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Flynn's, 14 Feb 1925, with "Taste"
"The Fourteen Points," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925
Illustration from "Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine."
They were working together to find "a nectar fit for the gods."
"EVEN the murder of Marguerite Moller was aesthetic. Everything but her actual dying was aesthetic."
Doctor Seaman, from the homicide bureau of the office of the district attorney in New York, was like a demon of discord in our own aesthetic surroundings. Kennedy and I were on the colonnade of a pink stucco bungalow in the island of Nassau, rented for a month along with a quiet, efficient Chinese servant, Chan.
About us were vines and brilliant flowers, and, as if nature wanted to humor us still more, the sunset cast a rosy glow of beauty about us. In the Bahamas life is worth the living. There was a sensuous tranquillity. How could one be morbid with the colors of energy, hopefulness, and life enveloping and inspiring one? Yet here was Doctor Seaman, to my mind the foremost specialist in the gruesome in America.
I was toying with a bell on the table near my wicker chair. Inadvertently—at least I thought so—I tinkled it. A moment and Chan padded in. There was ice tinkling musically in a bowl, fresh limes in another azure bowl, and something in a bottle.
Never a word had been said. The laugh was on me. I disclaimed it vainly.
"He saw the desire in thine eyes, Walter," chuckled Craig.
"Well, it might have been there. I was thinking a little cheer might make the doctor forget his mission and spare us."
"I wish I could. But I can't. There is only one man I know to whom to go for help, and, by a fortunate chance, he is on the island." Doctor Seaman bowed toward Kennedy. His face was earnest and troubled. "My reputation depends on this case."
Perhaps it stirred a qualm of conscience within Kennedy. As for me, I was annoyed. I had come on this trip not only for a change, but for a story. Kennedy had perfected an improvement on an electro-magnetic gun, a flashless, smokeless, noiseless gun that would rain steel bullets out so fast that it was as if a knife were cutting through the air. He had set the thing up on a bluff on this opposite side of the island from the great New Colonial Hotel and here we were operating now and then on some luxuriant semi-tropical foliage, testing the device out.
"Fortified with this, we might hear you out, Doctor," suggested Kennedy, shaking his glass enough to elicit music from the ice. "How did the little actress die?"
"Poisoned!"
"What?" I exclaimed.
Kennedy turned to me. "Did you know her, Walter?"
"I certainly did—a wonderful woman. She's the one gave me that famous interview, 'Marriage Clips the Wings.' Oh, it was a shame that girl ever married. She had Bernhardt's voice and sense of pathos, the living, exultant spirit of youth and grace of gesture of Duse. When she married Walton Wright the stage lost a shining star—a real jewel."
"It was for her jewels," interrupted Doctor Seaman, quietly, "that she was murdered."
"Her collection of diamonds?" I inquired, quickly.
"Exactly. They have been stolen—all gone except those with flaws."
"I have seen them. There was a fortune in that collection. Most of them came from South Africa. In the old days, to know Moller one had to bestow a diamond, at least. There were many rivals—and many diamonds. Every admirer tried to excel the others. Hence the collection."
"How do you know so much, Walter? Did you contribute?" asked Kennedy.
"Do cub reporters buy diamonds?" I paused a moment. "She liked publicity. I could have been her press agent. Only I prefer traveling with you, Craig." I knew that would get him.
"What became of her husband?" asked Kennedy, with a smile.
I knew what prompted that question. He might be a suspect. "She divorced him. Wright was a steel millionaire. He has married since, a nice little woman who could never emote in the least—and I doubt if she'd be able to tell a brilliant from a real sparkler."
"Was be jealous of his first wife? I mean, did he ever try to see her afterward?"
"Yes. Moller wasn't up-to-date; she was ahead of it," cut in Doctor Seaman. "What was a husband, more or less, if she might add to her collection and indulge her whims?"
"But, Craig, Moller was a genius," I remonstrated. "Brains, beauty and beaux—she had them all. And she used them all to the limit. She could paint, she could sing, she could act."
Again Doctor Seaman interrupted. "I've been over her papers. She had a most unusual intellect for a woman. Also she indulged in many fads. I couldn't begin to explain some of them logically, because I have never happened to get that way, myself. She went in for aestheticism with a vengeance. She looked on life as rhythm, harmony, was always trying to get attune with nature, and all that. It is for us ordinary folks to understand it in music and color. But she lived it. All her activities must co-ordinate with her acute sense of harmony. There was rhythm in her food, in the very taste of things. Nothing must jar about her. She seemed to glide through life as easily, as beautifully, as that cloud touched by gold in the sea of lavender lights above us."
Kennedy looked at Doctor Seaman quizzically. "Whence the inspiration, Doctor? From Moller, or the Bahama sunset—or the glass?"
Doctor Seaman merely smiled.
"Moller was an inspiration to many." I was ready to rise in her defense. "She was an art patron, as well as a bonne vivante. We shouldn't speak of her lightly. She has done much in the world besides collecting the most perfect diamonds."
"Was she beautiful?" inquired Craig.
"Here's her picture." Doctor Seaman took a photograph from his pocket. "A very recent photograph, I believe. Time could not dull that beauty."
