Death Wears a Mask (30 page)

“And how, exactly, is the thief to gain access to it?” Inspector Jones asked, once our tea was poured. I was gratified that he was taking my plan under consideration, rather than dismissing it out of hand.

“I … I'm going to wear it.” I found I couldn't look at Milo as I said it and focused instead on the cup and saucer on the table before me.

“Indeed?” Inspector Jones said.

“At some point in the evening, I will leave it unattended in a room upstairs. Perhaps the card room. It is familiar to all of the suspects, as nearly all of them had been to that room at some point on the night of the murder. Then we've only to wait in the room across for the thief to reveal himself.”

“That's a very pretty plan, Mrs. Ames, but you overlook the danger of wearing the diamond. If the thief was willing to kill once, what will stop him from trying again?”

I hadn't, until that moment, really considered that I might be in any particular danger. I had thought to leave the necklace in the card room and then give the thief time to try to collect it. It hadn't occurred to me that the thief might try to take it from around my neck. It was rather stupid of me to have overlooked the possibility. Nevertheless, I intended to go ahead with the plan.

“It's worth the risk,” I said resolutely.

Inspector Jones looked at Milo. “And you agree with her, Mr. Ames?”

Milo lit a cigarette, waving out the match. “You know as well as I do, Inspector, that there is no stopping her once she gets an idea in her head.”

A small smile appeared on the inspector's face. “Yes, I am beginning to realize that.”

“There's only one thing that might cause a problem,” I said.

“Only one?” Inspector Jones asked wryly.

“What if all of the suspects don't come to the ball? A death might have been enough to keep the innocent ones away, and the guilty party might just as well decide that it's too dangerous to attend.”

“You leave that to me, Mrs. Ames. I believe I can be trusted to carry out that small part of the plan. And I'll put an officer across from the card room to keep an eye on things.” He rose then, placing several bills on the table. “Thank you for meeting with me. I shall leave the two of you to enjoy your tea.”

“One more thing, Inspector,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Who inherits Mr. Harker's money?”

He looked as though he wondered why I asked, but didn't question me. “There is a brother in America.”

Then his death would not have benefitted the Barringtons. “I just wondered. Thank you for the tea, Inspector Jones. We shall see you tomorrow.”

He hesitated, his gaze shifting to Milo. “I meant to ask you, Mr. Ames, if you learned anything of interest the night of the murder. Inspector Harris mentioned that he saw you speaking to several of the people on the first floor after the incident.”

This was news to me. I had assumed Milo had gone to Helene Renault after the shooting. Why hadn't he told me that he had been asking questions of the suspects? He had professed to be uninterested in the circumstances surrounding Mr. Harker's death, but it seemed that was not quite the case.

If Milo was caught off guard by the inspector's sudden question, he gave no indication of it. “I was vaguely curious,” he allowed, “but no one seemed to know anything.”

“I see,” Inspector Jones said. “Well, I suppose that will be all for now. I'll see you at the ball.”

I watched him go. He had never explained precisely why he had invited both of us to tea, but I wondered if he had simply been trying to push us together. If it didn't seem counter to his character, I might have suspected him of having a romantic streak. We both knew, however, that it would take more than a few scones and biscuits to mend things between Milo and me.

I turned to my husband. “Why didn't you tell me you were asking questions that night?”

“There was nothing to tell.”

I accepted this answer, knowing it would do no good to push him. I couldn't help but wonder, however, if he had been gathering information on my behalf. Perhaps he had even suspected it was murder and had been trying to steer me clear of it. It was a comforting thought, somehow, that he had cared, but I wasn't sure it mattered now.

“What do you make of Inspector Jones?” I asked, attempting to ascertain my own thoughts. “I can't quite decide what he's about.”

Milo observed the burning end of his cigarette disinterestedly. “I'm a bit surprised he would allow you to proceed in so harebrained a scheme.”

“It's a very good scheme,” I protested. “Perhaps he realizes that it will be the easiest way to flush the killer out of hiding and feels that I am capable of assisting.”

