The Case of the Missing Corpse Page 2

  Alcott was making a heroic effort to adjust his outrageous muffler, but he shrugged.

  “More likely she doesn’t want to leave the family skeletons alone in the old closets. And still more likely, it’s just sheer laziness!”

  He paused abruptly, and a second later even I heard the sound of footsteps that he had caught so promptly from within. Almost immediately the door swung open and a butler, who resembled nothing so much as a well-nourished ferret, stood eyeing us with somber questioning.

  “Is Miss Wyndham at home?” Alcott did the talking.

  At Alcott’s easy presumption, the man looked genuinely taken back.

  “Miss Wyndham is at home to no one except by appointment, and she gave word of none today.”

  His tone was haughty—very haughty—for surely the worst snobs in the world are the servants of the wealthy, the waiters at the Ritz, and the vendeuses in fashionable shops the world over. I think the fellow would have closed the door in our faces but Alcott detained him.

  “Just a moment. It happens we’ve come here especially to see Miss Wyndham, and it’s quite important we should.”

  Something in his manner of speaking arrested the closing door, and while the butler stood wavering, Alcott reached swiftly into his pocket, drew forth his pen and pad, and hastily scrawled off a note. Once finished, he tore the page off, gave a pleasant nod to the perplexed servant and handed the note to me.

  “Can anyone make it out, d’you think?”

  I deciphered with effort.

  My dear Miss Wyndham:

  You will recognize the accompanying cigarette case as one that once belonged to your brother, and will find time, I hope, to greet in its present owner a sincerely interested friend. Certain aspects of his peculiar disappearance have made it imperative that I get into communication with you at once. I await your instructions.

  Peter Alcott

  New York Globe.

  Dubiously, I turned the note over to the butler. “It’ll do, providing Miss Wyndham is a cuneiform specialist!”

  Alcott gave him the python-skin cigarette case, and at the same time, slipped him a bill, I think. Anyhow, the butler was his man.

  “It’s rather blustery today. Maybe you would like to step inside!”

  We needed no urging, and with alacrity, followed him into the corridor. Through the sepulchral gloom of the place, I glanced at the great reception rooms that opened on either side, feeling vaguely oppressed by the general odor of mustiness and the too-heavy opulence of all I saw. Somber portraits, in massive gold frames, lined the walls. Priceless brocades and tapestries, statuary and porcelains crowded the rooms. “Just the loot of a half dozen fat receiverships.” thought I to myself, to dull the edge of any possible awe.

  We seated ourselves in the hallway and prepared to wait. For a while the pervasive hush of the great house was broken only by the butler’s retreating footsteps and the lonely tick of the grandfather’s clock on the distant stair.

  “Holy Mike! What a tomb!” I said by way of breaking the depressing silence. “I may need jack but y’couldn’t pay me to live in this joint!”

  “Nor me. That’s straight!”

  “Then it’s settled what we say when we’re invited.”

  We both laughed in high spirits, but suddenly Alcott left off.

  “Who’s there?” a startled voice at the end of the corridor was asking. Silence. “I say, who’s there?”

  Following the direction of the sound I was amazed to see a woman of perhaps sixty or upwards eyeing us intently from the remote end of the dark corridor.

  We rose as she approached us. A large Maltese cat was ambling familiarly at her side.

  “I hope we didn’t alarm you,” Alcott said politely for she seemed distinctly ill-at-ease. Through the half shadows of the hallway she bent a curious intent scrutiny upon Alcott as he spoke. Then as though reassured for the moment by his grey hairs, his shabby clothes or whatever she thought she saw, she shook her head.

  “Oh! no!” she said with strained nervous dignity. “My butler is new. He isn’t supposed to admit strangers. And just now—your voice and laughter . . .” She broke off suddenly. “Ah, this house is full of ghosts!” She passed her hands over her eyes as though she would wipe out some recollection. Then abruptly she changed the subject.

  “Cooper said you wished to see me?”

  She glanced from one of us to the other, dubiously.

