The Tragedy of Z (2 page)

Father groaned. “Patty, you're a damn' embarrassing wench to have around. You're showin' up the old man. By God, it's like old times with Drury Lane!”

And I said: “Inspector darling, that's a damn' fine compliment. When are you going to introduce me to him?”

The opportunity came unexpectedly three months after my return from abroad. It began innocently enough, and led—as those things so often do—to an adventure as amazing as even the heart of such a thirsty and voracious female as myself could desire.

One day a tall, gray-haired, elegantly dressed man appeared at father's office, wearing the look of worry which I had come to associate with all those who sought father's aid. His name, from the engraved card, was Elihu Clay. He eyed me sharply, sat down, clasped his hands on the knob of his stick, and introduced himself in the dry, precise manner of a French banker.

He was owner of the Clay Marble Quarries—main quarries in Tilden County, upper New York State; office and residence in the town of Leeds, N. Y. The investigation he had come to ask father to conduct was of a delicate, confidential nature. It was his chief reason for coming so far afield to seek an investigator. He absolutely insisted on all possible caution.…

“I get you,” grinned father. “Have a cigar. Somebody stealin' cash out of the safe?”

“No, indeed! I have—ah—a silent partner.”

“Ha,” said father. “Let's have it.”

This silent partner—whose silence, it appeared, now wore a most unhealthy aspect—was one Fawcett, Dr. Ira Fawcett. Dr. Fawcett was the brother of the more or less Honorable Joel Fawcett, State Senator from Tilden County, who, from father's frown, I took to be a gentleman of something less than probity and pure heart. Clay, who without flinching characterized himself as “an honest business man of the old school,” now regretted, it seemed, his partnership with Dr. Fawcett. I gathered that Dr. Fawcett was a rather sinister figure. He had involved the firm in contracts which Clay suspected had malodorous origins. The business was prosperous—too prosperous. Too many county and state contracts were coming the way of the Clay Marble Quarries. A canny but uncompromising survey of the situation was demanded.

“No proof?” asked father.

“Not a particle, Inspector. He's too downright clever for that. All I have are suspicions. Will you take the case?” And Elihu Clay laid three banknotes of formidable denomination on the desk.

Father glanced at me. “Can we take the case, Patty?”

I looked doubtful. “We're busy. It means dropping everything else.…”

Elihu Clay stared at me for a moment. “An Idea,” he said abruptly. “I don't want Fawcett to suspect you, Inspector. At the same time you'll have to work with me. Why don't you and Miss Thumm come to Leeds as my house guests? Miss Thumm may come in—shall we say handy?” I inferred that Dr. Ira Fawcett was not insensible to feminine charms. My interest, needless to say, was aroused at once.

“We can manage, father,” I said briskly; and so it was arranged.

We spent the next two days clearing the decks, as it were, and on a Sunday evening packed our bags for the journey to Leeds. Elihu Clay had preceded us, returning upstate on the same day of his visit to New York.

I remember I was stretching my legs before our fire and sipping peach brandy—which I had also managed to smuggle past the nicest young customs officer—when the telegram came. It was from Governor Bruno—that same Walter Xavier Bruno who had been district attorney of New York County when father was active Inspector of Detectives, and who now was the popular, fighting Governor of New York State.

Father slapped his thigh and chuckled. “The same old Bruno! Well, Patty, here's the chance you've been yowlin' for. I guess we can make it, hey?”

He tossed the telegram to me. It read:

HELLO YOU OLD WAR HORSE PLANNING TO SURPRISE THE OLD MAESTRO AT LANECLIFF TOMORROW ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY BY MAKING FLYING TRIP I UNDERSTAND LANE HAS BEEN ILL AND NEEDS CHEERING UP IF A BUSY GOVERNOR CAN MAKE IT DARN YOU SO CAN YOU STOP I SHALL EXPECT TO SEE YOU THERE

BRUNO

“Oh, swell!” I cried, upsetting the brandy on my most cherished Patou pajamas. “Do you—do you think he'll like me?”

“Drury Lane,” growled father, “is a mis—mis—he hates women. But I suppose I'll have to drag you along. Go on to bed.” He grinned. “Now, Patty, I want you to look your sweetest tomorrow. We'll sweep the old scoundrel off his feet. And—er—Pat, do you
have
to drink? Mind you,” he said hastily, “I'm not being an old-fashioned father, but——”

I kissed the tip of his ugly smashed nose. Poor father, He tried very hard.