Moller was truly wonderful in that tinted portrait. Great blue eyes looked out at one, searching, it seemed, after we had heard her attributes, for the beauty, the joys of this world, not seeing the dross, the crude, the ugly. Golden-brown locks that seemed wind-stirred even in the inanimate picture crowned a face of perfect contour, oval, but with a well-chiseled chin. Her lips appeared tremulous with emotion, as if, having found the beauty, her soul was ready to acclaim it with her sweet voice. A slender, swan-like throat that curved to her slim, fair shoulders with the lines to stir the heart of an artist, she was grace and beauty, harmony itself.
"You say the woman was poisoned?" asked Craig.
"All the evidences of it," returned Doctor Seaman.
"What poison was used?" pursued Kennedy.
"Strychnine. We know that."
Kennedy leaned back, silent for a few moments. "You say it was strychnine—and she was an Epicurean. That's strange. There is nothing denoting exquisite taste in strychnine. Why, Doctor, you know that drug is intensely bitter—one of the most bitter known to science. Even an ordinarily intelligent woman would refuse food or drink with strychnine in it, for the bitterness alone. This bitterness is so marked that one part of it gives a decided taste in as much as seventy thousand parts of water. It is a bitterness that is very persistent, too, clinging tenaciously to the tongue, and is removed only with difficulty. Arc you sure it was strychnine?" Kennedy asked it incredulously.
"Positive, from its reactions on the body. Some people in death assume an aspect of placidity when suffering has ceased, but beautiful Marguerite Moller was terrible to look at. The muscles of her limbs had taken on an extreme rigidity. Neither her arms nor her legs could be bent back to a proper position for dressing for burial. Her eyes were open, staring, the pupils widely dilated. She had died alone—no hand even to wipe the foam from her lips. Her beautiful face was distorted in agony and her mouth was twisted into a ghastly, grinning expression."
Kennedy raised an admonishing hand. "Those are the symptoms, undoubtedly. But how distressing to introduce them here. Seaman, I'm resting. This case would appeal to me if I were in the States. But why chase me here? I don't believe I'll take it up." It was said with an alarming sound of finality of decision in his voice.
But I was interested, twofold. I knew the lovely woman—and what a story must be back of it. Then, too, Doctor Seaman seemed to want to confide in me. I was not at all flattered into imagining he thought me a great detective or scientist. I knew why. Holding on to me, he might get Kennedy's help in the end. But I was curious, and asked, "Just how was the poison given?"
"That is the queer part of it. In spite of its bitterness, it was taken as a drink—in a highball. On a stand beside an easy chair were all the makings—two glasses, the decanter, and the siphon of vichy. Both glasses were empty, except the dregs. These we examined. One was all right. The other still contained a trace of the poison. The whisky in the decanter was pure, too. Someone slipped the poison into her glass."
Kennedy was lying out straight now, eyes closed, apparently unaware of our conversation.
"It's quite self-evident," I considered, "that the person who took the diamonds poisoned the drink. But it must have been some one with whom she was extremely friendly in order to inveigle her in such a manner in her own beautiful home. It was her boast that only congenial, harmonious people entered her abode. She felt discordant natures and refused such friendships. Something unusual and unexpected must have happened."
"Something very unusual did take place," replied Seaman, with an evident avidity to talk. "Many people laughed at Moller and her theories, but at least she had ideas. Her head was no vacuum. On a long table in the same room where we found her lying dead were several rows of tiny glasses. Each glass was about the size of a cordial glass. And all were numbered. In each was same liquid. On the table were countless notes concerning the exhibit. After repeated tests we found out that all the contents of the glasses were harmless. It had been an experiment she had been carrying on with some intimate concerning the harmony of tastes. The first glass was of an extremely sour liquid and all the other glasses were slightly less sour in rotation until they actually became sweet to the taste. To be able to appreciate those gradations one must have an acute sense of taste. Evidently Moller and her friend had. Their notes showed they were working together to find a 'nectar fit for the gods.'"
Doctor Seaman seemed to be regarding the warble of a bird in a tree. "They reasoned out the idea in the same way as the chromatic scale in music. The union of perfectly adjusted tones makes harmony in music. The union of perfectly adjusted liquids would produce a harmony in taste—a delightful drink. And on that idea Moller had been working."
"There is something in that, I think," Kennedy interrupted, unexpectedly. "The blending of colors makes a delightful harmonious unity, just as the blending of notes makes a harmonious, sweet chord."
It was a new idea to me. But I had to admit that it sounded reasonable, to a certain extent. Then I wondered if in some way these liquids might have caused her death. But no. Doctor Seaman had already told us positively that they had all been tested and found innocuous. Somehow I couldn't remove the idea from my head that a combination of them might have produced the unexpected results. I made the point. The categorical answer was that there had been a theft—and there was strychnine in the glass. That was the poisoning. My theory was out.
"Who found her?" I questioned next.
"Her maid. We have held her as a witness. She said that the night her mistress was poisoned was her night off. She left in the early afternoon and at that time Marguerite Moller was alone and well. When she came back the next morning to resume her duties she opened the door as usual. She was astonished to see the lights still on in many of the rooms. All the shades had been drawn. When she came to Moller's little informal studio, she was shocked to find her mistress lying on the floor—dead.
"She called to her—and when she did not receive an answer she lost her head completely and ran screaming from the room for help. That inadvertently helped us. There was no mixing up of things and disturbing positive clues. The manager of the apartment, knowing of the valuable collection of diamonds that belonged to the actress, took charge, allowed admittance to no one but the police and the doctor."
