THE TELEPHONE
The boudoir was stuffy and smelled of moth powder With its ivory-white
walls and masses of sheeting it looked crudely bright in the glare of
electricity switched on by Logan. A glance at the closed bay window
showed that outside the glass was a screen of unpainted wood. There
was no door save that through which Win had just entered.
All the furniture was pushed against the walls, except a writing-desk
with gilded legs, which stood in the embrasure of the big window, and
to this the girl ran softly, on tiptoe, across the bare parquet floor.
It was covered with sheeting, which she turned carefully back that
nothing might be disturbed and, in falling, make a noise. Almost she
had reached the limit of her strength and had no breath even to
whisper the "Thank heaven!" she felt, seeing what she had prayed to
find--a telephone and directory.
It was the hope of this that had upheld her through the scene which
already seemed dreamlike. But though telephone and book were here, she
was far enough yet from being out of danger. She had not seen the
house number, as the boards which covered the front door covered it
also. Knowing the street and the name of the man who owned the house
(if Logan had told the truth), she could find the telephone number in
the book, but it meant a waste of time.
And then, Logan might have lied. This might not be his father's house.
Or, if it were, the telephone might have been cut off for the summer
in the family's absence. She could not be sure of that till the last
moment, for the instant Logan heard her talk he would try to tear her
away from the telephone. If only there were a key or a bolt--the
frailest, slightest bolt, just strong enough to keep the man out for
five minutes! But it was useless to wish for what could not be. She
must do her best with the ammunition at hand, and be quick about it,
for here was her fort of refuge, and she must hold it while she fired
her one shot.
On the desk lay a large tortoise-shell paper knife. That, thrust under
the door as a wedge, would be almost as good as a lock. At least she
might count on it to protect her for those so necessary five minutes.
But if she pushed it through to the other side Jim Logan would see the
flat, brown blade stick out like a defiant tongue over the door sill,
if he were in the hall keeping watch. Knowing that she could not
escape, perhaps he had returned to the dining-room, perhaps he was
giving instructions to his servant--perhaps any one of a dozen things,
yet she could not count on any of them!
She took the paper knife, and holding it firmly by its carved handle,
she put the blade under the sole of her foot and thus snapped it off
short.
The thick end, still attached to the handle, was just not too thick to
push part way under the door. Win could only hope that it might hold
when need came.
Now for the book! As she began turning over the pages she found that
her hands were trembling. She had to repeat the alphabet from the
beginning before she could remember where the letter "L" came in.
Yes, there was the name--Logan. There were many Logans, but only one
in this particular street. With a blunt pencil attached to a small
writing-pad she scribbled down the telephone and house number to have
them before her eyes, lest in her frantic excitement she might confuse
the two in her mind.
These preparations made, the girl's heart quickened as the fateful
moment came. The prompt response from Central was heavenly music. The
Logan family had not studied economy and cut off their telephone.
"Give me the nearest police station quick!" she added to the number,
and at the sound of an hysterical note in her voice Logan's hand was
on the door knob.
If the wedge failed she was lost. But bending over the desk, the
receiver at her ear, she dared not turn to see what was happening.
"You young devil! Let me in, or you'll be sorry all your life!" Logan
shouted through the door, giving the heavy oak panels a kick.
"Is that the police?" Win spoke loudly that Logan might hear. She gave
the number of the house, then hurried on: "For God's sake send at
once. The house is shut up, but by a trick a girl has been brought in
by young Mr. Logan. She's in great danger. It's she who is
calling--begging for help--quick--quick--he's here!"
_Crash!_ The door flew wide and banged against the wall, Logan almost
falling into the room as the wedge shook loose. Slipping on the
smooth parquet, he lost his balance for an instant, and before he
could reach the girl to snatch the receiver from her hand, she had
dashed through the door and into the hall. There she would have been
stopped by the servant if she had not dodged under his arm and darted
into the dining-room. Once in, she slammed the door shut in the face
of Logan's man, and fumbled wildly to turn the key her trembling
fingers found.
Something was wrong--or else it was the fault of those shaking
fingers. The key would not turn. Win set her shoulder to the door and
pushed against the panels with the whole strength of her slim body.
But it was not enough. The door gave and pushed her back. Then,
realizing that she could not hold it against superior force, she
suddenly let go and ran to stand at bay behind the table.
When Jim Logan, all the latent brutality in him wide awake, came
bounding over the threshold she faced him across his silver and
flowers and glittering glass.
