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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Mystery, September 1934, with
"The Strange Affair At The Middlebrooks'"
AFTER waiting twenty minutes in the corridor of the Conradi-Windermere for Pete Fenner, the radio star, Edda Manby shrugged, and went on into the Colonna room for tea. "Pete's not so hot anyhow," she thought; "I'll have a better time on my own."
She chose a little table near the corner of the dancing floor that commanded a good view, ordered Bar-le-Duc and Gervaise, and looked around to see what was amusing. The usual crowd; carelessly-dressed swells entirely unconscious of themselves, and would-be swells dressed up to the nines and more or less overpowered.
But there was something amusing to watch. Three tables pushed together at the edge of the dancing floor, surrounded by a rather noisy and frazzled party of sixteen or eighteen; both sexes. They were not at all in the key of the Conradi, and Edda wondered why they were not wafted out. She saw the Captain watching them somewhat dubiously from a little distance, but he made no move in their direction. Must be some special reason for it.
All the members of the party were sufficiently well-dressed, but their excessive gratitude was giving them away. There could be no question as to who was paying; a young man seated in the center of the group holding his blond head down. His guests were trying to cover his dazed state by pointedly addressing their remarks to him and immediately answering for him. The whole story was written in his hanging head—his all-day peregrination from one "speak" to another (speak-louds nowadays instead of speak-easies, Edda reflected) rolling up this party as he went like a mushy snowball with plenty of dirt.
Edda wished that he would look up. In the end he did so. He was younger than she had expected; the slightly backward college man who is about to graduate at the age of twenty-four or so. A beautiful young man with a healthy red face and blue eyes, now slightly glazed. She felt sorry for him.
His lost eyes met hers squarely. She smiled. He did not smile back, but his mouth opened slightly. Edda looked away. He was harpooned!
Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him get up and start in her direction like a man in a dream. He walked steadily enough. He was a fine big fellow, wearing the sort of smart-careless English clothes that she approved of. He neglected his appearance, but looked well anyhow. The eyes of most of the women in the room were following him. "He has everything," thought Edda—"but good sense."
"Hello!" he said abruptly.
Edda looked up with a good deal of surprise and a little resentment. "Well!"
"How come you're alone?" he asked.
He was smiling in the restaurant manner, but there was a kind of wretchedness in his eyes that caused Edda suddenly to feel maternal. She blamed herself for it. Turning soft! She said stiffly: "I am alone because my friend hasn't come."
"I can't imagine any man letting you down," he said.
"Can't you?"
"I've got a party over there. Will you join us?"
"So awkward to join a lot of people you don't know," objected Edda.
"I don't know them myself," he said dumbly. "Just sort of collected them." The orchestra started to play. "Will you dance?" he asked. "And let's you and I get acquainted anyhow."
Edda got up. There was no poetry in his dancing; he could only go through the motions. His haunted look suggested that his thoughts were far away from the Conradi. Edda made small talk to help him out. He paid little attention and broke in on what she was saying with:
"You looked like a girl a man could talk to, so I came over."
"What did you want to say?"
"Gee! I don't know.... Nothing!... The trouble with me is, I can't talk. Things just flop around in my mind and I can't deliver them. But I feel things.... I'm no good!"
"Oh, you're just at that stage," said Edda sympathetically. "Pretty soon you'll forget it all."
"I'm no good!" he repeated stubbornly. "I got all this money.... It's not right!"
"All right," said Edda. "You're no good. What then?"
"Ought to jump off a pierhead and leave it to charity," he mumbled.
"Very likely you're right. But I'm in no position to judge."
He held her away from him, searching her face with his wretched, dumb, boyish, sullen eyes. "What you trying to do? Razz me?"
"What else can I do?"
He enfolded her again. "I don't care. I can take it from you. I like you. You look as if you were square. So damn good looking, too. You don't expect it in a girl you can trust. Your skin is like angel food!"
"No samples given away!" warned Edda as his lips came close.
Just at this moment Edda saw Pete Fenner at the door of the room putting on a show of breathlessness. Handsome fellow, Pete, but a glass shot. Seeing Edda dancing with another man he walled his eyes peevishly, and looked about for a girl. Picking up the nearest approachable one, he started pursuing Edda and her partner around the floor.