  Alcott bowed. “The note was mine, Miss Wyndham.” He said easily. Then he noticed her questioning glance at me. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a very good friend, who happens to be as interested in your brother’s case as I, myself. Mr. John Ellis!”

  While Alcott spoke, I noticed she peered again at him with a peculiar intentness, then turned and coldly examined me. Even in the half light of the hallway I was struck by her chill blue eyes, by the sharp angularity of her features and the faded hair that was drawn back so tightly that I wondered inwardly if she employed a monkey wrench instead of a comb in the process of arranging it.

  “My seeing you is a great exception to my rules.” She gave an uncertain glance toward the drawing room on the right as though debating a momentous step. “Perhaps we can talk more comfortably in here.”

  She rustled into the darkened room ahead of us—a curious, ineffectual little figure in her rusty black dress, with its old-fashioned high-boned collar and its long, tight sleeves—strangely out of place against her background of pomp and circumstance.

  At her gesture, we seated ourselves on chairs that once (alas!) might have been regenerating to the spirit but which now certainly seemed a trifle hard on the flesh. No apology was made for the drawn blinds, and no light was turned on. As my eyes with difficulty peered through the half-light of the room, I observed with interest that there was no electric button anywhere about to have been pressed. Progress at the Wyndham mansion, at least regarding illumination, seemed to have stopped short a good many years before with the installation of the very ornate gas fixtures that hung from the ceiling. I caught Alcott’s glance searching the room. Miss Wyndham also was looking sharply at him.

  “May I ask how you happened to know my brother?”.

  “I met him in Miami a couple of winters ago. It was natural that we should have run into each other. You see, your brother was pretty well known in the sporting world and I’ve been covering sporting events for a long time.”

  Well, I thought to myself, that was garnishing the facts up rather royally. Back a few months, before Pete Alcott had first come to the Globe, I knew he had been a first rate sports writer on a second rate newspaper in a third rate Florida town, but as he talked to Miss Wyndham he made this sound most impressive and after all, the details were none of her affair.

  “Your brother was wonderful to me at the time. I’ve never forgotten and I never will.”

  Miss Wyndham’s thin, pallid lips tightened perceptibly.

  “Stephen seems to have been well enough liked, and by all kinds! It only makes this terrible affair all the more difficult to explain.”

  Alcott was silent a moment.

  “You and he didn’t get on so well together, did you? You’ll pardon my asking!”

  But quite obviously Miss Wyndham did not pardon the question. She flushed to the roots of her hair and her cold blue eyes looked at us with boundless contempt. By some spiritual electricity peculiar between many human beings and their favorites, the cat caught her mood and his back arched tensely.

  “Perhaps you’ll do better to state the purpose of your call.”

  Alcott was undismayed.

  “I thought I had. I’m deeply interested in this queer mix-up, Miss Wyndham. Just now there’s an impasse at Police Headquarters. On your authority, they state no further information is to be released. Is that true?”

  “And what concern is that of yours?”

  Alcott was good humored.

  “Well none—perhaps. However, I’ve already indicated my interest in your brother an
d my connection with the Globe!”

  “So . . . that’s it!”

  Miss Wyndham rose to her feet and pulled the bell cord vigorously. Her voice shook with emotion as she spoke, and that confounded cat of hers actually began bristling in sympathy.

  “I thought I did wrong in breaking my established rule, but your note, together with his cigarette case . . . !” She broke off abruptly. “Let it be understood, I have nothing to say for your cheap scandal-mongering press. It’s the first time in years I’ve admitted a stranger to this house. It will be the last. My man will show you to the door. Here, Jeremiah!” (This last to the cat, who humbly slunk after her to the door.) We had risen to our feet. Now Alcott bowed.

  “As you wish! But one thing I may as well state directly. If you refuse to cooperate with us now when we need you, Miss Wyndham, we shan’t hesitate to give your personal sentiments in this matter a little airing in the press.”

  Miss Wyndham’s nostrils dilated nervously and her thin lips set. There was a moment of tense inner struggle. Then she turned to Alcott coldly.

