HARMONY—AND DISCORD
“Is that all, Mr. Starr?”
“It’s something to go on, isn’t it?” Austin countered. He had decided to take counsel with Snell upon that problem he was endeavouring to solve, and the detective had listened in silence to his account of the interview with Cacciola and Maddelena, and the curious incident that had terminated it.
“Well, if you want my opinion,” said Snell dryly, “it is that you’ve discovered—or created—quite a nice little mare’s nest.”
“Now see here, Snell, you’re simply prejudiced!”
“Not at all, Mr. Starr. If there’s one thing I pride myself on more than another it is on never being prejudiced. And if you think I did not, at the very outset, satisfy myself—yes, and my superiors too—that neither Melikoff and his associates nor the old Signor and his household had anything at all to do with the murder of Lady Rawson, I can only assure you that you’re jolly well mistaken!”
“You’ve got it fixed up in your mind that Roger Carling is guilty, and you won’t look any further,” Austin said bitterly.
“I haven’t. It’s for a jury to decide whether he’s guilty or innocent. And if you or anyone else can point to any clue in any other direction that I haven’t followed up and sifted I’ll go to work again instantly. As for the Russians——” He touched an electric button on his table, scribbled a few words on a card, and handed it to the clerk who entered. “As you aren’t inclined to believe me, and as I know you’re to be trusted, I’m going to let you look through the dossiers for yourself. You mustn’t make any notes, of course.”
“That’s very good of you. But what about the person who was in the flat?”
“Old Madam Giulia—queer old girl too; what a fuss she made in the witness-box, even for a foreigner!—or perhaps even Melikoff himself, who thought he’d like to hear what you were all yarning about, and scooted as soon as you moved.”
“Impossible! Neither of them could have got down the long passage and into bed, apparently asleep, in the time. If I’d only thought of the hall door first we should have caught whoever it was. But I didn’t, and we never heard a sound. The tray clattered some as I set it down or I’d have heard the click of the lock. And what about that key that Melikoff gave Lady Rawson and she lost, or gave away?”
“That’s really the only point worth anything at all, and I doubt if it’s worth much. What a fool Melikoff was to give her that key, and the old signor to allow it. That the lot?”—as the clerk re-entered bringing several neatly arranged sets of papers. “All right, leave them for the present. Now, Mr. Starr, here you are. Take your time.”
He pushed the papers across the table to Austin, and resumed his own work.
Rapidly but methodically Austin ran through the dossiers one after another, his heart sinking as he did so. For Snell was right. They provided, with much other information, a complete record of the movements, on the day of the murder, of presumably every one of the group of refugees with whom Boris Melikoff was associated, compiled from personal interrogation of each and verified by further searching investigation. In the face of this no shadow of suspicion could fall on any one of them. Almost mechanically he memorized the names and addresses—one never knew when such information might come in useful.
“Well?” asked Snell laconically as he finished.
“You’re right, of course. I must say you’ve done the thing pretty thoroughly.”
“As usual. Though the public, and some people who might be expected to know better, don’t give us credit for it,” said Snell dryly. “It was easy enough in this case, as they’re all aliens and registered as such. We keep an eye on them all, as a matter of course, and we’ve known all there is to know about this lot ever since they landed. Quite a harmless lot, in my opinion.”
“Yet you didn’t know at the time that Lady Rawson was one of them,” suggested Austin. “You told me so yourself.”
“Quite so; but then she wasn’t registered—not necessary as she became ‘British’ on her marriage.”
“If their meetings were so harmless why did she steal those papers from her husband?”
“Ah, that’s quite another question, Mr. Starr. Her motive doesn’t matter in the least, so far as tracking her murderer is concerned; and if you hark back to the papers as a clue, why they lead straight to the one person—Mr. Roger Carling. And there you are!”
Austin leant his head on his hand in deep dejection.
“I’ll never believe it was Roger Carling!”
Snell glanced at him kindly enough.
