Part 14

Clo had been gone precisely four minutes when O'Reilly tore downstairs burning to apologize and explain. Mrs. Denham had said that her husband was out, but she knew where he was, and would 'phone; if he--O'Reilly--would hold the line she'd have an answer "in no time." Presently he had been rewarded by "getting" Denham, who, on hearing that he was urgently wanted, promised to cut short some work he was doing late at the office, and taxi to Krantz's. This was good news, and O'Reilly was sure Clo would think it had been worth waiting for. He could not believe his eyes when he saw the deserted table. What could have happened to the girl?

He stood forlornly for a moment, staring round the room. As his eyes searched vainly, the waiter who had served him came hurrying up.

"The young lady's gone, sare. She had to go--very sorry. She left me dis to give you when you come back. She pay de bill, sare, but I keep de table for you. You not finish your supper."

O'Reilly had a stab of violent resentment against Clo. But the thought had only to pass through his brain to be rejected. The girl was a strange girl, audacious and unscrupulous in her loyalty to Mrs. Sands; but she could not have told her story in a way to impress its truth upon him unless she had been sincere.

"The young lady didn't give you any other message?" he asked.

"No, sare. She was in much hurry. But I see her mark on a piece of paper," the waiter replied. "Maybe she write you a note."

O'Reilly reflected. Which should he do, look for a message in the pocket of the coat Clo had left, or dash upstairs and find out which way she had gone? It was almost certain that he would now gain nothing by the latter course.

O'Reilly sat down at the table, in the chair where he had sat before. He found the one pocket in the brown coat, and in that pocket Kit's jet and steel bag. There was nothing else there, so he opened the bag cautiously in case some of Kit's friends had arrived. As he did so, the folded programme dropped out.

XXVII

WHEN BEVERLEY CAME HOME

When Clo had shut the taxi door almost in Beverley's face, and had given the chauffeur orders to drive on, she had said to herself, "Angel will be so surprised she won't know what to do for a minute. And by the time she pulls herself together, she'll realize it's too late to stop me."

The girl had judged well. Beverley shrank back from the slammed door with a jump of the nerves. Then she guessed what Clo meant to do. She was in the act of tapping to stop the chauffeur, and tell him to turn, when the question seemed to ask itself aloud in her brain, "What good will it do for you to go back?"

Before she could reach Clo, if she returned to the hotel now, the girl would have learned the secret of Peterson's room. When she saw what Beverley had seen, she would know that there was nothing to be done with a dead man. She would slip away to avoid being mixed up in the business of the murder. She would not risk being caught. The girl was too sensible, and she had plenty of money as well as brains. She had shown herself equal to desperate emergencies. She would be equal to this. She was so quick-witted that she would know what to do, and how to do it. Beverley let the chauffeur drive on. He went to the corner where he had been hailed by his two passengers. There he stopped, and Beverley got out. She paid him; and making a pretence of examining her change in the light of a street lamp, stood still until the taxi had turned and shot out of sight. Then, with the bag of jewels which Clo had tossed into her lap, she walked home. Her latch-key opened the door of the flat, she entered her boudoir, and fell into a chair, sitting as still as the dead Peterson had sat. It was not much past ten o'clock.

Five minutes later she took off hat and cloak, and peeped into her bedroom to see if her maid were there. But the room was empty, and she put away the gray mantle and toque where she had found them. She did not forget to toss carelessly upon her bed the hat she had worn in the afternoon, and a pair of white gloves; then she rang for her maid who came almost at once. She had gone out, Beverley explained quietly, to help Miss Riley transact a little matter of business.

It was eleven-thirty when Léontine bade her mistress good-night and softly closed the bedroom door. She had noticed nothing strange in the manner of Madame, except an unusual lack of vitality.

Left alone, Beverley opened the door of the big, bare room. "Clo," she called softly.

No answer. She switched on the light. No one was there, and Beverley hurried on to the little room beyond, which had been Sister Lake's. It, too, was empty. Something grave, perhaps terrible, had detained the girl.

"She won't come--she won't come at all." Beverley said aloud. "What shall I do?" She could not abandon the fragile child who loved her, who had stood by her with wonderful strength and courage throughout this dreadful day. Yet what was there she could do?

Roger returned about one o'clock. He moved quietly, as if in order not to disturb his wife, but she heard the cautious closing of his door. She did not try or wish to sleep, but lay on her bed, waiting for day.

After six o'clock Beverley could lie still no longer. She stole into her bathroom, and bathed in cold water. But she felt as utterly spent after her bath as before.

This morning she did penance by putting on a tailor-made, white linen suit, of a slightly severe cut, and made her toilet without ringing for Léontine. She decided to breakfast at the customary hour and in the customary place, but she did not expect to be joined by Roger. She was still in her bedroom, fastening a brooch, when he tapped at her door.

