III
THE SYBARITE
We found the Novella Beauty Parlour on the top floor of anoffice-building just off Fifth Avenue on a side street not far fromForty-second Street. A special elevator, elaborately fitted up, waftedus up with express speed. As the door opened we saw a vista ofdull-green lattices, little gateways hung with roses, windows ofdiamond-paned glass get in white wood, rooms with little whiteenamelled manicure-tables and chairs, amber lights glowing with softincandescence in deep bowers of fireproof tissue flowers. There was adelightful warmth about the place, and the seductive scents anddelicate odours betokened the haunt of the twentieth-century Sybarite.
Both O'Connor and Leslie, strangely out of place in the enervatingluxury of the now deserted beauty-parlour, were still waiting forKennedy with a grim determination.
"A most peculiar thing," whispered O'Connor, dashing forward the momentthe elevator door opened. "We can't seem to find a single cause for herdeath. The people up here say it was a suicide, but I never accept thetheory of suicide unless there are undoubted proofs. So far there havebeen none in this case. There was no reason for it."
Seated in one of the large easy-chairs of the reception-room, in acorner with two of O'Connor's men standing watchfully near, was a manwho was the embodiment of all that was nervous. He was alternatelywringing his hands and rumpling his hair. Beside him was amiddle-sized, middle-aged lady in a most amazing state of preservation,who evidently presided over the cosmetic mysteries beyond the male ken.She was so perfectly groomed that she looked as though her clothes werea mould into which she had literally been poured.
"Professor and Madame Millefleur--otherwise Miller,"--whisperedO'Connor, noting Kennedy's questioning gaze and taking his arm to hurryhim down a long, softly carpeted corridor, flanked on either side bylittle doors. "They run the shop. They say one of the girls just openedthe door and found her dead."
Near the end, one of the doors stood open, and before it Dr. Leslie,who had preceded us, paused. He motioned to us to look in. It was alittle dressing-room, containing a single white-enamelled bed, adresser, and a mirror. But it was not the scant though elegantfurniture that caused us to start back.
There under the dull half-light of the corridor lay a woman, mostsuperbly formed. She was dark, and the thick masses of her hair, readyfor the hairdresser, fell in a tangle over her beautifully chiselledfeatures and full, rounded shoulders and neck. A scarlet bathrobe,loosened at the throat, actually accentuated rather than covered thevoluptuous lines of her figure, down to the slender ankle which hadbeen the beginning of her fortune as a danseuse.
Except for the marble pallor of her face it was difficult to believethat she was not sleeping. And yet there she was, the famous BlancheBlaisdell, dead--dead in the little dressing-room of the Novella BeautyParlour, surrounded as in life by mystery and luxury.
We stood for several moments speechless, stupefied. At last O'Connorsilently drew a letter from his pocket. It was written on the latestand most delicate of scented stationery.
"It was lying sealed on the dresser when we arrived," explainedO'Connor, holding it so that we could not see the address. "I thoughtat first she had really committed suicide and that this was a note ofexplanation. But it is not. Listen. It is just a line or two. It reads:'Am feeling better now, though that was a great party last night.Thanks for the newspaper puff which I have just read. It was very kindof you to get them to print it. Meet me at the same place and same timeto-night. Your Blanche.' The note was not stamped, and was never sent.Perhaps she rang for a messenger. At any rate, she must have been deadbefore she could send it. But it was addressed to--Burke Collins."
"Burke Collins!" exclaimed Kennedy and I together in amazement.
He was one of the leading corporation lawyers in the country, directorin a score of the largest companies, officer in half a dozen charitiesand social organisations, patron of art and opera. It seemedimpossible, and I at least did not hesitate to say so. For answerO'Connor simply laid the letter and envelope down on the dresser.
It seemed to take some time to convince Kennedy. There it was in blackand white, however, in Blanche Blaisdell's own vertical hand. Try tofigure it out as I could, there seemed to be only one conclusion, andthat was to accept it. What it was that interested him I did not know,but finally he bent down and sniffed, not at the scented letter, but atthe covering on the dresser. When he raised his head I saw that he hadnot been looking at the letter at all, but at a spot on the cover nearit.