“Take my advice, Mr. Starr, don’t go wearing yourself out trying to find fresh trails. They’ll all turn out as false as this one. The only thing to be done is to leave it to the jury—or to chance. I’ve known a lot of mysteries cleared up by what seemed to be pure chance.”
“There’s still the notion of a casual thief,” mused Austin.
“There is. And we’re keeping that in sight I assure you. But I don’t believe it was done by a wrong ’un down on his luck. Whoever it was wore gloves.”
“How in thunder do you know that?” demanded Austin, genuinely surprised.
“Because there were smears on the bag caused by gloved fingers. If they’d been finger prints they’d have been hanging evidence! There were no such smears on the envelope, though.”
“Any finger prints on it?” asked Austin quickly.
“Lots—from Carling’s own to Lord Warrington’s; it had been handled by half a dozen people at least—quite legitimately. Carling’s prints, of course—though they’re the clearest of the lot under the microscope—won’t be regarded as evidence against him, as he was the first to handle and seal the envelope the night before. All that will be threshed out at the trial.”
“I guess so. Well, I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Snell,” said Austin despondently.
“Wish I’d been able to help you,” Snell responded as they shook hands.
Austin walked slowly along the Embankment in deep and distressed thought. This interview with Snell was a bitter disappointment; and now again he seemed up against a blank wall. There was still the mysterious visitant to the flat to be considered, but if he or she was traced that might prove nothing.
Outside Charing Cross Station he paused indecisively. He had an hour or two to spare. Should he go to Chelsea? He hadn’t seen Winnie for over a week—not since that day at the police court when Roger was committed for trial—as she had been singing at Bristol and only returned yesterday. Or should he go to Cacciola’s on the chance of finding anyone at home?
He would not acknowledge even in his own mind that by “anyone” he meant Maddelena. The girl attracted him most strongly, and in a manner that he did not choose to analyse. He did not love her—of that he was quite sure. He had never been of a susceptible nature where women were concerned; had always held to the high ideals of love and marriage derived from a long line of Puritan ancestors, for he came of a sound New English stock. He loved Winnie Winston; he meant to marry her; would have been profoundly indignant at any suggestion that he could waver in his allegiance to her.
And yet at intervals ever since he first saw Maddelena Cacciola beside Paula Rawson’s grave, and almost continuously since that evening when he had met and talked with her, that beautiful, vivid face, with its swift, passionate changes of expression, had haunted him, sleeping and waking, in a most perplexing and disturbing way!
He had not seen or spoken to her since, for though he had rung up several times, only Giulia had answered, to the effect that the signor and signorina were out.
As he turned into the station he tried to convince himself that he was going to Rivercourt Mansions merely to ascertain if the girl had been able to get any information from Boris, as she had undertaken to do, and not that he had any desire to meet her again; and all the time, at the back of his honest mind he was quite aware—and ashamed—of the subterfuge.
As he mounted the last of the long flights of stone stairs that led to Cacciola’s eyrie he heard music from within—a glorious tenor voice, pure, passionate, thrilling—singing to a masterly accompaniment of piano and violin.
Outside the door he waited, listening intently and in sheer delight, wishing, indeed, that he had been within; but it was unthinkable to intrude the strident impertinence of an electric bell on that feast of harmony.
The voice ceased. There followed a beautiful little ascending passage on the violin, which he strained his ears to hear, a final grand chord on the piano. Then silence. He touched the bell at last, and instantly the door was opened by Giulia, who beamed a welcome to him and whispered:
“They make music once more. Go in, signor.”
Thus informally, and unannounced, he entered the big room. Cacciola, seated at the piano, had swung round and was talking with eager animation to Boris and Maddelena, the girl still holding her violin.
As Austin entered she laid down the instrument and ran towards him, giving him both her hands in greeting.
“You! Oh, I am glad! But why did you not come before, so that you could have heard Boris sing? The very first time for so very many weeks—and superbly!”
“I did hear quite a lot from outside—the violin too, Miss Maddelena,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re right, superb is the only word.”