"Come in!" she cried, eager for the meeting, yet sick with fear. Roger came in, fully dressed, looking cool and well groomed. To Beverley's sad heart it seemed that he had never been so handsome--or so hard.

"Good morning," he said, as he might have spoken to any friend. "I heard you stirring about, so I thought I might knock. Are you going out early?" as his eyes wandered over her dress.

"You mean because I'm dressed? No, I didn't think of it. I couldn't sleep. The night was hot, and the heat was on my nerves, I suppose, so I got up at six. I hope I didn't disturb you, Roger?"

"Not at all," he politely replied. "I've some business which will take me out half an hour sooner than usual. I suppose they can give us breakfast in time for that? Coffee and toast and grape fruit can't take long to make ready?"

"I'll ring for breakfast. I didn't know if----"

"Didn't know--what?" he caught up her sentence as it broke.

"Oh, nothing--important," she excused herself. Yet she was sure he knew what had stopped her short of saying that she didn't know if he would breakfast with her in the boudoir.

"Well, I daresay Johnson has put the newspapers in their place by this time," Roger said, ignoring her embarrassment. "I'll have a look, to save time. You'll come when you're ready? I've a suggestion to make that I think you'll like."

He spoke pleasantly, not at all as if he had a grudge against his wife. Many women would have been satisfied with such a manner; but Beverley was not of the "many women," and Roger had never been like other, ordinary husbands. For the first morning since that day in Chicago when he had asked her to be his wife, they had not kissed.

"It will always be like this from now on," she told herself. "I hope I shall die. I can't live without his love, and go on seeing him every day!"

Roger had not mentioned Clo, and Beverley held her peace. She thought it would be best to wait and see what the newspapers said. At the end of ten minutes, as the breakfast tray was being placed on the lace table cover, she strolled into the boudoir. Roger hardly looked up, feigning to be deeply interested in his paper. On other mornings--the servant being out of the room--he would have sprung from his chair to place hers, and perhaps to kiss the long braid of her golden brown hair, or the back of her white neck as it showed under her fetching little cap.

"Any exciting news?" she asked in a casual tone, as she sat down--the sort of tone which other wives perhaps use to other husbands.

"Nothing that interests us specially," Roger answered. "A rather sordid murder, at a third-rate hotel; there's a mystery, of course."

"What hotel?" Beverley ventured to ask, pouring coffee with a hand that would shake.

"One I never heard of before. Let me see, what's the name? Oh, the 'Westmorland.' You'll not be interested. Let's get to the thing I want to talk about. Can you guess what it is?"

Beverley shook her head. "I am a bad guesser."

"It's partly about your pearls. By the by, was the pearl-stringer satisfactory?"

"Oh, quite," Beverley murmured, sipping her coffee.

"I'm glad she made a good job. The rope looks as fine as if no accident had happened, I suppose?"

"It's a--wonderful rope," his wife managed to reply.

"I imagined you'd be wearing your gewgaws for breakfast this morning just to show they were all right!" Roger's eyes smiled coolly into hers. It was a cruel smile.

"A rope of pearls at breakfast--on a tailor gown of linen--and a queen's pearls at that! What bad taste! I shall wear these splendours only on the greatest occasions."

"Well, I've arranged a great occasion," said Roger. "That's principally what I want to talk about. I'd like you to send out invitations for a house party and a big dinner and dance directly after we're settled in the Newport cottage. And I'd like to move there sooner than we meant. I've decided to take a few weeks' holiday. We'll both be better out of the city."

"Oh, yes!" Beverley agreed.

"And I want you to do a thing to please me. Wear the queen's pearls--your pearls--on the night of the dinner and dance."

XXVIII

MR. JONES OF PEORIA

O'Reilly had only just finished reading Clo's note, had folded it up, and put it in his pocket when he was joined by a man at whom, for a second, he stared as at a stranger. Then a slight contraction of the newcomer's eyelid and a twinkle in his eye enlightened Justin.

"Well, this is good, meeting you!" exploded a jolly voice. "I hoped you hadn't forgotten poor old Dick Jones, though it's a long time since you blew out our way to Peoria. I'm here in little old New York, seeing the sights."

"Why, of course, I remember you very well, Mr. Jones," said O'Reilly. "Sit down at my table, do. What'll you have, in memory of old times?"

As he spoke, he took in the extraordinary changes Mr. William J. Denham had made in his personal appearance. Denham was a slender, youngish man, neat and dapper, with light brown hair, a smooth face, and pale skin. Jones had reddish, rumpled eye-brows, puffy pink lids, and large, roving eyes behind convex glasses. His hair was also red and rumpled, and though he was not enormously stout, he was clumsily built, with a decided paunch.

