Death Wears a Mask

By Thérèse Benson

Death Wears a Mask, first published in 1935, is a ‘golden-age’ mystery. Set in the penthouse apartment of newly appointed police commissioner Samuel Mellon, actress Consuela Thorne is found murdered outside his door. Mellon investigates the crime with the help of his Chinese butler, assisted by Inspector Dolan of the Homicide Squad, and society sleuth Miss Livingston.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129182

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DEATH WEARS A MASK

By

THERESE BENSON

Death Wears a Mask was originally published in 1935 by Harper & Brothers Publishers, New York and London.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

Chapter I 6

Chapter II 16

Chapter III 24

Chapter IV 33

Chapter V 42

Chapter VI 51

Chapter VII 60

Chapter VIII 68

Chapter IX 78

Chapter X 86

Chapter XI 94

Chapter XII 103

Chapter XIII 110

Chapter XIV 118

Chapter XV 126

Chapter XVI 134

Chapter XVII 141

Chapter XVIII 148

Chapter XIX 155

Chapter XX 164

Chapter XXI 172

Chapter XXII 182

Chapter XXIII 189

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 199

DEDICATION

For Berry—on approval.

Chapter I

So to be Police Commissioner is the height of your ambition——

I didn’t say that, Samuel Mellon, the new Police Commissioner, cut in briskly, I said it was the height of my ambition to make a good Commissioner. What I meant is that I have none of the aims attributed to me in the organs of the other party. I’ve no wish to be either Mayor, Governor, or President. I love New York, even corrupt as it is, and I believe the Police Commissioner is in a better position than any other one man to dean it up. That’s enough of a job for me to tackle. Politically I’m promised a free hand and I intend to end racketeering, dope peddling, and graft. I don’t propose to do it at the expense of the lives of my best men, either. I’ll have to go slow until I’ve gained the confidence of the force, who resent the appointment of a rank outsider as their head. One can understand that and even sympathize with it, but come back when I’ve been a year in office instead of ten days and we’ll have results to talk about. Sam Mellon threw up his head and squared his shoulders, prepared to carry any burden they must bear, and, facing each other over their coffee-cups, the likeness and the unlikeness between the two men became pronounced. The two years’ difference in their ages, a vast gap at fourteen and sixteen, was now bridged. If anything, Sam looked the younger. They were tall, of about the same height and build, blond, clean shaven, well dressed and rather noticeably straight featured. There the resemblance ended. Sam Mellon, gray-eyed and alert, was a forceful man with a purpose in life. Harvey Thorne, drooping lids veiling blue eyes that looked on a world without interest, was a drifter, his manner listless to an extent that made Sam wonder why he had troubled to hunt him up after such a lapse of time. The answer to that unspoken question he was soon to learn.

I’m glad, honestly glad, you’ve got what you want. We were always friends even when we were rivals. Harvey took his cigar out of his mouth and regarded the ash fixedly before knocking it off and staring at the glowing tobacco beneath as if only thus could he tell that it was still alight. If you don’t mind my speaking of it after all these years, there’s something I’d like to ask you.

His manner had become tense, and Sam, to whom his call had been most unexpected, since he had not known Thorne was in the country, remembering that as a younger man he had always over-emphasized both his successes and his failures, for the first time wondered how hard he had been hit by the failure of his marriage. Consuela averred that he had been glad to be rid of her.

Fire away, old man, he said, and took another cigarette from the tooled-leather humidor that Harvey Thorne’s ex-wife had given him for Christmas.

There followed a momentary silence. When he glanced up for an explanation of it, Thorne burst out:

You never married. Does that mean that you never got over Consuela?

Sam laughed, a hearty, care-free laugh.

Far from it. Connie and I are the best of friends. She declares I understand her better than anyone in the world. I assure you I make no such claim. She amuses me, entertains me (she gives a damn sight better performance off the stage than most actresses do on it); but, frankly, I can’t see why I was once so crazy about her.

