Carmella Commands
“Thank you, Mr. Dixon,” said Carmella.
The Barrington butler admitted her to the house. He did not awe Carmella. Instead, he interested her. She had read about butlers in the Sunday paper’s detective stories. Usually, she knew, a butler was suspected of the murder, which after all proved to have been committed by the guest who had been asked at the suggestion of Lady So-and-So. She gazed studiously at Hammond, trying to decide how many murders he might have been suspected of.
He was, to be sure, the first actual butler she had ever seen, but he was the one to suffer as they talked. Later, in the servants’ dining room, he tried to explain it. There had been no little speculation as to the nature of the guest, after Mrs. Barrington’s daughter Margaret had told her mother’s maid who was coming. Hammond was promptly quizzed after he had admitted her.
“She’s not like anything you’d suspect,” he said. “She’s–she’s like she knows everything without having learned.”
“That’s quality,” said the cook promptly. “I’m glad I made a good salad dressing.”
“Quality!” The voice of the pseudo-French lady’s maid registered staccato scorn. “She’s only a dago kid from over Little Italy way. Miss Margaret told me. Her mother’s got something under her belt about that Hope House place. And this kid’s a keynote.”
Hammond the butler shook his head.
[80]
