CHAPTER X

A BIG TRUNK

"But Mary!" groaned Donald Morris in agony, as the two men, their unsuccessful investigation over, stood for a moment in the vast loneliness of the great station. "I don't mind so much that we've lost all trace of her sister. It's Mary, Mary that I'm thinking about. Where has she gone? What has happened to her?" The fearful tension of the morning was apparent in every line of his weary white face. "Let Anne go! She's nothing to me! But find Mary, Clancy! Find Mary! Put every ounce of strength you have, every resource of your organization on it. Spend any amount of money. Leave no stone unturned. I'm afraid--I'm horribly afraid. She's----"

Clancy put a restraining hand on his arm, and even while he spoke he was wondering if the same sinister idea which was creeping into his own thoughts had already, by any possibility, found a place in Morris's less experienced mind. It was hardly probable, Peter comforted himself with the thought. A thing so far outside the experience of the young sculptor would scarcely suggest itself. And if it did, it would be necessary to combat it as long as possible, for in that direction, Peter was sure, would lie madness for Donald Morris.

"We'll get on the job at once, Mr. Morris," he said, promptly, reassuringly. "We'll search the city over to find any trace of her. She didn't leave the apartment with her sister. We know that much, anyway. If she took another cab----"

"She's almost certain to have done that," Donald interrupted, eagerly. "She hated to walk through the streets, even for a short distance, and all the railroad stations are a long way from Waverly Place."

"Well, if she took a cab, we'll find it," declared Peter, confidently. "But it may take a little time. I'll have to go to the office now, and get things started. You can't be any help about this part, and I'd advise you to get a rest. You aren't used to this kind of thing, and it's bound to knock you up. Go home and take it easy. I'll 'phone you if there's any news or if there's anything you can do. Let's get a cab, and I can drop you at your house on my way to the office. There are a few things I'd like to have you tell me, and that way we won't waste any time. How about it?"

"All right," answered Morris, wearily. "But I wish you'd let me go with you. Somehow I feel----"

"Yes, I guess I know how you feel, all right," said Peter, "but it won't be any good. You can't help, and you need to get quieted down. Come on."

With sympathetic consideration he led Donald to a cab, selecting one which had the front windows closed, so that they might talk in privacy. As they turned into Seventh Avenue he said:

"Now tell me everything you know about Miss Blake and her sister. Every little thing. You can never tell what might come in useful. How long have you known them?"

"As you know, I've never met her sister, and know nothing at all about her, except that they lived together, and I've always had the impression that there was something--I don't know just how to put it--something--well--wrong--about the sister," said Donald, slowly. "Mary never let me come up to the apartment, and there was something odd in her face whenever her sister was mentioned. Of course it happened but rarely--and it's a hard thing to define. Perhaps a person less interested would scarcely have noticed----"

Donald relapsed into thought. After a moment Peter said:

"And when was it that you first met Miss Blake?"

"About a year or so ago, it was," said Morris, rousing himself, his eyes kindling. "I'll never forget it! It was at my sister's. I'd heard a lot about Mary Blake, and had seen her several times on the stage, of course. She seemed to me, even then, to be the most beautiful woman and the greatest actress of our time. My sister, Mrs. Atterbury, prides herself on knowing all the literary and artistic people, all the eminent musicians and actors in town. It's almost a mild form of mania with her. And most of them respond readily," with a little shrug, "but for a long time she couldn't reach Mary Blake, and the fact piqued her more than a little. Miss Blake's former manager, Arthur Quinn, guarded her like a dragon. It was amusing to see Helena--my sister--trying to cajole old Quinn, whom she knew well, into introducing her. It simply couldn't be done. But when poor Quinn died, and it was known that Miss Blake had signed up with Frederick Jones, Helena started to work on him. Jones, it seems, has social ambitions, and whether it was that, or what it was, my sister induced him to let her go behind the scenes one night and meet Miss Blake. Helena has a way with her, I must say, and somehow she prevailed on Mary to give a reading at the house, a thing she'd never done before, and has never done since. I don't know," he broke off, "why I'm telling you all these details, Clancy, only you said----"

"Go on, don't skip anything," said Peter, encouragingly. "So the first time you met Miss Blake was at the reading at your sister's house?"

"Yes, and, oh, it was wonderful, marvellous!" He spoke slowly, with the air of one who lives again one of the greatest moments of his life. "They used the big model platform at one end of my studio for a stage. The room, of course, was dark, and when the curtains were drawn aside, she stood there in the dim blue light, her face a pale oval, shining faintly, like a star." He had forgotten Peter. All his mind was filled with a poignant remembrance. "She spoke--and it was as if the stars sang together.... It didn't matter what she said.... The sheer magnetism of her personality, the beauty of the soul which looked out of her eyes--so near, so near--drew like cords of steel.... Her strange, sad face seemed, somehow, oddly familiar ... as if I'd seen it before ... in a dream, perhaps. It----"

The cab came to a sudden stop at a point of congested traffic. The change from the detachment and quiet of its smooth forward motion to the confusion and roar of the busy crossing brought Donald, with a jerk, back to himself. He glanced at Clancy a trifle confusedly, and as the cab went on, took up his story in a more normal tone.

