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Show the mmr YTOPMU'IO) WEDDING MARCH J jjAllJiCair copyHKh, i"-" By MONTE BARRETT CHAPTER I Death In tho Study. SOMETHING had gone wrong. The bridesmaid on the left Cardigan did not know her name then glanced backward, hesitantly. hesitant-ly. The procession slowed Its solemn sol-emn march. A stir of uneasiness was somehow some-how transmitted to the crowded pews. There was a vague bustling throughout the church, even audible au-dible against the majestic organ tones of Lohengrin's "Wedding March." Peter Cardigan sensed It from his pew deep in the nave of the church and smiled at the fancy he thought had betrayed him. What could be wrong? His novelist's mind pictured pic-tured the main services conjured from the corners of the world by Carmody wealth to insure the perfection per-fection of detail which had been the heritage of Carmody brides since New York was young. It had seemed strange to Cardigan Cardi-gan for Jim Franklin to be marrying marry-ing Ambrose Carmody's daughter. But then, Jim had been a strauger to him for seventeen years. When Peter Cardigan knew him, Jim Franklin had been a young attorney, attor-ney, just out of- law school, laying the first foundation of his career In the harsh experience of the police courts. Peter, without realizing It, had been laying some foundation stones of his own In those days, for that was when he was a police reporter re-porter and before , he had become famous as a writer of best-selling mysteries, as well as for the occasional occa-sional solving of one in real life. That was seventeen years ago. Now Jim Franklin was marrying Doris Carmody. If there was anything any-thing to those newspaper stories, he would be the next governor of New York, too. Ridiculous to think that anything could be wrong! And yet, the procession was scarcely moving now. Doctor Abernathy, rector of St. Matthew's, stood by the choir steps and wondered. Everything had gone oft well at the rehearsal. What had happened now7 Where was the bridegroom? The rector was troubled about the quarrel he had witnessed In the sacristy, sac-risty, too. .What an odd setting for a. quarrel I The sacristy of a church, just before a wedding. Too, he had tried to question the strange woman who had quarreled with the bridegroom. For a moment his suspicions sus-picions had been aroused. But pshaw, Franklin was all right! Nothing like that could happen to Doris Carmody. The generosity of her ancestors had made this fashionable fash-ionable old church possible. No, there could be nothing wrong. Things like that didn't happen to people like the Carmodys. The suspicion sus-picion with which the good doctor had momentarily regarded that scene flickered brightly, for a moment, mo-ment, and as quickly died. But not died, either. The distrust with which he had regarded that quarrel was recalled very vividly now. What should he have done? Notified the bride's father? He had thought of that and yet what could he have said? The circumstance of a quarrel quar-rel was not sufficient to question the propriety of a wedding, at least where there was no question at morals involved. No, the rector reflected, re-flected, there was nothing he could have done. . . . Callis Shipley was worried. What had happened to Jim Franklin? Where was Nick Royce? Callis was the first bridesmaid on the left. At the rehearsal, the bridegroom and the best man had entered at the first notes of the organ, and waited at the choir steps for the procession that moved slowly down the aisle. Why hadn't she thought to see If he were there before she started? She had been a third of the way down before she .realized he was missing. Several seconds slipped past, and still he did not come. Callis glanced back hurriedly. She suddenly realized real-ized she was afraid. . Where was Rylie Carmody? What had Web Spears meant 1 .Something terrible had happened !. She knew H! If she only could have found Rylie! Ry-lie! .. . Outside, on Carm.ijy avenue, a policeman po-liceman pushed jack the curious thrmig that v. a 'led to glimpse the Carmody! And Jim Frank-! Frank-! -U I Use next governor, too. -u'U nave to keep' moving, aid the officer. The pretty .. .'n blue struggled through , jostling crowd. ... Doris Carmody was thinking of Webster Spears "Web," whom she had known all her life, whom she might even now have been marrying, marry-ing, If things had turned out only a little differently. Why bad Web walked out of the church, without remaining to see the wedding? What had he said about her brother, Rylie? That he would have stopped the wedding? That was ridiculous. Wasn't Rylie right there in the church? ' But the girl's thoughts never lln- gered on her brother. With unexpected unex-pected bitterness they reverted to Web. Didn't he realize that she had always been fond of him, too? His father and hers had been partners, part-ners, Just as their fathers had been, before them. Just as Web and l(y-lle l(y-lle some day would be. And Web had walked out. Before the ceremony cere-mony I Doris swallowed the lump that rose, unbidden, In her throat. She glanced about Her father, beside her, muttered something under un-der his breath. Had something gone wrong? Half-way down the aisle, she could see her bridesmaids. Why