“Do you really think it will be accomplished so neatly? Lord Dunmore throws another ball, you wear his necklace and produce a killer, tied with a bow?”

“We can always hope.” I hesitated. “Are you going to take me to the ball?”

His brows rose. “Oh, are we friends again now? You change your mind so quickly, darling. I can barely keep up.”

“Milo,” I said calmly. “I don't like to quarrel with you.”

“I don't particularly care for it myself.”

“Then let us work together. For now, let us put aside everything else and try to solve this murder. If we learned anything at the Brightwell, it's that it would have been much better if we had cooperated.” It might have saved me getting shot at, in fact.

“If you say so, darling.” He ground out his cigarette and rose. “I'll be there, but I'm not certain what time. You'd better go on without me. In the words of the good inspector, I'll see you at the ball.”

 

27

THE MORNING OF
the ball arrived, and I greeted it with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. On the one hand, I was looking forward to some sort of resolution. On the other, I was a little concerned about what that resolution might be. Perhaps it was my past experience with such things, but I could not help but feel there would be a great deal of unpleasantness before the evening was out. After all, there was a very good chance that I would encounter a murderer tonight, and my last such experience had not been an agreeable one.

There was one consolation: at least it was not another masked ball. I didn't know if I could bear another evening of concealed faces. In fact, if I never attended a masked ball again, it would be fine with me. It is difficult enough to read people in real life, to sort through the masks we wear, all of us pretending to be something or someone that we are not. Indeed, nothing in this case was what it seemed. Even the jewels had been masked in deception.

In a way, all of this had started with masks. I wondered again about the connection between James Harker's tiger mask and the one that Mr. Foster had worn. Inspector Jones had seemed convinced that Mr. Harker's death was not a matter of mistaken identity, but I still felt that there was some connection with the mask.

I wondered suddenly if Inspector Jones had thought to contact the mask maker. He hadn't mentioned it, and it seemed to me that it might prove a useful thing to do. I remembered at the dinner party Lord Dunmore had told me the name of the fancy dress shop where he and many of the others got their masks. Frederick's, was it? No, Friedrich's.

I went to the telephone and asked the operator to locate and ring up the shop. She was a very efficient young woman, and a few moments later I was on the telephone with Mr. Bertelli, Lord Dunmore's costumier.

“Hello,” I said. “My name is Mrs. Ames. I was admiring the mask you made for Lord Dunmore's masquerade, and I was thinking of having something made up. Your work is magnificent.”

He was obviously flattered. “Thank you, madam. We do have an excellent selection of masks ready-made. Or we can make something specific for you, if you'd rather.”

“I think I'd like an original,” I said quickly. “Something along the lines of…” I searched my mind for something suitable, “a Columbina mask. Perhaps in black velvet with gold leaf?”

“Oh, yes, madam,” he said. “I can do something of that sort, certainly.”

“Thank you. I understand you made the mask for Mr. Nigel Foster,” I said casually. “The tiger one he wore to his recent masquerade?”

“Yes, I designed Mr. Foster's mask personally. He specifically requested a tiger mask. I thought it a bit outré myself, but, of course, I was determined to give satisfaction. I was not going to quibble with him, but…” He paused significantly and tsked into the phone. “It was not what we had originally agreed upon.”

“Did he say why it was that he wanted a tiger?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Bertelli answered. “He said he knew someone else who was wearing a tiger mask, and he wanted one as well. It was some joke.” Again, a disapproving sound from the other end of the line. “When the one I created would have looked so much better.”

This was very interesting indeed. Why should Mr. Foster have wanted a mask to match Mr. Harker's? If anything, I should have thought he wanted his own unique mask. He had told Mr. Bertelli that it was meant to be a joke, but he had led me to believe that he and Mr. Harker were not well acquainted. If that was true, what joke could have been between them?

“Now about your mask, Mrs. Ames,” Mr. Bertelli said. “Did you want it to include feathers or jewels of any sort?”

I paused. “Jewels?” I repeated.