The approach to The Hamlet, Mr. Drury Lane's estate in the Hudson hills, was all I had pictured from father's descriptions—more. It was the most breath-taking place I had ever come upon; and my itinerary had included the staple wonders of the Old World. I had seen nothing in Europe—not even on the Rhine—to compare with the exquisite peace and beauty of these dense warm woods, the immaculate roads, the frowzy clouds above, the serene blue river crawling far below. And the castle itself! It might really have been transported on a magic carpet from the ancient hills of Britain. It was enormous, stately, beautiful, medieval.

Our journey took us over a quaint wooden bridge, through a private wood which might have been Sherwood Forest—I half-expected to see Friar Tuck pop out at us from behind a tree—through the main gate of the castle, and into the grounds of the estate. Everywhere we say smiling people, most of them old, most of them living on the bounty of Drury Lane, who had built up in this accessible fastness a place of refuge for time-battered folk of the arts. Father assured me that there were countless scores who blessed the name of Drury Lane and his unsparing largess.

Governor Bruno met us in the gardens. He had not had himself announced to the old gentleman, having chosen to wait for our arrival. I thought him very jolly—a square-faced, stocky man with the high forehead and brilliant eyes of the intellectual and the bony jaw of the fighter. A retinue of state troopers, his escort, hovered watchfully in the background.

But I was too excited to think of mere governors. For approaching slowly through the privets toward us, framed by yew trees, came an old man—a very old man, I thought, with a sensation of surprise. Father's descriptions of Mr. Lane had always made me think of a tall, youthful man in the prime of life. I realized now how unkindly the past ten years had treated him. They had stooped his wide shoulders, thinned his heavy shock of white hair, lined his face, wrinkled his hands, and crushed the springiness of his step. But his eyes were still young—coruscating eyes of disconcerting clarity, wisdom, and humor. His cheeks were flushed; at first he seemed not to notice me, grasped the hands of father and Governor Bruno and clung to them, muttering: “Oh, this is good of you, good of you!” I had always considered myself a moderately desentimentalized young woman; and now I found myself with a silly lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.…

Father blew his nose and said gruffly: “Mr. Lane, I want you to meet my—my daughter, by God.”

He took my hands in his old ones, and looked into my eyes. “My dear,” he said very gravely. “My dear. Welcome to The Hamlet.”

And then I said something that in retrospect always makes me blush painfully. The plain truth is that I wanted to show off. I wanted to demonstrate my monstrous cleverness. I suppose my being of the genus Eve had something to do with it. I do know that I had looked forward to this meeting for a long time, and subconsciously had been steeling myself for a test which, after all, was entirely imaginary.

At any rate, I babbled: “I'm so happy, Mr. Lane. You don't know how I've wanted—I really—” Then it came out. I leered—I am sure it was a leer—and blurted; “I see you're contemplating writing your memoirs!”

Of course, I was sorry the moment the words wiggled out; it was inane, and I bit my lip with mortification. I heard father give vent to a gusty gasp, and Governor Bruno looked positively stupefied. As for Mr. Lane, his old brows soared, his eyes grew keen, and he studied my face for a long moment before replying. Then he chuckled, rubbed his hands togtheer, and said: “My child, this is astonishing. Inspector, I shall never forgive you for having kept this young woman out of sight during all these years. What is your name?”

“Patience,” I mumbled.

“Ha, the Puritan influence, Inspector! I daresay that was an inspiration of yours rather than of your wife's.” He chuckled again, grasping my arm with surprising strength, and said: “Come along, you fossils. We can talk about ourselves later.… Astonishing, astonishing!” he kept chuckling. He led us to a lovely arbor, bustled about, sent various rosy little old men on errands, served us with his own hands, and all the while kept stealing glances at my face. By this time I was in the lowest pit of confusion, and I kept upbraiding myself bitterly for the fatuous egotism which had inspired my remark.

“Now then,” the old gentleman said, when we had refreshed ourselves, “now then, Patience, let's investigate your remarkable statement.” His voice lulled my ears; it was of extraordinary timbre, deep, mellow, rich as old Moselle. “So I'm contemplating the writing of my memoirs, am I? Indeed! And what else do those pretty eyes of yours see, my dear?”