did they walk so slowly? She thought of Jim Franklin. What was he like, really? She wondered won-dered if brides always felt so strange toward the men they were going- to marry? Sometimes he looked so old. Yet be was only eighteen years older than she. Lots of girls married men much older than that That was no real bar to love. And he was going to be the next governor. She was proud of him. And she loved him, too. She felt sure of that. Oh, why didn't they hurry? What was wrong with Dad? ... Ambrose Carmody was proud of the slender gracefulness of his daughter proud of "that Carmody look" she had. There was something about the well-bred sleekness of this gathering that was soothing to his sense of the fitness of things. Other parts of the city changed, even Wall Street had its ups and downs, but the Carmodys and their friends went on like like old St. Matthew's itself. It pleased him to remember that his grandfather had contributed contrib-uted the land on which this church stood. His father had married his mother here. He had waited at that altar for a young bride In white, himself, not so many years ago. What were they waiting for? From his position in the vestibule, he peered down the aisle. It seemed that the bridesmaids had halted, near the halfway mark. "What's wrong?" He asked one of the ushers, a young man with a vacuous puzzled expression. "They're waiting for the bridegroom, bride-groom, sir." "Waiting? Why should they wait? Where is he? Tell him to step up." "He's in the sacristy, sir. We've no way to tell him." Ambrose Carmody eyed the young man sharply. In his office they learned to And a way. Then he realized real-ized they weren't in his office. This was Doris' wedding. "Can't you dash around and jog him up?" he suggested, In a tone far more suave than his expression. expres-sion. The young man disappeared out the vestibule. Doctor Abernathy waited Impatiently Impa-tiently at the choir steps. The organ or-gan was repeating the march, more slowly now, as the puzzled organist endeavored to catch the rhythm of the procession, without success. The church was whispering with speculation. specu-lation. In the vestibule, some one tugged at Ambrose Carmody's arm. "Well?" The old man's nerves were on edge. Then he noticed the strained white look of the youngster's face and fol- "He's Dead." lowed him out to the steps. "What's wrong?" he wanted to ask. Why didn't the boy speak? But he said nothing. Suddenly, he knew he was afraid to ask. . "Something something terrible has happened, Mr. Carmody." Ambrose nodded. In a way, it was a relief to know. "Franklin" the young man hesitated hesi-tated over the words "Franklin has been killed. Doctor Abernathy told me to tell you. He said you'd better get Doris home." "Killed!" Ambrose's brain was echoing, dully, "killed." But the force of the blow had numbed him. His feet fumbled with the steps, and he groped his way to his daughter's daugh-ter's side. "We're going around back," he told her. "But, Dad" Then she read the shock In his face and followed him, wonder-ingly. wonder-ingly. He met the usher, still on the steps. "Where's Rylie?" he asked. "I want him to take his sister home." Again he turned to his daughter. Poor little Doris! He found himself groping for words to tell her. She spared him that "What Is it, Dad? Jim he's not hurt or anything?" any-thing?" That seemed to relieve the strain. "Yes," he said. "Jim's hurt, Doris. I'll have to get you home. I'll see after things back there. We'll find Rylie. He'll take you home." "No, I want to go to him." The girl hurried her father's dragging steps. "You can't do anything, my dear. It's too late for that" Ambrose gripped his daughter's arm in gently firm fingers. "He's dead." Doris did not cry, then. She was too dazed for that And It seemed to her that she had known, from the moment her father had come' to her In the vestibule. She was conscious, for the first time, of the curious throng outside. "I want to go to him, Dad," she repeated. re-peated. Fifteen hundred wedding guests sat stunned In their pews. They seemed unwilling to believe Doctor Abernathy's statement. "What did he say? Tell me again," the woman beside Peter Cardigan sought confirmation of the astounding astound-ing news. "The wedding has been postponed," post-poned," Peter told her, and made his way toward the door. At first, the novelist had no thought but to hurry away ahead of the crowd. Now he hesitated. Something Some-thing serious must be wrong. After all, Jim Franklin and he had been friends in the past Perhaps he could be of some service. He followed fol-lowed Carmody and his daughter into the sacristy in time to hear him ask. "How did it happen? Where is her" "In the study," replied Doctor Abernathy. He hesitated, looking at the girl who was to have been a bride. "He's he's been killed," he faltered. "Murdered." Cardigan followed the stunned group Into the rector's study. They had need of him here. Sprawled on his back, beside the pastor's desk, was the bridegroom, Jim Franklin. A limp hand still clutched at the desk leg. His other arm was flung across the rumpled rug. A sodden stain crept across his vest and darkened the silken lining of his cutaway. His collar, torn on one side, curled grotesquely awry, grim symbol of