“Yes, madam. We've a wide array of gemstones we can put on the mask. They're paste, of course, but very high quality.

“I … might I think a bit about it and call you back?”

“Certainly, certainly.”

I rang off and stood for a moment, lost in thought. The conversation had given me much to consider.

*   *   *

ALMOST BEFORE I
knew it, it was time to begin dressing for the ball. I had chosen for the evening a gown of silver silk charmeuse that flowed like molten lead as I walked. It had a fitted bodice, very thin straps, and a low-cut back. It hugged my shape to the hip and gave way to a gently flowing skirt with a slight train. It was not nearly as elaborate as the gown I had worn to the first ball, but I had no wish to go tripping about the house when I was on the heels of a murderer. Besides, I couldn't help but feel that this less-extravagant ensemble suited me better, especially when I would be wearing so ostentatious a piece of jewelry.

I hadn't heard from Milo since our visit with Inspector Jones, and I hoped that something wouldn't come up to detain him from attending the ball. One never knew where Milo might dash off to next. Some part of me felt that I could rely on him, but I knew better than to have my heart set on it. Hopefully, when push came to shove, I would not be left alone to grapple with a murderer.

I was nearly dressed when I heard the ringing of the telephone. I wondered if it might be Inspector Jones calling in regard to the ball, but Winnelda didn't come to fetch me, so I went on with my makeup.

A moment later, she came into the room, one of my furs draped over her arm. “The white fur for tonight, Mrs. Ames?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so. Who was on the telephone, Winnelda?”

She wrinkled her nose. “An unsavory gentleman, to be sure.”

“Oh? With whom did he wish to speak?”

“He was calling for Mr. Ames.”

This was intriguing. “Did he leave his name or a message?”

“Yes, madam,” she said, draping the fur over the back of a chair and running her hand along it. “He said his name was Mr. Gibbs.”

“Mr. Gibbs?” I exclaimed. “What did he want?”

She looked up, surprised at my interest. “He wanted me to tell Mr. Ames that he thinks he's found just the piece Mr. Ames is looking for.”

*   *   *

MERCIFULLY, MARKHAM WAS
not in the habit of asking questions, and he drove me back to the pawnbroker's shop in Whitechapel without comment. I thought I had just enough time to stop before the ball, and it could be that this was the piece of the puzzle we had been waiting for.

I'm sure I must have looked a sight, rushing up to the shop in an evening gown and mink stole. I had left the Dunmore Diamond in its case in the car. I didn't intend to take any chances with it.

I rapped on the door, dust collecting on the knuckles of my white gloves. Mr. Gibbs had not answered the telephone when I had phoned him back, and I was a bit worried that he might not be at his shop at all. Luckily, after a few moments of energetic rapping, I heard shuffling steps inside, and the key turned in the lock. The door gave a protesting creak as it opened ever so slightly, and I saw one eye regard me suspiciously from within.

“Good evening, Mr. Gibbs. May I come in for a moment?” I asked, pushing my way past him into the shop.

He was, I think, not entirely pleased to see me. On the one hand, he was fairly certain that Milo was prepared to reward him handsomely if the piece he had proved to be satisfactory. On the other, Milo was not with me, and I think he was not entirely convinced I would be able to pay him. The possibility of reward won the day, however, and he smiled at me.

“I'm happy to be of service to you, Miss … Mary, was it? Is your gentleman friend with you?”

“No, he's otherwise engaged this evening.”

Mr. Gibbs nodded knowingly, as though he commiserated with me that Mr. Ames should be required to spend the evening with his bothersome wife.

“I understand that you found a piece similar to the one I was searching for?”

“Yes. I asked around after the gentleman told me what he wanted, and I think I may have found it. But perhaps you'd better come back later with Mr. Ames, just to be sure it's the right thing.”

He was worried that I, as the rich man's little mistress, would be unable to compensate him appropriately.

I wondered which piece it might be. I had listed all of the missing jewelry, but I suspected, for some reason, that the piece he had found was Mrs. Barrington's missing sapphire bracelet. After all, it was the piece most recently stolen.