“Oh, really,” I faltered, “I'm sorry for having said that.… I mean—it wasn't … I don't want to monopolize the conversation, Mr. Lane. You haven't seen the Governor and father for so long.”

“Nonsense, my child. We old boys have learned, I'm sure, to cultivate Patience.” He chuckled again. “Another sign of senility. What else, Patience?”

“Well,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “you're learning to typewrite, Mr. Lane.”

“Eh!” He looked startled. Father was staring at me as if he had never seen me before.

“And,” I continued meekly, “you are teaching yourself, Mr. Lane. You're learning the touch system rather than the hit-or-miss system.”

“Good heavens! This is retribution with a vengeance.” He turned, smiling, to father. “Inspector, you've produced a veritable giantess of intellect. But perhaps you've been telling tales about me to Patience?”

“Hell! I'm as surprised as you are. How the devil could I tell her? I didn't know myself. Is it true?”

Governor Bruno rubbed his jaw. “I think I could use a young woman like you in Albany, Miss Thumm——”

“Here! No irrelevancies,” murmured Drury Lane. His eyes were exceedingly bright. “This is a challenge. Deduced, eh? Since Patience has done it, it's obvious that the thing can be done. Let me see.… What has occurred, precisely, since we met? First I approached through the trees. Then I greeted you, Inspector, and you, Bruno. And then Patience and I looked at each other and—shook hands. Tchk! The startling deductions … Ha! The hands, of course!” He examined his own hands quickly, carefully; then he smiled and nodded. “My dear, this is perfectly amazing. Yes, yes! Naturally! Learning to type, eh? Inspector, what does an examination of my claws tell you?”

He held his white-veined hands up before father's nose, and father blinked. “Tell me? What the deuce can they tell me? They're clean, that's all!”

We laughed. “Confirmation, Inspector, of my often repeated conviction that observation of minutiae is of vast importance to the detective. It appears that the fingernails of four fingers on each hand are broken,
cracked.
Whereas the thumbnails are unbroken, in fact manicured. Obviously the only manual operation which would mar all fingernails except those on the thumbs would be typewriting—
learning
to type, because the nails are unaccustomed to the impacts of the finger-ends on the keys and have not yet healed.… Brava, Patience!”

“Well—” began father grumpily.

“Oh, come now, Inspector,” said the old gentleman, grinning, “you're always a skeptic. Yes, yes, Patience, excellent! Now, this business of the touch system. A shrewd inference. For in the so-called hunt system beginners use only two fingers, therefore only two nails would be cracked. The touch system, on the other hand, employs all the fingers except the thumbs.” He closed his eyes. “And that I'm contemplating writing my memoirs! A broad jump, my dear, from the observed phenomena, but it illustrates that you possess the gift of intuition as well as of observation and deduction. Bruno, have you any idea how this charming young detective arrived at that conclusion?”

“Not the faintest,” confessed the Governor.

“It's a dad-blamed trick,” growled father; but I noticed that his cigar had gone out and that his fingers were trembling.

Mr. Lane chuckled again. “So simple! Why, says Patience, should an old codger seventy years of age suddenly apply himself to the problem of learning how to typewrite? Surely an unreasonable action since he neglected, apparently, to learn during the preceding fifty years! Is that right, Patience?”

“Exactly, Mr. Lane. You seem to understand so quickly—”

“So, you said, when a man reaches his age and engages in such a frivolous pursuit, it can only be because he realizes that his best days are behind him, intends to write something personal and, of course, lengthy—at the end of life—memoirs, of course! Extraordinary.” His eyes clouded. “But what I fail to see, Patience, is how you deduce that I'm teaching myself. It's true, but for the life of me …”

“That,” I said weakly, “was a little technical. The deduction was based, I think, on the fair premise that if you were being taught by someone else, you would be taught in the way that all beginning typists are taught—by touch. But to prevent students from stealing glances at the keys instead of memorizing the location of each letter, the instructor places little rubber pads over the keys to conceal the characters. But if rubber pads had been placed over your keys, Mr. Lane, your nails would not be broken! Consequently, you are probably teaching yourself.”