Mrs Peixada. Harland Henry

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СКАЧАТЬ Lecoq. Well, where do you propose to strike your clew?”

      “Oh, I haven’t started in yet. I suppose I shall hit upon one soon enough.”

      “I doubt it. In my opinion you’re booked for a sequence of wearisome details. The quality you’ll require most of, is patience. Besides, if the lady should sniff danger, she’ll be able to elude you at every turn. You want to make it a still hunt.”

      “I am aware of that.”

      “What’s the first step you mean to take?”

      “I haven’t made up my mind. I need time for deliberation.”

      “There’s only a single thing to do, and that’s not the least Lecoq-like. Write to the place where she was last known to be—Vienna, did you say?—to the consul or postmaster or prefect of police, or better yet all three, and ask whither she went when she left there. Then, provided you get an answer, write to the next place, and so on down. This will take about a hundred years. So, practically, you see, Peixada has supplied you with permanent employment. The likelihood that it will ultimately succeed is extremely slim. There is danger of a slip-up at every point. However, far be it from me to discourage you.”

      “What do you think of Peixada’s plan—an advertisement?”

      “Gammon! You don’t fancy she would march with open eyes into a palpable trap like that, do you? I suspect the matter will end by your making a trip to Europe. If Peixada knows what’s what, he’ll bundle you off next week. You could trace her much more effectively in person than by letters.”

      “Wouldn’t that be jolly? Only it would involve my neglecting the other business that might turn up if I should stick here.”

      “What of it? What other business? What ground have you for believing that any other business will turn up? Has the past been so prolific? Besides, isn’t the summer coming? And isn’t the summer a lawyer’s dull season? You might lose a couple of two-penny district-court cases; but suppose you did. See of what advantage it would be to your reputation. Somebody calls at your office. ’Is Mr. Ripley in?’ ’No,’ replies your clerk, ’Mr. Ripley is abroad on important business.’ ’Ah,’ thinks the caller, ’this Ripley is a flourishing young practitioner.’ And mark my words, nothing hastens success like a reputation for success.”

      “Such a picture sends the blood to my head. I mustn’t look at it. It would make me discontented with the reality.”

      “If you’re diplomatic,” Hetzel went on, “you can get a liberal education out of this Peixada case. Just fancy jaunting from town to town in Europe, and having your expenses paid. In your moments of leisure you can study art and languages and the manners, costumes, and superstitions of the hoary east.”

      “And all the while, Mrs. Peixada may be living quietly here in New York! Isn’t it exasperating to realize the difficulty of putting your finger upon a given human being, when antecedently it would seem so easy? Nevermind; up-hill work though it be, it’s sure to get interesting. A woman, young, beautiful, totally depraved, a murderess at the age of twenty-one—I wonder what she is like.”

      “Oh, probably vulgar to the last degree. Don’t form a sentimental conception of her. Keep your head cool, or else your imagination will get the better of your common sense.”

      “No fear of that. But I shall go at the case with all the more zest, because I am anxious to view this novel specimen of womankind.”

      “You’ll find she’s a loud, flashy vixen—snapping eyes, strident voice, bediamonded person. Women who resort to powder and shot to get rid of their husbands in this peaceable epoch of divorce, are scarcely worth a respectable man’s curiosity.”

      “Hello!” cried Arthur, abruptly. “What’s that?”

      “Oh, that,” answered Hetzel, “that’s the corner house—No. 46.”

      Hetzel spoke metonymically. “That” was a descending musical scale—fa, mi, re, do, si, la, sol, fa—which rang out all at once in a clear soprano voice, from someplace near at hand; a wonderfully powerful voice, with a superb bugle-like quality.

      “Fa, sol, la, si, do, re, mi, fa,” continued the songstress. .

      “By Jove,” exclaimed Arthur, “that’s something like.” Then for a moment he was all ears, and did not speak. At last, “The corner house?” he queried. “Has some one moved in?”

      “Yes,” was Hetzel’s answer; “they moved in yesterday. I had this all the morning.”

      “This singing?”

      “Exactly, and a piano to boot. Scales and exercises till I was nearly mad.”

      “But this—this is magnificent. You were to be envied.”

      “Oh, yes, it’s very fine. But when a man is trying to prepare an examination paper in the integral calculus, it distracts and interferes. She quite broke up my morning’s work.” Hetzel was a tutor of mathematics in a college not a hundred miles from New York.

      “Have you seen her?” Arthur asked.

      “No, they only took possession yesterday. A singular thing about it is that they appear to confine themselves to one floor. The blinds are closed every where except in the third story, and last night there was no light except in the third story windows. Queer, eh?”

      Arthur approached the verge of the roof, and looked over at the corner house across the street. The third story windows were open wide, and out of them proceeded that beautiful soprano voice, now practicing intervals—fa-si, sol-do, and so forth. “Well,” he affirmed, “this is a regular romance. Of course a woman with such a voice is young and beautiful and every thing else that’s lovely. And then, living cooped up on the third floor of that dismal corner house—she must be in needy circumstances; which adds another element of charm and mystery. I suppose she’s in training to become a prima donna. But who are they? Who lives with her?”

      “How should I know? I haven’t seen any of them. I take it for granted that she doesn’t live alone, that’s all.”

      “Hush-sh!” cried Arthur, motioning with his hand.

      The invisible musician had now abandoned her exercises, and was fairly launched upon a song, accompanying herself with a piano. Neither Arthur nor Hetzel recognized the tune, but they greatly enjoyed listening to it, because it was rendered with so much intelligence and delicacy of expression. They could not make out the words, either, but from the languid, sensuous swing of the melody, it was easy to infer that the theme was love. There were several verses; and after each of them, occurred a brilliant interlude upon the piano, in which the refrain was caught up and repeated with variations. Arthur thought he had never heard sweeter music in his life; and very likely he never had. “That woman,” he declared, when silence was restored, “that woman, whoever she is, has a soul—a rare enough piece of property in this materialistic age. Such power of making music betokens a corresponding power of deep feeling, clear thinking, noble acting. I’d give my right hand for a glimpse of her. Why doesn’t some mesmeric influence bring her to the window? Oh, for an Asmodeus to unroof her dwelling, and let me peep in at her—observe her, as she sits before her key-board, unconscious of observation!” Even Hetzel, who was not prone to enthusiasms, who, indeed, derived an expert’s satisfaction СКАЧАТЬ