nice little mare’s nest.”
“Now see here, Snell, you’re simply prejudiced!”
“Not at all, Mr. Starr. If there’s one thing I pride myself on more
than another it is on never being prejudiced. And if you think I
did not, at the very outset, satisfy myself--yes, and my superiors
too--that neither Melikoff and his associates nor the old Signor and
his household had anything at all to do with the murder of Lady Rawson,
I can only assure you that you’re jolly well mistaken!”
“You’ve got it fixed up in your mind that Roger Carling is guilty, and
you won’t look any further,” Austin said bitterly.
“I haven’t. It’s for a jury to decide whether he’s guilty or innocent.
And if you or anyone else can point to any clue in any other direction
that I haven’t followed up and sifted I’ll go to work again instantly.
As for the Russians----” He touched an electric button on his table,
scribbled a few words on a card, and handed it to the clerk who
entered. “As you aren’t inclined to believe me, and as I know you’re
to be trusted, I’m going to let you look through the dossiers for
yourself. You mustn’t make any notes, of course.”
“That’s very good of you. But what about the person who was in the
flat?”
“Old Madam Giulia--queer old girl too; _what_ a fuss she made in the
witness-box, even for a foreigner!--or perhaps even Melikoff himself,
who thought he’d like to hear what you were all yarning about, and
scooted as soon as you moved.”
“Impossible! Neither of them could have got down the long passage and
into bed, apparently asleep, in the time. If I’d only thought of the
hall door first we should have caught whoever it was. But I didn’t, and
we never heard a sound. The tray clattered some as I set it down or I’d
have heard the click of the lock. And what about that key that Melikoff
gave Lady Rawson and she lost, or gave away?”
“That’s really the only point worth anything at all, and I doubt if
it’s worth much. What a fool Melikoff was to give her that key, and
the old signor to allow it. That the lot?”--as the clerk re-entered
bringing several neatly arranged sets of papers. “All right, leave them
for the present. Now, Mr. Starr, here you are. Take your time.”
He pushed the papers across the table to Austin, and resumed his own
work.
Rapidly but methodically Austin ran through the dossiers one after
another, his heart sinking as he did so. For Snell was right. They
provided, with much other information, a complete record of the
movements, on the day of the murder, of presumably every one of the
group of refugees with whom Boris Melikoff was associated, compiled
from personal interrogation of each and verified by further searching
investigation. In the face of this no shadow of suspicion could fall
on any one of them. Almost mechanically he memorized the names and
addresses--one never knew when such information might come in useful.
“Well?” asked Snell laconically as he finished.
“You’re right, of course. I must say you’ve done the thing pretty
thoroughly.”
“As usual. Though the public, and some people who might be expected to
know better, don’t give us credit for it,” said Snell dryly. “It was
easy enough in this case, as they’re all aliens and registered as such.
We keep an eye on them all, as a matter of course, and we’ve known
all there is to know about this lot ever since they landed. Quite a
harmless lot, in my opinion.”
“Yet you didn’t know at the time that Lady Rawson was one of them,”
suggested Austin. “You told me so yourself.”
“Quite so; but then she wasn’t registered--not necessary as she became
‘British’ on her marriage.”
“If their meetings were so harmless why did she steal those papers from
her husband?”
“Ah, that’s quite another question, Mr. Starr. Her motive doesn’t
matter in the least, so far as tracking her murderer is concerned; and
if you hark back to the papers as a clue, why they lead straight to the
one person--Mr. Roger Carling. And there you are!”
Austin leant his head on his hand in deep dejection.
“I’ll never believe it was Roger Carling!”
Snell glanced at him kindly enough.
“Take my advice, Mr. Starr, don’t go wearing yourself out trying to
find fresh trails. They’ll all turn out as false as this one. The only
thing to be done is to leave it to the jury--or to chance. I’ve known a
lot of mysteries cleared up by what seemed to be pure chance.”
“There’s still the notion of a casual thief,” mused Austin.
“There is. And we’re keeping that in sight I assure you. But I don’t
believe it was done by a wrong ’un down on his luck. Whoever it was
wore gloves.”