"Everybody wanted to be presented to her after the performance was over, but she would meet no one except the family, Francis Atterbury and myself. She received us, for a few moments, on the stage, after the curtains had been drawn. She was gracious and charming, but insisted on leaving at once. She had told Helena that it would be necessary for her to do this, that she was very tired. She allowed me to take her down to her cab, and I said 'Good-night' to her in the dark street.... The next night I went to the theatre and sent my card to her, between the acts. She let me come behind the scenes, and I talked to her a few minutes in the wings.... After that I saw her with increasing frequency. We dined together rather often, in some quiet place. The thought of attracting any attention to herself, when she was off-stage, was most distasteful to her--amounting almost to an obsession. That's a strong word, perhaps, but it almost seemed like that. She lived very quietly, and never introduced me to any of her friends. I don't even know who her friends are. I know absolutely nothing of her past life, except that it was a very unhappy one. I could not force her confidence and she volunteered nothing, not even when she must have known--must have seen----"

He hesitated, and Peter met his look with a slight, comprehending nod.

"I understand, Mr. Morris," he said, gravely. "But didn't you think it was strange, don't you think it was strange now?"

"Yes," Donald admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I don't care how strange it all is. I don't care who she is, or who her people were, or what sad or even terrible thing she is keeping from me. She is beautiful to me--in body, mind, and soul--a wonder-woman! There is no one like her in all the world, and I ask nothing of God but to give her back to me. I can trust her. I can be content to know nothing.... Only find her for me, Clancy! Find her for me!" He clenched his hands and his eyes burned deep.

Peter turned away his face.

"I'll do my best, Mr. Morris," he said with grave sincerity. "What's possible to do, I pledge my word shall be done. By the way," he added, in a changed tone, "do you know Miss Blake's manager personally?"

"Frederick Jones? Yes," answered Morris, quickly. "I've met him often."

"He'd be willing to do you a favour, perhaps?"

"Yes--yes, I think he would."

"I may want to have a little talk with him," said Peter, reflectively. "Think you could fix it?"

"I'll give you a card," said Donald, at once, and drawing a case from his pocket, he wrote a few lines and handed the card to Peter.

"That ought to do it," said Peter, glancing at it. "Thanks. I may not use it, but it's best to be prepared."

They had turned into Gramercy Park. The cab drew up before the broad entrance of Mrs. Atterbury's house, and Donald Morris stepped out.

"I'm trusting you, Clancy," he said, as he held out his hand, "with something that is more important than life to me."

"I know," Peter nodded as he grasped the outstretched hand with a firm pressure. "I'll do my best," he repeated, reassuringly.

He sighed, however, as the cab rolled swiftly through the busy streets.

"Nobody's best is any too good in a case like this," he thought to himself. "He's a fine chap, all right, is Morris. I hope she's what he thinks her, and then some.... Wonder what kind of a woman she really is. He looks as if he might be a judge, but you never can tell.... What is it she's been hiding from him--from everybody ... except one person.... A woman as successful as she is wouldn't live the way she's been living, unless there was something.... And the sister? Dammit all, I can't see----"

He was still cogitating thus when he reached his office. He was thankful to find that his partner and old friend, Captain O'Malley, was in and at liberty. It was always a help, a clearance of his mind, to talk over a case with the astute, experienced old man who had trained him when he was a cub in the police detective service, and with whom he had been associated ever since.

The old man listened attentively while Peter detailed the facts as they had been presented to his notice.

"It looked like robbery," Peter said, in conclusion, "but, I ask you, wasn't it intended that it should look like robbery, maybe? At least, isn't that on the cards? That broken window on the fire-escape was a blind. I'm sure of that much. I didn't mention it to Morris--thought he had enough on his mind as it was--but not only was the broken glass all on the outside window-sill, but the catch hadn't even been turned. Whoever broke the glass wasn't very fly, or else they got scared, for they didn't unlock the window."

"Or else the thief stopped and locked it after he got outside," said O'Malley, with a little chuckle.

"Rats!" exclaimed Peter, feelingly. "Quit your kiddin', O'Malley. Don't joke. This is serious. Both these women are missing, and there's blood in the apartment and on Miss Blake's scarf. We only know how one of 'em left the place. She left alone ... with a big trunk.... It was a big trunk, O'Malley. I could tell by the marks it had made on the wall of the storeroom, and by the place where there wasn't any dust at all on the floor. It was all pretty clean, but you just could see where the trunk had stood.... And then, here's another funny thing--the closets in the bedroom were all full of beautiful clothes, the sort you'd expect Mary Blake to wear, and the bureau was, or had been, full of fine, expensive lingerie, before somebody chucked 'em around the place. Now, I figure Anne kept her clothes in the storeroom--and there wasn't a rag there--nothing but a few almost worn-out things in an otherwise empty chiffonier."

"And you argue from that----" said O'Malley.

"I'm not arguing," said Peter. "I'm only thinking. It looked to me as if Anne had taken all her clothes (though there probably weren't so many, judging by the number of hangers and the size of the chiffonier) and that Mary hadn't taken anything.... Of course it's only a guess. I can't be sure. But that's the way it looked.... And how would Mary get along without clothes--unless she might have been going to use Anne's?... But they didn't go away together.... Morris has the idea--and I got it myself from the letter he showed me--that there was a sort of--a kind of antipathy between them. Oh, hell, O'Malley! You see what I'm driving at--I've been mixed up with so much crime and stuff that I can't help wondering----"

"Yes," said O'Malley, slowly. "Yes, I see.... The bloody scarf that the cabby pulled through the door ... the blood on the floor of the hall just by the trunk-room ... the big trunk.... H'm'm----"

The two detectives looked at each other long and seriously. Then Clancy brought his closed fist down on the desk.

"It's Anne--it's Anne I want to find, O'Malley! We'll look for Mary for all we're worth. We won't leave a stone unturned, as I promised. But if you ask me what we must do to get to the bottom of this proposition, I say--find Anne Blake!"