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The Floating Press - Carolyn Wells

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136 pages

English

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Victoria Van Allen (or Vicky Van, as she is known to her friends) is a sophisticated young woman whose cocktail parties and soirees are the talk of the town. When one of her legendary gatherings ends in murder, Vicky's bizarre behavior baffles her friends. This tightly plotted whodunit will keep you guessing until the very end.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776539772
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

VICKY VAN
* * *
CAROLYN WELLS

*
Vicky Van First published in 1918 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-977-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-978-9 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Vicky Van Chapter II - Mr. Somers Chapter III - The Waiter's Story Chapter IV - Somers' Real Name Chapter V - The Schuyler Household Chapter VI - Vicky's Ways Chapter VII - Ruth Schuyler Chapter VIII - The Letter-Box Chapter IX - The Social Secretary Chapter X - The Inquest Chapter XI - A Note from Vicky Chapter XII - More Notes Chapter XIII - Fleming Stone Chapter XIV - Walls Have Tongues Chapter XV - Fibsy Chapter XVI - A Futile Chase Chapter XVII - The Gold-Fringed Gown Chapter XVIII - Fibsy Dines Out Chapter XIX - Proofs and More Proofs Chapter XX - The Truth from Ruth
*
TO
ONE OF MY BEST CHUMS
JULIAN KING SPRAGUE
Chapter I - Vicky Van
*
Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to hercheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all overher captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing headto the tips of her dainty, dancing feet.
I liked her from the first, and if her "small and earlies" were saidto be so called because they were timed by the small and earlynumerals on the clock dial, and if her "little" bridge games kept inactive circulation a goodly share of our country's legal tender, thosethings are not crimes.
I lived in one of the polite sections of New York City, up among theEast Sixties, and at the insistence of my sister and aunt, who livedwith me, our home was near enough the great boulevard to be designatedby that enviable phrase, "Just off Fifth Avenue." We were on the northside of the street, and, nearer to the Avenue, on the south side, wasthe home of Vicky Van.
Before I knew the girl, I saw her a few times, at long intervals, onthe steps of her house, or entering her little car, andhalf-consciously I noted her charm and her evident zest of life.
Later, when a club friend offered to take me there to call, I acceptedgladly, and as I have said, I liked her from the first.
And yet, I never said much about her to my sister. I am, in a way,responsible for Winnie, and too, she's too young to go where they playBridge for money. Little faddly prize bags or gift-shop novelties areher stakes.
Also, Aunt Lucy, who helps me look after Win, wouldn't quiteunderstand the atmosphere at Vicky's. Not exactly Bohemian—and yet,I suppose it did represent one compartment of that handy-box of aterm. But I'm going to tell you, right now, about a party I went tothere, and you can see for yourself what Vicky Van was like.
"How late you're going out," said Winnie, as I slithered into mytopcoat. "It's after eleven."
"Little girls mustn't make comments on big brothers," I smiled back ather. Win was nineteen and I had attained the mature age oftwenty-seven. We were orphans and spinster Aunt Lucy did her best tobe a parent to us; and we got on smoothly enough, for none of us hadthe temperament that rouses friction in the home.
"Across the street?" Aunt Lucy guessed, raising her aristocraticeyebrows a hair's breadth.
"Yes," I returned, the least bit irritated at the implication of thathairbreadth raise. "Steele will be over there and I want to see him—"
This time the said eyebrows went up frankly in amusement, and the kindblue eyes beamed as she said, "All right, Chet, run along."
Though I was Chester Calhoun, the junior partner of the law firm ofBradbury and Calhoun, and held myself in due and consequent respect, Ididn't mind Aunt Lucy's calling me Chet, or even, as she sometimesdid, Chetty. A man puts up with those things from the women of hishousehold. As to Winnie, she called me anything that came handy, fromLord Chesterton to Chessy-Cat.
I patted Aunt Lucy on her soft old shoulder and Winnie on her hardyoung head, and was off.
True, I did expect to see Steele at Vicky Van's—he was the club chapwho had introduced me there—but as Aunt Lucy had so cleverlysuspected, he was not my sole reason for going. A bigger reason wasthat I always had a good time there, the sort of a good time I liked.
I crossed the street diagonally, in defiance of much good advice Ihave heard and read against such a proceeding. But at eleven o'clockat night the traffic in those upper side streets is not sufficient toendanger life or limb, and I reached Vicky Van's house in safety.
