CHAPTER IIIUNIDENTIFIED
THE Maître d’hôtel, returning from an inspection of the main dining room, paused in Peacock Alley to view with an appraising eye the men and women who promenaded up and down or sat about, some waiting with good grace for their chance to find a disengaged table in one of the dining rooms while others, outwardly rebellious, expressed their candid opinion of Washington in war-time. Suddenly the Frenchman’s air of polite indifference changed to one of alertness as a man pushed his way through the throng and stopped near the door of the Palm Room. The Maître d’hôtel was at his elbow instantly.
“Ah, Monsieur Burnham, welcome, most welcome,” he said. “Have you had a nice summaire?”
“Henri!” Peter Burnham surrendered his hat and cane to a waiting attendant. “The summer has been so-so,” he added, turning back to the Frenchman. “I am waiting for Mr. James Palmer; have you seen him this evening?”
“But yes.” The Maître d’hôtel wormed his wayinto the Palm Room and beckoned to Burnham to follow. “There, in that corner across the room; this way,” and he darted among the tables and the palms, Burnham following closely, until he reached a small table set for two persons, and pulled out the unoccupied chair.
Palmer looked up from the menu he was studying and greeted Burnham with warmth.
“Have a Martini?” he inquired as their waiter hurried up and the Maître d’hôtel went back to his post in the doorway.
“Yes, and make it dry,” cautioned Burnham to the waiter. “And hurry it along. I am worn out,” he added to his host.
Palmer glanced at him in concern. “You don’t look very fit,” he admitted. “Had a bad trip down?”
“Devilish! Our train was sidetracked for hours waiting to let troop trains pass; nothing to eat——” Burnham paused to empty his glass of ice water. “At our rate of progress I was willing to believe we’d gone back to stage-coach days, but Washington is an eye-opener; I had no idea this place swarmed with people.”
“Washington’s ‘sleepy hollow’ has had a rude awakening,” remarked Palmer cynically. “I don’t mind confessing I am weary of seeing consequential looking people dash about Washington with an airof having arrived just in time to save the Nation. Washingtonwason the map before Uncle Sam started on this war-path.”
Burnham laughed. “I confess I share your outraged feelings; had to wait interminably at the Union Station before I could telephone you.” He stopped to take the cocktail at that instant placed before him. “Here’s how!”
His host raised his glass in acknowledgment and sipped his Martini with due enjoyment.
“Better have another,” he suggested as Burnham set down his empty glass, “against the time Washington goes dry.”
“I’ve stocked up my wine cellar with that in view,” admitted Burnham and stopped to watch some newcomers who had taken possession of the nearest table. “I suppose I can get a room here for the night in case I find the servants haven’t arrived to open our house.”
“My dear Burnham!” Palmer looked actually shocked. “Empty rooms are unheard of in Washington.”
“How about club chambers?”
“Nothing doing; they are even sleeping in the bathtubs there,” laughed Palmer, and stopped speaking as the orchestra in the mezzanine gallery commenced to play and, dinner arriving at that instant, the two men, except for monosyllabic remarks nowand then, completed the meal in silence. As Burnham took one of the cigars proffered him he pushed aside his dessert plate, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned forward.
“I can’t understand why people want an orchestra playing while they eat,” he grumbled. “I don’t enjoy having to shout when I talk.”
“Well, I suggested dining at the club——”
“I know, I know; but I forgot about the beastly orchestra,” he paused to puff abstractedly at his cigar.
“What’s the trouble, Burnham?” asked Palmer quickly. “Is your wife ill?”
“No, no; it’s——” He bent nearer his companion, then paused to shoot a glance over his shoulder and his confidences remained unspoken. “Jove! Evelyn!” he ejaculated. “She wasn’t due here until to-morrow.”
Palmer, but half catching his remark, followed his gaze and saw Evelyn Preston and her friend Marian Van Ness just taking their seats at a table some distance away. Palmer pushed back his chair preparatory to rising.
“Bless my soul, Burnham,” he exclaimed impulsively. “Why didn’t you tell me Evelyn was with you? We could have waited dinner for her and Mrs. Van Ness. Here—” beckoning to their waiter—“tell those ladies——”
“Wait,” broke in Burnham. “We’ve finished, Palmer; suppose we go over and sit at their table, but there’s no hurry, man.”
