Death Knell

Death Knell

A Duncan Maclain Mystery

Baynard Kendrick

To

S

GT

. B

AYNARD

K

ENDRICK

, J

R

.

United States Marine Corps

… –

Contents

I. "If it be now,

II ’tis not to come;

III. if it be not to come,

IV. it will be now;

V. if it be not now,

VI. yet it will come:

VII. the readiness is all."

VIII. The bell invites me.

Chapter One

If it be now, …

1

Larmar Jordan’s study on the fourteenth floor of the Arday Apartments at Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue had been pictured in House Beautiful. Its thirty-foot expanse flowed out through modern French doors to combine smoothly with a red flagstoned terrace, bright now with four umbrella-topped tables. A striped awning strung across the east end formed a sheltering bower encircled on three sides with green-boxed hedges, where five days a week, weather permitting, Larmar Jordan sat at his desk from two until six intent on the composition of novels which had brought him fame, (Queen’s Gambit, 1932; Richmond, 1934; and topping a string of others the latest Monsignor’s Wife, 1943.)

A cocktail party was in session.

Comfortable in the embrace of a wide divan just inside the doors one of the guests, Captain Duncan Maclain, set an empty cocktail glass on the end table beside him and fell into the delightful pastime of cataloguing those present through the medium of sound.

The Captain was blind, had been for more than twenty years, yet reinforced with a streak of iron persistence, and urged on by his closest friend, Spud Savage, he had dismissed hopelessness as the refuge of a weakling. Searching for a difficult task to master, something which might restore waning confidence in himself, he had drawn on his experience as an ex-intelligence officer and turned to the most unlikely of all pursuits for a blind man—that of a private investigator. That he was still alive after many years of such a profession spoke less of his almost foolhardy inclination to take chances than of the meticulous nicety with which he had mastered the demanding details of such a hazardous career.

He had been shot three times, but endless hours of rigorous training in firing at sound had made him an even more deadly shot in return. Well past forty, he still moved with the ease and sureness of a body in perfect trim, following his Seeing Eye dog, Schnucke, at a pace much faster than the normal walk of a man who could see.

A woman in a light gray sports suit swung in from the terrace with a long manly stride, stared at Maclain’s well-marked jaw, mobile face, and crisp dark hair, and after a moment sat down beside him.

I’m Sarah Hanley, Larmar’s agent. Aren’t you being neglected, Captain Maclain?

If I am, it’s my own fault, Miss Hanley. I sneaked in here to get Schnucke away from the crowd on the terrace. People persist in feeding her canapes. She’s weak—

But beautiful. Sarah Hanley glanced down at the German shepherd lying close to the Captain’s feet. Schnucke acknowledged the attention with a delicate yawn. Sarah Hanley moved her slightly protuberant brown eyes back to Maclain. "I’m really Mrs. Hanley—outside of the office, of course. You’re engaged to Sybella Ford, aren’t you?"

She gave him scarcely a chance to nod before plunging on. She’s charming. So clever! I never understood how anyone could tell good antiques from fakes. I have terrible taste, really. Imagine making a success of an antique shop—or decorating anyone’s home.

You seem to have made a success of picking good writers, remarked Maclain.

But that’s different. She laughed, throatily. One just picks what one likes to read, then it’s in the lap of the gods. Now I’ve always thought you could do a wonderful book, Captain Maclain—

Somewhere in the apartment a musical doorbell rang with a double chime.

Blindness had endowed the Captain with an ability to listen in apparent rapt attention to a speaker while following many happenings which swirled about him on concurrent waves of sound.

Out on the terrace Sybella was chatting with Paul Hirst, Larmar’s secretary. Cocktails raised her voice a trifle, but it never annoyed Maclain who loved the friendly laughter of her tone. Hirst was a small precise man—not over five foot two, Maclain had judged from walking beside him. Like so many men short of stature his voice was booming and full. Mingled with Sybella’s humorous lilt it drifted in through a babel of clinking glasses, and babbling conversation.

