The Adventuress. Arthur B. Reeve
there were waiting for him, by special messenger, the materials from the autopsy which had been promised by the Westport coroner, who for once had appreciated the importance of a case and had acted with speed and decision.
Kennedy lost no time in throwing off his coat and donning his acid-stained smock. For some minutes I watched him in silence as he arranged his jars and beakers and test-tubes for the study which he had in mind. He had taken some of the material and placed it over a Bunsen burner in an apparatus which looked like a miniature still. Another apparatus which he took from a cabinet was disposed on a table. It seemed to consist primarily of three tubes. In one was a slit, and through the slit evidently rays of light were caused to stream. Inside I saw a lens. Each of the tubes seemed to radiate from a triangular prism of some substance that looked like glass. Two of the radiating tubes had an eye-piece and on one was a sort of scale.
As Kennedy made these rapid preparations he paused now and then to study carefully the slivers of bright metal he had picked up from the carpet in the state-room, while on a porcelain plate he placed the powder which he had scraped from the brass fittings.
‘I’m not doing you a bit of good here, Craig,’ I remarked, at length. ‘Isn’t there something I can do while you are working? I can come back here in time to go down and meet Hastings and Burke with you.’
He paused a moment. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘there is something that you might be doing. I have been wondering just how intimate that little Mexican dancer was with Marshall Maddox and whether Shelby actually knew her in New York before he met her out at Westport the other night. I think you might make some inquiries along that line, and by the time you find anything you may find me more interesting also.’
Glad of the opportunity to be of service, for anything was better than to sit about idle in the present high-keyed state of my nerves, I started out.
My first impulse was to visit the New Amsterdam Club, one of the oldest clubs in the city, of which I knew that Maddox had been a member.
I knew several men who were members, and I was sure that among them I might find someone at the club at that time, and perhaps either from him learn something of Maddox or at least obtain an introduction to someone who did know.
I found that I had not acted without reason. In the big window that overlooked Fifth Avenue, ensconced in the deep leather chairs, looking out on the fashionable throng of shoppers who passed up and down the Avenue, I found several men, among whom was Conigsby, whom I had known for some time as assiduous first-nighter and man about town.
Conigsby welcomed me and I soon saw that the topic of conversation was the reports that all had been reading in the papers about the mystery that shrouded the death of Marshall Maddox.
‘Peculiar fellow, Maddox,’ commented Conigsby. ‘What do the boys down on the Star have to say about the case, Jameson?’
I had no desire to commit myself, yet I wanted to glean as much as I could. For although we are prone to accuse the ladies of gossip, I think most men will back me up when I say that there is no place for the genuine article that cannot be beaten by a comfortable window in a club where congenial spirits have gathered over a succession of brandies and soda.
‘It promises to be the great case of the year,’ I returned guardedly. ‘So far, I understand there is much more in the life of Maddox than even some of his friends suspect.
At the mere suggestion of scandal all eyes were fixed on me. Yet I was determined to speak in riddles and betray nothing, in the hope that some of them might open up a rich vein of inquiry.
Conigsby laughed. ‘Perhaps more than some of his friends imagined—yes,’ he repeated.
‘Why, what was it?’ inquired one of the group. ‘Is there another woman in the case? I thought Maddox was divorced.’
‘So he was,’ returned the clubman. ‘I knew his wife, Irene, before they were married. Really, it was a shame the way that man treated her. I can claim no special virtue,’ he added, with a shrug, ‘but then I haven’t a wife—not so much as a friend who would care whether I was here or in No Man’s Land. But Maddox—well, he was one of those men who have worked hard all their lives, but in middle age seem to begin sowing the wild oats they failed to sow in youth. You know the kind. I guess he must have reached the dangerous age for men, if there is such a thing.’
‘What was it—chorus girls?’ chimed in the other, ever ready for a spicy bit of gossip.
‘Yes—lately cabaret dancers—one in particular—at The White Light—a little Mexican—Paquita.
‘What—Paquita?’ chorused the group, and I could see by the inflection that she was not unknown to several of them. ‘You don’t say. Well, you must admit he was a good picker.’
‘I rather suspect that his acquaintance cost him high, though,’ persisted Conigsby. ‘Paquita has a scale of prices. It costs so much to take dinner with her. She’ll drive out of an afternoon with you—but you must pay. There’s a union scale.’
‘It takes dough to make tarts,’ frivolously suggested another of the group, forgetful of the tragedy that they were discussing.
Indeed, I was amazed at the nonchalant attitude they took. Yet, on analysis, I concluded that it also might be significant. No doubt the estimate of Maddox by his club members was more accurate than that of the world at large.
‘If it had been Shelby,’ put in another man, ‘I wouldn’t have been surprised.’
‘Don’t worry,’ interposed Conigsby. ‘Shelby Maddox is clever. Remember, Shelby is young. Underneath his wildness there is ambition. I think you’ll hear more of that boy before we are through. I know him, and he’s likely to prove a chip of the old Maddox block. Nothing that Shelby does would surprise me.’
‘How about the other sister, Frances?’ inquired another. ‘Do you know her husband, Walcott?’
‘Not very well. You’re more likely to find him on Broad Street than Broadway. You know what I care for Broad Street. I’d never visit it if my bankers were not down there. Walcott has a deuced pretty little sister, though. I hear that Shelby is quite smitten.’
‘Well, whatever you may think of him, I have seen Shelby Maddox with Paquita, too. I’ll lay you a little bet that that little baggage knows something about the case. Remember, the murder was on Shelby’s yacht.’
Conigsby shrugged. ‘Quite possible—another case of notoriety for The White Light.’
‘Notoriety for Paquita, you mean,’ corrected another. ‘I hear she plans to get back into musical comedy this fall. She’s not at The White Light any longer.’
‘Well, I think she’ll make good,’ agreed Conigsby. ‘I wonder who the angel is for her new show?’
The conversation was now hopelessly drifting, and I excused myself. At least I had learned enough to give me an insight into another phase of the life of Marshall Maddox.
Pondering what I had just heard, I decided to wander over towards the café and theatre district, and drop into the cabaret which they had mentioned—The White Light.
As I entered the place in broad daylight I was struck by the sordidness of it. Deserted except by those who were cleaning up for the coming late afternoon and evening, it was positively tawdry. It needed the glamour of bright faces and night life, and even then it must be viewed through the bottom of a glass to wear even the semblance of attraction.
In the main dining-room of the café, grouped about the little dancing floor before the platform on which sat the orchestra when things were in full swing, stood innumerable little white tables. Just now there seemed to be no one there except a man at the piano and a girl who was evidently rehearsing her dance steps.
I paused for a moment and a waiter who had been arranging the tables for the coming crowd moved over to tell me that the place was not yet open.
I satisfied