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Vicky Van

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Vicky Van



Produced by Linton Dawe, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





VICKY VAN

BY CAROLYN WELLS



AUTHOR OF

"The Affair at Flower Acres," "Anybody But Anne,"
"The Mystery of the Sycamore," "Raspberry Jam,"
"The Vanishing of Betty Varian," "Spooky Hollow,"
"Feathers Left Around," etc.




TO

ONE OF MY BEST CHUMS

JULIAN KING SPRAGUE




CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I. VICKY VAN
II. MR. SOMERS
III. THE WAITER'S STORY
IV. SOMERS' REAL NAME
V. THE SCHUYLER HOUSEHOLD
VI. VICKY'S WAYS
VII. RUTH SCHUYLER
VIII. THE LETTER BOX
IX. THE SOCIAL SECRETARY
X. THE INQUEST
XI. A NOTE FROM VICKY
XII. MORE NOTES
XIII. FLEMING STONE
XIV. WALLS HAVE TONGUES
XV. FIBSY
XVI. A FUTILE CHASE
XVII. THE GOLD-FRINGED GOWN
XVIII. FIBSY DINES OUT
XIX. PROOFS AND MORE PROOFS
XX. THE TRUTH FROM RUTH




CHAPTER I

VICKY VAN


Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to her
cheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all over
her captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing head
to the tips of her dainty, dancing feet.

I liked her from the first, and if her "small and earlies" were said
to be so called because they were timed by the small and early
numerals on the clock dial, and if her "little" bridge games kept in
active circulation a goodly share of our country's legal tender, those
things are not crimes.

I lived in one of the polite sections of New York City, up among the
East Sixties, and at the insistence of my sister and aunt, who lived
with me, our home was near enough the great boulevard to be designated
by that enviable phrase, "Just off Fifth Avenue." We were on the north
side of the street, and, nearer to the Avenue, on the south side, was
the home of Vicky Van.

Before I knew the girl, I saw her a few times, at long intervals, on
the steps of her house, or entering her little car, and
half-consciously I noted her charm and her evident zest of life.

Later, when a club friend offered to take me there to call, I accepted
gladly, 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 play
Bridge for money. Little faddly prize bags or gift-shop novelties are
her stakes.

Also, Aunt Lucy, who helps me look after Win, wouldn't quite
understand the atmosphere at Vicky's. Not exactly Bohemian--and yet,
I suppose it did represent one compartment of that handy-box of a
term. But I'm going to tell you, right now, about a party I went to
there, and you can see for yourself what Vicky Van was like.

"How late you're going out," said Winnie, as I slithered into my
topcoat. "It's after eleven."

"Little girls mustn't make comments on big brothers," I smiled back at
her. Win was nineteen and I had attained the mature age of
twenty-seven. We were orphans and spinster Aunt Lucy did her best to
be a parent to us; and we got on smoothly enough, for none of us had
the temperament that rouses friction in the home.

"Across the street?" Aunt Lucy guessed, raising her aristocratic
eyebrows a hair's breadth.

"Yes," I returned, the least bit irritated at the implication of that
hairbreadth raise. "Steele will be over there and I want to see him--"

This time the said eyebrows went up frankly in amusement, and the kind
blue eyes beamed as she said, "All right, Chet, run along."

Though I was Chester Calhoun, the junior partner of the law firm of
Bradbury and Calhoun, and held myself in due and consequent respect, I
didn't mind Aunt Lucy's calling me Chet, or even, as she sometimes
did, Chetty. A man puts up with those things from the women of his
household. As to Winnie, she called me anything that came handy, from
Lord Chesterton to Chessy-Cat.

I patted Aunt Lucy on her soft old shoulder and Winnie on her hard
young head, and was off.

True, I did expect to see Steele at Vicky Van's--he was the club chap
who had introduced me there--but as Aunt Lucy had so cleverly
suspected, he was not my sole reason for going. A bigger reason was
that 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 I
have heard and read against such a proceeding. But at eleven o'clock
at night the traffic in those upper side streets is not sufficient to
endanger 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 Fifth
Avenue corner, though the long side of the first house on that block
of the Avenue lay between.

The windows on each floor were brilliantly lighted, and I mounted the
long 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 the
long, narrow living-room and was a part of the gay group there.

"Angel child!" exclaimed Vicky Van herself, dancing toward me, "did he
come to see his little ole friend?" and laying her two hands in mine
for an instant, she considered me sufficiently welcomed, and danced
off again. She was a will o' the wisp, always tantalizing a man with a
hope of special attention, and then flying away to another guest, only
to treat him in the same way.