When he succeeded in brushing against Edda he smiled in the manner of one conveying a benefit on womankind and said: "Was in a taxi smash on the way here. Had to stick around and testify for my driver. He wasn't to blame, poor devil."
Edda looked around as much as to say: "Speaking to me?" Then, as if discovering her mistake, smiled at her partner. "Do go on," she murmured. "I'm so interested!"
Pete suddenly discovered how charming his partner was. He faded.
Edda's lowering partner had not noticed him. "Know who I am?" he asked.
"No idea."
"Ray Middlebrook."
"Oh, that explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Many things."
"I see you have read about me in the papers."
"Who could avoid doing so?"
"Then you know that my old man died last week and left me shiploads of money. I don't know how much. The lawyers are still figuring.... Maybe you think it's pretty low to be seen here so soon."
"One mustn't be Victorian," said Edda.
"As a matter of fact we were practically strangers. My mother died when I was a kid and I've been in schools and camps all the time. My dad and I were embarrassed when we met. I believe he had great plans for my future, but he up and died before he started in on me."
"And here you are!"
"Here I am!... Besides I'm going to be married tonight. Got to get up courage for the ceremony."
Edda laughed. "Married! Just like that!"
"Oh, you can laugh. But I'm absolutely serious."
"Who's the girl."
"You wouldn't know her. Gloria Jackman. An actress."
"What's she been in?"
"Nothing, lately. You know what the managers are. In order to get a good part a girl has to—well you know. She was resting when I met her."
"Oh, yes?"
"Beautiful girl!" said Ray solemnly.
"She would be. Are you madly in love."
The question startled him. "Love?" he echoed with a flat, bitter laugh. "Oh, sure!"
"If that's the way you feel why get married?"
"I owe it to her, see? It's a promise. I got to make good."
"You could get out of it if you really wanted to."
"Who says I want to get out of it?" he demanded. "I'm proud of her!" And then with perfect irrelevance: "There isn't a mercenary bone in her body. She wouldn't take money. She loves me, see?"
"Oh, yes?"
They passed the table where Ray's party sat. "Is she here?" asked Edda searching among the faces.
"Lord! No. She wouldn't stand for that crummy bunch. She's getting fixed up for tonight."
They danced for a while in silence. Ray's downcast, sullen face was working confusedly. Finally he mumbled:
"Anyhow, I couldn't be worse off than I am at present.... I'm certainly at the end of my string... I can't stand it.... I can't stand it any longer."
"Can't stand what?"
His eyes trailed away. "I don't know... Just things.... Don't seem to be able to measure up to them.... All this fuss about my money.... I'm afraid of it.... Now Gloria, she's strong-minded. Maybe with her I can.... Well, you know..."
What could Edda say? "Just a lost lamb!" she thought. "And they call women the weaker sex!"
They danced on.
After a while the music stopped. "Aw, come on over to my table," he pleaded. "I'm fed up with those rummies. Want to talk to you!"
"No," she said. "Why should I stand for them? They're your collection. You can sit down with me for a minute if you want to."
"Thanks," he murmured humbly.
After some rambling talk he suddenly blurted out: "Say, will you come to my wedding tonight? I'll get rid of this crew before then. Gee! I'd like to have some nice people there."
Edda, chin on palm, regarded him with an indulgent smile. "Such a good-looking big lamb!" she was thinking. "With fleece of gold! And asking for a shepherdess! What woman could resist the call?"
"You have lovely eyes!" he murmured. "They crinkle!"
"Your figures are mixed!"
"Say, will you come tonight?"
"All right. I'll come."
"Swell! I'll go over and give my mob an exit cue and come back."
"No! That would be too conspicuous. I have to go home first to dress anyhow."
"Can't I come with you?"
"While I dress? Hardly the thing for a bridegroom, Lamb."
"Why do you call me Lamb?"
"No particular reason."
"Well, I like it anyhow."
"Where's the ceremony going to take place?" asked Edda.