"Were there any recent scandals in Moller's life that the police have unearthed, still unknown to the public?" I asked.
"No. Moller seemed to be behaving herself. She had friends, purely Platonic, I believe. Anyone with the charm and beauty of that woman could have hosts of companions, if she so desired. In fact, the maid insists that except for her peculiar passionate love for her diamonds which she weighed and studied and gloated over for hours at a time, her heart seemed to have cooled to mere man. She spent her time with her music, her art, her treasures, and her theories. She lived a peculiar life and died a more peculiar death."
"Well, have you any idea about these purely Platonic friends? It seems to me that if it weren't love they were after in the case of such a beautiful woman, it might be the treasure. Almost everybody is after something these days," I added, with a touch of cynicism.
"We have looked up those who seemed most intimate. It was the maid who helped us out so splendidly there. She had met many of Moller's friends. One man in particular her mistress seemed to fancy. She appreciated his talents, unusual talents."
"Who was that?"
"Oh, he called himself Alfred Raver. But if the man contemplated doing such a thing as this crime, you can rest assured that Alfred Raver is a simple alias. You see, the reason why the maid told especially of him was that so many of his hobbies and theories coincided with those of the murdered woman. He, too, was aesthetic in his likes and dislikes."
"How did she meet him?" I asked. "How did you find out?"
Kennedy laughed quietly in his silence, at my insatiable curiosity. In spite of my admiration and love for Kennedy, his gentle way of poking fun at me always provoked me. I couldn't help it. I felt hot and uncomfortable about the ears.
"Just for that, Craig," I exclaimed, "since you have turned down Doctor Seaman, I'm going to stick along with him on this case. Those who laugh last laugh best. I'm determined to see him through this."
Dr. Seaman seemed to take it as a cue to keep on talking about the case to me—at Kennedy.
"As to your question, Jameson," he remarked, unperturbed, "from what I can gather, Alfred Raver was a society bootlegger. He qualified in all aspects for such a job. He was suave, handsome, secretive, with abundant intelligence and resourcefulness. He never disappointed a customer. But he was clever. Information about him is almost as hazy as some character in ancient history. I have been able to deduce his qualities only from the mass of hearsay evidence! nothing about his friends and manner of living. He was more than a bootlegger. His taste was remarkable. No vintage fooled him. Good 'old' Scotch fabricated synthetically on the high seas was never found in any of his consignments to wealthy patrons. In fact, his taste sounds like a fable or a fairy tale."
Kennedy moved restlessly on his wicker chaise longue. I knew he was interested in spite of himself.
"And to clinch matters, so far as suspicion has fastened on this Alfred Raver, the maid informs us that he was to call on Marguerite Moller that night," Doctor Seaman added.
"Well, Doctor, if you had a suspicion as healthy as that, why didn't you send for me, instead of coming all the way to the Bahamas after me? Much can happen back there in New York while you are away." Kennedy suddenly sat up and questioned.
"From information—maybe you would call it rather hazy—gleaned from some of Raver's wealthy patrons along the bootlegging line who would talk, it is suspected he had come down here to winter under cover, perhaps on a boat in some of these coves and bays in the Bahamas. So, you see, Kennedy, the chased and the chaser have sought you out in your retreat. It looks very much as if you were predestined to help us in this emergency."
"Are there other suspects?" I asked.
"Several friends. But they don't qualify like Raver. You see none but an eccentric genius could have committed this murder The murderer must have had certain talents, and none of the other suspects possess them. Moller would never have given them the chance. Raver had a peculiar bent toward art, drama, poetry, and music. It was easy for such a man to ingratiate himself with such a woman. The acquaintance was formed because of his skill in providing the requisite stimulants to her exclusive palate. What more natural than to drift from a discussion of such a sensitized taste to Moller's theory of harmony in all existing things? Finding that much in common, it must have been easy for kindred spirits to commune."
"What sort of looking chap is he?"
"Handsome, they say. He possesses a magnetic personality, I believe, has an uncanny attraction for and toward the ladies. If we only had it, many ladies' names might be found on his list of wet patrons. Only for his superlative charms, Marguerite Moller would never have fallen for him to the extent of showing him her valuable diamonds, or at least giving him some inkling where she concealed them and providing him with an opportunity to do away with her."
"I suppose," I suggested, "while he is hiding down here, he will be trying to locate some more of his stock-in-trade for the people back in the States? You might be able to get him that way." I put this suggestion timidly to Dr. Seaman. For once Kennedy was quiet.
"If Alfred Raver is the man we really think he is, he has used many an alias in his lifetime. Some things we do know of his record: He has been a tea-taster, a famous one. In pre-prohibition times he was a wine salesman. He is known as a gambler. As nearly as I can estimate him, his life has been such that to safeguard himself, he has depended on senses that are keen and keyed up. He is an erratic, an erotic adventurer in all that is at once artistic and sensuous." The doctor turned toward Kennedy as if that picture at least ought to be a last appeal to his interest.
Puffing lazily at his pipe, Kennedy explained his seeming lack of interest in taking up such an extraordinary case. "You know, Doctor, I had this chance to come down here and be quiet for a month. But it was for something more than rest that I came. Otherwise I might occasionally be celebrating freedom over at the New Colonial across the island. We are quiet in this little cove, and I have a splendid chance to work here unobserved."