He exchanged greetings with the maestro and Melikoff, who, flushed, smiling, excited, looked an altogether different being from the stricken, morose creature Austin had known hitherto.
“All is coming right, as I told you it would,” said Cacciola delightedly. “The voice is fine as ever. You heard? It is but a matter of time now and our Boris will be known as the world’s greatest tenor, and you, signor, will be able to boast that you are one of the few who has had the privilege of hearing him in private, for he will sing again presently. But come, you have not yet seen an old friend of yours, who happily is also here: my dear young pupil, Miss Winston.”
Why he should have experienced an extraordinary sensation of embarrassment and dismay Austin really did not know, but he certainly did so, as from a big chair in the dusk beyond the grand piano Winnie rose and came towards him.
“Winnie! I didn’t think to meet you here,” he murmured confusedly.
“Nor I you,” said Winnie. “I returned yesterday.”
“I know. I was coming around to see you to-morrow. Did you have a good time, dear?”
“Quite good—thanks. But I must be off now. Good-bye, maestro, and——”
“But no, no, you must not go!” protested Cacciola. “Giulia will bring in tea in one moment now—Maddelena will hasten her—real Russian tea that Boris has taught us to like, and it is so good for the voice too! Also you must sing again presently. We have not got that new song right yet.”
“I’m so tired, maestro, and I couldn’t sing after Mr. Melikoff. How splendid he is!”
“Pouff! Not sing again indeed; you must not talk like an amateur. You are an artiste, and among ourselves we never make comparisons. Though there can never be any comparison with Boris: he is unique! How thankful I am—and so is my Maddelena—that he is recovering himself. Now sit down again, my child, and here is a chair for Mr. Starr.”
Maddelena had taken her uncle’s hint and gone to hurry up Giulia with the tea, and Boris followed her. Austin heard her laugh as they went along the passage. Truly the atmosphere here had changed marvellously in these few days. He sat down in the chair Cacciola had pulled up close to Winnie’s, but for once in his life could find nothing to say to her; while she virtually ignored him, and chatted with the maestro till the tea appeared, brought in procession by Giulia and the two young people.
Maddelena, in the highest spirits, was a charming hostess, and, like her uncle, treated Austin with the easy familiarity of old friendship. It was merely their unconventional, hospitable way, as Winnie at least knew perfectly well, from her long acquaintance with the maestro, though she had never happened to meet Maddelena till now; yet she wondered how often he had been there of late, and why he had said nothing about it.
There was more music after tea. Winnie sang without further demur, at the maestro’s bidding, and was painfully conscious, as were her auditors, that, for her, she sang very badly. She had a beautiful, mezzo-soprano voice, sweet, true and fresh as a song-bird’s, and perfectly trained—Cacciola had seen to that—but to-night it was toneless, lifeless, devoid of expression.
“I’m sorry, maestro,” she murmured apologetically at the end, meeting his gaze of consternation.
“We shall do better to-morrow,” he said consolingly. “Will you come to me at three? Good! It is strange, for it went so well before; but, as you say, you are tired, I should not have insisted. Now, Boris, once more?”
Melikoff, sprawling on the hearthrug and looking through a pile of music, selected a book of Russian songs, and began to rise.
“Not those!” said Maddelena imperatively, snatching the book from him and picking up another. “Mr. Starr wants to hear the Neapolitan ones—with the guitar. I will get it!” As she passed Austin she bent and whispered significantly, “He shall sing no Russian here if I can prevent it,” and he nodded as one who understood.
Winnie could not hear the words, but she saw the incident, and found in it fresh food for thought.
“With a guitar—good; that gives me a rest,” said Cacciola, quitting the piano and settling himself comfortably in his big chair. “They are trifles, these songs, but not unworthy even of Boris. There is the soul of the people in them. Now, my children.”
He was right. Those songs—sung by generations of humble folk for centuries, and famous throughout the world to-day—were a revelation as Boris Melikoff sang them, albeit he was the son of a sterner and sadder race: songs of life, and love, and death, of sunshine and storm, with the sound of the sea as an undertone through all, heard in the thrilling throb of the guitar, which Maddelena played like the artiste she was.