the man's last struggle. Doctor Abernathy gazed in horror at the body on the floor. Beside the desk stood Nicholas Royce. Peter had known "Nick" in the old newspaper days. Now Nick was managing editor of Topics, the tabloid with the largest circulation in New York. He had been the dead man's best friend was to have been his best man. Nick nodded at Peter In recognition. recog-nition. "I'll call the police," he said. "When did it happen?" Doctor Abernathy found his voice at last. "About five minutes ago, I should Judge," Nick replied with one hand over the transmitter. Then he got his connection and reported the crime to the police, before turning again to the rector. "I followed you to the door," he continued, leaning against the desk easily, as though unconscious of the dead man so- near at hand. "I left the door ajar, and kept my eye on you, so we'd know when to start in. Jim was behind me, in the entrance of the study, I thought. I heard nothing unusual. I never realized anything was wrong until the 'Wedding 'Wed-ding March' began. Then I said, 'All set, Jim,' but he never answered me. When I turned to call him again the door from the sacristy Into the study was closed. -. "I thought that was strange, but I. still wasn't suspicious. Not until I tried the door, and found it locked. "Of course, ' then I knew something some-thing was wrong. I ran around the outside, to the rear door. It was open. I found Jim like this." "But why didn't you let us know?" demanded Ambrose Carmody, who had left ' his daughter with members mem-bers of the family In the sacristy, and entered the room during Royce's recital. "We had no idea what was wrong. We were in the midst of the wedding march the girls were half-way down the aisle." Royce shrugged. "I forgot about that," he confessed. "I was busy phoning." "Phoning?" Ambrose Carmody's white eyebrows lifted into question marks, "rhoning?" "Yes." "Then you had already notified the police," Doctor Abernathy put In quickly. "Why" There was a trace of a smile around the corner of Royce's thin lips as he glanced quickly toward Peter. "I wasn't phoning the police," he said. "The story." "You mean you've notified the newspapers?" Carmody's tone was angry. "Not the newspapers," Royce denied. de-nied. "Only my newspaper." "Have you lost your mind?" the old man flared. "We'll keep the newspapers out of this." "You don't know your newspapers," newspa-pers," Nick replied softly. They were Interrupted by the distant dis-tant wall of a siren, far down Carmody Car-mody avenue, but growing steadily louder. The four men In the room paused to listen. Peter watched Nick Royce, who turned his head, listening lis-tening to the banshee notes of the approaching police car. "That Is the voice of trouble," he said. "From now on, this Is everybody's every-body's secret" Outside patrolmen who before had kept the curious moving on, "Jim Franklin!" were now holding back a swelling crowd. Michael Kilday, himself, sergeant ser-geant of the homicide bureau, was the first to push his way into the study. Behind him followed the medical examiner. Three more detectives, de-tectives, one bearing a camera, completed com-pleted the party. "Hello, Peter," Kilday recognized his friend and associate on other cases. "What happened?" Without waiting to be Informed, he knelt beside the bridegroom's body. Then, with a low "shh" of expelled breath, he turned a startled star-tled countenance on Peter again. "Jim Franklin!" he ejaculated. "Look here, Doctor." The medical examiner knelt beside be-side him, and with swift fingers, laid back the vest and shirt that covered the wound. Franklin's death had been caused by two knife thrusts, one a long jagged jag-ged tear across the groin, the second sec-ond a smooth deep wound, between the ribs at or near the heart This second wound was about three inches wide and at either end a small blue bruise, half the size of a dime, stood out against the white skin. , Sergeant Kilday's glance darted about the room, questioningly. . "The knife isn't here, Sergeant," Nick Royce informed him. "I've already al-ready looked." "Who found him?" the officer asked tersely. . "I did. I was his best man, and was waiting out there In the sacristy, sac-risty, for the 'Wedding March' to begin," Royce volunteered. He repeated re-peated the story he had told the others oth-ers of the. discovery of the crime,, not omitting the fact that his first action had been to telephone the story to his paper. "You telephoned Topics before you notified us?" Kilday's tone was incredulous. The newspaper man nodded. "And you were his best man pretty cold-blooded, wasn't it?" Kilday Kil-day eyed the man narrowly. "I don't look at it that way," Royce denied. "Jim Is dead. I couldn't help. him. And I couldn't keep a story like that out' of the papers even if I wanted to." He pointed at his dead friend. "Jim Franklin has been murdered. Every orie knows Jim Franklin. He'd have been the next governor of the state if he had lived. He was killed in the study of fashionable St Matthew's Mat-thew's church, while waiting for his own wedding march to begin. And," he glanced Imperturbably at Ambrose Am-brose Carmody, "he was marrying Doris Carmody. That's the most dramatic story since Lindbergh hit Paris. tTO BE CONTINUED.) |