The Three Thirty-Twos/Chapter 4

was the most prominent bachelor in New York society. I had been reading about him in the papers for years. His name regularly headed the list of men present at every fashionable entertainment, and one was continually being informed of his visiting this great person or that in Newport, Saratoga, Lenox, Tuxedo and Palm Beach.

Prominent as he was at this time, he must have been still more prominent a few years ago when the cotillion was still a feature of every ball. I have always wondered what a cotillion was. Barry Govett was the cotillion leader par excellence. They said then that one had to engage him months ahead like royalty.

All this I had gathered from the gossipy weeklies which, like every other stenographer whose social life was limited to a boarding house, I used to read with avidity. Barry Govett was their pièce de résistance. Before all this happened he was once pointed out to me in court costume at a great fancy dress ball; and I thought then that he had the most beautifully turned legs I had ever seen on a man.

He must have been over forty then, but still conveyed the effect of a young man; very handsome in his style. But too much the cotillion leader for me. When I thought over this I wondered what a woman like Mrs, Whittall could have seen in him. One never knows!

Mme. Storey, in her clever way, managed to get him to tea one day. The moment he entered the outer office I was aware of a personality. Of course no man could occupy so lofty a position for years, even if it was only at the head of a frivolous society, without acquiring great aplomb. Close at hand in the daylight I saw that there was little of the youth remaining about him, though his figure was still slim, but I liked him better than I expected.

He had a long, oval face, refined in character, almost ascetic-looking, with nice blue eyes, though they were always pleasantly watchful, and betrayed little. He was wonderfully turned out, of course, but nothing spectacular. It was the perfection of art that conceals art. I was immediately sensible of his charm, too, though I had discounted it in advance. The smile and the bow conveyed no intimation that he saw in me merely the humble secretary.

I took him in to Mme. Storey. She was playing the great Jady that afternoon, and the black ape Giannino in green cap and jacket with golden bells was seated in the crook of her left arm. Mr. Govett hastened forward and gracefully kissed her hand. I wondered if Giannino would snatch at his none-too-well-covered poll. We were always amused to see how the ape would receive a new person. He is an individual of very strong likes and dislikes. However, he only made a face at Mr. Govett, and hissed amicably. Indeed, Mr. Govett held out his elbow, and Giannino hopped upon it and stroked his face. This was a great victory.

“Dear lady,” said Mr. Govett, “this is a great and undeserved privilege. To be invited to tea with you, and”—looking around the room—“alone!”

“Just me and Giannino and my friend Miss Brickley,” said Mme. Storey.

He whirled around and bowed to me again, murmuring: “Charmed!” My hand was horridly self-conscious in the expectation that he might offer to kiss it. I wondered if it was quite clean. Which way would I look! I could see too, that Mme. Storey was wickedly hoping that he might. Fortunately he did not.

“Miss Brickley has been dying to meet you,” she said slyly.

“Ah! You do me too much honor!” he said.

I was rather fussed, and therefore I was bound not to show it. “Well, you're such a famous man,” I said.

“Now you're spoofing me,” he said, shaking a forefinger in my direction. “It's not much to be a hero of the society notes, is it?”

Tea was waiting, and we attacked it forthwith. Mr. Govett stroking Giannino's pompadour, and feeding him sugar, supplied most of the conversation. His gossip was extremely amusing, without being malicious—well not very malicious. No doubt he suited his talk to his company.

Had we heard that Bessie Van Brocklin was going to give a zoological dinner? It was in honor of her new cheetah? He didn't know quite what a cheetah was; the name sounded ominous. The Princess Yevrienev had promised to bring her lion cubs, and the Goldsby-Snows would be on hand with their falcons. Somebody else had a wolf, and he had heard a rumor that there was an anaconda being kept in the dark. Oh, and of course there were plenty of monkeys in society, zoological and otherwise. It ought to be a brilliant affair.

Had we heard the latest about Freddy Vesey? Freddy had been dining with the Stickneys who were the last householders on Madison Square. Carried away by his boyhood recollections of old New York, Freddy had leaped into the fountain, causing great excitement among the park-benchers. An Irish policeman was convinced that it was an attempted suicide. Freddy had argued with him at length from the middle of the fountain. Freddy had refused to come out until the policeman promised to let him off. No, Freddy had not undressed before jumping in, he was happy to say, and thereby the world was saved a shocking disclosure of the means by which he preserved his ever youthful figure.

All the while this was going on, I could see that Mr. Govett was wondering why he had been asked to tea with us. He knew of course that we had something more to do than gossip in that place. But he betrayed no particular anxiety.

Finally they lighted their cigarettes. Giannino, who adores cigarettes, though they invariably make him sick, coolly stole Mr. Govett's from between his lips, and fled up to the top of a picture frame, where he sat and mocked at us. I dislodged him with a stick which I keep for the purpose, and depriving him of his booty, carried him to his little house in the middle room.

When I came back Mme. Storey was saying: “Have you heard that Darius Whittall is going to marry Fay Brunton?”

“That was a foregone conclusion, wasn't it?” said Mr. Govett with a shrug.

“Not to me!”

“Ah yes, of course, the adorable Brunton is a friend of yours.” I could see by his eyes that he was thinking: “Is this what I was brought here for?”

“Is Whittall a friend of yours?” asked Mme. Storey.

“No!” he said shortly.

“Barry, you and I have known each other for a good many years,” said Mme. Storey, “and I have confidence in your discretion, though you always make believe not to have any—”

“Thanks, dear lady.”

“What do you think of me?”

“I think you're an angel!”

