The Medici Boots, Page 3

bledto death, had it been a quarter of an inch to the left. If you like,I'll fix it up a bit for you after breakfast."

  Eric's voice was calm enough, but his pulse was pounding, his heartsick. All morning he rode through the countryside adjoining theDickerson estate, but he let the mare go as she liked and where sheliked, for his mind was busy with the events of the hour before dawn.He knew that the slash on his brother's wrist was made by steel, notglass. Yet when the ride was over, he could not bring himself to tellJohn of Suzanne's visit.

  "She must have been sleep-walking, though I can't account for the wayshe was decked out. I've always thought Suzanne extremely modest inher dress, certainly not inclined to load herself with jewelry. Andthose boots! John must get them today and destroy them, as he said.Silly, perhaps, but----" His thoughts went on and on, always returningto the Medici boots, in spite of himself.

  * * * * *

  Eric came back from his ride at eleven o'clock, with as troubled amind as when he began it. He almost feared to see Suzanne at lunch.

  When he did meet her with John and Mr. Erskine on the cool, shadedporch where they lunched, he saw there was nothing to fear. Theamorous, clinging woman of the hour before dawn was not there at all.There was only the Suzanne whom Eric knew and loved as a sister.

  Here, again, was their merry little Suzanne, somewhat spoiled by herhusband, it is true, but a Suzanne sweetly feminine, almost childishin a crisp, white frock and little, low-heeled sandals. Their talk waslazily pleasant--of tennis honors and horses, of the prize delphiniumsin the garden, of the tiny maltese kitten which Suzanne had brought upfrom the stables late that morning and installed in a pink-bowedbasket on the porch. She showed the kitten to Eric, handling its tinypaws gently, hushing its plaintive mews with ridiculous pet names.

  "Perhaps I'm a bigger fool than I know. Perhaps it never happened,except in a dream," Eric told himself, unhappily. "And yet----"

  He looked at the red marks on his hand, marks made by a furiousSuzanne in that hour before the dawn. Too, he remembered the cut onJohn's wrist, the cut so near the vein.

  Eric declined John's invitation to go through the museum with him thatafternoon, but he said with a queer sense of diffidence, "Whileyou're there, John, you'd better get rid of the Medici boots. Creepythings to have around, I think."

  "They'll be destroyed, all right. But Suzanne is just bound to trythem on. I'll get them, though, and do as Uncle said."

  Eric remained on the terrace, speculating somewhat on just what Johnand Suzanne would do, now that the huge fortune of Silas Dickerson wastheirs. Eric was not envious of his brother's good luck, and he wasthankful for his share in old Silas' generosity.

  At five o'clock he entered the hall, just as Suzanne hurried in fromthe kitchen. She spread our her hands, laughingly.

  "With my own fair hands I've made individual almond tortonis fordessert. Cook thinks I'm a wonder! Each masterpiece in a fluted silverdish, silver candies sprinkled on the pink whipped cream! O-oh!"

  She made big eyes in mock gluttony. Eric forgot, for a moment, thatthere ever had been another Suzanne.

  "You're nothing but a little girl, Suzie. You with your rhapsodiesover pink whipped cream! But it's sweet of you to go to such troubleon a warm afternoon. See you and the whatever-you-call-'ems atdinner!"

  "They're tortonis, Eric, tortonis."

  Suzanne ran lightly up the stairs. Eric followed more slowly. Heentered his room thinking that there were some things which must beexplained in this house with the old museum.

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes before dinner Eric and John were on the terrace waitingfor Suzanne. John was talkative, which was just as well, as he mighthave wondered at his brother's silence. Eric was torn between a desireto tell his brother his reluctant suspicions concerning the Mediciboots and Suzanne and his inclination to leave things alone till theboots could be destroyed.

  He said, diffidently, "John, has Suzanne those--those boots?"

  John chuckled. "Why, yes. I saw them in her room. Do you know she wentdown to the museum last night and took those boots? It _was_ a light Isaw in the museum. It was her light. Suzanne has ideas. Wants to wearthe boots just once, she says, to lay the ghost of thiswhat's-her-name--Maria Modena. Suzanne says she couldn't sleep muchlast night. Got up early and tried on those boots. Well, I think I'lldestroy 'em tomorrow. Uncle's wish, so I'll do it."