Austin listened in sheer delight, forgetful of everything else in the world for the moment.
When the last exquisite note died away there was a little interval of silence more eloquent than any words. Maddelena, the guitar on her lap, looked up at Boris with a tremulous smile, her eyes shining through tears, murmuring something in Italian, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her on the lips, just as Cacciola cried, also in Italian:
“Brava! brava! dear children. There can be nothing better in its way!”
Austin joined wholeheartedly in the applause and congratulations.
“How splendidly you accompany him, Miss Maddelena.”
“Yes, does she not?” said Boris. “I do not think I could sing those songs so with anyone but Maddelena. And you would not think it was so long since we practised them together—nearly a year?”
“Yes, a long year!” said Maddelena.
“I must be going,” Winnie announced. “Good-bye, Miss Cacciola; you’ve given me a most tremendous treat, both of you. Now keep up the singing, Mr. Melikoff. We’re all so proud of you, and want you to have the world at your feet, as you will soon! Good-bye, maestro. Three o’clock to-morrow.”
She turned to Austin, with a curious enigmatic little smile, an inquiring lift of her eyebrows.
“I’m coming with you,” he said, and proceeded to make his own adieux.
Cacciola came to the door with them, but scarcely had they descended the first flight of stairs when Maddelena came running after them.
“Mr. Starr!”
Austin turned and came up a few steps to meet her.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered hurriedly, bending her charming face confidentially towards him. “I have not been able to question him about those others, or, more truthfully, I would not do so, for, as you see, he is beginning to forget, and I feared to bring the black shadow upon him again.”
“I understand, Miss Cacciola, and I’ve got some information already, from another source; but what about that key, and——”
“And the person who entered? We do not know. My uncle spoke to Boris next morning. He knew nothing, and says he is sure it was none of his friends. But that key which—she—had has never been found, and we have had the lock changed, as you said. Good-bye. Come again soon.”
She retreated, and he ran down the stairs, overtaking Winnie just outside.
“Great luck to find you, dear,” he said, falling into step beside her.
“Yes? I didn’t know you were so intimate with the Cacciolas.”
“I’m not, except that they’re so friendly and easy to get on with. I’ve only met Miss Maddelena once before—when I went around there one evening.”
“Oh, how interesting!”
She spoke quite gently, but in a tone and manner so cold and dignified that he might have been an utter stranger. He felt hurt, indignant; but his tone was as aloof as her own as he responded:
“Yes, it was interesting—very. I went, as I told you I should, to try and get hold of a clue.”
She turned to him quickly:
“Oh! Did you find out anything?”
“Very little so far. I’ll tell you all about it when we get in. I should have told you before, of course, if you hadn’t been away.”
“There’s a tram stopping,” she said inconsequently, and made for it. “Which way are you going?”
“To take you home, of course.”
“I’m not going home, but to Grace at Buckingham Gate. She’s there now.”
He nodded; it was impossible to talk in the noisy and crowded tram.
“We’ll take a taxi from here,” he suggested meekly when they alighted at the terminus opposite the station.
“Certainly not! I’m going to St. James’s Park,” said Winnie decisively, and hurried recklessly across the road, in imminent danger of being run over.
“Now what in thunder’s wrong?” Austin asked himself, but there was no opportunity of asking her, until at length they reached the quietude of Buckingham Gate, and then he found it difficult to begin.
“I’ve such lots to tell you, but it will have to keep till to-morrow night, for I’ve to go around to the ‘Courier’ now,” he said awkwardly. “Give my love to Grace. And—see here, Winnie—what’s wrong, dear?”
“Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing—or—oh, everything, I think! Never mind. Here we are. Good night, Austin.”
She did give him her hand, but withdrew it quickly, and stepped into the waiting lift, which bore her swiftly out of sight.
Austin stood for a few seconds, frowning; then lighted a cigarette, striking the match with an angry jerk, and went on his way feeling exceedingly ill-used!