It was a very small house, and it was the one nearest to the FifthAvenue corner, though the long side of the first house on that blockof the Avenue lay between.
The windows on each floor were brilliantly lighted, and I mounted thelong flight of stone steps sure of a merry welcome and a jolly time.
I was admitted by a maid whom I already knew well enough to say"Evening, Julie," as I passed her, and in another moment, I was in thelong, narrow living-room and was a part of the gay group there.
"Angel child!" exclaimed Vicky Van herself, dancing toward me, "did hecome to see his little ole friend?" and laying her two hands in minefor an instant, she considered me sufficiently welcomed, and dancedoff again. She was a will o' the wisp, always tantalizing a man with ahope of special attention, and then flying away to another guest, onlyto treat him in the same way.
I looked after her, a slim, graceful thing, vibrant with the joy ofliving, smiling in sheer gayety of heart, and pretty as a picture.
Her black hair was arranged in the newest style, that covered her earswith soft loops and exposed the shape of her trim little head. It wasbanded with a jeweled fillet, or whatever they call those Orientalthings they wear, and her big eyes with their long, dark lashes, herpink cheeks and curved scarlet lips seemed to say, "the world owes mea living and I'm going to collect."
Not as a matter of financial obligation, be it understood.
Vicky Van had money enough and though nothing about her home wasostentatious or over ornate, it was quietly and in the best of tasteluxurious.
But I was describing Vicky herself. Her gown, the skirt part of it,was a sort of mazy maize-colored thin stuff, rather short and ratherfull, that swirled as she moved, and fluttered when she danced. Thebodice part, was of heavily gold-spangled material, and a kind ofoverskirt arrangement was a lot of long gold fringe made of beads.Instead of a yoke, there were shoulder straps of these same beads, andthe sleeves weren't there.
And yet, that costume was all right. Why, it was a rig I'd be glad tosee Winnie in, when she gets older, and if I've made it soundrather—er—gay and festive, it's my bungling way of describing it,and also, because Vicky's personality would add gayety and festivityto any raiment.
Her little feet wore goldy slippers, and a lot of ribbonscriss-crossed over her ankles, and on the top of each slipper was agilt butterfly that fluttered.
Yet with all this bewildering effect of frivolity, the first term I'dmake use of in describing Vick's character would be Touch-me-not. Ibelieve there's a flower called that— noli me tangere —or some suchname. Well, that's Vicky Van. She'd laugh and jest with you, and thenif you said anything by way of a personal compliment or flirtatiousfoolery, she was off and away from your side, like a thistle-down in asummer breeze. She was a witch, a madcap, but she had her own way ineverything, and her friends did her will without question.
Her setting, too, just suited her. Her living room was one of thosevery narrow, very deep rooms so often seen in the New York sidestreets. It was done up in French gray and rose, as was the dictum ofthe moment. On the rose-brocaded walls were few pictures, but just theright ones. Gray enameled furniture and deep window-seats withrose-colored cushions provided resting-places, and soft rose-shadedlights gave a mild glow of illumination.
Flowers were everywhere. Great bowls of roses, jars of pink carnationsand occasionally a vase of pink orchids were on mantel, low bookcasesor piano. And sometimes the odor of a cigarette or a burning pastilleof Oriental fragrance, added to the Bohemian effect which is, oftenerthan not, discernible by the sense of smell.
Vicky herself, detested perfumes or odors of any kind, save freshflowers all about. Indeed, she detested Bohemianism, when it meantunconventional dress or manners or loud-voiced jests or songs.
Her house was dainty, correct and artistic, and yet, I knew itsatmosphere would not please my Aunt Lucy, or be just the right placefor Winnie.
Many of the guests I knew. Cassie Weldon was a concert singer andAriadne Gale an artist of some prominence, both socially and in herart circle. Jim Ferris and Bailey Mason were actors of a good sort,and Bert Garrison, a member of one of my best clubs, was a fast risingarchitect. Steele hadn't come yet.
Two tables of bridge were playing in the back part of the room, and inthe rest of the rather limited space several couples were dancing.
"Mayn't we open the doors to the dining room, Vicky?" called out oneof the card players. "The calorics of this room must be about ninetyin the shade."
"Open them a little way," returned Miss Van Allen. "But not wide, forthere's a surprise supper and I don't want you to see it yet."
They set the double doors a few inches ajar and went on with theirgame. The dining room, as I knew, was a wide room that ran all acrossthe house behind both living-room and hall. It was beautifullydecorated in pale