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Title: The Happy Couple Author: Max Afford * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1501161h.html Language: English Date first posted: November 2015 Most recent update: November 2015 Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
Something else had brought terror to that face, terror that was
tinged with...yes...anxiety.
Olga Wingate was afraid!
But even as he sought that ivory mask for confirmation, dark
lashes veiled the eyes, and Mrs. Wingate turned her face away. She
said huskily:
"Steve, would you...attend to everything? You know so much more
about these things...I'm going to lie down..."
She moved slowly from the room, one hand outstretched as though
feeling blindly. Behind her, Inspector Conway was replacing the
sheet over the body on the floor.
They buried George Wingate on the following day.
After the first shock, Harper's cold, analytical self was once
more in control. And during the twenty four hours that passed
between death and burial, he had driven his mind furiously.
Something was wrong! Something he had sensed in Mrs. Wingate's
face as she stood there listening to Inspector Conway's doubts.
Yet whatever way his thoughts turned, back they came to the one
indisputable fact—George Wingate had risen from that card
table, walked into his own dining-room and, without pause or qualm,
shot himself through the head with an automatic pistol!
"Almost as though he were hypnotised," muttered Harper, then
smiled wryly at his own imaginings. People are not hypnotised into
suicide, especially people like George Wingate.
The funeral was a melancholy business. After the ceremony, the
mourners returned to the flat, impregnated with that subtle perfume
of banked flowers hanging heavily like the very aura of death.
Mrs. Wingate retired to her room to rest after the ordeal.
Friends drifted about in an aimless, subdued manner, talking hushed
trivialities, inwardly questioning when they might with decency
slip away.
Steve was relieved when the officiating minister brought him a
message that Mrs. Wingate would like to speak to him, and that she
would be waiting in her husband's study.
Harper slipped thankfully away from the living-room. But
Wingate's apartment, with its sporting prints and the college oar
decorating one corner, was empty. Steve did not linger
there—memories were too vivid. He would probably find Olga in
her own room.
He crossed the corridor and tapped softly. There was no answer.
He tapped again, then pushed open the door and peered inside.
Olga Wingate's bedroom was small, faintly scented, and bright
with satin cushions. But stronger than the perfume was the smell of
burning that sent Harper's eyes to the large bronze ashtray on the
small table near the bed.
But it was empty and polished clean. His wandering gaze moved to
the fireplace, flickered, halted.
The grate was half filled with charred paper, gently rustling
and faintly smoking.
Steve's first emotion was surprise. In this over-tidy, ordered
room, that blackened bundle in the grate was as incongruous as a
pair of hobnailed boots.
After surprise came curiosity. Was this the reason Olga had gone
to her room? What was it that must be burned without further
delay?
Quickly, he crossed to the grate and poking among the charred
fragments that flaked under his groping fingers found a small wedge
of paper that had escaped destruction. It was obviously the corner
of a letter; he could make out a few isolated words in bold
masculine handwriting.
Harper drew a sudden sharp breath, every latent suspicion
crystallising sharply in his mind. He turned over the small wedge
of paper. Again he read the words.
"...cannot fail. Ever your own...Mischa."
At the sound of footsteps he thrust the fragment of paper into
his pocket and moved quickly from the fireplace.
Olga Wingate entered. Seeing him, she stopped short and her
mouth set thinly. She could not quite control her voice when she
spoke.
"Steve! Whatever are you doing in here? I said George's
study..." Abruptly she paused and made a helpless little gesture.
"Oh, what does it matter?" The words were heavy with dull
resignation. "What does anything matter now?"
"I waited for you in the study," Harper said quietly. "When you
didn't come, I took the liberty of coming here. I hope you don't
mind."
"Mind?" She came forward, completely at ease now. "What a
strange thing to say, Steve. We're friends. Why should I mind?"
He countered her question with another. "What was it you wanted,
Olga?"
Mrs. Wingate crossed to a small cabinet, opened a drawer, and
took out a bunch of keys.
"These belonged to George," she said quietly. "You'll find his
private papers in the bureau in his study. If you'd relieve me of
the business responsibility..."
"Naturally."
"Later, I'd like to have a talk with you about...myself."
"Yourself?" Steve asked quickly.
Olga had taken a cigarette from the silver box. Now she was
lighting it, eyes on the match flame, avoiding his face. "I think
I'll go away, Steve. Travel and try to forget."
"There's no reason why you shouldn't. You're a rich woman
now."
Now the dark eyes came up, soft with anguished appeal.
"Steve...!"
Harper said coldly. "Well, it's true, isn't it?"
Those long, beautifully shaped hands made another gesture, this
time of distaste. "You should know that better than I. And I don't
think this is the time to discuss such things. I...I'd rather not
talk about them."
In that moment, Steve hated her.
Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded and turned away. He was
conscious that Olga was watching him, that she had glimpsed the
expression that crossed his face. He was aware that she was coming
to him and turned as he felt her hand on his arm.