"What are you doing down here, then, may I ask?" inquired Doctor Seaman, rather surprised. "I thought there was only one reason why people from the States visited Nassau."
Kennedy shifted his pipe. "I have an electro-magnetic gun, not exactly an invention of my own; but I am perfecting it. It pours out steel bullets like a sheet of steel disk, as it revolves through any are you set. It is mighty interesting, and entirely different. That is why I am enjoying it here. Walter and I are mighty happy, with the resting at night, golfing and sailing in the daytime, when we're not at work. I want to finish my work before I go back. And if I let any other work interfere, my reason for coming down here will be nullified."
As I listened. I refrained from saying that Kennedy really was not interested in anything particularly except that gun. As to golfing and sailing, I might have added that I was the one who indulged alone in these diversions. Still, I decided that the time on my hands that Kennedy did not require my help I would turn over to Doctor Seaman. I really meant to take up the case seriously, as an experiment.
"Have you any other clues, Doctor, besides those you have told us about?" I asked, eager to get down to work on the case.
"I have several things—photographs of the room as the body was lying when it was found, the box of candy I found near the glasses, and the decanter." Doctor 'Seaman was opening a small package he had laid on a chair with his hat when he entered.
Once again Kennedy showed animation. "What kind of candies?"
Doctor Seaman displayed a temptingly arranged box of chocolates and bonbons from the top layer of which only five or six had been taken. "We tested two pieces. They were all right. One a dog ate. The guinea pigs finished the other—and all are still living."
Kennedy picked out a chocolate and smelted it carefully. "Doesn't smell wrong." Gingerly he tasted a bit. Then he moved his tongue and lips as he tasted. "No strychnine in this. I would have detected it. The candies seem to be all right."
For a moment he thought, leaning over to the stand by his side and sipping his drink contemplatively. It seemed to give him an idea. "Summon Chan, Walter."
The Chinaman glided in. "Bring me that bottle of extra-fine Scotch that was sent to me this morning." Chan bowed his way out.
As we waited, Kennedy broke off small bits of the chocolate and insisted on the Doctor and myself tasting them.
"Craig, I could wait just as well, and buy a box for myself. I would feel more comfortable."
But he insisted, and when Craig, usually so polite and thoughtful of other people's feelings, insisted again, I partook. He must be convinced that the candy was safe or he would not have had us taste even a small bit of it. He must have a reason. For the life of me I could not figure it out. But to show my good will I bit into the little piece. It was sweet, not as sweet, however, as some I have eaten.
Chan entered with a tray. "Walter," remarked Kennedy as Chan set it down before him, "this Scotch was given to me by the governor to-day. It is special, old, has come out of private stock. No chance for tampering with labels, cutting, faking age."
I was anticipating it with pleasure and no anxiety. No beautiful lady had just died after drinking that. Glasses were brought, the charged water and ice. Kennedy measured and mixed and passed to us. When he had served himself we raised our glasses silently to one of those toasts that may mean anything under the sun, and took a drink.
I was heartily disappointed. Of all the tasteless, inane, spiritless highballs, that one took the prize. This was nothing but alcoholic; and alcohol is tasteless to me, has none of the refinement of its many popular potable forms. I looked at Doctor Seaman. Well-bred boredom and mild surprise shone in his face, but he was too polite to say anything. I was not.
Kennedy leaned back, the picture of a satisfied host, an inquiring smile playing about his lips.
"What are you trying to put over on us, Craig?" I demanded. "Get out your best. We're ready for it after that."
"How? What?" he exclaimed, rising. "What's the matter with you, Walter? Something doesn't suit you, perhaps?"
"Well, if you don't know, you have been stung. A joke has been put across on you. There is no taste to that stuff."
"How is it with you, Doctor?" He turned.
"I am afraid I shall have to agree with Jameson's statement," he added, with a touch of droll humor.
I was completely floored when I saw Kennedy slap his knee with satisfaction, turn again to us with a beaming countenance. "I've got it—at least a part of it. I know how it was done. Some clever personage, that poisoner of yours!"
Naturally enough, now we were excited, too. Gone was my disappointment over Kennedy's refreshments. I wanted to know what he had been up to.
"Give me another of those candies, Doctor. I'll analyze it, prove to you that it has gymnema in it." By this time Kennedy was helping himself to a fat one.
"Gymnema!" Doctor Seaman said it in an uncertain voice. "I never thought of that."
"Gymnema!" I repeated. "What's that?"
"Gymnema sylvestre, a drug derived from the leaves of a plant found in India. It is non-poisonous, but destroys taste. The poisoner knew strychnine was quick and efficient—but bitter. Moller would detect it in her drink. Circumvent that by chocolates touched off with gymnema sylvestre. She would taste no bitterness, have no suspicion."
When Doctor Seaman rose to leave us that night a full moon was rivaling in beauty the glowing sunset of the earlier evening. Across the water, as I stood by the balustrade, was a shifting iridescent path of light. That beaming path was a call to me from beauty. All about us the stucco houses and buildings seen through the strange foliage had a silvery whiteness that was entrancing. Shadows only accentuate beauty.
"Craig, I don't feel like going to sleep. I'm off for a stroll with the doctor. Come along." It was asked dubiously. I felt sure of a negative answer, and I was not disappointed.
"Not to-night, Walter, I want to get up early in the morning. Just a little more to do on that gun."
