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diff --git a/76659-0.txt b/76659-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..59e6c51 --- /dev/null +++ b/76659-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8712 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76659 *** + + + Transcriber’s Note + +Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ in this transcription. Small +capitals text in the Table of Contents is displayed in normal font +but as ALLCAPS in four other places. + + ———— + +See the end of this document for details of corrections and other +changes. + + ———————————————— Start of Book ———————————————— + + + + + THE SEVENTH SHOT + + _A Detective Story_ + + BY + Harry Coverdale + + [Illustration] + + CHELSEA HOUSE + 79 Seventh Avenue New York City + + + + + Copyright, 1924 + + By CHELSEA HOUSE + + The Seventh Shot + + (Printed in the United States of America) + + All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign + languages, including the Scandinavian. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + + I. “Brook Trout For Two” 11 + + II. The Woman in Purple 24 + + III. The “Tag” 36 + + IV. The Letter of Warning 51 + + V. Miss Templeton 63 + + VI. The Divided Danger 72 + + VII. The Dark Scene 80 + + VIII. Awaiting the Police 96 + + IX. Reconstructing the Crime 103 + + X. Facts and Fancies 112 + + XI. In the Star Dressing Room 123 + + XII. The Two Doorways 131 + + XIII. The Initial 142 + + XIV. A Tip—and an Invitation 150 + + XV. A Morning Call 156 + + XVI. A Scarlet Evening Coat 163 + + XVII. Blind Trails 168 + + XVIII. Miss Templeton at Home 179 + + XIX. Glimmers in the Darkness 190 + + XX. Checking Up 197 + + XXI. Tony’s Report 206 + + XXII. “Rita the Daredevil” 215 + + XXIII. ’Twixt the Cup and the Lip 223 + + XXIV. What Sybil Had Hidden 229 + + XXV. New Developments 242 + + XXVI. Wrenn’s Story 248 + + XXVII. An Incriminating Letter 263 + + XXVIII. A Strange Summons 271 + + XXIX. Through the Night 279 + + XXX. The Whisper in the Dark 284 + + XXXI. Tony Does His Bit 292 + + XXXII. The Lost Clew 302 + + XXXIII. The False Gods Go 315 + + + + + THE SEVENTH SHOT + + [Illustration] + + CHAPTER I + + “BROOK TROUT FOR TWO” + + +It was twelve o’clock—a hot, sunny noon in the latter part of August. +Broadway blazed with the last fiery effort of the passing summer; there +was a steady stream of humanity pouring up and down on either side of +the clanging cars, and occasionally swirling between them. In spite of +the temperature, New York was as fervently busy as usual, especially +here on what is affectionately known as the Rialto. For in nearly every +theater in the Forties rehearsals had begun, and those actors who were +not already employed were frantically hunting jobs. Gone the brief +weeks in which they had forgotten calcium and make-up boxes; it was +nearly September—time to work. + +Chorus girls, half dead from three hours of ceaseless dancing, came +hurrying from stage doors, wiping their dripping faces and talking +shrilly of new steps, tired legs, and the brutalities of their stage +managers. “Principals,” in scarcely less haste, repaired to one of +the big restaurants for a cold buffet lunch, wearing the blank, +concentrated expression that is born of trying to memorize lines or to +estimate the cost of new costumes. Clean-shaven young men, all dressed +precisely alike, forgathered on street corners or plunged pallidly into +cafés. Shabby little actresses, out of work and wearing their best +clothes of last year, scurried anxiously from agent to agent. + +A few stars sank wearily into touring cars or limousines and flew +homeward for an hour and a half of rest and refreshment before the +long, grinding, sweltering afternoon. Stage managers, with scripts +sticking out of their pockets and a grim and absent glare in their +eyes, strode along, mentally blue-penciling the prompt book and cursing +the company. Authors crept miserably away to eat without appetite +and wonder if there would be any play at all left by the date of the +opening. In short, theatrical Broadway was at one of its most vigorous +seasons of activity, and to walk along it was like turning the pages of +a dramatic newspaper. + +At the side door of one of the big, cool, luxurious hotels extensively +patronized by the profession when it has enough money in its pockets, +two young women nearly ran into each other, laughed, and exchanged +greetings: + +“Miss Legaye! How nice to see you again!” + +“It has been ages, hasn’t it? Are you lunching here, too, Miss +Merivale?” + +“I hardly know,” returned the younger and taller girl, adding, with +a frank laugh: “I was wondering whether it would be too sinfully +extravagant to blow myself to a gilt-edged meal all alone. However, I +believe I had about succumbed to temptation; I have a manager to see +this afternoon, and I really think I should fortify myself.” + +“Lunch with me,” suggested Kitty Legaye. “I hate my own society, and I +am all alone.” + +“For a wonder!” laughed the other. “Yes, I’d love to, if you’ll let +it be Dutch. I’ve been up and down a thousand pairs of stairs this +morning, and I’m nearly dead.” + +They went together into one of the most comfortable dining rooms in +the city. They chose a little table so placed that an electric fan, +artificially hidden behind flowering plants, swept it with a very fair +imitation of aromatic summer winds. + +Miss Legaye, who always knew exactly what she wanted, waved aside the +menu proffered by the waiter and rapidly ordered: “Brook trout in aspic +for two. I’ll tell you the rest later.” + +Then she tossed off her fur neckpiece and turned to the other girl. + +“I never asked you if you liked trout!” she exclaimed, in a sweet, +rather high voice which her admirers called “larklike.” “Now, that’s so +like me! Do you?” + +“Very much,” said her companion, smiling. “I don’t often get it, +though. You are looking awfully well, Miss Legaye!” + +“I am always well,” replied Kitty Legaye. + +She was an exceedingly pretty woman, already in her early thirties, +but even by daylight she did not look more than twenty-five. On +the stage, with the glamour of rouge and footlights to enhance her +naturally youthful appearance, she passed easily for a girl in her +teens. Very small, very dainty, with the clear, ivory-white skin +which keeps its freshness so well, big dark eyes, brown curls, and a +very red, tiny, full mouth, she still made an enchanting ingénue and +captivated every one who saw her. + +To-day she was entirely charming in one of the innocently sophisticated +frocks she particularly loved to wear—a creation of black and white, +most daring in effect, though demurely simple in cut. Always pale by +nature, she was doubly so now from fatigue and heat, yet she still +looked young and lovely, and her smile had the irresistible and +infectious quality of a child’s. + +If at times her eye grew a bit cynical or her pretty mouth a trifle +hard, such slips in self-control occurred seldom. As a rule she kept +a rigid guard upon herself and her expressions, not only because an +obviously ugly mood or reflection made her look older, but because, if +permitted to become a habit, it would be perilously and permanently +aging. + +Kitty Legaye was too truly clever not to know that her one valuable +asset, both as an actress and a woman, was her quality—or illusion—of +youth. When she lost that, she shrewdly judged, she would lose +everything. She was not a sufficiently brilliant actress to continue +successfully in character work after her looks had gone. And so far as +her personal and private life was concerned she had lived too selfishly +to have made a very cozy human place for herself in the world. + +Not that she was a disagreeable or an unkind woman; she could even +be generous on occasion, and she was almost always pleasant to her +associates; but the spirit of calculation which she strove so hard to +keep out of her face had left its mark upon her life. She had few close +friends, though she liked many persons and many persons liked her. She +had long since drifted away from her own people, and she had never been +willing to give up her independence for the sake of any man. So, in +spite of a great number of admirers and a remarkably handsome salary, +her existence seemed just a little barren and chilly sometimes. + +We have said that she never had been willing to give up her +independence. That had been true all her life until now. To-day she +was considering just that proposition. Did she care enough, at last, +to marry? Love—she had had no small measure of that all her life, for +Kitty was by way of being temperamental; but marriage! That was another +and a vastly more serious matter. + +She looked almost wistfully across the table at Sibyl Merivale. For a +moment she had an unaccountable impulse to confide in her. She wished +she knew her well enough. She looked, Kitty thought, like the sort of +girl who would understand about this sort of thing—loving enough to +get married, and—and all that. + +Sybil was as unlike Miss Legaye as she well could be. She was tall, +and built strongly though slenderly, like a young Artemis, and her +eyes were very clear and starry and blue. Her hair was of that rare +and delicious shade known as _blonde cendrée_, and the silvery, ashen +nimbus about her face made her brown eyebrows and lashes effective. Her +skin was very fair, and her color came and went sensitively. She was +not a beauty; her nose was decidedly _retroussé_, and her mouth too +large. But she was unquestionably sweet and wholesome and attractive, +and her lovely forehead and the splendid breadth between her eyes +suggested both character and intelligence. + +Kitty looked disapprovingly at the dust-colored linen dress she wore; +it was far too close to the tint of her hair to be becoming. Blondes, +thought Kitty, could wear almost any color on the face of the earth +except—just that! However, she felt rather pleased than otherwise that +Miss Merivale was not looking her best. When she appeared in public +with another woman, she was well satisfied to have the other woman +badly dressed. She herself never was. + +Both women were honestly and healthily hungry, and talked very little +until they were half through the trout. Then they met each other’s eyes +and laughed a little. + +“Thank goodness you don’t pretend not to have an appetite, like most +girls!” said Miss Legaye. “I’m starved, and not a bit ashamed of it! +Boned squab, after this, waiter, and romaine salad.” + +“If you let me eat so much I shall be dull and stupid,” declared Sybil. +“And I want to be extra brilliant to talk to my manager. I simply have +to hypnotize him into engaging me!” + +“Who is he?” + +“Altheimer.” + +“Altheimer! You aren’t going into musical comedy, surely?” + +Sybil flushed a bit and bent over her plate to hide her discomfort. + +“I—I’m going into anything I can get,” she answered in a low voice. +Then she smiled and went on more bravely: “I’ve been out of work since +March, Miss Legaye. Beggars can’t be choosers.” + +“Oh, dear—how horrid!” Miss Legaye felt sincerely sympathetic—for the +moment. “It’s a thousand pities that you have to go into one of the +Altheimer shows. You can really act, and there—well, of course, he +doesn’t care about whether you can act or not; he’ll take you for your +figure.” And she looked the other girl over candidly. + +Sybil flushed again, but answered promptly: “I think he has some sort +of part for me—a real part. He knows I don’t sing or dance. You are +rehearsing, aren’t you, Miss Legaye?” + +“Yes; with Alan Mortimer.” + +“I wish you’d tell me what you think of him!” said Sybil, with +interest. “He’s such a mystery to every one. His first play, isn’t it? +As a star, I mean.” + +“Yes; Dukane is trying an experiment—starring an unknown actor in a +Broadway production. Pretty daring, isn’t it? But Dukane doesn’t make +many mistakes. He knows Alan Mortimer will make good. He’s got a lot of +personality, and he’s extremely attractive, I think. I—saw a good deal +of him down at Nantucket during the summer.” + +Kitty Legaye never blushed, but there was a certain soft hesitancy +about the way in which she uttered the simple words that was, for her, +the equivalent of a blush. Sybil, noting it, privately concluded that +there had been something like a romance “down at Nantucket during the +summer.” + +Being a nice girl, and a tactful one, she said gently: + +“Is it a good play, do you think?” + +Miss Legaye shrugged her shoulders carelessly; the moment of sentiment +had passed. + +“It’s melodrama,” she rejoined; “the wildest sort. ‘Boots and Saddles’ +is the name, and it’s by Carlton; now you know.” + +They both laughed. Carlton was a playwright of fluent and flexible +talent, who made it his business always to know the public pulse. + +“What time is your appointment with Altheimer?” + +“Quarter past one.” + +“What an ungodly hour! Doesn’t the man ever eat? But finish your lunch +comfortably; if you’re late he’ll appreciate you all the more. Besides——” + +She paused, regarding the girl cautiously and critically; and that +evanescently calculating look drifted across her face for the space of +a breath. + +“Besides what?” demanded Sybil. “If I lose that part, I’ll sue you for +a job! Besides what?” + +Kitty, for all her pretty, impulsive ways, rarely did things without +consideration; so it was with quite slow deliberation that she answered +Sybil’s question with another: + +“Would you like to come with Alan Mortimer?” + +“Mercy!” The girl put down her knife and fork and stared with huge blue +eyes. “Do you mean to say that there’s a part open—after rehearsing ten +days?” + +“How do you know how long we’ve been rehearsing?” queried the older +woman. + +Sybil grew delicately pink. “I know a man in the company,” she +confessed, laughing shyly. “Norman Crane—oh, he’s only got a little bit +of a part; perhaps you haven’t noticed him, even. It’s a big company, +isn’t it? But he’s quite keen about your play.” + +“Norman Crane?” repeated the other thoughtfully. “Why, yes, I know him. +A tall, clean-looking fellow with reddish hair and a nice laugh?” + +“That’s Norman! He isn’t a great actor, but—he’s quite a dear.” + +Miss Legaye nodded slowly, still regarding her. The notion which had +come to her a minute before seemed to her more and more markedly a good +notion, a wise notion—nay, even possibly an inspired notion! Mortimer’s +leading woman, Grace Templeton, was a brilliant blonde with Isoldelike +emotions, and Kitty had loathed and feared her from the first, for the +new star swung in an orbit that was somewhat willful and eccentric, +to say the very least of it, and his taste in feminine beauty was +unprejudiced by a bias toward any special type. + +For a long time Kitty had yearned to get rid of Miss Templeton. If +the thing could possibly be managed, here was a girl of undoubted +talent—she had seen her act and knew that she had twice the ability of +the average young player—presentable, but not too radiantly pretty, and +proper and conventional and all that—not at all the sort of girl who +would be likely to have an affair with the star. And then, if she was +interested in young Crane, why, it would be altogether perfect! + +“So you know Norman Crane,” she said. “Then if you did come into the +company, that would make it particularly nice for you, wouldn’t it?” + +“Why, yes,” the girl returned, frankly enough. “We’re quite good +friends, though I don’t see much of him these days. We used to play +together in stock out West two years ago; we were both most awful +duffers at acting.” + +Kitty Legaye nodded as though fairly well satisfied. It was on the +tip of her tongue to say that she would try to get Sybil a small part +in the play, with the chance to understudy Miss Templeton—it was all +she could even partially promise until she had conferred with Dukane +and Mortimer—when her attention was sharply distracted by the sight +of two men who had just entered the room and who were looking about +them in choice of a table. She uttered a quick exclamation, as quickly +suppressed. + +“Look at those two men standing near the door!” she said. “There, close +to the buffet. What do you think of them? Do tell me: I’ve a reason for +asking.” + +Sybil’s eyes followed hers. + +The two men were both noticeable, but one of them was so striking in +appearance that one hardly had eyes for any one else near by. He was a +very tall, very broad, very conspicuous type of man. Everything about +him was superlative—even the air of brooding ill temper which for +the moment he seemed to wear. He was exceedingly dark, with swarthy +coloring, coal-black hair, thick and tumbled, and deeply set black +eyes. His features were strong and heavy, but well shaped. Indeed, he +was in his general effect unquestionably handsome, and the impression +which he made was one not lightly to be felt nor quickly to be +forgotten. + +“Well?” insisted Miss Legaye impatiently, as Sybil did not immediately +speak. “I asked you what you thought of him.” This time she did not +say “them,” but Sybil did not notice the altered word. + +The girl continued to look at the tall, dark man as though she were +mesmerized, and when she spoke it was in a curious, detached tone, as +she might have spoken if she were thinking aloud. + +“He is a very strange man,” she said. “He does not belong here in a +Broadway restaurant. He should be somewhere where things are wild and +wonderful and free—and perhaps rather terrible. I think he belongs +in—is it Egypt? He would be quite splendid in Egypt. Or—the prairies——” +She spoke dreamily as she stared at him. + +“You look as though he were a ghost, not a man!” exclaimed Kitty, with +a laugh. “I must tell him what you said——” + +“Tell him?” repeated Sybil, rousing herself. “You know him, then?” + +“My dear child,” said Kitty Legaye, “that is Alan Mortimer!” + +At the same moment Mortimer caught sight of her and strode toward her, +passing between the fragile little luncheon tables with the energy of a +whirlwind. + +“Guess what has happened now!” he exclaimed in a deep but singularly +clear and beautifully pitched voice. “Dukane has fired Templeton, and +apparently I open little more than two weeks from to-night without a +leading woman! What do you know about that!” + +“Without a leading woman? No, you don’t, either,” promptly rejoined +Kitty, the inspired. She always liked a neat climax for a scene, +especially when she could supply it herself. “I’ve just picked out Miss +Merivale to play _Lucille_.” + +Breathless and amazed, Sybil looked up to meet his eyes. They were dark +and piercing. At first she thought only of that, and of their fire and +beauty. Then something obscurely evil seemed for a transient second to +look out of them. “What an awful man!” she said to herself. But he was +holding out his hand. + +“Did you think of that all by yourself, Kit?” he said. A faint but +rather attractive smile lightening his moody eyes. “How do you +do—Lucille? You may consider the engagement—ah—confirmed.” + +But Sybil, as she drew her hand away, felt vaguely frightened—she could +not have told why. + + + + + CHAPTER II + + THE WOMAN IN PURPLE + + +Mortimer had been drinking, else he would never have assumed the +entire responsibility of engaging Sybil Merivale for the leading part +in his play. When sober, he had a very wholesome respect for Dukane, +the producing manager who had discovered him and who was “backing him +blind” to the tune of many thousands of dollars. But when he had even +a little too much to drink, the man’s whole personality and viewpoint +underwent a metamorphosis. He became arrogant, self-assertive, +unmanageable. Eventually it was this, as even his friends and adherents +were wont to prophesy, which would be the means of his downfall. + +Now, though Dukane himself stood at his elbow, the actor, with a +swagger which he had too much sense to use on the stage or when he was +entirely himself, cried: + +“Let us sit down here with you, Kitty, and we’ll drink the health +of the new _Lucille_.” Kitty smiled indulgently as she watched him +seat himself and give a whispered order to the waiter which presently +resulted in the party being served with high balls. Meanwhile, as +Dukane also sat down, Kitty introduced him to Sybil. + +Dukane was short and squarely built, with gray hair and steely eyes, +a face as smooth and bland as a baby’s, and an air so gentle and +unassuming that his occasional bursts of biting sarcasm came upon +his victims as a shock. His gaze, clear yet inscrutable, swept Sybil +Merivale in the moment taken up by his introduction to her. He was used +to thus rapidly appraising the material presented him. + +He was inclined to approve of her appearance. She was not startlingly +beautiful, but the hair was unusual and would light up well. She +carried her head properly, too, and her low-voiced “How do you do, Mr. +Dukane!” was quite nicely pitched. It would be worth while hearing her +read the part, at any rate. For once Mortimer had not too crassly put +his foot in it, as he was apt to do after four or five high balls. + +That the actor had taken a good deal too much upon himself in +practically engaging Miss Merivale without even consulting his superior +troubled Dukane not a whit. He was not a little man, and he did not +have to bluster in order to assert his authority. His actors and +actresses were to him so many indifferently controlled children. When +they said or did absurd things, he usually let them rave. If they +really became troublesome or impertinent—as Miss Templeton had been +that morning—he discharged them with the utmost urbanity and firmness. + +He sat down and quietly told the waiter to bring him cold meat and +coffee, while Mortimer ordered more high balls. “Miss Merivale can +come back with us and read the part in the last act,” Dukane said, +sipping his coffee. “I shan’t ask the company to go through the early +part of the play again to-day. In any case”—and he smiled at the girl +pleasantly—“in any case, Miss Merivale will look the part.” + +“That’s more than Templeton ever did!” exclaimed Kitty Legaye, with +open spite. + +Dukane smiled once more. “Miss Templeton,” he said, “is rather +too—er—sophisticated to play _Lucille_. She is growing out of those +very girlish leading parts.” + +“Why don’t you say,” interposed Kitty sharply, “that she’s too old? She +is—and, what’s more, she looks it!” + +“She’s a ripping handsome woman, all the same,” declared Alan Mortimer, +scowling into his half-emptied glass. + +Kitty bit her lip. “Of course _you_ would be sorry to see her go!” she +began. + +“Who said I was sorry?” demanded the actor rather rudely. “I am not; +I’m glad. She was getting to be a nuisance——” He checked himself, a +glimmer of something like shame saving him in time. He turned to Sybil +Merivale, and there was a warm light in his black eyes as he added: +“I’m growing more glad every minute.” + +Sybil was uncomfortable. She hated this man and feared him; she hated +the tone of the talk, the atmosphere of the table. She had a violent +instinct of repugnance when she thought of joining the company. And +yet—and yet a leading part, and on Broadway, and under Dukane! She +could not, she dared not lose so wonderful a chance. Her big blue eyes +were eager and troubled both at once. + +Dukane watched the play of expression in her sensitive face. “Mobile +mouth—quick emotions—excellent eyes.” He went over these assets +mentally. Aloud he said, in the nice, impersonally friendly tone with +which he won people whenever he had the fancy: “You need only read the +part, you know, Miss Merivale. You’re not committed to anything.” + +Sybil looked at him gratefully; he seemed to read her thoughts. All at +once, with a surge back of her usual gay courage, she cried, laughing: + +“Committed! I only wish I were—or, rather, that _you_ were, Mr. Dukane!” + +“What’s that?” exclaimed Mortimer, a little thickly. “’Course he’s +committed! You’re under contract, Miss—Miss M-Merivale. Word as good as +his bond—eh, Dukane?” + +He was deeply flushed and his eyes glittered. In his excitement Sybil +found him detestable. Fancy having to play opposite that! + +“Suppose you eat something,” suggested Dukane, pushing a plate with a +piece of cold beef on it in his direction. “Oh, yes, you do want it; +you’ve had a hard morning. Eat it, there’s a good fellow.” + +“A-all right,” muttered Mortimer, attacking the beef somewhat +unsteadily. “Must keep up m’ strength, I s’pose.” + +A waiter leaned down to him and murmured something in French. + +“Eh?” said Mortimer. “Come again, George. Try Spanish; I know the +greaser lingo a bit.” + +The waiter spoke again in halting English. The others could hardly help +hearing part of what he said. It concerned a “lady in mauve—table by +the window—just a minute, monsieur.” + +“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Alan Mortimer, and immediately directed an +apologetic murmur toward Sybil. He got up, and walking with surprising +steadiness and that lithe, animal grace so characteristic of him, made +his way toward a table where a woman sat waiting with an expectant face. + +“Grace Templeton!” exclaimed Kitty under her breath. Her brown eyes +snapped angrily. “I didn’t see her before—did you, Mr. Dukane?” + +“I saw her when I first came in,” answered the manager quietly. “That +hair is so conspicuous. Really I think she should begin to confine +herself to adventuress parts. She is no longer the romantic type.” + +“_And_ the dress!” Kitty shivered with a delicate suggestion of jarred +nerves or outraged taste. + +Dukane dropped his eyes to hide the twinkle in them. It was true +that even in that lunch-time Broadway assemblage, in which brilliant +color combinations in the way both of hair and of garments proclaimed +right and left the daring and the resourcefulness of womankind, Miss +Templeton was a unique figure. Her hair was of a magnificent metallic +gold, and a certain smoldering fire in her black-fringed gray eyes +and a general impression she gave of violent and but half-controlled +emotions saved her beauty from being merely cheap and artificial and +made it vivid and compelling. A passionate, unforgettable woman, and her +gown, sensational as it was, somehow expressed her. + +The French waiter had drawn upon his fund of native tact in calling it +mauve. It was, as a matter of fact, a sharp and thunderous purple—the +sort of color which is only permissible in stained glass or an +illuminated tenth century missal. It was a superb shade, but utterly +impossible for any sort of modern clothes. It blazed insolently against +the massed greenery of the restaurant window. A persistent ray of +yellow August sunshine, pushing its way past the cunningly contrived +leafy screen, fell full upon it and upon the burnished golden hair +above it. In that celestial spotlight Miss Templeton was almost too +dazzling for unshaded mortal eyes. + +Now, as she sat looking up at Mortimer, who stood beside her table, her +expression was in keeping with the gown and the hair. It was violent, +conspicuous, crudely intense. Alan Mortimer’s expression, in its +way, was as violent as hers. They looked, the two of them, as though +they could have torn each other’s eyes out with fierce and complete +satisfaction. + +“Am I very late, Mr. Dukane?” said an agreeably pitched voice just +behind Sybil. + +Dukane started and raised his eyes. His face brightened. + +“Barrison, my dear fellow, I am glad you came! Do you know, you were so +late that I had almost forgotten you! Miss Legaye, let me present Mr. +Barrison; Miss Merivale, Mr. Barrison.” + +The newcomer smiled and sat down at the already crowded little table. + +“If you say you had forgotten me,” he protested, “I shall think you did +not really need me at all, and that would be a hard blow to my vanity.” + +“Nonsense!” said Dukane. “Nothing could touch the vanity of a +dyed-in-the-wool detective. What are you going to have, Barrison?” + +“I have lunched, thanks. If that is coffee—yes, I will have a +demi-tasse. I thought Mr. Mortimer was to be with you, Mr. Dukane.” + +“He is talking to Miss Templeton over there.” + +Barrison’s eyes darted quickly to the other table. “Your leading woman, +is she not?” + +“She was,” said Dukane calmly. “At present we are not sure whether we +have any leading woman or not—are we, Miss Merivale?” And he looked at +her kindly. + +“And, what is more,” said Kitty Legaye irritably, “we shall never find +out at this rate. Do you people realize”—she glanced at a tiny gold +wrist watch—“that it is nearly two, and that our rehearsal——” + +“Nearly two!” Sybil’s exclamation was one of real dismay. “And my +engagement with Mr. Altheimer——Oh!” + +“Altheimer, eh?” Dukane looked at her with fresh interest. Whether a +manager wants an actress or not, it always makes him prick up his ears +to hear of another who may want her. “Telephone him that you have been +asked to rehearse for me to-day, and that”—he paused, considering—“that +you personally look upon your contract as very nearly signed.” + +“Oh, Mr. Dukane!” Sybil flushed brilliantly. At that moment she forgot +her dread of being in Mortimer’s company; she was conscious of pure joy +and of nothing else. + +“There—run along and phone him. You understand,” he added cautiously, +“I’m not really dependable. If you are very bad, I shall say I never +thought of engaging you.” + +“I won’t be,” she laughed valiantly, and sped away in the direction of +the telephone booths. + +Dukane turned to watch the way she walked. In a second he nodded. “Can +hurry without scampering,” he murmured critically, “and doesn’t swing +her arms about. H’m! Yes, yes; very good.” + +“What do you really think of her?” asked Kitty, leaning forward. “You +know she is my discovery.” + +“My dear girl, who am I, a mere worm of a manager, to say? I haven’t +seen her work yet. She has carriage and a voice, but she may lose +her head on the stage and she may read _Lucille_ as though she were +reciting the multiplication table. I should say she was intelligent, +but one never knows. I engaged a woman once who was all dignity and +fine forehead and bumps of perception and the manner born and all the +rest of it; and when it came to her big scene, she chewed gum and +giggled. I am too old ever to know anything definitely. We must wait +and see.” + +“She is charming to look at,” Barrison ventured. + +“Ah, you think so?” said the manager quickly. “I am inclined to like +her looks myself. And she has youth—youth!” He shook his head half +wistfully. “Here comes Mortimer back again, and in a worse temper, by +the powers, than when he went!” + +The actor was evidently in a black mood. He made no reference to the +woman he had just left, but stood like an incarnate thundercloud beside +his empty chair and addressed the others in a voice that was distinctly +surly in spite of its naturally melodious inflections: + +“What are we waiting for, anyway? Hello, Barrison! Let’s get back to +rehearsal.” + +“My own idea exactly,” said Dukane. “As soon as Miss Merivale +returns——Ah, here she comes! Waiter——” + +“This is my party,” remonstrated Kitty. + +“Rubbish! I feed my flock. Barrison, you are of the flock, too, for the +occasion. How do you like being associated with the profession?” + +The young detective laughed. Dukane looked at him with friendliness. +The manager was a man who liked excellence of all kinds, even when +it was out of his line. Barrison’s connection with the forthcoming +play, “Boots and Saddles,” was a purely technical one. A vital point +in the drama was the identification of a young soldier by his finger +prints. Dukane never permitted the critics, professional or amateur, to +catch him at a disadvantage in details of this kind. He knew Barrison +slightly, having met him at the Lambs’ Club, and found him an agreeable +fellow and a gentleman, as well as an acknowledged expert in his +profession. So he had asked him to show the exact Bertillon procedure, +that there might be no awkwardness or crudity in the development of the +stage situation. + +Barrison himself was much entertained by this fleeting association with +the seductive and mysterious world “behind the scenes.” His busy life +left him small time for amusement, and for that reason he was the more +interested when he came upon a bit of professional work which was two +thirds play. + +He was a quiet-seeming chap, with innocent blue eyes, a lazy, pleasant +manner, and a very disconcerting speed of action on occasion. His +superiors said that half of his undoubted success came from his +unexpectedness. It is certain that no one, on meeting him casually +and socially, would ever have suspected that he was one of the most +redoubtable, keen-brained, and steel-nerved detectives in all New York. + +The bill was paid, and every one was standing as Sybil came back. She +was a little breathless and flushed, and Dukane, with a new note of +approbation on his mental tablets, got a very good idea of what she +would look like with a bit of make-up. + +“I told Mr. Altheimer,” she cried eagerly. “And he was quite cross—yes, +really _quite_ cross! I was ever so flattered. I don’t believe he +wanted me one bit till he thought there was a chance of Mr. Dukane’s +wanting me.” She laughed joyously. + +“Very likely, very likely,” Dukane murmured. “Why—what is the matter, +Miss Merivale?” + +For the pretty color had faded from Sybil’s sensitive face. Her big +blue eyes looked suddenly dark and distressed. “What is the matter?” +the manager repeated, watching her closely. + +She pulled herself together and managed a tremulous smile. + +“Some one is walking over my grave,” she said lightly. + +But as she turned to leave the dining room with the rest, she could not +help another backward glance at the brilliant figure in purple with the +golden sunbeam across her golden hair, and the odd look which had just +terrified her. + +Barrison, accustomed to noticing everything, followed her gaze, and, +seeing the expression on Miss Templeton’s face, drew his lips into a +noiseless whistle. For there was murder in that look; Jim Barrison had +seen it before on other faces, and he knew it by sight. + +As for Sybil, the memory of the woman in purple haunted her all the way +to the theater—the woman in purple with the black-fringed eyes full of +living, blazing, elemental hate. + + + + + CHAPTER III + + THE “TAG” + + +The stage entrance of the Mirror Theater was on a sort of court or +alley which ran at right angles from one of the side streets near Times +Square. A high iron gateway which barred it except during theatrical +working hours stood half open, and the little party made their way over +the stone flags in the cool gloom cast by the shadow of the theater +itself and the neighboring buildings—restaurants, offices, and shops. +It looked really mysterious in its sudden dusk, after the midday glare +of the open street. + +“Do you know,” said Jim Barrison, “this is the first time I have ever +gone into a theater by the stage door!” + +“What a record!” laughed Miss Legaye. She was in excellent spirits, and +inclined to flirt discreetly with the good-looking and well-mannered +detective. “And so you never had a stage-door craze in all your +properly conducted life! Don’t you think it’s high time you re—no, it +isn’t reformed I mean, but the reverse of reformed. Anyway, you should +make up for lost time, Mr. Barrison. Ah, Roberts! I suppose you thought +we were never coming. Every one else here?” + +She was speaking to the stage doorkeeper, a thickset man of middle age, +with a stolid face that lighted up somewhat as she addressed him. He +did not answer, but beamed vacuously at her. She was always charming to +him, and he adored her. + +They went on into the theater. Barrison was taken in tow by Dukane. +“Hello, Willie! Mr. Barrison, this is Mr. Coster, my stage manager, +and I am inclined to dislike him, he knows so much more than I do. +Mr. Barrison is a detective, and has come to help us with those +finger-print scenes, Willie.” + +“Pleased to meet you,” said Willie, absently offering a limp, damp +hand. “Gov’nor, is it true you’ve canned G. T.?” + +“Quite true,” said Dukane cheerfully. “Let me present you to Miss +Merivale. She will rehearse _Lucille_.” + +“Lord!” groaned Willie, who was hot and tired and disposed to waste no +time on tact. “About two weeks before——” + +Mortimer lurched forward. “Say!” he began belligerently. “She’s my +leading lady—see? Any one who doesn’t like——” + +“Oh, go ’way and take a nap!” interrupted Willie, without heat. He was +no respecter of persons. “So _that’s_ it! All right, gov’nor. I’m glad +to see any sort of a _Lucille_ show up, anyhow. Even if she’s bad, +she’ll be better than nothing. No offense, Miss Merivale.” + +“I quite understand,” said Sybil, so sweetly that Willie turned all the +way round to look her over once more with his pale, anxious eyes. + +“Come on, folks; they’re all waiting,” he said, and led the way onto +the big, bare stage. + +Willie Coster was a small, nervous man with a cynical pose and +the heart of a child. His scant hair was sandy, and his features +unbeautiful, but he was a good, clever, and hard-working little chap, +and even the companies he trained were fond of him. He constantly +and loudly proclaimed his disgust with all humanity, especially the +humanity of the theaters; but he was usually broke because he hated to +refuse a “touch,” and every one on earth called him Willie. + +He was a remarkable stage manager. He was a true artist, was Willie +Coster, and he poured his soul into his work. After every first night +he got profoundly drunk and stayed so for a week. Otherwise, he +explained quite seriously—and as every one, including Dukane, could +quite believe—he would have collapsed from nervous strain. + +Only a few electric lights had been turned on. The stage looked dim and +dingy, and the auditorium was a vast abyss of unfathomable blackness. +Close to the edge of the stage, where the unlighted electric footlights +made a dully beaded curve, stood a small table littered with the four +acts of the play and some loose sheets of manuscript, presided over +by a slim little youth who was Coster’s assistant. This was the prompt +table, whence rehearsals were, technically speaking, conducted. As a +matter of fact, Willie Coster never stayed there more than two minutes +at a time. + +The company had already assembled. They looked hot, resentful, and +apprehensive. They stood around in small groups, fanning themselves +with newspapers and handkerchiefs, and making pessimistic conjectures +as to what was going to happen next. + +Every one knew that something had gone wrong between Templeton and the +management, and collectively they could not make up their minds whether +they were glad or sorry. She had been the leading woman of the show, +and every one felt a trifle nervous until reassured that another lead +would be forthcoming. + +It was Claire McAllister, one of the “extra ladies,” who first +recognized Sybil. + +“Gee, ain’t that the Merivale girl?” she exclaimed to the young man who +played a junior officer in one very small scene. “I saw her in a real +part once, and she got away with it in good shape, too.” + +The young man to whom she spoke looked up, startled, and then sprang +forward eagerly, his eyes glowing. + +“Sybil!” he cried gladly. + +She turned quickly, and, laughing and flushing in her beautiful frank +way, held out both her hands to him. + +“Isn’t it luck, Norman?” she exclaimed gleefully. “I’m to have a chance +at _Lucille_!” + +Alan Mortimer had scarcely opened his lips since leaving the +restaurant. Now, with a very lowering look, he swung his tall figure +forward, confronting Norman Crane. + +“I don’t think I remember you,” he remarked, with an insulting +inflection. “Not in the cast, are you?” + +Norman, flushing scarlet, started to retort angrily, but Dukane stopped +him with a calm hand upon his arm. + +“All right, all right, my boy,” he said evenly. “You’re in the cast, +all right; but—come, come! We are rehearsing a play to-day, and not +discussing personalities.” + +In some occult fashion he contrived to convey his meaning to young +Crane. It was not the smallest of Dukane’s undoubted and unique +talents; he knew how to appeal directly and forcibly to a human +consciousness without putting the thing into words. Crane, who was +extraordinarily sensitive, understood instantly that the manager wished +to excuse Mortimer on the grounds of his condition, and that he put +it up to the younger man to drop the issue. Wherefore, Crane nodded +quietly and stepped back without a word. + +It is proverbial that red hair goes with a peppery disposition. +Norman Crane’s short, crisply waving locks were not precisely red, +and his temper was not too savage, but there was a generous touch +of fire in both. His hair was a ruddy auburn, and there was in his +personality a warmth and glow which could be genial or fierce, +according to provocation or occasion. He was a lovable lad, young even +for his twenty-three years, with a clean ardor about him that was +very attractive, especially to older and more sophisticated persons. +Norman Crane was in all ways a fine fellow, as fine for a man as Sybil +Merivale was for a woman. They were the same age, buoyant, clear-eyed +young people, touched both alike with the spark of pure passion and the +distinction of honest bravery. + +Dukane was too truly artistic not to appreciate sentiment; in his +business he had both to appraise and exploit it. And as he saw the two +standing together he experienced a distinct sensation of pleasure. They +were so obviously made for each other, and were both such splendid +specimens of youth, spirit, and wholesome charm. He determined mentally +to cast them opposite each other some day, for they made a delightful +picture. Not yet; but in a few years—— + +The managerial calculations came to an abrupt end as he chanced to +catch sight of Alan Mortimer’s face. + +Intense emotion is not generally to be despised by a manager when he +beholds it mirrored in an actor’s face, but this passion was a bit too +naked and brutal, and it was decidedly out of place at a rehearsal. +The man could be charming when he liked, but to-day the strings of his +self-restraint were unkeyed. His face had become loose in line; his +eyes smoldered beneath lowered lids. Dukane saw clearly revealed in +that look what he had already begun to suspect—a sudden, fierce passion +for Sybil Merivale. + +This sort of thing was nothing new for Mortimer. He was a man who +attracted many types of women—some of them inexplicably, as it seemed +to male onlookers—and whose loves were as fiery and as fleeting +as falling stars. He had made love both to Kitty Legaye and Grace +Templeton, playing them against each other not so much with skill +as with a cavalier and amused mercilessness which might well have +passed for skill. Now he was tired of the game, and, in a temporarily +demoralized condition, was as so much tinder awaiting a new match. + +Then the youth and freshness of the girl unquestionably attracted +him. Alan Mortimer was in his late thirties and had lived hard and +fast. Like most men of his kind, he was willing enough to dally by the +wayside with the more sophisticated women; but it was youth that pulled +him hardest—girlhood, unspoiled and delicate. Dukane, more than a bit +of a philosopher, speculated for a passing minute as to whether it was +the inextinguishable urge toward purity and decency even in a rotten +temperament, or merely the brutish wish that that which he intended to +corrupt should be as nearly incorruptible as possible. + +But the manager permitted himself little meditation on the subject. +He had no wish that others should surprise that expression upon the +countenance of his new star. + +“Last act!” he called sharply. + +Willie Coster glanced at him in surprise. It was unusual for the +“governor” to take an active hand in conducting rehearsals. + +“How about Miss Merivale?” he said. “Isn’t she to read _Lucille_?” + +“Here is the part.” Dukane took it from his pocket and dropped it +on the prompt table. “Miss Templeton—er—turned it in this noon.” He +suppressed a smile as he recalled the vigor with which Grace Templeton +had thrown the little blue-bound booklet at him across his desk. He +added: “Let Miss Merivale take the complete script home with her +to-night; that will give her the best idea of the character.” For +Dukane, unlike most of his trade, believed in letting his people use as +much brain as God had given them in studying their rôles. + +“Then we start at the beginning of Act Four,” said Coster. “Here’s the +part, Miss Merivale. Just read it through for this rehearsal, and get +a line on the business and where you stand. Everybody, please! Miss +Merivale, you’re not on till Mr. Mortimer’s line, ‘The girl I would +give my life for.’ Then you enter up stage, right. Ready, Mr. Mortimer?” + +The company breathed one deep, unanimous sigh of relief. They had +feared that the advent of a new _Lucille_ would mean going back and +doing the whole morning’s work over again. But Dukane was—yes, he +really _was_ almost human—for a manager! + +There were three other persons who had seen Mortimer’s self-betraying +look as his eyes rested on Sybil Merivale’s eager young beauty. One +was Norman Crane, one was Kitty Legaye, and one was the detective, Jim +Barrison. + +Barrison’s eyes met those of Dukane for a moment, and he had a shrewd +idea that the manager was telegraphing him a sort of message. He +resolved to hang around as long as he could and get a word alone with +Dukane after rehearsal was over. + +At this point John Carlton, the author, arrived. He was a dark, haggard +young man, but, though looking thoroughly subdued after a fortnight +under the managerial blue pencil, he quite brightened up on being +introduced to Barrison. + +“Thankful, no end,” he muttered in a hasty aside. “Was afraid they’d +cut out the whole finger-print business.” + +“Cut it! Why? No good?” + +“Too good!” sighed the discouraged playwright. He had, however, hauled +a lagging sense of humor out of the ordeal, for shortly after, he went +with Barrison to sit in a box in the dark auditorium, and evolved +epigrams of cynic derision as he watched the rehearsal of his play. +Barrison found him not half a bad fellow, and before the hot afternoon +wore itself out, they had grown quite friendly. + +Barrison’s own part in the rehearsal was soon disposed of. After he had +explained the way the police detect finger prints upon objects that +seem innocent of the smallest impression, and illustrated on a page of +paper, a tumbler, and the surface of the table, his work was over for +the day. Mortimer promised to practice a bit, that the effect might be +quite technical and expert-looking. Barrison was to come to another +rehearsal in a few days and see how it looked. Then the detective found +himself free to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal, such as it was. + +“Which won’t be much,” Carlton warned him. “This is just a running over +of lines for the company, and to start Miss Merivale off. Nobody will +do any acting.” + +“The last act ought to be the most important, I should think,” said +Barrison. + +“Oh, well, so far as action and hullabaloo goes—shots and soldiers +and that sort of thing. But it’s a one-man play, anyway, and I’ve had +to make that last act a regular monologue. It’s all Mortimer. He’s +A1, too, when he cares to take the trouble. Drunk now, of course, but +he’s no fool. He’ll keep sober for the opening, and if the women don’t +go dippy over his looks and his voice and his love-making, I miss my +guess. Now, watch—this is going to be one of the exciting scenes in the +play, so far as action goes. Pure melodrama, but the real thing, if I +say it as shouldn’t—girl in the power of a gang of ruffians, spies and +so forth. Night—dark scene, you know—a really dark scene, with all the +lights out, front and back. Pitch black. Just a bit of a wait to get +people jumpy, and then the shots.” + +Willie Coster cried out: “Hold the suspense, folks! No one move. Lights +are out now.” He waited while ten could be counted; then deliberately +began to strike the table with his fist. “One—two——” + +“Those are supposed to be shots,” explained Carlton. + +“Three—four—five—six——” + +“That’s enough!” interposed Dukane. “The women don’t like shooting, +anyway.” + +“All right. Six shots, Mortimer. Now you’re coming on, carrying +_Lucille_—never mind the business. Miss Merivale, read your line: +‘Thank God, it’s you—in time!’ Right! All the rest of you—_hurry up_! +You’re carrying torches, you boobs; don’t you know by this time what +you do during the rescue? Oh; for the love of——” + +He began to tell the company what he thought of it collectively and +individually, and Carlton turned to Barrison. + +“All over but the shouting—and the love scene. Mortimer can do that in +great form, but you’ll get no idea of it to-day, of course. He isn’t +even trying.” + +“He’s a good bit soberer than he was, though,” said Barrison, who was +watching the star carefully. + +“Well, I’m inclined to think he is. Maybe he’ll wake up and do his +tricks, but you never can tell with him. There go the extras off; it’s +the love scene now.” + +The last scene in the play was a short, sentimental dialogue between +_Tarrant_, the hero, and _Lucille_. Sybil read her lines from the part; +Mortimer knew his, but recited them without interest or expression, +giving her her cues almost mechanically, though his eyes never left +her face, and as they played on toward the “curtain,” he began to move +nearer to her. + +“A little more down front, _Lucille_” said Coster from the prompt +table. “_Tarrant_ is watching you, and we want his full face. All +right; that’s it. Go on, _Tarrant_——” + +“‘What do you suppose all this counts for with me,’” said Mortimer, +speaking slowly and with more feeling than he had used that afternoon. +“‘What does it all amount to, if I have not the greatest reward of +all—_Lucille_?’” + +Barrison, listening to the sudden passion vibrating in the genuinely +splendid voice, thought he could begin to understand something of the +man’s magnetism. If he really tried, he could make a tremendous effect. + +“‘But the honors that have been heaped upon you!’” read Sybil, her +eyes bent earnestly upon the page before her. “‘Your success, your +achievements, your——’” She stopped. + +“Catch her up quicker, Mortimer!” exclaimed Coster. “We don’t want a +wait here, for Heaven’s sake! Speak on ‘your success, your’—speak on +‘your.’ Now, once more, Miss Merivale!” + +“‘Your success,’” read Sybil again, “‘your achievements, your——’” + +“‘Honors! Success! Achievements!’” Mortimer’s tone was ringing and +heartfelt. “‘What do they mean to me, _Lucille_—without you? They are +so many empty cups; only you can fill them with the wine of life and +love——’” + +“Noah’s-ark stuff,” murmured Carlton. “Likewise Third Avenue melodrama. +But it’ll all go if he does it like that!” + +“‘Lucille—speak to me——’” + +“‘You are one who has much to be thankful for, much to be proud of! +Your medal of honor—surely that means something to you?’” + +“‘Ah, yes! I am proud of it—the gift of my country! But it is given +to the soldier. The man still waits for his prize! There is only one +decoration which I want in all this life, _Lucille_, only one——’” + +“_And_ so forth—all right!” said Willie, closing the manuscript; for +the final line of the play, the “tag,” as it is called, is never given +at rehearsals. + +But Mortimer appeared to have forgotten this ancient superstition of +the theater—seemed, indeed, to have forgotten everything and everybody +save Sybil and the opportunity given him by the situation. + +He caught the girl in his arms and delivered the closing line in a +voice that was broken with passion: + +“‘The decoration that I want is your love, _Lucille_—your kiss!’” + +And he pressed his lips upon hers. + +Sybil wrenched herself free, flaming with indignation. Crane, very +white, started forward. Mortimer, white also, but with a very slight, +very insolent smile, wheeled to meet him. But Dukane, moving with +incredible swiftness, stood between them. His face was rather stern, +but his voice was as level and equable as ever as he said quietly: + +“All right, all right—it is the business of the piece. But just a bit +premature, Mortimer, don’t you think? Suppose we let Miss Merivale get +her lines first? There will be plenty of time to work up the action +later. Rehearsal dismissed, Willie. Have every one here at nine sharp +to-morrow. What’s the matter with _you_?” + +For Willie Coster was sitting, pale and furious, by the prompt table, +swearing under his breath with a lurid eloquence which would have +astonished any one who did not know him of old. + +“Damn him!” he ended up, after he had exhausted his more picturesque +and spectacular vocabulary. “He’s said the tag, gov’nor—he’s spoken the +tag—and queered our show!” + +“Oh, rot, Willie!” said Dukane impatiently. “You’re too old a bird to +believe in fairy tales of that sort!” + +But Willie shook his sandy, half-bald head and swore a little more, +though more sorrowfully now. + +“You mark my words, there’ll never be any luck for this show,” he +declared solemnly. “Never any luck! And when we open, gov’nor, you just +remember what I said to-day!” + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + THE LETTER OF WARNING + + +“But isn’t it very early to stop rehearsal?” asked Barrison of John +Carlton. + +“Of course it is. They ought to have gone over the whole act again, and +lots of the scenes several times. That rescue stuff was rotten! But +it’s an off day. Something’s wrong; I’m not sure what, though I _think_ +I know. Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work. Wait till you’ve seen as +many of your plays produced as I have!” + +“It’s as mysterious to me as one of the lost arts of Egypt. I couldn’t +think out a scene to save my neck.” + +“And yet,” said John Carlton reflectively, “a detective gets an immense +amount of raw dramatic material in his business. He must. Now, right +here in our own little happy family circle”—he waved an arm toward +the stage—“there’s drama to burn! Can’t you see it—or are you fellows +trained only to detect crime?” + +“How do you mean—drama?” queried Barrison, seeking safety in vagueness. + +“Well,” said Carlton, reaching for his hat and stick, “it strikes me +that your well-beloved and highly valuable central planet draws drama +as molasses draws flies. Pardon the homely simile, but, like most +geniuses, I was reared in Indiana.” + +“He’s a queer sort of chap,” said Jim, looking at the tall actor as he +stood talking to Dukane, his heavy, handsome profile clearly outlined +against an electric light. + +“Queer? He’s a first-class mystery. ‘He came like water, and like wind +he goes’—though I hope he’ll prove a bit more stable as a dramatic +investment. Seriously, no one knows anything about him. He’s Western, I +believe, and I suppose Dukane fell over him some dark night when he was +out prospecting for obscure and undiscovered genius.” + +“He’s good looking.” + +“My son,” said Carlton, whose familiarity and colloquialism were in +striking contrast to the grandiloquent lines he gave his characters to +speak, “wait till you see him in khaki, with the foots half up and a +little incidental music on the violins going on! Manly beauty is not a +hobby of mine, but I’ve had experience with matinée idols, and I bet +that Mortimer is there with the goods. What are you laughing at?” + +“The difference between your stage dialogue and your ordinary +conversation.” + +“Oh, well, I can’t help talking slang, and I don’t know how to write +it so that it sounds like anything but the talk of a tough bunch in a +corner joint.” He stopped abruptly at the entrance to the box and said, +as though acting on impulse: + +“See here, speaking of Mortimer, did you ever see a three-ring circus?” + +“Yes. I always found it very confusing.” + +“Me, too. Mortimer doesn’t. He likes it. Takes three at least to +make him feel homelike and jolly. He’s been—between ourselves—the +temperamental lover with Grace Templeton, and the prospective fiancé +with Miss Legaye; at least, that’s how I dope it out; and now it looks +as though he was going to be the bold, bad kidnaper with this charming +child just arrived in our midst. What do you think, from what you’ve +seen to-day?” + +“He hasn’t been himself to-day,” answered Barrison. “And, anyhow, there +can’t be a three-ring circus with one of the three features absent. +Miss Templeton, I understand, is not to be counted any longer.” + +He spoke with rather forced lightness. He disliked bringing women into +conversation. He did Carlton the justice, however, to see that it was +not a vulgar predilection for gossip which centralized his interest in +the three who had received Mortimer’s attention. Obviously he looked +upon them as cold-bloodedly as did Dukane; they were part of his stock +in trade, his “shop.” + +“Not to be counted any longer! Isn’t she just? If you’d ever seen the +lady you’d know that you couldn’t lose her just by dismissing her.” + +Barrison had seen her, but he said nothing. + +“However,” went on the author, leading the way out of the box and +through the communicating door between the front and back of the house, +“it’s none of my business—though I’ll admit it entertains me, intrigues +me, if you like. I _can_ talk something besides slang. I’m nothing but +a poor rat of an author, but if I were a grand and glorious detective +with an idle hour or so to put in, I’d watch that combination. I’m too +poor and too honest to afford hunches, as a rule, but I’ve got one +now, and it’s to the effect that there’ll be more melodrama behind +the scenes in ‘Boots and Saddles’ than there ever will be in the show +itself!” + +Though Barrison said nothing in reply, he privately agreed with the +playwright. Nothing very startling had happened, to be sure, yet he was +acutely conscious of something threatening or at least electric in the +air—a tension made up of a dozen small trifles which might or might not +be important. It would be difficult to analyze the impression made upon +him, but he would have had to be much less susceptible to atmosphere +than he was not to have felt that the actors in this new production +were playing parts other than those given them by Carlton, and that +they stood in rather singular and interesting relation to each other. + +Mortimer infatuated with Sybil Merivale; Kitty Legaye, he strongly +suspected, in love with Mortimer; Crane wildly and youthfully jealous; +Miss Templeton in the dangerous mood of a woman scorned and an actress +supplanted! It looked like the makings of a very neat little drama, as +John Carlton had had the wit to see. + +Barrison, however, was still inclined to look upon the whole affair as +something of a farce; it was diverting, but not absorbing. There was +nothing about it, as yet, to quicken his professional interest. He did, +to be sure, recall Grace Templeton’s wicked look in the restaurant, +and had a passing doubt as to what she was likely to do next; but he +brushed it away lightly enough, reminding himself that players were +emotional creatures and that they probably took it out in intensity +of temperament—and temper! They were not nearly so likely actually to +commit any desperate deeds as those who outwardly or habitually were +more calm and conservative. + +But something happened at the stage door which disturbed this viewpoint. + +When they crossed the stage the company was scattering right and left. +Miss Legaye was just departing, looking manifestly out of sorts; Sybil +and young Crane were talking together with radiant faces and evident +oblivion of their whereabouts; Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Carlton +had stopped to speak to Willie Coster, so Barrison made his way out +alone. + +He found Dukane standing by the “cage” occupied by the doorkeeper, +with an envelope in his hand. + +“When did this come, Roberts?” he said. + +“About twenty minutes ago, sir. You told me not to interrupt +rehearsals, and the boy said there was no answer.” + +“A messenger boy?” + +“No, sir—just a ragamuffin. Looked like he might be a newsboy, sir.” + +Dukane stood looking at the envelope a moment in silence; then he +turned to Barrison with a smile. + +“Funny thing, psychology!” he said. “I haven’t a reason on earth for +supposing this to be any more important than any of the rest of Alan +Mortimer’s notes—the saints know he gets enough of them!—and yet I have +a feeling in my bones that there’s something quite unpleasant inside +this envelope. Here, Mortimer, a note for you.” + +The actor came around the corner from a corridor leading past a row of +dressing rooms, and they could see him thrust something into his coat +pocket. + +“Went to his dressing room for a drink,” said Barrison to himself. +Indeed, he thought he could see the silver top of a protruding flask. + +“Note for me? Let’s have it.” + +He took it, stared at the superscription with a growing frown, and then +crumpled it up without opening it. + +“Wrenn!” he exclaimed in a tone of ungoverned rage. “Where’s Wrenn? Did +he bring me this?” + +“Wrenn?” repeated Dukane, surprised. “You mean your valet? Why, no; he +isn’t here. A boy brought it. Why don’t you read it? You don’t seem to +like the handwriting.” + +With a muttered oath, the actor tore open the envelope and read what +was written on the inclosed sheet of paper. Then, with a face convulsed +and distorted with fury, he flung it from him as he might have flung a +scorpion that had tried to bite him. + +“Threats!” he exclaimed savagely. “Threats! May Heaven curse any one +who threatens me! Threats!” + +He seemed incapable of further articulation, and strode past them out +of the stage door. Barrison could see that he was the type of man +who can become literally blind and dazed with anger. Mentally the +detective decided that such uncontrolled and elemental temperaments +belonged properly behind bars; certainly they had no place in a world +of convention and self-restraint. + +Quietly Dukane picked up both letter and envelope, and, after reading +what was written on them, passed them to Barrison. + +“When I have a lunatic to dry nurse,” he observed grimly, “I have no +scruples in examining the stuff that is put in his feeding bottles. +Take a look at this communication, Barrison. I’ll admit I’m glad that +I don’t get such things myself.” + +Jim glanced down the page of letter paper. On it, in scrawling +handwriting, was written: + + You cannot always escape the consequences of your wickedness and + cruelty—don’t think it! Just now your future looks bright and + successful, but you cannot be sure. You are about to open in a new + play, and you expect to win fame and riches. But God does not forget, + though He seems to. God does punish people, even at the last moment. + I should think you would be afraid that lightning would strike the + theater, or that a worse fate would overtake you. Remember, Alan, the + wages of sin; remember what they are. Who are you to hope to escape? + I bid you farewell, _until the opening night_! + +The last four words were heavily underlined. There was no signature. + +“What do you make of it?” asked Dukane. + +“It’s from a woman, of course. Quite an ordinary threatening letter. We +handle hundreds of them, and most of them come to nothing at all.” + +“Possibly,” said Dukane thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t feel like +ignoring it entirely. Not on Mortimer’s own account, you understand. +He’s not the type of fellow I admire, and I don’t doubt he richly +deserves any punishment that may be in store for him. But he’s my star, +and if anything happens to him I stand to lose more money than I feel +like affording in these hard times.” + +“I can have a couple of men detailed to keep an eye on him,” suggested +Barrison. + +Dukane shook his head. “He’d find it out and be furious,” he returned. +“Whatever else he is, he’s no coward, and he detests having his +personal affairs interfered with. Hello! What is it you want?” + +The thin, gaunt, white-haired man whom he addressed was standing, hat +in hand, in the alley just outside the stage door, and he was evidently +waiting to speak to the manager. + +“If you please, sir,” he began, half apologetically, “Mr. Mortimer told +me to——” + +“You’re Mortimer’s man, aren’t you?” + +“Yes, sir; I’m Wrenn. I came down in the car for Mr. Mortimer, sir. +He—he seemed a bit upset-like this morning.” His faded old eyes looked +appealingly at the manager. + +“He did,” assented that gentleman dryly. “You take very good care of +Mr. Mortimer, Wrenn,” he added, in a kinder tone. “I’ve often noticed +it.” + +“Thank you, sir. I try——” + +“He sent you back for something?” + +“Yes, sir.” The old servant was clearly anxious and ill at ease, and +the answer came falteringly: “A—a letter, sir, that he forgot——” + +Barrison had already thrust that letter into his own pocket. He knew +that Dukane would prefer him not to produce it. As a specimen of +handwriting it was worth keeping, in case of possible emergencies in +the future. + +Dukane affected to hunt about on the floor. + +“Here is the envelope,” he said, giving it to the valet. “I don’t see +any letter. Mr. Mortimer must have put it in his pocket; indeed, I +think I saw him do so. He seemed a good deal excited, and probably +doesn’t remember.” + +“Yes, sir, but——” Wrenn still hesitated. + +“That’s all. Go back to your master and say the letter is nowhere to be +found. Tell him I said so.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +Unwillingly Wrenn walked away. + +“A decent old chap,” commented Dukane, looking after him. “I can’t +understand why he sticks to that ill-tempered rake, but he seems +devoted to him.” + +They went out together, and saw Wrenn say something at the window of +the great purring limousine that was waiting in the street at the +end of the court. After a minute he got in, and the car moved off +immediately. + +“No,” said the manager, as though there had been no interruption to his +talk with Barrison, “I hardly think that we’d better have him shadowed, +even for his own protection. I think that the writer of that note means +to save her—er—sensational effect for the first night, don’t you?” + +“Well,” admitted the detective, “it would be like a revengeful woman to +wait until a spectacular occasion of that sort if she meant to start +something. Particularly”—he spoke more slowly—“if she happened to be a +theatrical woman herself.” + +“Ah, yes,” said Dukane calmly. “Especially if she happened to be a +theatrical woman herself.” + +He was silent for a long minute as they walked toward Broadway. Then, +as he stopped to light a cigar, he said: + +“Every woman is a theatrical woman in that sense. My dear fellow, +women are the real dramatists of this world. If a man wants to do a +thing—rob a bank, or elope with his friend’s wife, or commit a murder, +or anything like that—he goes ahead and does it as expeditiously and as +inconspicuously as possible. But a woman invariably wants to set the +stage. A woman must have invented rope ladders, suicide pacts, poisoned +wine cups, and the farewell letter to the husband. Next to staging a +love scene, a woman loves to stage a death scene—whether it’s murder, +suicide, tuberculosis, or a broken heart. Would any man in _Mimi’s_ +situation have let himself be _dragged_ back to die in the arms of his +lost love? Hardly! He’d crawl into a hole or go to a hospital.” + +“It was a man who wrote the story of _Mimi_,” Barrison reminded him. + +“A man who, being French, knew all about women. Yes, I think we can +safely leave our precautions until September the fifteenth. Just the +same, Barrison, I shall be just as well pleased if you’ll manage to +drop in at rehearsals fairly often during the next fortnight. There +might be developments. I’ll leave word with Roberts in the morning that +you are to come in when you like.” + +Barrison promised, and left him at the corner of Broadway. + +As he walked back to his own rooms, Dukane’s words lingered in his +memory: + +“Women are the real dramatists of this world!” + +He thought of the same phrase that evening when, while he was in the +middle of his after-dinner brandy and cigar, his Japanese servant +announced: + +“A lady on business. Very important.” + +Barrison started up, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman who +stood at his door was Miss Templeton! + + + + + CHAPTER V + + MISS TEMPLETON + + +She was in full evening dress, with her splendid shoulders and arms +bare, and her brilliant hair uncovered and elaborately dressed. Her +tightly clinging gown was black, embroidered in an orchid design of +rose color and gold. A long black lace scarf, thrown over one arm, was +her only apology for a wrap. She was just then, as Barrison was obliged +to confess to himself, one of the handsomest women he had ever seen in +his life. He realized now that she was younger than he had thought. + +Also she looked far less artificial and flamboyant than she had looked +at luncheon. Jim’s orange-shaded reading lamp was kinder to her than +that intrusively glaring sunbeam had been. There was even a softness +and a dignity about her, he thought. Perhaps, though, it was merely a +pose, put on for the occasion as she had put on her dinner dress. + +Moving slowly and with a very real grace, she came a few steps into the +room and inclined her handsome head very slightly. + +“Mr. Barrison?” + +He bowed and drew a high-backed, brocaded chair into a more inviting +position. “Won’t you sit down?” + +“Thank you. I am Grace Templeton.” + +“I know,” he said, smiling courteously. “I feel enormously honored.” + +“Ah, yes. You saw me at lunch to-day.” + +“I have seen you before.” + +“Really!” Her eyes lit up with genuine pleasure. She was inordinately +vain of her stage reputation. She thrilled to the admiration of her +anonymous audiences. Jim, looking at her, marveled at that imperishable +thirst for adulation which, gratified, could bring a woman joy at such +a moment. For he felt sure that it was no ordinary crisis which had +brought Miss Templeton to consult him that night. + +She sank into the chair he proffered, and the high, square back made +a fine frame for the gilded perfection of her hair. He thought, quite +coolly, that no one ever had a whiter throat or more exquisitely formed +arms and wrists. Her manner was admirable; not a trace now of that +primitive and untamed ferocity of mood which had blazed in her whole +face and figure not so many hours before. + +She was very beautiful, very sedate, very self-contained. Barrison +was able to admire her frankly—but never for a second did he lift the +vigilance of the watch he had determined to keep upon her. In his own +mind he marked her “dangerous”—and not the less so because just at +present she was behaving so extremely, so unbelievably well. + +“You are surprised to see me here, Mr. Barrison,” she said, making it +a statement rather than a question. + +“I confess that I am.” + +“I wanted your help, and—when I want a thing I ask for it.” + +She paused a moment, looking at him steadily. “Won’t you please sit +down yourself?” she said. “And move your lamp. I like to see the face +of the person I am talking to.” + +Barrison did what she wished silently. In half a minute more they +confronted each other across the library table, with the reading light +set somewhat aside. Miss Templeton drew a deep breath and leaned +forward with her lovely arms upon the table. + +“When I heard that you were to be called in as an expert to help +in—our—play”—she paused, with a faint smile that was rather +touching—“you see, it _was_ ‘our play’ then—I made up my mind to +consult you. For I was troubled even then. But the best laid schemes——” +She broke off, with a little gesture that somehow made her look +younger. “Oh, well—I found myself, in an hour, in a minute, in a +position I was not used to: I was dismissed!” She made him feel the +outrageousness of this. + +“My mind was naturally disturbed,” she went on. “It is a shocking +thing, Mr. Barrison, to find yourself cast adrift when you have been +counting on a thing, believing in it——” + +“I should scarcely have thought that it would be so awful,” Jim +ventured, “for you, who surely need not remain in such a predicament +any longer than you care to.” + +She flashed him a grateful glance. “That is nice of you. But I truly +think that it is worse in a case like mine. One grows accustomed to +things. It is somewhat appalling to find oneself without them, to +find them snatched away before one’s eyes. You see, I have never been +‘fired’ before.” She uttered the last words with a surprisingly nice +laugh. “It was rather terrible, truly. I asked Alan Mortimer to-day who +you were,” she said quietly. “When I knew, I determined that I would +come to see you.” + +“And so——” he suggested encouragingly. + +She was, if this were cleverness, much too clever to change her gentle, +rather grave attitude. “And so,” she said, as she leaned upon the +table, “I have come to speak to you of the things which a woman does +not speak of as a rule.” + +Jim Barrison was slightly alarmed. “But why come to me?” he protested, +though not too discourteously. “We are strangers, and—surely you do not +need a detective in your trouble, whatever it is?” + +“Why not?” she demanded swiftly. “In your career, Mr. Barrison, have +you never found yourself close to the big issues of life, the deep and +tragic things? Does not the detective’s profession show him the most +emotional and terrible and human conditions in all the world? It is as +a detective that I want you to help me, Mr. Barrison.” + +“I—I shall be only too glad,” stammered Barrison, with a full-grown +premonition of trouble. He wished the woman had been less subtle; he +had no mind to have his sympathies involved. + +She seemed to guess at something of his worry, for she lifted her +black-fringed eyes to his and laughed—not gayly, but sadly. “It’s all +said very quickly,” she told him. “Alan Mortimer used to be in love +with me; he is not now.” + +Barrison found himself dumb. What on earth could a man say to a woman +under such circumstances? He was no ladies’ man, and such homely +sympathy as he had sometimes had to proffer to women in distress +seemed highly out of place here. Miss Templeton, in her beauty and her +strangeness, struck him as belonging to a class in herself. Resourceful +as he was, he had not the right word just then. She did not appear to +miss it, though. She went on, almost at once, with the kind of mournful +calmness which nearly always wins masculine approbation: + +“Understand, there was no question of marriage. I do not claim anything +at all except that—he did care for me.” She put her hand to her throat +as if she found it difficult to continue, and added proudly: “I am the +sort of woman, Mr. Barrison, who demands nothing of a man—except love. +I believed that he gave me that. There were other women; there was one +woman especially. She wanted him to marry her. She did not love him, +as I understand love, but she did want to marry him. She had lived +a selfish, restless life for a good many years—she is as old as I, +though no one knows it—but she had never settled down. She is the type +that eventually settles down; I am not. She wants to be protected and +supported; I don’t. She is a born parasite—what we call a grafter; I am +_not_. Perhaps you can guess whom I mean.” + +“Perhaps I can,” conceded Barrison, remembering what Carlton had said +about Kitty Legaye and Alan Mortimer. + +“Ah!” She smiled faintly. “Very well. Here am I, flung aside from my +part—and from him. She is left in possession, so to speak. That is +almost enough to send a woman’s small world into chaos, is it not? But +there was something more left for me to endure. Another woman came into +the little play that I thought was fully—too fully—cast. I don’t mean +Mr. Carlton’s play; I mean the one that goes on night and day as long +as men and women have red blood in their veins and say what they feel +instead of what is written in their parts! Another woman was engaged—or +practically engaged—to take my place.” + +“Yes, I know. Miss Merivale.” + +“Miss Merivale.” She repeated the name slowly and without heat. “She is +fresh and young and charming. I do not hate her as I do the other, but +I am more afraid of her. She is just what he cannot find in the rest +of us. She will win him. Yes, I know quite well that she will win him.” + +“But I don’t think she wants to win him,” said Barrison, recollecting +the scene in which the “tag” had been prematurely spoken. He had a +mental picture of Sybil, scarlet of cheek and indignant of eyes, +shrinking from Mortimer’s kiss. + +But Miss Templeton looked at him almost scornfully. + +“He can make her want to,” she declared positively. “Don’t contradict +me, because I know!” Miss Templeton paused a moment and then continued: +“Mr. Barrison, do not detectives occasionally undertake the sort of +work that necessitates their following a person and—reporting on what +he does—that sort of thing?” + +“Yes, Miss Templeton.” + +“And would you undertake work of that kind?” Her fine eyes pleaded +eloquently. + +“No, Miss Templeton; I’m afraid not.” + +“But why not? You’ve said detectives do it.” + +“Plenty of them.” + +“Do you mind telling me, then, why not?” + +Jim hesitated; then he decided to be frank. “You see,” he said gently, +“I don’t do this entirely as a means of livelihood.” + +“You mean you’re an amateur, not a professional?” + +“I am a professional. But, since I can pick and choose to a certain +extent, I usually choose such cases as strike me as most useful and +most interesting.” + +“And my case doesn’t strike you as either?” + +“I don’t see yet that you have a case, Miss Templeton. I don’t see what +there is for a detective to do.” + +“Then I’ll explain. I want you to follow—shadow, do you call it?—Mr. +Mortimer every day and every night. I want to know what he does, whom +he sees, where he goes. I will pay—anything——” + +Barrison put up his hand to check her. “Yes, I know,” he said quietly. +“I quite understood what you wanted me to do. But your determination, +or whim, or whatever we may call it, does not constitute a case.” + +“I can make you see why. I can tell you the reasons——” + +“I’m afraid that I don’t want to hear them, Miss Templeton. I simply +can’t do what you ask me to. I’m sorry. There are detectives who +will; you’d better go to them. I don’t like cases of that sort, and +I don’t take them. Again—I’m sorry. Try not to think me too rude and +ungracious.” + +She sat with down-bent head, and he could not see her face. He felt +unaccountably sorry, as he had told her he felt. He could not have felt +more grieved if he had hurt some one who had trusted him. + +Suddenly she flung up her head, and there was another look on her +face—a harder, older look. + +“All right,” she said, in a metallic tone, “you won’t help me. I’m +sure I don’t know why I should help you. But—if you won’t shadow Alan +Mortimer these next two weeks, you take a tip from me: Shadow Kitty +Legaye.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + THE DIVIDED DANGER + + +As she swept to the door, her golden head held high, her black scarf +floating from one round white arm, she encountered a newcomer, one Tony +Clay. + +“Beg pardon!” he gasped, standing aside. + +He was a cherubic, round-faced cub detective whom Barrison liked and +helped along when he could—a nice lad, though a bit callow as yet. + +Miss Templeton’s trailing scarf caught in a chair and Tony hastened to +extricate it. Feeling profoundly but unreasonably reluctant, Barrison +made the introductions: + +“Miss Templeton, may I present Mr. Clay? He will put you in a +taxi—won’t you, Tony?” + +“Rather!” breathed the patently enraptured Tony. + +“My car is waiting,” Miss Templeton said sweetly. “I shall be so glad +if Mr. Clay will see me safely as far as that.” + +Five minutes later Tony Clay returned, with sparkling eyes and a +delirious flow of language: + +“I say, Jim, where did you—how did she happen to——Oh, gee! Some people +have all the luck! Isn’t she a peach? Isn’t she a wonder? Isn’t she +just the——” + +“Have a brandy and soda, Tony, and shut up,” said Barrison, rather +wearily. He was feeling a bit let down, for Miss Templeton was not a +restful person to talk to, nor yet to hear talk for any long period. + +But Tony raved on. “She reminds me,” he babbled happily, “of some +glorious, golden lioness——” + +“Fine for you!” murmured Barrison, burying himself in a particularly +potent drink. + +Long after Tony Clay had gone, Jim sat scowling at the cigarettes +which he lighted from one another with scarcely an interval, and at +the brandy and soda of which he consumed more than what he usually +considered a fair allowance. Both as a man and a detective he admired +Miss Templeton. + +He wished he had seen her handwriting and could compare it with the +note which he still kept put away in a locked cabinet where he cached +his special treasures. He wondered if—— + +But her suggestion as to Kitty Legaye, inspired by jealousy as it +was, was not without value. On the face of it, it seemed far-fetched, +or would have to a less seasoned experience; but Jim Barrison +had forgotten what it was to feel surprise at anything. Stranger +things—much, much stranger things—had turned out to be quite ordinary +and natural occurrences. + +There are, as Barrison knew, many varieties of the female of the +species; he had come up against a goodly number of them, and could +guess what the different sorts would do in given extremities. And +he knew that in the whole wild lot there is none wilder, none more +secret, none more relentless, none more unexpected and inexplicable, +than she who has counted on snatching respectability and domesticity +at the eleventh hour and been disappointed. If Kitty Legaye had really +expected to marry Alan Mortimer, and if he was getting ready to throw +her over for a perfectly new, strange young girl, then one need not be +astonished at anything. + +Yet, little Miss Legaye seemed a steady bit of humanity, not emotional +or hysterical in the least. + +“Oh, hang it all!” he muttered resentfully, as he turned out his light +at least two hours later than was his habit. “I wish women had never +learned to write—or to talk! It would simplify life greatly.” + +Then he fell asleep and dreamed queer dreams in which Grace Templeton, +Kitty Legaye and Sybil Merivale chased each other round and round, +quarreling for possession of the anonymous note which for some reason +the old man Wrenn was holding high above his head in the center of the +group. As the three women chased each other in the dream, Jim grew +dizzier and dizzier, and finally woke up abruptly, feeling breathless +and bewildered, with Tara, the Jap, standing beside him. + +“Honorable sir did having extreme bad dreams!” explained Tara, with +some severity of manner. + +Barrison answered meekly and lay down again to fall only half asleep +this time and toss restlessly until morning. + +He kept his word to Dukane and attended rehearsals with religious +regularity, though what technical use he had was exhausted after +a few days. He found himself becoming more and more interested in +the play—or, rather, in the actors who were appearing in it. Their +personalities became more and more vivid to him; their relations more +and more complex. + +Not the least curious of the conditions which he began to note as he +grew to feel more at home behind the scenes was the strange, almost +psychic influence which Mortimer appeared to have over Sybil Merivale. +Almost one might have believed that he hypnotized her; only there was +nothing about him that suggested abnormal spiritual powers, and the +girl herself was neither morbid nor weak. + +Barrison, now at liberty to roam about “behind” as he willed, overheard +Miss Merivale one day talking to Claire McAllister, the extra woman. + +“Say, I heard him ordering you about to-day as if he had a mortgage on +you,” said Claire, who was practical and pugnacious. “What do you let +him play the grand mogul with you for?” + +“I don’t believe I can make you understand,” said Sybil, breathing +quickly, “but I don’t seem able to disobey him. When he looks at me +I—it sometimes seems as if I couldn’t think quite straight.” + +“D’you mean,” demanded Claire McAllister sharply, “that you’re in love +with him?” + +Sybil flushed indignantly. “That’s just what I do not mean!” she +exclaimed. “Can’t you see the difference? I—I hate him, I tell you! +It’s something outside that, but—but it frightens me. Sometimes it +seems, when I meet his eyes, that I can’t move—that he can make me +do what he likes.” She shivered and hid her face in her hands. “It’s +_that_ which makes me so frightened,” she whispered in a broken way. + +The extra girl regarded her curiously, then hunched her shoulders +in the way of extra girls when they wish to indicate a shrug of +indifference. + +“Well,” she remarked cheerily, “when little Morty takes the last high +fall, we’ll look round to see if there wasn’t a certain lady handy to +give him the extra shove.” + +Sybil turned on her quickly. “What do you mean?” she cried. “What do +you mean by that?” + +Miss McAllister stared in surprise. “Sa-ay!” she remonstrated. “I was +just kiddin’! Say, you didn’t suppose I thought you were goin’ to +murder the guy, did you?” + +Sybil was rather white. “Awfully silly of me!” she apologized. +“Only—sometimes I’ve felt as though——And it sounded awful, coming from +some one else like that.” + +“Sometimes felt—what?” + +“As though—I almost—could!” She turned abruptly and walked away. + +Barrison, standing leaning against a piece of scenery, felt a hand upon +his arm. He looked around into the agitated face of Norman Crane. + +The boy had heard just what he himself had heard, and the effect +thereof was written large upon his handsome, honest young countenance. + +“Think of her—think of Sybil up against that!” he whispered huskily. +“And me able to do nothing! Oh, it’s too unspeakably rotten, that’s +what it is! If I could just wring that bounder’s neck, and be done with +it——” + +“Look here!” said Jim Barrison, losing his cast-iron, chain-held +patience at last. “There are about a dozen people already who want to +murder Alan Mortimer. I’m getting to want to myself! For the love of +Heaven, give a poor detective a rest and don’t suggest any one else; +I’m getting dizzy!” + +Norman stared at him and edged away. + +“Does that fellow drink?” he asked Carlton, a few minutes later. + +“I hope so,” said the author absently, rumpling his hair with one hand +while he wrote on a scrap of copy paper. “Mortimer has waited until now +to have the last scene lengthened. Maledictions upon him! May his next +reincarnation be that of a humpbacked goat!” + +Crane left him still murmuring strange imprecations. + +Barrison went home, divided between annoyance and amusement at the +promiscuous hate Mortimer had aroused. He was unquestionably the most +unpopular man he had ever heard of; yet he was sometimes charming, +as Barrison had already seen. Several times at rehearsal, when he +deliberately had chosen to exert his power of magnetism, the detective, +critical observer as he was, could not fail to note how successful he +was. His charm was something radiant and irresistible, and he could +project it at will, just as some women can. A singular and a dangerous +man, Jim decided. Such individuals always made trouble for themselves +and for others. The theater was becoming rather electric in atmosphere, +and Barrison was glad to get home. But his troubles were not over +yet—even for that day! + +Just as he was sitting down to dinner Tony Clay appeared, looking hot +and unhappy. + +“Hello, Tony! Have you eaten?” + +Tony nodded in a most dispirited fashion. His friend watched him a +moment, and then said kindly: + +“Go ahead; what’s the trouble?” + +The young fellow looked uncomfortable. “Nothing,” he began; “that +is——Oh, hang it all! I can’t lie to you. I’m upset, Jim!” + +“No!” said Barrison, with a smile. + +“Jim,” Tony went on, rather desperately, “do you believe that there +ever are occasions when it is permissible to give a client away? To a +colleague, I mean. Do you?” + +“You just bet your life I do!” said Jim emphatically. He put down his +knife and fork and eyed his young friend with kindling interest. “Go +on, kid, and tell me all about it.” + +“Well”—poor Tony looked profoundly miserable—“you know—that is of +course you don’t know—but—Miss Templeton engaged me to shadow Alan +Mortimer.” + +“I knew that as soon as you did,” remarked Jim. + +Tony opened his round eyes till each of them made a complete O. + +“The devil you did!” he ejaculated, somewhat chagrined. “Well, she did +engage me, and I shadowed away to the best of my ability. But now—Jim, +I’m up against something too big for me, and I’ve brought it to you.” + +He looked pale and shaken, and Barrison said good-humoredly: + +“Go to it, Tony. I’ll help you if I can.” + +“Jim!” Tony Clay faced him desperately. “I think you ought to know that +Miss Templeton has it in for Mortimer——” + +“I do know it, lad.” + +“And that—she bought a revolver to-day at the pawnshop near +Thirty-ninth Street. I saw her. I suppose she got a permit somehow. But +I hope I’ll never again see any one look the way she did when she came +out with the parcel!” + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + THE DARK SCENE + + +It was a little after eight in the evening of September the +fifteenth—the opening night of “Boots and Saddles” at the Mirror +Theater. + +Already the house was filling up. From his seat on the aisle half a +dozen rows back, Jim Barrison saw that it was going to be a typical +first-night audience. As this was a comparatively early opening, there +were a goodly number of theatrical people present, and practically +every one in the social world who had already returned to town was to +be seen. Max Dukane’s productions were justly celebrated all over the +country, and Carlton was a popular playwright. Then there was much +well-stimulated curiosity in regard to Alan Mortimer. Dukane’s press +agent had done his work admirably, and the mystery surrounding the +handsome new light in the dramatic heavens had been so artistically +exploited as to pique the interest even of jaded theatergoers. + +It was an oppressively hot evening, though September was so far +advanced. All the electric fans in the world could not keep the theater +cool and airy. To Barrison the air was suffocating. The gayly dressed +people crowded down into neat rows; the hurrying, perspiring ushers +in overheavy livery; the big asbestos curtain that shut them all +into a simmering inclosure—these things in combination were strangely +oppressive, even in a sense imprisoning. Moreover, he was not free from +a half-sincere, half-humorous sense of apprehension. Hardly anything +so definite, so full-fledged, or so grave; but undoubtedly a mental +tension of sorts which would not readily conform to a perfunctory +festal spirit. + +Dukane, for all his coolness and poise, had insisted on taking the +warning letter seriously—at least to the extent of taking every +conceivable precaution against danger, of arranging every possible +protection for Mortimer. It was understood that, while Jim Barrison +had his allotted seat in the front of the house, he would spend most +of the evening back of the scenes. Tony Clay was also on duty. There +was a husky young guard on the communicating door which was back of +the right-hand boxes and opened on the world behind. No one was to be +allowed to pass through that door that night but Dukane, Barrison, and +his assistant. Roberts, at the stage door, had been similarly cautioned +to let no one enter the theater on any pretext whatsoever after the +members of the company had come for the performance. + +Barrison thought Dukane’s precautions rather exaggerated. He did not +really think personally that any peril threatened Alan Mortimer that +night. Murderers did not, as a rule, send word in advance what they +mean to do. Still, such things had happened in his experience, and it +was no harm to make sure. As for Miss Templeton and the revolver—well, +that looked a bit more serious. He had not told Dukane of Tony’s +confidential information, but he raked the many-hued audience with his +sharp gaze, trying to see if the erstwhile leading woman was present. +So far there was no sign of her. He was even inclined to treat Tony’s +fears as somewhat hysterical. It will be recalled that Miss Templeton +had made rather a good impression upon the detective, who was only +human, after all, and prone to err like other mortals. + +The truth was that the whole situation struck him as a little too +melodramatic to be plausible. He was suffering from the disadvantages +of being a bit too cool and superior in view, a bit too well-balanced, +a bit too much the practical sleuth regarding theatrical heroics +with a pleasantly skeptical eye. Nevertheless, cavalierly as he was +disposed to treat them, he thought that it was possible that these +many concessions to a possible gravity of situation, a more or less +apocryphal danger, did add to the feeling of oppression which held +him. It really seemed hard to breathe, and it was difficult even for +his trained judgment to determine just how much of the sensation was +physical and how much psychological. + +At all events it was a very close, sultry night. As people came in and +took their seats there were constant comments on the weather. + +“Humidity—just humidity!” pompously declared a man next Jim, one of +those most trying wiseacres who know everything. “You’ll see it will +rain before the evening is over.” + +“There’s not a breath stirring outside,” said the girl who was with +him, fanning herself. “I wish we were sitting near an electric fan.” + +The asbestos drop had gone up, and the orchestra began to play +music specially written for the piece. It drowned the chatter of +the well-dressed, expectant crowd. But the overture was short, and +the lights all over the house soon began to go down in the almost +imperceptibly gradual fashion affected by Max Dukane in his big +productions. When the other instruments had dwindled to a mere mist of +retreating sound, one high, silver-clear bugle played the regimental +call, “Boots and Saddles,” as a cue for the rise of the curtain upon +the first act. + +But Barrison was not looking at the stage. Before the last lights had +gone out in the front of the house he had caught sight of a woman who +had just entered the right-hand stage box. She stood for a moment +looking out over the audience before she slipped out of her gorgeous +gold-embroidered evening cloak and took her seat. + +“Look!” exclaimed the girl to the pompous man—and, though she spoke in +an undertone, it was an undertone pregnant with sharp interest, almost +excitement. “Look! There’s Gracie Templeton, who started rehearsing +with this show and got fired. They say she had quite an affair with +Mortimer.” + +“Not much distinction in that,” remarked the man. “He’s crazy about +women.” + +“Not much distinction either way,” said the woman lightly and +heartlessly. “Grace has played about with ever so many men. But she +isn’t altogether a bad sort, you know, and this Mortimer man seems to +have the power to make women care for him awfully.” + +“Do you know him?” demanded her escort jealously. + +“Not I!” She laughed. “But seriously, Dicky, I shouldn’t think she’d +want to come to-night and see him playing with another woman.” + +“Maybe she means to pull a Booth-and-Lincoln stunt,” suggested the +pompous man. “She’s fixed just right for it if she does.” + +“Oh, don’t! It’s horrible just to think of! You’re so cold-blooded, +Dicky! Hush! The play’s beginning. I do like military shows, don’t you?” + +Barrison did not wait to see the opening of the piece. He had seen it +once at dress rehearsal, and, anyway, he had other fish to fry. He +slid out of his seat swiftly and almost unnoticeably and made his way +without waste of time up the aisle and around in discreetly tempered +darkness to the stage box which held Miss Grace Templeton. + +As he passed between the box curtains and came up behind her, she did +not hear him, and he stood still for a moment before making any move +which would reveal his presence. In that moment he had noticed that she +was dressed entirely in black, that melancholy rather than passion was +the mood which held her, and that she was watching the stage less with +eagerness than with a wistful, weary sort of attention. She leaned back +in her chair, and her hands lay loosely folded in her lap. There was +about her none of the tension, none of the excitement, either manifest +or suppressed, that accompanies a desperate resolve. + +Barrison