You never married, Harvey Thorne repeated, obstinately accusing.

No, I never did. For one thing, I’m a dud with women. The sort of man they call ‘dear old Sammie’ and forget the minute he’s out of sight. Then I figure that when you cut me out with Consuela, the affair was serious in my eyes because I was decidedly beyond the calf-love age—twenty-eight, if you remember—and the natural to-hell-with-all-women reaction carried me long past the time of impetuous love-affairs.

God! cried Harvey Thorne, and it was a prayer he uttered rather than an expletive, I wish I had your temperament.

Sam was startled to find his sudden suspicion confirmed.

But—but Connie said you Wanted to be rid of her, he stammered. He did not add that Connie had also said that Harvey had been willing to cripple himself financially in order to accomplish that desirable end.

True enough, Thorne nodded. It was torture to be with her and to know that I never—never—no matter what I did or said, I never possessed her. Not for one instant did she really belong to me. She was locked away within herself, cynically sure that no man could storm her secret citadel. He paused as if, unused to letting himself go on this subject, he was, of a sudden, emotionally exhausted, and Sam looked at him with growing concern.

Listen, Harvey, he began, thinking that here, if anywhere, was a case that psychoanalysis might help, then changed his mind and went off at a tangent. He could hardly offer such advice. After all, Thorne and he had never been intimate. Two classes had separated them at school and they had gone to different colleges. He knew that it was really his engagement to Consuela Dacosta and Thorne’s infatuation with her that had brought them together at all. That engagement had been broken when Consuela had thrown him over for the younger and richer party; but for a time previous to that, Thorne, pursuing Consuela relentlessly, by dint of making up parties for her, taking them both off for weekends on his yacht, inviting them to go to athletic events in his private car, had managed to form a third at most of their amusements. It spoke well for his amiability and charm that he had been able to do this without antagonizing Sam.

Yet in truth when Consuela had announced her intention of breaking their engagement, Sam had thought of her only and had never attempted to dispute the decision. Consuela was the queen who could do no wrong and, as she had been careful to point out, it was far better for both of them that she had found out their mistake before rather than after a trip to St. Thomas’s.

Reno seems to me hopelessly vulgar, she had said. "More mixed even than the crowd at Palm Beach. I do not fancy myself in that galère."

He broke off his memories.

The trouble with you, old man, is that you’ve allowed yourself to grow morbid over this affair. By your own showing, any other fellow would have failed, even as you did. You were married for four years and decided you couldn’t make a go of it. Now you’ve been divorced for five—don’t tell me you can’t make a go of that, either! You’re too much of a man to let any woman mess your life up to that extent. Have you seen Connie?

God forbid! Thorne said, devoutly. Then, with a certain hope in the cadence of his voice, Has she changed? (Perhaps he thought a change would bring him release.)

No, Sam owned, no-o, I can’t say she has. She’s still Connie. Feverishly gay, slight almost to emaciation, red-headed——

"Fausse maigre and Titian, Thorne corrected him. Bones like a bird and beautiful hair. Has she cut it? It was one of the things we quarreled about—one of the many things."

Yes, she cut it. Now she is letting it grow again. To Sam it was pitiful how Thorne seized on each meager item of information, absorbing it as might a man dying of thirst a few raindrops from a passing cloud. Then, if I were you, if you don’t want to see her, I should go away.

Away from here? Thorne looked vaguely around, like one in a dream, as though Connie might be expected to materialize from the empty air before his eyes.

No, not here more than any other place in New York, although there’s a chance that this fancy-dress ball on the roof might attract her, Sam explained patiently. You’re liable to run into her anywhere in the city!

I suppose you’re right, Thorne muttered, almost below his breath, then roused himself. As a matter of fact, I’m only staying for a day or so. I’m off on a Caribbean cruise with Bill Martin. We’re to pry into the home life of the jellyfish, I believe. It doesn’t matter. I always did like yachting, and I’ve had to give up my own boat, what with the depression and all.