  "Tried them on, did she? Well, if you should ask me, I'd say thathistory of the boots was a bit too exciting for Suzanne. It _was_ ahaunting story. Uncle must have swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker,eh?"

  "Of course. His letter showed that. But Suzanne lives in the present,not the past, as Uncle did. I suppose Suzanne will wear those boots,or she won't feel satisfied. I don't exactly like the idea, I mustconfess."

  Something like an electric shock passed through Eric. He said,somewhat breathlessly, "I don't think Suzanne ought to have the Mediciboots."

  John looked at him curiously and laughed. "I never knew you weresuperstitious, Eric. But do you really think----"

  "I don't know what I think, John. But if she were my wife, I'd takethose boots away from her. Uncle may have known what he was talkingabout."

  "Well, I think she's intending to wear them at dinner, so prepare tobe dazzled. Here she is, now. Greetings, sweet-heart!"

  Suzanne swept across the terrace, her gown goldly shimmering, pearlsbound about her head, as Eric had seen her in the dim hour beforedawn. Again the rows of bracelets were weighting her slim arms. Andshe wore the Medici boots, the amethyst tips peeping beneath hershining dress.

  John, ever ready for gay clowning, arose and bowed low. "Hail,Empress! A-ah, the dress you got in Florence on our honeymoon, isn'tit? And those darned Medici boots!"

  Suzanne unsmilingly extended her hand for him to kiss.

  John arched an eyebrow, comically. "What's the matter, honey? Goingregal on me?" And retaining her hand, he kissed each of her fingers.

  Suzanne snatched away her hand, and the glance she gave her husbandwas one of venomous hauteur. To Eric she turned a look that was anopen caress, leaning toward him, putting a hand on his arm, as hestood beside his chair, stern-lipped, with eyes that would not look atJohn's hurt bewilderment.

  The three sat down then, in the low wicker chairs, and waited fordinner--three people with oddly different emotions. John was hurt,slightly impatient with his bride; Eric was furious with Suzanne,though there was in his heart the almost certain knowledge that theSuzanne beside them on the terrace was not the Suzanne they knew, buta cruelly strange woman, the product of a sinister force, unknown andcompelling.

  No one, looking on Suzanne's red-lipped and heavy-lidded beauty, couldmiss the knowledge that here was a woman dangerously subtle, carryinga power more devastating than the darting lightning that now and thenshowed itself over the tree-tops of the garden. Eric began to feelsomething of this, and there shaped in his mind a wariness, a defenseagainst this woman who was not Suzanne.

  "No _al fresco_ dining tonight," said John, as the darkening sky wasveined by a sudden spray of blue-green light. "Rain on the way. Prettygood storm, I'd say."

  "I like it," replied Suzanne, drawing in a deep breath of the sultryair.

  John laughed. "Since when, sweet-heart? You usually shake and shiverthrough a thunderstorm."

  Suzanne ignored him. She smiled at Eric and said in a low tone, "Andif I should lose my bravery, you would take care of me, wouldn't you,Eric?"

  Before Eric could reply, dinner was announced, and he felt a reliefand also a dread. This dinner was going to be difficult.

  John offered his arm to his wife, smiling at her, hoping for a smilein return, but Suzanne shrugged and said in a caressing voice, "Eric?"

  * * * * *

  Eric could only bow stiffly and offer his arm, while John walkedslowly beside them, his face thoughtful, his gay spirits gone. Duringdinner, however, he tried to revive the lagging
conversation. Suzannespoke in a staccato voice and her choice of words seemed strange toEric, almost as though she were translating her own thoughts from aforeign tongue.

  And finally Suzanne's promised dessert came, cool and tempting in itssilver dishes. Eric saw a chance to make the talk more natural. Hesaid, gayly, "Johnny, your wife's a chef, a famous pastry chef. Beholdthe work of her hands! What did you say it was, Suzanne?"

  "This? Oh--I do not know what it is called."

  "But this afternoon as you were leaving the kitchen--didn't you say itwas almond something or other?"

  She shook her head, smiling. "Perhaps it is. I wouldn't know."

  The maid had placed