Authors talking shop, a little drunk: Whassamatter paper? Take some they’re wrapping up all the parcels in. Use sommait! Tha’s whassamatter. Use—

Spend sumpin on a’vetizzin. I tol’ him.

Now look—

Loud voices; soft voices; deep voices; voices high and thin. ‘A woman’s voice being sweetly catty—"She’s lovely, of course—or should I say but coarse?"—not realizing how whispers often filter in.

Sarah Hanley was growing enthusiastic. "—now just take some of your adventures as a detective, Captain Maclain. All you’d need to do is put them down. I mean simply write them down. It would—"

Soft footsteps crossed the study. The Captain recognized the trained even stride of Harry, the Jordans’ Negro houseman. He even sorted out from Sarah Hanley’s gushing the pause of indecision as Harry opened the door.

How do you do, Miss Singleton. There might have been surprise, even fear in the houseman’s greeting. Certainly the Captain read puzzlement there, if no more—a break in the normal routine of a well-coached servant—the irresolute pause which might indicate anyone from a policeman to a bill collector at the door.

Hello, Harry! There was no indecision on the part of the woman who came in unless it was a tiny edge of truculence, well covered by the pleasant timbre of her greeting. Schooled, the Captain thought. A superb actress who has learned how to speak without offending the ear. If she let herself go she’d be shrill.

Miss Singleton sailed across the study leaving a trailing breath of fine perfume. She tossed a "Sarah, darling" toward Maclain’s companion, who broke her literary advice with a startled, Oh!

Suddenly the chatter on the terrace was very still to burst again with a redoubled vigor.

You were saying— prompted Maclain.

Larmar’s a god damn fool, Sarah Hanley announced with feeling. I wonder if he really asked Troy Singleton here, or if she had the guts to just bust in! She stood up and added abstractedly, You’ll think about the book, Captain. It’s time for me to go home.

Schnucke stirred uneasily and got up, moving close to the Captain’s knee in a stance of quiet defiance. A patter of paws crossed the chenille rug and dubiously hesitated a short distance away. Schnucke pressed closer with a muffled growl.

You’re a nasty old witch, Maclain told his dog good-humoredly. That’s Winnie, the Jordan’s cocker. He’s tried to make friends every time you’ve been here. Now be polite and lie down.

She obeyed grudgingly. Maclain snapped his fingers and patted the sofa. Winnie jumped up and settled close beside him while the Captain scratched first one silky long ear and then the other.

Harry came by and gave the Captain another cocktail.

A man came in from the terrace, stepping cautiously across the sill.

It that your dog?

Which one? The Captain smiled.

The big one. I know Winnie. He’s staring at her with a lovelorn frown.

Yes, she’s mine.

"Hell, you’re Duncan Maclain. I should have known. I’m slightly oiled. I’m Bob Morse of the Globe-Tribune. Do you mind if I sit down?"

Not at all.

The divan sagged. Morse smelled of good tobacco, and soap and water, overlaid with an effluvium of expensive imported gin. Hell. I’ve got to quit drinking. I’m getting as fat as Boule-de-suif the de Maupassant butter-ball. If I gain any more they’ll ration me. He sighed with an intoxicating exhalation. I saw you talking with Hanley.

Umm. Maclain sipped his Martini.

Leave it to that old bag to back a blind man up against the wall. I’m sorry—

Forget it. The Captain grinned. "Haven’t you written for the New Yorker?"

Profiles. Morse chuckled. Good God! Have I broken out into Braille?

Not exactly. My secretary reads off records for me if she happens to run across something of interest. She picked on yours about the Washington tailor.

I’ll invite myself up to hear it sometime. Morse on wax. I’m doing one on Larmar now. He paused to swallow. What did Horse-face Hanley say about the arrival of Helen of Troy?

She seemed upset, Maclain said warily. If you mean Miss Singleton.