I looked after her, a slim, graceful thing, vibrant with the joy of
living, smiling in sheer gayety of heart, and pretty as a picture.

Her black hair was arranged in the newest style, that covered her ears
with soft loops and exposed the shape of her trim little head. It was
banded with a jeweled fillet, or whatever they call those Oriental
things they wear, and her big eyes with their long, dark lashes, her
pink cheeks and curved scarlet lips seemed to say, "the world owes me
a 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 was
ostentatious or over ornate, it was quietly and in the best of taste
luxurious.

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 rather
full, that swirled as she moved, and fluttered when she danced. The
bodice part, was of heavily gold-spangled material, and a kind of
overskirt arrangement was a lot of long gold fringe made of beads.
Instead of a yoke, there were shoulder straps of these same beads, and
the sleeves weren't there.

And yet, that costume was all right. Why, it was a rig I'd be glad to
see Winnie in, when she gets older, and if I've made it sound
rather--er--gay and festive, it's my bungling way of describing it,
and also, because Vicky's personality would add gayety and festivity
to any raiment.

Her little feet wore goldy slippers, and a lot of ribbons
criss-crossed over her ankles, and on the top of each slipper was a
gilt butterfly that fluttered.

Yet with all this bewildering effect of frivolity, the first term I'd
make use of in describing Vick's character would be Touch-me-not. I
believe there's a flower called that--_noli me tangere_--or some such
name. Well, that's Vicky Van. She'd laugh and jest with you, and then
if you said anything by way of a personal compliment or flirtatious
foolery, she was off and away from your side, like a thistle-down in a
summer breeze. She was a witch, a madcap, but she had her own way in
everything, and her friends did her will without question.

Her setting, too, just suited her. Her living room was one of those
very narrow, very deep rooms so often seen in the New York side
streets. It was done up in French gray and rose, as was the dictum of
the moment. On the rose-brocaded walls were few pictures, but just the
right ones. Gray enameled furniture and deep window-seats with
rose-colored cushions provided resting-places, and soft rose-shaded
lights gave a mild glow of illumination.

Flowers were everywhere. Great bowls of roses, jars of pink carnations
and occasionally a vase of pink orchids were on mantel, low bookcases
or piano. And sometimes the odor of a cigarette or a burning pastille
of Oriental fragrance, added to the Bohemian effect which is, oftener
than not, discernible by the sense of smell.

Vicky herself, detested perfumes or odors of any kind, save fresh
flowers all about. Indeed, she detested Bohemianism, when it meant
unconventional dress or manners or loud-voiced jests or songs.

Her house was dainty, correct and artistic, and yet, I knew its
atmosphere would not please my Aunt Lucy, or be just the right place
for Winnie.

Many of the guests I knew. Cassie Weldon was a concert singer and
Ariadne Gale an artist of some prominence, both socially and in her
art 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 rising
architect. Steele hadn't come yet.

Two tables of bridge were playing in the back part of the room, and in
the rest of the rather limited space several couples were dancing.

"Mayn't we open the doors to the dining room, Vicky?" called out one
of the card players. "The calorics of this room must be about ninety
in the shade."

"Open them a little way," returned Miss Van Allen. "But not wide, for
there'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 their
game. The dining room, as I knew, was a wide room that ran all across
the house behind both living-room and hall. It was beautifully
decorated in pale green and silver, and often Vicky Van would have a
"surprise supper," at which the favors or entertainers would be well
worth waiting for.

Having greeted many whom I knew, I looked about for further speech
with my hostess.

"She's upstairs in the music room," said Cassie Weldon, seeing and
interpreting my questing glance.

"Thank you, lady, for those kind words," I called back over my
shoulder, and went upstairs.

The front room on the second floor was dubbed the "music room," Vicky
said, because there was a banjo in it. Sometimes the guests brought
more banjos and a concert of glees and college songs would ensue. But
more often, as to-night, it was a little haven of rest and peace from
the laughter and jest below stairs.

It was an exquisite white and gold room, and here, too, as I entered,
pale pink shades dimmed the lights to a soft radiance that seemed like
a breaking dawn.

Vicky sat enthroned on a white divan, her feet crossed on a
gold-embroidered white satin foot-cushion. In front of her sat three
or four of her guests all laughing and chatting.

"But he vowed he was going to get here somehow," Mrs. Reeves was
saying.

"What's his name?" asked Vicky, though in a voice of little interest.