"Well, I'm going with Doctor Seaman." Our visitor seemed delighted that I took a little interest, though I knew he was troubled over Kennedy's indifference. "Come, Doctor, let us stroll along the waterfront. Maybe if we try hard enough we can look something like a pair of thirsty pirates from Rum Row, make a deal to go into the business, or something. We might hear something of this Alfred Raver, whatever his new alias may be. Anyhow, that old moon seems to call me."
HOW can I describe those roads, those sights? There is nothing
in all the world quite like Nassau with its gumbo-limbo trees and
its grotesque silk-cottons. No other sands seem so golden in the
daytime, so silvery in the moonlight. No other air seems so pure,
so fresh, virginal, untainted by human breath.
The only real rivals of the sunset are the flowers. I was thinking, as I poked along the road and noticed a poinsettia tree, small but full of blossoms brightening its gray boughs, how futile, yet still beautiful, are the tiny homesick plants one sees in the florists' up north. There was a witchery about the place.
As we strolled on to that part of Nassau where gossip of visiting yachts could be heard from garrulous colored natives, I wondered at the many beautiful boats. It truly is a yachtsman's paradise in the Bahamas, and Nassau is the favorite resort.
Since my stay there, I had made friends with an old colored man, Joel Doxsee, whose wife bore the euphonious name of Dixey Doxsee, having come herself from Virginia. Joel's business in life was doing odd jobs for all the visitors who happened ashore from the yachts. He knew where the fishing was, where the fishing supplies could be got, knew practically the entire activities of the waterside.
I had told Doctor Seaman of him and, late as it was, decided to look him up. He had told me where his small thatched cabin was located, and we wandered in that direction.
It proved to be a tumble-down and decrepit cabin, but there was a suggestion of romance about it and its surroundings. Banana trees and coconut trees sheltered it and the bougainvillea shed purple rain on the walls upon which it had clung so long.
As we neared it, the weak but sweet toned voice of the old man was singing a queer, monotonous dirge—something that had been handed down from the past by his parents. It was a touch of Africa in the Bahamas. His parents had been staves left at Nassau as unprofitable freight while our Civil War was being fought. Some of the older negroes had learned and remembered snatches of their mother tongue—but most was forgotten. We stood and listened, captivated by the moonlight, the melody, and the man.
"Ah!" murmured Doctor Seaman. "There is harmony!"
When the last note died away I called, softly, "Joel!"
"Yes, sir?"
"I just dropped over to have a talk with you."
"Very good, sir. Glad to see you, sir, any time, sir."
Seaman had expected Southern darky dialect. He was not prepared for an almost cockney accent. A smile greeted him as my friend and we took the proffered seats, some old stenciled cases that here, too, betrayed the ruling industry of the island now.
"Why the music? Do you sing like that every night?" I asked the old darky, kindly.
"I'd be scornful to—only when I am moody for it," he answered, solemnly, sure of the sound of the words if not their precise meaning.
"You like harmony?" I pursued.
Suddenly his eyes opened wide with joy, as if the remark had recalled to him a vision he still saw, a delightful vision. His arms, brown and thin, waved with a sort of tremulous pathetic rhythm. "My music is so little. But, ah! I heard music to-day!"
"You heard music? Over at the hotel?"
A pressure of the lips, a closing of the eyes, and he shook his head. "No, sir." He opened his eyes, "On a boat, Mr. Jameson. A fiddle it was."
I looked across at Doctor Seaman curiously. On our walk down just now he had told me another fact about the man on his mind. lie had come across a portfolio of music in Moller's studio, music arranged for a violin, and it was marked with the name of Alfred Raver. That chance remark by Joel was no direct evidence. Only this thing under the mystic night skies seemed more than a mere coincidence. Were we at last on the trail of our eccentric, erotic genius?
The doctor knew of what I was thinking. He was thinking of the music scroll, too. "Jameson," he remarked, aside, "that music was never played by an amateur. Only some one proficient could play it. It required technique, skill, months, years of practice."
"This man has all of that," put in Joel. Whatever those words meant, they meant melody to him, and this man had it, he knew.
"What kind of boat is he on, Joel?" I asked. "I love music, the violin, too."
"A yawl, down in the cove, not far from your place."
"So?" I wanted to question the old man, yet I did not wish to give him an inkling. "How did you meet him?"
A secretive smile was my answer—and that smile could mean only one thing—something to do with booze for the States.
"I see, Joel. You can get something else than music on board that yawl. Is that it?"
Again that smile of white ivory against black skin, no confirmation and no denial.
"What's the name of the boat, Joel?"
"The Vagrant, Mr. Jameson." Joel was a bit confidential. My name sounded like a familiar brand to him. "Now don't you get Mr. Greason into any trouble, sir. My tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth, sir, if you did."
"Don't worry," I reassured. "Is he alone on the boat, Joel?"
"No, another man, Mr. Norcross, his friend. I think it's he knows more about sailing, sir, than the violin. It sounds so."
I had expected, when I asked the question, that the answer would be about a girl on the boat. However, I could see that a sailing master, under the circumstances, was more essential.
Dixey came home from some racket in a cabin down the line and Joel became reticent. It was not long before the doctor and I were retracing our steps. I was insisting upon the doctor returning to our bungalow, so we could start out early in the morning on a catboat that was available to me to scrape up an acquaintance with this Greason if it were possible.