That’s who I mean. Morse smacked his lips. It’s a pity you can’t see her—something for the book is little Troy. It would certainly hop up my profile if I could tell the truth about Troy. There’s one baby who won’t be a cinnamon bun to have all the raisins picked out by baker-boy Larmar—

The Captain touched his Braille watch. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Morse.

"Excuse me." Morse’s voice was quiet and more steady. I’m a pig when I get mad and when I get drunk I get mad. I hope you haven’t got me wrong. How well do you know Larmar?

I’ve been here several times, said Duncan Maclain.

Then you know Lucia.

She’s charming.

That’s what I think. Morse stood up and placed a pudgy hand on the Captain’s shoulder bearing him down. Still and all, I like Larmar. Now the whole damn town knows that he and Lucia don’t get along. Maybe she’s too good a wife for him. Maybe—hell, I don’t know and I’m trying to write about him. All I know is it isn’t kosher to give a cocktail party in your home and trot in mistress number thirteen—or is it twenty-four?

A couple of guests were departing, throwing laughing good-bys toward Morse and the Captain. Someone clapped Morse on the shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. His pudgy hand grew heavier, weighing the Captain down. With drunken persistence he went steadily on, breathing fumes of alcohol, building up a latent idea.

Sadishm’s the word for it, Cap’n Maclain. Morse’s speech had thickened as the last cocktail went down. Larmar hates Lucia. Wants to hurt her all the time. Likes to hurt her—s’why he brings Troy here. Likes to hurt all women. See the booksh he reads sometime. See him sittin’ at deshk out there now. Where’s Lucia? Inna houshe—tha’s where. Gone inna housh to cry.

He was seized with a touch of drunken tears. ’Member what Shakespeare saysh, Cap’n M’lain—good ole Shakespeare—never wrong—‘if it be not now, yet it will come!’

What will come? asked Duncan Maclain.

’Sdeath! Morse let go a wave of alcoholic fumes in one mysterious whisper. The weight on the Captain’s shoulder was gratifyingly relaxed. Morse waddled unsteadily toward the hall.

Winnie, the cocker, lay asleep pressed close to the Captain’s leg, luxuriating in the softness of the sofa’s forbidden down.

Bob Morse had left a disturbing thought from Hamlet that kept marching funereally through the Captain’s agile brain.

If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

Repeating it he found himself left with a depressing sense of being ineffectual. Elements of love and jealousy had played about him at a cocktail party and woven themselves into an ugly pattern. Hate and unhappiness were storing up energy which might strike and shatter from the heart of a storm.

’Sdeath! Morse had whispered. The newspaper man was drunk, but he wasn’t a fool. Maclain felt as hopeless as a minister trying to stop a war. If it be not to come, it will be now!

With a sudden crash of sound the carillon in the steeple of the church across Fifth Avenue started its clanging song. It was startlingly near—booming out the notes of Adeste Fidelis with a vibration that leaped across the terrace and seemed to fill the room. Maclain touched the sofa beside him and found that Winnie had gone.

Sybella came in and said above the din, The chimes mean it’s nearly six. They play every afternoon. The Captain nodded and reached to take her hand. She smiled and went on, I looked in a couple of times and you seemed quite happy in your nest of dogs, so I let you alone. What have you been doing for amusement outside of knocking yourself out with gin?

Listening to our hostess weeping, said Duncan Maclain. She’s somewhere behind me in another room.

2

Success had armored Larmar Jordan with an infolding layer of insolence which hid the truth that underneath he was really retiring, to a point of being shy.

Seated at his desk on the terrace, with the cocktail party in full swing, he allowed his guests to seek him out rather than disturb himself with the more gracious effort of mingling among them. Supplicants for his attention were accorded skillfully graded greetings which ranged from the briefest of handclasps and most fleeting of smiles to several minutes of scintillating conversation dished up in Larmar’s headiest style. The exact gradation stemmed from the donor’s almost psychic knowledge of what people could best help the career of author Larmar.