  “I don’t know what my brother has told you and what he has not. He and I have never been congenial and good reason why. For years I’ve had to sit by and watch his spendthrift habits and his wastrel ways. Since he was a child, I’ve seen him turn his back on every counsel my dear father had given him. Yesterday, when I spoke to Headquarters, I vainly hoped to put a stop to this public pillorying but it seems you newspapers must have your Roman holiday. You can print what you like about me.” Her voice grew strident with excitement. “As I say, print what you like!”

  Alcott watched her outburst with quizzical eyes. As she concluded, he smiled.

  “Bravo! What do you say to our including a little feature about the will!”

  In all the course of a varied reportorial experience, and that is including a good deal, I don’t believe I ever witnessed a more abrupt metamorphosis than that which now occurred. At Alcott’s words, every vestige of color drained from Miss Wyndham’s face. Her dry lips moved in a futile effort at speech. A hunted look crept into her eyes. From outraged dignity and pride, and all the gesture of the grand manner, she shrank at one stroke into a pitiable terrified old woman who, with a trembling hand, gestured to us to be reseated.

  “It seems you know more about us Wyndhams than I deemed possible.”

  She spoke in a low tone, forcing the words out as though each one cost her a supreme effort. In the doorway her butler appeared in answer to her earlier summons, but he might have been a wraith for all the notice she paid him. It was Alcott who indicated to her that the man was waiting, and even then, she only motioned him listlessly away, without once taking her eyes from us.

  “Nothing must be said of the will just now—surely you understand that. Promise me there will be no word of it and I in turn . . . I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  To me there has always been something revolting in abject fear. I turned aside, no longer able to witness her acute distress, as she sat on her magnificent Louis Quinze chair, twisting and untwisting her hands. Fortunately, Alcott did not share my squeamishness, and he traded on her emotion to good advantage.

  “That’s only common sense, Miss Wyndham. I had a hunch even before this snarl at Headquarters today that neither the Police nor the Press were informed of all that pertained to this inscrutable business. What I really want to know . . . er . . . who is?”

  Miss Wyndham turned her frozen eyes full upon Alcott. Again the low strained tone.

  “And if I tell you . . . can I rely on you to see that there will be no publicity for me? Nothing that Stephen may have told you? Nothing whatever, you understand?”

  Alcott nodded reassuringly.

  “You have my word. Insofar as I can shield you from publicity, I will, Miss Wyndham.”

  I stepped on Alcott’s foot to remind him as ungently as possible of the vested interests of the New York Globe, but the man was impervious.

  “You can trust my friend as well.”

  She swallowed in a kind of relief, then pointed unsteadily to the bell cord on the wall.

  “Ring that please!”

  With my recent annoyance at Alcott still unabated, I gave the tapestry bell-pull a wrench that nearly brought it down and almost immediately the ferret-faced butler appeared at the door.

  “Bring my writing portfolio from the desk on the top floor.”

  The man obediently vanished, and Miss Wyndham turned back to us, apprehension still in her eyes.

  “Every document and letter that has been brought to light in this entire affair is in the possession of Mr. Elihu Stone, my family attorney.”

  Alcott raised his eyebrows.

  “By which I infer you have made some private effort, aside from the Police?”

  “Yes! Yes! Mr. Stone has called in two of the ablest detective agencies in the city . . . with injunctions, of course, for absolute secrecy.”

  Of that secrecy certainly no one was more acutely aware than I. I thought of my morning of futile inquiry and tried to control the sudden surge of elation which I felt. However, Alcott, with immobile countenance, steadily continued his barrage of questions.

  “Would you mind telling me when you last heard from your brother?”

  “I had a card from him last February from Havana.” Her voice was low.

  “Nothing since then?”

  “No . . . not a word.”

  “That was over ten months ago. Weren’t you in any way concerned by the . . . er . . . prolonged silence?”.