"Steve..." her voice was gentle, soft as her swimming eyes.
"Steve, I know it's been a terrible shock to you. But don't take it
out on me. Try to remember that I'm suffering, too." She touched
her eyes with a damp handkerchief. "I was...very fond of him, too,
you know."
"I'm sorry..." Steve wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't
come. "Is there anything else?'
"Yes." Olga moved back to the bureau and took out that wicked
toy-like automatic. Holding it limply, she returned.
"Inspector Conway gave me this yesterday. I want you to take it
away—where I can never see it again!" And as he reached for
it, she drew a sharp breath of protest.
"Steve, be careful! Conway tells me it's still loaded! I
couldn't bear another...accident..."
Back in Wingate's study, Steve Harper lit a cigarette and sat
down in his friend's sagging armchair, watching the film of smoke
rise and curl in the air.
His mind was busy with that fragment of paper and the scrawled
words which already he knew by heart.
"...cannot fail. Ever your own...Mischa."
Inspector Conway had asked, "Where's the motive?" Was it here in
black and white? This man...the unknown Mischa and Olga Wingate.
Mischa, who signed himself 'Ever your own'"?
Here was logic at last. Olga had sought another man and Wingate,
proud to the last, had carried on with the enormous pretence, so
that not even his closest friend suspected the truth.
When had Wingate found out? Perhaps he had discovered the
letters—passionate letters which Olga had burnt in a frenzy
of guilt and remorse.
Steve could imagine the scene; Wingate incredulous, still
half-trusting, willing to be convinced; Olga sullen, evasive, until
some blundering remark touched her on the raw. Then flashing out
with the truth, bitter, seeking only to wound.
But how long had this been going on? Weeks...months...until at
last George Wingate could bear it no longer and rising that night
from the bridge table...
Harper moved irritably in his chair. No! He sought logic and
found only melodrama Olga might have acted like that but never her
husband. And there were too many loose ends.
Wingate, a fundamentally simple man, could never hide his true
feelings. Elated or depressed, the whole world knew of it. And
witnesses had sworn that on the night of the tragedy Wingate had
been unusually happy, without a care.
Yet, less than ten minutes later...
Groping in his pocket. Harper found the tiny wedge of paper and
scrutinised it afresh. If calligraphy was any guide, this Mischa
would be a bold, swaggering fellow. There was power and
ruthlessness in the thick, heavy downstrokes, arrogance in the
flowing signature.
And what was the significance of the words "Cannot fail..."?
Something jingled in his fingers. For the first time he became
aware that he was still holding the keys of George's desk, which
Olga had given him.
Crushing out his cigarette, Steve rose and crossed to the heavy,
old fashioned desk with its ribbed roller top. He set about the
task of finding individual keys to fit the locks of the drawers
down either side.
One by one the compartments yielded their
contents—business correspondence, cheque-book stubs, bills
unpaid and bills receipted, and once (subtle epitaph to his late
friend) a packet of funny picture postcards.
Among this collection was a small square of pasteboard that had
obviously accompanied a gift from Olga. Steve glanced at the prim,
well-formed handwriting before he put the card aside.
"George, darling—here's something after your own heart. I
picked it up this afternoon in town. You can trot it out to show
the Morrisons to-night. Love, Olga."
The significance of this message did not dawn on Harper until a
few moments later. He picked up the card and read the lines
again.
Then he shook his head. No erring wife had written in that tone
of gentle tolerance. Certainly not Olga, who was smoulderingly slow
to forget an injury or a quarrel.
If this gift had changed hands a few hours before the bridge
party yesterday—and the reference to the Morrisons proved
that beyond all doubt—then Steve's theory regarding an
estrangement was completely false!
Shrugging, Harper leaned forward and fitted a key into the last
drawer.
Inside were more letters: letters and photographs and cuttings
from magazines, advertisements relating to tricks and novelties
such as might gladden the heart of a schoolboy.
Steve spilt the contents across the desk top and thumbed through
them one by one. The folded circular was almost at the bottom of
the pile.
His mind busy with a dozen recollections of the past, now
brought vividly to the surface by a snapshot or a creased
invitation card, Steve's eyes flicked mechanically over the black
lettering.
Next moment he stiffened and with fingers that seemed suddenly
unmanageable unfolded the circular and spread it wide on the
desk...
"Oh, no..." said Steve Harper.
And then, as he read the printed words a second
time..."Yes...yes!" And now incredulity had given way to a
sickening realisation and a black, bitter rage that caused the
words on the circular to waver and swim.
He closed his eyes.
Then, very deliberately, he folded the printed paper and rose to
his feet. He knew also exactly where to look for the last piece in
this crazy jigsaw. Yet no longer crazy, but now brutally,
ruthlessly clear with all the logic of perfect planning.
He went straight back to Olga Wingate's bedroom, paused outside
the door and knocked.