Burnham’s tone was so petulant that Palmer, curbing his impatience to be with Evelyn, subsided in his seat and gazed at him in speculative silence. What had come over easy-going, absent-minded Peter Burnham? Six weeks had passed since his visit to Burnham Lodge at Chelsea, and that the six weeks had not agreed with Burnham was plain to be seen; his cheeks were a bad color and he seemed to Palmer’s appraising eye to have shrunk in his clothes. A certain nervous tremor in the hand holding his cigar also was noticeable, and Palmer wracked his brain to recall some incident of his stay at Burnham Lodge which might give him the key to Burnham’s altered demeanor. But to the best of his recollection all had been harmonious, and he had been rather a captious guest, for his prediction that the marriage would not turn out a happy one had put him on the alert for matrimonial discords.
Palmer had not been alone in predicting a disastrous ending to the marriage, for all Washington had heard first with incredulity and then laughter of the engagement of the wealthy widow, Lillian Preston, to Peter Burnham, a man considerably her junior, who had been uniformly unfortunate inevery business venture he had undertaken. Peter had his good points, his friends contended, and as one of them remarked at the wedding which had followed swiftly upon the announcement of the engagement, his wife could keep him in the style he had been accustomed to before his final financial venture had landed him in bankruptcy.
That Mrs. Burnham was honestly devoted to her husband and admired him, Palmer had come to believe. She was not a woman given to concealing her thoughts, her habit of plain speech frequently landing her in hot water. Peter Burnham was well read, polished in manner, a bornraconteur, and a devoted chess player; he cared very little for out-door sports and his greatest hardship was being dragged to horseshows of which his wife was inordinately fond, having inherited her love for horses from her Kentucky ancestors.
Society had speculated as to how Mrs. Burnham’s young daughter and only child would take her mother’s second marriage, but as Evelyn was then away at boarding school, society found little to build gossip upon. Evelyn’s début the winter before had revived interest in the subject, and when she left Washington early in the spring for an indefinite visit in the West, tongues had wagged without, however, getting any satisfaction from Mr. and Mrs. Burnham who went placidly on their way,being entertained and entertaining in their hospitable home in the fashionable Northwest.
The situation had decidedly piqued Palmer’s interest, for as intimate as was his footing in the Burnham home he had never been able to decide Evelyn’s status in the family circle; she was frequently and pleasantly alluded to in conversation, but that was all. He had made no secret of his desire to marry Evelyn, and that both husband and wife favored his courtship he had ample reason to believe, though neither to his knowledge had outwardly espoused his cause to Evelyn.
When called on the telephone about six o’clock that afternoon Burnham had given Palmer to understand that he was alone in Washington; and yet his young step-daughter was also in the city. It was of course possible that Evelyn was visiting Marian Van Ness. Palmer frowned; he disliked few people, but he most heartily disliked brilliant Marian Van Ness; their natures were too utterly foreign for them ever to be congenial.
Palmer transferred his attention from Burnham to the latter’s step-daughter and her companion, both of whom were busily engaged in discussing the menu. Marian Van Ness’ dark beauty was an effectual foil for Evelyn’s curly yellow hair and blue eyes. The entrance of both girls, for Marian appeared little more, in their smart summer costumeshad attracted admiring low voiced comment from the other diners in their vicinity, and several friends and acquaintances had looked up to bow or wave their hands to them, for Marian was extremely popular in society. When financial reverses had obliged her to find employment upon her return to her native city after her divorce, she had acted as social secretary for several Cabinet officers’ wives and through their influence had received an appointment in the State Department five years before.
Suddenly Palmer stirred in his chair. “I hardly think Mrs. Van Ness is a staid enough chaperon for Evelyn,” he remarked. “Suppose we join them,” and leaving Burnham no option in the matter he pushed back his chair and rose.
Evelyn, whose healthy young appetite had asserted itself, in spite of the tragic happenings of that afternoon, had been chiefly occupied in selecting the most tempting dishes in the menu, and it was not until an exclamation from Marian drew her attention to her step-father coming toward them, Palmer’s big proportions towering behind him, that she knew of his presence in the dining room. At that moment the diners at an intervening table left their seats, thereby impeding Burnham’s progress, and only Marian caught Evelyn’s low exclamation and noticed her change of color.
“Are you going to faint?” she asked. “Drink some water, dear.”
Instead Evelyn laid trembling fingers on her cool palm.
“Don’t forget your promise,” she pleaded. “Remember, you are going to stay with me....”