SO it was that the next morning we were out early, sailing
about the cove. There was just enough breeze to make sailing a
dream instead of a drudgery.
It was just as Joel had informed us. There was a yawl, a beautiful beat, about eighty feet over all, white, against whose sides tho morning sun glistened as the brass gleamed.
We tacked across her bow, came about. We could hear the notes of a violin, sweet, plaintive. As the player in the cabin finished we applauded. A man appeared in the cabin doorway, saw us, waved a hand good-naturedly in our direction as we edged closer, then disappeared again down the companionway.
"So that is where they are, Doctor!" I remarked, with suppressed excitement, as we wore away. "Did you see that little motor tender, almost a cedar speed boat, off the davits, out on the end of a boat boom? It looked to me as if they were about to go ashore for supplies or something. Let's get back to the docks."
My surmise was right, but they must have taken their time, as we were not only in our slower cat back at the public docks, but had been hanging around an hour, it seemed, when we saw the tender of the Vagrant coming up to the landing stage.
Greason looked at us and smiled as he caught sight of us at the top of the runway. I casually returned the greeting. I knew that on boats it is easy to make acquaintances. Ordinarily I would have thought nothing of it. But just now I was delighted. I wanted to talk to Greason.
Greason was a blond, rather handsome, with a certain charming ruthlessness often mistaken for manhood. I liked his chuckle. It was boyish. A flapper would have called him adorable, simply for his shoulders, his narrow hips, those laughing blue eyes, and that chuckle. In the old days he might have been a swashbuckling knight. Now it was hard to tell. It was up to me to find out. I was elated at the way things were going my way. For once I was going out over my depth alone in the realm of detection, without the assistance of Kennedy. And I seemed to be succeeding. I was rather ashamed of my elation, but I couldn't help it. Kennedy had guyed me so often that I had made up my mind to show him, just once. Kennedy wasn't interested in a thing except that confounded gun. Well, I wouldn't tell him of my discovery until I had everything clinched.
Greason was the sort of person known as a good mixer. He had that easy way with him, an ability to make you think for the time being that you are the most interesting person in the world to him. He was a subtle flatterer, it is true, but most of us like it. AIL one had to do was to observe the readiness of laborers and visitors alike on the docks to speak to him, help him.
"Where are you chaps staying?" he asked, in his hearty, breezy way, when I had engineered ourselves alone together. "Over at the New Colonial?"
"No; we have a bungalow for a month. Are you living on your boat?"
"This time. I don't always. We're very comfortable. I have a friend with me who likes it. He doesn't care for hotels and excitement much." He smiled his fascinating smile. "I like a little life."
"Well, I have a friend up at the bungalow, the same way." We had been talking long enough to become confidential. "It's pretty quiet. I wish you could manage to come up and take dinner with us. I'm spoiling for a regular party."
"Glad to. Thanks." There was no visible evidence of suspicion yet. I was watching carefully for that.
"Can't you bring your violin?"
"We'll see. Where are you?"
"It's up there." I pointed out the place along the shore. "Let's make it for to-night."
"All right. I'll be up."
He was off, claimed by others. His popularity was a certainty about here. I wondered why. Then I began taking myself to task. I had nothing on this man. He might be just a handsome, debonaire man of the world, an accomplished violinist. Probably there were many more also who could play a violin in Nassau. Just because some violin music was found in Moller's studio and Alfred Raver could play did not make Greason a poisoner, even though Raver was known to be hiding here under another alias.
I determined to make an exhaustive inquiry. Before the doctor and I rejoined Kennedy we had as complete a picture of the man as is possible of a stranger in a strange country. Everywhere it was the same. The man was liked. Apparently he was well known. People spoke of him as a frequent visitor. He seemed wealthy, able to indulge in all the pleasant things of life. He tipped royally. Through it all I obtained a glimpse of the man's unusual qualities. Some spoke of the delightful dinners, the exquisite cuisine, on the Vagrant. There were suggestions of art, of talent with colors. There seemed an endless variety in this man's interests. The more I inquired the more convincing became the impression that we were at last on the right trail.
"It might be well for us to get back, prepare Kennedy, give Chan a chance," suggested Doctor Seaman.
I realized the good sense in his suggestion, and we turned toward the bungalow, pausing only at the shops, loading ourselves with treasures for the kitchen. I think we had more delicacies in our arms than Craig and I had indulged in during the entire visit.
"What's the idea?" demanded Kennedy, in mild surprise.
"Just this, Craig. I'm not sure, but I think I'm on the way toward catching that exotic genius!"
Kennedy looked toward Doctor Seaman for confirmation.
"I believe Greason is the man. You should hear the gossip about him. People have heard wonderful music coming from the yawl. We heard it. He is handsome, attractive. His dinners and parties are famous and he is spoken of as an art patron, too." Doctor Seaman was an able defender of my enthusiasm.
"What are you going to do about it?" Kennedy asked it with a certain gleam of interest.
Chan had caught sight of the delicacies. The prospect of an elaborate dinner filled his soul with delight. He was smiling ecstatically. Some cooks are so proud of their skill that nothing pleases them more than the opportunity to show it off.
"I've invited him up to dinner."
"Some fast worker, Walter I Hear of the crime one night—and catch the criminal the next. I have a rival. How are you going to crash him?"