"At my house, number — Fifth Avenue. Maybe you know the old mausoleum. It's near Seventy-ninth."
"It's been pointed out to me," said Edda dryly. "What time?"
"Eight o'clock. We dine first and have the ceremony afterwards. There's an alderman coming."
"All right. Frisk along, Lamb."
He got up very reluctantly. "Afraid of losing you," he mumbled. "Can I count on you tonight, no fooling?"
"Sure!" said Edda. "I'll be there with my ears pinned back and my hair in a braid."
Shortly after eight o'clock Edda was mounting the steps of the Middlebrook palace. Its grim plainness was suggestive of the "mausoleum." Grecian urns on all the pediments helped to carry out the idea.
The door was opened by a young man-servant in plain black livery. Behind him in the entrance corridor loomed the butler. Edda's attention was arrested by the latter. A striking, well-built man with rapacious black eyes and thin, blue-shaven jowls. Outwardly the correct and deferential house-servant, there was, nevertheless, a devil sitting half seen in his eyes, on the watch for devils in the eyes of others. "This looks like the wolf," thought Edda.
He looked Edda up and down covertly and sent the young servant away. "May I take your wrap, Miss?" he asked in a buttery voice. In lifting it from Edda's shoulders he allowed his fingers to touch her skin.
"This is no butler!" thought Edda. She stepped forward, clinging to her wrap, and turned around. "I beg your pardon," she said sweetly running up her eyebrows.
The butler looked down. "Sorry, Miss," he said. "It was an accident." There was still an ugly smirk about the corners of his mouth.
"Naturally," said Edda. "I think, however, I'll leave my wrap in the dressing-room."
The butler bowed and opened a door off the corridor.
When Edda came out there was a hateful look half hidden under his lowered lids. He was the sort of man who prides himself on never mistaking his women and his self-love had been wounded. "What name please, Miss?" he asked with offensive obsequiousness.
"Miss Edda Manby."
"Friend of Miss Jackman or Mr. Middlebrook?"
"Of Mr. Middlebrook."
He took a small book from his pocket and made believe to consult it, but his eyes never moved from the same spot. "Sorry, Miss, but I don't appear to have your name on my list."
"Are you inviting me to leave?"
"So sorry, Miss. But you understand with newspaper reporters and mere curiosity seekers trying to get in we have to be extra careful."
Edda took a cigarette from her evening bag, tapped it on the back of her hand, stuck it between her lips and lighted it. All very deliberately while the butler watched her from under his lowered lids. She sat down in a fauteuil and crossed her legs.
"You may go and tell Mr. Middlebrook that Miss Manby is waiting."
He hesitated, studying her warily, then apparently made up his mind that she would be less dangerous to him inside the house than out. He wreathed his face in a false smile. "Oh, in that case, Miss, please step upstairs. I see now that it's all right. Pardon my hesitancy. One has to be so careful on an occasion like this."
He led the way into the house and Edda followed, sucking at her cheek until it dimpled.
The corridor opened into an immense central hall soaring up to an illuminated dome in the roof. Edda whistled to herself. Even the multiest of millionaires cannot permit himself such magnificence in these thin times. At one side a wide shallow stairway swept up to the main rooms of the house, and on up from floor to floor.
There were several of the black-clad servants about, who exchanged wary glances with the butler. They had more the look of confederates than fellow-servants and an internal shiver passed through Edda. "I was a fool to trust myself in this house alone," she thought. "I haven't a friend here but Ray Middlebrook and he's no knight in armor."
She was handed over to the conduct of an under-servant who led her upstairs and announced her name at the door of the grand salon in the front of the house. A confusion of noisy talk assaulted her ears. The huge room had evidently been patterned upon the hall of mirrors at Versailles; gorgeous, gilded and glittering. She saw at once that Ray had not got rid of his rowdy friends but had added to them. There were about forty people present. The room would have accommodated four hundred.
The guests had instinctively divided into two groups; on the left the dressed-up ones, stiff and ill at ease; on the right the crowd that Ray had been carrying around with him all day, still in their street clothes, a little more frazzled than before. The chief interest of this crowd lay in the free drinks that were being passed.