“I will.” Marian’s firm hand-clasp was reassuring. “Can’t you tell me more of what took place this afternoon?”
“Not now.” Evelyn straightened up and turned to meet her step-father and, with a poise and air of cordiality which Marian secretly applauded, she held out her hand in greeting to Burnham and then to Palmer. “When did you get here?” she inquired as the men took the chairs proffered by attentive waiters, after first speaking to Marian.
“I might ask the same of you,” retorted Burnham. “You were not due here until to-morrow.”
“I found I could take an earlier train,” responded Evelyn. “Why didn’t you and Mother come up to the house when you arrived?”
“Your mother didn’t come down with me,” answered Burnham, waving away the waiter’s offer of a menu. “She is in New York.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation slipped from Evelyn followed by another: “Oh, waiter, don’t remove that place,” as the servant started to clear away the extra silver and glass. “I am expecting anotherguest,” she added as Palmer, thinking she did not know that he had dined, imagined she referred to him and started to decline.
“Another guest?” questioned Burnham and his manner sharpened. “Whom do you mean?”
Evelyn shot a half resentful glance at him, then curbing her hot temper which his censorious air and manner invariably aroused, she answered cheerily. “None other than your old friend, Dan Maynard.”
“Maynard in town!” exclaimed Burnham in pleased surprise.
“Not only in town but he is stopping at our house,” rattled on Evelyn, noting with some surprise that Marian had permitted her “Honey-dew” melon to be taken away uneaten. “The servants are putting the house in order.”
“Upon my word!” Burnham polished his eye glasses and looked through them at Evelyn. “Where is Mrs. Ward?”
“Ill,” tersely. “Dr. Hayden is looking after her; and Marian is coming back to help me take care of her.”
Burnham stared at his step-daughter. “Mrs. Ward ill—what next? When did you and she arrive in Washington, Evelyn?”
Palmer, stopping his exchange of small talk with Marian, glanced at Evelyn and her expressioncaused his interest to quicken. Evelyn was not used to subterfuge and the look she had favored her step-father with was indicative of her feelings.
“We didn’t come together,” she explained. “Mrs. Ward only arrived this afternoon, while I reached the house——” She stopped to help herself to beefsteak and several vegetables.
“Yes,” prompted Burnham, and his restless glance passed from one companion to the other. “You reached——” A hand was laid on his shoulder and Maynard cut into the conversation.
“Found at last,” laughed the actor. “Evelyn, you told me to meet you at the Shoreham and I have been waiting there until it dawned on me to try this hotel. How are you, Burnham, and Palmer, too,” shaking hands as the men rose.
“Marian, have you met Mr. Maynard—Mrs. Van Ness?” asked Evelyn, and Maynard turned to encounter a pair of dark brown eyes raised to him in earnest appeal. The next instant Marian’s hand was taken in a warm clasp and slowly released as Palmer made room for Maynard to sit between them.
“My wife will be delighted to know you have arrived in Washington,” said Burnham. “She was overjoyed when your telegram came stating you might get here any moment. What brings you back to this country, Maynard?”
“War work,” began Maynard. “No, no soup,” he broke off to say to the waiter. “Bring me whatever Miss Preston has ordered. Palmer, I hear you have your hands full with government contracts for erecting temporary office buildings here and at cantonments.”
“All architects are busy these days,” replied Palmer, accepting another cigar from Burnham. “In fact every one is busy; I imagine you have your hands full at the State Department, Mrs. Van Ness.”
Marian, directly addressed, looked up from the bread pellets she was arranging in a neat pile before her. “Well rather, we work night and day.”
“It must be a terrific strain,” acknowledged Maynard. “So much responsibility rests in the State Department.” There was a haunting quality in Maynard’s voice which, no matter how trivial his remark, impressed his listeners, and Marian’s heart beat fast as memory of other scenes rose to torment her, but her manner indicated only polite attention and after a fraction of a second Maynard continued his remarks.
“Washington is a changed city,” he stated. “The Shoreham reminded me particularly of Paris in its military appearance, except that the uniforms are not worn and faded. By the way, Burnham,among the French officers I met there was René La Montagne.”
“René!” The startled exclamation escaped Evelyn before she could check it; and her confusion was so great that she failed to observe the lowered looks of two of her companions. Burnham and Palmer exchanged glances, then their eyes dropped to their cigars and they smoked in silence.