"I thought that would come to me during the dinner to-night. I want you to look him over, Craig, see if you don't agree with me—and help me take him in."
Kennedy's face lighted with the joy of battle, the war of wits. "Good!" he exclaimed. "We'll trap him!"
I was wondering whether there was subtle sarcasm in that, when Dr. Seaman interrupted. "How did the gun come along to-day? Make any headway?"
"I think I overcame the trouble this morning. A little more work on it this afternoon and I'll have it for the finishing touches to-morrow. I'll feel more like taking an interest in this case when that gun is off my mind."
I really felt Kennedy meant it. I was more relieved at Kennedy's remark about trapping Greason at dinner, if he meant it. It sounded easy—but how was it to be done? No one realized it better than I. I had gone so far, but it was about as far as I felt competent to go. I couldn't just ask Greason, "Arc you guilty? Say yes!"
DURING the rest of the afternoon I was as busy over my dinner
as a bride at the first dinner party for the in-law family after
the honeymoon. I wanted the choicest food, the best wine. I
wanted the table just right. If there was to be a proper
denouement for my aesthetic poisoner, I wanted it at an aesthetic
meal in an aesthetic environment.
I really didn't know I was so accomplished in planning a meal, and I surprised Craig into grunts of amusement as he sauntered in at last, greasy and dirty from his work. I was arranging flowers for the table, with the able assistance of Doctor Seaman. Hands that could perform an autopsy actually seemed palsied into awkwardness when they came in contact with flower stems.
I confined my attention to the table. I am afraid that if we had interfered with Chan's part of the work the dinner would have been a failure. We let the kitchen alone.
Finally things were arranged to suit me. I had poked around in the pantry for the choicest china the little place afforded—some Scandinavian pottery with its bold and brilliant decorations in violets, reds, and greens. I ignored Chan's objections. He was evidently thinking of the owner's interests. I insisted on its use. A colored glass set almost the equal in beauty of color to any glass turned out by the Venetian glass blowers of old, purple as the tints of the skies at home in the autumn, were in harmony with the flowers of the china. Perfect clusters of purple grapes openly flirting with yellow tints of bananas against which they rested delighted the eye. Even Kennedy bestowed an honest compliment on our efforts. We had everything ready, waiting for the guest and the hoped-for expose.
Out on the colonnade we waited. That dinner might be delicious, the decorations harmonious, but I was atingle with excitement. Not every day did I have the chance to bag a poisoner through my own efforts. I was keen to show off before Craig.
Suddenly Chan announced the arrival of Greason.
It was no effort at all to entertain Greason. His travels about the casinos and sporting resorts of the Continent had given him a fund of anecdotes that would interest any group, and he told them in an inimitable manner.
As we entered the dining room, almost al fresco, glassed over, with vines trailing over the overhead glass, I expected to hear Greason make some remark about the artistic effects we had achieved on the room and on the table. I watched him eagerly, anticipating from his artistic reputation an expression of pleasure, some exclamation of delight. My spirits fell very low indeed when he took his place calmly, apparently oblivious to all the effects I had worked so hard to create for the benefit of his aesthetic personality. I was plainly discouraged, if not disconcerted.
But a glance at Kennedy straightened my back. If ever a man wanted to laugh at another, it was Kennedy at me. Yet there was a spirit of commiseration over my disappointment, too.
Greason's only remark relating even remotely to the appointments was, "No ladies here, to-night?" I think be was amazed at our fussing over a stag.
My most tempting viands disappeared with no more approval than any hungry man living on the water would show a well-cooked, well-balanced meal. I had hoped to make him betray his exquisite love for the beautiful—and I had failed.
I began to wonder again. Was this Greason cleverer than I suspected? Was it I who was the bonehead? Had he imagined, after entering, that things were not aboveboard, as he had thought, and was he trying to conceal and disguise his real self? He would make it seem that he knew nothing of art, that the beautiful in life had no visible effect on him. Against that smoke screen I was unprepared.
I looked desperately at Doctor Seaman. He hadn't an idea in his head to lead the conversation in the channels we desired, without betraying it flatly. I smothered my pride and looked appealing at Kennedy. Craig suppressed a smile in my direction as if he would have delighted to say: "It's your case, Walter. Handle it!" He was gaining much pleasure watching me with my recalcitrant suspect.
I breathed an inward sigh of relief at last. Craig was coming to my rescue. It was toward the end of the dinner. He had taken his glass of Rhine wine and looked at it closely, sipped it. "Do you know, Greason, no one can fool me on this. I've bought a lot of it. But I don't know how to take it back, unless I take it back inside of me." Greason looked at him thoughtfully, said nothing, smiled.
"I have tasted wines all over the world," continued Kennedy, slowly, fishing, "and can almost recognize any vintage. It is a great gift in these days of poor wines and high prices."
"I am something of a connoisseur myself." At last Greason was biting. "Not much that has been faked gets by me. When we get back home, look me up. I was fortunate to lay in a stock before prohibition."
"It's strange, isn't it, how people are born with those various gifts?" asked Doctor Seaman. "As a doctor it has always interested me. Some never forget a face. Others have exaggerated memories for musical notes. It may happen with any sense and in many occupations. Back home I have a friend who is employed by one of the largest Fifth Avenue jewelry establishments. For what, do you suppose? He knows diamonds! Not an imperfect stone gets by his eyes!"
