Mcallen Daily Press

DEATH
AT THE
MANOR

RELEASED BY
BY M.E. CORNE
CENTRAL PRESS ASSOCIATION

READ THIS FIRST:

Elsie Ritter, a beauty shop operator, is on her way to the Manor, the luxurious home of the wealthy Witherspoon family. She has agreed to take the place of her friend, Kitty, for a week, running the private salon of old Mrs. Witherspoon, an eccentric semi-invalid.

(NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY)

CHAPTER TWO

NO FOREBODINGS assailed me on that afternoon of my last day at "Madame Moira's", and when six o'clock came I was packed and ready and waiting for the chauffeur to arrive for my trip to the Manor. I did take the precaution to leave my address with Mrs. Ranking, my landlady, but that only was because I thought Phil might call, and I was still expecting results from that young man.

It was six o'clock on the dot when the horn sounded in the street and I dashed from the house without waiting for Tim to come in after me. Mrs. Ranking was burning with curiosity as it was, and a little burning, I thought, would do her good. She was such a nosey old soul!

The car parked at the curb was a honey! Long and low, with the back end closed in a town car. I think you call them-and I felt pretty ritzy riding in such a limousine even though I did have to sit up front with Tim. The first few blocks I did not say a word, but sat straight and tall, watching the sidewalk and hoping some of the girls from the shop would see me.

But when we left the town and came out into the open country I turned to Tim to see if I could not get the low down on this job I had taken.

Tim was young, handsome in a muscle-bound sort of way. He was the big, brutish type, if you get what I mean! Right away we hit it off fine. Tim, it seemed, admired girls with red, curling hair and big blue eyes and a complexion that never saw the inside of a paint box.

"You're aces, kid!" he said, and if I had been so minded I could have enjoyed the ride snuggled in his strong right arm.

"What's it like at the Manor?" I queried, making it plain that necking was not one of my vices.

"Well," and I thought he sounded a bit unwilling, "well, it's damned funny!"

"Funny?" Right away I commenced to get curious. "How?"

"Oh, just funny. The old lady is a heller!"

"Hard to get along with, eh?"

"She ain't any love bird." Tim speeded up. "Leads Horace and his frau a merry chase."

"Is Mrs. Horace nice?"

He gave me a peculiar look.

"Sure, she's nice. She's like a kid what's found out there ain't no Santy Claus." And he shut up like a clam.

"How many people are staying there?" I can take a hint when I want to, but I did not want to then.

"Plenty! House is filled up. Company from N' York."

"O!" I frowned. My job did not sound like any cinch. "Many women in the crowd?"

"Della Craig is there."

"Della Craig!" I began to get excited all over again. I never had been closer to an actress than the tenth row at the Alhambra in the old days before the talkies, when second-rate road shows played one-night stands in Lawnville. And Della Craig was an honest-to-goodness Broadway actress! I had seen her picture lots of times in the Cosmetic World, which is my profession's Bible, posing for ads you know the type-"hairdress by Charles of the Ritz."

"Sure, she's there." Tim did not sound overly enthused. "An' a blonde dame they call "Toots" and a dark one they call "Glad."

"Any men?" I had visions of a tall, tanned millionaire who would take one look at my maidenly charms and fall like a ton of bricks.

"Men!" He snorted. "There's one guy that's a Pansy or I eat my shirt! A nickel to a quarter he gets you to give him a marcel wave. He wears pink shirts and lavender neckties!"

"Yeah?" Pansies are not in my line. "What's he doing at the Manor?"

"Friend of Della's," Tim said, and turned right and into a winding drive that had a stone archway and a wrought-iron gate at the entrance.

"Oh!" I exclaimed and merely clapped my hands. The Manor was lighted from top to bottom like a Christmas tree! The house reminded me of pictures of old English castles that decorated the pages of my high school history books.

It was four stories and built of stone. The roof sloped downward and was spiked with tall turrets. Along the entire left side, next the driveway, ran a great porch that was glassed in above and open below. This, as I soon learned, housed Mrs. Witherspoon's modernistic beauty salon.

Behind the house, which is where Tim took me, there was a stone garage the size of an ordinary mortal's dwelling and behind that, stretching for unseen miles, was the arboretum. Then and there I made up my mind that my first free moment would be spent in exploration of the arboretum. I was consumed with a healthy curiosity to discover whether or not my movie star really had planted a tree there.

Tim let me out at the rear door, and if I had not been so thrilled at the sight of such splendors I might have been pretty mad. I am not used to back doors-not even when they resemble the entrance to a railway depot or a mausoleum.

"Here you are, baby!" he said and led the way inside. I stepped into the largest kitchen I had ever seen in my life.

"Good evening," said a heavy-set, middle-aged woman dressed in flowing black silk, who arose from a long table and came forward to greet me. "You are Miss Wilson's friend?" Her close-set eyes bored into mine.

"This is Elsie Ritter," said Tim. "And an addition to our domicile, if I do say so myself!" He pinched my arm lightly. I smiled up at him.

I could not help myself; he was so friendly. I did not pay any attention to the hot, resentful glance that was flashed my way from the smoldering eyes of a girl in maid's uniform, but I heard about it later. In five minutes I had made an enemy at the Manor! Luckily for me, however, I was unaware of this as I was introduced to the men and women who formed a group about the long table.

"This is Miss Ritter." Stiffly Mrs. Greely performed the introductions. "She is to take Miss Wilson's place in the salon for a few days. Miss Ritter, we are the household staff of the Manor." Graciously she included herself. I shall not name us individually, as that is unnecessary and apt to create confusion. In the course of your duties should you desire the services of one or many of us we shall be happy to serve you."

"Er-thanks!" I was overcome with the dignity of her speech. Plainly Mrs. Greely was not a girl to let her hair down!

"You are quite welcome. Minnie, our second parlor maid, will show you to your quarters."

"Thanks," I repeated, wondering whether it would be polite to mention supper.

"I will send Hawkins later with a tray," said Mrs. Greely, correctly interpreting the wistful expression that must have been evident on my face as I eyed the platter of cold chicken upon the table.

"This way, miss," directed Minnie, who was a tall, gangling girl with pop eyes and a tendency to giggle hysterically for no apparent reason.

I followed her through a series of complicated pantries and up a narrow, winding stair. The house was quiet, abnormally so. I shivered. Our footsteps on the soft, padded floors made no sound at all. We glided, two silent, ghosts, up and on.

"Here we are!" Minnie's voice sounded unnaturally loud and harsh. It echoed eerily through the deserted corridor. I started in spite of myself. Minnie unlocked a door upon the right.

"This here is Miss Wilson's suit," she said, motioning me forward. "She's on this floor with the family so as she can be close to the salon. She said you was to use her things while she was gone."

"I see."

I stepped across the threshold. Suddenly laughter like the peal of a cracked, warped bell split the silence. I dropped my bag and whirled around.

(To Be Continued)