"Somers," returned Mrs. Reeves.

"Never heard of him. Did you, Mr. Calhoun?" and Vicky Van looked up at
me as I entered.

"No; Miss Van Allen. Who is he?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Only as Mrs. Reeves says he is coming
here tonight, I'd like to know something about him."

"Coming here! A man you don't know?" I drew up a chair to join the
group. "How can he?"

"Mr. Steele is going to bring him," said Mrs. Reeves. "He
says--Norman Steele says, that Mr. Somers is a first-class all-around
chap, and no end of fun. Says he's a millionaire."

"What's a millionaire more or less to me?" laughed Vicky. "I choose my
friends for their lovely character, not for their wealth."

"Yes, you've selected all of us for that, dear," agreed Mrs. Reeves,
"but this Somers gentleman may be amiable, too."

Mrs. Reeves was a solid, sensible sort of person, who acted as ballast
for the volatile Vicky, and sometimes reprimanded her in a mild way.

"I love the child," she had said to me once, "and she is a little
brick. But once in a while I have to tell her a few things for the
good of the community. She takes it all like an angel."

"Well, I don't care," Vicky went on, "Norman Steele has no right to
bring anybody here whom he hasn't asked me about. If I don't like him,
I shall ask some of you nice, amiable men to get me a long plank, and
we'll put it out of a window, and make him walk it. Shall we?"

We all agreed to do this, or to tar and feather and ride on a rail any
gentleman who might in any way be so unfortunate as to fall one iota
short of Vicky Van's requirements.

"And now," said Vicky, "if you'll all please go downstairs, except
Mrs. Reeves and Mr. Garrison and my own sweet self, I'll be orfly
obliged to you."

The sweeping gesture with which she sought to dismiss us was a wave of
her white arms and a smile of her red lips, and I, for one, found it
impossible to obey. I started with the rest, and then after the gay
crowd were part way down stairs I turned back.

"Please, mayn't I join your little class, if I'll be very good?" I
begged. "I don't want Bert Garrison to be left alone at the mercy of
two such sirens."

Miss Van Allen hesitated. Her pink-tipped forefinger rested a moment
on her curved lip. "Yes," she said, nodding her head. "Yes, stay, Mr.
Calhoun. You may be a help. Are you any good at getting theatre boxes
after they're all sold?"

"That's my profession," I returned. "I learned it from a
correspondence school. Where's the theatre? Lead me to it!"

"It's the Metropolis Theatre," she replied. "And I want to have a
party there to-morrow night, and I want two boxes, and this awful,
dreadful, bad Mr. Garrison says they're all sold, and I can't get any!
What can you do about it?"

"Oh, I'll fix it. I'll go to the people who bought the boxes you want,
and--I don't know what I'll say to them, exactly--but I'll fix up such
a yarn that they'll beg me to take the boxes off their hands."

"Oh, will you, really?" and the dazzling smile she gave me would have
repaid a much greater Herculean task than I had undertaken. And, of
course, I hadn't meant it, but when she thought I did, I couldn't go
back on my word.

"I'll do my best, Miss Van Allen," I said, seriously, "and if I can't
possibly turn the trick, I'll--well, I'll buy the Metropolitan Opera
House, and put on a show of my own."

"No," she laughed, "you needn't do that. But if you try and fail--why,
we'll just have a little party here, a sort of consolation party,
and--oh, let's have some private theatricals. Wouldn't that be fun!"

"More fun than the original program?" I asked quickly, hoping to be
let off my promise.

"No, sir!" she cried, "decidedly not! I want especially to have that
theatre party and supper afterward at the Britz. Now you do all you
can, won't you?"

I promised to do all I could, and I had a partial hope I could get
what she wanted by hook or crook, and then, as she heard a specially
favorite fox-trot being dashed off on the piano downstairs, she sprang
from her seat, and kicking the satin cushion aside, asked me to dance.
In a moment we were whirling around the music room to the zipping
music, and Mrs. Reeve and Garrison followed in our steps.

Vicky danced with a natural born talent that is quite unlike anything
acquired by lessons. I had no need to guide her, she divined my lead,
and swayed in any direction, even as I was about to indicate it. I had
never danced with anyone who danced so well, and I was profuse in my
thanks and praise.

"I love it," she said simply, as she patted the gold fringes of her
gown into place. "I adore dancing, and you are one of the best
partners I have ever had. Come, let us go down and cut into a Bridge
game. We'll just about have time before supper."

Pirouetting before me, she led the way, and we went down the long
steep stairs.