felt the momentary chill of foreboding, which certainly had +crept up his spine, pass into a warmer and more peaceful sentiment +of pity. He slipped into a chair just behind her without her having +detected him. This, too, was reassuring. People with guilt, even +prospective guilt, upon their consciences were always alert to +interruption and possible suspicion. She was looking fixedly at the +stage where Mortimer was now making his first entrance. + +He was a splendid-looking creature behind the footlights. Barrison had +been obliged to admit it at dress rehearsal; he admitted it once more +unreservedly now. Whatever there was in his composition of coarseness +or ugliness, of cruelty, unscrupulousness, or violence, was somehow +softened—no, softened was not quite the word, since his stage presence +was consistently and notably virile; but certainly uplifted and tinged +with glamour and colorful charm. Every one else in the company paled +and thinned before him. + +“A great performance, is it not?” + +Jim spoke the words very gently into her ear, and then waited for the +inevitable start. Strangely enough, in spite of the suddenness of +the remark, she barely stirred from the still pose she had adopted. +Dreamily she answered him, though without pause: + +“There is no one like him.” + +Then all at once she seemed to wake, to grow alive again, and to +realize that she was actually talking to a real person and not to a +visionary companion. She turned, with a startled face. + +“Mr. Barrison! I thought I was quite alone, and—what did I say, I +wonder? I felt as though I were half asleep!” + +“You voiced my thoughts; Mortimer is in splendid form, isn’t he?” + +She nodded. “I never saw him to better advantage,” she said, speaking +slowly and evidently weighing each word. “Watch him now, Mr. Barrison, +in his scene with _Lucille_. So much restraint, yet so much feeling! +Yes, a superb impersonation!” + +Barrison looked curiously at the woman who spoke with so much +discrimination. Was she really capable of being impersonal, +disinterested? Yes, he believed that she was. A certain glow of +returning confidence swept his heart; it was surely not she whom he +had to fear—if, indeed, there were any one. He made up his mind to take +a look at what was taking place behind the scenes, and rose to his +feet, resting his hand lightly, almost caressingly, on the back of Miss +Templeton’s chair. + +“Good-by, until later,” he murmured. “I am going back to pay my +respects to Dukane.” + +And as he spoke, his fingers closed upon the beaded satin bag which +she had hung upon the back of her chair. Something uncompromisingly +hard met his sensitive and intelligent touch. Instantly he withdrew his +hand as though it had met with fire. There was a pistol in that pretty +reticule; so much he was sure of. + +A moment later he tapped lightly on the communicating door, and, +meeting the eyes of the suspicious young giant on guard there, and +speedily satisfying him as to his reliability, passed through into the +strange, bizarre world of scenery and grease paint and spotlights with +which he had lately become so familiar. + +“Remember,” he said to the blue-capped lad with the six inches of +muscle and the truculent tendency, who stood as sentinel at that most +critical passageway, “no one—no one, Lynch—is to go through this door +to-night. Understand?” + +“Right, sir!” + +Barrison made his way through a labyrinth of sets to where Dukane, +against all precedent, was standing watching the performance from the +wings. + +“You ought to be in front,” the detective told him reprovingly. + +“Indeed!” Dukane looked at him with tired scorn. Then he fished a paper +out of his waistcoat pocket. “Read this. It came this afternoon.” + +The new letter of warning ran: + + No man can run more than a certain course. When you look with love at + the woman who claims your attention to-night, do you not think what + might happen if a ghost appeared at your feast? You have called me + wild and visionary in the past. Will you call me that when this night + is over? + +Having read it and noted that the writing was the same as the previous +one, Jim asked: “Have you shown this to Mortimer?” + +“Am I an idiot?” demanded Dukane pertinently. “No, my prince of +detectives, I have not. I have troubles enough without putting my star +on the rampage. Just the same, I think it is as well to be prepared for +anything and everything. What do you think?” + +Unwillingly Barrison told him that he was not entirely happy in his +mind concerning Miss Templeton. He asked minutely as to where Mortimer +was going to stand during various parts of the play, notably during +the dark scene in the last act. That, to his mind, offered rather too +tempting a field for uncontrolled temperaments. + +“Ah!” said Dukane once more, looking at him. “You have found out +something, eh? Well, no matter. Whether you suspect something or not, +you are going to help, you are going to be on guard. Miss Templeton, +now—do you think it would be a good thing for you to go and spend the +evening with her in her box?” + +Barrison did not think quite that, but he consented to retire to Miss +Templeton’s box for at least two acts. The which he did, feeling most +nervous all the time, as though he ought to be somewhere else. Miss +Templeton was most agreeable as a companion, and most calm. Once in a +while his eyes would become glued to the beaded bag hanging on the back +of her chair. Just before the last act he fled, and sent Tony Clay to +take his place on a pretext. He did not think he could stand it any +longer. + +Behind, he found a curious excitement prevailing. No one had been told +anything or warned in any way, yet a subtle undercurrent of suspense +was strongly to be felt. There is no stranger phenomenon than this +psychic transmission of emotion without speech. To-night, behind the +scenes at the Mirror Theater, the whole company seemed waiting for +something. + +Sybil Merivale seemed particularly nervous. + +“I can’t think what has got into me!” she said with rather a shaky +little laugh. “I wasn’t nearly so upset at the beginning of the play, +and usually one gets steadier toward the end of a first night. I’m +doing all right, am I not?” + +“You’re splendid!” Kitty Legaye said cordially. “I’m proud of you! You +have no change here, have you?” + +“No; I’m supposed to be still in this white frock, locked up in the +power of the border desperadoes.” + +“And I, praise Heaven, am through!” + +Kitty did sound profoundly grateful for the fact. Barrison thought +she looked very tired and that her eyes were rather unhappy. She had +played her part brilliantly and gayly, appearing, as usual, a fresh and +adorable young girl. Now, seen at close range, she looked both weary +and dispirited under the powder and grease paint. + +“I’m awfully fagged!” she confessed. “And my head is splitting. I think +I’ll just sneak home.” + +“Oh, but Mr. Dukane will be wild!” exclaimed Sybil in protest. “Isn’t +it a fad of his always to have the principals wait for the curtain +calls, no matter when they’ve finished?” + +“Oh, stuff! We’re through with the regulation business, all of us +bowing prettily after the third act, and Jack Carlton trying to make a +speech that isn’t unintelligible with slang! That’s enough and to spare +for one night. And I really feel wretched. Like the Snark, I shall +slowly and silently vanish away! I call upon you, good people, to cover +my exit.” + +She slipped into her dressing room, and a moment later the dresser, +Parry, whose services were shared by her and Sybil, came out. She +was a fat, pasty woman whose long life spent in the wardrobe rooms +and dressing rooms of theaters seemed to have made her pallid with a +cellarlike pallor. + +She disappeared around the corner that led to the stage door, and in a +minute or so returned. As she opened Kitty’s door and entered, Barrison +heard her say: + +“All right, Miss Legaye; Roberts is sending for a taxi.” + +Of the dressing rooms Kitty’s was the farthest back, Sybil’s next, and +Mortimer’s—the star room—so far down as to be adjoining the property +room, which was close to what is professionally known as “the first +entrance.” There Willie Coster and his assistant ruled, supreme gods, +over the electric switchboard. The passage to the stage door ran at +right angles to the row of dressing rooms, so that any one coming in +or out at the former would not be visible to any one standing near +one of the rooms, unless he or she turned the corner made by the star +dressing room. This particular point—the turning near Mortimer’s +door—was further masked by the iron skeleton staircase which started +near Sybil’s room and ran upward in a sharp slant to the second tier +of dressing rooms where the small fry of the company and the extras +dressed. + +It is rather important to understand this general plan. Make a note, +also, that Mortimer’s big entrance in the “dark scene,” or, rather, +at the close of it, must be made up a short flight of steps; that the +scene was what is called a “box set”—a solid, four-walled inclosure; +that it was but a step from the door of his own dressing room, and that +the spot where he had to stand waiting for his entrance cue was in +direct line, from one angle, with the stage door, and from another with +the door communicating with the front of the house. This wait would +be a fairly long one, since, when the dark scene was on, no lights of +any sort would be permitted save perhaps the merest glimmer to avoid +accidents. The actors were all expected to leave their lighted dressing +rooms and have their doors closed before the melodramatic crash upon +the stage told them that the property lantern had been duly smashed and +that blackness must henceforth prevail until the “rescue.” + +“All ready?” came Willie Coster’s anxious voice. “The act is on. Miss +Merivale, don’t stumble on those steps when you are trying to escape. +You nearly twisted your ankle the other night. This is a rotten thing +to stage. Lucky Carlton made it about as short as he possibly could. +Playing a whole act practically in the dark! Fred, put that light out +over there; it might cast a shadow.” + +“’Tain’t the dark scene yet!” growled the harassed sceneshifter +addressed. He put it out, however. + +“My cue in a moment!” whispered Sybil. “I must run! Where are my two +deep-dyed ruffians who drag me on?” + +“Present!” said one of them, Norman Crane, laughing under his breath. + +They hurried down to their entrance, where the other “deep-dyed +ruffian” awaited them. + +Kitty Legaye, in a vivid scarlet satin evening coat, stole cautiously +out of her dressing room. + +“Shut that door!” commanded Willie in a sharp undertone. “No lights, +Miss Legaye!” + +Parry closed it immediately. + +“And now, Mortimer!” added the stage manager in an exasperated mutter. +“Of course he’ll let it go until the last moment, and then breeze out +like a hurricane with his dressing-room door wide open and enough +light to——What is it?” And he turned to hear a hasty question from his +assistant. + +Kitty came close to Barrison and whispered beseechingly: + +“Do, please, tell Mr. Dukane that I only went home because I really did +feel ill. It’s—it’s been quite a hard evening for me.” Her brown eyes +looked large and rather piteous. + +Barrison was sorry for her. She seemed such a plucky little creature, +and so glitteringly, valiantly gay. Her red wrap all at once struck +him as symbolic of the little woman herself. She was defiantly bright, +like the coat. If her heart ached as well as her head, if she really +was disappointed, hurt, unhappy—why, neither she nor the scarlet coat +proposed to be anything but gay! + +She waved her hand and tiptoed lightly away in the direction of the +stage door. Barrison turned to look through a crack onto the stage. +They were almost—yes, they were actually ready for the dark scene. + +In another moment the lantern crashed upon the floor. There were shouts +from the performers, and audible gasps from the audience. For a full +half minute not a light showed anywhere in the house. + +Barrison felt oddly uncomfortable. The confusion, the noises from the +stage, the inky blackness, all combined to arouse and increase that +troubled, suffocating feeling of which he had been conscious earlier in +the evening. The dark seemed full of curious sounds that were not all +associated with the play. He almost felt his hair rise. + +A single one-candle electric bulb was turned on somewhere. Its rays +only made the darkness more visible, rendered it more ghostly. + +A hand grasped his arm. + +“I thought—I saw a woman pass!” murmured Dukane’s voice. “Hello! There +goes Mortimer to his entrance. He’s all right so far, anyway.” The +actor’s huge bulk and characteristic swagger were just visible in the +dimness as he left his room, closing the door behind him at once. +“Barrison, like a good fellow, go out to Roberts and find out if any +one has tried to come in to-night.” + +Dukane’s tone was strangely urgent, and Barrison groped his way to the +stage door. + +The old doorkeeper, when questioned, shook his head. + +“No one’s passed here since seven o’clock,” he declared emphatically. +“No one except Miss Legaye, just a minute ago.” + +“You’re sure?” + +“Sure!” exclaimed the man, misunderstanding him. “I guess there ain’t +any two ladies with a coat the color of that one! I see it at dress +rehearsal, and it sure woke me up. I like lively things, I does; pity +there ain’t more ladies wears ’em.” + +Barrison laughed. + +“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I know Miss Legaye went out; but you’re +sure no one came in?” + +“I tell you, no one’s gone by here since——” + +Barrison did not wait for a repetition of his asseverations, but went +back toward the stage. The “rescue scene” was just beginning. Willie +Coster, a faint silhouette against the one dim bulb, was conducting the +shots like the leader of an orchestra: + +“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!” + +The six shots rang out with precision and thrilling resonance. And then +Jim Barrison grew icy cold from head to foot. + +For there came a seventh shot. + +And it was followed by the wild and terrifying sound of a woman’s +scream. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + AWAITING THE POLICE + + +That scream echoed across the blackness. There was a smell of gunpowder +in the air. It seemed an interminably long time before the lights +flared up, and the big curtain was rung down. At last it formed a wall +between the people on the stage and the people in the audience, all +about equally excited by this time. + +“What is it—oh, what is it that’s happened?” gasped Claire McAllister. + +Other women in the company echoed the bewildered and frightened cry. +Panic was loose among them—panic and that horror of the unknown and +uncomprehended which is the worst of all horrors. “What is it?” ran the +quivering question from mouth to mouth like wind in the grass. + +Barrison and Dukane knew what had happened even before, with one +accord, they dashed to the little flight of steps where Mortimer must +have been waiting for his entrance cue. One look was enough. Then the +manager’s voice, clear and authoritative, rang out: + +“Quiet there, every one. Mr. Mortimer has been shot.” + +And swiftly upon the startling statement came Barrison’s command, +given with professional sharpness: + +“Nobody is to leave the theater, please, until the police have been +here!” + +Shuddering and silent now, the men and women drew back as though the +quiet figure upon the floor were a living menace, instead of something +which never again could commit an action of help or of harm. + +Alan Mortimer must have died instantly. + +He lay at the foot of the steps, with his painted face upturned to +the blaze of the glaring electric lights, and an ugly crimson patch +of moisture upon the front of his khaki uniform. There was something +indescribably ghastly in the sight of the make-up upon that dead +countenance. + +Old Wrenn, the valet, was kneeling at the side of his dead master, +trying to close the eyes with his shaking, wrinkled fingers, and making +no attempt to hide the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks. But, +after one look into the stony, painted face of the murdered man, Jim +Barrison turned his attention elsewhere. + +At the head of the four little steps stood Sybil Merivale, in the white +costume of _Lucille_, as motionless as if she were frozen, with her +hands locked together. No ice maiden could have been more still, and +there was a chill horror in her look. + +“Miss Merivale,” said Barrison quickly, “you were standing there when +he was shot?” + +Slowly she bent her head in assent, and seemed to be trying to speak, +but no sound came from her ashen lips. + +“Was it you who screamed?” + +“I—think so.” She spoke with obvious difficulty. “I was frightened. I +think—I screamed. I don’t know.” + +Then every one who was watching started and suppressed the shock they +felt; for she had moved her hands at last—the hands which had been so +convulsively clasped before her. And on her white frock was a long +splash of scarlet. One of the slim hands, as every one could see, was +dyed the same sinister hue. + +She raised it, and looked at it, with her eyes dilating strangely. + +“His blood!” she murmured, in a barely audible voice. + +Dukane had sent Willie Coster out before the curtain to disperse the +audience. The police had been sent for; the doors were guarded. Some of +the girls in the company were sobbing. Only Sybil Merivale preserved +that attitude of awful calm. She seemed unable to move of her own +volition, and remained blind and deaf to every effort to help her down +the four steps. + +It was young Norman Crane, finally, who took her hand in both his, and +gently made her descend. Then, as she stood there, looking like a pale +ghost in her white dress with the rather dull make-up that the scene +had demanded, the boy put his arm gently around her. + +“It’s all right, dear,” he said tenderly. “Don’t look so wild, Sybil. +Of course, it was a shock to you, but you must rouse yourself now.” +He looked at Barrison as he spoke, and the detective thought that +there was a touch of defiance in his tone as he emphasized the words, +“Of course it was a shock to you.” He seemed anxious to establish +definitely this fact. + +Jim quite understood and sympathized with him. That Sybil had had +anything to do with Mortimer’s death the detective did not for a +moment believe, but her position was certainly an equivocal one. This +young actor was clearly in love with her, and the situation must be an +agonizing one for him. + +In confirmation of his conclusions, Barrison heard Crane say to Dukane: + +“Miss Merivale and I are engaged to be married, sir. She is very much +upset, as you see. Will you let me take her to her dressing room?” + +Dukane looked doubtfully at Barrison, who shook his head. + +“I shall be very grateful if Miss Merivale will stay where she is until +the police come,” he said courteously, but firmly. “You might see if +you can’t find her a chair.” For he had no desire to let a witness out +of his sight at this stage of the game. + +Norman Crane flushed under his make-up. “I think you are going rather +far!” he exclaimed hotly. “Surely you don’t think——” + +“I think,” said Barrison, deliberately cutting him short, “that you had +better get the chair, and—has any one any brandy? Miss Merivale looks +very bad indeed.” + +Old Wrenn spoke in a tremulous voice. “There is some in his—in the +dressing room, sir.” + +He went off and brought it, then stood once more beside the body, +wiping his shriveled old cheeks. Barrison, seeing his evident and +genuine grief, made a mental chalk mark to the credit of Alan Mortimer. +There must have been some good in the man, some element of the kind and +the lovable, to have won the devotion of this old servant. + +Crane held the brandy to Sybil’s lips, and she drank a little +mechanically. After a moment or so, her eyes became less strained, her +whole expression more natural, and instead of the frozen blankness +which had been in her face before, there now dawned a more living and +at the same time an inexplicable fear. She looked up at the face of +her young lover with a sort of sharp question in her blue eyes, a look +which puzzled Jim Barrison as he caught it. What was it that she was +mutely asking him? What was it that she was afraid of? + +It had been scarcely five minutes since Mortimer’s murder, yet already +it seemed a long time. They all felt as though that still figure on +the floor had been there for hours. Dukane would have had the dead +man moved to his dressing room, but Barrison insisted that everything +should be left as it was. It was just then that he espied a small +object glittering on the floor just beyond the steps. He stooped, +picked it up, and put it in his pocket. As he turned he saw, to his +surprise, Tony Clay approaching. + +The older detective stared and frowned. + +“Where is Miss Templeton?” he demanded sharply. “I told you to stay +with her whatever happened. Where is she?” + +“That’s what I want to know,” said Tony. “She’s gone!” + +“Gone! When did she go?” + +“Just before the dark scene. She felt faint and sent me for a glass of +water. Before I got back, all that row on the stage started, and when +the lights were turned on again, she’d gone; that’s all.” + +“All!” groaned Barrison despairingly. “Tony, you fool! You fool! Well, +it’s too late to mend matters now.” + +“Did anything happen, after all?” asked Tony, with round eyes. + +Barrison stood aside and let him see Mortimer’s dead body, which had +been hidden from his view by the little group around Sybil. + +“Oh, Heaven!” gasped Tony, horror-stricken. “Then you don’t think +she—Miss Templeton—did it? Why, Jim, she couldn’t—there wasn’t time!” + +“I don’t think so myself. But it’s not our business to do any thinking +at all—just yet. This can be a lesson to you, Tony. When you’re +watching a person, _watch ’em_!” + +“Well, I think it can be a lesson to you, too!” said Tony unexpectedly. +“You’ve been acting all along as though this affair were a movie +scenario, that you thought was entertaining, but not a bit serious, +and——” + +Jim Barrison flushed deeply and miserably. “I know it, Tony,” he said, +in a very grave voice. “Don’t make any mistake about it; I’m getting +mine! I’ll never forgive myself as long as I live.” + +Willie Coster came up to them. He was paler and wilder-eyed than ever, +and his scant red hair stood stiffly erect. Poor Willie! In all his +long years of nightmarish first nights, this was the worst. Any one who +knew him could read in his eyes the agonized determination to go and +get drunk as soon as he possibly could. + +“The police inspector has come,” he said, in a low tone. “And, say, +when you get to sifting things down, I’ve something to say myself.” + +“You have! You know who fired the seventh shot?” + +“I didn’t say that. But if you’ll ask me some questions by and by, I +may have something to tell you.” + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + RECONSTRUCTING THE CRIME + + +Inspector Lowry was an old friend of Barrison’s, though, like most of +the regular force, inclined to treat the younger man as a dilettante +rather than an astute professional. However, he was quite ready to +include Jim in the investigation which he set about making without loss +of time. + +Lowry was a big, raw-boned man of middle age, with a peculiarly soft, +amiable voice, and a habit of looking at almost any point on earth +save the face of the person to whom he was speaking. This seemingly +indifferent manner gave him an enormous advantage over any luckless +soul whom he chanced to be examining, for when he shot the question +which was of all questions the most vital and the most important, he +would suddenly open his eyes and turn their piercing gaze full upon his +victim. That unfortunate, having by that time relaxed his self-guard, +would be apt to betray his innermost emotions under the unexpected gaze. + +Naturally, the first thing to do was to get Sybil Merivale’s story. + +His manner to the girl was not unkindly. She was a piteous figure +enough, as she sat drooping in the chair they had brought her, trying +to keep her eyes from turning, with a dreadful fascination, to the +spatter of red upon the steps so near her. Norman Crane stood at her +side, with the air of defying the universe, if it were necessary, for +her protection. Once in a while she would look up at him, and always +with that subtle expression of apprehension and uncertainty which +Barrison found so hard to read. + +“Miss—ah—Merivale? Quite so, quite so. Miss Merivale, if you feel +strong enough, I should be glad if you would tell us what you know +about the shooting.” The inspector’s voice was mild as honey, and his +glance wandered about this queer, shadowy world behind the scenes. It +is doubtful if he had ever made an investigation in such surroundings. +To see him, one would have said that he was interested in everything +except in Sybil Merivale and what she had to tell. + +“I don’t know anything about it,” she answered simply. + +“But you were quite close to him when he was shot, were you not?” + +“Yes.” She shuddered, and looked down at the stain of blood upon her +dress. “He was just taking me up in his arms to carry me on——” + +“That was in the—ah—action of the play?” + +“Yes. After the six shots, I heard another, and felt him stagger. I +slipped to the floor, and he fell at once. He put out his hand to catch +at the scenery.” She pointed to the canvas door of the stage set +which still stood open. “I felt something warm on my hand.” She closed +her eyes as though the remembrance made her faint. “Then he—he fell +backward down the steps. That’s all.” + +“Ah, yes.” The inspector thought for a moment, and then he said to +Dukane: “Would it be possible for every one to go to the places they +occupied at the moment of the shooting? I am assuming that every one is +here who was here then?” + +“Every one; so far as I know, no one has been allowed to leave the +theater. Willie, tell them to take their places.” + +Willie caused a rather ghastly sensation when he called out: +“Everybody, please! On the stage, every one who is in the last act!” + +There was a murmur among the actors. + +“Good Lord!” muttered Claire McAllister. “They ain’t goin’ to rehearse +us _now_, are they?” + +Dukane explained, and with all the lights blazing, the players took +the positions they had occupied at the beginning of the dark scene. +Stage carpenters and sceneshifters did the same; also Willie and his +assistant, even Dukane and Barrison. The woman Parry and old Wrenn went +into the dressing rooms, where they had been, and closed the doors. +Sybil Merivale mounted the little flight of steps and stood at the top, +looking through the open door onto the stage. + +“Is that just the way you stood?” + +Every one answered “yes” to this question. + +One or two things became apparent by this plan, which rather surprised +Barrison. He had not, for one thing, realized how close Willie Coster +stood to the place where Mortimer fell. Yet, of course, he should have +expected it. It was, as a matter of fact, Willie who directed the six +shots, which were supposed to come from the point back of _Tarrant’s_ +entrance. There were, as it turned out, at least three persons who were +so close as to have been material witnesses had there been any light: +Willie, the man who fired the shots and had charge of other off-stage +effects, and—Norman Crane. + +Crane took up his position immediately inside the box set, close to the +doorway. + +“Is that where you stood?” asked Lowry. + +“Yes. I played the part of a Mexican desperado, and was supposed to be +on guard at the door leading down into the cellar, which was the stage.” + +“The door was open, as it is now?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then you could have seen through it anything that happened on the +steps off stage?” + +“I could have if there had been light enough.” + +“As it was, you didn’t see anything?” + +“No.” + +“Didn’t hear anything?” + +The young man seemed to pause for just a moment before he said “No,” to +this question also. If the inspector noticed his hesitation, he did +not appear to do so. He began to talk in an undertone to one of the men +who had come with him. + +John Carlton had been sending in frantic messages ever since the +tragedy, begging to be permitted to come behind, but the allied powers +there agreed that there were enough people marooned as it was. There +was nothing to be gained by adding another, and one whom it would +probably be unnecessary either to hold or to bind with nervousness and +disappointment. + +In an undertone, Dukane said to Jim Barrison: “I thought they always +sent for a doctor first of all? Why isn’t there one here?” + +“There is,” returned Jim, in the same tone. “He’s over there with the +two policemen and the plain-clothes man who came in with Lowry—the +little, old fellow with spectacles. Lowry’ll call on him again in a +moment; he examined the body and pronounced life extinct. That was all +that was absolutely necessary. Lowry has his own way of doing things, +and he’s supreme in his department. He’s ‘reconstructing the crime’ +just now.” + +Barrison, indeed, was listening with gradually increasing interest. +This method which was being employed by Inspector Lowry, sometimes +known as the “reconstruction-of-the-crime” method, was rather +old-fashioned, and many younger and more modern men preferred the more +scientific, analytical, and deductive ways of solving mysteries. Yet +there was something distinctly fascinating, even illuminating, about +the inspector’s simple, sure-fire fashion of setting his stage and +perhaps his trap at one and the same time. Barrison felt his own veins +tingle with the leap of his roused blood. + +“Barrison,” said Lowry pleasantly, “just go up there on those steps, +and be Mortimer for a minute. So!” The younger man obeyed with +alacrity. “Miss Merivale, was that about where he stood?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you are sure that you yourself were just where you are now?” + +“Yes.” + +“Just there, you know. Not more to the right?” + +She glanced at him with faint wonder. + +“I think I may have been a little more to the right,” she said. “That +is, to your right, and my left. But I don’t see why you thought so—and +it doesn’t matter, does it?” + +“And you, Mr. Crane,” pursued the inspector, paying no attention to her +last words, “you are absolutely certain of where you stood?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Ah, yes, quite so; quite so!” murmured Lowry, looking dreamily into +space. Suddenly he faced about and said sharply: “Mr. Crane, will you +kindly lift your right hand and point it at Mr. Barrison? Just so; +exactly! At that range, you could hardly have missed him.” + +Norman Crane clenched his fists in a white heat of indignation. “You +dare to imply——” + +“Only what your fiancée has already been fearing,” said the inspector +calmly, “that your position in this matter is, to say the least, not +less unpleasant than hers. You were, as is evident, only a few feet +away from the man.” + +Crane started to speak, but checked himself. Barrison thought he +knew what he would have said; or, if he was not going to say it, he +should have, for the direction of the bullet was a thing which ought +to be easily determined. But something prevented the young actor from +uttering anything resembling a protest; it was simple to see what it +was. + +Sybil Merivale, however unwillingly or unconsciously, had given color +to suspicion against him by the low, heart-broken sobbing into which +she had broken at the bare suggestion. + +After one quick look at the obvious distress of the young girl whom he +loved so well, Norman Crane suddenly changed his antagonistic attitude. +He faced the detectives quietly, and said to them, in a manner that was +not without dignity: + +“Very well. I admit that it looks bad for me. I suppose that is enough? +If you feel that you have any case at all against me, I shall make no +trouble. Do you mean to arrest me?” + +The inspector looked at him rather more directly than was his wont, and +also longer. + +At last he allowed himself to smile, and though he was known to be +a hard man with even possible criminals, the smile was singularly +pleasant just then. + +“Bless you,” he remarked tranquilly, “that’s all a matter for our +medical friends to settle! If the bullet entered the body at a certain +angle and a certain range, it will let you out.” + +“Then all this,” exclaimed Crane angrily—it was so like a boy to +be most enraged when most relieved—“all this is waste of time—pure +theatrics?” + +But at this point Willie Coster interfered. “Say, Mr. Inspector,” he +said, awkwardly but determinedly, “I’m not crazy about a spotlight on +myself, but just here there’s something I ought to say. I was pretty +close by, myself, you understand.” + +“Exactly where you are now?” + +“Yes. And until the lantern was broken in the scrap scene, there was a +little light shining through that door from the stage. See?” + +“Yes!” It was not only the representatives of the law who listened +eagerly now. “Go on, man, go on!” + +“Well”—Willie hesitated, gulped, and plunged ahead—“I saw a woman’s +shadow on the wall, and she had something in her hand. That’s all I +wanted to say.” + +“Something in her——A revolver?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Would you be prepared to—ah—say that you recognized the shadow?” + +“I would not. One woman’s shadow’s much like another, so far as I can +see; and the women, too, for that matter! I never troubled to tell ’em +apart!” + +“And you won’t even express a—ah—an impression as to whether what this +shadow woman held was a weapon or not?” + +“No!” snapped Willie impatiently. “Why should I? I didn’t think about +it at the time. I was waiting to time those shots. All I know is that +it was a woman, and that she was holding something. She had something +in her hand.” + +“I’d give something if I had it in mine!” muttered the inspector +fervently, more fervently than he usually permitted himself to speak +when on a case. + +Barrison put his hand in his pocket and drew out the thing which he had +found in the shadow of the miniature stairway. He thought it the proper +time to hand it over, and he said: + +“I think you have it now, Lowry! The barrel was still warm when I +picked it up a few minutes after the murder.” + + + + + CHAPTER X + + FACTS AND FANCIES + + +A short while later the inspector addressed them mildly: + +“I very often get a great deal of blame because I won’t do things +in a regulation way. But, even while I get the blame, I also get +the results—sometimes, not always.” The inspector looked around him +thoughtfully, and repeated: “Not always. As most people know, the first +thing we must do in locating a crime is to find out who could have done +it; next, who wanted to do it. The opportunity is valueless without +the wish; the wish is not enough without the opportunity. But, of the +two essential points, the opportunity is the big thing. For instance, +some one standing in Miss Merivale’s position—I mean, of course, her +physical position—might have that opportunity. It also seems to me that +some one standing on the stage level, on the right of the steps, and +reaching upward, would have practically the same opportunity.” + +He took the little pistol and balanced it lightly in his big hand. Then +he walked over to the point at which the weapon had been found at the +side of the steps which was farthest from the front. + +He raised his arm and pointed at Barrison, who still stood where +Mortimer had been standing. + +“You see,” he said, “it could have been done this way. The bullet would +have entered the body under the right arm as he picked Miss Merivale +up, supposing her story to have been true.” + +“Then,” exclaimed Norman Crane eagerly, “that eliminates both Miss +Merivale and myself from the suspects!” + +“It surely eliminates you,” rejoined the police officer calmly, +“because you couldn’t have thrown this gun through the door so that +it fell where it did fall, unless you were a particularly skillful +baseball pitcher; and then you couldn’t! But, as for Miss Merivale—Miss +Merivale, we will suppose that you are going to shoot this man; please +consider Mr. Barrison in that light. He is taller than you; the weapon +you use may be held close to your side to avoid detection.” + +“I had no weapon!” she flashed. + +“Naturally not, naturally not!” agreed the inspector, with a pacific +wave of his hand. “But you might have had, you know——” + +“How could——” + +“Pouf, pouf, my dear Miss Merivale! How you carried it—or, rather, +could have carried it, is a secondary matter. I never saw a woman’s +costume yet in which she could not secrete anything she wanted. Your +dress is one of the very modern, extra loose coat affairs; there are a +hundred ways in which you _could_ have secreted anything you wished. I +didn’t say you had; I merely said that you were foolish to say it was +impossible. As I was saying, if you did happen to have a pistol and +did happen to shoot it off at Mr. Mortimer, the angle would be very +much the same as that taken by the bullet of some one standing somewhat +below and reaching upward as far as they could.” + +“Oh!” cried Sybil breathlessly. “You forget—he would have been shot +squarely in front, if I had done it—or Norman!” + +“Yes?” said Lowry, pleasantly attentive. + +“Why, yes!” she reminded him. “He was facing me.” + +“We have only your word,” said the officer gently. + +“I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then stopped in discomfort. He +recalled that he had sworn not to have seen anything through the open +door. + +Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself from reminding him +that his testimony under the circumstances would be rather worse +than nothing. To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without any +discourtesy to you, we are bound to consider any and all possibilities.” + +“But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all that would be settled by +the doctors!” + +“I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily, Miss Merivale’s. +Doctor Colton?” + +The little man with spectacles stepped forward, and, after a brief +interchange of words with the inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer. + +Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to have the murdered man carried +in somewhere, just as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees it. +The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite so—quite so! That will do +excellently. Very near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured +the distance between the door of the room and the spot where the murder +had taken place. “Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh, here’s the +medical examiner now. In a minute I think you may dismiss your people, +most of them, that is. We shall know where to reach them, if necessary, +eh?” + +“Of course—at any time.” + +“Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale, and—let me see—the man +who was on guard at the door between the front and back. And your +stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to him a bit later. But the +rest—what do you call them—supers?” + +“Extras. I may dismiss the extras?” + +“I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs in the upper tier +of rooms, weren’t they?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then I doubt if we want them——” + +Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper that Claire +McAllister should be held. He knew that she was bound to talk sooner +or later about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and he felt that +it might as well be sooner as later. Barrison, looking toward the star +dressing room, saw that the door was a little open, and that old Wrenn +was standing in the aperture, with an expression of intense agitation +upon his wrinkled face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear, it +would be impossible at that juncture to say. Barrison rather believed +it was the latter. Though of what could that old man be so acutely +afraid? + +There was another person who was taking an exceptional interest in the +proceedings, the uniformed guard who had been placed on duty at the +communicating door, the young man whom the inspector had said he wished +to question later. Lowry suddenly turned upon him. + +“Is that where you stood at the time of the shooting?” he demanded. + +The young man started and flushed. + +“N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there by the door.” + +“Then go back there over by the door, and stay there until you are told +to move.” + +The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and muttering something +under his breath. + +Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed, and the body was to +be removed, Barrison felt that Lowry had not yet quite finished with +his reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by young Crane as +“theatrics.” His instinct was not at fault. + +The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward Sybil Merivale. “Miss +Merivale,” he said, “you have already given us some testimony which +doubtless was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg you to be even +more generous. You have said that you stood there at the head of the +steps, waiting for your cue. I should like you now to be more detailed. +You are relating, remember, what occurred within the last two minutes +of Alan Mortimer’s life. There could scarcely be two minutes more +important, and I must ask you as solemnly and urgently as I can to omit +nothing that could possibly throw any light upon the problem of how he +met his death. Will you repeat what you said before, with any additions +that come to you as you strain your memory?” + +“I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What more is there to +tell?” + +“Try to remember!” said the inspector. + +Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing, and that he had no idea of +anything further that the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil +flushed painfully and looked away. The younger detective shook his head +in silent admiration. The inspector might be old-fashioned, but he had +his inspirations. + +“I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a low voice, “and looking at +the stage through the open door. I have told you that.” + +“What was your cue, Miss Merivale?” + +“But you know that—after the lantern was broken, there were to be six +shots, and he”—she would not mention his name—“was to carry me on in +his arms.” + +“Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough. “It is true that we +have heard this before, Miss Merivale, but in my experience even the +most honest witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated the words +with faint emphasis—“seldom tells a story precisely the same twice. You +were standing there——” + +“I was standing there, and I heard him come up behind me.” + +“How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if you were not looking in his +direction?” + +“I heard him speak.” + +“What did he say?” + +“I don’t know. He was muttering to himself. He seemed horribly +angry—upset. I thought——” She checked herself. + +“What did you think?” + +“That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very much excited. He kept +muttering things under his breath, and once he stumbled.” + +Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally; but he was cold sober +to-night. I know.” + +“Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then it was something else +which had upset him; quite so. You see, one gets more from the second +telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss Merivale. You knew +from his voice that he was excited. Did he come up onto the steps at +once?” + +“I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly; she seemed honestly +confused. “When he spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken a +step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn round at once.” + +“Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?” + +“Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then paled. “It hasn’t—truly, +it hasn’t—anything to do with—all this!” she pleaded. + +“I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of that,” Lowry said, quite +gently; Barrison had an idea that the old sleuth was truly sorry for +the girl, but he never willingly left a trail. “What did he say?” + +“He said—he said: ‘If you knew the state of mind I’m in, you’d think I +was showing great self-control toward you, this minute!’ That’s exactly +what he said.” + +“What did he mean by that?” demanded the inspector, surprised and not +taking the trouble, for once, to hide it. + +She was silent. + +“I asked you, Miss Merivale, if you have any idea what he meant by so +peculiar a greeting? Can you think of anything in your acquaintance—in +your relation with him—which might explain it?” + +“Yes!” she said, lifting her head and answering boldly. “I know +perfectly well what he meant. He was excited or probably he would not +have said it then, for he cared awfully about his profession, his work +on the stage, and he would ordinarily have been thinking most of that, +just then. But he meant—I am sure he meant that—the darkness gave +him—opportunities.” + +“Opportunities?” + +“Opportunities—such as—such as—he had abused before.” + +There was the pause of a breath. + +“You mean,” said Inspector Lowry, “that he had forced his attentions +upon you in the past?” + +“Yes.” + +“Against your will? I asked you—against your will?” + +“I had always refused his attentions,” she answered, with hesitation. + +The detectives noted the change of phrase as she answered, but the +inspector made no comment. + +“Very well,” he said. “What did you answer then? I presume you turned +round to face him?” + +“Yes, I did.” + +“What did you answer?” + +“I didn’t say anything—then.” + +“Ah—not then! What did you do, Miss Merivale? Did you hear me?” + +“Yes, I heard you. I did not do anything. I stood still. I was +frightened.” + +“You stood still, facing him. Could you see him?” + +“Yes. He was just below me. I could see him, and I thought I heard him +laugh in a—a dreadful way. He came up two of the steps, and I could see +his face.” + +“It was not the dark scene yet?” + +“No; the lantern was not yet out. It was dark, but not pitch dark. His +face frightened me. He had frightened me before.” + +“And did Mr. Mortimer speak to you again?” + +“Yes.” + +The answer came in a gasping breath, and Norman Crane seemed to echo +it unconsciously. He was following every syllable that she spoke with +a terrible attentiveness, and at that last “yes” he shuddered and drew +his breath quickly. Lowry fixed him with that disconcerting, unexpected +look of his. + +“So that was what you heard through the open door!” he said, making it +a statement, not a query. “Well, Miss Merivale, he was coming up the +steps toward you, and he said——” + +“He said, ‘When I pick you up to-night to carry you onto the stage—I +shall kiss you!’” + +The shudder that came with this admission shook her. Her eyes turned +toward the body which, for some reason, had not yet been taken away, +and in their gaze there was fear and loathing, and—it might be—contempt. + +“Ah!” said Inspector Lowry, apparently unsurprised. “And what did you +answer, Miss Merivale?” + +She hardly seemed to hear. Her eyes were still fixed upon that dead +face, awful in its paint and powder, such a handsome face, lately so +full of compelling charm, even now a face that one could scarcely pass +without a second look. + +“What did you say, Miss Merivale?” + +She paused for only a moment; then, looking straight at the inspector, +she replied very deliberately indeed: + +“I said: ‘If you do that—I shall kill you!’” + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + IN THE STAR DRESSING ROOM + + +A brief pause followed Sybil’s unexpectedly dramatic statement. Then +Inspector Lowry bowed gravely. + +“That is all, Miss Merivale,” he said, without looking at her. “We +shall not want you for a while, though I shall have to speak to you +again later. I should advise you, as a friend, to go to your own +dressing room to rest.” + +“May I—mayn’t I—go home?” she asked piteously. But on such points as +these no amount of courtesy or human sympathy could make Lowry less +inexorable. + +“Not just yet,” he said calmly. “Later, we shall see. Go and rest, my +dear young lady. Do go and rest!” + +Norman Crane started forward to help her, but, to every one’s surprise, +Claire McAllister, the extra woman who had been kept for possibly +relevant testimony, was before him. + +“You come with me, you poor kid!” she exclaimed, as tenderly as she +possibly could. “I’ll see to you. Gee, but this is a bunch of boobs, +not to see that you’re about as apt to get in wrong as a two-months’ +one! Come on, deary!” + +They vanished within the dressing room wherein Sybil had dressed for a +possible triumph that selfsame evening—hard as it was for any of them +to believe it. That evening? It might just as well have been a month +earlier, and even Dukane, the imperturbable, was haggard with the +strain already. + +To him Lowry said something in a low voice, and the manager turned at +once to Mortimer’s valet, still standing at the door: + +“Wrenn, clear the couch in there. We are——” He paused, respecting the +man’s feelings, and ended gently: “We are bringing him in.” + +They carried the big, splendidly made form into the room which he +had left such a short time before, in such a high tide of life and +strength. There was nothing of tragedy in this setting. Barrison looked +about him curiously, as though he were in a queer sort of dream in +which all manner of incongruities might be expected. + +There were brilliant electric bulbs topping and framing the glass on +the dressing table; Barrison knew that actors were obliged to test +their make-up under various lighting effects, and there was something +darkly strange in this array of lights still ready for a test that +could not come again—for Mortimer. At that same table, under the same +bulbs, other stars would put on paint and wigs and costumes. This one +would do so no more. + +In that vivid glare, the litter of the paraphernalia of make-up glowed +with a somewhat gay, decorative effect. Rouge boxes and cold-cream jars +and sticks of grease paint lay just as he had left them. Evidently +Mortimer had been “touching up” for the last act, and the valet had not +yet had time to clear up or put away anything. + +Lowry’s keen eyes ran over the room, in that seemingly cursory but +actually minute inspection which characterized his methods. There was +nothing about it unlike other theatrical dressing rooms. There was +the usual long dresser with its rows of brilliant bulbs; there were +the clothes hanging on the walls; there was the couch—now bearing +that tragic burden, the magnificent body in khaki—the big trunk, the +two chairs—the small one by the table, and the easy one for rest and +visitors. Apparently, there was nothing in the room for a detective to +note, save the dead man, and—here the inspector’s glance became more +vague, a sure sign that he was particularly interested, for he was +looking at Wrenn. + +The old man, in his decent black clothes, was standing near the couch; +and he was watching the intruders with a sort of baleful combination +of terror and resentment. The fear which he had shown in his face when +he looked out of the dressing-room door a few minutes since, had not +vanished from it; but to it was added another, and a not less violent +emotion. He was angry, he was on the defensive. He might, for the +moment, have been some cornered animal, frightened, but nevertheless +about to spring upon his enemy. + +It was against Lowry’s principles to ask questions at such moments +as might be considered obvious; so it was Dukane who said, with some +asperity: + +“What’s the matter, Wrenn?” + +The old man’s face worked and his voice shook, as he returned: + +“Mr. Dukane, sir—you—you aren’t going to let all these people in here, +to poke and pry about among my poor master’s things? It’s—it’s a wicked +shame, so it is! I’d never have thought it possible! It’s an outrage——” + +“You’re crazy, Wrenn!” said Dukane, trying to remember the old fellow’s +bereavement, and doing his best to speak kindly instead of impatiently. +“These are detectives, officers of the law. They are on this case, and +they have a perfect right to do anything they want to.” + +“But, sir”—the old servant was working himself up more and more, and +his cracked voice was growing shrill—“what are they doing here, sir? +What can they have to do here? Can’t his—his poor body rest in peace +without a—a lot of policemen poking——” + +The inspector interrupted him placidly. “Much obliged for the +suggestion, Wrenn! We might not have thought of searching this dressing +room, but, thanks to you, we certainly will now!” + +“Of course,” he said to Barrison later, “we’d have had to do it anyway, +but I wanted to scare that old chap into thinking it was chiefly his +doing!” + +Wrenn gasped. “Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Dukane!” he implored. “Can’t he—lie +in peace—just for to-night? I—I’d like to sit with him to-night, sir. +Surely there’s no harm?” + +“Was he so very kind to you?” said the inspector sympathetically. + +Wrenn hesitated. “Mostly he was, sir,” he said at last, quite simply. +And then he added in a queer, forlorn way: “I—I’ve been with him a long +time, you know, sir.” + +The detectives, despite Wrenn’s protests, searched the room with +methodical thoroughness. If there was one single thing, no bigger than +a pin, which ought not, in the nature of things, to be in a dressing +room of this kind, why, they were there to find it. + +“But why?” Dukane whispered to Barrison. “Not that there is the +slightest objection—but what is it Lowry expects to find?” + +“He doesn’t,” replied Barrison. “He’s from Missouri; he wants to be +shown. We always search the premises, you know——” + +“But it wasn’t here he was killed.” + +“No; but it was so near here that——Hello! They’ve got something!” + +He spoke in the tone of suppressed excitement that a fox hunter might +have used. + +The plain-clothes man with the inspector had opened the trunk, and was +staring into it with a puzzled face. At the same moment, Wrenn emitted +a low moan, as though, after a struggle, he found himself obliged to +give up at last. He staggered a trifle, and caught at the back of a +chair to steady himself. + +“Well,” said the inspector, softly jocose. “Haven’t found the murderer +in that trunk, have you, Sims?” + +“No, sir,” said the officer; but his voice was as puzzled as his eyes. +“Only this.” + +He took something out of the trunk, and held it up in the unsparing +glare of the dressing-room lights. It was assuredly an odd sort of +article to be found in a man’s theater trunk. For it was a piece of +filmy white stuff, with lace upon it, badly torn. + +“A sleeve,” said the inspector, with an obvious accent of astonishment. +“A woman’s sleeve—let’s have a look at it.” + +He took it into his own hands. Clearly, it was the sleeve and part of +the shoulder of a woman’s dress or blouse, trimmed with elaborate, but +rather coarse and cheap lace. On the front, where it had evidently been +ripped and torn away from the original garment, were finger prints, +stamped in a brownish red. + +The inspector’s eyes strayed to the dressing table with its array of +paints and powders. + +“Anything there that will correspond? Barrison, take a look, while +Sims goes through the rest of the trunk.” + +Barrison returned with a jar. + +“It’s bolamine,” explained Dukane. “They use it for a dark make-up, +to suggest tan or sunburn. Mortimer would naturally use it in an +out-of-door part of this sort.” + +“On his hands, too?” + +“Surely on his hands; only amateurs forget the hands.” + +“Ah!” said Lowry. “We’ll have the finger prints examined and compared +with Mortimer’s, though it’s scarcely necessary, I imagine. It’s so +evident that——” + +Wrenn broke in, almost frantically: + +“It’s only a make-up rag, sir! Every one uses make-up rags, sir, to +wipe the make-up off!” + +“Ah!” said Lowry. “You provided yourself with these make-up rags, then?” + +“Yes, sir!” Wrenn spoke eagerly. “I asked the chambermaid at the hotel +for some old pieces for Mr. Mortimer, and——” + +“Wrenn, don’t be a fool,” said Lowry, speaking sharply for the first +time. “In the first place—unless I am much mistaken—make-up rags are +used only when the make-up is taken off—right, Mr. Dukane?” + +The manager nodded. + +“And then—why, in that case, was this rag so precious that you had to +shut it up in a trunk, before it had been used? For I take it that a +make-up rag doesn’t show just one or two complete sets of finger prints +when a man gets through with it! It must look something like a rag +that’s used on brasses or an automobile! Also, I see that there are two +or three cloths already on the dressing table.” + +He turned his back on Wrenn, and examined the bit of linen that he +held, while the other detectives held their breath. + +“This,” he said at last, “was torn from the dress of some woman who was +in the dressing room to-night, at some time after Mortimer was made up.” + +He turned to Dukane, with the faintest shrug, and said: + +“You know, when I tried to reconstruct the crime by putting every +one in their places—the places they had occupied at the time of the +shooting—I was attempting the impossible. For there evidently was some +one else here, some one who has gone; some one”—his eyes flew suddenly +and piercingly to Wrenn—“whom this man wishes to shield.” + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + THE TWO DOORWAYS + + +Whether it was strictly correct or not, no one was in a position to +question, but, anyway, Inspector Lowry told Sybil finally to go home +after leaving her address. A lot of skeleton theories had come tumbling +down with the discovery that another and unknown woman had been present +in Mortimer’s dressing room that night. + +Even Claire McAllister’s testimony—that Miss Merivale had told her she +sometimes wished she could kill their star—fell flat after Sybil’s own +confession of not only what she had felt, but what she had threatened. + +The whole business was, as Barrison could see, a sickening one for +Inspector Lowry. He had fallen down right and left; practically +speaking, he had nothing left now to work on, out of all his ingenious +work of reconstruction. + +Only his examination of the two men on guard at the doors had brought +out anything clear cut, anything on which seriously to work. + +First of all, he had questioned Joe Lynch, the young fellow whose job +it had been to keep any one save the detective and the manager from +passing either way through the communicating door. + +“Your name is Joe Lynch, you say?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You have already said that you stood there by the communicating door +during the dark scene, Lynch?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Just there?” + +“As near as I can say, sir, yes. I was close up here by the door. My +orders was to keep it shut except for the detectives or Mr. Dukane.” + +“And did you know why?” + +“Why, how do you mean, sir?” + +“Did you understand why the orders were so strict to-night of all +nights?” + +“Oh, that. Yes, sir; I knew there’d been some talk of Mr. Mortimer +being in some sort of danger.” + +“Who told you?” + +“Why, I couldn’t say, sir. I don’t rightly know. Them things gets +about. Anyhow, I knew that; and I was, so to speak, sort o’ set on +taking care of Mr. Mortimer.” + +“Did you like him, then?” + +The young man’s dull eyes opened wide. + +“Me, sir?” he said, in surprise. “I never see him to talk to. But I was +wanting to do my part. Mr. Dukane and Mr. Barrison, too, told me I was +to look sharp. So I did.” + +“Ah! You did, eh? You looked sharp, eh?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Sure?” + +“Why, yes, sir! Course I did! I—I was keen on showing I was as quick as +the next.” + +“Ah! How were you going to show that?” + +Young Lynch laughed frankly, yet with a sort of embarrassment, too. + +“Well, sir, Mr. Dukane, he offered twenty-five dollars either to Mr. +Roberts or me if we could spot any one trying anything suspicious, or +anything.” + +“_Ah!_” The inspector’s laconic monosyllable sounded a bit sharper than +usual. “So that was it! Lynch, you were standing there when you heard +the shot?” + +“Yes, sir, as near as I can say now, in these very tracks.” + +The inspector stood beside him and let his eyes move slowly from the +big door beside them to the little flight of steps where the star had +met his death. + +“Mighty narrow way to pass,” he murmured, half to himself. + +“Sir?” said Lynch respectfully. + +The inspector continued to measure distances with his eye. + +“You see,” he said to Lynch, “if you will draw a straight line from +here where we stand, past the angle of the property-room corner to the +entrance where Mr. Mortimer was waiting, do you see what I mean?” + +Lynch looked obediently where he was directed. “No, sir,” he said, +after he had looked. + +Lowry sighed gently. “Not much space to pass any one, anyway,” he +murmured. + +Lynch looked at him, still blankly. + +“Lynch,” said the inspector, “if I were in your place, and had a chance +of making twenty-five dollars if I caught any one, and while I was on +duty like this, and heard a shot——” + +He paused, not seeming to look at Lynch, but really noting every shadow +and light that passed over his face. + +“If I were, in short, as you had been situated, I should have left +my post when I heard that shot and run forward toward the man I was +supposed to guard. I think I should have considered it my duty.” + +“Would you, indeed, sir?” cried young Lynch hopefully. + +The inspector suddenly looked at him and said dryly. “So that’s what +you did? Suppose you tell me all about it. You heard the shot, and——” + +“If you please, sir,” protested the young man eagerly and rather +unhappily, “it wasn’t the shot; leastways, I didn’t know about how many +shots there’d be. It was the scream. I heard the shots, one after the +other, and then the scream—a dreadful scream, if you please, sir. And, +of course, I thought first of all of Mr. Mortimer, and there being +danger, and—and all that. And I run forward, sir, a few steps, through +the dark, wishing to be of some use, and——” + +“And to get the twenty-five dollars?” + +“Well, sir, that perhaps; of course, I’m not saying that wasn’t in the +back of my mind. But what I was thinking of first was that there was +trouble, and that I might be needed.” + +“That’s all right; I believe you.” Lowry spoke shortly, but not at all +unkindly. “The point is that, within half a second of the time of the +shooting, you had left this particular point, and run in the direction +of the shots. In other words, Lynch, this door was unguarded.” + +“Unguarded, sir!” Lynch was aghast, and truly so. “Unguarded, sir! But +I had been at my post all the evening! No one had gone in or out——” + +“No one had gone in or out during the evening, I am absolutely +convinced. But, after the murder, any one who chanced to be there could +have gone out. Isn’t that so?” + +“But——” The young guard’s troubled eyes began to measure the distance +between the door and the stage steps, just as the detectives had done +before. + +“Ah!” said Lowry. “You see why I spoke of the narrow passage which +would have to be traversed. It would be very narrow, indeed. Any one +who wanted to get from those steps to the communicating door would +have to pass you at very close quarters, Lynch. And yet—the thing could +be done. The thing could be done. I have not lived so long without +learning that it is these unlikely, well-nigh impossible things that +come off in the smoothest way of all. All right, Lynch, I’m obliged to +you. It’s not your fault. You were a bit overzealous, but I don’t think +we’ll put you in jail for that. However you look at it, you’ve shown us +one way in which the murderer might have escaped.” + +He turned and crooked his arm in that of Barrison. + +“Now, we’ll go and interview the stage doorkeeper,” he said. Together +he and Barrison attacked old Roberts, who confronted him at the +entrance with a look of mingled apprehension and bravado. His round, +flabby face was rather pale, and he gave the impression of a weak old +child trying to act like a brave man. + +“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he demanded, in a tone that broke +timidly in spite of himself. + +They were both very nice to him. In this case, Lowry let Barrison do +most of the talking, feeling that it was a case that required tact. +He stood back in thoughtful silence while Jim got around the old +doorkeeper in his very best and most diplomatic style with the result +that within five minutes poor old Roberts was crumpling up in rather a +piteous fashion, perfectly ready to tell them anything and everything +he had ever done, said, or heard of. + +“I didn’t mean no harm,” he protested at last, with such an attitude +of abasement that neither Barrison nor, indeed, Lowry had the heart to +rub it in. “I do hope—oh, I do hope, that you’ll not let Mr. Dukane +discharge me! I’ve been here a good many years, and no one can say as +I’ve not been faithful. I don’t believe there’s been another night in +all my life when I’ve left my post.” + +“It would have to be to-night!” murmured Lowry. + +“It would!” agreed Barrison. “Go on, Roberts. No one wants to kill you, +and I don’t believe there’s the least likelihood of your losing your +job. Just tell us——” + +“You don’t know Mr. Dukane, sir!” Roberts almost wept. “He’s strict, +sir; very strict! He says a thing and you’ve got to do it, no matter +what happens! _I_ know—haven’t I been working for him for twenty years? +And now to be fired and out——” + +“Who said you were going to be fired? Get along, Roberts! Tell us what +it was that you did.” + +“I left the stage door, sir,” said Roberts humbly. + +“That we gathered. But why did you leave it, and when, and for how +long?” + +Roberts sniffed and answered in a small stifled voice: + +“As to when I left it, sir—it was when Mrs. Parry came to ask me to get +a taxi for Miss Legaye.” + +“Why didn’t you get a taxi, then—telephone for one?” + +“I did, sir. I telephoned two places, but there wasn’t a single machine +in. The starters all said the same thing: It looked like rain, and +they couldn’t guarantee a taxi for an hour yet. I—I like Miss Kitty, +sir; she’s always kind to me, and I didn’t want her to have to wait, +’specially when she was sick, as Mrs. Parry said she was. So, when I +found I couldn’t get one over the wire, I went out into the alley to +see if I could see one passing.” + +“Well, that doesn’t seem very awful,” said Barrison, smiling at him. +“Did you get one?” + +Poor old Roberts brightened a bit at the kindly inflection. + +“I couldn’t see one, sir, not from this door, so I went up to the gate +at the end of the court, and looked up and down the street. And after +a minute I saw one coming and hailed it, and it stopped. So I ran +back again; and Miss Legaye was standing just outside the stage door, +waiting. So I called to her ‘All right, Miss Legaye, your taxi’s here!’ +and went on back. She passed me, in her red coat, about halfway, and +I told her I was sorry to have kept her waiting. Then I hurried back +here.” + +“And you are sure you didn’t pass any one but Miss Legaye in the alley, +no one coming in?” + +The old fellow shook his head. “So far as any one going out goes,” +he said, “how do I know? My eyes are not so young as they were. But +coming in! Why, I was back here! How could any one pass me in the light +without my seeing them?” + +“But,” suggested Barrison, “while you were down at the street signaling +the taxi, some one who had been hiding in the alley might have slipped +in, mightn’t they?” + +Old Roberts hung his head, and his whole heavy body expressed dejection. + +“That’s what I keep saying to myself, sir!” he whispered. “Not that I +think it’s likely—but—my eyes aren’t what they once were, and suppose +the murderer was hiding there, and just waiting for a chance to get in?” + +“And how long, altogether, were you away?” Lowry spoke for the first +time. + +“That’s easy, sir. I went out a few minutes after Mrs. Parry told me to +send for the taxi, and I had just come back when Mr. Barrison here came +out to ask me if I’d seen any one pass.” + +“That was just before the shooting,” Barrison said. + +“_Before_ the shooting. And you’re prepared to swear, Roberts, that no +one came out of the theater after that?” + +“I am, sir!” The old man’s eyes, dim as they were, left no room for +doubt; he was speaking the truth. + +“All right, Roberts. I’m sure you’ve told the truth, and Mr. Dukane +shall be told so. I don’t believe you’ll lose your job. Just the same, +I wish you hadn’t gone to hunt taxicabs at that particular moment.” + +As the two detectives walked away, Lowry said under his breath: +“We’ve proved that no one left the theater by the stage door after +the shooting, but we’ve proved that they might have done so by the +communicating door. We’ve proved that Lynch was at his post for the +whole evening up to the shooting, so that no one could have come in +by that way before then; but, since he left it afterward, there is no +reason to suppose that that some one could not have made their exit +that way after the crime. In other words, my dear friend and colleague, +while we can’t prove it, we can find a perfectly possible way for the +murderer to have entered and an equally possible way for him, or her, +to have departed.” + +“You think that—whoever it was—came in while Roberts was blundering up +or down the alley?” + +“I see no other explanation. Barrison, you are not officially under me, +but I respect your judgment, and I like your work. I should be obliged +if you would take on such branches of this case as seem to lie in your +way. You have been in it since—so to speak—its inception. You should +have a line on many aspects of it that I couldn’t possibly get, coming +into it as I must, from a purely and coldly official standpoint. I’ll +expect you to do your darnedest on it, and help me in every way you +can. Right?” + +“Right, sir.” The young detective’s tone was full of ardor. + +“Then good night to you. One moment. Did you notice the initial on this +pistol, the one you picked up?” + +He produced it as he spoke. + +“No,” said Jim. “I didn’t want any one to see it, so tucked it away +without a look.” + +“Take it along with you,” said Lowry unexpectedly. “You may be able to +spot the owner.” + +Barrison seized the tiny weapon with avidity; it was too dark where +they stood for him to see clearly, and he said, with open eagerness: + +“What is the initial? That of any of the principals in the case?” + +“Of two of them,” said the inspector, as he turned to round a corner. +“It’s M. Good night.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + + THE INITIAL + + +The inspector’s announcement gave Jim Barrison food for thought. + +Then why had Lowry let Sybil go with no further examination? They would +have to establish next her possession of a weapon, and the fact that +she was sufficiently practiced in the use of firearms to have hers +marked with her initial, and—— + +But just then he discovered that it had begun to rain at last; big +drops heralded the storm that had been threatening all the evening. +Under the circumstances, his library at home would be a pleasanter +place for speculation than the corner of a street. He turned up his +coat collar and ran for a Sixth Avenue car. As he passed the clock +outside a jeweler’s shop, he saw that it was ten minutes past one +o’clock, and suddenly he was conscious that he was tired. The evening +had been a long one, and hard on the nerves. + +He stood on the back platform, and let the rainy winds blow about him. +His dinner coat was getting noticeably wet, but he wanted to think +and breathe. How hot the theater had been! The smell of a singularly +vile cigarette close beside him made him turn in a disgusted sort of +curiosity to see what manner of man could smoke it. It turned out to +be Willie Coster, who had boarded the car when he did. + +“Hello!” said Jim. “Didn’t see you before. I thought you left the +theater before we did.” + +“I had,” said Willie, puffing deeply on his rank weed. “I stopped at +the corner to get this.” + +Unblushingly he indicated an object done up in brown paper, which he +carried under his arm. There was not the slightest doubt that it was a +bottle of quart dimensions. Barrison recalled the legend that Coster +always got drunk after a first night. He could not help smiling at the +serious deliberation with which he was going about it. + +“I see!” he said. “Well, it’s been a pretty trying time for you, a +thing like this, coming on top of all your hard work on the piece. I +dare say you feel the need of something to brace you.” + +Willie shook his head. “That’s a nice way of putting it,” he said +soberly; “but it won’t wash. No, sir; the fact is, I mean to get drunk +to-night. I never touch anything while I’m working, and when my work’s +done, I consider I’m entitled to a little pleasure.” + +“I see,” Barrison said again. “And does getting drunk give you a great +deal of pleasure?” + +“Oh, yes!” said Coster gravely. “I’m not a drunkard, understand. I +don’t go off on bats; _that_ wouldn’t give me pleasure. And I can +always sober up in time for anything special. But I like to go quietly +home like this and drink—well, say, about this bottle to-night, and +another to-morrow. Then I’ll taper off and quit again. See?” + +“Perfectly. If you have to do it, it seems a very sensible method. Look +here; is there any particular hurry about this systematic debauch of +yours?” + +“Hurry? Oh, no, there’s no hurry. Any time will do. Why?” + +“Then,” said Barrison, who had an idea, “why not come over to my +rooms—we’re almost there—and have a couple of drinks with me and a bite +to eat, first? You can go home and get drunk later, you know, just as +well.” + +“Just as well,” said Willie, with surprising acquiescence. “I don’t +want any drinks, thanks, for I only drink alone. But now you mention +it, I’m hungry.” + +Barrison knew that he himself was far too tired already to lengthen +out this night so preposterously, but that idea which had so suddenly +come to him drove all consideration of fatigue from his mind. He was a +detective, and thought that in the dim distance he could see a shadowy +trail. In a weird case of this sort, anything was worth a chance. + +At Barrison’s rooms they found a cold supper waiting, and Tara asleep +in a chair, contriving somehow to look dignified even in slumber. There +is no dignity like that of a superior Japanese servant. He even woke +up in a dignified manner, and prepared to serve supper. But Barrison +sent him to bed, and sat down to talk to Willie over cold chicken +and ham, and macedoine salad. The little stage manager ate hungrily, +but stubbornly refused to drink. He also scorned his host’s expensive +smokes, preferring his own obnoxious brand. + +“Coster,” said Barrison at last, “I want you to tell me what you know +of Alan Mortimer.” + +“What I know! He was the yellowest guy in some things that ever——” + +“That isn’t just what I meant. I mean—you’ve been with Dukane a long +time, haven’t you?” + +“Sure thing. I’ve been with the gov’nor five—no, six—years.” + +“Then you must know how he came to take up Mortimer. Where did he +discover him first? He’s a stranger on Broadway.” + +“Why don’t you ask the gov’nor about it?” demanded Willie shrewdly. + +“Well,” Jim was obliged to admit, rather uncomfortably, “he’s not the +sort of man you feel like pumping. Of course, Lowry will get it all out +of him sooner or later, but I’m curious. And I can’t see what objection +he could have to your——” + +“Being pumped,” finished Willie. “Maybe not, but I don’t really know +much about it, anyway.” His eyes strayed wistfully to his brown paper +package. “See here,” he said, “I’m much obliged for the eats, but I +guess I’ll be trotting along. I’ve got a very pressing engagement!” + +“With John Barleycorn?” laughed Barrison. “Oh, see here, Willie, +what’s the difference? If you prefer your whisky to mine, I’ll get you +a corkscrew, and you can just as well start here. Eh? Make an exception +and have a couple of drinks with me, like a good sport.” + +He felt slightly ashamed of himself, but he prodded his conscience out +of the way by telling himself that as long as the man was going to get +drunk anyway, he might just as well—— + +Willie hesitated and was lost. The first drink he poured out made his +host gasp; it nearly filled the tumbler. + +“Will you take it straight, man?” he asked, in a tone of awe. + +“Certainly I will. I don’t take it for the taste, I take it for the +effect. The more you take at a time, the quicker you get results. +What’s the good of little dabs of drinks like yours, drowned in soda +water? When I drink, I drink.” + +“I perceive that you do!” murmured Barrison, and watched him swallow +the entire contents of the glass in three gulps. He choked a bit, and +accepted a drink of water, then leaned back with an expression of pure +bliss stealing over his face. + +“Gee, that was good!” he whispered joyously. “Now I’ll have one more +in a minute; that will start me off comfortably. Then I’ll go home. +You know,” he added, with that shrewd glance of his, “I’m on to your +getting me to tank up here; you know I’ll talk more. But I’m blessed +if I can make out what it is you want to know. If there’s any dark +mystery going, I’m not in it. But you just pump ahead.” + +He poured out another enormous draft. + +“Mortimer used to be in a sort of circus, a wild West show, didn’t he?” + +Willie grunted assent between swallows. “It was a sort of punk +third-class show,” he said. “Never played big time, just ordinary tanks +and wood piles out West. They had a string of horses and a few cowboys +who could do fancy riding; Mortimer was one of them. His real name +was Morton. The gov’nor was waiting to make connections somewhere on +his way to the coast, and dropped in to see one or two of the stunts. +This chap was a sort of matinée idol wherever he went, and the gov’nor +spotted him as a drawing card if he ever happened on the right part. +You know the gov’nor never forgets anything, and never overlooks a bet. +He took the guy’s name and address, and put him away in the back of his +head somewhere, the way he always does. When Carlton came to him with +this war-play proposition, the gov’nor thought of Morton, and wrote +him. That’s all I know about it.” + +“Was Mortimer married?” + +“Not that I know of. Not likely—or, rather, it’s likely he had half a +dozen wives!” + +Barrison was disappointed; he had thought it just possible—there was +the pistol, marked with M, and the unknown woman who had been in the +dressing room that night. However, Willie was not proving much of a +help. Barrison yawned and thought of bed. + +“One more question,” he asked suddenly. “What was the name of the show?” + +“I don’t remember. Blinkey’s or Blankey’s, or something like that. +Blinkey’s Daredevils, I think, but I’m not sure. Say, you’d better let +me go home while I can walk.” + +“All right; you go, Willie. Were there any women in the show?” + +“A couple, I think—yes, I’m sure there were, because I remember the +gov’nor speaking about a sort of riding-and-shooting stunt Mortimer did +with some girl, a crack shot.” + +Barrison started. Was that the trail, then? + +“Much obliged to you, Willie,” he said carelessly. “There wasn’t much +to tell, though, was there? Why did Dukane keep it all so dark, I +wonder? I should have thought that would have been good advertising, +all that cowboy stuff, and the traveling show, and the rest of it.” + +“I don’t know why the gov’nor does some things; no one does,” said +Willie, getting to his feet with surprising steadiness, and carefully +corking his precious bottle. “But he’s never given any of that stuff to +the press agent, and I’ve a notion he doesn’t want it made public. I +don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure he has some reason for keeping it +dark. Now you know as much about it as I do, and I’d never have told +you as much as that if I hadn’t started in here!” + +While he was wrapping up his bottle, with a painstaking deliberation +which was, as yet, almost the only sign of what he had drunk, Barrison +drew the little pistol from his pocket and laid it on the table. It +was almost a toy, and mounted in silver gilt, a foolish-looking thing +to have done such deadly harm. The letter was in heavy raised gold, a +thick, squarely printed M. In the rays of the student lamp it glittered +merrily, like the decoration on some frivolous trinket. + +“Hello!” said Willie Coster, looking dully at it from the other side of +the table. “So that’s the gun that did it? Let’s see the letter.” He +swayed forward to look closer. + +“It’s an M,” said Barrison. + +“You’re looking at it upside down,” said Willie; “or else it’s you +that’s drunk and not me. That’s a W, man, a W! Good night!” + +He ambled toward the door, bearing his package clasped to his breast, +and disappeared. + +Barrison seized the pistol and turned it around. Willie was right. The +initial, seen so, was W! + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + + A TIP—AND AN INVITATION + + +Jim Barrison had scarcely grasped this fact when the telephone rang. +In the dead silence of that hour, half after two in the morning, the +shrill tinkle had a startling effect. Barrison, his fatigue forgotten, +sprang to the instrument. + +It was Tony Clay’s voice that came to him. “I want to come up for a +minute.” + +“Oh, confound you!” ejaculated the detective irritably. “What do you +want at this hour? I’ll have to come down and let you in; the place is +closed.” + +“I know it is. That’s why I’m calling up. I’m in the drug store at the +corner, and I’ll be there as soon as you can get downstairs. All right?” + +“I suppose so. But I’d like to wring your neck!” + +“Welcome to try, old man, just a bit later. So long!” + +Barrison hung up, and tramped downstairs with suppressed profanity on +his tongue, to let Tony in at the front door of the apartment house +where he roomed. The younger man was already waiting on the steps, +dripping wet, but whistling softly, rather off the key. + +“Come in, you blamed night owl!” growled Barrison, under his breath. +“Don’t slam the door. And if you haven’t something worth while to tell +me, after routing me out like this, I’ll wake Tara and give him full +permission to jujutsu you into Bellevue! Come on, and stop whistling.” + +Upstairs, Tony demanded Scotch and cigarettes, and took off his wet +coat. + +“Heavens! Does that mean you’re intending to _stay_?” + +“Not permanently,” Tony reassured him soothingly. “I do manage to +arrive at inconvenient times, don’t I?” + +“You do, you do! Now what is it?” + +“Well,” said Tony, settling himself in the chair recently vacated by +Willie Coster. “I’ve been calling on Miss Templeton.” + +Barrison was conscious of a queer little thrill, not entirely +unpleasant. Truth to tell, he had not been able to dismiss a certain +vision from his mind, through all his practice and professional +occupations. He could see it now, all in a moment, gold hair, +dark-fringed eyes, marble-white throat and arms, and a mouth that could +soften and droop like a child’s at the most unexpected moments. + +“She’s out of the case, I suppose you know,” he said shortly. “Go +ahead, though.” + +“You see,” said Tony, “when you pitched into me like that about her +giving me the slip, I was sort of sore, but I knew you were right, too. +So I gave you the slip, in my turn, and chased over to her hotel. I +wasn’t at all sure she’d see me, but I thought I’d try it on anyhow, +and she sent down word I was to come up. She wore a kimono thing, and +looked like an angel——” He paused in fatuous reflection. + +“Get on, you young fool!” + +Barrison’s tone was the sharper because he himself admired Miss +Templeton rather more than was wholly consistent with the traditions of +a cold-blooded detective. + +So Tony went on: “She seemed to know that there had been something +wrong at the theater; that impressed me at once. The moment I came into +the room, she said: ‘Something has happened to him?’ I told her about +it, and she just sat for a moment or two looking straight in front of +her. She looked—strange, and awfully white and tired and—sort of young. +After a while she said: ‘Thank Heaven it wasn’t I’—just that way. Then +she asked some questions——” + +“What sort of questions?” interrupted Barrison, who was looking at the +floor, and had let his cigarette go out. + +“Oh, the usual thing: Who was behind at the time, and whether any one +was suspected, and—she made rather a point of this—where Miss Legaye +was when it happened.” + +“I know; she’s always harped on that.” Barrison frowned impatiently, +yet he was thinking as hard as he knew how to think. “Anything else, +Tony?” + +“Yes; she asked me to give you this.” + +Tony took a small unsealed envelope out of his waistcoat pocket and +handed it over. “She said it was important,” he added; “that’s why I +insisted on coming in to-night.” + +Barrison read his note, and then looked up. “Do you know what this is?” +he said. + +The boy flushed indignantly. “Good heavens, Jim!” he exclaimed. “You +don’t suppose I read other people’s letters? She just gave it to me to +bring, and I brought it, that’s all.” + +Barrison smiled at him, with a warm feeling round his heart. “That’s +all right, Tony,” he said kindly, “and you’re all right, too! You’d +better look at it.” He held it out. + +Tony shook his head. “If there’s anything in it you want to tell me, +fire ahead!” he said stoutly. “I—I haven’t any particular reason for +seeing it, you know.” + +Barrison understood him, and smiled again. “I’ll read it to you, then,” +he said, and read: + + “MY DEAR MR. BARRISON: I have just heard, though scarcely with + surprise, I admit, of Mr. Mortimer’s death. It has shocked me very + much, I find, even though it was the sort of tragedy that was bound + to come sooner or later. I cannot pretend complete indifference to + it, nor yet indifference to the conviction of his murderer. I am + going to assume that you really want any sort of help, from any + source, in solving this mystery. Though you refused to help me once, + I am ready to help you now in whatever way I can, and I believe that + my help may be worth more than you are now prepared to see. I knew + Alan Mortimer rather well; it is possible that I can throw light + upon certain phases in his life of which you are still ignorant. I + promise nothing, for I do not yet know how valuable my testimony + may prove. But—will you lunch with me at one o’clock to-morrow—or, + rather, to-day—at my hotel? And meanwhile, if you will forgive me for + reiterating the suspicion I once suggested to you, you can hardly + do better than look up Miss Kitty Legaye, and get her views on the + murder. Far be it for me to suggest a course of action to an expert + detective like yourself, but—if Miss Legaye left the theater early, + she would hardly be likely to learn of the tragedy until she got + the morning papers. Don’t you think that it would be interesting to + forestall them, and yourself be the one to break the news to her? + Just suppose that you found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all! + + “If I do not hear from you, I shall expect you for luncheon at one. + Sincerely yours, + + “GRACE TEMPLETON.” + +Jim Barrison automatically registered the fact that the writing was not +that of the threatening letters, and sat still staring at the sheet +after he had read it aloud. His brain was in a whirl of excitement. The +words which he had just read seemed, in the very utterance of them, to +have taken on a vitality, a meaning, that they had not had in the first +place. + +One could read such a communication in more ways than one; at +present he could read it only as a curious and inscrutable message, +or inspiration. He could not have said just why it seemed to him so +important, so imperative. He only knew that the phrases of it, simple +as they were, seemed to fill the room and echo from wall to wall. +Miss Templeton herself might have stood before him; he might have been +listening to her voice. + +Tony Clay, poor lad, was looking troubled, huddled there in the big +chair on the other side of the table. He had forgotten to finish his +whisky and soda, and was staring at Barrison in a queer, uncomfortable +way. + +“I say, Jim!” he burst out at last, desperate through his shyness. +“You’re looking not a bit like yourself. What’s the matter? That note +doesn’t sound so very important, now I hear it, and yet, to look at +you, one would say you’d received a message from the tomb.” + +Barrison laughed. “I haven’t!” he said lightly. “But I have received a +tip. Just a plain, ordinary, every-day sort of tip! And I’m going to +follow it, too! How much sleep do you need, Tony?” + +Tony considered. “Four will do me,” he said judicially. + +“You’ll get five. It’s three o’clock now. At eight you’ll be ready for +business; at eight thirty we’ll be at Miss Kitty Legaye’s door. It may +be a pipe dream, but I’ve taken kindly to the notion of announcing the +news of Mortimer’s death in person! Now tumble in on that couch there, +and don’t dare to speak again until eight in the morning!” + +As he fell asleep, he was still repeating the pregnant words: “Just +suppose that you found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all!” + + + + + CHAPTER XV + + A MORNING CALL + + +Miss Legaye lived at a very smart little hotel near Fifth Avenue. +It was not one of the strictly “theatrical” hostelries, since Kitty +had always had leanings toward social correctness. But the house was +patronized by so many actresses of exactly the same predilections +that it could not help being run with an indulgent and sagacious +understanding of their tastes and peculiarities, and might almost as +well have been one of the just-off-Broadway variety. + +When Barrison and Tony Clay presented themselves at the “Golden Arms” +at twenty minutes after eight in the morning, they found the hotel +barely awake. The clerk who had just come on duty at the desk eyed +them with surliness and distaste. The very electric lights, turned on +perforce, because of the outrageous dinginess of the morning, seemed to +glare at them with disfavor. Bell boys looked unrelentingly cross; a +messenger boy was making his exit with as much dripping and mud as he +could; and a departing patron appeared to be becoming quarrelsome over +a fifteen-cent overcharge. + +“Well?” demanded the clerk. He looked frankly ugly; ugly in temper as +well as in features. He could see that they were not incoming guests, +for they had no luggage; and it was too early for callers of any +reputable type. He put them down as a breed suspicious, being unknown, +of neither fish nor fowl variety. “_Well?_” he repeated urgently. + +Barrison produced a card. “We would like to see Miss Legaye,” he +suggested pleasantly. + +As he put down the slip of pasteboard on the desk counter, his quick +eyes noted a bell boy standing at the news stand, taking over an armful +of assorted morning papers. Obviously, the lad was just going up to +leave them at the doors of the guests; they would have to work quickly, +he and Tony, if they were to get ahead of them. + +“Miss Legaye,” repeated the clerk. “Miss Legaye. Are you guys dippy? +Miss Legaye always leaves word that she ain’t at home to no one till +after twelve o’clock. Now beat it!” + +Barrison sized up the clerk, and decided on his course. + +“Say, brother,” he murmured, with a confidential accent, “we don’t +mean to annoy Miss Legaye; we want to give her a boost. Get me? We’re +reporters, and we’re looking for a first-class story. Say, take it from +me, she’ll be keen to see us if you’ll just phone up!” + +The slang won his case. The clerk looked at him with more respect. + +“Say, you’re talking almost like a human being!” he remarked. “Want me +to phone up for you, eh?” He waited a perceptible space. “Times is +hard,” he declared, in an airy manner, “and phone calls is high. Did I +hear you say anything?” + +“Maybe not me,” said Barrison, who had laid a dollar bill on the desk. +“But I’ve known money to talk before now.” + +The clerk actually chuckled. “You’re on,” he said, pocketing the bill +with a discreet look around the almost deserted office. “I’ll phone up!” + +He turned around a minute later to inform Barrison that Miss Legaye +would see him at once. + +A few minutes later they were knocking at the door of Kitty Legaye’s +apartment. Resting against the lintel were half a dozen morning papers; +clearly she had ordered them ahead, in the expectation of criticisms of +the first night. The indefatigable bell boy had been ahead of them, but +there was still time to rectify that. + +The boy who had piloted them had vanished. Barrison picked up the +whole bundle, and gave them a vigorous swing down the corridor. This +had barely been accomplished when the door opened, and an impeccably +attired lady’s maid asked them to please come in; Miss Legaye would see +them in a moment. + +Kitty’s parlor was like Kitty herself, discreet, yet subtly daring; +conventional, yet alluring. She had made short work of the regulation +hotel furnishings, and replaced them with trifles of her own, which +gave the place a dainty and audacious air calculated to pique the +interest of almost anybody. + +One of the modern dark chintzes had been chosen by the little lady +for her curtains and furniture coverings; she also had dared to put +cushions of cherry color and of black on the chaise longue, and +futurist posters in vivid oranges and greens upon the innocuous drab +wall paper. The extreme touches had been made delicately, without +vulgarity. Barrison, who had rather good taste himself, smiled as +he read in this butterflylike audacity a sort of key to little Miss +Kitty’s own personality. + +She came in almost immediately, and, though Jim had never admired her, +he was forced to admit to himself at that moment that she was very +charming and quite appealing. + +The creamy pallor which was always so effective an asset of hers +seemed a bit etherealized this morning, whether by a sleepless night +or the gray, rainy light. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from +her small face, with a rather sweet absence of coquetry; or was it, +instead, the very quintessence of coquetry, brought to a fine art? +Her big brown eyes were bigger and browner than ever, and her slim, +almost childish little figure—which looked so adorable always in its +young-girl frocks before the footlights—looked incomparably adorable +in a straight, severely cut little white wrapper, like the robe of an +early martyr. + +She came forward to meet them quickly, but quite without embarrassment. + +“Mr. Barrison!” she exclaimed, rather breathlessly. “What is it? Of +course I said I would see you at once. I knew you wouldn’t come without +some good reason. What do you want of me?” + +Her eyes were as clear as the brown pools in a spring brook, and +Barrison felt suddenly ashamed of himself and—almost—wroth with Grace +Templeton for putting him up to this. + +“Miss Legaye,” he said, with some hesitation, “I am already calling +myself all sorts of names for having aroused you at this unearthly +hour. And you were not well, too.” + +“Oh, that headache!” she said. “That is all gone now! I got to bed +early, and had a really decent sleep for once, so I am in good shape +this morning! But—what _did_ you want to see me about?” + +Just as Barrison was trying to find words in which to answer her +properly, the maid spoke from the doorway: + +“You told me to take in the papers, miss, but there’s none there.” + +Kitty turned in astonishment. “Not there! But they always leave them at +eight, and I particularly said that I wanted all of them this morning. +That’s funny! Never mind; you can go down to the stand and get them, +and Mr. Barrison can tell me what I want to know first of all. Oh, Mr. +Barrison, tell me about last night! Did it all go off as well as it +seemed to be going when I left?” She looked with honest eagerness into +his eyes. + +Barrison felt most uncomfortable, but he forced himself to say +steadily: “Have you really not heard anything about what happened last +night, Miss Legaye?” + +If it were possible to turn paler, she turned paler then; and her eyes +seemed to darken, as though with dread; yet there was nothing in her +look but what might come from honest fear of the unknown. + +“Mr. Barrison! What is it that you are trying to make me think? What do +you mean? Oh—_oh_!