“How in thunder do you know that?” demanded Austin, genuinely surprised.
“Because there were smears on the bag caused by gloved fingers. If
they’d been finger prints they’d have been hanging evidence! There were
no such smears on the envelope, though.”
“Any finger prints on it?” asked Austin quickly.
“Lots--from Carling’s own to Lord Warrington’s; it had been handled
by half a dozen people at least--quite legitimately. Carling’s
prints, of course--though they’re the clearest of the lot under the
microscope--won’t be regarded as evidence against him, as he was the
first to handle and seal the envelope the night before. All that will
be threshed out at the trial.”
“I guess so. Well, I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Snell,” said
Austin despondently.
“Wish I’d been able to help you,” Snell responded as they shook hands.
Austin walked slowly along the Embankment in deep and distressed
thought. This interview with Snell was a bitter disappointment; and now
again he seemed up against a blank wall. There was still the mysterious
visitant to the flat to be considered, but if he or she was traced that
might prove nothing.
Outside Charing Cross Station he paused indecisively. He had an hour or
two to spare. Should he go to Chelsea? He hadn’t seen Winnie for over a
week--not since that day at the police court when Roger was committed
for trial--as she had been singing at Bristol and only returned
yesterday. Or should he go to Cacciola’s on the chance of finding
anyone at home?
He would not acknowledge even in his own mind that by “anyone” he
meant Maddelena. The girl attracted him most strongly, and in a manner
that he did not choose to analyse. He did not love her--of that he was
quite sure. He had never been of a susceptible nature where women were
concerned; had always held to the high ideals of love and marriage
derived from a long line of Puritan ancestors, for he came of a sound
New English stock. He loved Winnie Winston; he meant to marry her;
would have been profoundly indignant at any suggestion that he could
waver in his allegiance to her.
And yet at intervals ever since he first saw Maddelena Cacciola beside
Paula Rawson’s grave, and almost continuously since that evening when
he had met and talked with her, that beautiful, vivid face, with its
swift, passionate changes of expression, had haunted him, sleeping and
waking, in a most perplexing and disturbing way!
He had not seen or spoken to her since, for though he had rung up
several times, only Giulia had answered, to the effect that the signor
and signorina were out.
As he turned into the station he tried to convince himself that he was
going to Rivercourt Mansions merely to ascertain if the girl had been
able to get any information from Boris, as she had undertaken to do,
and not that he had any desire to meet her again; and all the time, at
the back of his honest mind he was quite aware--and ashamed--of the
subterfuge.
As he mounted the last of the long flights of stone stairs that led to
Cacciola’s eyrie he heard music from within--a glorious tenor voice,
pure, passionate, thrilling--singing to a masterly accompaniment of
piano and violin.
Outside the door he waited, listening intently and in sheer delight,
wishing, indeed, that he had been within; but it was unthinkable to
intrude the strident impertinence of an electric bell on that feast of
harmony.
The voice ceased. There followed a beautiful little ascending passage
on the violin, which he strained his ears to hear, a final grand
chord on the piano. Then silence. He touched the bell at last, and
instantly the door was opened by Giulia, who beamed a welcome to him
and whispered:
“They make music once more. Go in, signor.”
Thus informally, and unannounced, he entered the big room. Cacciola,
seated at the piano, had swung round and was talking with eager
animation to Boris and Maddelena, the girl still holding her violin.
As Austin entered she laid down the instrument and ran towards him,
giving him both her hands in greeting.
“You! Oh, I am glad! But why did you not come before, so that you could
have heard Boris sing? The very first time for so very many weeks--and
superbly!”
“I did hear quite a lot from outside--the violin too, Miss Maddelena,”
he said, smiling down at her. “You’re right, superb is the only word.”
He exchanged greetings with the _maestro_ and Melikoff, who, flushed,
smiling, excited, looked an altogether different being from the
stricken, morose creature Austin had known hitherto.
