A TIMELY WARNING
It was rather late that evening when I returned to the Cayleys; for I
had to go to the office, and write my report of the murder. It would be
a scoop for the "Courier;" for, though the other papers might get hold
of the bare facts, the details of the thrilling story I constructed were
naturally exclusive. I made it pretty lurid, and put in all I had told
Freeman, and that I intended to repeat at the inquest.
The news editor was exultant. He regarded a Sunday murder as nothing
short of a godsend to enliven the almost inevitable dulness of the
Monday morning's issue at this time of year.
"Lucky you weren't out of town, Wynn, or we should have missed this, and
had to run in with the rest," he remarked with a chuckle.
Lucky!
"Wish I had been out of town," I said gloomily. "It's a ghastly affair."
"Get out! Ghastly!" he ejaculated with scorn. "Nothing's ghastly to a
journalist, so long as it's good copy! You ought to have forgotten you
ever possessed any nerves, long ago. Must say you look a bit off color,
though. Have a drink?"
I declined with thanks. His idea of a drink in office hours, was, as I
knew, some vile whiskey fetched from the nearest "pub," diluted with
warm, flat soda, and innocent of ice. I'd wait till I got to Chelsea,
where I was bound to happen on something drinkable. As a good American,
Mary scored off the ordinary British housewife, who preserves a fixed
idea that ice is a sinful luxury, even during a spell of sultry summer
weather in London.
I drove from the office to Chelsea, and found Mary and Jim, with two or
three others, sitting in the garden. The house was one of the few
old-fashioned ones left in that suburb, redolent of many memories and
associations of witty and famous folk, from Nell Gwynn to Thomas
Carlyle; and Mary was quite proud of her garden, though it consisted
merely of a small lawn and some fine old trees that shut off the
neighboring houses.
"At last! You very bad boy. We expected you to tea," said Mary, as I
came down the steps of the little piazza outside the drawing-room
windows. "You don't mean to tell me you've been packing all this time?
Why, goodness, Maurice; you look worse than you did this morning! You
haven't been committing a murder, have you?"
"No, but I've been discovering one," I said lamely, as I dropped into a
wicker chair.
"A murder! How thrilling. Do tell us all about it," cried a pretty,
kittenish little woman whose name I did not know. Strange how some women
have an absolutely ghoulish taste for horrors!
"Give him a chance, Mrs. Vereker," interposed Jim hastily, with his
accustomed good nature. "He hasn't had a drink yet. Moselle cup,
Maurice, or a long peg?"
He brought me a tall tumbler of whiskey and soda, with ice clinking
deliciously in it; and I drank it and felt better.
"That's good," I remarked. "I haven't had anything since I breakfasted
with you,--forgot all about it till now. You see I happened to find the
poor chap--Cassavetti--when I ran up to say good-bye to him."
"Cassavetti!" cried Jim and Mary simultaneously, and Mary added: "Why,
that was the man who sat next us--next Anne--at dinner last night,
wasn't it? The man the old Russian you told us about came to see?"
I nodded.
"The police are after him now; though the old chap seemed harmless
enough, and didn't look as if he'd the physical strength to murder any
one," I said, and related my story to a running accompaniment of
exclamations from the feminine portion of my audience, especially Mrs.
Vereker, who evinced an unholy desire to hear all the most gruesome
details.
Jim sat smoking and listening almost in silence, his jolly face
unusually grave.
"This stops your journey, of course, Maurice?" he said at length; and I
thought he looked at me curiously. Certainly as I met his eyes he
avoided my gaze as if in embarrassment; and I felt hot and cold by
turns, wondering if he had divined the suspicion that was torturing
me--suspicion that was all but certainty--that Anne Pendennis was
intimately involved in the grim affair. He had always distrusted her.
"For a day or two only. Even if the inquest is adjourned, I don't
suppose I'll have to stop for the further hearing," I answered,
affecting an indifference I was very far from feeling.
"Then you won't be seeing Anne as soon as you anticipated," Mary
remarked. "I must write to her to-morrow. She'll be so shocked."
"Did Miss Pendennis know this Mr. Cassavetti?" inquired Mrs. Vereker.
"We met him at the dinner last night for the first time. Jim and Maurice
knew him before, of course. He seemed a very fascinating sort of man."
"Where is Miss Pendennis, by the way?" pursued the insatiable little
questioner. "I was just going to ask for her when Mr. Wynn turned up
with his news."