"Come here!" he said in a voice curiously unlike the jovial tones she
had known as his.
"No!" she panted. "I'll stay where I am till the police arrest you as
a kidnapper."
"You'll not stay!" he flung at her. "If you won't come out of that,
I'll fetch you."
The girl stood behind one of the two chairs drawn up to the table and
both hands convulsively clutched the high, carved back. But seeing him
spring toward her, she lost her nerve for the first time. Trying to
make a screen of the chair, she felt the floating gauze of her dress
catch on some unseen nail or splinter of broken woods struggled to
tear it free, and found herself in Logan's arms. The shrill sound of
ripping stitches and tearing gauze mingled with the sharp blow of the
girl's palm on the man's ear, and his oath breathed hot on her cheek.
"You fool, do you think I wish to keep you after what you've done?" he
blurted out. "All I ask is to be rid of you before those fellows get
here. I thought I'd have one kiss--but I wouldn't take it now if you
gave it to me. Sims, run down into the basement and let her out that
way. Now, you young devil, after him, if you don't want to be choked
and buried in the cellar."
Hardly knowing what she did, Win obeyed. Tripping in the rags of her
torn gown, she followed the man, who opened a door that led to a
narrow stairway. Next came a vague vision of a basement corridor and a
disordered kitchen. A minute later she was pushed into a dark area, a
door was shut behind her, she was stumbling up some stone steps; then,
hurrying along the street as fast as she could go, conscious only that
danger was behind her, that she must fly from it and put a long
distance between her and that closed house.
If Win had known that the door had shut upon Jim Logan also, and that
he had walked out of the house almost on her heels, she would have
hurried even faster. But she did not know. And luckily he took the
opposite direction, making straight for the New Cosmopolitan Club at
the corner, which she had noticed when passing in the taxi.
Hardly five minutes after he had interrupted his guest in her call to
the police, Jim Logan was inquiring of the hall porter whether Mr.
Fred Fortescue had come in that evening.
"He came, sir, but has gone out again," replied the man, thinking that
the immaculate Mr. Logan--one of the best-dressed, best-groomed
members of the New Cosmopolitan--appeared to be feeling the heat
severely.
"Jove, I'm sorry to hear that," and Logan's expression confirmed his
words. "I wanted to see him badly. Let me think. Who else is here?
What about Mr. Pindar?"
"Hasn't been in, sir, for weeks," was the reply.
"Gee!" muttered Logan. He seemed worried, and in the brilliant light
of the fine hall--white-panelled, and hung with clever caricatures of
well-known men--his face was pale and even drawn. He looked, it
occurred to the hall porter (a man of imagination), rather like a
caricature of himself, not so well coloured as those on the walls.
Evidently conning the names of friends who might be useful in an
emergency, Logan's eyes were fixed on the stairway, as if thence
inspiration or salvation might come. He had the air of having sent his
astral body hastily upstairs to reconnoitre the reading and smoking
room, but at that minute Peter Rolls, Jr., appeared on the landing,
and Logan and his astral body joined forces again.
"Hello, Rolls!" he called out. "You're just the man I want. Will you
do me a great favour in a big hurry?"
Petro, whose inmost self had also been absent on some errand, came to
earth again with a slight start. "Hello!" he echoed, hastening his
steps.
He did not care much for Logan, who had been a classmate of his at
college, and whose acquaintance he had not cultivated since. Still he
had nothing against the fellow except that he was a "dude" and
something of an ass, whose outlook on life was so different from
Petro's that friendship was impossible. They met occasionally at the
New Cosmopolitan Club, of which they had both been members for some
years, and at houses where their different "sets" touched distantly.
If they talked at all, they talked of old times, but each bored the
other. Petro, however, could never bear to refuse any one a favour,
even if granting it were an uncongenial task. This peculiarity was
constitutional and too well known for his comfort.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked in a tone polite, but void of
personal interest.
"To come home with me quick and get me out of a horrid scrape. No
trouble for you--but a lot for me without a pal to see me through. I
won't keep you more than a few minutes, if you're engaged anywhere."
"I'm not engaged. But--" Petro began, only to be cut short.
"Come along, then, for the Lord's sake. Tell you everything when we're
there." And taking Rolls affectionately by the arm, the other rushed
him out of the club.
"House shut up, you know. But I stay there. My man'll let us in the
basement way, if you don't mind," Logan explained disjointedly as they
hurried along the street to the dwelling four doors away.