There was no answer. Without further summons, Steve entered,
closing the door behind him.
Where would she have hidden it? What, in this softly silken
room, offered the best chance of concealment?
His mind suggested a dozen places, but now he must think not
with his own brain, but with Olga's. Where would this strange
woman, having committed a murder with an unsuspected weapon, hide
the instrument?
An unsuspected weapon, he thought again.
Therefore the hiding-place could not be complicated, lest this
very fact arouse suspicion. It must be somewhere obvious, yet not
too obvious. A handbag, or a drawer, or even the pocket of a
jacket...
Steve crossed to the wardrobe against the wall and swung open
the door. A dozen frocks, neatly arranged on hangers, faced
him.
His exploring fingers riffled through them, disturbing a breath
of perfume that hung on the quiet air. They yielded nothing. He
closed the door sharply and moved to the bureau near the bed. But
five minutes' careful investigation there proved as fruitless as
before.
As he slammed the last drawer shut. Steve passed a worried hand
over his face, to find it wet with perspiration.
Then he saw the handbag.
It was square and black and shiny; it had a catch like a small
coiled snake which defied his trembling fingers for a few seconds.
Then the lid snapped back and he emptied its varied contents on to
the counterpane.
And there, among the phial of nail polish, the lipstick, the
mirror and compact, the small silver comb, and a dozen other
trivial articles, there it was.
At first glance it appeared to be a small automatic, twin of the
murderous weapon he still carried in his pocket. Steve picked it up
and, tightening his grip on the butt, pulled the trigger.
From the stocky barrel, a fat cigarette shot out, hit the bed
and ricocheted to the floor. With the pressure of his finger came
another and another until half a dozen cigarettes lay scattered on
the carpet.
Still holding the toy, Steve reached in his pocket and flicked
open the folded circular and read it for the third time. In bold
type, it was headed, "Astounding Novelty! Surprise Your Friends!" A
glowing description of the novelty followed.
"The Peerless Automatic Cigarette Case," Steve read on, "is the
exact size, shape, and weight of the genuine article. Fool your
friends! Harmless yet effective! The terror of Housebreakers! The
Surprise of a Lifetime!
"Astound your friends with the Ching Lung Soo bullet trick! Hold
the cigarette case about twelve inches from your face, press the
trigger, and catch the cigarette in your mouth..."
Steve Harper's fingers closed convulsively round the paper, his
mind a background of flickering words and dancing images!
"George, darling, here's something...I picked it up this
afternoon in town...show the Morrisons tonight..."; George,
slightly drunk, wandering happily into the living room...;
"...exact size, shape and weight of the genuine article...";
"...hold the cigarette case about twelve inches from your
face..."
"Steve!"
Olga Wingate stood just inside the door, watching him. For a
moment she had eyes for nothing save that pale, set face, then she
glanced down at his right hand.
Harper said nothing, but stood watching her...watching those
slim fingers crawl suddenly to her throat, almost as though she
felt the shadow of the noose fall across it. She seemed to swallow
before she spoke.
"So...you know...?"
Harper said, "You did this thing. You and this man, Mischa." It
was a statement.
Their glances met, locked. For five dragging seconds, the
tension stretched. Then she said quietly, "What are you going to do
about it?"
Steve Harper slipped the toy cigarette-case into his pocket. "I
have my duty, not only as friend, but as a citizen. I am going to
see you convicted of the crime of deliberate and calculated
murder!"
Olga Wingate merely looked at him and about that lovely mouth
there was gentle amusement. She came forward, sat down on the bed,
and tapped the counterpane.
"Sit down, Steve," she said.
His lean body tightened in an instinctive shrinking.
"You're evil," he whispered, "evil! You ought to be
destroyed!"
Olga Wingate said calmly, "You're making a fool of yourself,
Steve. It's all right to do it here. I don't mind! But watch what
you do...outside. Are you really prepared to have me arrested? To
go into court with a story about a ridiculous toy that committed
murder?"
"You changed that toy...for the real thing!"
That pale, oval face, child-like, bland, innocent, stared at
him. "But why should I? We were so happy together, George and I.
Everyone knew that! And what have you to prove otherwise? A few
words on a corner of a letter...words which I could explain in a
dozen innocent ways!"
Harper said bitterly: "And how would you explain the
substitution of weapons?"
"Substitution? What substitution? I know nothing of that, Steve.
But I think it quite likely that George confused the real thing for
the toy. So would the jury—particularly as I can bring
forward witnesses to prove that George had been...drinking that
night."
Mrs. Wingate stood up. Calm, poised, confident, she put out her
hand. "I think you'd better let me have that stupid toy before it
causes more trouble."
Steve Harper knew—and the realisation sickened
him—that this woman spoke the truth. What could he bring
forward to support his story? Suspicions—and a fragment of
charred paper. A clever lawyer could explain those scattered words
in a dozen innocent ways.
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