He did not say with an expensive ex-wife. In his imagination Sam supplied that item, and for the first time blamed Connie. After all, it was a bit thick to deprive a man, against whom there was no complaint, of the means to alleviate his loneliness. For a moment he saw Connie as rapacious.

One more question, then I’m on my way, Thorne said, leaning forward and putting his half-smoked cigar in the ash-tray. You’ll forgive me for bothering you, Sam. There’s really no one else I’d care to quiz about Connie; but our being in the same boat in a measure makes it seem different to me...Why did she never go on the stage again? That was another bone of contention. I married her to get her out of the sight of every lecherous old beast who paid a premium to sit in the front row to ogle her. Melbourne Gorman himself continued to persecute her even after she had left his company, and I wasn’t going to finance a come-back.

Sam inhaled cigarette smoke and emitted it in a paler blue cloud before answering.

I’m not sure that I know, he replied at last. Of course, as I said, Connie is Connie; yet as I see it now, it was always a case of personality. She never was a great actress, Harvey. She has that something—the sparkle that goes to one’s head like champagne—I guess magnetism is as good a word for it as any—that if she had been a dancer or a singer would have put her over big. Unfortunately, her ambition was set on the legitimate stage. She returned here after your separation, Mrs. Harvey Thorne, a social success on two continents, sure of her beauty and fascination, and expected to panic managers into falling over their feet in their hurry to beg her to play leads. In imagination she saw her name in colored lights on Broadway; in great advertisements splashed across the theatrical pages of the newspapers. She expected admiration, adulation, a sensational success...Well, it just didn’t happen like that. Any one of half a dozen of them would have given her a bit—the sort of thing she did before she was married, for Gorman and others. Pretty little sister of the star, you know. Society girl, visitor to fatten up a house party and look the part. Frankly the value to the Metropolitan stage of a Junior League background is vastly overrated by its possessors. So Connie turned up her nose at the offers she had and the managers hunched their shoulders to their ears and spread out their empty hands, palms up. They weren’t going to back her or any other society queen for the sake of sport.

I understand, Thorne got slowly to his feet and seemed to shake himself like a good-natured dog. There was indeed something of the innocence of puppyhood still about him. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I ought to have furthered her ambitions myself. It was damn’ selfish of me not to, because, you see, I believe she’s got it in her. No, really, Sam, you’re mistaken. She’s an actress, all right. Do you remember that terribly cold winter at St. James’s? When the school gave a torchlight skating party on the lake and the ice on the trees dripped fire? That’s like Connie. She can imitate flames and remain an icicle underneath. Surely that’s being an actress? I’ve thought of it often and it brings her to my mind as nothing else does. A glancing, flickering play of light, thrilling, never twice the same except in its lack of warmth. He hesitated. Maybe I ought to give her more money, so that she could be her own backer——

For Heaven’s sake, Harvey, Sam was aghast at this possible outcome of their talk, don’t be a quixotic fool. You’re allowing her far more than you ought already. And to prevent your doing anything so asinine, I’ll tell you something I ought perhaps to keep to myself. Connie would simply chuck all you gave her not to the birdies but to the bulls and bears. She’s the most fatuous plunger I know. A gambler for the kick she gets out of it.

So that’s where the money goes! Thorne exclaimed, enlightenment dawning on him. I thought that possibly she was saving to put on a play, starring herself. I knew she didn’t live up to what I gave her. Nowhere near, in fact. Thank you for telling me. Now I’ll be running along. I’ll hope to see you again before I sail.

And you won’t do anything foolish like giving Connie more money to throw away?

I certainly will not, Thorne vowed with unexpected force and decision. My father’s fortune came from hard, honest work. I’m not ready to see it absolutely wasted.

Good lad! Sam helped him into his topcoat and pushed the button for the elevator.