A shout greeted her appearance in the doorway.

"Oh, Vicky, we have missed you! Come over here and listen to Ted's
latest old joke!"

"No, come over here and hear this awful gossip Ariadne is telling for
solemn truth. It's the very worst taradiddle she ever got off!"

"Here's a place, Vicky Van, a nice cosy corner, 'tween Jim and me.
Come on, Ladygirl."

"No, thanks, everybody. I'm going to cut in at this table. May I? Am I
a nuisance?"

"A Vicky-nuisance! They ain't no such animal!" and Bailey Mason rose
to give her his chair.

"No," said she, "I want you to stay, Mr. Mason. 'Cause why, I want to
play wiz you. Cassie, you give me your place, won't you,
Ducky-Daddles? and you go and flirt with Mr. Calhoun. He knows the
very newest flirts! Go, give him a tryout."

Vicky Van settled herself into her seat with the happy little sigh of
the bridge lover, who sits down with three good players, and in
another moment she was breathlessly looking over her hand. "Without,"
she said, triumphantly, and knowing she'd say no word more to me for
the present, I walked away with Cassie Weldon.

And Cassie was good fun. She took me to the piano, and with the soft
pedal down, she showed me a new little tone picture she had made up,
which was both picturesque and funny.

"You'd better go into vaudeville!" I exclaimed, as she finished, "your
talent is wasted on the concert platform."

"That's what Vicky tells me," she returned. "Sometimes I believe I
will try it, just for fun."

"You'll find it such fun, you'll stay in for earnest," I assured her,
for she had shown a bit of inventive genius that I felt sure would
make good in a little musical turn.




CHAPTER II

MR. SOMERS


It was nearly midnight when Steele came, and with him was a man I had
never seen before, and whom I assumed to be the Mr. Somers I had heard
about.

And it was. As Steele entered, he cast his eye around for Vicky, and
saw her at the bridge table down at the end of the room. Her back was
toward us, and she was so absorbed in the game she did not look round,
if, indeed, she heard the noise of their arrival.

The two men stopped near the group I was with and Steele introduced
Mr. Somers.

A little curiously I looked at him, and saw a large, self-satisfied
looking man wearing an expansive smile and expensive apparel. Clothes
the very best procurable, jewelry just inside the limits of good
taste--he bore himself like a gentleman, yet there was an unmistakable
air of ostentatious wealth that repelled me. A second look made me
think Mr. Somers had dined either late or twice, but his greetings
were courteous and genial and his manner sociable, if a little
patronizing. He seemed a stranger to all present, and his eye roved
about for the charming hostess Steele had told him of.

"We'll reach Miss Van Allen presently." Steele laughed, in answer to
the glance, "if, indeed, we dare interrupt her game. Let's make
progress slowly."

"No hurry," returned Somers, affably, beaming on Cassie Weldon and
meeting Ariadne Gale's receptive smile. "I'm anchored here for the
moment. Miss Weldon? Ah, yes, I've heard you sing. Voice like a
lark--like a lark."

Clearly, Somers was not much of a purveyor of small talk. I sized him
up for a lumbering oldster, who wanted to be playful but didn't quite
know how.

He had rather an austere face, yet there was a gleam in his eye that
belied the austerity. His cheeks were fat and red, his nose prominent,
and he was clean shaven, save for a thick white mustache, that drooped
slightly on either side of a full-lipped mouth. His hair was white,
his eyes dark and deep-set, and he could easily be called a handsome
man. He was surely fifty, and perhaps more. Had it not been for a
certain effusiveness in his speech, I could have liked him, but he
seemed to me to lack sincerity.

However, I am not one to judge harshly or hastily, and I met him half
way, and even helped him in his efforts at gay affability.

"You've never been here before?" I asked; "Good old Steele to bring
you to-night."

"No, never before," and he glanced around appreciatively, "but I
shall, I hope, come often. Charming little nest; charming ladies!" a
bow included those nearest.

"Yes, indeed," babbled Ariadne, "fair women and brave men."

"Brave, yes," agreed Somers, "to dare the glances of such bright eyes.
I must protect my heart!" He clasped his fat hands pretty near where
his heart was situated, and grinned with delight as Ariadne also
"protected" her heart.

"Ah," he cried, "two hearts in danger! I feel sure we shall be
friends, if only because misery loves company."

"Is it really misery with you?" and Ariadne's sympathy was so
evidently profound, that Cassie Weldon and I walked away.