"Sn-ff, sn-ff," he sniffed, thoughtfully closing his eyes as ifconsidering something. "Yes--oil of turpentine."
Suddenly he opened his eyes, and the blank look of abstraction that hadmasked his face was broken through by a gleam of comprehension that Iknew flashed the truth to him intuitively.
"Turn out that light in the corridor," he ordered quickly.
Dr. Leslie found and turned the switch. There we were alone, in the nowweird little dressing-room, alone with that horribly lovely thing lyingthere cold and motionless on the little white bed.
Kennedy moved forward in the darkness. Gently, almost as if she werestill the living, pulsing, sentient Blanche Blaisdell who had entrancedthousands, he opened her mouth.
A cry from O'Connor, who was standing in front of me, followed. "What'sthat, those little spots on her tongue and throat? They glow. It is thecorpse light!"
Surely enough, there were little luminous spots in her mouth. I hadheard somewhere that there is a phosphorescence appearing during decayof organic substances which once gave rise to the ancient superstitionof "corpse lights" and the will-o'-the-wisp. It was really due, I knew,to living bacteria. But there surely had been no time for suchmicro-organisms to develop, even in the almost tropic heat of theNovella. Could she have been poisoned by these phosphorescent bacilli?What was it--a strange new mouth-malady that had attacked thisnotorious adventuress and woman of luxury?
Leslie had flashed up the light again before Craig spoke. We were allwatching him keenly.
"Phosphorus, phosphoric acid, or phosphoric salve," Craig said slowly,looking eagerly about the room as if in search of something that wouldexplain it. He caught sight of the envelope still lying on the dresser.He picked it up, toyed with it, looked at the top where O'Connor hadslit it, then deliberately tore the flap off the back where it had beenglued in sealing the letter.
"Put the light out again," he asked.
Where the thin line of gum was on the back of the flap, in the darknessthere glowed the same sort of brightness that we had seen in a speckhere and there on Blanche Blaisdell's lips and in her mouth. The truthflashed over me. Some one had placed the stuff, whatever it was, on theflap of the envelope, knowing that she must touch her lips to it toseal it She had done so, and the deadly poison had entered her mouth.
As the light went up again Kennedy added: "Oil of turpentine removestraces of phosphorus, phosphoric acid, or phosphoric salve, which areinsoluble in anything else except ether and absolute alcohol. Some onewho knew that tried to eradicate them, but did not wholly succeed.O'Connor, see if you can find either phosphorus, the oil, or the salveanywhere in the shop."
Then as O'Connor and Leslie hurriedly disappeared he added to me:"Another of those strange coincidences, Walter. You remember the girlat the hospital? 'Look, don't you see it? She's afire. Her lipsshine--they shine, they shine!'"
Kennedy was still looking carefully over the room. In a little wickerbasket was a newspaper which was open at the page of theatrical news,and as I glanced quickly at it I saw a most laudatory paragraph abouther.
Beneath the paper were some torn scraps. Kennedy picked them up andpieced them together. "Dearest Blanche," they read. "I hope you'refeeling better after that dinner last night. Can you meet me to-night?Write me immediately. Collie."
He placed the scraps carefully in his wallet. There was nothing more tobe done here apparently. As we passed down the corridor we could hear aman apparently raving in good English and bad French. It proved to beMillefleur--or Mil
ler--and his raving was as overdone as that of athird-rate actor. Madame was trying to calm him.
"Henri, Henri, don't go on so," she was saying.
"A suicide--in the Novella. It will be in all the papers. We shall beruined. Oh--oh!"
"Here, can that sob stuff," broke in one of O'Connor's officers. "Youcan tell it all when the chief takes you to headquarters, see?"
Certainly the man made no very favourable impression by his actions.There seemed to be much that was forced about them, that was moreincriminating than a stolid silence would have been.