I was watching Greason carefully. He was strangely silent, and at the mention of diamonds I imagined I saw the first slight nervous fluttering of the eyelids.
"Well, there are many jobs like that. Every big perfumery house employs special men with a special sense of smell." It sounded like a tame remark after I made it, when I considered how worked up I felt playing this game of cat and mouse with Greason. Yet every minute I was afraid he would turn into something else than a mouse.
Greason suddenly tried to change the subject to the violin. "I hope you fellows don't think I'm sour for not bringing the fiddle over, but I didn't want to bore you."
Again we were at an impasse. I yielded to Kennedy. Kennedy was quite ready. He sought to draw him out along musical lines. He mentioned the names of the most popular composers of the day, he talked of their most recent work, criticizing and comparing. Only the most fragmentary remarks now were made by Greason.
I realized the task was far beyond me. It was a Kennedy-sized job. Either this man was playing a role consummately or he was a dub of the first water. The only thing he seemed willing to enthuse over was the history of the Bahamas, now. That either appealed to an immature respect and awe for pirates and buccaneers of old, or it was another game. Was he simulating a boisterous love of adventure that was entirely foreign in his cultured mind?
Disappointment and defeat met me at every turn. Here was not my erotic lover of the beautiful. Art failed to stimulate his imagination. I could not get a reaction out of him on anything. He was perfectly well-bred, but dull on everything else but what he wished to discuss, glanced in hopeless surrender at Craig.
Craig called Chan. "Get me some tea, Chan."
THERE was an understanding glance between Craig and the
Chinaman. Two hours before should have been horrified if anyone
had suggested serving tea to Greason at dinner that night. Now I
was so disgruntled over my failure that they could have served
him cyanide without causing me to raise a hand.
"I just happened to think about this tea," Craig put in casually, by way of explanation. "It is a Formosa 1492, unexcelled, makes the most wonderful brew imaginable."
Kennedy was now busy making tea. I had qualified on so many perfectly lady-like jobs that afternoon that I expected next to be asked to pour. It was my party. I had to see it through.
But Kennedy completed the job with the efficient help of Chan. All the while Kennedy was telling us interesting facts he had learned about the many varieties of teas, the Oolong from Formosa, the Orange Pekoe, Pekoe Souchong from China, the green teas from India and Ceylon, and the brick tea for the use of Tibetans.
As the cups were passed, Greason himself seemed bored. At last he looked about him and observed that all had been served.
"There are so many grades," he murmured. He leaned over the table, took up the sugar tongs, and dropped a lump of sugar into his cup. There was silence.
As Greason held the cup to his lips and sipped, now delightedly, we heard the put! put! put! put! of a motor boat.
From his seat Craig could look out over the cove or bay. So could I. A tender, the tender of the Vagrant, was slipping away from the yawl, headed across to the other side, perhaps out of the cove.
Suddenly Kennedy looked from the boat to the man sipping his sweetened tea so comfortably. He was taking it with evident relish.
Craig rose quickly. "Walter, I must stop that tender. It is getting away, to the other side."
Greason started to rise, but sank back in his chair. Kennedy had absently, methodically taken a small automatic from his side pocket.
"Come with us—go ahead!"
Kennedy hurried us up to the bluff where the gun had been set. Quickly he manipulated it. A moment and the long-arm steel knife of shot rained out over the water The man in the tender put on more speed. The rain of shot just followed him, circled, fell directly ahead. He stopped, shut off his engine. The hint was plain.
"Doctor, take charge of this gun. Let the man see you. That is all that is necessary. He won't start that engine till we get to him. Now for your boat, Walter."
Kennedy, with his gat in his pocket, made Greason walk down the bluff ahead to my cat, get in, seat himself forward.
A sullen, handsome, dark-haired man glared and swore at us from the tender, but he, too, was covered by Kennedy. I saw in the tender, hastily thrown, a violin in its case, music, magazines, some books, too, to while away quiet hours when the get-away was accomplished and the hiding was good. I wondered what Greason was thinking. He looked so sour and quiet. Were both of them waiting for a chance to tumble out and escape? We were watching them too closely as we turned back toward the yawl.
"I'm going to look through the Vagrant, Walter. Keep them covered."
In the main cabin he started in. Set in the woodwork was a chronometer. It was not long before Kennedy paused before it. Then I noticed what had caught his eye. The "XII" was not precisely at the top. He reached up, turned it to its proper vertical position. The chronometer screwed into the wood work. Counterclockwise Kennedy continued turning it thoughtfully. It came out.
Back of the chronometer was an empty space, a veritable hidden wall safe built in the mahogany.
Craig wheeled. He looked again from the empty wall safe toward Norcross. Then he stepped over quickly, felt Norcross, patting him over swiftly as one who sought something on the hip.
About his waist he found a lump. He reached in, pulled out a small chamois bag. By now my eyes were bulging, what with watching Craig and covering these two. Would Craig never open it? He was so deliberate. I could not wait.
Slowly Craig opened the bag on the table in the cabin. There were the diamonds of the dead actress, the amazing Moller!
"Norcross, I want you," repeated Kennedy. "I want you. You're the erratic genius we're looking for, the connoisseur of diamonds and, no doubt, of tea. I don't care for your friend, Greason, here. He's no taster—just a gambler, your stall, your foil. He puts sugar in his tea!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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