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Is that what it +means? Is that what you came here for—to—tell me something? Is that it, +Mr. Barrison?” + +Her eyes pleaded with him, looking earnestly out of her little white +face. She looked a butterfly no longer; rather, a tired and frightened +little girl. “Won’t you tell me what it all means?” she begged. + +“Miss Legaye,” Jim said gently, “there was a tragedy last night at the +theater after you left.” + +“A tragedy?” + +“Yes; there was—a murder.” + +She stared at him, as though she did not yet understand. “A murder?” + +“Miss Legaye, I see it is a shock to you, but you must hear it from +some one; you might as well hear it from me. Mr. Mortimer was shot last +night during the last act, and is dead.” + +She shrieked—a thin, high, deadly shriek, which rang long in the ears +of the two men. Her face grew smaller, sharper; she beat the air with +her hands. The maid ran to her. + +News? Oh, Heaven, yes! There was no question of this being news to her; +it was news that was coming close to killing her. + +“Say that again!” she managed to say, in a slow, thick utterance +that sounded immeasurably strange from her lips. “Alan Mortimer was +murdered? You said that? You are sure of it?” + +“Yes, Miss Legaye.” + +She flung up her hands wildly, and fainted dead away. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + + A SCARLET EVENING COAT + + +It was a real faint. They had a good bit of difficulty in getting her +out of it. + +There wasn’t much room in Jim Barrison’s mind for anything except +self-reproach. He _knew_ that the tidings of Mortimer’s murder had come +upon Kitty Legaye like a stroke of lightning. She had no more been +prepared for it than she would have been prepared for the end of the +world. He had an idea that the end of the world would, as a general +proposition, have affected her much less. Barrison was no new hand, and +not too soft-hearted or gullible; and he knew that what he had looked +upon that morning was sheer, absolute shock and grief, unlooked for, +terrible, devastating. + +Poor little Kitty, with all her frivolities, had bigness in her. As she +struggled back into the gray world, she obviously tried to straighten +up and steady herself. The terror was all the time at the back of +her brown eyes, but she was doing her best to be game, to be, as she +herself would have expressed it, “a good sport.” + +Of course, she wanted particulars, and he gave them to her, feeling +like a pickpocket all the time. Papers were obtained, and she was +induced to take coffee with brandy in it, and—at last—she broke down +and cried, which was what every one had been praying for since the +beginning. + +Probably never in his clear-cut, well-established career had Jim +Barrison experienced what he was experiencing now: The sense that he +had brought unnecessary suffering upon an innocent person, and brought +it in a peculiarly merciless and unsportsmanlike way. He felt savage +when he thought of that “tip” of Miss Templeton’s—or did he, really? +He was obliged to confess to himself that, where she was concerned, +he would be almost sure to discover approximately extenuating +circumstances! + +It was partly to soothe his own aching conscience that Jim forced +himself to ask a few perfunctory questions. + +“You don’t mind?” he asked Kitty. + +“Naturally I don’t,” she said, trying not to cry, and choking down +coffee. “You’ve been awfully kind, Mr. Barrison. If there’s anything I +can do to help, please let me. You know”—she looked at him in a sudden, +piteous way—“I had expected to marry Mr. Mortimer. Maybe you can guess +what all this means to me? Will you tell me what you wanted to know?” + +“For one thing,” he said, “we want to establish as nearly as we can +when the murderer—the murderess, as we think it was—entered the +theater. Old Roberts says that he went out through the alley to the +street to get you a taxi——” + +“Dear old thing!” she whispered. + +“Yes; he is a nice old sort. He made it very clear that it was only +his devotion to you that induced him to leave his post. Well, it seems +almost certain that some one passed him, and perhaps you, in the alley +last night. You don’t remember seeing even a shadow that might be +suspicious?” + +She shook her head thoughtfully. + +“No, I don’t,” she said. “But I was in a hurry, and wasn’t looking out +for anything of that sort. Roberts knows I was in a hurry?” She spoke +quickly. + +“Oh, yes. He says you were in a hurry, and not feeling well. The point +is, did you see anything at all on your way to the taxi?” + +“Nothing. I was only thinking of getting home and to bed; it had been a +horrid evening.” + +Now, of course, the obvious thing for Jim Barrison to do then was to +take his leave. More, it was manifestly the only decent thing for him +to do. He had proved conclusively that Kitty had not expected the +news of Mortimer’s murder; in addition, she had declared that she had +noticed no one on her way out to the taxi the night before. On the face +of it, there was nothing further to be found out here. And yet, after +he had got to his feet and taken up his hat, he lingered. As a matter +of fact, he never was able, in looking back afterward, to tell just +what insane impulse made him blurt out suddenly: + +“Miss Legaye, you were wearing a red wrap last night, weren’t you? +Something quite bright, scarlet?” + +She looked up at him faintly surprised. “Why, yes,” she answered, “you +saw it yourself, just as I was going out.” + +Jim hesitated, and then said something still more crazy: “Would you—do +you very much mind letting me see it—now?” + +She stared at him in undisguised astonishment. “Certainly,” she said, +rather blankly. “Celine, will you bring my red evening coat, please?” + +The maid did so at once; it flamed there in the gray light of that +rainy morning like some monstrous scarlet poppy. Barrison lifted a +shimmering, brilliant fold, and looked at it. + +“It’s a gorgeous color!” he said, rather irrelevantly. + +“Scarlet!” whispered Kitty, in a strange tone. “And to think I was +wearing _that_ last night. I do not believe that I shall ever feel like +wearing scarlet again! You are going, Mr. Barrison?” + +“Yes; you have been very patient with me, and very forgiving for having +been the bearer of such bad news. Good-by. I won’t even try to express +the sympathy——” + +“Don’t; I understand. Mr. Barrison, _why_ did you want to see this +coat?” + +“It was just an impulse!” he declared quickly. “You forgive me for +that, too?” + +She bent her head without speaking, and the two men went away. + +“Tony,” said Jim Barrison, when they were in the street once more, +facing the wet blast, “it’s no lie to say that facts are misleading.” + +“It’s no lie to say they very often mislead _you_!” retorted Tony, +somewhat acidly. He felt the loss of sleep more and more, and was +fretful. Also, he was hungry. “What wild-goose chase are you off on +now?” + +“None; I’m going round in circles.” + +“You said it!” + +“It’s a fact,” continued Barrison, unheeding, “that the little woman +back there was genuinely shocked and upset by hearing of Mortimer’s +death.” + +“Rather!” + +“But it is also a fact—also a fact, Tony—that that evening coat of hers +is damp this morning, and it didn’t begin to rain till after midnight!” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + + BLIND TRAILS + + +“Mind you,” Barrison went on hastily, “there are a hundred explanations +of a thing like that; it isn’t, strictly speaking, evidence at all. +Only—I couldn’t help noticing! Now, Tony, I want you to go home and go +to bed—see?” + +“It’s lucky you do!” said Tony. + +“Shut up! Go to bed and sleep your fool head off; and then—get back +there to the Golden Arms, and find out who saw Miss Legaye come in last +night; what time it was, whether she seemed excited, and—_what she +wore_! That last is the most important. Make up to the maid. You can +bribe, torture, or make love to her; I don’t care which. Only find out +everything you can. Get me?” + +Tony grunted, and departed. + +Jim turned his face toward Forty-fourth Street. He knew that John +Carlton usually breakfasted at the Lambs’ Club, and he needed his help. +Also, he thought tenderly of the prospect of a mixed grill. Barrison +could get along with very little sleep, when he was on a case, but +he had to have food. Carlton was at breakfast, devouring, with about +equally divided attention, bacon and eggs and the morning papers. He +welcomed Jim with much excitement and a flood of slang. + +“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison? I can’t seem to get a +line on myself to-day. Am I the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do +I stack up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole and pull the +hole in after me? Sit down!” + +“Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly as he obeyed. “Order +me some breakfast, first, and then tell me what you’re talking about.” + +Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented from ordering a meal +adequate to the needs of a regiment on march, condescended to translate +his emotions. + +“You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching toast and marmalade. +“That poor guy going out like that—I never liked him, but it was a +rotten way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it alive—leaves +me, so to speak, guessing. My play is off, for the present anyway, and +I’ve been spending my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting +some simply priceless advertising! Everybody will be after me, I +guess, and all the beautiful leading men will be thirsting to play the +part in which poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting killed. +I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the only way I can express +myself—except on paper! Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a +flivver?” + +“You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told him. “Meanwhile, I +want your help.” + +“Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically. “Meanwhile, I want yours! +I can live just long enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without +talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds before I cash in, +if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. Beastly of +you and the governor not to let me back, so I could be in on what was +doing.” + +Barrison told him what had happened. He was not too completely +communicative, however; he liked the playwright, and had no reason +to distrust him, but he knew that this case was likely to be a big +one, and a hard one, and he had no mind to take outsiders into his +confidence unless it was strictly necessary. + +“And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I hope, saved you from an +early grave shared by the cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and +do yours!” + +Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make yourself intelligible to +my inferior intelligence? All right; fire away! What can I do for you?” + +Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about a wild West show +called by the name of its manager, Blinkey or Blankey. + +Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what sort of a game’s that?” +he demanded. “What has a wild West show to do with my perfectly good +play——” + +“Never mind. Can you find out for me?” + +The writer shook his head. + +“Not in a million years. I don’t know anything about the profession +except where it happens to hit me. Why don’t you tackle the governor? +He knows everything and everybody.” + +“I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns him. And I don’t +imagine he’s very cheery this morning.” + +“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard lines for him! Tell +you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s +a decent sort of chap, on the dramatic department of the New York +_Blaze_. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be some one in his office +who can.” + +“Thanks. That’s just what I want.” + +Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and departed. He met two or +three men whom he knew on his way out. One and all were talking about +the murder. He was not known to have any connection with the case, so +he escaped being held up for particulars, but he heard enough to show +him that this was going to be the sensation of the whole theatrical +world. + +It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would not be in his office, so +he went downtown to hunt up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the +_Blaze_. + +He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter of typewriters, and +the jangle of telephones beating about his ears. Then a keen-faced but +very quiet young man rather foppishly dressed, and with sleek hair +which looked as though it had been applied with a paint brush, appeared. + +“I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to see me?” + +Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this one was typical. The +detective wasted as few words as possible, but stated what he was +after. Lucas shook his head doubtfully. + +“Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll have a look at the +files, though. My chief is rather a shark for keeping records of past +performances. Will you look in a bit later—or phone?” + +“I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave. He had not expected +any rapid results, yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Or was it because +he was tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You cover a lot of +theatrical assignments, don’t you?” + +“Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently, eying him. + +“Isn’t there anything playing here in town now with a—a wild West +feature? Anything that includes a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere, +or—or that?” + +Barrison could not help clinging to that faint clew concerning +Mortimer’s connection with the “daredevil” outfit, out West. + +Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I don’t know of any. You +wouldn’t mean a single act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?” + +“Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the name. Of course, it might +be nonsense, but there was something that looked like just the shadow +of a coincidence. “Who is she?” + +“Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum vaudeville theater this +week. I don’t know why she calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such +a daring stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a gun, I +understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.” + +Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost of a trail, but—— + +“You’re going to see her to-night?” + +“Yes. Going to see the show from the front and interview her afterward. +She’s through with her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a +usual thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a bit of a pull with +us; advertising, you know; and we usually give one of his acts a +write-up every week.” + +“Might I come along?” + +“You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be an awful thing! It’s one of +those continuous affairs. Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me +at the theater, I can get you in on my pass. Eight?” + +“Eight it is.” + +Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts of Coyne’s Music +Hall, of which he had never heard, and took his departure. He went into +a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found that the inspector would +not be at his office until the afternoon. Then he went uptown again, +and, taking a deep breath and a big brace with it, went to call on Max +Dukane. + +He had no real reason for dreading an interview with him; the manager +had always been most courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of +apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane of yesterday would not +be quite the Dukane of to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which +had brought him so much financial loss which was to be considered. +Ever since Willie Coster had intimated that Dukane had a secret +reason for keeping dark the conditions under which he had come across +Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to him. He had always +recognized in the manager a man of immense power and authority. If he +had a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be immensely +unscrupulous as well. + +However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock, he presented +himself at the great man’s office. + +This time, though there were half a dozen people ahead of him, he did +not have to wait at all. The fact surprised him, but when he had been +admitted to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He had been +thus speedily summoned in order to be the more speedily dismissed. + +“Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything I can do for you?” + +He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face was hard and cold. He +did not look so much angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own +stony fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard, and was not any +too pleased to be reminded of it. + +Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood by the desk, feeling +rather like a small boy reporting to his teacher. + +“Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is. I’ve come about the +case.” + +“Case?” + +“The murder of Alan Mortimer.” + +Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not interested in it.” + +“Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer was your star, under +your management; I should imagine that the disaster to him must concern +you very closely.” + +Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had been holding in his hand. + +“Concern me?” he said, in a hard, disagreeable tone. “Yes, it does +concern me. It concerns me to the tune of several thousands of dollars. +The part was especially worked up for him; there is no one available to +take it at a moment’s notice. But there my concern begins and ends. So +far as his murderer goes——” + +“Yes, that is what we are chiefly interested in.” + +“_I_ am not interested in it. Mortimer was an investment, so far as +I was concerned. It is an investment which has failed. I have other +things to think of that seem to me more important—and more profitable.” + +“But you engaged me, professionally, to——” + +“You will receive your check.” + +Barrison flushed indignantly. “Mr. Dukane! You cannot think I meant +that. But if you were sufficiently interested to engage me——” + +Dukane raised his hand and stopped him. “Barrison,” he said, in short, +clear-cut accents, “let us understand each other. I engaged you to keep +Alan Mortimer alive. Alive, he was worth a good deal to me. Dead, he is +worth nothing. I was perfectly willing to pay to protect my property; +but having lost it, I wash my hands of the matter.” + +“Don’t you really want to see his murderer brought to justice?” + +“I really care nothing about it.” + +“Then you are not even willing to help the authorities?” + +“Help?” The manager raised his head haughtily, and stared at him with +cold eyes. “What have I to do with it? What should I have to say that +could help?” + +“You might tell us something about Mr. Mortimer’s life—something that +could point toward a possible enemy. You know as well as I do that when +a man dies under such circumstances, it is necessary for the officers +engaged on the case to know as much of his life and antecedents as +possible. In this case, no one seems to know anything except you, Mr. +Dukane. That’s why I am obliged to come to you.” + +“I know nothing about his life, nor about his antecedents. I picked him +up in a Western town, stranded, after his show had gone to pieces.” + +“What was the name of the show?” + +“I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, if you will be good enough to let me +get on with my morning’s business——” + +“I shall certainly do so,” said Barrison quietly, as he turned away. +“But I must warn you, Mr. Dukane, that I believe you are making a +mistake. The detective force will find out what they have to find out. +If you have any reason——” + +“Reason?” + +“I say, if you have any reason for wanting them not to do so, you would +do much better to forestall them, and give them your help frankly to +begin with.” + +“Is that all?” + +“That is quite all, Mr. Dukane.” + +“Very well, Barrison. As I say, you will receive your check in due +time. Barrison——” + +The detective turned at the door, and waited for him to go on. Dukane +was sitting with his head somewhat bent; after a moment he lifted +it, and said, in a gentler tone than he had used before during the +interview: + +“I have given you the impression of being a hard man. It is a truthful +impression; I am a hard man. I should not be where I am to-day, had I +not been hard, very hard. But if I have spoken to you with bitterness, +you will remember, please, that I feel no bitterness toward you. I like +you, on the contrary. But in my life there is no place for individual +likes or dislikes. Long ago, I decided to play a great game for great +stakes. I have won at that game; I shall continue to win. Nothing else +counts with me; nothing! That is all. Good-by, Barrison!” + +“Good-by, sir,” the younger man said, and went out of the big, rich, +inner office, where even the noise and bustle of the world came softly, +lest anything disturb the imperious brain brooding and planning at the +desk. + +It was in a very sober mood that Barrison reached Miss Templeton’s +hotel at luncheon time, and sent up his card. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + + MISS TEMPLETON AT HOME + + +“I thought you’d just as lief have lunch up here,” said Miss Templeton. + +Barrison looked at her as though he had never seen her before. Indeed, +he was not sure that he ever had. + +It is an experience not unknown to most of us, that of finding +ourselves confronting some one or something long familiar, as we +thought, but presented all at once in a new guise. From the first, Jim +had felt in Miss Templeton a personality deeper and truer than would +be superficially descried through her paint and powder and conspicuous +dresses. But, so far, his idea of her had had to be more or less +theoretical and instinctive; he had not had very much to go by. + +To-day, and for the first time, he saw in the flesh the woman whom he +had half unconsciously idealized in the spirit: a very sweet, rather +shy woman, whose starry eyes and clear skin looked the more strikingly +lovely for being, to-day, unassisted by artifice. + +She wore a nunlike gray frock, and her splendid gold hair was simply +arranged. It would be hard to imagine a greater contrast than that +which she presented with the Woman in Purple of but a brief fortnight +ago. + +Her parlor was a further surprise. Unconsciously, he found himself +remembering Kitty Legaye’s dainty and bizarre apartment, and comparing +the two. Who would have dreamed that it was in such surroundings as +these that this woman would choose to live? + +She had not, like Kitty, transformed her apartment with stuffs and +ornamentations. Her individuality had somehow transfused itself through +everything, superior to trappings or furnishings. She had left the +room very much as it must have been when she took it. The curtains and +the carpets were the same that the hotel manager had put there; but +they seemed somehow of secondary importance. On that drab regulation +background she had contrived to paint herself and what she lived for in +colors that were, while subdued, unmistakable. No one could enter there +without knowing that he was in the sanctum of a personality. + +First and foremost, there were books; books on shelves, on the table, +books everywhere. And they were not best sellers either, if one could +judge by their plain heavy bindings. + +“Italian history,” she said, seeing him glance curiously at a title. “I +take up wild fads from time to time, and read about nothing else until +the subject is exhausted, or until I am! At present I spend my time in +the company of the Medici!” + +He thought that she was the last woman on earth whom he would expect to +care for such things, but that was to be the least of his surprises. +All her books sounded one persistent note, romance, adventure, a +passionate love for and yearning after the beautiful, the thrilling, +the emotional in life. There were books of folklore and legends, +medieval tales and modern essays on strange, far lands more full of +color and wonder than ours. There were translations from different +tongues, there were volumes full of Eastern myths, and others of sea +tales and stories of the vast prairies and the Barbary Coast. There was +not a single popular novel among them all. Every one was a treasure box +of romance. + +The pictures which she had collected to adorn her rooms were equally +self-revealing. They ranged from photographs and engravings to Japanese +prints; more than one looked as though it had come from a colored +supplement. Here, again, the message was invariably adventurous or +romantic. + +Miss Templeton smiled as she saw her guest’s bewildered look. + +“It’s a queer assortment, isn’t it?” she said. “But I can’t stand the +flat, polite-looking things that people pretend to admire. Things have +to be alive, to _call_ me, somehow!” + +All at once, it seemed to Jim that he had the keynote to her character. +It was vitality. She was superbly alive—with the vivid faults as well +as the vivid advantages of intense life. + +Luncheon was served at once, and it proved almost as cosmopolitan +in its items as the rest of Miss Templeton’s appurtenances. She had +ordered soft-shell crabs to begin with, because she said that for the +first twenty-five years of her life she had never had a chance to taste +them, and now, since she could, she was making up for lost time, and +ate them every day! With truly feminine logic, she had made her next +course broiled ham and green corn, because she had been brought up on +them in the Middle West. She had a new kind of salad she had recently +heard of, solely because it _was_ new; and she finished with chocolate +ice cream for the reason, as she explained, that chocolate ice cream +had always been her idea of a party, and when she wanted to feel very +grand, she made a point of having it. + +Barrison was no fool where women were concerned; he knew that she was +purposely making herself attractive to him, and he knew that she was +sufficiently fascinating to be dangerous. Her unexpectedness alone +would make her interesting to a man of his type. But he could usually +keep his head; he proposed to keep it now. So far as playing the +game went, he was not altogether a bad hand at it himself, and Miss +Templeton, he imagined, was not precisely a young or unsophisticated +village maid. That there was danger merely made it the more +exhilarating. + +“Mr. Barrison,” she said at last, “of course you are asking yourself +what it is that I have to tell you—why, in short, I asked you to lunch +to-day.” + +“I am asking myself nothing at the present moment,” he returned +promptly, “except why, by the favor of the gods, I should be playing in +such extraordinary luck! But, of course, I’ll be interested in anything +you have to tell me.” + +“Yes,” she said slowly. “I think you probably will be interested. +You’ll forgive me if I begin with a little—a very little—personal +history? It won’t be the ‘story of my life,’ don’t be frightened! But +it’s essential to what I want to tell you afterward.” + +“Please tell me anything and everything you care to,” he begged her, +with the air of grave attention which a woman always delights to see in +a man to whom she is speaking. + +She sat, her chin resting on her clasped hands; her eyes abstracted, +fixed on nothing tangible that he could see, as she spoke: + +“You understand me a little better now, seeing me at home—in as much of +a home as I can have—among the books and pictures that I love, don’t +you? Never mind; perhaps you don’t. Though I don’t think I’m very hard +to understand. I’m just a woman who’s always been hunting for something +that——” + +“The Blue Bird of Happiness?” he suggested gently. “You’ve read it, of +course?” + +“Naturally—and loved it. But—I don’t imagine that _I_ could ever find +my Blue Bird at home, as they did. It would have to be in some very far +place, I’m sure, only to be won after tremendous effort!” + +“After all, that Blue Bird they found at home flew away as soon as +it was found!” he reminded her. “I can see that you hear the call of +adventure more clearly than most people. Have you always dreamed of the +‘strange roads?’ Or has it been a part of—growing up?” + +“You were going to say ‘growing older!’” she said, with a faint smile. +“I think I’ve always been so. I seem always to have been struggling +away from where I was—rotten, discontented nature, isn’t it? Will you +hand me those cigarettes, please?” + +Barrison proffered his own case, and she took and lighted one with a +grave, almost a dreamy air. “You see,” she said, “I was brought up in +a deadly little Illinois town. While I was still practically a baby, I +got married. He was a vaudeville performer, and to me quite a glorious +personage. The girls I knew thought so, too. He was better looking than +any drummer who’d been there, and had better manners than the clerk at +the drug store, who was the village beau.” + +She spoke calmly, without sentiment, yet she did not sound cynical; +her manner was too simple for that. + +“Well, I didn’t find the Blue Bird _there_. I found nothing in that +marriage with a glimmer of happiness in it, until I came in sight of +the divorce court. That looked to me like the gate of heaven! Then I +went into the movies.” + +“The movies! I never knew that.” + +“No, of course not. No one knows it. It’s all right to advertise +leaving the legitimate stage for the screen; but if you’ve come the +other way, and graduated from the screen to the stage, you’re not +nearly so likely to tell the press man. Anyway, I was in an old-style +picture company—I’m talking about six years ago—that was working on +some blood-and-thunder short reels out in Arizona, when they hired a +bunch of professional cow-punchers for some rough Western stuff in a +feature picture. Alan Mortimer was one of them.” + +“Alan Mortimer!” + +“Yes, or, rather, Morton. He changed his name later on.” She looked +at him. “Surely you must have guessed that I knew him before this +engagement—this play? How did you suppose that we got to be so intimate +in two weeks of rehearsals? _I_ didn’t spend the summer at Nantucket!” + +“That’s where Miss Legaye met him, isn’t it?” + +“Yes. She always goes down there, and Dukane wanted him to be there +while Jack Carlton was—he was working on the play, you know. But I +hadn’t maneuvered and worked and planned for nothing. I’d got on in my +profession, and played a few leading parts. I moved heaven and earth to +get into his company—and I succeeded!” + +“You mean—you wanted to see him again?” + +Her eyes flashed suddenly. For a second she looked fierce and +threatening, as she had looked that first day in the restaurant. + +“Wanted? I had thought of nothing else for five—nearly six years! I +used to be mad about him, you see. He made women feel like that.” + +“I know he did.” + +Barrison spoke naturally enough, but truth to tell, he was feeling a +bit dazed. The Mortimer case was developing in a singular fashion. +It was like one of those queer little Oriental toys where you open +box inside box, to find in each case a smaller one awaiting you. He +wondered whether he was ever to get to the end of this affair. The +further you went in it, the more complicated it seemed to get. But she +was speaking: + +“I was very much in love with him. But I never had any illusions as to +his real character. He was rather a blackguard, in more ways than one. +It wasn’t only that he treated women badly—or, anyway, lightly. He was +crooked. I am very sure of that. He gambled, and the men in the company +wouldn’t play with him; they said he didn’t play straight. There was +one elderly man with a daughter, who was his particular crony; they +were both supposed to be shady in a lot of ways—I mean the two men. So +far as I know, the girl was all right. Evidently they stuck together, +too; perhaps they had to, knowing too much about each other! But I saw +the older man at the theater two or three times during rehearsals.” + +“What did he look like?” demanded Barrison, struck with a sudden idea. + +“Oh, very respectable looking, like so many crooks! Elderly, as I say, +and thin, and——” + +“You surely don’t mean Mortimer’s old valet, Wrenn?” + +She looked at him in a startled fashion. + +“Why, yes, that’s the name. I don’t believe I should have remembered it +if you hadn’t reminded me. The man was Wrenn, I am sure.” + +Jim’s pulse was pounding. Light at last, if only a glimmer! He was +really finding out something about Mortimer’s past, really coming upon +things that might have led up, directly or indirectly, to his murder. + +“Do you remember anything about the daughter?” he asked. + +“Not very much. She rode for us in one or two scenes, but she was +hard to use in the picture. I do remember that she was an awfully +disagreeable sort of girl, and most unpopular. What I wanted to tell +you particularly was that Mortimer had a crooked record behind him, and +that at least one man near him—this Wrenn—knew it. That was one thing. +The other——” + +But Barrison could not help interrupting. + +“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Miss Templeton! This is all +tremendously interesting to me—more interesting than you can possibly +guess! It’s just possible that you’ve put me on the clew I’ve been +looking for. Was there any man in that crowd called Blankey, or +Blinkey, or anything like that?” + +She shook her head wonderingly. + +“Not that I know of,” she said. “But Alan had several particular pals, +he and Wrenn. One of them may have been called that. I don’t know.” + +Jim was slightly disappointed, but, after all, he had gained a good +deal already; he could afford to be philosophical and patient. + +“And you don’t remember anything about the girl at all?” he insisted. +“Only that she was disagreeable, and could ride?” + +“Wait a minute,” said Miss Templeton thoughtfully; “I’ve some old +snapshots tucked away. There ought to be some group with that girl in +it.” + +Barrison smoked three cigarettes in frantic succession while she +hunted. Finally, she put a little kodak photograph in his hand. + +“There am I,” she said, “rather in the background, dressed up as a +beautiful village lass—do you see? And that’s Alan. He was handsome, +wasn’t he?” Her voice was quite steady as she said it, but it had +rather a minor ring. “And there—that girl over there in the shirtwaist +and habit skirt, is Wrenn’s daughter.” + +As Barrison looked, he felt as certain as though he had seen her with +his own eyes, that she—Wrenn’s daughter—was the woman who had been in +Mortimer’s dressing room the night before. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + + GLIMMERS IN THE DARKNESS + + +He raised his eyes to find Miss Templeton regarding him from the other +side of the table with a rather curious expression. + +“I had no idea that you would be interested in the Wrenn girl,” she +said. “I thought that my information would point rather toward her +father. Why are you interested in her?” + +Barrison hesitated. Charming as he found this woman, he had no mind to +confide in her just yet. He countered with another question, one which +had, as a matter of fact, trembled on his lips ever since he had come +into the room. It was an impertinent question, and he knew that she +would have a perfect right to resent it. Yet there was an indefinable +attitude about her—not familiarity, but something suggesting +intimacy—when she spoke to him, that made him somewhat bolder than his +good taste could justify. + +“Miss Templeton,” he said, “you have just told me that you cared so +much for Alan Mortimer that you waited for six years to get in the +same company with him. I know that only a few days ago you were still +sufficiently interested in him to be——” + +He really did not know how to put it, but she did. + +“Jealous?” she suggested promptly, and without emotion. “Oh, yes, I +was—in a way—insanely jealous. You see, it had become an obsession with +me; I don’t imagine I really loved him any longer, but I was being +cheated of something I had worked for and sacrificed for. Probably, not +being a woman, you wouldn’t understand.” + +“Probably not,” said Jim. “And—will you forgive me for adding this?—I +understand even less your mood to-day. Last night you were deeply moved +at the play; I saw that. Perhaps”—he paused; he did not know whether +to speak of the revolver or not—“you were even on the verge of—some +scene—some violent expression of emotion, some——” + +She glanced at him, startled. “How did you know that? But, suppose it +were true. Will you go on, if you please?” + +“No; I am merely offending you.” + +“You don’t—offend me.” Her tone was singular. “I should really like you +to go on. There was something else that you did not understand. What +was it?” + +“It is in the present tense,” he answered. “It’s something that I +cannot understand now. Miss Templeton, you have done me the honor of +asking me here to-day, and of talking to me with a certain measure +of confidence. You have been most gracious and charming, a perfect +hostess. I have enjoyed myself completely. And yet—last night, the man +who has occupied your thoughts and, let us say, your hopes for years +past—was tragically murdered.” + +She was silent for a second or two. “Is that what you don’t +understand?” she demanded abruptly. + +“Yes. I cannot reconcile the two women I know to exist: The angry, +passionate, jealous woman who looked—excuse me—as though she could have +done murder herself, a short fortnight ago, and the woman who has been +talking to me to-day about her fruitless quest for the Blue Bird of +Happiness.” + +“I think that is rather stupid of you, then,” she answered composedly. +“Can’t you see it’s all part of the same thing? The quest for love—for +the unattainable—but, Mr. Barrison, that is something else which +puzzles you, which, in a way, jars on you. I can see it quite well. It +is to you a strange and rather a horrible thing that I should be calm +to-day, giving you lunch—and eating it, too!—talking of all sorts of +things, while he, the man I used to be in love with, is lying dead. +Isn’t that it?” + +“That is certainly part of it.” + +After a moment, she pushed back her chair and rose restlessly. + +“No, don’t get up!” she exclaimed, as he, too, rose. “Sit still, and +let me prowl about as I choose. I am not used to expressing myself, +Mr. Barrison, except in my actions. Words always bother me, and I +never seem able to make myself clear in them. Let me see if I can make +you see this thing, not as I do, but a little less confusedly. In the +desert, a man sometimes follows a mirage for a long time; longs for +it, prays for it, worships it from afar. He is dying of thirst, you +see, and his feeling about it is so acute it is almost savage. The +mirage isn’t real, the water that he thinks he sees is just a cloud +effect, but he wants it, and while he is hunting it, he is not entirely +sane. One day he finds it is not real. All that everlasting journeying +for nothing; all that thirst for something that never has existed! +Men do strange things when they find out that the water they were +traveling toward is nothing but a mirage. Some of them kill themselves. +But suppose, just when that man was losing his reason with the +disappointment and the weariness—suppose just then some traveler, some +Good Samaritan, or—just a traveler like himself, or—some—never mind!” +She choked whatever it was that she had meant to say. “Suppose, then, +some one appears and offers him a real gourd of real water! Does he +think much more about the mirage? He only wonders that he ever dreamed +and suffered in search for it. But—it had taken the sight of the real +clear water to make him see that the other was just a feverish dream.” + +She paused in her restless pacing up and down the room, and looked at +him. “Do you understand better now?” + +“No,” said Barrison flatly. “It is very pretty, and, I suppose, +symbolic, but I have not the least idea, if you will pardon me for +saying so, what you are driving at.” + +“Think it over,” said Miss Templeton, lighting another cigarette. +“One more touch of symbolism for you. Suppose the—traveler—who showed +him the real gourd of water should spill it, or drink it all himself, +or—refuse to share it, after all? What do you think would be likely to +happen then?” + +“I should think the thirsty man would be quite likely to shoot him!” +said Jim laughing a little. + +She smiled at him. “Ah,” she said, “you see you understand more than +you pretend. Yes, that’s just what might happen——Oh, by the by, Mr. +Barrison, there was something else that I sent for you to say. You know +I warned you in regard to Kitty Legaye?” + +“Yes, but it is out of the question,” said Barrison. “I am sure that +Mortimer’s murder was an overwhelming surprise to her.” + +“Maybe so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I am sure that, when I rushed +out of the theater last night in that darkness and confusion, I saw +Miss Legaye’s face at the window of a taxicab at the front of the +house.” + +“At the front of the house! But that would be impossible!” + +“I only tell you what I am certain I saw.” + +“Would you be prepared to swear that?” + +She considered this a moment. “No,” she admitted finally. “I would not +be prepared to go quite as far as that. I felt very sure at the time, +and I feel almost as sure now. But a glimpse like that is sometimes +not much to go by. I only tell you for what it is worth. And now, Mr. +Barrison, I have an engagement, and I am going to turn you out. You +forgive me?” + +“I am disposed to forgive you anything,” said Jim, with formal +gallantry, “after the help you have given me—to say nothing of the +pleasure I have had!” + +She made a faint little face at him. “That sounds like something on the +stage!” she protested. “I wish you would think over my—my——” + +“Allegory?” he suggested. + +“I was going to say my confession. I am sure, the more carefully you +remember it, the simpler it will become. Especially remember your own +suggestion as to what would happen to the niggardly rescuer who might +refuse to be a rescuer, after all!” + +Barrison saw fit to ignore this. He shook hands cordially and +conventionally. + +“Good-by,” he said. “And thanks.” + +“Good-by,” she returned briefly. + +As he went downstairs, his face was a shade hot. There were two +reasons for it. For one thing, Miss Templeton’s attitude—the allegory +of the mirage and the gourd of water—what did she mean by it? Was it +possible that she—that she—Jim Barrison was not conceited about women, +but he could hardly avoid being impressed with a subtle flattery in +her manner, a flattery dignified by what certainly looked like rather +touching sincerity. And on his part—well, he was not yet prepared to +tell himself baldly just what he did feel. + +Several years ago, Barrison had imagined himself in love with a +beautiful, heartless girl who had baffled him in one of his big cases. +She had gone out of his life forever, and he had imagined himself +henceforth immune. Yet this woman, with her curious paradoxes of +temperament, her extraordinary frankness, and her strange reserves, her +cold-blooded dismissal of a past passion, and her emotional yearning +for joy and the fullness of life—well, he knew in his heart of hearts, +whether he put it in words or not, that she thrilled him as no woman in +the world had ever thrilled him yet. + + + + + CHAPTER XX + + CHECKING UP + + +“I know that the Wrenn woman probably did it,” said Barrison, speaking +to Lowry in the inspector’s office. “And I’m going to move heaven and +earth to find her. But I’ve a hunch—a sort of theory—that those two +women, Miss Templeton and Miss Legaye, know more than they’ve told us +yet.” + +He tried to keep himself from feeling guilty when he spoke of Grace +Templeton; certainly his own reasons for particular interest in her +had no place in a police investigation, and yet he became subtly +embarrassed whenever her name came up. + +“Never,” said Lowry, smoking his large, black, bad cigar, “never +have theories. Find out the situation, and build your theories into +that. You started off on the idea that these two women—Templeton and +Legaye—were mixed up in the business somehow. You’ve been chasing +’round, worrying about them, to make that idea good. Now, I don’t +believe either of ’em knows a darned thing about it! They may both +have been in love with the man, but nowadays actresses, with their +futures ahead, don’t often queer themselves that way. However, if there +were any evidence against either of ’em, I’d go after it fast enough. +But there isn’t. In fact, there’s conclusive evidence clearing them +both. There’s the pistol, for instance. Not one initial among the four +belonging to the two women resembles an M.” + +“One moment, inspector!” broke in Barrison. “That isn’t an M, it’s a W.” + +“Discovered that, eh?” remarked the inspector imperturbably. “I +wondered if you would. If you’ll look at the pistol closely, though, +my dear boy, you’ll find that the angle at which it is engraved is a +curious one. It might be either an M or a W. It depends on how you look +at it. The letter is oddly shaped; looked at from different points, +it makes just as good a W as it does an M, and vice versa. Well, the +ladies in question have no more W’s in their names than they have M’s. +Then, Miss Templeton could not have got behind the scenes in time.” + +“I imagine not,” admitted Jim. “Of course, we are dealing in what was +possible, not likely; the door was unguarded just then, and——” + +“The door was unguarded after the shot, not before.” + +“If you believe the man Lynch. But—mind you, I suspect her no more than +you, but—she was familiar with the theater.” + +“Familiar—hell! No one’s familiar with any place in the pitch dark! And +the other woman had gone home, hadn’t she?” + +“Miss Legaye had gone home, as it was generally supposed,” said Jim, +feeling obliged to register conscientiously every passing suspicion +of his. “But Miss Templeton thinks she saw her near the front of the +theater just after the tragedy.” + +“Well, you’ve only got that woman’s word for _that_! Will she swear to +it? No? I thought not! She’s just talking through her hat, either to +queer the other, or to make herself interesting to you! Say, Barrison, +you’re dippy on this thing! I always thought you were a pretty snappy +detective for a young un! Now get rid of your theories, and your +hunches and your intuitions and your suspicions, and check up! That’s +what I’ve been doing all day, and, take it from me, while it may be +old-fashioned, it’s the method that gets there nine times out of ten. +Here goes!” + +He took a sheet of paper and made notes, as he talked. + +“Now that shot, according to the medical report, was fired at close +range; very close range, indeed. The khaki of the man’s uniform was +quite a bit burned by it. The bullet entered under the right arm, so he +must have had his arms lifted, either to take hold of Miss Merivale, as +she said, or for some other reason. It entered the body below the right +armpit, and made a clean drill through the right lung at a slightly +upward angle. Then it lodged in an upper rib just under the right +breast. That explains the big splotch of blood on the breast. It could +have been fired from either of two ways.” + +He drew a rough diagram on the page before him, representing an +imaginary, cylindrical man, two crosses, and a couple of dotted lines. + +“So! If Miss Merivale did it,” he explained, pencil in hand, “he’d +have to be standing