Between them Monsieur and Madame made out, however, to repeat toKennedy their version of what had happened. It seemed that a noteaddressed to Miss Blaisdell had been left by some one on the desk inthe reception-room. No one knew who left it, but one of the girls hadpicked it up and delivered it to her in her dressing-room. A momentlater she rang her bell and called for one of the girls named Agnes,who was to dress her hair. Agnes was busy, and the actress asked her toget paper, a pen, and ink. At least it seemed that way, for Agnes gotthem for her. A few minutes later her bell rang again, and Agnes wentdown, apparently to tell her that she was now ready to dress her hair.
The next thing any one knew was a piercing shriek from the girl. Sheran down the corridor, still shrieking, out into the reception-room andrushed into the elevator, which happened to be up at the time. That wasthe last they had seen of her. The other girls saw Miss Blaisdell lyingdead, and a panic followed. The customers dressed quickly and fled,almost in panic. All was confusion. By that time a policeman hadarrived, and soon after O'Connor and the coroner had come.
There was little use in cross-questioning the couple. They hadevidently had time to agree on the story; that is, supposing it werenot true. Only a scientific third degree could have shaken them, andsuch a thing was impossible just at that time.
From the line of Kennedy's questions I could see that he believed thatthere was a hiatus somewhere in their glib story, at least some pointwhere some one had tried to eradicate the marks of the poison.
"Here it is. We found it," interrupted O'Connor, holding up in hisexcitement a bottle covered with black cloth to protect it from thelight. "It was in the back of a cabinet in the operating-room, and itis marked 'Ether phosphore".' Another of oil of turpentine was on ashelf in another cabinet. Both seem to have been used lately, judgingby the wetness of the bottoms of the glass stoppers."
"Ether phosphore, phosphorated ether," commented Kennedy, reading thelabel to himself. "A remedy from the French Codex, composed, if Iremember rightly, of one part phosphorus and fifty parts sulphuricether. Phosphorus is often given as a remedy for loss of nerve power,neuralgia, hysteria, and melancholia. In quantities from a fiftieth toa tenth or so of a grain free phosphorus is a renovator of nerve tissueand nerve force, a drug for intense and long-sustained anxiety of mindand protracted emotional excitement--in short, for fast living."
He uncorked the bottle, and we tasted the stuff. It was unpleasant andnauseous. "I don't see why it wasn't used in the form of pills. Theliquid form of a few drops on gum arabic is hopelessly antiquated."
The elevator door opened with a clang, and a well-built, athleticlooking man of middle age with an acquired youngish look about hisclothes and clean-shaven face stepped out. His face was pale, and hishand shook with emotion that showed that something had unstrung hisusually cast-iron nerves. I recognised Burke Collins at once.
In spite of his nervousness he strode forward with the air of a manaccustomed to being obeyed, to having everything done for him merelybecause he, Burke Collins, could afford to pay for it and it was hisright. He seemed to know whom he was seeking, for he immediatelysingled out O'Connor.
"This is terrible, terrible," he whispered hoarsely. "No, no, no, Idon't want to see her. I can't, not yet. You know I thought the worldof that poor little girl. Only," and here the innate selfishness of theman cropped out, "only I called to ask you that nothing of myconnection with her be given out. You understand? Spare nothing to getat the truth. Employ the best men you have. Get outside help ifnecessary. I'll pay for anything, anything. Perhaps I can use someinfluence for you some day, too. But, you understand--the scandal, youknow. Not a word to the newspapers."
At another time I feel sure that O'Connor would have succumbed. Collinswas not without a great deal of political influence, and even a firstdeputy may be "broke" by a man with influence. But now here wasKennedy, and he wished to appear in the best light.
He looked at Craig. "Let me introduce Professor Kennedy," he said."I've already called him in."
"Very happy to have the pleasure of meeting you," said Collins,grasping Kennedy's hand warmly. "I hope you will take me as your clientin this case. I'll pay handsomely. I've always had a great admirationfor your work, and I've heard a great deal about it."
Kennedy is, if anything, as impervious to blandishment as a stone, asthe Blarney Stone is itself, for instance. "On one condition," hereplied slowly, "and that is that I go ahead exactly as if I wereemployed by the city itself to get at the truth."