In the formal group sat a dark beauty in a black evening gown enframed in a big golden chair. Obviously Gloria Jackman. Edda went to her smiling. Her hair was drawn smoothly back, and her long black eyes further elongated by mascara. She was not at all put about by the noise at the other side of the room. Her face was a pale mask expressing no feeling whatsoever. "Isn't sure what line to take," thought Edda, "and so plays the Sphinx."
Gloria without rising extended a slender hand. "How do you do," she drawled. "I suppose you are Ray's friend. I sent him away to dress. He'll be here directly."
Tough accent, thought Edda; is working hard to overcome it.
"Dinner will be a little late," Gloria went on, "because Ray brought home more guests than the servants expected. They are rearranging the table." She turned languidly away to signify that she had no further time to give Edda.
"All right my lady!" thought the latter. "You are not through with me yet." She engaged a young man with a fluty voice in conversation. A servant passed cocktails.
The butler entered bowing his head and veiling his bold eyes. He made his way by a circuitous route toward his mistress. The latter was immediately conscious of his entrance. As soon as Gloria looked at the man Edda was aware that these two were lovers. The man whispered in Gloria's ear her eyes flew to Edda's face. Edda was making believe to be looking elsewhere. "Warning her against me," she thought.
Ray Middlebrook entered, blond and comely in his evening clothes but still showing the slack mouth and the glazed eye. He came to Edda like a needle to the magnet and the fluty young man faded. "Swell of you to come!" murmured Ray.
"I don't like this set-up," whispered Edda bluntly.
He looked at her dazedly without answering.
"Are these your old family servants?" Edda asked.
He shook his head. "They were discharged and the house shut up after the funeral. Gloria got them."
"What's the butler's name?"
"Smithers."
"Do you know what I would do if I were you?"
"What?"
"Walk out on the show. Hop on a train for Montreal and telegraph back to your lawyer to get these people out of the house. My God! you'd be getting off cheap with the loss of a few household belongings."
"Will you come with me?" asked Ray brightening.
"Thanks, Lamb," answered Edda dryly, "but I'm dated far ahead."
He relapsed. "Couldn't do it now," he muttered. "Things have gone too far."
Edda said no more. She thought: "Can't expect any help from him if I want to snatch him from the wolves. Anyhow I've got to have evidence." Out of the tail of her eye she saw Smithers had left her. "Run and play," she said to Ray.
Edda herself turned "to take the Sphinx by the horns," as she put it. Sizing up her sister woman as she approached her, she thought; "She's not so bright; she can take flattery like mineral oil." Arriving in front of Gloria's chair she said with a disarming laugh:
"Ray is completely washed up! Can't talk about anything but you!"
Gloria smirked self-consciously.
"Gosh! but you're a lucky girl!" Edda went on, "the fellow is so darned good-looking! It's too much to expect in a millionaire. I'm frantic with jealousy!"
Gloria held a scrap of a lace handkerchief between thumb and forefinger and swung it. "Ray is a darling!" she simpered.
"You fool!" thought Edda. "Do you think that's getting over?" Out loud she said: "I suppose you've been buying stacks and stacks of beautiful clothes."
"Oh, a few things."
"Where have you been for them?"
"Here; there; everywhere," said Gloria with waves of the hand.
Edda groaned in envy. "Oh! and I think myself lucky if I get four new dresses a year!"
"Ray gave me carte blanche!" said Gloria, bringing out the French phrase like a child with a new toy.
Edda shook her head enviously. She remained significantly silent in order to force Gloria to say it. And out it came.
"Would you like to see my trousseau?"
"No!" said Edda. "It would make me sick."
This was like music in Gloria's ears. She smiled and hoisted herself out of the golden chair. "Come on," she said. "I expect it will be quarter of an hour before dinner is served."
Out in the hall Edda saw Ray and Smithers standing apart with their heads close together. Smithers was telling his master something with a friendly man-to-man air false as hell. Ray was too much bemused to realize that this was rank insolence from a servant. Edda had one of her hunches. "Ray will turn against me now. Why did I ever come to the damn house?"
