The Florentine Dagger: A Novel for Amateur Detectives — Inside the Classic

ottle and glasses on a tray, “and I’ll supplement my advice, Julien. Let the minor details adjust themselves. If you’re in love with Florence, the thing to do, I fancy, is to tell her so.”

He seemed flushed as he placed the tray on a table. He was smiling, but De Medici noticed that his fingers trembled.

“Love,” the older man continued, “is a rare and everlasting flower....”

He paused and closed his eyes. De Medici noted the darkening pain that passed over his features. Ballau, however, continued once more in a light voice:

“I should avoid making your proposal of marriage to her a discussion on economics or a debate on whether a woman’s place is in the home ... or on the stage. You can settle all that after you’re married with just as much indignation and dissatisfaction to you both as you can before the ceremony.”

De Medici, fascinated by the nervous hands of the man, laughed.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” he answered. “With your permission, I’ll deceive the young lady and save up my debates for some future breakfast table.”

“To a gay and worthy happiness for you and her,” said Ballau, raising one of the glasses.

His voice had grown soft, but his eyes, as De Medici smiled back to him, turned away. The young man replaced his glass and, despite himself, felt again the curious presences that had haunted him a half hour before ... presences that awoke always under the influence of symbols—opened doors, darkened windows, lights gleaming in mirrors ... and enigmatic faces.

“There’s something else,” whispered itself in his thought, and for a moment he stared fearfully at the averted eyes of his friend. Then, recovering himself, he said:

“Shall we go down to the theater for the performance?”

Ballau shook his head.

“I’d rather read,” he answered. “And, besides, from now on I feel I’d only be in the way.”

“Nonsense!” De Medici smiled. “I’ve a clever idea for making love ... and I’m not at all averse to an enlarged audience....”

Ballau smiled refusal and De Medici bowed slightly.

“I’ll see you to-morrow then,” he said, and walked from the room.

Victor Ballau stood for moments alone in his library. His eyes traveled caressingly over the luxuries that surrounded him. Beautiful things ... beautiful things ... his eyes and fingers invariably grew alive in their presence. Carved chairs that had once beckoned the vivacious and swashbuckling bodies of Florentines, Englishmen and Castilians. Books within whose covers the strange dreams of men had yellowed. Prints and cabinets, hangings and trinkets all breathing an air of romantic beginnings, survivors all of vanished splendors and obsolete dramas. He stood gazing around him.... The great centuries whispered out of the ornamental litter of the room.

Lowering himself into the chair in which De Medici had sat, Ballau opened a book. His eyes, however, were unable to keep to the print. They closed as if in revery and again the weariness and pain that De Medici had noted, darkened his face.

An hour later, Jane, gaunt and hollow-eyed, appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Ballau,” she said in a dull voice.

He opened his eyes and stared at her in confusion. He had been dreaming.

“Will there be supper after the theater tonight?” she asked.

“No, Jane,” he murmured. “You can turn in.”

His eyes, haunted and preoccupied—as furtive and veiled as the eyes of the man who had sat in the chair before him—followed the slow-moving figure of the housekeeper as she walked out of the doorway.

CHAPTER II THE VEILED APHRODITE

In which a lady of barbaric eyes smiles, sighs, and weeps—In which Eros obliges with a saxophone solo—A morning of golden shadows and an off-stage pizzicato.

New York on a spring morning.... A leap of windows toward a gay sky, a carnival of windows, windows fluttering like silver pennants, unwinding in checkerboards and domino lines. A deluge of signs, a sweep of acrobatic advertisements, a circus of roof tops and a fanfare of stone, the city flings itself into a glittering panorama. It stands in bewildered pantomime. Gigantic and amazing, it hovers like an inverted abyss over a wavering pavement of hats.

De Medici turned his eyes from the trumpeting geometries of the skyscrapers and looked at the young woman beside him.

“We’re an intrusion,” he said close to her. The crowds drifted tenaciously around them. “Paolo and Francesca,” he smiled, “murmuring in Bedlam. Can’t we go somewhere?”

His lean face regarded her dreamily as she answered:

“The morning is wonderful.”

“The morning is a nuisance,” he demurred. “But you! Beautiful—yes, your eyes are like gardens, night gardens. Come, we’ll go somewhere. We’ll take a cab. I want to talk to you in a gentle and persuasive voice.”