There was one guest whom Larmar found most difficult to classify, the blind Capt. Duncan Maclain. The Captain was always polite, even heartily appreciative of Monsignor’s Wife, which he had read in Braille. Yet back of Maclain’s courteous acceptance of friendship and hospitality Larmar sensed a thread of tolerance manifested by a reticence hard to define.

Over a period of months Duncan Maclain’s aloofness had become a challenge to the efficacy of Larmar Jordan’s charm. It was disconcerting to like a man who couldn’t see the tasteful cut of your clothes, the humorous twinkle in your eyes, or the warmth of your grin. The visual lack of gestures made fiction cold. Larmar could write, but he wondered how one impressed a man who judged each speech by the character of its sound.

He watched the Captain and Schnucke leave the terrace and take a seat inside the door. After a moment Sarah Hanley ducked in and joined him. She’ll get short shrift, thought Larmar. There was some consolation in the idea that Maclain was aloof with others too.

As I said before, you have the technique. It’s the technique and not the content that makes your books sell—

A girl, whose name Larmar didn’t know, was perched on the desk beside him clutching a cocktail glass in her hand. She had deep brown eyes which burned with fanatical fervor. Oblivious to the other guests, she was vehemently attempting to change Jordan’s character by pouring a ten-minute cascade of words into his non-receptive ear.

I’m glad I have something. Larmar slid his long slender dody more languidly down in the chair. Are you a critic?

The world is your critic, Larmar. She edged closer, almost brushing him with one rayon covered knee.

Indeed? His pale blue eyes followed the line of her thin green dress where the desk drew it tight over hip and thigh. She was young, but youth scarcely gave her the privilege of reading his books and immediately calling him Larmar.

You have no consciousness of change—no realization of conflict, she galloped on. Your women are weak creatures of the flesh. They live in the past, blind to the conflict of Negro and white, of capital and labor, of Gentile and Jew. They know only the conflict of the sexes—

You’ve used the word ‘conflict’ three times, darling. Larmar reached out and patted her leg above the knee. Is it something new?

A young man, sparkling white in the ducks of a Lieutenant, j.g. bustled up. Kit! I’ve looked all over for you.

She’s been right here, Lieutenant. Larmar removed his hand with commendable promptness. Kit doesn’t like my women.

But apparently you do. The young officer consulted his wrist watch, then fixed unfriendly eyes on a point slightly above Larmar’s wavy yellow hair. We have a dinner engagement. You’ll pardon us, I’m sure.

Kit slid from the desk and trotted off after him. Larmar watched them leave the terrace.

Boorish, isn’t he?

He turned slowly to face Lucia at the other end of the desk. Her ingenuous blue eyes were bright with a malicious twinkle.

A friend of yours, isn’t he, darling? Larmar’s irregular white teeth showed in an annoying semblance of a smile.

I thought you might find Kit amusing. Lucia smoothed her tailored cocktail slacks, touched her ash blond hair and turned half away to nod to someone across the terrace. She’s just a child.

Overactive glands, perhaps, said Larmar nastily. She seemed quite well developed to me. If you’re deliberately trying to get me involved with someone else, Lucia, pick out one who doesn’t use a T-square to cut her hair.

Aren’t you involved enough already, darling?

He stood up slowly. She could irritate him more thoroughly than anyone living, and his face and tone were ugly when he asked her, What do you mean?

Isn’t that Troy Singleton that Harry just let in? She watched him pale and redden, then added, I’m sure she won’t be guarded by an officer who might create a scene.

If she’s here, you asked her. His voice spoke honest disbelief as he stared at the trim black-haired figure framed in the study door.

Lucia said mockingly, Now, really, dear. This seems to be the point where the wife goes to her room.

The terrace was quiet for a space of three quick steps as Lucia walked away. Larmar picked up an empty cocktail glass from the desk and replaced it, then reached a sudden decision, skirted two tables doubly noisy with the chatter of guests nervous with pointed unconcern. At the study door he stretched out both hands and took Troy Singleton’s firmly in his own.