Smithers looked sour when he saw Gloria and Edda ascending the stairs together. Evidently this inspection of the trousseau was not included in his plans. But he couldn't stop it now.
Gloria's suite was spread across the front of the house over the salon; boudoir, dressing-room, bedroom. Activity centered in the dressing-room which was done in primrose. Four wardrobe trunks stood against the wall and articles of apparel were scattered all over the room. Two maids were packing.
Gloria sank into an easy chair and motioned to Edda to another alongside. "Show Miss Manby my new dresses," she said to the elder maid.
The woman paled slightly. "But, Madame! Everything is packed!"
"Unpack it," said Gloria with a cold stare. "You have plenty of time to pack it again." She turned to Edda with a resumption of her languid smile. "Ray and I are sailing on the Baratoria at midnight. We have the Imperial suite."
"Not if I know it!" thought Edda.
The dresses were duly unpacked and displayed; dresses for sport, for afternoon, for evening; with scarves, bags, furs, wraps to match. There was a whole separate trunkful of hats and another of shoes. The room began to look like Eve's paradise, modern version. Edda laid it on with a trowel, but privately she was not too envious. The things had come from the most expensive shops in New York, and they were beautiful, but they lacked the least touch of individuality that Edda got into her clothes at one-tenth the cost.
Gloria and Edda got up and moved about looking at this and that. Edda spied a little gray cock-eyed hat on a shelf in one of the wardrobes. "There's a duck!" she cried.
"Oh, that!" said Gloria. "Had it for ages. Almost a year. But I wouldn't give it away, because it does suit me."
"It would," said Edda. "With your eyes. Try it on."
Gloria took the hat down and stood in front of a mirror, Edda at her shoulder. As Gloria gave the hat a downward shake to settle the lining into shape Edda looked into it and read the maker's name: Fleurette, Atlanta, Ga. Gloria put on the hat and perked her head at different angles.
"Wickedest thing I ever saw!" cried Edda, clasping her hands.
"If you think so I'll have it copied," said Gloria, pitching it back on the shelf.
Smithers appeared at the door of the room; looked from one to another sharply. "Dinner is served, Madame.
Edda thought: "Bet it goes hard with you to crook your neck to her." Aloud she said; "Goody! I'm starved!"
Down on the ground floor there was a good deal of confusion in the dining-room because some of the guests were completely unknown. Gloria referred them to Ray and Ray shrugged at them. Finally Gloria said impatiently: "Oh, sit down wherever you find yourselves!" Then half a dozen of them picked on the same chair.
Ray was standing by the table with a lost air like a stranger at his own board. An ugly, pained look had come into his face. Edda guessed that somebody had been plying him with liquor—or a drug. Out in the hall she could see Smithers watching him, and rubbing his blue lip.
When Ray saw Edda standing alone he approached her swaying slightly. A painful sneer lifted his lip. "I've got your number now," he mumbled. "Thought you were getting at me nicely, didn't you?"
"My mistake," said Edda running up her eyebrows. "Good-night!" She turned from him. "Poor silly lamb!" she thought.
The confusion in the room enabled her to slip out without attracting notice. She was bent on leaving the house now—for a while. She passed Smithers as if he wasn't there. He followed her to the entrance corridor and contrived to slip between her and the door into the ladies' dressing-room.
"Beg pardon, Miss." His voice was still respectful, but there was now an open leer in his bold eyes.
"I want my wrap," said Edda.
"What for, Miss?"
"What business is it of yours? I'm going home."
"Sorry, it's against orders."
Edda felt her face reddening. "Keep cool!" she warned herself. "Whose orders?" she asked, lifting her chin.
"Mr. Middlebrook's. He said nobody could leave until after the ceremony."
"I doubt that," said Edda. "Nobody can stop me."
The man took a step nearer her. "I can," he said with an evil smile. "And I will."
Edda, glancing down, saw a blackjack half protruding from his right sleeve. A chill struck through her veins. "What a fool I was to let myself in for this!" She could not appeal to the dining-room for help without showing her hand. Besides, what help was to be obtained there?
Smithers was looking her up and down with a grin that made her flesh crawl. "I'll let you go out if you'll submit to a search in the dressing-room."
