Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn
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Richard, thank you.”
“Oh, call me Dick! Sounds more friendly!”
“Frankly, I don’t approve of nicknames,” Maria shrugged. “You were christened Richard. Where was the purpose of it if it is to be abbreviated ever afterwards?”
“You got me there,” Dick admitted, then relaxed and watched from under a raised eyebrow as Maria resumed her survey.
“Remarkable!” she kept on saying, wagging her severely chapeaued head. “Remarkable! The size and extent of it—!”
“I suppose it is a bit overpowering. I guess you’ll find it a bit different from that ivy-bitten college of yours, eh?”
“There is no ivy on Midhurst, Richard. And I would ask you not to be flippant when referring to a seat of learning with a very fine tradition. In the past even duchesses have received education at Midhurst.”
“Oh! Well— Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant to say was that this place sort of knocks you for a loop the first time you set eyes on it. Does the same with all strangers. But I like it!” Dick went on, wagging his head admiringly. “After all, I ought to. I was born in it, brought up in it. Full of all sorts of people doing all sorts of things. There’s both poetry and power in it. Something happens—all the time.”
“Including...murder?” Maria still gazed out of the window.
“Yes.” Dick’s voice was quieter: he knew what she meant. “I hope it didn’t sound too horrible a suggestion to make in my letter, but I’m sure I’ve got good grounds for my suspicions. Don’t spring the murder news on mother too quickly, will you? For all she knows at the moment you are here just to see the family lawyer— Say, see that place?”
He broke off and excitedly indicated an immense façade of granite and chromium across which sprawled six-foot letters proclaiming DICK BLACK’S TWELVE RHYTHM LOVELIES to the myriads.
“Mine!” he announced proudly.
Maria glanced at him sharply. “You mean you own that theater?”
“Gosh, no—only the dames. In polite circles I’m called a revue producer. I run late night cabarets, experiment with plays and things off the beaten track— You know!”
“So that is what you have become. I rather expected that your late father’s business—”
“Not me. I’m not cut out for tinned cabbage. And if it comes to that I’m not so exclusive in my inclinations. Theatricals seem to run in the family. There’s Janet, for instance. She’s a professional singer with a high C that can knock your eye out. She’s just finished a New York circuit and is resting up for a day or so before taking on a fresh engagement.... Then there’s Patricia; she’s a professional dancer. Adagio stuff.”
Maria nodded slowly, telescoping intervening years.
“Though you are my nephew, and Janet and Patricia are your sisters, I will insist on thinking of you still as children. It makes me thoroughly impatient with myself.... Let me think now. Janet was the first child—”
“Right,” Dick acknowledged. “She’s twenty-eight. Pat was the last one. She’s twenty. Rather a funny kid is Pat.... Very headstrong and determined. Once she gets an idea nothing can shift it bar blasting.”
“Perhaps,” Maria reflected, “her father is being repeated.”
“Possible. He was a tough old nut, though I say it—” Dick broke off, suddenly aware his remark was two-edged. “I say, Aunt, I didn’t mean to imply that you— Being his sister, I mean—”
Maria smiled frozenly. “Don’t apologize, boy. I know you cannot dissociate me from a Headmistress, think of me perhaps as a frowsy old girl full of Latin and mathematical formulae. Maybe it’s even true—but maybe not. Believe it or not, Richard, I have had my moments. Brief ones, but still moments.... Tell me, how is your mother?”
“Only so-so. Bit run down after the tragedy, I’m afraid. You will see for yourself in a moment.”
Dick rested his hand on the door handle as the car moved in to the curb outside a vast Fifth Avenue residence....
* * * *
As she stepped into the hall of the Black residence Maria could not rid her mind of memories of Waterloo Station at home. The place seemed to have the same tendency to recede into infinite distance, where it finally resolved itself into panels, mirrors, armory, a gigantic staircase, and innumerable doors. She was adjusting herself to the magnificence when the manservant returned from the front door, took her bags, then departed like a black-coated ghost into the distance.
“What’s the matter, Aunt?” Dick asked, smiling. “Place too big?”
She turned. “I was just mentally computing how many tins of broccoli it must have needed to indulge—this. I always knew your father had an extravagant streak but—”
“Here’s mother,” Dick interrupted; then he raised his voice. “Here we are, mum—all in one piece.”
Alice Black came sweeping forward from one of the endless doorways with her hand extended. It looked as though she were dancing the Lancers solo.
“Dear, dear Maria! So many years! So many miles!” She only came to a halt when she confronted Maria’s erect and challenging form. Gently she kissed her, then stood back and smiled. “So very, very glad to see you again, Maria. So much has happened since we last met.... When did we meet last—?”
“Twenty-three years ago,” Maria said, rather grimly.
“Twenty-three years! Well, well! Yet you have changed so little, Maria. I mean considering how much water has flowed under so many bridges. And the world is so full of bridges, don’t you think?”
“I have never concerned myself unduly with bridges, Alice—and I think you are indulging in needless flatteries. I have changed—and so have you. Responsibilities and cares have left their mark on both of us. You were a slender girl then, with golden hair. I remember it so well. Now look at you!”
Alice looked down at herself in regret. She had avoirdupois in the wrong places and her hair was graying to whiteness. Only in one thing was she unchanged—the frank generosity of her gaze. Her eyes were gray, always steady. They seemed to be the lie to her habitual manner of feathery, pointless gushings. Nature, it seemed, had cursed her with a penchant for saying two words where one would have more than sufficed.
“Such a pity you could not have come at a happier time,” she said, discarding her personal study. “Poor, poor Ralph! He lived so hard and died so—so suddenly. But there, the winds of heaven blow on us all when we least expect it. Fate has always carried the sledgehammer in her hand, don’t you think—? But this isn’t the time to talk of our troubles! Come along upstairs.”
They started to move across the wilderness.
“The girls are out right now,” Alice went on, as they began to mount the staircase. “They promised faithfully to be back for dinner this evening so as to meet you. In between you’ll want a rest perhaps and—and a cup of tea?”
This last remark was uttered almost slyly. It made Maria glance at her watch, look surprised, and then nod.
“Hmm! It is an hour past my usual time, but I’ll welcome a cup of tea just the same. Thank you, Alice.”
She smiled. “You see, I remembered! You British have the quaint custom, have you not? Being an American I prefer coffee, or else I have just gotten that way through habit. Habits are hard to break, I think, because when you break one you sometimes form another in order to break it, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, Alice, I suppose it is so,” Maria agreed rather irritably. She was wondering if the staircase went up to heaven.
“Terrible thing about poor Ralph,” Alice went on, a little short of breath now. “Such