As Evelyn set down her goblet of water a page stopped at her elbow.
“A telephone has just come from your butler, Miss Preston,” he explained, “to ask you to return home. He said Mrs. Ward was quite ill.”
Evelyn pushed aside her plate. “I’ll go at once,” she announced. “But the rest of you need not come until later.”
“I have finished.” As she spoke Marian rose and Maynard also tossed aside his napkin and stood up.
“Wait a minute,” remonstrated Burnham. “We’ll all go with you, Evelyn. Here, waiter, bring me the check, and, Maynard, engage a touring car outside, will you?”
Nodding assent, the actor sped on his errand, leaving the others to follow more slowly. He was fortunate in securing a seven-passenger car, and Burnham bundled his party into it with small ceremony.
“We are right in your neighborhood,” he said as Palmer drew back, “the car can leave you after it has taken us home. There’s plenty of room, Palmer, jump in.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Evelyn, “it would expedite matters to stop for Dr. Hayden.”
“If he is not at your house I can go for him and bring him right over,” answered Palmer, and Burnham agreed.
“Good idea,” he said shortly. “I hope I am not crowding you, Evelyn?” as she shrank against Marian in making room for him on the back seat.
“Oh, no,” she replied and sat silent, grateful for the cool night air which fanned her cheeks. She had tried to forget the mysterious tragedy while in the hotel; had even barely mentioned it to Marian when she picked her up at her apartment to take her out to dinner, but the sudden summons home had brought it vividly before her. Suddenly she caught Maynard’s eyes and his cheery smile gave her a sense of comfort. As the car turned into Connecticut Avenue he leaned forward and addressed Marian Van Ness.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously. “You have no extra wrap and the night air is chilly.”
Marian looked at him then glanced away. “I am very comfortable,” she murmured.
Palmer, who had chosen to take the vacant seat by the chauffeur in preference to trusting his weight on one of the small pivot chairs in the tonneau of the machine, addressed Burnham several times, but apparently his words were drowned in the rush of wind occasioned by the speed of the car, for Burnham made no response. A short time later the car drew up to the curb, and stopped before the Burnham residence.
Maynard was the first out of the machine and turned at once to help Marian. For a brief second her hand rested lightly on his arm, then was removed as she sprang to the sidewalk. Evelyn was no less quick in getting out and, not waiting to see what became of the others, she caught Marian by the elbow and hurried her into the house and upstairs.
Burnham was slower than the others in leaving the car. “Wait a second, Palmer,” he said, “I’ll send word if we need Dr. Hayden,” and, turning, he accompanied Maynard up the steps. His words were overheard by the anxious faced butler who had been on the outlook for the car and opened the front door when it first drew up to the curb.
“The doctor’s here, sir,” and Maynard was quick to detect the faint, very faint trace of accent in the man’s subdued voice.
Burnham faced about and called to Palmer:“Don’t wait, Palmer, thanks; Hayden is here. See you to-morrow,” and he waved his hand in farewell as the car moved off.
“Come in the billiard room, Maynard,” he said turning to his companion. “We might as well have a game until Hayden comes down——”
“Just a moment, sir,” broke in Jones, the butler. “There’s several gentlemen waiting to see you.”
Burnham halted. “Their names——”
A man standing in the shadow of the drawing room door came forward.
“Detective Mitchell, sir, of the Central Office,” he said politely. “I was sent to investigate the case of the man found dead here this afternoon.”
“A man found dead here!” shouted Burnham, stepping backward and colliding against Maynard. “Who is he?”
“We don’t know,” acknowledged Mitchell. “But we are trying to establish his identity. Your step-daughter found him in the library.”
Burnham stared at the detective wide-eyed. Suddenly he took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“A dead man here!” he ejaculated feebly. “An unknown man?”
“Perhaps if you will step in here you may be able to help us identify him,” suggested Mitchell.“We have brought the body down into the billiard room preparatory to taking it to the morgue.”
It seemed almost as if Burnham did not comprehend what the detective was saying, and but for Maynard’s guiding hand he would not have found his way into the room. The body lay on the billiard table covered by a sheet. Stepping forward, Mitchell pulled down the sheet, signing to Burnham to step nearer, and both he and Maynard watched Burnham as he bent over the body. After what seemed an interminable time to Maynard, he straightened up.
“I have no idea who he is,” Burnham stated.