facing toward the front of the house, with his arm +slightly raised, and his right side exposed to her aim.” + +“Isn’t that an unlikely attitude, under the circumstances?” + +“It is unlikely, but it is perfectly possible. It’s only in songs that +every little movement has a meaning all its own! Do you always have a +good and logical reason for every motion you make? If you do, you’re +a freak! The great difficulty with most detectives is that they try +to get a reason and a sequence for everything, as though they were +putting a puzzle together or writing a play. In real life, half the +things we do we do for no reason at all, or from sheer natural human +contrariness! However, never mind that. Now, if the other woman—the +woman we believe was in the theater last night—fired the shot, she only +had to stand in close at the foot of the four-step entrance, and reach +up. Even if she were a small woman, she would be able to place her +bullet just about where it was found. It’s a toss-up, Barrison. Either +Miss Merivale fired that shot, or the unknown woman did.” + +“The unknown woman I don’t consider unknown any longer. She is Wrenn’s +daughter, without a doubt.” + +“On Miss Templeton’s testimony? Tut, tut, my dear Barrison!” + +“But, surely, the unknown woman, if you insist on continuing to think +her unknown, is the more likely bet of the two?” + +Inspector Lowry pulled at his cigar, and wrinkled his heavy brows. + +“Likely! I’m mortally afraid of those ‘likely’ clews! When a thing +looks too blamed ‘likely,’ I get scared. Nature and life and crime +don’t work that way! Besides,” drawled the inspector, “we’ve not got +her, and we _have_ got the other one! There’s everything in possession!” + +“But you aren’t going to hold Miss Merivale on a mere——” + +“Hold your horses, boy! We aren’t holding her at all at present. She is +as free as air, and will continue to be free for quite a while, anyway. +But she’s being watched, Barrison, my boy, she’s being watched every +minute. And she’ll go on being watched.” + +Lowry relighted his defunct cigar. + +“Incidentally,” he added, “we’ve got a few fresh points on this. You’d +be interested in hearing them, I suppose?” + +“Interested!” + +“Very well. For one thing, Mrs. Parry, the dresser at the theater, has +given us rather an odd piece of evidence. She says that a messenger +boy called at Miss Merivale’s dressing room during the evening. She was +not in the room at the time, but saw him knock, saw him admitted, and +saw him go away.” + +“Nothing odd in that, surely—on a first night?” + +“Nothing at all odd. Mrs. Parry also recalls that, when she went in to +help Miss Merivale for the last act——” + +“Miss Merivale had no change for the last act.” + +“No; so I understand. But she had gone back to her dressing room as +usual for a few final touches. She had to alter her make-up slightly, +hadn’t she?” + +“Yes; she had to be rather paler in the last act.” Barrison was +somewhat impressed by Lowry’s thorough, even if archaic, way of getting +his facts. + +“Quite so,” said the inspector equably. “Well, Mrs. Parry says that, +as she entered the dressing room, she saw Miss Merivale walking up and +down the room, evidently very angry. She had a note in her hand, and +as she saw the woman, she tore it up in a lot of little pieces, and +made an effort to become composed. Then she went hastily over to the +dressing table, and caught up something that was lying there.” + +“Something! What?” + +“Mrs. Parry does not know. She knows that it was a small object +possibly as long as her hand. She does not vouch for its shape. She +just saw it in the flash of an eye.” + +“And what is Miss Merivale supposed to have done with it?” + +“Miss Merivale put it, very swiftly indeed, into the front of her white +gown.” + +Barrison felt thunderstruck. That pretty, frank-eyed girl! Why, the +thing was unbelievable! Impetuously he said: + +“But, as you’ve impressed on me more than once, the testimony of a +single person can’t be conclusive. Suppose——” + +“Suppose that testimony is borne out by that of others? Miss McAllister +remembers Miss Merivale’s fingering the buttons on the front of her +blouse several times, in a nervous way. And two of the minor actors in +that scene say that she kept her hand at her breast when it was not +part of the business, as though she could not entirely forget something +she carried there.” + +Lowry paused, as though to let these points sink into his hearer’s +intelligence. Then he continued: + +“We found the torn scraps of the note, at least enough of them to be +able to get quite a fair idea of what its purport had been.” Lowry +opened the drawer of his desk and took out a Manila envelope. From it +he drew a sheet of paper upon which had been pasted a number of words, +some of them in sequence and some of them detached and far apart. He +pushed the paper across to Barrison. + +“Have a look,” he said laconically. Barrison read: + + How madly—you—you accept—know I may hop—you pretend—needn’t + expect—scape, you beau—might just as—make up—rrender—to-ni—— + +“What do you make of it?” asked Lowry, after Barrison had stared at the +cryptic mosaic of paper scraps for a moment or two. + +The younger detective began to fill in and piece together. He evolved +the logical complete letter: + + You know how madly I love you. If you accept the accompanying I know + I may hope. Though you pretend, you needn’t expect to escape, you + beauty. You might just as well make up your mind to surrender the + battle to-night. + +Lowry read it and smiled. + +“Quite good,” he pronounced. “Here’s another answer.” + +And he pushed another sheet toward Jim. + +This one read—with the words of the recovered scraps underlined—as +follows: + + No matter how determinedly, how madly you resist, you accept your + fate. You know I may hope. You pretend courage, but you need not + expect to escape, you beautiful fiend! You might just as well make up + your mind to surrender to-night. + +Barrison read, and then, with a slight shrug, pushed it back toward the +older man. + +“I see very little difference,” he said. + +“Really? Can’t you see that one is a love letter, and one a threat?” + +“If you choose to put in phrases like ‘you beautiful fiend!’” said +Barrison, raising his eyebrows. + +Lowry chuckled. “Doesn’t it sound kind of natural?” he queried. “Oh, +well, maybe I’m behind the times! I just tried to make it natural. But +seriously, Jim, there is a difference, and you’d better get on to it +quick. That letter—which was from Mortimer; I’ve had the handwriting +verified—might have been a threat to a woman whom he was dead set on +getting, or a billet-doux to a girl he was sweet on, and who was acting +shy. Isn’t that right?” + +Barrison frowned over the two epistles. + +“You’ve something else up your sleeve,” he declared, watching him +closely. “I’ve a good mind to go and call on Miss Merivale myself.” + +“Do!” said Lowry, turning to his desk with the air of a man dismissing +a lot of troublesome business, and glad of it. “You will find that she +is too ill to see a soul; utterly prostrated since last night. Will +that hold you for a while, you uppity young shrimp?” + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + + TONY’S REPORT + + +Barrison often dined at a chop house in the Thirties, near his own +rooms. He repaired thither to-night, after having telephoned his +whereabouts to Tony Clay’s boarding house, with a message for that +youth to come on to join him there if he could. + +As he sat lingeringly over one of the meals he liked best, he +endeavored to forget the problems which had stabbed at him relentlessly +all day. He wished that it were only from a professional angle that +the business worried him; to his own uttermost disgust, he found an +enormous mass of personal worry connected with it. He would like, for +instance, to have been able to eliminate Miss Templeton. Or—would +he? He was alarmed to find his condition so critical that he was not +absolutely sure. + +He glanced up at last, uncertain whether with relief or disgust, to +find Tony Clay wending his way toward him between tables. + +“Hello!” he said, with a very fine show of enthusiastic welcome. + +Tony bobbed an acknowledgment. When he was seated opposite Jim, he +growled: + + “How doth the little butterfly + Improve each shining hour, + By sending other folks to spy, + And bring to him more power! + + “What pretty things he learns to do, + What merry games he beats! + He lets the other fellow stew, + While he sits still and eats!” + +Barrison could not help laughing, as he greeted him: + +“What do you suppose I’ve been doing? Sitting here ever since we +parted? What are you going to eat, oh, faithful, good, and seemingly +hungry servant?” + +“I want all the ham and eggs there are in the place, and the ham cut +thick, and the eggs fried on both sides!” + +“You half-baked little ass!” remarked Jim affectionately. “Give your +own order.” + +Tony ordered, with a vague yet spectacular carelessness which made +Barrison roar. + +“Not awake yet, Tony?” he queried, when his young friend had committed +himself to mushrooms and guinea hen after the ham and eggs. + +“Eh? Sure I’m awake! Say, you didn’t give me a job at all, oh, no!” + +“The point is, did you get it?” + +“Get it? You bet your life I got it. But, Jim, your hunch about that +Golden Arms business was punk. There’s nothing doing there.” + +“No?” said Barrison. He tried to sound cool and casual, but it wasn’t +much of a success; he felt a bit flat about it all. “Go ahead, Tony; +suppose you tell me about it, eh?” + +Tony nodded, and straightened up at sight of the ham and eggs. + +“Well; first off you wanted a line on the maid. I got that, all right. +She was one of those musical-comedy sorts. I spotted her from the +beginning, and I guess you did, too. She wasn’t able to get away from +her ‘lady’ much, but she was supposed to eat like anybody else, and——” + +“Tony, if you tell me that you gave up your sleep to go and fix her at +lunch, and that——” + +“I don’t, and I didn’t tell you anything. But, as a matter of fact, I’d +have bust if I hadn’t got a chance on this thing, Jim; you know that. +Maybe I seem a bit slow sometimes, but, take it from me, I’m there with +the goods when the time comes! Anyway, the maid’s story is perfectly +straight, and I’m certain she’s telling the truth. It seems that she +isn’t supposed to knock at Miss Legaye’s door until half after eleven. +She sleeps in a room on top of the house, connected by telephone, and +only comes down at special times, or when she’s phoned for. Last night, +she didn’t expect Miss Legaye in early, so didn’t come downstairs to +her door till about twenty minutes past eleven. It being a first +night, she really didn’t imagine Miss Legaye would be in much before +midnight. But at eleven twenty Maria—that’s the maid—came and knocked. +She saw that the lights were turned up inside the room. + +“Miss Legaye called out to her: ‘Maria, don’t bother about me to-night; +I’m tired, and I’m going to bed right away. Come at about eight +to-morrow, please.’ + +“Maria went up to bed then, and didn’t come down again until eight, the +hour she was expected. That was about fifteen minutes before you and I +turned up this morning.” + +“Well?” demanded Barrison, not so much eagerly as savagely, for he +was hot on what he thought to be a trail of some sort, even if not a +criminal trail. “Well, what else does she say about when she came in to +Miss Legaye’s rooms this morning?” + +“She says that she came to the door and knocked, as was always her +rule, before using her key. She had a key, but was not expected by Miss +Legaye to use it unless there was no answer. This time she didn’t get +any answer, so she opened the door, and went in. + +“She went in to Miss Legaye’s bedroom, and found her half awake and +half asleep. She said she had had a bad night, and had had to take her +sleeping medicine. She looked pale. Maria says that the thing that +upset her, Maria, most was the sight of Miss Legaye’s fine opera coat +on a chair near the window, where the rain had made it all wet. She +said she had barely hung it up, and made Miss Legaye comfortable, when +we telephoned up.” + +Barrison thought a moment. “That sounds all right,” he admitted. “Get +ahead, Tony, to the rest of your investigation. For, of course, you +must have got at some one else!” + +“Yes,” said Tony, as he munched fried ham; “I got at the night clerk of +the Golden Arms.” + +“The night clerk? But he wasn’t on duty?” + +Tony buttered a piece of bread with a glance of scorn. “And would that +make him inaccessible to _you_, you pluperfect sleuth?” he demanded +caustically. “To me it merely meant that I would have to dig up his +address and call on him when he was not on guard, so to speak. He is +a very nice, pleasant youth. You would not get on with him at all; +you would hurt his feelings. I have feelings of my own, so we were +delighted with each other! You do neglect your opportunities, you know, +Jim!” + +“Did you find out when Miss Legaye got in last night?” asked Barrison, +but Tony’s answer was disappointing. + +“I did not,” he rejoined. “I found that my night clerk had not seen +Miss Legaye at all last night.” + +Barrison jumped and stared at him. “Not seen her!” ejaculated he. + +“No. She had not come through the office at all. But he says that she +often avoids the crowd in the hotel office by going up to her apartment +by the back way. He says she hates publicity.” + +“Oh!” Barrison was thinking. “Is there, then, no one who would have +seen her, if she came in ‘the back way,’ and went up to her room?” + +“I can’t see how any one could have seen her. You see, Jim, it’s this +way. In the Golden Arms Hotel, there is a side door, which is kept open +and unguarded until after eleven o’clock at night. Lots of people, +women especially, who don’t want to go through the crowded office at +that hour, prefer to slip in that way. It’s a regular thing; they all +do it. As to the elevator boy who——” + +“Yes, I was going to ask about him. Did he take her up?” + +“No, he didn’t. At that hour of the night, even an elevator boy +sometimes nods. Anyway, he remembers the bell ringing for a long time +while he was half asleep, and when he got to the lift there was no one +there. The answer seems obvious.” + +“That she walked upstairs, having become tired of waiting?” + +“I should say so. Especially as she lived only one floor up, and often +ran up the flight to save time!” + +Barrison thought of this as he drank black coffee. “And that is all you +found out?” he demanded suddenly, raising his head. + +“Not at all!” responded Tony cheerfully. “I found out that the first +news the night clerk had had of Miss Legaye last night was a telephone +message from her room at about eleven o’clock.” + +“A message? What was it?” + +“She said that she had a frightful headache, and that she wanted one of +the bell boys to go out to the drug store for her, and get a medicine +bottle filled—stuff that she often took when she had trouble about +sleeping.” + +“And then?” + +“And then the boy went upstairs, and got the empty bottle from her. She +was wearing a wrapper. He took the bottle out and had it filled. That’s +all. It establishes the fact that she was in, and undressed, at eleven.” + +Barrison called for the check and paid it; then he still knitted his +brows over the thing that troubled him. + +“Tony!” he said suddenly. + +“Well?” + +“_Could_ she have gotten upstairs into that hotel without being seen? I +can’t believe it.” + +“Why not?” + +“I thought there were maids or guards on every floor.” + +“Quite so,” said Tony; “you remind me. There is a maid stationed on +every floor of all decent hotels. There was one on every floor of this. +But she is human, and therefore she is movable. This one, on Miss +Legaye’s floor, was on duty up to twenty minutes to eleven, and she was +on duty after eleven had struck. In between she had been called in to +settle some newcomer, an old lady who wanted eight hundred and seventy +things to which she was not entitled. She was away less than half an +hour, but it was during that time that Miss Legaye must have gone to +her room.” + +Barrison still sat looking at his coffee cup in a troubled way, and +Tony suddenly spoke: + +“Jim, that’s a cold trail, a dead one. See? Why do you keep tracking +back to it? You know, and I know, that there’s nothing doing at that +end of the story. What keeps you nosing around it?” + +“I can’t tell you, Tony,” said Barrison, low and not too certainly. “It +isn’t exactly evidence that keeps me following that trail. It’s——” + +“Say!” broke in his subordinate sharply. “Shall I tell you what it is? +It’s that woman—it’s Miss Grace Templeton; that’s what it is. You’re +dippy about her! And because she’s tipped you that there’s something +queer about Miss Legaye, you believe it!” + +“I thought you admired Miss Templeton yourself!” said Jim Barrison, +rallying his forces. + +Tony Clay surveyed him in surprise. “Admired her?” he exclaimed. +“Of course I admire her! But that wouldn’t prevent me from doing my +bit on a case! I wouldn’t let a thing like that interfere with me +professionally!” He spoke most grandiloquently, with a swelling chest. + +Jim Barrison looked at him a moment seriously; then his face broke into +irrepressible smiles. “Wouldn’t you?” he queried. “Tony, you’ll be a +great man one of these days!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXII + + “RITA THE DAREDEVIL” + + +Promptly at eight o’clock, Barrison presented himself at the entrance +to Coyne’s Theater, where he had agreed to meet Teddy Lucas, of the +_Blaze_. + +The house was of the flagrantly cheap variety, to judge by the people +then going in. On either side of the glaringly illuminated doorway were +vivid lithographs of ladies with extremely pink cheeks and tights, +and gorgeously yellow hair and jewelry; also, of prodigiously muscled +acrobats, performing miraculous feats in impossible positions. + +Barrison found his own eyes attracted, almost at once, by something +which stood out, oasislike, among the more lurid and obvious sheets; +a large frame containing three photographs, under the plainly printed +title: “Rita the Daredevil! Late of the World-famous Blankley +Daredevils!” + +Then this _was_ the girl who had been playing in the riding act with +Mortimer when Dukane came upon him first. Now, if by any chance Jim +could connect that girl with Wrenn’s disagreeable daughter, whom Miss +Templeton remembered! He was eager for a sight of her. Would that +rather dim snapshot he had seen prove sufficient to identify her? +He wondered! None of these pictures looked particularly like that +nondescript smudge of a woman in the corner of the kodak picture which +had been shown him that day. + +He examined them with close interest. One was of Rita the Daredevil, +sitting a vicious-looking, rearing broncho, with a nonchalant air, +and huge, ornamental spurs; another was of Rita the Daredevil firing +with a rifle at an apple held up by a fat man in evening clothes. The +third was, presumably, a likeness of Rita the Daredevil herself, doing +nothing in particular but scowl at the world from beneath a picturesque +sombrero. + +She certainly looked disagreeable enough to justify Grace Templeton’s +unpleasant recollection of her. Of a markedly Spanish type, with the +faint Indian cast which is so prevalent in South America, she was in +no sense beguiling or prepossessing. It would be hard to vision those +glowering black eyes soft with any tender emotion; her mouth was as +hard and as bitter in line as that of some fierce yet stoical young +savage, brooding over a darkly glorious nightmare of revenge. + +Fascinated, even while repelled, by the odd, forbidding face, Barrison +started as he was roused from his momentary trance by the cool, rapid +tones of Teddy Lucas: + +“Awfully sorry if you’ve been waiting. I don’t imagine we’re late for +our act, though. Have you a cigarette? We can smoke here. Righto! Come +along!” + +They went in and took the places reserved for them in a stage box. Jim +was glad to be so close to the stage; he wanted to study this woman as +minutely as he could. As they settled themselves, an attendant changed +the cards giving the names of the acts. With a real thrill Barrison saw +that they read: + +“Rita the Daredevil.” + +“Good stuff,” murmured Lucas critically. “They don’t say what she does, +nor what makes her a daredevil. They just say it, and wait for her to +make good. Of course, she probably won’t.” + +He took the evening newspaper from under his arm, and on the margin of +the first page scribbled a short enigmatic note in pencil. On the stage +was a small table decorated with a .44 rifle and several small weapons, +a target painted in red and gold instead of black and white, and a +large mirror. Almost immediately Rita the Daredevil made her entrance. + +She was dressed in the regulation “cowgirl’s” outfit—short skirt +of khaki, sombrero, heavy leather belt, high-laced brown boots, +embroidered gauntlets. As though to give a touch of daintiness to her +costume, she wore a thin white shirtwaist, and a scarlet tie. Also, the +buckle on her belt was of gold, and there was a golden ornament in the +band of her broad felt hat. + +Daintiness, however, seemed out of place. There was about the young +woman an absence of feminine coquetry that set her apart from most +vaudeville performers. Sometimes she forced a smile, and made a little +bow to the house, but conciliatory measures were plainly foreign to +this woman’s temperament. She was there to do certain things; one would +be safe to wager that she would do them well. + +And she did. She was a marvelous shot, cool, and steady; and the men +in her audience were genuinely enthusiastic. A good many of them could +appreciate straight and clever shooting when they saw it. + +She shot bull’s-eyes, tossed glass balls, shot apples on the head of +her meek partner, the smiling man of the photograph; she shot over her +shoulder, looking in a mirror; she shot, after sighting carefully, with +her eyes blindfolded; she shot with guns of every size and caliber. +In everything she did was apparent the same crisp, grim efficiency. +She did not do her work at all gayly, nor as if she enjoyed it. There +was something resentful about her whole personality. Doubtless she +grudged the entertainment she gave and would have preferred to earn her +salary, if possible, by making herself unpleasant to people, instead of +diverting them! + +Barrison gave many glances to the man who so patiently and +self-effacingly assisted her. He was, in spite of the professional +smile, not a happy-looking man. There were moments when, for all his +creases of flesh, he looked positively haggard, and his eyes were +very tired. He was a man who for some reason lived under a shadow or +a burden of some sort; and—this belief came suddenly to Barrison—she +herself suffered from the same handicap. These two people were the +victims either of a heavy trouble, a grievous disappointment, or a +gnawing wrong. You could see the pinches and rakings of suffering in +both faces. + +The climax of Rita’s act was now pending. The partner came down to the +footlights, and explained that “The Daredevil, whose life had been one +hourly challenge to such dangers as lesser mortals hold in justifiable +dread,” would now show the ladies and gentlemen how little she cared +for common risks or common caution. It appeared that she wished any one +who liked to come and examine the pistols she was going to use. It was +necessary for the audience to understand that they were all loaded. Did +any one care to examine them? + +Yes; to Teddy Lucas’ surprise, Barrison did. He leaned over the side +of the box, and had the satisfaction not only of noting that they were +all loaded, six chambers each, but that each one of the three that she +intended to use was marked in precisely the same way as the one which +was now locked up in his safe at home. + +“I thought she did the stunt with four,” said Ted, arching his +eyebrows. “She was advertised to.” + +Another point. Until recently, she had done her trick with four +pistols, all exactly alike. Where was the fourth? Jim knew where the +fourth was. Naturally, there had not been time to have another made and +marked in precisely the same way. + +He handed back the weapons, saw them examined by several other curious +people, and settled back to see what she was going to do with them. + +The stunt itself turned out to be disappointing. It was a mere juggling +trick, the old three-ball affair, done with loaded pistols; that was +all. To be sure, there was a certain amount of risk about it, since +even a clever shot cannot always be responsible for what will happen to +a trigger when it is caught in the lightning manipulation of juggling. +But it was not nearly so dangerous as it was advertised to be. + +“Now, it’s safe to assume,” remarked Teddy languidly, in Barrison’s +ear, “that she never fired one of those things off yet, in that stunt, +and never will!” + +And then two things happened. It was difficult even for Jim Barrison’s +trained mind to tell him which had happened first. His eyes caught +sight of some one in the box opposite, a gray-haired, dignified figure +of middle height, not sitting, but standing with his look fixed sternly +upon the stage. It was Max Dukane, the great manager, and Barrison, in +a great flash of intuition, knew why he was there. He had come either +to warn or threaten these people who knew him since the days when he +had discovered Mortimer in the show known as Blankley’s Daredevils. + +And at the selfsame instant, it seemed, the pistols which Rita was +tossing so composedly and surely, experienced a hitch in their +methodical orbits. One, two, three, they rose and fell, and she caught +them neatly each time, and sent them whirling as though they were +tennis balls, instead of loaded guns. But something had happened. There +was a faint cry, Barrison was near enough to hear it. And then a shot. + +The detective’s hair seemed to rise. It was so soon after that other +tragedy! Was it possible? But nothing had happened, it seemed, except a +flesh wound for Rita herself. She was holding her hand against her arm, +and staring in front of her in a dazed and frightened way. Her partner +was tearing away her sleeve to investigate, and the house was wildly +excited. It was superb advertising, of course; only, Barrison knew that +it was not advertising. She had been frightened by Dukane’s sudden +appearance, and even her sure hand had lost its cunning for a second. + +He looked toward the other box sharply, at the very moment, as he +thought, when Rita had sunk down wounded. But even so, he was too late. +Dukane had gone. + +“Shall we go behind now, and have a talk with her?” suggested Teddy +Lucas, rising. “Really, that was quite well staged. Every one will be +twice as ready to believe her a daredevil after they have seen her +wounded. Ready?” + +They made their way behind. + +Barrison’s blood was thrilling with that excitement of the chase which +keeps a good detective alive on this earth, and without which one can +scarcely imagine him contented. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII + + TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP + + +Rita received them in her dressing room, which was frankly a +utilitarian apartment. Since she had to share it in turn with other +performers, she had not much chance to impress her individuality upon +it. And, for that matter, she was not the type of woman, probably, who +would have thought it worth her while to take the trouble. She scorned +frivolities. + +When they saw her at close range, they were both struck by the fact +that she was scarcely made up at all. Doubtless, if she had taken the +trouble, she could have softened her face and expression, and made +herself less hard and repellent. Not that she was ugly. She was not; +her features were regular enough, and her black eyes quite splendid +in their smoldering sort of way. If she had not bound up her hair so +tightly, its masses and luster would have been a sensation; and her +figure was good, in a lean, wiry style all its own. + +The truth was that she was uncompromising, unyielding, ungraceful as +she was ungracious. + +If Rita had really experienced a shock during her act, she certainly +had recovered from it, so far as the eyes of outsiders could determine. + +After greeting them, she eyed her visitors coldly and sharply. + +“Wanted to talk to me?” she demanded, in rather a metallic voice. + +“Please, for the _Blaze_,” said Teddy Lucas, in his most insinuating +tone. + +But Rita the Daredevil shook her head with a slight scowl. + +“Waste of time,” she stated. “We aren’t playing here after next week, +and——” + +“I beg your pardon!” slid in Teddy smoothly but firmly. “You are not +playing at this theater, but you have time at——” + +“I tell you——” she began hotly. But another voice made itself heard. +It was, as they were somewhat surprised to find, the voice of Rita’s +subservient partner, who had appeared just behind them, and who now +confronted them with a curious little air of authority, in spite of his +plump body and his very ancient evening dress. + +“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he said courteously, and +made them a bow which was quite proper and dignified. It was the bow +of—what was it? Jim tried to think. Was it the bow of a head waiter, or +a floorwalker, or—a ringmaster? That was it, a ringmaster. This man was +used to the exacting proprieties of the circus. No one else could be so +perfect! Instantly, Jim placed him as Blankley himself. + +“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he repeated gently. “Our +plans have changed. Vaudeville performers live, unfortunately, in a +world of changes. We had expected to play in and around New York for +some weeks; our expectations have not materialized. We leave New York +to-night.” + +“To-night!” repeated Teddy Lucas, sitting up and opening his eyes. +“Isn’t that rather short notice?” + +“It is,” said the fat man, and Jim saw his hand shake as he raised it +to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. But he was firm enough, for +all that. “It is extremely sudden, but—it is—advisable.” + +“More advantageous time, I suppose?” said Teddy, watching him with +seeming indifference. + +“Yes, yes,” said the fat man eagerly, and his hand shook more than +ever. “More advantageous time! Meanwhile, if you care to interview Mrs. +Blankley——” + +Barrison pricked up his ears. Mrs. Blankley! + +“She—I—we would be glad to be mentioned in your paper,” went on +the fat man hurriedly. “You could hardly give your space to a more +scintillating—a more——” + +“Nick,” said Rita the Daredevil shortly, “I don’t want to be +interviewed. You arranged with Coyne for this gentleman to come, +representing his paper, but I don’t stand for it. You never can get it +out of your head that we’re not running our own show any longer, and +that the public doesn’t care a continental about us. You keep hanging +on to the old stuff. You keep thinking that because you used to be a +big noise in your own little gramophone, you’re loud enough to take in +Broadway nowadays. It doesn’t get across, Nick. If these gentlemen want +a story,” and her voice was keen and bitter, “they’d better get after +something else.” + +“Miss—er—I mean, Mrs. Blankley,” said Teddy, “weren’t you hurt, when +that bullet exploded to-night?” + +She changed color; oh, yes, she did change color. But she said with a +swiftness that made Jim Barrison admire her the more: “That? Oh, that +was just advertising! Didn’t you guess?” + +Teddy Lucas looked at her. “H’m!” he said, deliberating. “I confess I +did think it was advertising at first, but——” + +Rita looked strange; for a moment it seemed that she was going to +strike the newspaper man. Then she let her heavy, dark eyes sink, and +turned away with a muttered remark that none of them could catch. + +It was Jim’s moment; the only moment that had been put straight into +his hands that night. He seized it boldly. The fat man was talking +nervously and volubly to the reporter; there was a chance. + +“Miss Wrenn,” said Jim Barrison deliberately, “will you let me talk to +you alone?” + +He never forgot the look that came into those big black eyes, as she +raised them then to meet his. He could not have told whether it was +horror or hatred, but he was sure that it was one or the other. For a +full half minute she stared at him so, her face white as chalk. Then +she drew a deep breath, and took a step back. + +“Since I must,” she said, answering his request. “But I warn you, it +will be to very little purpose—I know why you are here. Do you truly +think that—this—this investigation—is worth your while?” + +“I don’t know that,” he said steadily, but still in a voice that was +audible to her alone. “I only know that it is necessary; that it is my +duty. I know that you are the girl I am seeking. Your name is Wrenn. Is +it not?” + +“It is,” she replied. “Marita Wrenn!” + +Marita! So the initials were to be explained logically after all! M +for Marita; W for Wrenn. The two engraved in that odd fashion which he +could quite understand had been of her inspiration. + +“Will you believe,” he went on, steadying his voice, and keeping all +excitement out of it, “that I am only trying to get at the facts? That +I——” + +“Marita!” came the voice of the fat man sharply. “This gentleman”—he +indicated Lucas—“has asked us to take supper with him and his friend. +We will go?” + +“I should be delighted,” she said, in the mechanical way, which one +felt was her way of accepting all pleasures in life, however they came. + +Blankley turned to them with his anxious little bow. “If you would +pardon us——” he begged. “My wife must take off a little make-up, and +then—may we join you at the stage door?” + +Barrison hated to let the woman out of his sight, but he scarcely knew +how to refuse so simple a request. He was here as Teddy Lucas’ guest, +and not in his professional capacity. So the two young men went out to +the stage door to wait. + +They waited until, with a short laugh, the reporter showed his watch. +Almost sixty minutes had gone by. + +“I don’t know just your game, my dear fellow,” he said, as he turned +away. “But, for my part, I think you’ve been jolly well sold!” + +“How about you?” said Barrison, raw about his part of it, and yearning +to be disagreeable. + +Lucas laughed. “I’m fixed all right,” he said amiably. “I’m going to +write a peach of a story about the shock which led to the canceling of +the Blankley engagement!” + +“What shock?” asked Barrison. + +Lucas looked at him in polite scorn. “My dear friend,” he said, in a +tired voice, “didn’t you see Dukane in the box to-night?” + +Barrison jumped. “You mean you saw him?” he exclaimed. + +Lucas sighed heavily. “Saw him?” he said. “My dear fellow, I’m a +reporter!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV + + WHAT SYBIL HAD HIDDEN + + +Jim Barrison was dog tired. He felt as though the past twenty-four +hours had been twenty-four months; it scarcely seemed possible that the +murder had been committed only the night before! Nevertheless, weary as +he was he called up Lowry and told him of his evening’s experience. The +inspector made some cryptic grunts at the other end of the wire, and +ended up with a curt “I’ll see about it. Good night!” + +Barrison smiled, but felt slightly annoyed as he hung up the receiver. +“‘I’ll see about it!’ As though he were Providence incarnate, and could +wind up the moon and stars to go differently if he felt like it!” + +He was past more than a fleeting flash of resentment, however, and lost +no time in wending his way homeward and to bed. Tara made a dignified +offering of Scotch and sandwiches, but he waved him away sleepily, and +tumbled in. + +So profound was the slumber into which he immediately fell, that the +shrill ringing of the telephone hardly pierced his rest. If he heard it +at all, it was only as a component part of his fitful dreams. + +The voice which came to Tara over the wire was cool and crisp: + +“Mr. Barrison, please.” + +Tara glanced compassionately toward the bedroom where his master was +already in deep repose. + +“No, sir!” he responded, politely but firmly. + +“What do you mean—no? Has he gone to bed?” + +“Yes—please.” Tara was nothing if not deferential. + +“Well, get him up. I want to speak to him.” + +“Honorably excuse,” said Tara, with an instinctive bow to the +instrument, “but—I _not_!” + +“You won’t call him?” + +“Please—I not!” + +The voice at the end of the wire cursed him gently, and then continued: + +“Well, will you take a message?” + +“Oh, yes, please—I thank!” + +The Jap hastily seized pencil and paper, and, after making sundry +hieroglyphics in his own language, said good night humbly, hung up, +and translated what he had noted into English. In the morning, when he +carried coffee in to a refreshed but still drowsy Barrison, the message +which that gentleman read was as follows: “Hon. gent. paper man say if +you please call. Import.” + +Barrison knew that this meant Teddy Lucas in all probability, but he +also knew that it was too early to catch him at the newspaper office +yet. He ate breakfast and hunted through the morning papers for +matters of interest. In the _Blaze_, he found a picturesque little +account of the spectacular exit of Mr. and Mrs. Blankley. It was toned +down, however, a good deal, Dukane’s name not being mentioned, and +nothing more sensational being suggested than that “Rita the Daredevil” +lost her nerve after the narrow escape which had left her in a state of +collapse when the _Blaze_ representative was admitted to her presence. +Her husband had urged her discontinuance of the engagement, et cetera. +Barrison could not entirely understand, but he knew that the ways of +newspapers were strange and devious. Later he would call up Lucas and +find out more about it. + +It was at this point that his eye caught sight of another item on the +page given over to dramatic news. It was starred in a half column, and +was headed: + + TRAGIC AND SENSATIONAL ROMANCE OF MISS + KITTY LEGAYE! + + Popular Actress Announces Her Engagement to Star Who + Was Murdered. + + (Interview by Maybelle Montagu.) + + Miss Kitty Legaye, whose charm and talent have endeared her to + thousands of the American public, is to-day that saddest of figures, + a sorrowing woman bereft of the man who was to have been her husband. + Alan Mortimer, whose terrible and mysterious death has stirred the + entire theatrical world and baffled police headquarters, has left + behind him a woman whose white face bears the stamp of ineffaceable + love and endless grief. + + In deepest mourning, which enhanced her childlike loveliness, the + exquisite little actress whose impersonations of young girls upon + the stage have made her famous all over the continent consented to + receive the representative of the New York _Blaze_. It was with a + touching simplicity that she said: + + “We had intended to postpone the announcement of our engagement until + later, but he has been taken from me, and why keep silent any longer? + It is, in a way, a comfort to let the world know that we were to have + been married—that, at least, I have the right to mourn for him!” + + Her sweet voice was choked with sobs, and in the eyes of even the + seasoned interviewer there were tears. + +Barrison shook his head, and smiled a wry, cynical smile. + +“Not so prostrated that she can’t make capital out of it!” he commented +to himself. “Lost no time, I must say. However, it’s no concern of +mine.” + +Refreshed by his sound sleep, he rushed through the process of dressing +like a whirlwind, and went off to try the doubtful experiment of +another call upon Mr. Dukane. + +But before he went up to the great man’s office, he paused to take +due thought. After all, was it the best thing to do? He considered, +and before he had decided, the door of the elevator opened, and young +Norman Crane came out. He looked fresh and wholesome as ever, but, Jim +thought, a bit anxious. He greeted the detective cordially. + +“Hello!” he said. “Beastly mess it all is, isn’t it? Were you going up +to see the old man? Because you won’t. Not unless you’ve an awful drag +at court! Every one in the world is waiting in the outer office, all +the poor old ‘Boots-and-Saddles’ bunch, and everybody in town that’s +left over.” + +“I hadn’t made up my mind whether I was going up or not,” admitted +Barrison. “Now I have, I think. I’ll walk along with you, if you’ve no +objection?” + +“Rather not! I’m——” He hesitated. “I’m going to inquire for Sybil.” + +“How _is_ Miss Merivale? I was sorry to hear that she was so ill.” + +“Who told you? Oh, it would be Lowry, of course! I can’t get used +to the idea of having Sybil watched and spied on by policemen. Beg +pardon!” He flushed boyishly. “I don’t mean to be offensive, Mr. +Barrison, and you never strike me like that quite, but—you must know +what I mean?” + +“Naturally I do,” said Jim, who liked the lad. “And, if you don’t +mind, I’ll come with you when you go to inquire—not in a professional +capacity!” he added hastily, seeing the glint of suspicion in the +other’s transparent eyes. + +Crane laughed a little awkwardly. “I’d be very glad to have you,” he +said frankly, “and, for that matter, in your professional capacity, +too! Mr. Barrison, am I right in thinking that—that man suspects Sybil?” + +“Suspects is rather a plain term and rather a strong one. I don’t think +he absolutely suspects her; but there are things that will need a bit +of clearing up.” + +“I thought so!” The young man’s manner expressed a sort of angry +triumph. “Now, Mr. Barrison, you must come. Sybil must talk to you, +whether she feels like it or not! You know, the whole idea is too +absurd——” + +“I think it is absurd myself!” said Barrison kindly. “But you know it’s +just those ridiculous things that make such a lot of bother in the +world! Miss Merivale, I’m convinced, is the last person in the world to +have committed any sort of a crime.” + +“Heavens! I should say so!” + +“And yet—what was it that she hid in her dress that night?” + +Norman stopped and stared at him. “Why should you think she hid +anything in her dress?” he demanded in unfeigned astonishment. + +“I’ll tell you by and by,” said Barrison evasively. He saw that Crane +was really surprised by this, and he was debating with himself just how +far it was politic and wise to go in this direction. + +In another few minutes they were at the boarding house where Sybil +lived—a quiet house in the upper Forties, kept by a gentle, gray-haired +woman who seemed of another day and generation, and who called Norman +“my dear boy,” with a soft Southern drawl. + +Miss Merivale was better, she said; so much so, in fact, that she had +had her removed into her own parlor at the front of the house, where +she could have more cheerful surroundings and see her friends, the +sweet lady added, smiling, if she felt strong enough. If the gentlemen +would take the trouble to walk upstairs, she was sure they would do +Miss Merivale good. She was better, but not so bright as one could wish. + +The boarding-house keeper and Norman Crane ascended first, and shortly +after the former came back to tell Barrison that they were expecting +him, if he would go up. + +“I thought,” she added softly, “that they would want to see each other, +and so I had her couch fixed in my place, where I can be in and out, so +to speak. Not that I’d have the time,” she added, gently humorous, “but +it’s the idea, you know! I’m from the So’th, sir, and I have my funny +notions about the proprieties!” + +Sybil, on the landlady’s old-fashioned sofa, looked rather pathetically +wan, but she made an effort to greet Jim with some animation and +cordiality. It was plain that she was still very shaken and depressed, +and that her fiancé was much worried about her. + +She went at once to the matters that were in all their minds. It was +characteristic of the girl that she did not shrink from approaching +even the subjects responsible for her recent collapse. And she was +very fair to look at, in her soft blue dressing gown lying back among +the faded chintz cushions, with her ash-blond hair in two long braids +upon her shoulders. Kitty Legaye should have seen her now! + +“Mr. Barrison,” she said at once, “it is awfully good of you to have +called. Norman and I know that you are here as a friend, and not as an +officer of the law, and we are both grateful. Mr. Barrison, you surely +don’t think I had anything to do with—with that horror the other night?” + +“No, I don’t,” said Barrison, speaking as briefly and frankly as she +was speaking herself. + +“Well, will you tell me on what grounds they are—are watching me?” + +“You are sure they are?” he said, to gain time. + +“Sure! Of course, I am sure! Look at that man over there, reading the +paper and occasionally glancing up at the sky to see if it is going to +rain. Isn’t he watching this house?” + +Barrison smiled. “Probably he is,” he admitted. He had noticed the man +himself as he came in, but he had not imagined that the girl herself +knew of her situation. + +“Well,” she insisted, and a faint spot of feverish color came into +either cheek, “what is it that they expect to find out? What is it? I +know that I was there, on the scene, but—but—surely that man would not +have let me go if he had thought I had—done it!” + +Barrison was convinced of her innocence; but he was also convinced +that the wisest course would be to enlighten her as to the points +wherein her position was open to question by the law. He had hesitated +because his connection with the case, while unofficial, more or less +tied his hands; but, after all, the inspector had given him leave to +use his own judgment. + +He spoke straightforwardly. “What did you hide in your dress, just +before the last act, the night before last, Miss Merivale?” + +She started upright on the couch, and looked at him with wide eyes of +amazement. “How did you know that?” she asked blankly. + +“But you didn’t, did you, dear?” struck in Norman Crane, taking her +hand in his. “What could you have put in your dress? It’s absurd, as I +told Mr. Barrison!” + +She thought for a moment, and then said quietly: “I put into my dress +something that I wanted to hide, chiefly from you, Norman. I knew that +if you saw it, you would be angry.” + +Norman Crane looked as though she had struck him. + +“You did hide something, then?” he exclaimed. + +“I certainly did, and would again, under the same conditions. Only, I +can’t see how any one knew of the fact. Who was it, Mr. Barrison?” + +“Your dresser, the woman Parry.” + +“Of course!” She nodded slowly. “She was always a meddlesome old thing! +And I know that she was consumed with curiosity when I got the package +and the note that night.” + +“The package and the note!” repeated Norman Crane. “Sybil, you are +crazy! What are you talking about?” + +“I know what the note was,” put in Barrison, smiling at her +reassuringly. “At least, I know part of it, and I was daring enough to +make up the rest of it in Lowry’s office last night!” + +Sybil looked up at him with a flash of laughter in her eyes, though +poor Crane was still dazed. + +“And what did you make of it?” she asked, in a tone that tried for +raillery and only achieved a certain piteous bravado. + +“I made of it a sort of love letter, if you can call it so,” said +Barrison gently, “which might have accompanied a present, something +which could be considered in the light of a test—no, that is not the +word, a proof of——” + +“A proof,” she broke in passionately, “of my willingness to do +something, and to be something that I could not do and could not be! +And you made that out of it, with only those torn scraps to go by! Oh, +you understand. I see that you do understand!” + +She hid her face in her hands and cried. In a moment, however, she put +aside her own emotion, and explained: + +“He—Mr. Mortimer—had tried to make love to me many times; you both know +that. Norman was furious with him, and I was always afraid that there +would be trouble between them. Of my part of it—well, it is much harder +to speak. Being men, perhaps you will not understand the sort of power +of fascination that a man can have over a woman, even when she does not +love him. I shall always believe that Alan Mortimer had some hypnotic +power—however, that is not the point. Though I had always repulsed him, +he could not help knowing that he had influence over me; a man always +knows. You see, I don’t try to lie; I tell you the truth, even though +it isn’t a pleasant sort of truth to tell.” + +“I know it is most painful to tell,” Barrison said, feeling indeed +profoundly sorry for her, and most respectful of her courage in +speaking as she did. Norman Crane said nothing. + +“That night—the first night,” Sybil went on, “Alan Mortimer made it +especially—hard for me. He had chosen an ornament for me, a splendid +jeweled thing, but I had refused it several times. That night, he sent +it to me with a note, and told me that he expected me to wear it that +evening, after the play was over.” + +“Have you got it now?” asked Barrison. + +She reached out to a small table near by and took it from a hand bag. +“I have never been separated from it,” she said simply. “It is too +valuable, and—until to-day—I did not know just what to do with it.” + +In another moment it lay before them—the case “as long as a hand,” +which Mrs. Parry had seen the girl hide in the front of her dress. +In yet another instant the case was open, and the splendid piece of +jewelry that was within flashed in the morning sunshine. It was a +pendant of sapphires and diamonds, and it was the sort of thing that +would be extremely becoming to Sybil Merivale. + +Crane suppressed with difficulty a sound of rage as he saw it. + +Barrison cut it off quickly by saying: “You told us you did not know +what to do with it until to-day. Why to-day?” + +“Because”—Sybil took up a morning paper, looked at a particular place, +and dropped it again—“because to-day I know that Miss Legaye was +engaged to him, and that, therefore, anything that he had, when he +died, belongs to her. I am going to send the pendant to Miss Legaye.” + +She closed the case with an air of finality. “Isn’t that what I ought +to do?” she asked, half anxiously, looking from one to the other. + +Norman Crane, who had been sitting moodily staring at the floor, +suddenly lifted his head and bent to kiss her hand. + +“My darling,” he said honestly and generously, “I don’t understand +everything you’ve been talking about, but I understand that you’re my +dear girl—my fine girl—always. And—and whatever you say—must be right!” + +“And you, Mr. Barrison?” she persisted, looking at him wistfully, as +she left her hand in Norman’s. + +Jim rose to go, and, standing, smiled down upon her. “I think your +notion is an inspiration!” he declared. “I would give something to see +Miss Legaye when she gets that pendant!” + +After which he departed, wondering how he was going to convince Lowry +that the trail to Sybil was, professionally speaking, “cold.