Collins bit his lip. It was evident that he was not accustomed to beingmet in this independent spirit. "Very well," he answered at last."O'Connor has called you in. Work for him and--well, you know, if youneed anything just draw on me for it. Only if you can, keep me out ofit. I'll tell everything I can to help you--but not to the newspapers."
He beckoned us outside. "Those people in there," he nodded his headback in the direction of the Millefleurs, "do you suspect them? ByGeorge, it does look badly for them, doesn't it, when you come to thinkof it? Well, now, you see, I'm frank and confidential about myrelations with Blan--er--Miss Blaisdell. I was at a big dinner with herlast night with a party of friends. I suppose she came here to getstraightened out. I hadn't been able to get her on the wire to-day, butat the theatre when I called up they told me what had happened, and Icame right over here. Now please remember, do everything, anything butcreate a scandal. You realise what that would mean for me."
Kennedy said nothing. He simply laid down on the desk, piece by piece,the torn letter which he had picked up from the basket, and beside ithe spread out the reply which Blanche had written.
"What?" gasped Collins as he read the torn letter. "I send that? Why,man alive, you're crazy. Didn't I just tell you I hadn't heard from heruntil I called up the theatre just now?"
I could not make out whether he was lying or not when he said that hehad not sent the note. Kennedy picked up a pen. "Please write the samething as you read in the note on this sheet of the Novella paper. Itwill be all right. You have plenty of witnesses to that."
It must have irked Collins even to have his word doubted, but Kennedywas no respecter of persons. He took the pen and wrote.
"I'll keep your name out of it as much as possible," remarked Kennedy,glancing intently at the writing and blotting it.
"Thank you," said Collins simply, for once in his life at a loss forwords. Once more he whispered to O'Connor, then he excused himself. Theman was so obviously sincere, I felt, as far as his selfish and sensuallimitations would permit, that I would not have blamed Kennedy forgiving him much more encouragement than he had given.
Kennedy was not through yet, and now turned quickly again to thecosmetic arcadia which had been so rudely stirred by the tragedy.
"Who is this girl Agnes who discovered Miss Blaisdell?" he shot out atthe Millefleurs.
The beauty-doctor was now really painful in his excitement. Like hisestablishment, even his feelings were artificial.
"Agnes?" he repeated. "Why, she was one of Madame's best hair-dressers.See--my dear--show the gentlemen the book of engagements."
It was a large book full of girls' names, each an expert in curls,puffs, "reinforcements," hygienic rolls, transformators, and thenumberless other things that made the fearful and wonderfulhair-dresses of the day. Agnes's dates were full, for a day ahead.
Kennedy ran his eye over the list of patrons. "Mrs. Burke Collins,3:30," he read. "Was she a patron,
too?"
"Oh, yes," answered Madame. "She used to come here three times a week.It was not vanity. We all knew her, and we all liked her."
Instantly I could read between the lines, and I felt that I had beentoo charitable to Burke Collins. Here was the wife slaving to securethat beauty which would win back the man with whom she had worked andtoiled in the years before they came to New York and success. The"other woman" came here, too, but for a very different reason.
Nothing but business seemed to impress Millefleur, however. "Oh, yes,"he volunteered, "we have a fine class. Among my own patients I haveHugh Dayton, the actor, you know, leading man in Blanche Blaisdell'scompany. He is having his hair restored. Why, I gave him a treatmentthis afternoon. If ever there is a crazy man, it is he. I believe hewould kill Mr. Collins for the way Blanche Blaisdell treats him. Theywere engaged--but, oh, well," he gave a very good imitation of a Frenchshrug, "it is all over now. Neither of them will get her, and I--I amruined. Who will come to the Novella now?"
Adjoining Millefleur's own room was the writing room from which thepoisoned envelope had been taken to Miss Blaisdell. Over the littlesecretary was the sign, "No woman need be plain who will visit theNovella," evidently the motto of the place. The hair-dressing room wasnext to the little writing-room. There were manicure rooms,steam-rooms, massage-rooms, rooms of all descriptions, all bearing mutetestimony to the fundamental instinct, the feminine longing forpersonal beauty.
