Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn

to hear of his debts. And from what I have seen of this place he did not practice any great economy.”

      They had reached the vast corridor at last. It seemed full of stained-glass windows.

      “But, Maria dear,” Alice said wonderingly, “why should one practice economy when one is wealthy?”

      Maria’s eyes narrowed. “I understood you to say Ralph was in debt.”

      “Yes, yes, he was—but quite considerably below the amount of his assets. The proving of his will not only paid off the various debts but it also left each one of us wealthy.... You’ll hear about your share from Mr. Johnson, of course. He’s our attorney.”

      Maria said nothing though she had heard well enough. At the moment she was occupied in surveying her own room and mentally comparing it with her modest though comfortable quarters far away in Roseway. Here was a bedroom that seemed to be all mirrors and salmon-pink draperies. The bed was by the wall in the distance. The furniture was rosewood, polished nearly as brightly as the mirrors themselves.

      “I don’t think you’ll find it noisy,” Alice said, noting Maria’s all-encompassing survey. “New York is a rowdy city, of course—but then I always think sounds are a lot worse when you deliberately set out to listen to them, don’t you?”

      For answer Maria closed the window with a click.

      “Noises do not worry me, Alice, but draughts do. I prefer a room at boiling point to enduring a draught. I am rather subject to sinus trouble, you understand....”

      She crossed to the nearest mirror and straightened her severely drawn hair. Through the reflection she saw the manservant come in, set down a loaded tray, then depart again.

      “Milk or lemon?” Alice asked brightly.

      “Milk, Alice, thank you....” Maria turned and came forward, her face thoughtful. Finally she said, “I cannot say I admire your choice of servants, Alice.”

      “Walters?” Alice looked surprised, her eyes lowering to Maria’s face as she sat on the divan. “But how absurd, Maria! He is an excellent servant, and that’s all that really matters, is it not? He was with the family who formerly owned this place and so we—we just sort of bought him in with it.”

      Maria took the teacup handed to her and still pondered.

      “You have traced his connections?” she asked presently.

      “But of course. He is from a line of servants who originated in England. His father was employed by Lord Glendarlow—At least I think that was the name. These nobilities are so confusing, don’t you think?”

      “To Americans, perhaps.”

      “But Maria, what on earth does it matter what sort of a servant he is? We’re satisfied—so there it is.”

      “Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” Maria said gravely. “If I ask silly questions just ignore it. You see, my profession has demanded of me that I find out all and everything about everybody. You would understand that if you had a college to control. I have developed a positive mania for knowing the inner affairs of all people with whom I come in contact— And I still say your servant does not impress me. For one thing his eyes are unsteady.”

      “A nervous affliction, I’m sure.” Alice said, looking rather astonished. “It doesn’t make him drop any dishes or anything like that. That’s a consideration. Gravy on a carpet is so unsightly, don’t you think?”

      Maria didn’t answer. She finished her tea in silence, put the cup and saucer back on the tray with a certain finality, then got up and moved to her luggage. Alice rose too and began to drift towards the doorway. She felt strong hints of dismissal in the air. It was the same ‘Get Out!’ aura that had afflicted many a Roseway inmate.

      “Mr. Johnson will be here tomorrow.” Alice spoke from the doorway. “Once that little matter is settled you’ll want to see New York, won’t you?”

      “In my own way,” Maria acknowledged. “When I am on holiday, Alice, I relax completely. The Headmistress is back in England embalmed among her books of learning. I shall go anywhere the mood takes me in this city of yours.”

      “Well, we can talk of that later. See you at dinner.”

      Maria nodded, stood gazing thoughtfully for a moment or two after the door had closed. Then resuming her unpacking she finally unearthed a strong tin box. Unlocking it, she withdrew a black bound book and opened it at the first blank page. She put the date, then began to write swiftly in her neat, scholastic handwriting—

      “First impressions are variable. Richard seems to be a likeable boy with a penchant for young ladies—both in and out of his shows, I should imagine. A rather wicked smile, and much D’Artagnan in the eye. Alice still questions her own rather inane remarks, but she answers my guarded inquiries with an ease that makes her seem innocent of anything ulterior. It is this innocence that I feel compelled to question, in view of De Vanhart’s ‘First Impressions of a Criminal.’ I shall test this thesis for myself.... Walters, the manservant, is a strange, impassive being with unsteady eyes. I begin to wonder if he is looking for some­thing. So far as I can gather all have benefited financially from Ralph’s death. I have yet to meet Patricia and Janet. The time is 5:10 p.m.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      In the lounge prior to dinner Dick Black found himself called upon to answer questions. He would not have minded so much had not the necessity of answering kept the brandy and soda he had prepared from reaching his lips.

      Patricia was his cross-examiner, marching up and down as she interrogated him. She was dressed in a close-fitting gown of green, a color that matched her eyes. A certain lack of development about the shoulders still testified to her twenty years—but certainly nothing else was undeveloped. Her face was cast in a shrewd, coldly beautiful mold. The green eyes offset the straight nose and firm, full lips. The blonde hair swept back in shimmering waves from her high forehead gave her an odd, robot-like appearance. In fact, as Dick had often observed, if he ever needed anybody in his show to portray the spirit of the future he had only to ask Pat to hold a lamp over her head. But this was a piece of cynical humor that had so far found no inroads to Pat’s forthright soul.

      “If you’d put that darned siphon down for a moment and start talking maybe we’d get somewhere!” she exclaimed irritably, flinging herself down at last on the divan. “Come on, give! What is she like? She’s an English headmistress—that’s all I hear. But to me that spells a woman with folded arms and pro bono publico stamped on her petticoats.”

      Dick got his drink down at length. “She’s all right, Pat—take it from me. A bit hardboiled, maybe, but I can’t blame her if the girls she teaches have anything in common with you.... Try to imagine dad as a woman, then you have it.”

      “Still smells bad to me.” Pat got up and moved to the siphon herself. “What is more I still think it is a piece of confounded nerve her coming here— She came to see Johnson: we know that. Why couldn’t she do it by proxy? Why travel three thousand miles just for that?”

      “Search me. Maybe she wanted a holiday.”

      “And took good care to foist herself on to us to get it! A perfectly blatant example of muscling in, if you ask me.”

      “I didn’t ask you,” Dick sighed. “And if it comes to that what are you beefing about anyway? She isn’t going to upset your arrangements, is she?”

      “She’d better not try!” Pat’s lips tightened for a moment as she considered her drink, then she turned as Janet came in.

      It was not Janet’s fault that she entered like a mannequin at a dress salon. Years of concert platforms had instilled it into her—the measured tread and well-poised head. She had a regal calm, an intense and unshatterable assurance. Her dark coloring lent a touch of the Juno to her. Raven-headed, black-eyed, the taller of the two girls. When she spoke it was in a voice that was richly mellow.

      “What’s