Edda, stalling for time, opened her little bag and took out a cigarette.
"The house is full of valuables," said Smithers truculently. "And Mr. Middlebrook don't know you very well."
Edda looked at him thoughtfully. "I have changed my mind," she said. "I'll stay for the ceremony." Turning, she slowly retraced her steps across the central hall and up the stairway. She believed that the women on the second floor were genuine ladies' maids. Smithers followed her up the stairs. On the first floor she glimpsed a telephone through the open door of the library and changed her plan. She went into the library and shut the door behind her. There was a key in the lock and she turned it thankfully. The room had no other door. She heard Smithers laugh outside.
She ran to the phone, but her voice rang dead in the transmitter. Wires cut! She opened one of the casement windows. A stone ledge ran along outside with a heavy metal ladder descending to the ground at one end. About fifteen feet below was the terrace outside the dining-room windows. All the houses in this block had thrown their backyards together to make a common garden.
"It can be done," thought Edda, "but I must have some kind of a wrap before I can go out in the street." Glancing around the room, her eye fixed on a Buddhist cape of rare antique brocade spread over the back of a carved bench. Snatching it up, she climbed out on the window ledge.
She gained the terrace in safety. Somebody had drawn back one of the dining-room curtains, and a bacchanalian scene was revealed to her through a haze of tobacco smoke. More noise than fun. At one end of the long table Gloria Jackman with every hair in place, surveying the rabble with a sneer; at the other end Ray Middlebrook slumped down, lost and dazed. In the doorway Smithers rubbing his lip to hide a grin.
Edda explored the garden for a way out. The houses were built solidly all around. Looking down into the rear area-way of one of the houses facing on Seventy-Ninth Street, she saw a lighted kitchen window with two women servants moving about inside. Running down the steps, she knocked at the door. How astonished the two women were to discover a young lady in evening dress and a brocade wrap on their kitchen threshold.
"So sorry to trouble you," said Edda. "I was at a party in the Middlebrook house and I didn't like the set-up. Wanted to get away quick."
The women glanced at each other. Humph! Middlebrook house! their eyes said. Nice goings-on in an exclusive neighborhood. They approved of Edda's desire to escape.
Edda continued: "Will you take me through your house and let me into the street where I can get a taxi."
"Certainly, Miss. Happy to oblige."
The open street looked good to Edda. She hailed a cab and had herself driven to the Portman, the nearest first-class hotel. Seeking out the telephone alcove, she addressed herself to the young woman in charge with the smile that never failed.
"I want to call a party in Atlanta, Georgia. She may be difficult to find. Ask the telephone company to get busy and show us what they can do in an emergency. Tell them we want to see if they can live up to their full-page advertisements in the quality mediums."
"Madame Fleurette, milliner, Atlanta. That's all I have. She won't be at her place of business now, of course, but she will have a telephone in her home. And the Atlanta exchange must know her private name."
The operator set to work while Edda sat down and tried not to let her limbs twitch or her foot tap the floor. To pass the time she counted the number of different magazines displayed on the newsstand.
In just a little time the operator looked around her switchboard with a smile. "Here she is, Miss. Booth number three, please."
"Stout old telephone company!" said Edda.
"Hello!" she said into the transmitter. A woman's voice answered her having a suggestion of the brogue. Fleurette was a flower of Erin. "My name is Edda Manby," Edda went on. "You don't know me. I'm...er..." A grin creased the corners of her mouth. "I'm a private investigator working on a case here. I have to establish the identity of a woman who is wearing a hat made by you."
"But good God, Madam, I make hundreds of hats," answered the voice.
"I know," said Edda, "but this is an original creation. As a woman I can appreciate its distinction. It's a masterpiece. I'm sure you will remember it."
"What sort of hat?"
"It's a kind of cross between toque and beret. Made of a fine quality of gray suede cloth. Has a hard crown with collapsible sides, and is worn with the crown pulled a little to the right. It looks to me as if you had got the inspiration from the French military képi—without the visor, of course."
"Yes! Yes! I remember," cried the voice. "You have an eye, Madame!"