The young woman, Florence Ballau, nodded. De Medici stared excitedly at her. Her presence delighted and warmed him. An amazing woman. She wore her youth like a banner. Her gypsy face under a blue toque stamped itself like an exotic flower on the gray and yellow background of the crowd. Her lips were parted, her deep eyes were laughing darkly.

De Medici restrained the ecstasy that threatened to start him stammering. She was tonic. Her body, luxurious and vibrant under the silver cloth of her dress, bewildered him. He was in love. But more than that, the flamboyant life of the girl, the gay and dominant poise of her manner, her voice, her head, exhilarated him in a curious way. A sense of awe came to him as he studied for an instant the exotically masked vigor of his companion. His own subtle and convoluted nature prostrated itself blissfully before her vivid dominance.

“Let’s go to father’s office,” she said. He found it difficult to object. Nevertheless he blurted an objection.

“Well, why not just walk to the park and sit down?” she persisted.

De Medici shook his head.

“Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to make love and I don’t want a lot of fat policemen walking up and down in front of me or a parade of squirrel-feeding old maids staring rebukefully. I’ve set my mind on a cab. It’s distinctly modern.”

“But a fearful waste of money,” the girl smiled.

“Ah,” De Medici murmured, “then you do love me.”

“Of course,” she answered.

They stood silently in the press of the crowds moving down Fifth Avenue, their fingers touching. De Medici’s eyes grew misty. He felt curiously at peace, as if he had escaped forever the dark things inside him.

“We’ll take a cab, anyway,” he said finally. Then, as the girl raised her luminous face to him, he grew buoyant. He looked about him with a feeling of surprise. He had awakened from a bad dream. Prince Julien the cynical and tormented survivor of an evil race had vanished. Here was an ecstatic and humorous youth making love to a marvelous creature under the towers of a new civilization.

“I’ve a lot of speeches I’ve always wanted to include as a part of my first and last proposal. We’ll get into a cab and I’ll propose.”

He hailed a taxi and they entered.

“Drive,” he smiled at the chauffeur, “slowly and carefully, anywhere you want.”

The man nodded, grinned, and pocketed a bill.

They were silent as the cab moved away.

“Well,” said Florence at last, “you may begin.”

De Medici looked at her.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Will you marry me?”

“You promised speeches,” she laughed.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, staring at her. “I can’t think of anything to say.”

They were silent again. The cab entered a park. Turning to her, De Medici raised her hand to his lips. His restless, burning eyes remained on her face. He felt intoxicated. Her profile with its parted red lips, its tiny line of white teeth, her eyes dark and desirous as they avoided him, her aromatic hair in black coils under the toque.

“Dearest,” he whispered, “I adore you.”

She nodded, still avoiding his eyes.

Then, “When do you want to get married?” she asked.

De Medici extricated himself from his emotions.

“Tomorrow,” he answered calmly.

“That’s too soon. I’ll have to tell father first.”

“I’ve told him all about it,” he smiled.

De Medici nodded and looked fearfully at her. She was angry. Her face had grown bright with color.

“What did he say?” she asked.

Ignoring the change in her voice, De Medici answered:

“He gave me some advice. He advised me against starting any arguments with you.”

Florence turned her eyes to him. They were burning and enigmatic.

“Curious,” he thought. “She’s like him. She hides something.”

He felt miserable again. But his hand caressed her arm.

“Arguments about what?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, this and that,” De Medici answered smiling. “Never mind asking me. Let’s save up all the arguments for another time, when we have nothing else to talk about.”

“What did he say?” she persisted. Then: “Excuse me. We’ll tell him and have him announce the engagement. He’ll love that.”

Her face was again gay and dominant. De Medici nodded.

“I’ll telephone him,” he said quickly, and tapped on the driver’s window. The cab stopped. Leaning out of the door, De Medici gave a vague direction.

“Take us to a telephone,” he said. The driver nodded as if he appreciated the details of the situation. They started again.

“Julien,” the girl exclaimed suddenly. She was laughing. Her arms embraced the surprised young man. He felt himself powerless for an instant. The warmth of her body was against him. Her lips waited intimately for his kiss.

“Oh, I adore you,” he murmured. His arms tightened around her and they remained embraced as the cab rolled jerkily on.

The driver was talking. De Medici removed his eyes bewilderedly from Florence.

“What is it?” he inquired.

“I think there’s a telephone in that drugstore,” the driver repeated.

De Medici stepped out of the cab. Several minutes later he returned, smiling broadly.

