CHAPTERVII.CONCERNS “DEAR JESSICA.”
Jessica Mervyn-Robertson was a remarkable woman. Tall, with a wonderful figure, she looked even taller than she actually was owing to her splendid bearing. Graceful in her every movement, wherever she went she focused attention. Her hair was of that peculiar shade of auburn blending into copper which seems, when the sun or the rays of artificial light strike it, to be shot with golden red. Her pale complexion contrasted oddly with the natural crimson of her lips, and when she looked at you there was an expression in her deep-set, almost green eyes which few men could resist. And yet perhaps what people noticed most about her was the curious intonation of her voice, a voice never forgotten by any man or woman who had once heard it. Had she been a singer she would have been a rich contralto.
She had appeared in London for the first time some years before this story opens, and within a few months had made hosts of friends. At that time she had a suite of apartments at Claridge’s, where she entertained largely and on a lavish scale. Though nobody could say for certain whence she came, or from what source she derived her fortune, people of rank and others of social standing flockedto her receptions in their hundreds. She was said to have a husband, though no one had ever seen him, and nobody seemed in the least to care who or what he might be. People were satisfied to take so alluring a woman as they found her, and so popular had she become before the end of her first year in London, and so fashionable were her social functions, that not to know Jessica Mervyn-Robertson was to admit that you werehors concours.
Aloysius Stapleton she had met for the first time, so people said, on Gold Cup day at Ascot about nine months after she had settled in London. Stapleton had for several years been a man about town; he was a well-to-do bachelor with a flat in Sandringham Mansions, Maida Vale, and a small place in the country, near Uckfield, whose calling in life seemed to be the quest of pleasure and nothing else. Certainly he had no profession, nor, apparently, had he need of one. Wherever people belonging tole monde ou l’on s’amusewere to be found gathered together, there you would meet “Louie” Stapleton, dressed always in the height of fashion and ever ready to entertain friends by inviting them to dine or lunch, taking them to the theater, or even asking them to spend week-ends with him at his place, “The Nest,” in Sussex.
A day or two after Froissart and Preston, Cora Hartsilver, and Yootha Hagerston had spent the evening together at Cora’s house in Park Crescent, Jessica Mervyn-Robertson, accompanied by Stapleton and Archie La Planta and several other friends,sat in a box at the Alhambra watching the Russian Ballet, then the fashionable attraction.
It was the first night of Scheherezade, and the house was packed. Beautiful women gorgeously gowned, and men immaculately dressed crowded every box, and filled the stalls to overflowing. In every direction diamonds and other precious gems sparkled, and as the orchestra began the wonderful overture the audience, which had been talking volubly in anticipation of the silence which they knew must follow, became gradually hushed.
The ballet ended, and the usual buzz of conversation followed. So worked up had the audience become by the terrible scenes of lust, followed by carnage, that several women in the stalls were laughing hysterically. An elderly man in the box adjoining Jessica’s, who obviously came from the provinces, and was witnessing Russian Ballet for the first time, could be heard expostulating in a north country accent against “such shows being permitted in a civilized land.”
“And look at the clothes they wear—or rather don’t wear!” he went on, warming to his subject. “I maintain such shows should be put down by law. If I had known it would be like this I should not have brought you, my dear,” this to a faded woman, obviously his wife. “What has become of the censor that a ballet like this is allowed?”
People in the theater exclaimed “Hush!” while in the boxes adjacent there was much tittering. In spite of his protests, however, he remained, and the next ballet apparently met with his approval.
Somebody knocked at the door of the box occupied by Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson and her party, and La Planta got up to see who it was.
After an exchange of whispers with the attendant, he went out and shut the door.
When the second ballet ended, and he had not returned, Jessica showed signs of uneasiness.
“What can have become of Archie?” she said to Stapleton, who sat beside her. “Do you know who wanted him?”
“No. I am going out for a minute, so I will ask the attendant.”
But when he succeeded in finding the attendant, she told him that the inquiry had been for Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson. The gentleman to whom she had given the message had said he would attend to it, and had gone into the foyer.
“Did he take his hat?” Stapleton asked.
“No, he came out just as he was.”
“Then he cannot have left the theater. If you should see him will you tell him, please, that I have gone down to the foyer to find him?”
But La Planta was not in the foyer. Nor, apparently, was he anywhere else in the theater. Asked if a gentleman without a hat had gone out of the theater within the last half hour, the commissionaire replied that he had been absent a little while, so would not like to say.
La Planta had not returned to the box when Stapleton got back there, nor did he return at all. Jessica, told by Stapleton that the inquiry had been for her, looked at him oddly, but made no comment.
As usual, Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson—or as all her friends called her, Jessica—entertained her theater guests at supper at her house in Cavendish Square after the performance. Both she and Stapleton expected that La Planta would put in an appearance there, but he did not.
It was quite a big supper-party, for people kept arriving in cars until past one o’clock, so that when at last it came to an end, the guests grouped about the card tables in the room adjoining, playing “chemmy” and other games, numbered over thirty.