"Didn't I tell you? She left for Berlin this morning; her father's ill.
She had to rush to get away."
"To rush! I should think so," exclaimed Mrs. Vereker. "Why, she was at
Mrs. Dennis Sutherland's last night; though I only caught a glimpse of
her. She left so early; I suppose that was why--"
I stumbled to my feet, feeling sick and dizzy, and upset the little
table with my glass that Jim had placed at my elbow.
"Sorry, Mary, I'm always a clumsy beggar," I said, forcing a laugh.
"I'll ask you to excuse me. I must get back to the office. I've to see
Lord Southbourne when he returns. He's been out motoring all day."
"Oh, but you'll come back here and sleep," Mary protested. "You can't go
back to that horrible flat--"
"Nonsense!" I said almost roughly. "There's nothing wrong with the flat.
Do you suppose I'm a child or a woman?"
She ignored my rudeness.
"You look very bad, Maurice," she responded, almost in a whisper, as we
moved towards the house. I was acutely conscious that the others were
watching my retreat; especially that inquisitive little Vereker woman,
whom I was beginning to hate. When we entered the dusk of the
drawing-room, out of range of those curious eyes, I turned on my cousin.
"Mary--for God's sake--don't let that woman--or any one else, speak
of--Anne--in connection with Cassavetti," I said, in a hoarse undertone.
"Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?" she faltered.
"He doesn't mean anything, except that he's considerably upset," said
Jim's hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the
garden. "You go back to your guests, little woman, and make 'em talk
about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and
frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there's no stopping her; and if
they won't serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave
Maurice to me. He's faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of
himself even more than usual! Off with you!"
Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.
"All right; I'll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him
come back to-night, though."
She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and
Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.
"Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell
me all about it."
"There's nothing to tell," I persisted. "But I guess you're right, and
hunger's what's wrong with me."
I managed to make a good meal--I was desperately hungry now I came to
think of it--and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow
relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.
"That's better," he said, as I declined cheese, and lighted a cigarette.
"'When in difficulties have a square meal before you tackle 'em; that's
my maxim,--original, and worth its weight in gold. I give it you for
nothing. Now about this affair; it's more like a melodrama than a
tragedy. You know, or suspect, that Anne Pendennis is mixed up in it?"
"I neither know nor suspect any such thing," I said deliberately. I had
recovered my self-possession, and the lie, I knew, sounded like truth,
or would have done so to any one but Jim Cayley.
"Then your manner just now was inexplicable," he retorted quietly. "Now,
just hear me out, Maurice; it's no use trying to bluff me. You think I
am prejudiced against this girl. Well, I'm not. I've always acknowledged
that she's handsome and fascinating to a degree, though, as I told you
once before, she's a coquette to her finger-tips. That's one of her
characteristics, that she can't be held responsible for, any more than
she can help the color of her hair, which is natural and not touched up,
like Amy Vereker's, for instance! Besides, Mary loves her; and that's a
sufficient proof, to me, that she is 'O. K.' in one way. You love her,
too; but men are proverbially fools where a handsome woman is
concerned."
"What are you driving at, Jim?" I asked. At any other time I would have
resented his homily, as I had done before, but now I wanted to find out
how much he knew.
"A timely warning, my boy. I suspect, and you know, or I'm very much
mistaken, that Anne Pendennis had some connection with this man who is
murdered. She pretended last night that she had never met him before;
but she had,--there was a secret understanding between them. I saw that,
and so did you; and I saw, too, that her treatment of you was a mere
ruse, though Heaven knows why she employed it! I can't attempt to fathom
her motive. I believe she loves you, as you love her; but that she's not
a free agent. She's not like an ordinary English girl whose antecedents
are known to every one about her. She, and her father, too, are involved
in some mystery, some international political intrigues, I'm pretty
sure, as this unfortunate Cassavetti was. I don't say that she was
responsible for the murder. I don't believe she was, or that she had any
personal hand in it--"
I had listened as if spellbound, but now I breathed more freely.
Whatever his suspicions were, they did not include that she was actually
present when Cassavetti was done to death.
"But she was most certainly cognizant of it, and her departure this
morning was nothing more or less than flight," he continued. "And--I
tell you this for her sake, as well as for your own, Maurice--your
manner just now gave the whole game away to any one who has any
knowledge or suspicion of the facts. Man alive, you profess to love Anne
Pendennis; you do love her; I'll concede that much. Well, do you want to
see her hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life?"