“The parent thaws,” he announced exuberantly. “We have his consent and his blessing.”

“But you told me you had all that in advance,” Florence laughed.

“I know,” he went on excitedly, “but our talk last night was only sort of a rehearsal.”

“What did he say?” she asked as he sat down beside her.

“Going to announce it tonight. Says he’ll summon a gathering worthy of the event.”

“Poor father,” murmured Florence. Her face had grown sad.

“He’s delightful,” cried De Medici.

“He’s the most charming man in the world,” she added.

The driver put in an apologetic appearance.

“Where to?” he asked.

“I think we’d better go back to the theater,” Florence murmured. De Medici gave the direction.

“Well,” she smiled as they started again, “from a literary point of view your proposal has been a decided failure. I rather expected something—bizarre.”

“Give me time,” De Medici smiled. “I’ll improve. But why to the theater now?”

“There’s a matinée today.”

“You don’t mean you’re going to play this afternoon?”

“Are you insane? Of course I am.”

“And let that bounder Mitchell make love to you in the second act ... after this?”

“I swear you’re out of your head, Julien.”

“You kiss him,” he growled.

“You wrote the play, my dear.”

“Hm.” He looked at her whimsically thoughtful. “I’ll rewrite it. The kiss isn’t necessary. I’ll go back and take it out. You don’t have to kiss him. You can just look at him—with feigned tenderness. It’ll be enough. How do you suppose I’m going to feel watching you embrace that bounder and kiss him every night?”

“You told me last week I did the part wonderfully,” she smiled.

They were in front of the theater. De Medici held her arm.

“When shall I see you again?” he asked.

“I promised to have dinner with Fedya this evening. Why don’t you go and help father arrange his party and call for me after the performance tonight?”

De Medici nodded. He appeared to have grown speechless. He looked with infatuated silence at the girl. Then, with a sigh, he bowed, removing his fedora and placing it cavalierly over his heart.

“Until we meet again, beloved,” he whispered and, turning, walked away.

The girl stood where he had left her, her dark eyes following his figure until it was lost in the crowd. An expression of despair had come to her face. Sorrow and uncertainty seemed to claim her. She stepped forward as if to recall the vanishing Julien. Then, changing her mind, she turned and walked to the foyer. She entered the empty theater with tears glistening in her dark eyes.

In which Julien De Medici collides with a tantalizing corpse—In which a dagger, a candlestick, a crucifix, and a false beard mumble incoherently.

Promptly at ten o’clock that night De Medici walked distractedly into the stage entrance of the Galt Theater. He had spent the day in a fever of expectancy. A memory had followed him like an offensive companion.

“She was crying when I went away. She stood looking after me and wept.”

He had watched Florence unseen by her during the few minutes she hesitated white-faced and weeping in front of the theater after his farewell.

“I’m a fool,” he argued with himself. “She was excited, overwrought. She loves me. And perhaps there’s something she’ll tell me later.”

He had offered his services to his friend Ballau after dinner.

“There’s nothing you can do except mess up things,” Ballau remonstrated. “I suggest a long, fatiguing walk.”

He had smiled kindly and De Medici, unable to dissemble his cat-like nervousness, had blurted out:

“I find it almost impossible to wait.”

“The guests will be here around eleven,” Ballau had answered. “Go walk around till then and don’t get run over or fall down any manholes.”

Entering the theater, De Medici looked around the back stage quickly for a glimpse of Florence. The wings were crowded with actors and actresses waiting the rise of the third-act curtain.

“Where’s Miss Ballau?” he inquired of Cort, the stage manager.

Cort, a sour-looking man with the disillusions and sophistications of his profession stamped on his face, turned angrily.

“Oh, hello!” he said, noticing De Medici. “We’ve had the devil of a time.”

De Medici looked at him uncomfortably.

“Miss Ballau had to leave,” went on Cort.

“Leave! What do you mean?”

“We’ve had a time of it for the last fifteen minutes. Miss Ballau got a telephone call at the end of the second act. It knocked her out. Refused to go on with the show. Said it was impossible. And we’ve gotten Fedya Gratin, the understudy, to finish the last act.”

De Medici listened in amazement.

“A telephone call,” he repeated. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know,” growled Cort. “All I know is she left us in the devil of a mess ... and lit out of here like a streak, make-up on and everything. Wouldn’t stop to change or listen to reason....”

“Did she say anything?” De Medici interrupted.