This is delightful, Troy. If he was seething inside he cleverly failed to show it. An airy wave of a hand took in the terrace. You know everyone, I believe. Before she could answer, he had led her to the desk and installed her, back to the crowd, in the place occupied a few minutes before by the garrulous Kit.

Harry came with cocktails.

Over the glass furious black eyes, made more striking by tiny red glints of rage, opened wide and silently cursed Larmar.

What makes you think I know everyone?

Don’t you? He took an innocent interest in the olive at the bottom of his glass. I thought you’d met most of them.

Where would I meet them?

Oh, around town.

Around town, she mimicked. Her fingers closed tightly on the glass stem threatening to break it. They were well shaped fingers, tapered and strong with oval nails done in a polish of reddish brown. A large square diamond on her right hand burned in the rays of the lowering sun.

You know Bob Morse.

Naturally. Every girl who’s checked hats in a night club knows that drunken bum. She gulped her drink. Lipstick showed on the rim. I thought when you asked me here this afternoon that you wanted me to meet people. I wouldn’t have come—not to be herded to your desk like a farmer stabling a cow.

Larmar’s pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He put up a hand to shield them. The crowd on the terrace was thinning already, couples drifting with obvious nonchalance toward the study to scuttle gratefully through the door.

He moved his gaze to Troy, thinking idly how perfect she was in face and figure, too perfect, perhaps, to be quite real—a sight to arouse men’s emotions like the picture of a Varga girl.

You’re very far from being a cow, darling, he said. "The only trouble is I didn’t ask you to come."

Really? Troy cupped her round chin in one hand and rested her elbow on her knee. I’ll forgive you because you’re tight, Larmar.

He regarded her in silence and decided after a time that she was serious. What makes you think I’m tight, darling?

Aren’t you?

I’ve had two cocktails—no more.

You’d have to be drunk to deliberately lie to me.

Yes, he admitted, his eyes half puzzled. Yes, I would. Decidedly.

Then why did you say you never invited me? Is it some new form of humiliation?

It’s the truth, declared Larmar.

Troy straightened up and took a half sheet of notepaper from an initialed bag that hung pendent from her slender shoulder. She held it out wordlessly.

Larmar read it, refolded the two sharp creases and put it in his pocket.

I want that back, please, said Troy.

I’ll return it when I find out who wrote it, he told her. He was looking across the terrace toward the French windows that led to Lucia’s bedroom.

It’s written on your paper—

And typewriter, he finished for her. Still I didn’t write it, Troy. He turned back to face her, speaking earnestly. Do you think I’d be so foolish as to ask you up here?

Why not? She was dangerously angry again.

Because I think too much of you to subject you to insults—particularly in my own home. It’s not your fault or mine, Troy. It’s just one of those impossible situations that both of us know.

She bit one full lip into a deeper crimson. And now that I’m here in answer to this mysterious invitation, are you going to introduce me to anyone?

Certainly, he told her quietly, anyone you want to know. Can you take it?

No! She slid down from the desk. But, I can take a hint if it’s tossed at me with both fists, Larmar. She gave an ugly little laugh. Some day you may meet a situation you can’t quite handle. I hope I’m there.

I hope so too, darling. I enjoy your company.

I’m relieving you of it right now. Don’t bother to rise. It will attract too much attention. Harry will see me out. She marched across the terrace.

Larmar waited until she was gone, then sauntered over and stepped through the windows into Lucia’s room.

His wife was stretched out on a blue chaise longue trailing a current issue of Good Housekeeping on the floor beside her. She raised it at the sound of Larmar’s step and began to study an illustration with marked overinterest. He kicked a chintz-covered puff up close beside her and sat down.

Guests all gone? Lucia asked the question without relaxing her smug perusal of the magazine.

I’m sure I don’t know, said Larmar stolidly. And furthermore I don’t give a tinker’s dam. They came here at your invitation—not mine.