“All is coming right, as I told you it would,” said Cacciola
delightedly. “The voice is fine as ever. You heard? It is but a matter
of time now and our Boris will be known as the world’s greatest tenor,
and you, signor, will be able to boast that you are one of the few who
has had the privilege of hearing him in private, for he will sing again
presently. But come, you have not yet seen an old friend of yours, who
happily is also here: my dear young pupil, Miss Winston.”
Why he should have experienced an extraordinary sensation of
embarrassment and dismay Austin really did not know, but he certainly
did so, as from a big chair in the dusk beyond the grand piano Winnie
rose and came towards him.
“Winnie! I didn’t think to meet you here,” he murmured confusedly.
“Nor I you,” said Winnie. “I returned yesterday.”
“I know. I was coming around to see you to-morrow. Did you have a good
time, dear?”
“Quite good--thanks. But I must be off now. Good-bye, _maestro_,
and----”
“But no, no, you must not go!” protested Cacciola. “Giulia will bring
in tea in one moment now--Maddelena will hasten her--real Russian tea
that Boris has taught us to like, and it is so good for the voice too!
Also you must sing again presently. We have not got that new song right
yet.”
“I’m so tired, _maestro_, and I couldn’t sing after Mr. Melikoff. How
splendid he is!”
“Pouff! Not sing again indeed; you must not talk like an amateur.
You are an _artiste_, and among ourselves we never make comparisons.
Though there can never be any comparison with Boris: he is unique! How
thankful I am--and so is my Maddelena--that he is recovering himself.
Now sit down again, my child, and here is a chair for Mr. Starr.”
Maddelena had taken her uncle’s hint and gone to hurry up Giulia with
the tea, and Boris followed her. Austin heard her laugh as they went
along the passage. Truly the atmosphere here had changed marvellously
in these few days. He sat down in the chair Cacciola had pulled up
close to Winnie’s, but for once in his life could find nothing to say
to her; while she virtually ignored him, and chatted with the _maestro_
till the tea appeared, brought in procession by Giulia and the two
young people.
Maddelena, in the highest spirits, was a charming hostess, and, like
her uncle, treated Austin with the easy familiarity of old friendship.
It was merely their unconventional, hospitable way, as Winnie at least
knew perfectly well, from her long acquaintance with the _maestro_,
though she had never happened to meet Maddelena till now; yet she
wondered how often he had been there of late, and why he had said
nothing about it.
There was more music after tea. Winnie sang without further demur,
at the _maestro’s_ bidding, and was painfully conscious, as were her
auditors, that, for her, she sang very badly. She had a beautiful,
mezzo-soprano voice, sweet, true and fresh as a song-bird’s, and
perfectly trained--Cacciola had seen to that--but to-night it was
toneless, lifeless, devoid of expression.
“I’m sorry, _maestro_,” she murmured apologetically at the end, meeting
his gaze of consternation.
“We shall do better to-morrow,” he said consolingly. “Will you come to
me at three? Good! It is strange, for it went so well before; but, as
you say, you are tired, I should not have insisted. Now, Boris, once
more?”
Melikoff, sprawling on the hearthrug and looking through a pile of
music, selected a book of Russian songs, and began to rise.
“Not those!” said Maddelena imperatively, snatching the book from
him and picking up another. “Mr. Starr wants to hear the Neapolitan
ones--with the guitar. I will get it!” As she passed Austin she bent
and whispered significantly, “He shall sing no Russian here if I can
prevent it,” and he nodded as one who understood.
Winnie could not hear the words, but she saw the incident, and found in
it fresh food for thought.
“With a guitar--good; that gives me a rest,” said Cacciola, quitting
the piano and settling himself comfortably in his big chair. “They are
trifles, these songs, but not unworthy even of Boris. There is the soul
of the people in them. Now, my children.”
He was right. Those songs--sung by generations of humble folk for
centuries, and famous throughout the world to-day--were a revelation
as Boris Melikoff sang them, albeit he was the son of a sterner and
sadder race: songs of life, and love, and death, of sunshine and
storm, with the sound of the sea as an undertone through all, heard
in the thrilling throb of the guitar, which Maddelena played like the
_artiste_ she was.