“What can have become of him?” Jessica said to Stapleton in an undertone as she drew him aside. “And without his hat, too. I can’t imagine where he can have gone, or who it can have been who inquired for me. Archie ought to have told me!”
“I have telephoned twice to the Albany, but can get no reply.”
“You wouldn’t, at this time of the night.”
“Why not? He has an extension to his man’s bedroom.”
“Then do ring again, Louie. I am anxious about him.”
This time Stapleton was more successful, for after two futile attempts the operator got through, and a sleepy, rather irritated voice asked huskily:
“Hello! hello! Who is that ringing?”
“It’s Mr. Stapleton, James. I am sorry to wake you up, but can you tell me if Mr. La Planta has come in?”
“If you will please to hold on, sir,” the voicereplied in a different tone, “I will ascertain and let you know.”
For some minutes Stapleton waited with the receiver glued to his ear. He was beginning to think the man had gone to sleep again, when suddenly he heard him returning. He sounded as if he were running.
“Are you there, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. La Planta is lying on his sofa, sir, fast asleep. I’ve called him and shaken him, but he won’t wake up. The light in his room was full on. He must have been drugged or something. He is breathing very heavy, very heavy indeed, sir. I’m going to ring up the doctor.”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll come round at once and see him; the doctor may not be wanted. Be ready to let me in as soon as I arrive.”
The card-players still grouped about the little tables were busy with their games. In a small room beyond the drawing-room could be heard the rattle of the little marble as it spun merrily round in the well of the roulette, and a voice murmuring at intervals: “Faites vos jeux,” and “Rien n’ va plus.”
Jessica came forward as she saw him approaching.
“Come into the hall,” he said in a low tone, “and I will tell you.”
In a few words he explained to her what had happened.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he ended. “I will go there now, and will ring you up and report progress.”
Taxis were waiting in Cavendish Square, and within five minutes he alighted at the Albany.
La Planta’s face was very pale. He lay with lips slightly parted, breathing heavily. His eyelids were but half closed, and though Stapleton drew one of them up, the sleeper did not awake.
“Obviously doped,” he said to James, who stood by with a frightened look.
He bent over his friend until their faces were very close.
“And I think I know with what,” he added, thinking aloud. “You have no idea, James, how long he had been in?”
“None at all, sir. I didn’t know he was in until you rang me up.”
“There is no need to send for a doctor,” Stapleton said, as he straightened himself. “It is nothing dangerous. His pulse is strong, and he will sleep off the effects of the drug. By the way, did anybody call to see him, or ring him up, while he was out this evening?”
“Nobody called, sir, but a lady rang him up.”
“A lady? At about what time?”
The man thought for a moment.
“As near as may be, I should say it was nine o’clock, sir.”
“Anybody you know? Did she give any name?”
“No, sir. It was not a voice I recognized.”
“Leave any message?”
“No, sir. Just asked where Mr. La Planta was, and I told her at the Alhambra. Then she askedwho was with him, and I said you and Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson I knew for certain, and I said I fancied there were others. Then she said ‘Thank you’ and rang off, sir.”
Suddenly a thought struck Stapleton, and he slipped his hand into his friend’s pockets. But apparently nothing was missing. From the breast pocket he withdrew a wallet containing notes, and from the trousers pocket a handful of silver.
Then he went to the telephone and rang up Jessica. But the voice which answered was not hers.
“Ask Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson to come to the telephone, please,” he said.
“Is that Mr. Stapleton?”
“Yes.”
“John speaking, sir, the footman. I am afraid she can’t, sir. She has been taken suddenly ill.”
“Ill! How? In what way?”
“She fainted dead off, sir, not five minutes after you had gone.”
Stapleton paused for an instant. All at once an idea flashed in upon him.
“John!”
“Sir?”
“Is anybody near the telephone? Can anybody hear you speaking?”
“One moment, sir.”
Stapleton heard a door being quietly closed.
“Nobody can hear me now, sir.”
“Then tell me—don’t speak loud—did Mrs. Robertsontake anything, I mean drink or eat anything, after I had gone out just now?”
There was a brief pause, then:
“Yes, sir, she drank a glass of champagne at the sideboard.”
“Was anybody with her? Or near her? Did anybody ask her if she would have a glass of wine?”
“Well, yes, sir. A gentleman asked her. I happened to be near. And I did notice that a lady was by when she drank it. They each had a glass of wine.”
“Do you know the lady and gentleman?”
“I know them well by sight, sir, but not their names. They have been to supper before; once or twice, I think, but they don’t often come.”
“Do they come together?”
“I think so, sir.”
“And you could describe their appearance to me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thank you, John. Of course you will say nothing of all this to anybody. You won’t forget that?”
“You can rely upon my absolute discretion, sir.”
“Good. I shall be back at Cavendish Square within an hour, and I will see you then.”