The news had left him unaccountably sick at heart. He made an effort to remove the fears that were clouding his thought and to conjure up a logical reason—a calm reason—for her departure. He turned desperately to the manager, who had started to move off.

“Wait a minute. What did she say on the telephone?”

“Nothing,” answered Cort. “I couldn’t get what it was about. She said, ‘Yes. Yes. Oh, God!’ hung up and was out of here before anybody knew what had happened.”

De Medici dropped the man’s arm and hurried from the theater. In the dark alley he paused and stared nervously about him. The darkness frightened him. Strange glints were in his eyes. He ran his long fingers over his forehead and shuddered. Something had happened!

He sat thinking as the cab hurried him to the Ballau apartment.... “She was crying this morning after our ride ... there was something curious about Ballau ... he wanted to get rid of me....”

A sense of relief came to him when the cab drew up before the ornate apartment building in Park Avenue. As he stepped out he noticed quickly that the scene was calm, that inside the marble lobby the stiff figure of the doorman stood—a symbol of quietude and elegance.

Entering the building, he nodded to the man at the door and walked quickly to the elevator at the rear of the vestibule. As he approached, the filigreed door of the self-operating elevator cage clicked and was thrown open.

Florence Ballau, her eyes wide with horror, staggered out. She stood looking wildly till her eyes encountered De Medici. She stumbled toward him with a shriek.

“Father ... father,” her voice filled the marble interior. “Murdered!”

De Medici held the girl in his arms. An inexplicable calm had taken possession of him. He regarded the scene aloofly—the hysterical girl, the suddenly galvanized doorman, the ornamental brass work of the marble vestibule.

“Something has happened,” he said quietly to the man as he came running forward. “Call the police. Send them up to Mr. Ballau’s apartment.”

She moaned his name as his arms held her. But a curious caution had entered his thought. Half carrying her, he entered the elevator and turned the automatic starter to Floor 5.

The white enameled door of the Ballau apartment was open. De Medici supported Florence across the threshold.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he whispered to her. She raised her eyes in amazement. His voice, cool and soft, held a tone she had never heard. Florence pointed toward the library and watched him walk to the door. He turned the iron knob and stood looking into the room he had quitted a few hours before. Before him was the famous Ballau library converted into a curious wreck. Chairs had been overturned, books scattered and ripped in half, vases smashed, pictures torn from the wall and destroyed. An air of incomprehensible and sinister disorder hovered in the dimly lighted chamber.

De Medici’s eyes traveled from detail to detail. He had sat in this room a night ago, staring at the burning logs, his thought darkened with fears—fears of an opened door, of the shadows that wavered behind his chair. But now facing the grewsome scene, his eyes lost their furtiveness. He moved with soft, quick steps to the body of Victor Ballau. Stretched on the floor in his black trousers, patent leather pumps and dress shirt lay his friend. The face was staring at the ceiling. A red stain circled the shirt front and from the center of the stain protruded the ornamental hilt of a dagger. A large, black crucifix had been placed above the wound.

De Medici knelt beside the man. He was dead, his eyes were open and filled with the same gentleness which had characterized them in life.

“Murdered,” he whispered.

He continued to kneel as if under the influence of a fascination. The dagger hilt with its medieval pattern, the black crucifix, and the inert white face with its familiar features held the glittering eyes of De Medici. Strange impulses stirred in him. He shuddered.

“I am not afraid before death,” his thought was saying. “It arouses something in me.... Murder ... murder....”

His mind repeated the word.

“I grow calm before murder,” he went on thinking swiftly. “Something grows calm inside me.”

His fingers reached slowly toward the dagger hilt.

“De Medici ... De Medici,” he murmured half aloud, and sprang to his feet. His face had become white. His eyes burned as if with fever.

Florence and Jane, the housekeeper, were standing dumbly in the doorway. De Medici stared at them.

“Who did it?” he asked.

Florence shook her head and wept. Her hands were on her cheeks and the look of horror he had noticed as she stumbled out of the elevator had returned. He moved quickly to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders.

“The police will be here in a minute,” he said. “What happened?”

She answered still in tears, her eyes centered.

“I don’t know. I came home early. I had a headache. Jane let me in.”

Her weeping overcame her.

“I opened the door,” she gasped, “and saw ... this. I screamed, and Jane came running from the kitchen. I don’t remember anything else until I saw you downstairs.”

De Medici caressed her shoulder and turned to the housekeeper.

“What happened?” he asked.

The woman regarded him with terrified eyes.