Austin listened in sheer delight, forgetful of everything else in the
world for the moment.
When the last exquisite note died away there was a little interval of
silence more eloquent than any words. Maddelena, the guitar on her lap,
looked up at Boris with a tremulous smile, her eyes shining through
tears, murmuring something in Italian, and impulsively he stooped and
kissed her on the lips, just as Cacciola cried, also in Italian:
“_Brava! brava!_ dear children. There can be nothing better in its way!”
Austin joined wholeheartedly in the applause and congratulations.
“How splendidly you accompany him, Miss Maddelena.”
“Yes, does she not?” said Boris. “I do not think I could sing those
songs so with anyone but Maddelena. And you would not think it was so
long since we practised them together--nearly a year?”
“Yes, a long year!” said Maddelena.
“I must be going,” Winnie announced. “Good-bye, Miss Cacciola; you’ve
given me a most tremendous treat, both of you. Now keep up the singing,
Mr. Melikoff. We’re all so proud of you, and want you to have the world
at your feet, as you will soon! Good-bye, _maestro_. Three o’clock
to-morrow.”
She turned to Austin, with a curious enigmatic little smile, an
inquiring lift of her eyebrows.
“I’m coming with you,” he said, and proceeded to make his own adieux.
Cacciola came to the door with them, but scarcely had they descended
the first flight of stairs when Maddelena came running after them.
“Mr. Starr!”
Austin turned and came up a few steps to meet her.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered hurriedly, bending her charming face
confidentially towards him. “I have not been able to question him about
those others, or, more truthfully, I would not do so, for, as you see,
he is beginning to forget, and I feared to bring the black shadow upon
him again.”
“I understand, Miss Cacciola, and I’ve got some information already,
from another source; but what about that key, and----”
“And the person who entered? We do not know. My uncle spoke to Boris
next morning. He knew nothing, and says he is sure it was none of his
friends. But that key which--_she_--had has never been found, and we
have had the lock changed, as you said. Good-bye. Come again soon.”
She retreated, and he ran down the stairs, overtaking Winnie just
outside.
“Great luck to find you, dear,” he said, falling into step beside her.
“Yes? I didn’t know you were so intimate with the Cacciolas.”
“I’m not, except that they’re so friendly and easy to get on with.
I’ve only met Miss Maddelena once before--when I went around there one
evening.”
“Oh, how interesting!”
She spoke quite gently, but in a tone and manner so cold and dignified
that he might have been an utter stranger. He felt hurt, indignant; but
his tone was as aloof as her own as he responded:
“Yes, it was interesting--very. I went, as I told you I should, to try
and get hold of a clue.”
She turned to him quickly:
“Oh! Did you find out anything?”
“Very little so far. I’ll tell you all about it when we get in. I
should have told you before, of course, if you hadn’t been away.”
“There’s a tram stopping,” she said inconsequently, and made for it.
“Which way are you going?”
“To take you home, of course.”
“I’m not going home, but to Grace at Buckingham Gate. She’s there now.”
He nodded; it was impossible to talk in the noisy and crowded tram.
“We’ll take a taxi from here,” he suggested meekly when they alighted
at the terminus opposite the station.
“Certainly not! I’m going to St. James’s Park,” said Winnie decisively,
and hurried recklessly across the road, in imminent danger of being run
over.
“Now what in thunder’s wrong?” Austin asked himself, but there was no
opportunity of asking her, until at length they reached the quietude of
Buckingham Gate, and then he found it difficult to begin.
“I’ve such lots to tell you, but it will have to keep till to-morrow
night, for I’ve to go around to the ‘Courier’ now,” he said awkwardly.
“Give my love to Grace. And--see here, Winnie--what’s wrong, dear?”
“Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing--or--oh, everything, I think! Never
mind. Here we are. Good night, Austin.”
She did give him her hand, but withdrew it quickly, and stepped into
the waiting lift, which bore her swiftly out of sight.
Austin stood for a few seconds, frowning; then lighted a cigarette,
striking the match with an angry jerk, and went on his way feeling
exceedingly ill-used!