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXV + + NEW DEVELOPMENTS + + +He telephoned the _Blaze_ office, and caught Teddy Lucas just as he was +starting out on an assignment. + +“Oh, it’s you,” said the reporter. “Wanted to tell you something about +your friend Rita which might be useful in your business. I strolled +round last night to the furnished rooming house where she and her +husband hung out, and they never went home at all; just beat it to the +train, I suppose. Their room was just as they’d left it, and full of +junk. There was a shelf full of old photographs, and one of ’em was of +two young girls, sisters I should say; at least, they were both dark. +One’s evidently Rita herself, as she may have looked ten years ago, +and the other, unless I’m very much mistaken, is the lady that the sob +sisters are interviewing this morning!” + +“Not Kitty Legaye?” + +“That’s the one. Oh, and I poked about the files for you this morning. +The Blankley Daredevils were a riding and shooting show that did small +time in the East until a year ago. Then it bust up, and the company +scattered. Blankley seems to have been a crook, for the reason for the +smash-up was that he was arrested and sent to jail for six months! +Quite a nice, snappy little story—what?” + +“Are you going to write it?” + +“Not my line. I’ve turned it over to a chap on the news staff!” + +“I noticed that you didn’t make much out of last night.” + +“My editor cut out most of it; thought I was giving Coyne’s theater too +much advertising. Well, that’s all I had to tell.” + +“Where is that photograph?” + +“I swiped it. Send it up?” + +“Please! And I’m no end obliged.” + +“That’s all right.” + +Barrison walked out of the booth more astonished than he had ever +been in his life. In all the speculations he had made in his own mind +concerning this twisted and unsatisfactory case, it had never occurred +to him to connect those two women. Kitty Legaye and Marita Blankley! +He recalled the two faces swiftly, and saw that there was a faint +resemblance, though Rita’s was far the harder and more mature. He would +not swear that she was the older, though; little ladies like Kitty +rarely looked their age. Kitty and Rita! The more he thought of it, +the more astounding it seemed. Of course, the first thing to do was to +locate Wrenn. But how? He wondered if Willie Coster could help him. + +He got Willie’s address easily enough from the theater, and went to +call. He found him a little wan and puffy-eyed, but quite recovered, +and amazingly cheerful for a man who has only been sober a few hours! + +“Wrenn?” he repeated. “How should I know? He’d scarcely be staying on +at Mortimer’s hotel, I suppose?” + +Barrison explained that Mortimer’s rooms and effects were in the +custody of the police, and that the old valet would not be allowed near +them in any case. + +“I don’t believe that he’s left town,” Willie said, “and I’ll tell you +why. He wasn’t at all well fixed for money. I don’t believe Mortimer +ever paid him any wages to speak of; whatever it was that held them +together, it wasn’t cash. He’s touched me more than once, poor old +beggar!” + +“You! Why you?” + +“I don’t know,” said Willie simply. “People always do!” + +Good little fellow! Of course, people always did. + +“And you think he’d come and borrow money from you, if he meant to +leave town?” + +“I’d not be surprised.” + +And, as a matter of fact, he did come that very day and for that very +reason; and Willie, having ascertained his address, gave it to Barrison +over the wire. + +“I feel rather rotten about telling you, too,” he added. “I don’t know +what you want him for, and the poor old guy is awfully cut up about +something—scared blue, I should say. Say, Barrison, you don’t suspect +_him_, do you?” + +“Lord, no! But I think he knows who did it.” + +Willie grunted uncomfortably. “Well, treat him decently,” he urged. + +“I’m not exactly an inquisitor in my methods, you know,” Jim told him. +“How much money did you lend him, Willie?” + +“Only a ten spot,” said Willie innocently. + +Barrison laughed and said good-by. + +Within the hour, he was at the address given him by Coster. It proved +to be a shabby, dingy little lodging house east of Second Avenue, and +the few men whom the young man met slouching in and out were as shabby +and dingy as the place, and had, he thought, a furtive look. Sized up +roughly, it had a drably disreputable appearance, as though connected +with small, sordid crimes and the unpicturesque derelicts of the +underworld. + +In a dreary hall bedroom on the third floor, he finally found Wrenn. + +The old man opened the door with evident caution in response to +Barrison’s knock, and when he saw the detective, his face became rigid +with a terror which he did not even attempt to conceal. Mutely, he +stood back and let the visitor enter, closing the door with trembling +hands. Then, still speechless, he turned and faced him, his anguished +eyes more eloquent than any words could have been. Jim was touched by +the man’s misery. He could guess something of what he must be suffering +on his daughter’s account. + +“Don’t look like that, Wrenn,” he said kindly. “I’ve only come to have +a talk with you.” + +The old man bent forward with sudden eagerness. “Then,” he faltered, +“you’ve not come to tell me—of—her arrest, sir?” + +“No,” said Barrison; “I don’t even know where she is. Sit down, man; +you look done up.” + +Wrenn sank onto the bed, and sat there, his wrinkled face working with +emotion. + +“I was afraid you’d arrested her, sir!” he managed to say, after a +moment, in broken tones. + +“You had been expecting that?” + +He nodded. “I’ve known that the—the police were bound to find out some +time that she’d been in the theater that night, and I knew what that +would mean. She _would_ come, though I tried so hard to prevent her! +She _would_ come!” + +“Wrenn,” said Barrison deliberately, “it’s a pretty tough question to +put to you, but—did she shoot Mortimer?” + +Wrenn looked at him with haggard eyes. “Before God, Mr. Barrison,” he +said earnestly, “I don’t know, I don’t know! I didn’t _see_ her shoot +him, but—I know she meant to.” + +“You know that!” exclaimed Barrison. + +“I know that she had threatened him more than once, and—it was her +pistol. You knew that, sir?” + +“Yes, I knew that. Go on!” + +“I’d better tell you the whole story, sir. I’m getting old, and it’s +weighed on me too long—too long! If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go back +to the beginning.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI + + WRENN’S STORY + + +“I was born in the West,” said Wrenn, “and I was fairly well educated, +but while I was still in college—a small, fresh-water university—I got +into bad company, and was expelled. My people disowned me after that, +and I drifted into the sort of ‘adventurous’ life that attracts so many +young men. I never really liked the idea of living dishonestly, but I +didn’t seem good for much else. I had not worked hard at college, and I +had no particular ambitions, one way or another. I suppose I was lazy, +and I know that I was very weak. Eventually I became what you, sir, +would call a crook, though for a long time I tried to gloss it over +and pretend it was just taking a chance or living by my wits, and the +rest of it! Then I got more hardened, and admitted even to myself that +I was no better than the rest of the crowd I went with—a cheat, a card +sharper, a petty criminal. Twice I was in jail for short terms, and I +don’t think either experience improved me much. + +“Then I married. She was a high-class Mexican girl—very beautiful. She +was a Catholic, and had an idea of reforming me. So she did, for a +short time, but the old wild longings came back. I’d settled down in a +job as foreman on an Arizona ranch, and I was working hard and drawing +good pay. We had two little girls, and things were going pretty well. +Then my wife died, and I got reckless again. + +“There was a tough bunch of cow-punchers in our outfit, and we got to +gambling a lot, and pretty soon I found out that it was easier and more +exciting to win when I played crooked than when I played straight. +And there were others who felt the same way. We formed a sort of +combination—a gang. And we did very well, indeed.” + +Barrison sat and stared at the mild, respectable old fellow, who so +patently and typically looked the part of a decent, sober, and trusty +servant, and tried to visualize him as a bold, bad man of the wicked +West. But some things are past the powers of the human imagination. He +thought, with a sort of grimly humorous awe, of the strange alchemy of +time, and shook his head, giving the problem up, as have better and +wiser men before him. + +Wrenn went on with his story: + +“My girls were brought up in a rough-and-tumble way, I’m afraid. It +affected them differently. The older Caterina—she was named for her +mother—never took kindly to it. She was selfish and headstrong—they +both were, for that matter. But I think Marita had more heart. Not that +I ever called out much affection in either of them!” + +He bent his gray head for a moment. + +“Anyway, I didn’t give them much of a bringing up. Marita knocked +about with the boys and learned to ride like a puncher herself. But +Caterina—Kitty, we called her—hated the whole life, and when a rich +prospector came along, she threw us over like a shot and went away with +him. She was only just eighteen, but she was ambitious already. She +wanted to get some pleasure out of life, as she had said twenty times a +day since she could speak. I—I shall not mention her name, sir—the name +which she is known by now, for—you would know it.” + +It was odd, the way he dropped so constantly into the respectful “sir,” +and all the air and manner of a servant. It was clear that his was one +of those pliable natures that can be molded by life and conditions +into almost any shape. His instinct of fatherhood, his late-awakened +sense of conscience, responsibility and compunction, were struggling up +painfully through the accumulated handicap of a lifetime of habit. + +“I know her name,” Barrison said quietly. “You mean Kitty Legaye, don’t +you?” + +The start that Wrenn gave now betrayed an even livelier terror than had +yet moved him. + +“I didn’t say it!” he gasped in fright and agitation. “I have never +said it—never once, through all these years! She always made us swear +we would tell nobody. I don’t know what she would do if she thought +I had spoken! She was so ashamed of us—and I can hardly wonder at +that, sir. She has done so well herself! Oh, sir, if ever it comes up, +you—you’ll see that she knows that it wasn’t I who told?” + +“I certainly will,” said the detective, pitying—though with a little +contempt—this father’s abject fear of his unnatural daughter’s +displeasure. “As a matter of fact, I found it out by accident. I only +told you that I knew just now to show you that you have nothing to +conceal about her. Nor,” he added, entirely upon impulse, “about Mr. +Dukane!” + +This time Wrenn’s jaw dropped, in the intensity of his astonishment. + +“You—you know about—him—too!” he muttered breathlessly. “Is there +anything you—do not know?” + +“Several things, else I should not be here now,” rejoined Jim, with +an inner thrill of elation over the success of his half-random shot. +“Suppose you go on with your story, and then I shall know more.” + +The other sighed deeply, and proceeded: + +“Since you know so much, sir, there is no sense in my hiding anything. +Not that I think I should have hidden anything, in any case. As I told +you, I am an old man, and all this has been hard to bear. But you don’t +want me to tell about my feelings, sir; you want the story. + +“When Kitty had been gone a year or more, and Marita was about +seventeen, Nicholas Blankley came to the town where we lived. It was +a little Arizona settlement, where I ran a saloon and gambling place. +Blankley was one of us—I mean he was a natural-born crook, but he +wasn’t a bad sort of fellow at that, if you know what I mean, sir. He +was a good sport, and square with his pals, which is more than can be +said for most of us! He was in the theatrical line, and had worked on +all sorts of jobs of that kind—advance man, stage manager, all sorts of +things. He was interested in Rita from the first—saw her possibilities +as a ‘cowgirl,’ and was fond of her, too—for she was young and fresh in +those days, and the daring, reckless sort that got men. Nick got the +daredevil name from her; that’s what he used to call her. + +“His idea was to start a sort of wild-West show, on the cheap; get +some down-and-outers who could ride and shoot and who wouldn’t want +much pay, and do short jumps at low prices. We would have to carry the +horses, but no scenery, and no props to speak of, and we could use a +big tent like the small circus people. It looked like a good venture, +and I was tired of staying in one place. Marita was wild about it from +the first. So I sold out my business, and we started. We made a success +of it, though nothing very big, and kept at it fifteen years! Fifteen +years! It seems impossible that it could have been as long as that, +but it was. In that time Marita married Nick, and we ran across Alan +Morton—I might as well go on calling him Mortimer, though. + +“There’s no use pretending that we were running our outfit strictly +on the straight. We weren’t. We were out to get what we could out of +the public, and we didn’t care much how we did it. But we didn’t do +anything very bad; I, for one, was getting careful as time went on, +and Nick had a notion of reforming after he married Rita. We did run a +gambling business in connection with the show, and we did cheat a bit, +and we did take in any sort of thug or gunman or escaped convict who +had ever learned to ride, and Nick got away with a very good thing in +phony change at one place. Very neat, indeed, it was, and he never had +any trouble with it, either.” + +Wrenn spoke of this with a sort of pride which made Barrison shake his +head again. He was the queerest felon with whom the detective had ever +come in contact. + +“But as I say,” resumed Wrenn, “we got along all right, and did no +great harm for all those years. Then we struck Mortimer. He was a bad +one—just a plain bad one, from the very first.” + +“And I always thought you were so fond of him!” ejaculated the +detective. + +“But I was, sir,” said the old man at once. “I was very fond of him, +indeed! He was a—a very lovable person, sir, when he cared to be.” + +Barrison, again rendered speechless, simply stared at him for a moment +or two. + +“Go on!” he managed to articulate, after a bit. + +“Well, sir, it was this way. Mortimer’s blood was younger than ours, +and he was more venturesome, more energetic, more daring.” + +“Like your daughter.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the ex-gambler, rather sadly. “Like her. There was a +time when I was afraid that she was getting too fond of him—he had such +a way with women! Wherever he went there was trouble, as you might say. +He helped the show—put new life into it, and he could ride—oh, well, no +one ever rode better than he did. And you know how handsome he was?” + +Strangely enough, the old man’s voice choked a bit just there. + +“I don’t know why I always felt just the way I did about him,” he went +on quietly. “He was often very rough and careless in his ways, but—but +I was as fond of him as if he’d been my own son—and that, sir, is the +gospel truth. + +“Mortimer had a scheme to branch out bigger, and get a sort of +organized company together, with capital, and a circus arena somewhere +with the right sort of scenery and music, and that sort of thing. Mr. +Dukane had seen our show once, and had taken an interest in it—at +least, had taken an interest in the lad—and Mortimer wrote to him for a +loan to back the new plan.” + +“Wrote Dukane—for a loan?” repeated Jim, in admiration. + +“Yes, he did. I felt just as surprised as you, sir, when he told me +what he had done. And—to this day, I’m not sure whether it was just +plain, pure nerve on his part, or whether he—he—had in mind what the +result might be.” + +“Result?” + +“Yes.” For the first time the old scapegrace’s utterance was slow and +troubled—hardly audible. He would not meet Barrison’s eyes. What he +said now seemed to be dragged up from the depths of his sinful and +unwilling soul. + +“You know—you must know, sir,” he said, in those new and halting +accents, “since you know so much—about the deal with Dukane?” + +“I know something,” said Jim, truthfully, but very cautiously—his heart +was beating hard. “I know that there was a deal at all events.” + +“It—it doesn’t sound very well—put into words, does it, sir?” Poor old +Wrenn’s tone was tired and appealing. “But there! I said I was going +to make a clean breast of it, and I might as well. Dukane and Mortimer +fixed it up between themselves——” + +“Dukane and Mortimer only?” interrupted Barrison, with a sudden +intuition. + +Wrenn’s poor, weak, tragic eyes met his piteously, shifted, and fell. + +“Dukane and Mortimer and—I—fixed it up, sir,” he confessed humbly. “We +were to double-cross Nick Blankley, and Dukane was to star Mortimer.” + +“He must have had a pretty high opinion of him!” exclaimed Jim Barrison +wonderingly, for the great manager, while a shrewd gambler, was no +plunger. + +“He knew that he had the makings of a favorite, sir; any one could see +it. Mr. Dukane wanted him the way the owner of a racing stable wants a +fine horse. He knew there was money in him if he was put out right. And +Dukane was the man to do that. Anyway, that was the idea. They—I mean +we—were to get Blankley out of the way, and Dukane would take care of +us afterward.” + +“How do you mean get him out of the way?” + +“Oh, not kill him, sir!” Wrenn’s tone was virtuously shocked. “You +wouldn’t think that, surely? It was just my way of putting it, as it +were. No; he’d done a number of shady things, Nick Blankley had, and——” + +“So had you!” interpolated Jim Barrison, rather cruelly. + +“Oh, yes, sir! But we had—if you’ll pardon the expression—got away with +it.” + +There it was, the point of view of the born criminal. If you weren’t +found out, it was all right! Jim looked at the wretched creature before +him, and mused on man as God made him. + +“Well?” he demanded, somewhat impatiently. + +“Mortimer told Dukane something that Blankley had done; it wasn’t very +much—just a fraud.” + +“And Dukane lent himself to this!” + +“He’s a business man, sir. He suggested it, I believe. At least, +Mortimer said so.” + +No wonder the manager did not care to talk about it! + +“Anyway,” continued Wrenn, “it was on Mortimer’s testimony that +Blankley went to jail.” + +“For six months.” + +“You know that, sir? But it was eight months. He got pardon for good +behavior. We”—he stumbled over this—“we hadn’t expected it yet a while.” + +“Great Scott!” said Barrison, looking at him. “And you tell all this! +You mean that you double-crossed—betrayed your pal, your partner—got +him out of the way, so that you could be free of him while you got rich +in the new venture?” + +“It—it comes to that, sir; I told you it didn’t sound well when you +put in into words. But it’s the truth, and I don’t care any longer who +knows it. I’m tired. And, anyway, I think it’s more Dukane’s fault than +ours.” + +Barrison thought so, too, but he said nothing, only waited in silence. + +“I came as Mortimer’s valet because there wasn’t much of anything else +that I could do, and I swore I’d stick to him, and—and he liked me, and +wanted me round him. And I did stick to him! I was fond of him, and I +took care of him as well as I knew how. No one could have looked out +for him better—no one, sir!” + +“I believe that. It’s queer; but, no matter, I believe it! What were +you to get out of it?” + +“When he made his hit, I was to have ten thousand dollars.” + +“And what did your daughter—the one married to Blankley, whom you had +sent to jail—what did she say about this pleasant little arrangement?” + +Wrenn’s head drooped once more. + +“Marita was always hard to manage, sir,” he said, in a faint voice. +“She turned against me—her own father, and——” + +“I should think she might!” + +“And she turned against Mortimer, and against Mr. Dukane, who offered +her money. She said she would wait for Nick to come out of prison, and +would spend the rest of her life in getting even!” + +“Well, I sympathize with her!” said Barrison sincerely. So that was the +meaning of the tragic and haggard lines about her mouth and the weary +look in her eyes. + +“Well, Wrenn,” he went on quietly, “I don’t know just how the blame is +to be divided in all this, but I imagine you’ve had almost your share +of suffering. And Mortimer is done for. Dukane will get his eventually. +I shall be sorry personally if your daughter Marita has to pay the +penalty for the death of a rotter like the man who died the other +night. I wish you could tell me something about her visit which would +make her case look a little better.” + +Then Wrenn broke down, and, burying his head in his hands, cried like +a child. He might have been a crook, a weakling, neglectful of his +children through all the days of his life, but he was suffering now. +His gaunt old body quivered under the storm of grief that swept him. In +that abasement and sorrow it was even possible for Barrison to forget +the despicable things he had just admitted. He was now merely an old +man, bitterly punished not only for the sins of his youth, but those of +his age. + +“That’s what I keep saying,” he panted at last, lifting his swollen +eyes to the younger man’s pitying gaze. “I keep asking myself if there +isn’t something that’ll clear her. Though we’ve been apart so long, and +I was always a bad father to her, and a false friend to her husband, it +will kill me altogether if I find that she is guilty of murder!” + +“She wrote those letters—the ones threatening Mortimer?” + +“Yes.” + +“And she took advantage of the time permitted her by the hours of her +act at Coyne’s to come to the theater that night?” + +“Yes, sir. Let me tell you just how it was. She slipped in while +Roberts was out getting the taxi for Kitty.” He spoke his daughter’s +name shyly and with embarrassment. “She came straight into the +dressing room—though why no one saw her I can’t see! She was dressed +just as she had come from the theater, in a khaki skirt and a white +waist. And she pulled a pistol out of her dress as she came in. I knew +the pistol, because it was always a fad of hers, in all her stunts, to +carry guns like that—very small, and very much decorated, and with a +letter that might be either an M or a W, according as you looked at it. + +“The moment she and Mortimer saw each other they flew out like two wild +cats. I’d always tried to keep this from happening, because I knew that +they were both past controlling when their blood was up, and they both +had a lot to fight for.” + +“Both!” repeated Barrison. “I can’t see that. Your daughter had +something to fight for, because of the wrong done to her husband, and +incidentally to herself. But where was Mortimer’s grievance?” + +“Well, sir,” said Wrenn slowly, as though he were seriously trying to +express something rather beyond the intelligence of his hearer, “you +see—maybe it hasn’t struck you, sir, but, if you’ve risked a great deal +on a thing, and find that something is going to interfere with it, +after all, at the last moment, you—well, sir, you are apt to lose your +head over it. Aren’t you?” + +Barrison laughed a trifle grimly. + +“Crooked logic,” he remarked, “but excellent—for the crooked kind! So +you sympathize with Mortimer in his annoyance at seeing your daughter?” + +“I don’t sympathize, sir. In a way, I may say I understand it. But when +she pulled out that gun, I fell into a sweat of fear, sir, for I knew +that she was afraid of nothing, and that if she’d said she’d kill him——” + +“Never mind how you felt! Tell me what happened!” + +Wrenn wiped his forehead. “She went for Mortimer, and he got to her +first, and caught hold of her arms. He was very strong, but she +struggled like a demon, and every minute I expected one of two things +to happen, the pistol to go off or some one to hear and knock at the +door. After, I suppose, two or three minutes like that, I pulled her +away from him—her waist was torn in the struggle, you remember.” + +“I remember.” + +“And I managed to get her out of the door, begging her to make a run +for the stage entrance and to get away if possible without being seen. +It was nearly dark then, you see—not the regular dark scene, but all +the lights were being lowered, because there was to be so little light +on the stage.” + +There was silence for a moment, then Wrenn went on again: “I’ve +wondered, you know, sir, several times, whether she and Kitty met that +night. I’ve—I’ve been afraid of it, I confess, because I don’t believe +my daughter Kitty would feel much sisterly affection for Rita. She +might even give it away if she had seen her.” + +Barrison sat plunged in deep thought for at least two minutes, while +the shaken and troubled old man watched him very anxiously indeed. At +last he spoke, not ungently: + +“Wrenn, will you give me your word that you will not leave this place, +this address, until I see you again?” + +He supposed that he was rather mad in asking the word of a +self-confessed crook like Wrenn, but he thought he had got to the end +of his tether. At any rate, the old man lifted his head with quite an +influx of pride, as he answered: + +“Yes, Mr. Barrison!” + +Jim departed, with just one determination in his brain—to pay Kitty +Legaye a second call as fast as a taxi would take him to the Golden +Arms! + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII + + AN INCRIMINATING LETTER + + +Kitty looked very pretty and quite pathetic in her smartly simple +mourning. She saw Barrison at once, and received him with a +subdued cordiality that was the perfection of good taste under the +circumstances. + +“What is it?” she said, in a low voice. There was no artificiality +about her now; she was disturbed, apprehensive. “I know it’s something. +Please tell me.” + +“Yes, there is something,” he said. “It’s about—your sister.” + +He could hear her draw in her breath. + +“My sister!” she whispered. “Marita! How did you know anything about +her?” + +“I don’t think we need go into an account of that,” Jim said steadily. +“As it happens, I do know quite a good deal about her. I know, for +instance, that she was in the theater only a little while before Alan +Mortimer was murdered.” + +“You know that!” she exclaimed, in unfeigned surprise. “I thought——” + +Then she checked herself, but it was too late; she saw at once what she +had admitted. + +“I knew it,” said Barrison, watching her. “The question is—how did you +know it, Miss Legaye?” + +She dropped her eyes and was silent until he felt obliged to insist: + +“I am afraid I must ask you to tell me about it, though I can easily +suppose it isn’t very pleasant for you.” + +“Pleasant!” she flashed out at him then. “Think what a position I am +in! To lose him—_like that_—and then—to find my own sister mixed up in +it!” + +“You think she was mixed up in it, then?” + +“How on earth do I know?” she cried excitedly. “I—I—oh, Mr. Barrison, +you aren’t brutal, like most detectives; you are a gentleman! Won’t you +make it a little easier for me? My sister and I were never very fond of +each other, but I can’t be the one to implicate her now. I can’t!” + +“It may seem very dreadful to you, of course, Miss Legaye. But—how can +you keep silent? She is already under suspicion. I don’t see how you +can avoid telling everything you know.” + +“I thought—I never dreamed—that it would come to this!” she said +miserably. “I thought no one knew of her being there except myself +and—and my father.” She seemed to wince as she said the word; Jim +remembered that Wrenn had said she was always ashamed of him. “He did +not give you this information?” + +“He only corroborated what we already knew. Now, please, Miss Legaye, +for all our sakes, even for your sister’s, tell me what you know.” + +“For my sister’s?” she repeated. + +“I don’t know what you have to tell; but, seriously, one of the reasons +why I have come to you is that I can’t help hoping that you can supply +some tiny link of evidence which will help to clear her. If you saw her +leave the theater, for instance——” + +She shook her head, with an air of deep depression. + +“I did not see her leave the theater,” she said quietly. “I did not see +her at all.” + +“Did not see her! Then how——” + +“Wait, Mr. Barrison, and I will tell you. I will tell you just exactly +what happened, and you must believe me, for it is the truth. I did not +see my sister, but—_I heard her voice_!” + +Now that she had made up her mind to speak, the words came in a rush, +as though she could not talk fast enough, as though she were feverish +to get the ordeal over with. + +“When I left you to go home, I had to pass his—Alan’s—door, as you +know. Just as I reached it, I heard voices inside—not loud, or I +suppose they would have been stopped by some one, for the whole stage +was supposed to be quiet while the act was on. But there was rather a +noisy scene going on then—the bandits quarreling among themselves over +the wine, you remember—and, anyway, the voices inside the dressing room +could only be heard by some one who was standing very close to the +door. I stopped for a moment, instinctively at first, and then—I heard +my sister’s voice, panting and excited!” + +All this tallied with Wrenn’s story. “Could you hear what she said?” +asked Barrison. + +“Only a word or two.” + +“What words?” + +She flashed him a glance of deep appeal, then went hurriedly on: + +“I heard her say ‘Coward and cad,’ and—and ‘You ought to be shot, and +you know it!’ That’s all.” + +All! It was quite enough. Barrison looked at her with faint pity, +though he had felt at first that she was not sincere. She had a way +of disarming him by unexpected evidence of true feeling just when he +expected her to play-act. He could see that she was finding this pretty +hard to tell. + +“What did you do, Miss Legaye?” + +“Do—I? Nothing. What was there for me to do? I went home.” + +“Didn’t it occur to you to try to see your sister, to interfere in what +seemed to be such a very violent quarrel?” + +She shook her head vehemently. + +“No, it did not. Why should it? My sister and I had nothing in common. +I had not seen her for many years; I—I did not want to see her. For the +rest—I knew that she hated Alan Mortimer, and if she was talking to him +at all, it seemed quite natural that she should talk to him like that.” + +“You did not feel afraid, then—did not look on those chance phrases you +heard as—well, a threat?” + +She shuddered. “Oh, no; how could I? I thought she was just angry and +excited. She always had a frightful temper. How could I guess that she +had—anything else—in her mind?” + +“So you went straight home, without waiting?” + +“Yes.” She bent her head, and added, in a low, troubled tone: “You will +think me very selfish, very much a coward, Mr. Barrison, but—those +angry voices made me want to get away as fast as possible. I hate +scenes and quarrels and unpleasantness of all kinds. I was thankful to +get out of the theater, and to know that I had not had to meet Marita, +especially in the mood she was in then.” + +“I see,” said Barrison, not without sympathy. “And is that all—really +and absolutely all—that you know about the matter?” + +Kitty hesitated, and then she lifted her head and faced him bravely. + +“No,” she said clearly, “it is not all. If you will wait a moment, I +have something I ought to show you.” + +She rose and went to a desk, returning with an envelope. She sat down +again and took a letter from this envelope, which she first read +herself slowly and with a curious air of deliberation. Then she held it +out to Barrison. + +“I am going to trust you,” she said, meeting his eyes proudly, “not to +make use of this unless you have to. Wait, before you read it! When +I knew of the horrible thing that had happened at the theater that +night, I thought of my sister. I—I am afraid it is scarcely enough to +say that I suspected her. I remembered the angry words I had heard her +say inside the dressing room. I knew her ungovernable rages and the +bitterness she had for Alan. And I knew that she was a wonderful shot, +and that she had never got out of the habit of going armed. I—well, I +felt very sure what had happened.” + +She was breathing quickly, and speaking in a hoarse, strained tone. + +“I knew that there was more than a chance that some one else knew +of her presence, and—I could not bear to have her arrested. I won’t +pretend that it was all sisterly affection, but I think it was that, +too, in a way. I couldn’t forget that, after all, we were of the same +blood, and had been children and young girls together. I—I sent her +money; I had seen in the paper that she and her husband were playing in +New York, and I sent it to their theater, and with it I sent a note, +begging her to lose no time in getting out of town. Was it—do you think +it was very wrong?” she asked him rather piteously. + +“It was at all events very natural,” Jim answered, a little surprised +and touched by what she had told him. “And may I read this now?” + +“Yes, read it. It is Marita’s answer to me. She accepted the money and +sent me this letter.” + +With an odd movement of weariness and sorrow, she turned and laid her +hands upon the back of her chair, and her face upon them. + +The note was in the same scrawling hand that had made all the threats +against Mortimer, that he knew to be that of Marita Blankley. And it +ran thus: + + KITTY: I am glad that you have some feeling as a sister left in you. + I did not suppose that the day would ever come when it would be _you_ + who would help me get out of trouble! I dare say at that it was only + your hatred of having our names linked together, or having any one + know you knew me even! Of course I was a fool to go to the theater + last night. I might have known what would happen. Now I am going to + try to forget it all. I shall live only for my husband, and we shall + get out of town as soon as possible! I can trust _you_ not to talk, I + know! There was never much love lost between us, Kitty. Your sister, + + MARITA. + +Barrison sat very still after reading this. At last he noticed that +Kitty had lifted her head and was watching him with an anxious face. + +“Well?” she demanded. + +“You told me not to use this unless it were necessary,” said Barrison +very gravely. “It is necessary now, Miss Legaye. I must take it to +headquarters at once!” + +She gave a little cry. + +“Oh, I was afraid—I was afraid!” she exclaimed. “You think it—it looks +bad for her?” + +“I think,” said Jim Barrison, “that it is practically conclusive +evidence!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII + + A STRANGE SUMMONS + + +It was barely an hour later, and Lowry and Barrison sat together in +the inspector’s office. Before them lay the letter which Kitty Legaye +had given Jim, side by side with the threatening letter which had come +to the Mirror Theater. The handwriting, as was to be foreseen, was +identical. There, too, lay the photograph “swiped” by the reporter +Lucas, showing the two young faces, so easily recognized now as the +likenesses of Rita Blankley and Kitty. There was the pistol with its +odd, non-committal initial, which had been identified as Rita’s. + +A telegram was handed to Lowry, and, after reading it, he passed it +to Jim. It was signed with an initial only, obviously one of the +inspector’s regular men, and came from Indianapolis. It read: + + Got your friends. All coming back on next train. G. + +“The Blankleys?” asked Barrison. + +“Sure. They’ll be here to-morrow, and then I guess the case’ll be over.” + +Just as Barrison was leaving the office, the inspector said casually: + +“By the bye, Jim—if you want to take a look at the place where the +Blankleys lived, here’s the address on a card. I’d like you to go +round there and have a look. You’re the sort of fellow who gets on with +people better than the regular officers. Will you?” + +“Rather!” + +Jim went off with his card, wondering just what the inspector meant. +“The sort of fellow who gets on with people!” That sounded as though +there were people on the premises whom the inspector had failed to pump +satisfactorily. He decided to “take a look” without delay. + +It turned out to be quite the usual type of furnished rooming house, +kept by a faded, whining woman, with hair and skin all the same color. + +It seemed that she had a boy—thirteen he was, though he looked younger. +He went to school mostly, but he was a good deal more useful when he +stayed away. “And what was the good of schooling to the likes of him?” +said she. + +Barrison refrained from shaking her till her teeth rattled, and +soothingly extracted the rest. + +Freddy, who appeared to be a sharp youngster from what she said, could +always turn a pretty penny by acting as messenger boy for the “ladies +and gents” in the house. Some of them were actors; more of them were +not. It was fairly evident that the place was largely patronized by +denizens of the shady side of society. Before Jim was done with the +woman, he had ascertained that Freddy had more than once acted as +messenger for the Blankleys, for whom, by the bye, she had a sincere +respect. She said they were “always refined in their ways,” and paid +cash. + +Barrison remembered that Roberts, the stage doorkeeper, had reported +that the threatening letters had been delivered by a street urchin. +He asked to see Freddy, but he was at school—for a wonder. His mother +appeared to resent the fact, and to look upon it as so many hours +wasted. + +She promised that the evening would find him free to talk to the +gentleman as much as the gentleman desired. Barrison had given her a +dollar to start with, and promised another after he had conferred with +Freddy. + +When he left, he had an unsatisfied instinct that he had somehow missed +something Lowry had expected him to get. The unseen Freddy was in his +mind as he went uptown—in his mind to such an extent that he spoke of +him to Tony Clay when he met him on Broadway and accepted that youth’s +urgent pleading to go to a place he knew of where they could get a good +drink. The boy was in his mind when, on coming out of the café, they +found themselves stormbound by crosstown traffic and looking in at the +windows of Kitty Legaye’s taxicab. + +Her charming, white-skinned face framed in its short black veil and +black ruff, lighted to intense interest as she caught sight of them. + +“Have you any news?” she cried, in carefully subdued excitement. + +Barrison could not bring himself to tell her that the police had caught +up with her sister, and that she was on her way back to face her +accusers. Kitty saw his hesitation, and thought it might be because +Clay was present. + +“Let me give you a lift!” she said impulsively. + +Barrison accepted, after a second’s cogitation. “Go on to my rooms, +Tony,” he said. “I’ll be there shortly.” + +He got into the machine with Miss Legaye, and said to her gravely, as +they began to move again: + +“Tell me, please, Miss Legaye, you had no intercourse with your sister +since she came to New York—I mean until you sent her the money, and she +answered you?” + +“None!” she said quickly and frankly. + +“Did your letter come by mail or by a messenger boy?” + +She started, and looked at him in surprise. “By mail,” she replied. +“Why?” + +“Perfect nonsense,” he said, really feeling that the impulse which had +made him speak was an idle one. “I’ve found a boy who did a lot of +errands for her, and I wondered if you could identify him, that’s all.” + +She shook her head; though it was getting dusk, he could see her dark +eyes staring at him. + +“I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “What sort of a boy, and +what do you expect to prove by him?” + +“He’s merely a witness,” Barrison hastened to explain. “You see, +the—the letter you let me have corresponds exactly in writing to the +letters that came to Mortimer, threatening him. We think this is the +boy who carried Mrs. Blankley’s messages while she was in New York. +That’s all. You see, though it’s a small link, it is one that we can’t +entirely overlook.” + +“Have you seen him?” she asked. + +“No; I am to see him to-night,” said Barrison. “And—Miss Legaye, I +must tell you”—he hesitated, for he was a kind-hearted fellow—“I ought +to warn you that you may have an unpleasant ordeal ahead of you. Your +sister and her husband are—coming back to New York.” + +She was silent for half a minute. + +“Thank you,” she said. “You have been very good to—warn me. I don’t +think you will ever know how glad I am to have met you this afternoon, +Mr. Barrison.” + +He did not pretend to understand her. As they had gone several blocks, +he said good night with more warmth and consideration than he had ever +expected to feel for Kitty Legaye, and, alighting from the taxi, made +his way directly to his rooms. + +He found Willie Coster awaiting him there, with his hair standing on +end, and an expression of blank and rather appalled astonishment on his +mild countenance. + +“Say!” he cried, as Jim entered. “I went to call on the gov’nor this +afternoon, and—he’s sailed for London to put on three or four plays! +And I’m out of a job! Now, what do you think of that?” + +Barrison stood still in the center of the room and nodded his head +slowly. So Dukane had heard the warnings in the air, and had slipped +away! Well, it was only a matter of time! They had nothing criminal +against him, but—the story would not make a pleasant one, as noised +abroad about the greatest theatrical manager of America. Eventually, +it would come out. However, meanwhile he had gone. He was sorry for +Willie; sorry for the hundreds of actors and other employees who would +suffer. It looked from what Willie had to tell that Dukane’s exit had +been a complete and clean-cut one. He had closed up his office, put his +road companies in subordinate hands, and—cleared out. + +“And I—who have been with him all these years—don’t even get a +company!” complained poor Willie. + +Barrison remembered what Dukane had said to him about not being able to +afford to consider any man personally. For some reason he had chosen to +forget Willie Coster, and, true to form, he had forgotten him! + +Tony Clay came in then. It was half past seven, nearly an hour later, +when Tara reminded them politely of dinner. + +“We’ll go out somewhere,” said Jim, rising and stretching himself. +“You two shall be my guests. I feel that this case is practically over, +and when I’m through with a case I feel like Willie after a first +night—I want to relax. I don’t want—at least not necessarily—to get +drunk, but I do want to——” + +Oddly enough, it was Tony Clay who interrupted him in a queer, abrupt +sort of voice. He sounded like a man who hated to speak, but who was +driven to it in spite of himself. + +“Look here, you fellows,” he said, “don’t let’s go out for dinner +to-night.” + +“Why not?” demanded Barrison, in astonishment. “I thought you were +always on the first call for a feed, Tony!” + +“Oh, well, maybe I am. And—I know you think me an awful duffer in lots +of ways, Jim, but—I have a hunch that perhaps——” + +“That what?” demanded Jim, as he paused. + +“That something is going to happen!” declared Tony defiantly. “Now call +me a fool if you like! I shan’t mind a bit, because I dare say I am +one. But that’s my hunch, and I’m going to stick to it. I don’t know +whether it’s something good or something darned bad, but—if something +doesn’t turn up before another hour’s out, I miss my guess!” + +They laughed at him, but they stayed. + +“Tony,” said Barrison, after the lights were lighted and Tara had gone +to prepare dinner, “you have something more than a hunch to go on. +What is it? Out with it!” + +“Well,” said Tony unwillingly, “maybe I have something, but it’s too +vague for me to explain, yet. Only—I’d be just as pleased if we three +stuck together to-night. That’s all.” + +The boy spoke earnestly, and Barrison looked at him in real wonder. + +“Tony,” he said, “if you really know anything——” + +The bell rang, and Tara brought in a telegram. + +Barrison tore it open and read: + + Am in danger. Come to me, Ferrati’s road house, two miles beyond + Claremont, before nine. Come, for Heaven’s sake, and mine. + G. T. + +Barrison gazed at the words in dazed stillness for a moment; then +seized his hat. + +“Stop, Jim!” cried Tony urgently. “You must tell us—you must tell +me—what is the matter?” + +Barrison shook his head as he dashed to the door. + +“I can’t tell any one anything!” he cried, as he went. “I am needed. +Isn’t that enough for any man?” + +He was gone, and the door had slammed after him. + +Tony quickly picked up the telegram which had fluttered to the floor. +“Didn’t I warn him?” he muttered. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX + + THROUGH THE NIGHT + + +On—on through the blue dusk of the September evening. + +Now that he found himself actually in the touring car that he had so +impetuously engaged, Jim Barrison found his chaotic thoughts settling +into some sort of approximate order, if not of repose. He began to +analyze himself and this strange ride through the night. + +He knew that suddenly he had forgotten the habit and the prompting +of years; the caution that usually made him project himself into a +possible future and meet it intelligently; the restraint and sensible +skepticism which had always made him consider risks and appraise them, +even while being quite as willing to take them as any other brave man. +He knew that he had in a single moment forgotten all the training and +the custom of his mature lifetime, because a woman had asked him to +come to her! + +A woman? That would not have been enough, he knew, in any other case. +He was as chivalrous and as plucky as most men—a gallant gentleman in +all ways; but his discretion would have aided his valor in any ordinary +enterprise. As it was—he had been deaf and blind to any and all +promptings save those that pounded in his ardent pulse. And all because +a woman had sent for him! A woman? Say, rather, the woman! The one +woman in the world who could so move him, change him, separate him from +himself! + +For the first time, but with characteristic honesty and thoroughness, +Jim Barrison acknowledged to his own heart that he loved Grace +Templeton. + +He loved her, and he was going to her. The fact that she wanted him was +enough. It was strange—some day when he was sane, perhaps, he would see +how strange. + +The chauffeur slowed up and turned to say over his shoulder: + +“I guess it’s here, sir. There’s a sign that says Fer—something, and +that’s a road house in there, all right! Shall I drive in, sir?” + +“Yes; go ahead.” + +The big car crept in slowly around the curving drive toward the low +row of not too brilliant lights, for this road house was set far back +from prying eyes. There were a few trees in front, too, which further +enhanced the illusion of privacy. Barrison could not help noticing +that, unlike most road houses, this one seemed bare of patrons for the +nonce. There was not another automobile to be seen anywhere about. + +He had heard of Ferrati’s before. It was one of those discreet little +out-of-town places, far away from the main road, hidden by trees, +vines, and shrubbery, and known only to a certain selection among +the elect. Whatever its true character, it masqueraded as modestly +as a courtesan behind a cap and veil. Proper to the last degree was +Ferrati’s; any one could go there. The tone was scrupulously correct—if +you frequented its main rooms. And the authorities saw nothing wrong +with it. Ferrati himself saw to that! + +But there were stories—Barrison had heard a few of them—which suggested +that the resort, like some people, had a side not generally known to +the public. It was even said that it was a headquarters for a certain +blackmailing concern much wanted by the police; that all manner of +underworld celebrities could be sure of a haven there in off hours, and +that the bartender was nearly as skillful at knock-out drops as he was +at mixed drinks. + +How, Jim asked himself, had Grace Templeton ever got into these +surroundings? Of course he sensed something queer about it all, and he +could not help wondering despairingly whether that unquenchable thirst +for adventure to which she had borne witness had been the means of +bringing her inadvertently into such an unsavory neighborhood. + +He did not dismiss the car, but told the man to wait, and, running +up the short flight of steps at the front door, asked the rather +seedy-looking maître d’hôtel, or whatever he was, for Miss Templeton. + +The man did not seem to understand him, but a second individual, who +was clearly his superior in position, made his appearance, and greeted +Barrison politely and with some air of authority. + +“Is your name Ferrati?” + +“Giovanni Ferrati, if the signor pleases.” He bowed, but Barrison had +the impression that the man was watching him. He was dark and foreign +looking, with a face like a rat. + +“The signor wished——” + +“I am to meet Miss Templeton here,” said Barrison shortly. + +The rat-faced one’s expression cleared from a dubious look to delighted +relief. So far as he was able, he beamed upon the newcomer. + +“Ah, that is well! If the signor would come this way——” + +Jim followed where he led, with an unaccountable sense of distrust and +discomfort gaining place in his breast. For the first time, a genuine +doubt assailed him. Suppose it were a trick, a trap? Nothing since he +had first entered this “joint,” as he savagely termed it to himself, +had put him in any way at his ease. And at last he was conscious of a +well-developed instinct of suspicion. It was not only what he had known +before—that Grace was in trouble; it was a conviction that the whole +situation was an impossible one—false, dangerous, utterly unlike what +he had been expecting. Suppose—he hardly dared to put his thoughts into +words. He only knew that he found his environment singularly menacing. +He could not tell what it was that was in the air, but it was something +wicked and deadly. He wished that he had waited long enough to verify +that telegram! If Grace Templeton had _not_ sent it—— + +“This way, signor, if you please!” said the rat-faced man called +Ferrati. + +At the end of a dim and unsavory corridor, he turned the knob of a door. + +“The lady awaits you, signor!” he said, with a remarkably unpleasant +smile. + +The room within was highly lighted, as Jim Barrison could see, even +through the small space where it was held open by Ferrati. He walked in +promptly. + +On the instant, the lights were switched out—at the very second of his +entrance. He could see nothing now; it was pitch dark. + +Mingled with his rage was a perfectly human mental comment: “You idiot; +it serves you right!” + +For of course he was in a trap—a nice, neat trap, such as any baby +might have walked into! + +The door closed behind him quickly, and something straightway clicked. + +He was locked into this mysterious room in this strange and murderous +resort, and the darkness about him was that of the grave. + + + + + CHAPTER XXX + + THE WHISPER IN THE DARK + + +Darkness is a very strange thing. It is probably as strong and +mysterious an agent when it comes to transmuting—and to deceiving—as +anything on this earth. Nothing known to man is the same in the dark as +at another time, and under the light. + +It seemed to Jim Barrison that a series of pictures were being painted +upon that cruel, that unfeeling, darkness. He had never, perhaps, +been so close to himself before. The possibilities of human pain had +certainly never been so apparent to the eyes of his mind. For suddenly, +and with terrible clearness, he recalled his conversation with Grace +Templeton, and seemed again to hear her say: + +“Suppose the traveler who showed him the real gourd of water should +refuse to share it, after all? What do you think would be likely to +happen then?” + +And once more he could hear himself reply: + +“I should think the thirsty man would be quite likely to shoot him!” + +And then—then—what was it she had said, with that enigmatical smile of +hers? + +“Yes, that’s just what might happen!” + +_Yes, that’s just what might happen!_ She had said that. How much +had she meant by it, and how much had she meant it? He did not know. +But, though he was not willing to apply it too closely as a key to +his present position, he could not bring it to mind without a strange +chill. For, if there were women of that kind, he was sure that +she—lovely and idealistic as she was—was one of them. + +He stood still, perfectly still, straining his ears, since it would +have been utterly vain to have strained his eyes. For a time he even +heard nothing. Yet he was poignantly conscious of another presence +there—whose? + +He was afraid to permit himself much in the way of conjecture; that +sharp and taunting memory was still too fresh with him. He would rather +a thousand times over that he had been tricked and trapped by some +desperate criminal determined to torture him to death than that _she_ +should have thus deliberately led him here, should have thus cruelly +traded upon her certain knowledge of his interest in her! The thing +would not bear thinking of; it could not be! + +He scarcely breathed as he stood there, motionless, waiting for that +other’s first movement. He was so tensely alert that it seemed strange +to him that the other could even breathe without his hearing it. He +wished for a revolver, and cursed himself for the precipitancy which +had carried him off without it. + +And then he heard—what he had dreaded most of all to hear—the faint, +almost imperceptible rustle of a woman’s dress! + +It was the veriest ghost of a rustle, as though the very lightest and +thinnest of fabrics had been stirred as delicately as possible. + +But—it _was_ a woman, then! + +“Who is it?” he demanded, and his voice to his own ears seemed to +resound like an experimental shout in one of the world’s famous echoing +caverns. + +And the answer came in a whisper—a woman’s whisper: + +“Hush!” + +Then there was a long, blank, awful silence, and then the rustle once +again. And again that sibilant breath voiced: + +“Can you tell where I am standing?” + +“Who are you?” Barrison repeated, though dropping his own voice +somewhat. + +“Please don’t speak so loud!” He could barely hear the words. “I am +Grace Templeton—surely you know?” + +“Why are you whispering?” + +“Because we may be overheard. Because there is danger, very great +danger!” + +“Danger—from whom?” + +“Come closer, please! I am so afraid they will hear! Can’t you place me +at all? If you are still at the door—are you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then come forward to the right, only a few steps, and then wait.” + +Now it has already been pointed out in these pages that the dark is +paramountly deceptive. Barrison could not accurately locate the woman +who was whispering to him; neither could he entirely identify the voice +itself. If you will try the experiment of asking a number of different +people to assemble in pitch darkness and each whisper the same thing, +you will probably find that it is painfully easy to mistake your +bitterest enemy for your very nearest and dearest friend. Jim Barrison +had no soul thrill, nor any other sort of evidence, to assure him that +the woman in the dark room was Grace Templeton; on the other hand, +there was nothing to prove her any one else. + +And yet—and yet—he had a curious, creeping feeling of dread and +suspicion. He did not trust this unknown, unidentified, whispering +voice in the darkness. + +It came again then, like the very darkness itself made audible; +insistent, soft, yet indefinitely sinister: + +“Come! Come here to me! Only a few steps forward and just a little to +the right.” + +Barrison took one single step forward, and then stopped suddenly. + +He did not know what stopped him. He only knew that he _was_ stopped, +as effectually and as imperatively as if some one in supreme authority +had put out a stern, restraining hand before him. + +And then, all at once, something happened—one of those tiny things that +sometimes carry such huge results on their filmy wings. The whisper +came again, more urgently this time: + +“Aren’t you going to come to me, when I’m in danger?” + +When people are born in the West, they carry certain things away from +it with them, and it matters not how long they are gone nor in what far +parts they choose to roam, they never get rid of those special gifts +of their native soil. One is the slightly emphasized “r” of ordinary +speech. No Easterner can correctly mimic it; no Westerner can ever +get away from it except when painstakingly acting, and endeavoring to +forget that to which he was born. The two r’s in the one brief sentence +were of the nature to brand any one as a Westerner. And Barrison knew +that Grace Templeton had never spoken with the ghost of such an accent +in her life. Who was it whom he had heard speak recently who did +accentuate her r’s like that? Marita did! And one other—though much +more delicately and—— + +He remembered, with a throb of excited pleasure on dismissing a hideous +suspicion from his mind, and on entering normally into the joys of +chance and danger, that he had one weapon which might turn out to be +exceedingly useful in his present predicament. He had come away without +his gun, but he had with him the tiny pocket lamp, the electric torch +of small dimensions but great power, which had been the joy of his life +ever since it had been given him. Like all nice men, he was a child in +his infatuated love of new toys! + +He drew the little cylinder from his coat pocket cautiously, and, with +the same exultant feeling that an aviator doubtless knows when he drops +a bomb on a munitions factory, he flashed it. + +The result was surprising. + +Straight in front of him was a square, black hole in the floor. If he +had taken that step forward and to the right which she had urged, he +would have gone headlong to practically certain death. The human brain, +being quicker than anything else in the universe, reminded him that +there had been some unexplained disappearances in this neighborhood. +But he was now chiefly concerned in finding out who the woman was. +Before he could flash his light in her face she had flung herself upon +him. + +There was no more pretense about her. She was grimly, fiercely +determined to force him toward that wicked, black hole into eternity. +Not a single word did she utter; she did not even call for assistance, +though, since the people in this house were her friends or tools, she +might well have done so. She seemed consumed by one single, burning +desire: to thrust him with her own hands into the pit. + +Never had Jim struggled against such ferocity of purpose. She was like +a demon rather than a woman, in the way she writhed between his hands, +and forced her limited strength against his trained muscles in the bold +and frantic effort to annihilate him. And, in that dense blackness, it +was a toss-up as to who would win. The woman herself might easily have +gone headlong into the very trap she had planned for him. But she did +not seem to think or to care for that; her whole force of being was +centered, it seemed, in the one sole purpose of his destruction. + +At that furious, struggling moment, Barrison became convinced of an odd +thing. He was perfectly certain, against all the testimony of all the +world, that the woman who fought him so murderously was not only the +woman who had planned his own death that night, but also the criminal +for whom they were so assiduously seeking. He was sure that his hands +at that very minute grasped the person who had killed Alan Mortimer. + +It seemed to last forever, that silent, breathless struggle in the +dark. But finally he got her hands pinioned behind her in one of his, +and deliberately, though with a beating heart, raised his electric +torch and flashed it full in her face. + +Mutinous, defiant, almost mad with rage for the moment, the dark eyes +of Kitty Legaye blazed back at him. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI + + TONY DOES HIS BIT + + +Things happened very rapidly in Jim Barrison’s rooms after he had +made his hasty departure. Tony Clay stood for a moment, holding the +telegram in his hand; and then, tossing it to Willie Coster, he made a +jump for the telephone. There he called Spring 3100, and, getting his +number, demanded Inspector Lowry in a voice that might have been the +president’s for authority, and a Bloomingdale inmate’s for agitation. + +“Now, now,” came the deep, official tones from the other end of the +wire; “hold your horses, my friend! Is it an accident or a murder?” + +“It’s probably both,” stormed Tony. + +He had the inspector on the wire, and was pouring out his tale, trying +his best to keep himself coherent with the ever-present picture in +his brain of Jim in trouble. Tony was not one of the most inspired of +detectives, but he was as good a friend as ever a man had, and he loved +Jim. + +It happened that Lowry had a weakness for Jim himself. Also, the +story told by Tony was, though wild, certainly one to make any police +official sit up and take notice. Ferrati’s, as has already been +suggested, was not looked upon favorably by the police. + +He told Tony Clay that he would come up to Ferrati’s himself with a +couple of men. + +“And we’ll stop for you,” he said, meaning to be most kind and +condescending. + +Tony retorted hotly: “I’m leaving for Ferrati’s now! I can’t wait for +the police department to wake up!” + +He hung up viciously and turned to face Willie Coster, also Tara, who, +though less demonstrative than these Occidentals, was clearly about as +anxious as either of them. + +“Tara, get a taxi!” said Tony briefly. + +“Immediate, honorable sir!” + +Tara’s alacrity was rather pathetic. Willie Coster looked after him +with a kindly nod. + +“D’you know,” he remarked, in a low tone, “that Jap is just as keen to +help Barrison as we are. You’ll find when we start out after him he +won’t let himself be left behind.” + +Tony turned to scowl at him in bewilderment. + +“When ‘we’ start out after him!” he repeated. “You aren’t expecting to +spring anything of that sort, are you?” + +Willie Coster looked at him a moment only. Then his small, pinched face +blazed suddenly into fiery red. + +“Say,” he snapped, “do you think you’re the only he-man on the +premises? And do you suppose that no one else is capable of a friendly +feeling for Barrison, and a natural wish to help him out of a mess, +except just your blessed self? Because, if that’s what you think, you +forget it—quick!” + +Tony felt abject, and would have apologized, too, but a snorting arose +in the street below them, and Tara announced the taxi which, in some +inscrutable way, he had maneuvered there in more than record time. + +Tony recalled what Willie Coster had said. + +“Tara,” he said abruptly, “you are fond of Mr. Barrison, I know.” + +“Yes, sir,” Tara said. + +“We think Mr. Barrison is in danger. We are going to see what we can do +for him. Now remember, there isn’t a reason in the world why you should +come too, only——” + +The Jap spoke in his elaborately polite way: + +“Honorably pardon, sir! There is reason.” + +“But——” Tony was beginning, but he never finished. He saw the reason too +plainly. Tara, like himself and like Willie, was too fond of Barrison +to stay away. That was reason enough. + +“All right, Tara, you come along!” he said, turning away. And his voice +might have been a bit husky. + +“Where, first?” said Coster, as they entered the taxicab. And there +were three of them, too! + +Tony gave the name of the hotel where Miss Templeton lived, which was +not so far away. Once there, he left his companions in the taxi and +went up alone to interview the lady. In his hand, tightly crumpled +with the vehemence of his intense feeling, he kept the telegram which +had come for Jim Barrison, signed with her initials. + +He penciled a note to Miss Templeton which made her send for him as +soon as she received it. + +They knew each other, but she was so excited that she did hardly more +than acknowledge his hasty bow. + +“Mr. Clay,” she exclaimed, “what does it all mean? I know you would +not have sent me this message without a reason! You say: ‘Mr. Barrison +is in grave danger because of you. Will you help me to save him?’” +She confronted Tony with pale cheeks and wide eyes. “Now, Mr. Clay, +you know that such a thing is impossible! How could Mr. Barrison be +in danger on my account without my knowing it? And I swear to you +that I can think of nothing in all the world which could subject him +to danger—because of me! Nevertheless, I cannot let a thing like this +go—no woman could! If there is danger to Mr. Barrison, I should know +it! If it is, in some way, connected with me, I should know it all the +more, and care about it all the more! What is it?” Suddenly she dropped +the rather haughty air which she had assumed and clasped her hands like +a frightened child. “Oh, Mr. Clay, you know that I would do anything to +help him! What is it? What is it?” + +By way of answer, Tony handed her the telegram. + +After she had read it, she held it in rigid fingers for a moment; it +seemed they were not able to drop it. She looked at Tony Clay. + +“And, receiving this,” she murmured faintly, “he—went?” + +“He went,” answered the young man, “so fast that we could not stop him; +though I, for one, suspected something shady, and had warned him he +must be on his guard.” + +It is probable that in all his life Tony Clay never understood the +look that flamed in the woman’s face before him now. In that strange +combination of emotions was pain and fear, but there was also joy and +triumph. + +“So he cared like that!” she murmured. + +And then, before Tony Clay could even be sure that she had uttered the +words, she had changed again to a practical and utilitarian person. She +seized a long raincoat from the back of a chair and said immediately: + +“I am ready. Shall we go?” + +Tony glowered at her. Another one? Aloud he remarked: + +“If you will merely testify that you did not send that telegram——” + +She looked as though she would have liked to slap him in her +exasperation. + +“Of course I didn’t!” she raged. “But what has that to do with this +situation? I thought you said he was—in danger?” + +“I am afraid he is. Very well, ma’am; if you must come, you must. We +have rather a larger crowd than I had expected at first.” + +It was impossible for him to avoid an injured tone. + +However they felt about it, Miss Templeton went with them. When the +light of passing street lamps fell upon her face, it had the look of an +avenging angel. + +On the way, she insisted that Tony should tell them what had made him +suspicious as to danger awaiting Barrison that night. And after a +little hesitation he told—this: + +“You know Jim had put me onto the Legaye end of the case—had suggested +my talking to the maid, and all that. Well, I did it, and, as a matter +of fact, I got in deeper than I expected to.” He looked at each of +them defiantly, but no one seemed disposed to sit in judgment, so he +continued: “Maria—she’s quite a nice girl, too, and don’t let anybody +forget it—told me to-day that her lady was terrifically upset about +something.” + +“When was that?” demanded Coster. + +“Late in the afternoon, just before I came to dinner—to the dinner that +didn’t come off. Jim and I parted when he took a ride in Miss Legaye’s +taxi, and he left me to come on to join him alone.” + +“Did you come straight on?” + +“Yes,” said Tony, “I did. But something happened on the way, and that +has given me the clew to—to—what’s taking us out here.” + +“Well, tell it, for Heaven’s sake!” + +“Well, it seems,” said Tony unwillingly, yet with the evident +realization that he was doing the right thing, “it seems that Miss +Legaye was in the habit of going shopping with her maid—Maria—and of +dropping her when she was tired—I mean when Miss Legaye was tired, not +Maria—and leaving her to come on with packages and so on. She had done +that to-day. Just after she and Jim Barrison had gone on, I met Maria, +and I stayed with her, too”—defiantly—“until after the time I should +have been at Jim’s rooms!” + +“Not very long, was it?” + +“Not more than half an hour, I’m sure.” + +“And in that time, what could have happened that——” + +“Nothing happened. Nothing could have happened. It was only that—that——” +Tony swallowed hard, and then went on courageously: “She asked me when +her mistress had gone home, and I told her just a few minutes before. +Then she said she must telephone her, if we were to have a moment +together. She said that she could easily make out an excuse. And, +though I had no—no particular interest in Maria,” faltered poor Tony +unhappily, “I couldn’t see what I could do to get out of that! And—and +she did telephone, and when she came back from telephoning,” he said, +speaking carefully, and evidently trying his best to make the thing +sound as commonplace as possible, “she told me that her mistress had +just come in, and that she was so excited she could scarcely speak, +and she wanted Maria at once, and that she had told Maria that if ever +she had cared anything about her, she must be prepared to stand by +her now—and to hurry—hurry—hurry—hurry! That’s what poor Maria kept +repeating to herself. And that’s what I had in my mind when I went into +Jim’s rooms, for it was the last thing in my mind. + +“I was afraid then and there of Miss Legaye’s doing something—queer—but +before I had a chance to tell Jim what I thought—that message came, and +he was off!” + +Almost directly they were at Ferrati’s and confronting Ferrati himself, +who looked alarmed at the sight of these visitors. + +It required small astuteness to see that his party was an unexpected +one, and that the unexpectedness was only rivaled by the lack of +welcome. + +Finding that ordinary and moderately courteous inquiries were only met +with extreme haziness of perception, Tony saw that he would have to +push his way in. + +He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Willie Coster expected +the same result; also that Tara looked mildly pleased. Doubtless he +was pondering enjoyably upon jujutsu and what it could accomplish. +Considered collectively, the party was not one to be ignored. + +As though to put an exclamation point after the sound sense of the +rest, Miss Templeton, who had been extremely quiet through it all, +suddenly drew out a revolver from the pocket of her raincoat. Tony +thrilled, for it was the one that he had seen her buy. + +“Before we fight our way in,” she said amiably enough, “suppose we try +just walking in? I don’t believe that these poor creatures will make +much trouble.” + +She smiled, not too pleasantly, at the poor creatures. + +But they did! + +They made so much trouble that it took the lot of them fifteen minutes +to get to that dark inner room where Jim Barrison was imprisoned. By +that time Lowry and three good men had arrived in a racing car, and +by the same time, Tony Clay had been put out of business by two of +Ferrati’s “huskies.” + +“Never mind about me!” he had implored them. “Get Jim out!” + +They did. And they found Jim blinking at them out of that awesome +darkness, holding Kitty in an iron grip. He was rather white, but he +tried to smile. + +“Suppose you take her?” was his first utterance. “She’s one handful.” + +Kitty, once in the hands of the officers, shrugged her shoulders and +changed her tune. + +“What a lot of fools you are!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “You had +the clew in your hands a dozen times over! It was only to-day that this +fellow got onto it, though, and so”—again she shrugged her shoulders—“I +had to finish him, if I could, hadn’t I?” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII + + THE LOST CLEW + + +Ferrati was the selfsame man who had first induced Kitty to run away +from her home, her father, and her sister. As she had progressed, she +had grown away from him and his evil influences; but, as often happens +in a situation of this sort, when she found herself in trouble of a +criminal nature, she had gravitated most naturally back to the man who, +she was sure, could help her out of her problem. + +Face to face with each other in the inspector’s own office, neither +Kitty nor Ferrati had the nerve to hold out; between them, as a matter +of fact, they cleared up sundry police mysteries which had worried the +heads and irritated the underlings for months past. + +The trap set for Jim Barrison elucidated a good many mysteries and +showed the way in which several rich men had disappeared from the face +of the earth. The trapdoor was not in any sense a secret one; it had +been seen by half a dozen policemen during the energetic investigations +of Ferrati and his establishment which had gone on from time to time +ever since it had become generally known that men who subsequently +disappeared had been “last seen dining at Ferrati’s.” But the +explanation had been so simple and there had been so little attempt, +seemingly, at subterfuge or evasion, that the law had been put off the +scent so far as that trapdoor was concerned. + +The room in which it was situated was a kind of pantry, and directly +under it was a part of the cellar. Like many restaurant keepers, he had +bought an old country house and made it over into a resort. Thrifty +Italian that he was, he had made as few and as inexpensive alterations +as possible in the actual structure of the building, and had found it +cheaper to put in a trapdoor and a ladder than to build a complete +staircase reaching to his cellar. This was the explanation that he gave +the police, and it was probably true, and was assuredly logical. + +What became apparent now, however, was that the trapdoor had served +other ends than that of legitimate café service. What could be easier +than to inveigle a man into the room and get rid of him through the +cellar door? As for the disposal of the body, that, too, was quaintly +provided for and covered by Ferrati’s business. Every morning, just +at dawn, the restaurant garbage was carted away. It was not difficult +to carry other and more ghastly things away at the same time; and the +road is lonely at that hour. A couple of discreet henchmen could quite +easily drop something over the cliffs in the direction of the river. +But, after all, this was a secondary matter for the moment. + +The great thing was that they knew now who had fired the seventh shot. +It only remained to find out how it had been done, for even after Kitty +had admitted it, the thing seemed impossible from the facts which they +had securely established. + +She did not in the least mind telling them about it. She told her story +with simplicity and directness. In her curious, calculating little head +there was not the slightest trace of regret or remorse for what she +had done. Barrison, watching her, remembered his talk with Wrenn, and +seemed to descry in the daughter the same strange bias he had noted in +the father; the same profound selfishness, the same complete absence +of conscience where her own wrongdoing was concerned. It also appeared +clear that only one person had ever sincerely touched the heart of +either of them, and that was the man who was dead. + +There was one thing that Kitty did truly grieve for, and that was +Mortimer’s death. Whether it was because she had loved him, or because +in losing him, she had lost the chance of marrying and so squaring her +somewhat twisted and clouded past, would never be known to any one but +herself. That she did grieve, however odd it might appear, was certain. + +The detectives exchanged glances of wonder as they realized how simple +the case had been from the very first, once given the clew. As for the +clew itself, Barrison had had it once, but had lost it. It was, as +he had at one time suspected, that red evening coat. It had left the +theater exactly when it was supposed to have left; only—it was not +Kitty who had worn it! + +It was the morning after the episode at Ferrati’s, and Lowry was +holding an informal inquiry. None of them who were present would ever +forget it—nor the enchanting picture which the self-confessed murderess +presented as she sat there with a poise that her situation could not +impair, looking exquisite in the swathing black which she wore for the +man whom she had herself killed! + +Inspector Lowry was, for once in his life, totally at a loss, +absolutely nonplused. To Barrison, and the other men who knew him +well, his blank amazement in the face of the phenomenon represented by +Kitty Legaye was, to say the least of it, entertaining. + +At last he remarked, still staring at her as though hypnotized: “It is +a most remarkable case! Miss Legaye, if you feel the loss of this man +so deeply—and I am convinced that you do, in spite of the paradox it +presents—why, if you don’t mind, did you shoot him?” + +She flashed him a scornful glance. “Shoot him!” she repeated +vehemently. “You surely don’t suppose for one moment that I meant to +shoot him?” + +“But——” the inspector was beginning. + +“Shoot _him_!” she rushed on, with a different emphasis. “Of course I +didn’t! It is the sorrow of my life that it turned out in that horrible +manner. No; it was that Merivale woman whom I meant to shoot! He was +making love to her, and I couldn’t stand it! I aimed at her, but—but—I +suppose he was closer to her than I thought, and—it happened!” + +She bit her lips and clenched her small hands. They could all see that +it was only with the greatest difficulty and by the most tremendous +effort that she was able to control the frenzy of her rage and despair +over that fatal mischance. + +“At that, I hadn’t planned to kill even her,” she went on, after +a moment or two. “Not then, at any rate. But when the opportunity +came, sent straight from heaven as it seemed,” said this astounding, +moralless woman most earnestly, “I simply could not help it.” + +“Suppose you tell us what actually happened.” + +“Why not, now? What I told him”—she looked at Jim Barrison—“was all +quite true up to the point where I stopped at Alan’s door and heard my +sister’s voice. The rest, of course, was different. What I really did +then was to wait, listening to the struggle and quarrel inside until I +could make out that my—my father was succeeding in separating them. The +door opened and Marita almost staggered out, with her waist all torn +and her hair half down. She looked dreadful, and I was so afraid some +one would see her. + +“At the same second I saw the pistol lying just inside the door. Alan +said: ‘Shut that door!’ Neither he nor my father had seen me. I bent +down quickly and, reaching in, picked up the pistol. The next second my +father had shut the door very quietly and quickly, for no lights were +to be shown in the theater. + +“I still had no real intention of using the thing that night. I just +picked it up, acting on an impulse. Besides, I didn’t think that my +sister was in any state to handle it then; so I kept it, and did not +give it to her. Then I pulled off my evening coat and made Marita put +it on.” + +“One moment, with Inspector Lowry’s permission,” Barrison interrupted. +“All that must have taken time, Miss Legaye, and there were people all +around you. I myself was only a short distance away.” + +“You were standing up stage,” she informed him tranquilly, “and the +stairway going to the second tier of dressing rooms masked Alan’s door +from where you were. As for the time, it took scarcely a minute; it +happened like lightning. Such things take time to tell about, but not +to do.” + +“And in giving your sister your wrap, you were trying to shield +her, and were moved by sisterly affection?” suggested the inspector +sympathetically. + +“Indeed I was not!” snapped Kitty resentfully. “I never had the least +affection for my sister! I was moved by the fear of a lot of talk and +scandal. I wanted to get her out of the theater, and out of my life +entirely, and the quickest way I could think of was to give her my +coat and send her home in my taxi.” + +“Why did you not go with her?” + +“Haven’t I told you I wanted to get rid of her? I didn’t think of +anything but that for a moment, and then—then something else came over +me, after she had gone.” + +Her tone had changed. It was plain that she was no longer merely +narrating something; she was living it again. She was again stirred by +what had stirred her on that fateful night; no eloquence in the world +could have made her hearers so vividly see what she saw, nor so gravely +appreciate what she had felt, as the expression which she now wore—a +terrible, introspective expression, the look of one who lives the past +over again. + +“Sybil Merivale was waiting for him at the top of the little flight +of steps, and—I had the pistol still in my hand. Even then I was not +perfectly determined on killing her. I hated her and I feared her, but +I had not planned anything yet. There was a dark scarf over my arm; I +slipped that over my head so that it shaded my face from any chance +light, and I slipped across the few feet of distance and stood just +below her, close by the steps. + +“Then Alan came out of his room. There was no light, for he had had +them put out, of course, according to Dukane’s directions, for the dark +scene which was almost on. I stood so near that I could have touched +him as he went up two steps and stopped, and laughed under his breath +and spoke to her.” + +Again she fought for self-control, and again she won it, though her +face looked older and harder when she began to speak once more. + +“He was trying to make love to her, and she would have nothing to do +with him.” + +“Didn’t that make you hate her less?” queried Lowry, being merely a man. + +“It made me hate her more! She was throwing aside something which I +would have risked anything to get! I went mad for the moment. Then the +shots began, and it was pitch dark. I—I found myself lifting my hand +slowly, and pointing it. I knew just where she was standing. It seemed +to me I could scarcely miss. When I had heard what I thought was the +fifth shot, I fired. I suppose I was excited and confused, and counted +wrong. I meant my shot to come at the same time as the last shot; that +would have given me a longer time to get away. As it was, she screamed, +and I was sure I had hit her. And I was very glad! + +“But I had no time to make sure. There was commotion and confusion, and +I had to get away. I did not dare to go out through the stage entrance +where there was a light. I knew my way to the communicating door, and I +took a chance that the lights would not go up until I was through it. I +brushed past the man who was supposed to guard it, in the dark, but I +suppose he was too excited to notice. I got through and ran down past +the boxes to the front of the house. People were already beginning to +come out, and there was a lot of confusion. I had my dark scarf over +my head, so I easily passed for one of the women in the audience who +had turned faint and wanted air. I walked quietly out of the lobby and +hailed a taxi. That’s all.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I went home—to my hotel. I didn’t go in by the front way, but through +the side entrance, and slipped into my room without meeting any one. I +sent out for some chloral, for I knew I could not sleep without it, but +I would not let my maid see me, for she would have noticed that I was +without my coat.” + +“And the coat?” + +“Marita sent it back to me in the morning before Maria came to the +door. I put it on a chair by the window so that it would seem to have +been rained on that way. When the boy brought it, it was pouring +outside, and the wet had soaked through the paper wrapping.” + +There was a short silence. The mystery was solved. It was curious to +think that this small, black-clad figure was the criminal. Yet—when +one looked deep into Kitty’s eyes, one might discern something of her +Mexican mother’s temperament and her time-serving father’s selfishness +which could explain her part in this tragedy. + +“And did you still believe that it was Miss Merivale that you had +killed?” asked Inspector Lowry. + +“Yes; I believed it until that man”—again indicating Jim—“came to me in +the morning and told me of Alan’s death. It was a frightful shock.” + +“I should imagine that it might have been,” remarked the inspector +thoughtfully. “And when did you decide that it was—er—advisable—to get +rid of him?” pointing to Barrison. + +“Yesterday afternoon, when he told me that you were bringing my sister +back, and that he was going to have an interview in a short time with +the boy who had done her errands. I knew then that he would soon learn +too much. It was that boy who brought me the red coat the morning after +Alan’s death, and I did not want him to talk.” + +“But surely you did not think that investigations would stop just +because you had got Mr. Barrison out of the way?” + +She shook her head. “I didn’t reason about it very clearly,” she said. +“I had been under a good deal of strain, you must remember. All I +thought of was that he was on my track, and that the sooner I put him +where he couldn’t harm me, the better for me. So far as any one else +was concerned, I suppose, if I thought of them at all, I thought that +it was worth a chance. I’ve got out of some pretty tight places before +now; I’m always inclined to hope till the last moment.” + +“I am afraid, Miss Legaye,” said the inspector seriously, “that you +have come to that last moment now.” + +She glanced at him, and she had never looked more charming. “Sure?” she +said, in her prettiest, most ingénue way. “I haven’t been before a jury +yet, you know, and—and men usually like me!” + +The inspector was red with indignation. But more than one of the men +present suppressed a chuckle at his rage and Kitty’s composure. + +“Why,” asked Jim, “did you sign Miss Templeton’s name to that decoy +telegram of yours?” + +Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “I certainly couldn’t sign my own, could +I?” she rejoined calmly. “And she’d been suspected at the beginning. +She seemed a good one to pick.” + +There was not much more to clear up, but Barrison was on the point of +putting one more question when an officer came in and whispered to the +inspector. + +“Bring them in,” he said at once. + +The new arrivals were the Blankleys, accompanied by the detective who +had found them in Indianapolis. They looked frightened, but Lowry +quickly relieved their minds and assured them that they would only be +required as witnesses. + +The meeting between the sisters was curious. Seeing them together for +the first time, Barrison saw the resemblance plainly, though Rita +looked more Mexican than Kitty, and was, he knew, far the better woman +of the two. + +“Well, Kit?” said she quietly, almost compassionately, but Kitty looked +straight in front of her, and neither then nor at any other time +deigned to recognize her existence. + +Barrison prompting the inspector, the latter turned to Marita and +held out the letter which Jim had turned over to him the day before, +the note which both he and the younger man had accepted as conclusive +evidence of her guilt. + +“Did you write this, Mrs. Blankley?” he asked. + +She glanced down the page and nodded. “Certainly,” she responded; “when +I returned the coat Kitty had lent me.” + +When they read it over, they found that its wording was innocent +enough. It was only Kitty’s evil ingenuity which had twisted it +deliberately. + +“Did you really hate me as much as all that, Kit?” asked Marita, almost +in wonder, but Kitty said never a word, and did not even look in her +direction. + +A little later, Jim Barrison was bidding Inspector Lowry good-by. + +“The inquest is to-day,” remarked the inspector, who was smoking very +hard and looking very bland and satisfied. “And we won’t have to have +any ‘person or persons unknown’ verdict this time! Found the murderer +inside of forty-eight hours! We didn’t do so badly, eh, my boy?” + +Barrison dropped his eyes to hide an involuntary twinkle at the “we.” + +“Splendid, sir!” he declared cordially. “Good-by! I’m off to make a few +extra inquiries—of a strictly personal nature.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII + + THE FALSE GODS GO + + +“Well?” demanded Miss Templeton, at whose apartment Jim Barrison +presented himself in record time after leaving headquarters. “And is +the case now closed?” + +“Not quite,” said Barrison, putting down his hat and stick deliberately +and standing facing her. + +She was standing, too; and, as she was a tall woman, her eyes were +not so very much below his own. She was, he thought, most splendidly +beautiful as she stood there gravely looking at him. + +“Not quite,” he repeated, in a voice he had never before permitted +himself to use in speaking to her. “I want to ask a few more questions, +please?” + +She nodded, still watching him in that deep, intent fashion. + +“First,” pursued Jim, trying to speak steadily and to keep to the +unimportant things, even while his heart was throbbing violently, “why +did you always suspect Kitty Legaye?” + +“Because I had an instinct against her; also because I was sure that +she knew that man Wrenn. I could tell by the way that they looked at +each other that they were not strangers, though I never knew them to +speak to each other. And, you see, I knew that he was connected with +Alan Mortimer’s old life. The suspicion seemed to slip in naturally.” + +“And at any time—at any time, mind you—did you have it in your mind to +kill Mortimer yourself?” + +“Never!” she returned at once, and firmly. + +He paused a moment, looking full into the clearest eyes that ever a +woman had. + +“Grace,” he said, calling her so for the first time, “why did you buy +that revolver?” + +She colored painfully, but her eyes met his as truthfully as before. +“Ah, you knew that!” she said. “I had hoped that you did not. However, +what can it matter now? I am very much changed since the day I bought +that revolver. You know that, I think?” + +“I know it,” he acknowledged gently. + +“I was terribly hurt, terribly outraged, terribly disappointed. You +must always remember that I am a woman of wild emotions. I felt myself +flung aside—not only in love, but in my profession. I had lost my part, +and I had lost the man who, after all, I had believed I loved.” + +“And did _you_ want to kill Sybil Merivale, too?” + +She stared at him in astonishment. “Kill Sybil Merivale!” she repeated. +“Why on earth should I? I had nothing against the girl, except that +I believe I was a little jealous of her youth and freshness just at +first. No; I had made up my mind to kill myself.” + +“Yourself!” + +“Yes. Didn’t you guess? I had an idea that you did, and that that was +one reason for your keeping so near me all that evening in the box. +I had the insane impulse to kill myself then and there, and spoil +Alan’s first night!” She laughed a little, though shakily, at the +recollection. “It was ridiculous, melodramatic, anything you like, but +women have done such things, and—and I’m afraid I am rather that sort. +I meant to do it, anyway.” + +“And—why didn’t you? You had the revolver; I felt it in your bag on the +back of the chair. Why didn’t you?” + +He had not known that a woman’s eyes could hold so much light. + +“You know,” she said softly and soberly. “You were there. You had come +into my life. The false gods go when the gods arrive!” + +There was a long stillness between them, in which neither of them +stirred, nor took their eyes away. + +“You—love me?” Jim said, in a queer voice. + +“Yes.” + +When he let her leave his arms, it was only that he might look again +into her eyes and touch that wonderful golden hair, now loose and soft +about her face. + +“It—it isn’t dyed!” she said hastily. “I did make up, but my hair was +always that color—truly!” + +“Oh, my dear, my dear!” he laughed, though with tears and tenderness +behind the laughter. “What do I care whether it is dyed or not? It’s +just a part of you.” + +A little later a whimsical idea came to him. + +“You know,” he said, “the inspector said to me yesterday that in +drawing in our nets we sometimes found that we had captured some birds +that we had never expected. I didn’t know how right he was, for—we two +seem to have caught the Blue Bird of Happiness, after all!” + +“And I am sure,” said Grace Templeton solemnly, “that no one ever +really caught it before!” + + THE END. + + + ———————————————— End of Book ———————————————— + + + Transcriber’s Note (continued) + +Errors in punctuation and simple typos have been corrected without note. +Variations in spelling, hyphenation, accents, etc., have been left as +they appear in the original publication unless as stated in the following: + + Page 17 – “Miss Lagaye” changed to “Miss Legaye” (I’ve been out of work + since March, Miss Legaye.) + Page 29 – “unforgetable” changed to “unforgettable” (A passionate, + unforgettable woman) + Page 41 – “crispy” changed to “crisply” (crisply waving locks) + Page 45 – “playright” changed to “playwright” (sighed the discouraged + playwright) + Page 53 – “coldbloodedly” changed to “cold-bloodedly” (as cold-bloodedly + as did Dukane) + Page 76 – “well-simulated” changed to “well-stimulated” (much + well-stimulated curiosity) + Page 115 – “stagedoor” changed to “stage door” (your stage door keeper) + Page 196 – “coldblooded” changed to “cold-blooded” (her cold-blooded + dismissal) + Page 197 – “feeing” changed to “feeling” (from feeling guilty) + Page 198 – “imperturably” changed to “imperturbably” (remarked the + inspector imperturbably) + Page 305 – “not” changed to “nor” (would ever forget it—nor the + enchanting picture) + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76659 *** |