Though it was late when Kennedy had finished his investigation, heinsisted on going directly to his laboratory. There he pulled out froma corner a sort of little square table on which was fixed a powerfullight such as might be used for a stereopticon.
"This is a simple little machine," he explained, as be pasted togetherthe torn bits of the letter which he had fished out of thescrap-basket, "which detectives use in studying forgeries. I don't knowthat it has a name, although it might be called a 'rayograph.' You see,all you have to do is to lay the thing you wish to study flat here, andthe system of mirrors and lenses reflects it and enlarges it on asheet."
He had lowered a rolled-up sheet of white at the opposite end of theroom, and there, in huge characters, stood forth plainly the writing ofthe note.
"This letter," he resumed, studying the enlargement carefully, "islikely to prove crucial. It's very queer. Collins says he didn't writeit, and if he did he surely is a wonder at disguising his hand. I doubtif any one could disguise what the rayograph shows. Now, for instance,this is very important. Do you see how those strokes of the longletters are--well, wobbly? You'd never see that in the original, butwhen it is enlarged you see how plainly visible the tremors of the handbecome? Try as you may, you can't conceal them. The fact is that thewriter of this note suffered from a form of heart disease. Now let uslook at the copy that Collins made at the Novella."
He placed the copy on the table of the rayograph. It was quite evidentthat the two had been written by entirely different persons. "I thoughthe was telling the truth," commented Craig, "by the surprised look onhis face the moment I mentioned the note to Miss Blaisdell. Now I knowhe was. There is no such evidence of heart trouble in his writing as inthe other. Of course that's all aside from what a study of thehandwriting itself might disclose. They are not similar at all. Butthere is an important clue there. Find the writer of that note who hasheart trouble, and we either have the murderer or some one close to themurderer."
I remembered the tremulousness of the little beauty-doctor, histhird-rate artificial acting of fear for the reputation of the Novella,and I must confess I agreed with O'Connor and Collins that it lookedblack for him. At one time I had suspected Collins himself, but now Icould see perfectly why he had not concealed his anxiety to hush up hisconnection with the case, while at the same time his instinct as alawyer, and I had almost added, lover, told him that justice must bedone. I saw at once how, accustomed as he was to weigh evidence, he hadimmediately seen the justification for O'Connor's arrest of theMillefleurs.
"More than that," added Kennedy, after examining the fibres of thepaper under a microscope, "all these notes are written on the same kindof paper. That first torn note to Miss Blaisdell was written right inthe Novella and left so as to seem to have been sent in from outside."
It was early the following morning when Kennedy roused me with theremark: "I think I'll go up to the hospital. Do you want to come along?We'll stop for Barron on the way. There is a little experiment I wantto try on that girl up there."
When we arrived, the nurse in charge of the ward told us that herpatient had passed a fairly good night, but that now that the influenceof the drug had worn off she was again restless and still repeating thewords that she had said over and over before. Nor had she been able togive any clearer account of herself. Apparently she had been alone inthe city, for although there was a news item about her in the morningpapers, so far no relative or friend had called to identify her.
Kennedy had placed himself directly before her, listening intently toher ravings. Suddenly he managed to fix her eye, as if by a sort ofhypnotic influence.
"Agnes!" he called in a sharp tone.
The name seemed to arrest her fugitive attention. Before she couldescape from his mental grasp again he added: "Your date-book is full.Aren't you going to the Novella this morning?"
The change in her was something wonderful to see. It was as though shehad come out of a trance. She sat up in bed and gazed about blankly.
"Yes, yes, I must go," she cried as if it were the most natural thingin the world. Then she realised the strange surroundings and faces."Where is my hat--wh-where am I? What has happened?"
"You are all right," soothed Kennedy gently. "Now rest. Try to forgeteverything for a little while, and you will be all right. You are amongfriends."
As Kennedy led us out she fell back, now physically exhausted, on thepillow.
"I told you, Barron," he whispered, "that there was more to this casethan you imagined. Unwittingly you brought me a very importantcontribution to a case of which the papers are full this morning, thecase of the murdered actress, Blanche Blaisdell."