All of them? Lucia lowered the magazine.

All of them, he told her firmly. You’re not very clever, Lucia. In fact, when you get jealous, you’re quite obvious. He took the note from his pocket and tossed it in her lap. What the hell was the idea of sending this to Troy Singleton? What did you think you’d gain by standing this cocktail party on its ear?

Larmy, what’s the use? The note lay untouched. Lucia used the affectionate contraction of his name which he hadn’t heard in a year. Her voice was very weary, her expressive face very pale. We’re getting nowhere fast. You’re seen all over New York with the Singleton girl. I’ve kept my mouth shut, but it hurts when you take me for a fool and try to contrive some silly trick to foist the blame on me for bringing her here.

He stood up, cold and unresponsive. Lucia’s fingers closed tightly on the magazine as though she might rip it in two, then letting it slip to the floor she began to cry.

God, what an actress! said Larmar, staring with a frown. Make it loud, darling. Plenty of good throaty sobs so that the whole house can’t help hearing you!

Across the street the bells in the steeple started their afternoon song. Lucia’s sobs grew louder.

Even Maclain in the study can’t hear you now, darling. Larmar grinned. Those damn chimes will ring for fifteen minutes. I wonder if you can hold out that long!

3

It had always been a secret irritation to Paul Hirst that his employer chose to regard him in the light of a very efficient machine. As a matter of fact, life itself never resembled any deep flowing river to Paul. It rushed along rapidly, its swift shallow current broken by myriad sharp stones of petty irritations.

Paul fought his progress vigorously, like a skillful paddler shooting the rapids in a birch bark canoe. Some day, he feared his hand might slip and he would find himself boatless and struggling helplessly in the middle of anger’s frothy stream. The sharp jagged rock which he feared the most and which presented itself recurrently, at every turn, was his employer, Larmar.

He didn’t resent Jordan’s position, for the author’s success added greatly to his own. But, he chafed at the spacious hand with which God had dealt bodily gifts to Larmar. Larmar was tall, expansive, casual with his women, and addicted to loose expensive clothes, which hung on his long, lithe frame as though they had finally found a home of their own.

Paul was short. He bought expensive clothes himself, but no matter how well they were tailored, they always felt too small. In talking to Larmar, Paul always had a sensation of bending his neck back. It made him feel like a puppy dog asking largess from a king on an inaccessible throne.

Actually, he was quite a decent little fellow, a trifle conceited, with a brain as sharp as they come. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that circumstances and his own capability brought him to work with Larmar. There was too much propinquity with a man too tall. To bolster his morale, Paul had adopted the truculence of a lion in bantam rooster’s clothing. This he liked to turn loose acidulously on those unfortunate enough to cross his path outside of the Jordans’ home.

He liked his work, but he hated Larmar’s parties. They were added hazards to life’s turbulent course, almost waterfalls threatening to wreck his canoe. Larmar, whose ingrained streak of sadism occasionally showed up grinning with skeleton teeth, took a delight in never having made Paul Hirst’s social position quite clear. Paul was supposed to attend, but he was equally supposed to use a nicely balanced amount of judicious self effacement. Certain guests he might talk to, others he was expected to let severely alone. Finding the dividing line kept him hopping about with the agility of an epileptic flea.

The cocktail party was no exception. He had been doubly sandpapered by the arrival of Troy. He disapproved heartily of Larmar’s philandering. There had been others, varying in degree.

Paul liked Lucia, who was considerate of his standing in the household in her nonchalant way. Yet watching his employer over a period of years, he was still undecided as to how much any one woman meant to Larmar. He had never discovered any deep involvement, unless perhaps, it was Troy. Rather, they seemed to come and go with the rapidity of tiny clouds dancing across the face of the sun.

Troy, Paul believed, was the cleverest of the lot, but even she had slipped. Paul felt instinctively that her ill-timed arrival at the Jordan party would be