"Have you made many from that design?" asked Edda anxiously.
"No, Madame, only one. It was too extreme for Atlanta."
"Who did you make it for?"
The answer came instantly. "Jennie Howe."
"Please describe her to me so that I ran be sure it's the right one."
"Jennie Howe was a local girl here. She was only the daughter of a teamster, but a remarkably beautiful girl. Bound to get on."
"She has got on," put in Edda dryly.
"She was tall with a beautiful figure and hair like a raven's wing. Regular classical features except her eyes which were elongated and oriental."
"That's the one," said Edda. "Is she anything to you?"
"Nothing whatever. I made her the hat gratis because she was a walking advertisement. Mentally she registers about ten above zero."
"If it should be necessary would you come to New York to identify her? All expenses advanced, of course."
"Ask a milliner if she'll come to New York! Oh, girl!"
"In the meantime tell me what you know about her."
The conversation continued.
Afterwards Edda called up police headquarters. She was known to Inspector Scofield by reason of her part in the capture of Jack Scanlan. In fact the Inspector had offered her a job on that occasion, but she had turned it down. As she put it to herself: Irregularity is the spice of life. She was too fond of lying abed in the mornings.
The Inspector had left a number at his office, and she presently succeeded in getting him on the wire. When he had heard her story he said at once that he would send two men in plainclothes to accompany her back to the Middlebrook house.
"Won't one be enough?" said Edda. "I don't want to make melodrama."
"It is the rule of the department to send two on an important case."
"All right. Please pick men who can pass for guests at a smart wedding."
"Sure. Where are you now."
"Telephoning from the Portman."
"Wait there for them."
Officers McArdle and Rohrty turned up in about half an hour. Edda sucked in her cheek at the sight of what the Inspector considered suitable timber for wedding guests. True, they both wore well-fitting dress suits, but the effect was marred by their 10-Ds with half-inch soles. However they were both broths of boys, and they all fell for each other at sight.
"What's this has happened to Ray Middlebrook?" asked Rohrty—or perhaps it was McArdle; Edda had difficulty in distinguishing between them.
"Tell you on the way there," she said.
Edda rang the bell at the Middlebrook house and the door was opened by one of the black-clad servants. When he saw who stood outside he attempted to close it again, but McArdle's 10-D was already inserted in the opening, and McArdle and Rohrty's shoulders soon widened it. He attempted to run then, but McArdle collared him.
"Lock him in one of the closets, said Edda. "We don't want to start a panic here."
This done, the three of them went on.
"We appear to be too late," said Edda. "But it hardly matters."
The noise above grew louder and suddenly the whole boisterous company appeared around the turn of the stairs coming down. Ray and Gloria headed the procession arm in arm.
Ray seemed not to recognize Edda now. His eyes were not focusing. Gloria cried out in the dulcet tone that a woman uses towards the woman she most hates:
"Oh, there you are, darling! I missed you at the ceremony! Congratulate us!"
Edda answered. "You're not married, darling. At least, not to him."
"What do you mean?" demanded Gloria.
"You're married to a man called Mortimer Beale—anyhow that's the name you married him under. And here he is!"
A service door alongside the stairway had opened, and Smithers appeared carrying smart suit-cases. When he saw the husky young man standing beside Edda, he quietly dropped the suit-cases and went back through the door. Rohrty sprang forward and fetched him in again.
Edda ignored the interruption. "You were married in Atlanta, Georgia, on January seventeenth last," she went on. "Beale, or whatever his real name may be, was a touring actor—not a very good one. He picked you up in a local dance hall. I suppose he saw in you an easier way of making a living. Anyhow he married you and brought you to New York to make both your fortunes. It was a mistake for him to marry you. There were witnesses to the wedding, and I can produce them."
"Do you mean I am not married at all?" Ray said incredulously, later.
"No more than I am."
"Thank God for that! You were the one I wanted to marry all the time!"
"You don't want a wife, Lamb, but a keeper."
His face fell absurdly. "Aw, Edda!"
"I don't want to marry anybody but you," he mumbled.
"Forget it, child! You owe me five-fifteen, telephone call to Atlanta and taxis."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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