When he had sat down at O'Reilly's table, the absence of near neighbours and the momentary inattention of waiters gave the two men a chance to speak freely. "You sent a hurry call. Something up at Krantz's this peaceful Sabbath?"

"There's more up than I want to come out," said O'Reilly. "Things have changed since I 'phoned, but there's more need of you than ever. The girl I wanted to help was with me. While I talked to you, she disappeared...."

"Disappeared!"

"Yes. I couldn't follow, because when I knew what had happened it was too late to get on her track; otherwise you'd have found me flown. I'd have sacrificed you for her, if there'd been even a sporting chance. But I didn't see one. Maybe you will, when I put you wise: or somebody may show up whose face will give you a tip. I'll tell you what I know--except the name of a lady which mustn't come into the business even with discretion incarnate like you."

"Reservations often spoil jobs," said Denham.

"Mine won't."

The coming of a waiter broke the conversation.

"Anybody interesting here?" asked Justin, when the waiter had gone.

"No familiar faces. But there may be, later."

O'Reilly shook his head. "It's a quarter to twelve. The man or men who made an appointment--not with me; with the girl who's gone--should have turned up at eleven-thirty."

"If they're sure of themselves--sure their faces aren't known--they're probably here," remarked Denham. "But out with your story. A lot may hang on that."

"A lot does," said O'Reilly; and told it. He omitted no detail given by Clo except such as led too close to Mrs. Sands. O'Reilly hardly disguised the fact that the crime and its punishment were of slight importance to him compared with the finding of Clo Riley. "I don't want her mixed up in this murder business," he finished, "and she doesn't want to be mixed up in it, not for her own sake, but because of the woman she's protecting. You could get the name of that woman, but I ask you not to concern yourself with it."

"Right you are," Denham reassured him. "I've got enough to do without meddling in other folks' business. The lady outside the case doesn't exist. But as for 'Churn' being Lorenz Czerny, it doesn't go without saying that we shall spot Chuff and Jake, and the rest of the gang through him. That will depend on himself, and his Moll--Kit. I wouldn't mind offering your young lady a good place and good pay when this mix-up comes to an end."

"I do not believe she'll be looking for work," said O'Reilly.

"This Kit must be pretty sharp, too. It looks as if Churn was her 'steady.' If she did the job at the Westmorland, it was to set him and her up in housekeeping, later on, well away from Chuff and Co. Looks as if Kit had been used for a catspaw, and maybe hadn't got enough out of the job for herself. Suddenly she saw a whole dazzling lot. I can't get on to who this Kit is yet. But maybe I will. Your little friend does shoot quick--and low."

"She does," said O'Reilly. "But she doesn't hit below the belt."

"Folks like Kit and Churn and Chuff haven't got belts," said Denham.

O'Reilly laughed again. But he wanted Clo. She was made for him--the demon, the darling, the only girl he had ever seriously desired. He hadn't known that she existed till to-night, when she'd begun their acquaintance by tricking and stealing from him. Though he might laugh, he wouldn't know a happy moment till she was safe. For an instant he forgot Denham and the business in hand. "I think she likes me," he told himself. "I'll make her like me a lot more when I get half a chance."

"That couple will hide," Denham was saying. "Churn may send word to Krantz that he can't sing; he'll say he's sick. But I shan't do any such thing as put Krantz wise that his tenor is wanted. Krantz is a fox. Our hope is in Miss Riley."

"You'll come to the Dietz, won't you?" asked O'Reilly.

"Yes," said the detective, finishing his cool beer. "I'll come. But I haven't got much hope from what may be in that bead bag. People who have things to hide, hide 'em better than in bags. However, we'll see." When Justin had paid for Denham's drink, they went, with the bead bag in the pocket of Clo's brown cloak hanging over O'Reilly's arm. It was after midnight.

XXIX

ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS

Roger had talked of nothing but his plan for the Newport house-warming, after starting the subject; and he had told Beverley that they ought to be able to move in a week. She must make everything right about the servants: he would see to outside arrangements. And this "big party" could take place in a fortnight. It was ostentatious sending out invitations longer in advance. They must make a "splash"--worthy of the house--and the pearls. Beverley must think up something original in the way of entertainment--a surprise. And as he talked it seemed to the girl that his eyes never left her face. Beverley promised to move to Newport when Roger wished. She promised to write the invitations, and--she promised to wear the queen's pearls.

At last Roger went, without having alluded to Clodagh Riley. Whether this were deliberate, or careless, Beverley could not guess. But she was thankful.