  “No. I was used to it. The occasions when I heard from Stephen were the exceptions, not those when I didn’t.” She said this harshly, her eyes looking colder than ever. “To me he was always very thoughtless and inconsiderate. I’ve hardly seen him in years.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, once I was even a year and a half without a communication from him, while he was off on some absurd hunting expedition in Africa or the Punjab . . . or maybe it was Tibet, I don’t remember which. But anyhow, I long ago gave up worrying about Stephen.”

  Alcott smiled slightly.

  “Then may I ask just what prompted you to get in touch with Police Headquarters a few weeks ago?”

  Miss Wyndham darted an uncertain look at us. “My lawyer, Mr. Stone, suggested it.”

  I put in quickly. “Was Mr. Stone your brother’s lawyer, too?”

  “No. He didn’t even know Stephen. But it happened there were some financial difficulties downtown.”

  “Can you be more exact?”

  “Yes, the brokerage firm with which my brother deals was in urgent need of communicating with him. It had something to do with his account, I believe, but alas, I don’t fully understand these matters. They had tried to reach Stephen at the Racquet Club, where he is in the habit of staying when he is in the city. He was not there. All inquiries were referred to one of his friends, a Mr. Ford. It developed that Mr. Ford was not in the city. Then, gentlemen, I was called. Needless to say I was deeply shocked. I turned to Mr. Stone for advice. He called in professional help, but even that availed nothing. In despair we turned to the Police.”

  Alcott nodded. “Most of that ties up very neatly with the reports that already have been made public. Can’t you tell us anything more, Miss Wyndham?”

  Miss Wyndham looked sharply at us. “I must leave the rest to Mr. Stone to impart.”

  We lapsed into silence. God only knows what secret influence we followed in so doing but its effect on Miss Wyndham was curious to observe. Her cat had been rubbing its grey fur against her ankle, gazing up at her with its narrowed agate eyes. Now she pushed him away restlessly. Some unaccountable impulse to avoid our silence took possession of her, driving her to talk with uneasy volubility.

  “This tragedy is frightful, of course—but it was only to be expected. He who will sow the wind must expect to reap the whirlwind. The Bible tells us that, but there are not many who read its pages these days. And certainly not Stephen!”


  She clasped and unclasped her waxy yellow hands, while her mouth set grimly.

  “I only thank God that my poor father never lived to witness this. He used to think everything that Stephen did was perfect. Perfect! H’m! The very fact that the boy took after his mother was enough to account for that, and after she died my father was never in this house enough to know what Stephen was like. Some absurd sentimentality about her. She was his second wife, you know! . . . I wonder why Cooper takes so long?”

  She got up abruptly, walked to the doorway and then turned back, hands still clenching and unclenching.

  “Don’t suppose I’m sending you to Mr. Stone because I have anything to fear from what my brother may have told you. Oh, not It’s only that I see you know so much, you might as well know more. And I have your promise about that will—your solemn promise.” She fidgeted about in her chair. “What can be keeping Cooper so long.”

  “He’s been gone only four minutes by your mantel-clock. You’re overly nervous, Miss Wyndham!”

  Cooper’s entrance at that moment prevented her reply. Miss Wyndham took the portfolio from him, opened it and peering hard through the dim light of the room, hastily penned a note. She rose, as she handed it to Alcott.

  “That will suffice to introduce you to Mr. Stone.”

  I looked at my watch and roughly computed the time it would take us to reach the William Street address which I noted on the envelope.

  “Would you mind phoning him that Mr. Alcott and I are on our way?” I asked.

  She stared at me with wide-eyed incredulity.

  “You know about the will . . . and yet you don’t know there is no telephone in this house?”

  Diplomatically Alcott interposed. “But, of course, we know, Miss Wyndham! Mr. Ellis spoke from—er, force of habit. Our thanks and good afternoon!”

  I felt Alcott pull me swiftly toward the door.

  A few minutes later a chill East River gale was blowing in our faces. We hailed a passing taxi and Alcott gave the driver Mr. Stone’s address. By some strange impulse I turned for one last glance at the Wyndham mansion. At the front window I saw Miss Wyndham, her white face pressed against the pane, peering down at us with cold, frightened eyes.