“Oh, not that tosh!”

“I think you're the greatest woman in New York!”

“That's not what I want either. In all these affairs that I have been engaged in, are you satisfied that I have always taken the side of decency?”

“Oh, yes!” he said quite simply. “What a question!”

“Good! Then I ask for your confidence in this affair. I am investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs. Whittall.”

He gave a start, which he instantly controlled. One could not have said that he showed more than anybody might have shown upon hearing such an announcement. “Good Heavens!” he murmured, “do you think there was anything more than—”

“She was murdered, Barry.”

“Oh, my God!” he whispered. His face turned greyish; his hands shook. I thought the man was going to faint; but even while Į looked at him, he steadied himself. I never saw such a marvelous exhibition of self-control. He drew a long breath.

“How can I help?” he asked quietly.

“By being quite frank with me.”

He looked at me in a meaning way.

“Miss Brickley is familiar with the whole circumstances,” said Mme. Storey, “and she possesses my entire confidence. Nothing that transpires in this room is ever heard outside of it, unless I choose that it shall be.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Still, I don't see how I—”

“Mrs. Whittall was lured out to the pavilion by a letter which we have reason to suppose she thought you had written.”

He jumped up involuntarily, staring at her like one insane; then dropped limply into his chair again. It was some moments before he could speak. “But I never wrote to her in my life!”

“Then how could she have known your handwriting?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Well, I mean nothing but social notes; answers to invitations and so on.” He saw that he had made a slip, and added hastily: “How do you know that she did recognize my handwriting?”

“We mustn't waste the afternoon fencing with each other,” said Mme. Storey, mildly. “You are aware of something that would help me very much in this matter.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked with an innocent air.

“You betrayed it just now. It leaped out of your eyes.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Barry, nothing can be altogether hidden. Your secret is known to a few people.”

“I have so many secrets!” he said with a silly-sounding laugh.

“You were in love with her.”

“If you imply by that—” he began excitedly.

“I imply nothing. From all accounts Mrs. Whittall must have been a saint.”

“She was,” he said. “And of course I loved her. Everybody who knew her loved her. In our world she moved like a creature apart. She was really good.”

“Of course,” said Mme. Storey. “But that is not what I mean.”

He remained obstinately silent.

“Why did you call on her unexpectedly one afternoon last summer?” Mme. Storey asked bluntly.

He stared at her in confusion. “Why—why for no special reason,” he stammered.

“On that afternoon,” pursued my mistress relentlessly, “you told her that you loved her, and she confessed that it was returned.”

He suddenly gave up. “Rosika, you are a superhuman woman,” he said simply. “I am in your hands—we all are!” He relaxed in his chair, and his chin sank on his breast. The guard had fallen from his eyes, and he looked old and heart-broken. Mme. Storey gave him his own time to speak.

“You understand,” he said at last, “my only object in trying to put you off, was to protect her memory—not that it needed protection, but only from misrepresentation.”

“I understood that from the beginning,” said my mistress gently.

“It is true that I was in love with her,” he went on. “Since many years ago. Almost from the time that Whittall first brought her home. We called her St. Cecilia. At first it didn't hurt much. I had no aspirations. She was like a beautiful dream in my life, which redeemed it from trivality [sic]. I fed my dream with what glimpses of her came my way.

“Later, all that was changed. Oh, it hurt then! Because I knew that she must be unhappy, and I longed so to make her happy. I wanted her so! Up to the afternoon that you spoke of we had scarcely ever been alone together, and we had never exchanged any intimate speech. But before that, even in a crowd, I had been aware that she had a sympathy for me. In short, she loved me.

“You may well wonder at that from a man like me! But you see—she saw beneath the grinning mask I wear. She brought out the best in me, that I have hidden for so many years. Even then I had no thought of—I knew her too well!

“And then on the day you speak of, a note was brought to me by special delivery from her. I had stored away scraps of her handwriting; invitations and so on, and I never doubted but that it was from her. Just four words: 'Come to me quickly!' I flew. When I entered her sitting-room, she seemed surprised, but I thought that was just a woman's defense. I took her in my arms. She surrendered for a moment, just a little moment; then she thrust me away.

“She denied having written to me. For a moment I did not believe her—I had already burned the note, so I could not show it to her; however she made it abundantly clear she had not written it. Then we realized somebody must be trying to entrap us, and we were alarmed. But she said nobody could hurt us if we kept our heads up and walked straight. She sent me away. Yes, for good! for good! There was never any doubt about that. We were never to attempt to see each other alone; we were not to write—except in case of desperate need. It was I who exacted that. If the need was desperate, either of us might write to the other.

“When I heard of her death—by her own hand as I thought—I felt betrayed; I felt if things had come to that pass she might have sent for me first—

“Oh, well, you are not interested in my state of mind! How gladly I would have put a pistol to.my own head! I did not do so because I could not bear to sully her name by having it connected with mine. And so I keep on the same old round, showing the same old grin! I dared not even stop for fear of people saying: 'Oh, old Barry Govett is broken-hearted because of, well, you know!'—A pretty world, isn't it?” He finished with a harsh laugh.

Nobody said anything for awhile. What was there to say?

Finally he raised his head. “But you have given me a renewed interest in life,” he said grimly. “The same hand that forged that letter to me, afterwards forged the letter that lured her out to the pavilion.”

“There can be little doubt of that,” said Mme. Storey.

“By God!” said Govett quietly “If the law doesn't get him, I will!”

“Oh, you may leave the murderer to me,” said Mme. Storey, with a dry smile, the significance of which I was to appreciate later.