The instant Roger had gone Beverley seized the paper he had dropped, and found what she wanted. "Mysterious Murder at Hotel Westmorland" was the heading at the top of a column on the first page. She sat down and read the whole report.

That day was among the most terrible of Beverley's chequered life. She had had several engagements, but she telephoned to put them off. Not for anything would she have left the house, for she hoped to have a message from Clo. She feared to hear also from one whom Peterson served, but it was best that she should be at home if such a message arrived.

"Have they kept their word? Have they killed Stephen because I didn't send back the papers?" she constantly asked herself. "What will they do next? Will they advertise again in the newspapers? Will they telephone? Will they send another man, now Peterson is dead? Or if not, how will they reach me? Surely they won't leave me in peace for long!"

The day passed with outward monotony. It was only within herself that each moment was different from every other.

When evening came at last, nothing had happened, yet Beverley's nerves were jarred as if by a succession of shocks. As Léontine dressed her for dinner, a sharp tap at the door made her jump and cry out. "A special-delivery letter for me, Madame," announced the Frenchwoman. "Have I Madame's permission? It is strange I do not know the hand. It is but a common yellow envelope, addressed in pencil, to Mademoiselle Léontine Rossignol--perhaps from someone who begs. Never have I received a letter by special delivery!"

"You'd better open it," said Beverley, relieved that the letter was not for her.

"Rossignol is so odd a name, Madame, that everyone remembers, because it means nightingale," said Léontine, gingerly tearing off an end of the flimsy yellow envelope.

Then, suddenly she cried out. "But Madame, the letter is from Mademoiselle Riley! I do not see why she writes to me. I understand nothing of what she says. Will Madame read?"

Hiding eagerness, Beverley took the half sheet of commercial paper.

The letter began:

DEAR LÉONTINE:

I am safe in my new home, and there's no need to worry. I am picking up all that I have lost. I hope to call on you before long and show what good progress I have made. With grateful messages for Madame, from her devoted little servant, and kind remembrance to you--I am, faithfully yours,

Clodagh Riley.

P.S.--If possible I should like Mr. O'R. to hear that I am doing well. He has been kind since you saw me last.

There was no date and no address on this letter, which filled only one page.

Beverley's bewilderment passed as she studied the letter. Clo's underlying motives came to the surface with a flash.

"I suppose," she explained quietly, "that Mademoiselle fancied it would be a liberty to write to me. I'm glad to hear from her so soon. As the letter is really for me, perhaps I'd better keep it."

"Please do, madame," Léontine urged, again attacking the tiny hooks which fastened her mistress's dinner dress. "I noticed that Mademoiselle did not put the number of the house or street where she is staying. But, of course, Madame will know both."

"Of course," echoed Beverley. She guessed that Léontine must be consumed with curiosity as to Clo's disappearance and the departure of Sister Lake.

When Léontine had hooked the last hook Beverley went to the boudoir. There she sat down with Clo's cryptic message, praying that Roger might not come till she had unravelled it.

But, after all, the meaning of one sentence after another sprang quickly to her eyes. She had realized at once that Clo wrote to Léontine because she dared not use the name of Mrs. Sands. This suggested that she was in a house where the name of Sands was not unknown. Now, concentrating upon the queer letter, Beverley understood each veiled hint. Clo wished her not to "worry." Clo was "picking up all she had lost." Clo "hoped to call before long, and show what good progress" she had made. All this could have only one meaning. And how like Clo, to have treasured in some brain-cell Léontine's queer name of "Rossignol"!

She had written nothing to waken suspicion; and as no house, no street, was mentioned, there need be no dread of discovery for guilty consciences. Beverley judged that O'Reilly's name as well as Roger's might be known to someone near to Clo. Evidently she was afraid to send a letter to Justin O'Reilly. But the end of the postscript was amazing. O'Reilly had been kind to Clo!

"She went to see him again!" was the thought in Beverley's mind. "Then, perhaps, she didn't go back to the Westmorland. What can 'kind' mean, unless he's promised to help instead of hurt us?"

But she must find out what had happened last between O'Reilly and Clo. How should she communicate with him? Should she send a note by district messenger to the Dietz? Or--should she telephone, before Roger came, and learn all that she wished to know without delay? Quickly she decided upon this bolder course. She called up O'Reilly's hotel, and soon heard his "Hello!"

"I'm Mrs. Sands," she explained. "I've a letter from Clo. She sends you a message."

The voice from the Dietz had sounded indifferent. It was so no longer.

"What news?" O'Reilly asked. "Tell me everything."

She told him, and read Clo's letter to Léontine distinctly, that he might miss no word. "I understand why it might be dangerous to put an address, or to write to you or me," Beverley added. "But it's frightful not to know where she is. Explain what you can quickly, because--I'm expecting someone."