The Red Symbol. Ironside John

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