"I'll give Ariad her innings," said the vivacious Miss Weldon, "and
I'll make up to the Somers kid later. Where'd Vicky pick him up?"

"She doesn't know him at all. Norman Steele brought him unbeknownst."

"No! Why, Vick doesn't allow that sort of thing."

"So I'm told. Any way, Steele did it."

"Well, Vicky's such a good-natured darling, maybe she won't mind for
once. She won't, if she likes the little stranger. He's well-meaning,
at any rate."

"So's Ariadne. From her smile, I think she well means to sell him her
latest 'Autumn In The Adirondacks,' or 'Lady With A Handbag'."

"Now, don't be mean!" but Cassie laughed. "And I don't blame her if
she does. Poor Ad paints above the heads of the public, so if this is
a high-up Publican, she'd better make sales while the sun shines."

"What's her work like?"

"You can see more of it in this house than anywhere else. Vicky is so
fond of Ariadne and so sorry her pictures don't sell better, that she
buys a lot herself."

"Does Miss Gale know Miss Van Allen does it out of--"

"Don't say charity! No, they're really good stuff, and Vicky buys 'em
for Christmas gifts and bridge prizes."

"Does she ever play for prizes? I thought she liked a bit of a stake,
now."

"Yes, at evening parties. But, often we have a dove game of an
afternoon, with prizes and pink tea. Vicky Van isn't a gay doll, you
know. She's--sometimes, she's positively domestic. I wish she had a
nice husband and some little kiddies."

"Why hasn't she?"

"Give it up. She's never seen any man she loved, I s'pose."

"Perhaps she'll love this Somers person."

"Heaven forbid! Nothing less than a crown prince would suit Vicky Van.
Look, she's turning to meet him. Won't he be bowled over!"

I turned, and though there were several people between us, I caught a
glimpse of Somers' face as he was presented to Miss Van Allen. He was
bowled over. His eyes beamed with admiration and he bowed low as he
raised to his lips the dainty, bejeweled hand.

Vicky, apparently, did not welcome this old-time greeting, and she
drew away her hand, saying, "not allowed. Naughty man! Express proper
compunction, or you can't sit next me at supper!"

"Forgive me," begged Somers. "I'm sorry! I'll never do it
again--until after I sit next you at supper!"

"More brains than I thought," I said to Cassie, who nodded, and then
Vicky Van rose from her chair.

"Take my place for a moment, Mr. Somers," she said, standing before
him. "I--" she dropped her eyes adorably, "I must see about the
arrangement of seats at the supper table." With a merry laugh, she ran
from the room, and through the long hall to the dining-room.

Somers dropped into her vacant chair, and continued the Bridge game
with the air of one who knows how to play.

In less than five minutes Vicky was back. "No, keep the hand," she
said, as he rose. "I've played long enough. And supper will be ready
shortly."

"Finish the rubber,--I insist" Somers returned, and as he determinedly
stood behind the chair, Vicky, perforce, sat down.

He continued to stand behind her chair, watching her play. Vicky was
too sure of her game to be rattled at his close scrutiny, but it
seemed to me her shoulders shrugged a little impatiently, as he
criticized or commended her plays.

She had thrown a light scarf of gauze or tulle around when she was out
of the room, and being the same color as her gown, it made her seem
more than ever like an houri. She smiled up into Somers' face, and
then, coyly, her long lashes fell on her pink cheeks. Evidently, she
had concluded to bewitch the newcomer, and she was making good.

I drew nearer, principally because I liked to look at her. She was a
live wire to-night! She looked roguish, and she made most brilliant
plays, tossing down her cards with gay little gestures, and doing
trick shuffles with her twinkling fingers.

"You could have had that last trick, if you'd played for it," Somers
said, as the rubber finished.

"I know it," Vicky conceded. "I saw, just too late, that I was getting
the lead into the wrong hand."

"Well, don't ever do that again," he said, lightly, "never again."

As he said the last word, he laid his finger tips on her shoulder. It
was the veriest touch, the shoulder was swathed in the transparent
tulle, but still, it roused Vicky. She glanced up at him, and I looked
at him, too. But Somers was not in flirtatious mood. He said, "I beg
your pardon," in most correct fashion. Had he then, touched her
inadvertently? It didn't seem so, but his speech assured it.

Vicky jumped up from the table, and ignoring Somers, ran out to the
hall, saying something about looking after the surprise for the
supper. To my surprise, Somers followed her, not hastily, but rather
deliberately, and, quelling an absurd impulse to go, too, I turned to
Norman Steele, who stood near.

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