Part 26 (1/2)
The party wants a bathroom with hot and cold water and electric lights.
Well, you've got all these improvements, and--”
”I've got to have references,” said Mrs. Nixon firmly.
”I guess if the Plaza is willing to rent a room to a party, there oughtn't to be any question as to the respectability of the said party,”
said Mr. Singer. ”They're mighty particular in them New York hotels.”
”Well, you write and tell the party--”
”I am requested to telegraph, Abbie,” said he. ”The party wants to know right away.”
As the result of this conversation and a subsequent exchange of telegrams, the ”party” arrived in Tinkletown on the first day of September. Mr. Singer's contentions were justified by the manner in which the new tenant descended upon the village. She came in a maroon-and-black limousine with a smart-looking chauffeur, a French maid, a French poodle and what all of the up-to-date ladies in Tinkletown unhesitatingly described as a French gown a la mode.
Miss Angie Nixon, who had never been nearer to Paris than Brattleboro, Vermont, said to her customers that from what she had seen of the new tenant's outfit, she was undoubtedly from the Tooleries. Miss Angie was the leading dressmaker of Tinkletown. If she had said the lady was from Somaliland, the statement would have gone unchallenged.
The same day, a man cook and a ”hired girl” arrived from Boggs City, having come up by rail from New York.
The tenant was a tall, slender lady. There could be no division of opinion as to that. As to whether she was young, middle-aged or only well-preserved, no one was in a position to a.s.severate. As a matter of fact, observers would have been justified in wondering whether she was black or white. She was never abroad without the thick, voluminous veil, and her hands were never ungloved. Mrs. Nixon and Angie described her voice as refined and elegant, and she spoke English as well as anybody, not excepting Professor Rank of the high school.
By the end of her first week in the Nixon cottage, there wasn't a person in Tinkletown, exclusive of small babies, who had not advanced a theory concerning Mrs. Smith, the new tenant. On one point all agreed; she was the most ”stuck-up” person ever seen in Tinkletown.
She resolutely avoided all contact with her neighbours. On several occasions, polite and cordial citizens had bowed and mumbled ”Howdy-do”
to her as she pa.s.sed in the automobile, but there is no record of a single instance in which she paid the slightest heed to these civilities. All of her marketing was done by the man cook, and while he was able to speak English quite fluently when objecting to the quality, the quant.i.ty and the price of everything, he was singularly unable to carry on a conversation in that language when invited to do so by friendly clerks or proprietors.
As for the French chauffeur, his knowledge of English appeared to be limited to an explosive sort of profanity. Lum Gillespie declared on the third day after Mrs. Smith's car first came to his garage for live storage, that ”that feller Francose” knew more English cuss-words than all the Irishmen in the world.
The veiled lady did a good many surprising things. In the first place, she had been in the Nixon cottage not more than an hour when she ordered the telephone taken out--not merely discontinued, but taken out. She gave no reason, and satisfied the telephone-company by making the local manager a present of ten dollars. She kept all of the green window-shutters open during the day, letting the suns.h.i.+ne into the rooms to give the carpets the first surprise they had had in years, and at night she sat out on the screened-in porch, with a reading-lamp, until an hour when many of the residents of Tinkletown were looking out of their windows to see what sort of a day it was going to be. She paid cash for everything, and always with bright, crisp banknotes, ”fresh from the mint.” She slept till noon. She went out every afternoon about four, rain or s.h.i.+ne, for long motor-rides in the country. The queerest thing about her was that she never went near the ”movies.”
Nearly every afternoon, directly after luncheon--they called it dinner in Tinkletown--she appeared in the back yard and put her extraordinarily barbered dog through a raft of tricks. Pa.s.sers-by always paused to watch the performance. She had him walking first on his hind legs, then on his front legs; then he was catching a tennis-ball which she tossed every which way (just as a woman would, said Alf Reesling); and when he wasn't catching the ball, he was turning somersaults, or waltzing to the tune she whistled, or playing dead. The poodle's name was Snooks.
The venerable town marshal, Anderson Crow, sat in front of Lamson's store one hot evening about a week after the advent of the mystery. He was the center of a thoughtful, speculative group of gentlemen representing the first families of Tinkletown. Among those present were: Alf Reesling, the town drunkard; Harry Squires, the reporter; Ed Higgins, the feed-store man; Justice of the Peace Robb; Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer; Situate M. Jones; and two or three others of less note. The shades of night had just descended; some of the gentlemen had already yawned three or four times.
”There ain't no law against wearin' a veil,” said the Marshal, reaching out just in time to pluck a nice red apple before Lamson's clerk could make up his mind to do what he had come out of the store expressly to do--that is, to carry inside for the night the bushel basket containing, among other things, a plainly printed placard informing the public that ”No. 1 Winesaps” were ”2 for 5c.”
Crow inspected the apple critically for a moment, looking for a suitable place to begin; then, with his mouth full, he went on: ”The only thing I got ag'inst her is that she's settin' a new style in Tinkletown. In the last two-three days I've seen more'n one of our fair s.e.x lookin' at veils in the Five an' Ten Cent Store, and this afternoon I saw somebody I was sure was Sue Becker walkin' up Maple Street with her head wrapped up in something as green as gra.s.s. Couldn't see her face to save my soul, but I recognized her feet. My daughter Caroline was fixin' herself up before the lookin'-gla.s.s last night, seein' how she'd look in a veil, she said. It won't be long before we won't any of us be able to recognize our own wives an' daughters when we meet 'em on the street.”
”My girl Queenie's got a new pink one,” said Alf Reesling. ”She made it out of some sort of stuff she wore over her graduatin' dress three years ago.”
”Maybe she's got a bad complexion,” ventured Mr. Jones.
”Who? My girl Queenie? Not on your--” began Alf, bristling.
”I mean the woman up at Mrs. Nixon's,” explained Mr. Jones hastily.
Harry Squires had taken no part in the conversation up to this juncture.
He had been ruminating. His inevitable--you might almost say, his indefatigable--pipe had gone out four or five times.
”Say, Anderson,” he broke in abruptly, ”has it ever occurred to you that there might be something back of it that ought to be investigated?” The flare of the match he was holding over the bowl of his pipe revealed an eager twinkle in his eyes.
”There you go, talkin' foolishness again,” said Anderson. ”I guess there ain't anything back of it 'cept a face, an' she's got a right to have a face, ain't she?”