‘By, said Thorne, jerkily. You’re a square chap, Sam. Pray God you never fall in love with an actress.

A flood of color made Sam’s face very boyish for a moment, but he said nothing in direct reply.

Do you know how to manage this gadget? he inquired. I can ring for the doorman. We’re not Sutton Place. In this building we don’t aspire to the elegance of elevator-boys for the three elevators.

I can run it, all right. I’m only— The door of the car closed, the elevator started downward, and what else he said was lost in Sam’s shouted Good-by!

He looked at his watch before he entered his living-room. Nearly nine. Time to telephone to Police Headquarters...There was nothing doing there, so he rang for Sing, who came at once.

Mr. Thorne has gone and I’m going out, he told him. Take away the coffee-cups and that foul cigar stump. Then you can go if you want. I’ll not need you—won’t be back till late, probably. There’s a very flossy talkie at the picture-house, if you’re interested.

Sam could never accustom himself to the fact that Sing Lo was not the old-time type of Chinese boy, long celebrated in tales of the California of the past. Sing was a student at Columbia, cold-blooded and calculating where his employer was in question, busily acquiring ideas and theories which he proposed to carry home to China to augment the troubles there. His position with Sam suited him admirably, leaving him free after breakfast, since Sam lunched downtown, to arrange his day to fit his own convenience until it became necessary to prepare dinner; but he wasted no time on sentiment. He did the work he was paid to do, or engaged a fellow-countryman to clean if he were cramming for an examination. The place was always in excellent order, and as Sam’s bachelor establishment required no woman servant, Sing saved room rent by occupying the maid’s room. This had a bath attached, leaving unused the butler’s lavatory (opening off a narrow corridor at the end of the pantry nearest the foyer) except on the rare occasions of formal parties, when it was turned over to the men, while the ladies luxuriated in Sam’s own quarters, there being no guestroom. Besides the master’s bedroom and bath there were an unusually spacious living-room, a dining-room, kitchen, a small entrance foyer and the elevator vestibule. It was a compact and comfortable arrangement and ope that was easily cared for by one servant, as no elaborate entertaining was contemplated.

When the boy did not answer, Sam repeated his remark.

You heard me, Sing? I’m told it’s a peach of a picture.

Sir, I heard you, Sing replied, disdainfully. I think, however, if I make haste I shall not miss much of the lecture at the Town Hall on the Theoretical Function of Money in Government."

Sam gazed at his servant, his eyebrows ascending quizzically toward his hair.

Very good, Sing. If that’s your idea of a night of pleasure, it’s all right with me. He went into his own room, and a little later, on hearing a distant door bang, pictured to himself a short and stocky figure in well-cut, well-brushed American clothes, speeding Westward to his chosen goal.

He himself was in no hurry to be off. His unheralded visit from Thorne and their conversation together had moved him more than he would have thought possible. He remembered Harvey as one of fortune’s favorites. A debonair youth who imperiously demanded of Fate anything he wanted, even the girl engaged to marry Sam, and whose demands were in all cases fulfilled. The contrast with the man who had just left him was poignant.

Sam had readily accepted Connie’s version of their matrimonial debacle. Too readily, he now thought, full of pity for Thorne, whom he had not encountered previously since the divorce (not, parenthetically, arranged in Reno, but in the socially superior city of Paris).

He picked up the evening paper, but did not look at it, his mind still centered on Harvey. It was tragic that he had set his heart on a woman so sure to wreck him when all that he needed for happiness was her exact opposite. A home-loving girl who would have lots of babies, puppies, and flowers and a place on Long Island—a girl like Louise, for instance, who had turned down two men better suited to make her happy to marry Ed Harris.

As if his thoughts had furnished a cue, in answer to an imperative ring he threw down the paper and opened the door to admit his niece in person.

Mrs. Edwards Harris, youngest child of Sam’s eldest brother and the only girl in a family rich in boys, had been systematically