Sims, obedient to instructions flung at him over his master's shoulder
when the girl had been let out, now awaited Logan's return at the
tradesmen's entrance. The two young men were admitted and the door
locked behind them. A minute more and they were in the rosily glowing
dining-room, where the white table still offered attractive
refreshment.
"Sit down," said Logan, and as he said it a great knocking began
somewhere.
Listening in surprise, Petro forgot to accept the invitation--which
might have been more tempting if he had not, about half an hour ago,
finished dinner. Logan repeated the words, however, and even pulled
out a chair for Petro, who took it. Logan seized the other, and Petro,
following his host's example, drew up to the table. Still the pounding
went on, more loudly than before, if possible. It began to seem rather
like something in a play when you had missed the first scene and
didn't quite understand what it was all about.
"I think, sir, it's some one at the door," calmly announced Sims,
raising his voice decorously, to be heard over the noise. "Shall I see
who it is, or shall I let them knock and go away?"
"See who it is, and if it's the police, make no objection to their
coming in. Be surprised, but not frightened, and say Mr. Logan has a
friend supping with him. Savvy?"
"Yes, sir," responded Sims, and vanished.
"No time to let you into this stunt on the ground floor," went on
Logan. "But I will as soon as the turn's over. For all sakes, keep mum
while I talk."
Before Petro could answer, if he had an answer ready, there were deep
voices in the hall. Then the door was opened by Sims, and two
plain-clothes policemen stepped briskly in.
"Hello! What's up? House on fire?" exclaimed Logan, pausing in the
act of handing a dish of iced caviar to his guest.
"We're not from the fire department," said the elder and smarter
looking of the pair, civilly, yet with a certain grimness. "I guess
you know that well enough. We've been sent here on a hurry call on
your 'phone to the police--a girl supposed to be detained in the house
against her will." And keen eyes took in the details of the room.
Logan broke into a jovial guffaw. "Girl? Well, of all--the
freak--stunts!" he chortled. "Say, Rolls, are you the great female
impersonator? Ha, ha!"
"Sorry to interrupt you and your friend," remarked the detective,
still grimly, though he had caught and been slightly impressed by the
name of Rolls, as the speaker had, perhaps, intended. Logan as a name
also carried some weight in New York. One was not rude to a Logan
until sure how far and fast duty compelled one to proceed. "But I
gotta ask you straight whether there's a girl in this house, and you'd
better answer the same way."
Logan stopped laughing. "Really, I thought at first you were some of
the fellows from the club got up in disguise for a joke," he said. "Of
course I'll answer you straight. There's no girl in this house so far
as I know, and hasn't been since my sister went away with the rest of
the folks, 2d of June. I can't think how such a--but gee! yes, I can!
The silly old sucker! I bet it's a put-up job."
"What d'ye mean?" the plain-clothes man wanted to know.
"Why, does the name of Frederick Doland Fortescue mean anything to
you?"
"We know who he is."
"Well, then, I guess you know he's the champion practical joker of
this burg. He was here a while ago--hasn't been gone a quarter of an
hour. Went just before Mr. Rolls came in. Asked if he could use the
telephone. I said yes, and my servant showed him into my mother's
boudoir next to this room. I heard him ring up some one, but didn't
get what he said. I noticed when he was through he came out chuckling,
and then he was off like a shot--told me he had a date uptown
somewhere. That's all I know, but it would be like him to play just
such a fool trick on you and me."
"Seems 'twas a woman's voice at the 'phone."
"Gee! I did sort of get onto it, he was mimicking a girl! Sounded kind
of shrill, but I didn't pay attention. He's always up to some lark.
You're welcome to go over the house, though, if you don't believe me."
"It ain't a question of believing or not," said the detective. "But
we'll have to look around."
"All right!" returned Logan, still with that perfect good nature which
was having its effect on the two intruders. "Would you rather do the
job by your lones, or shall my man show you the way? I suppose you
don't mind us going on with our supper if I spare you Sims and we help
ourselves to food?"
"You can stay where you are," was the answer.
"Thanks. But when you're satisfied that a mosquito or so's the only
live stock on the premises, I should like you both to crack a bottle
of champagne with us."
"It wouldn't be quite in order---"
"Hang order! The police and I are pals. Now you'll do me proud if
you'll look in on your way out. Bring the girl, if you find her!" And
Logan laughed at his own joke.
"Don't think I've let you in for anything!" he turned to Rolls as the
door shut. "They'll find no one, for the good reason that there's no
one to find. All the same, I should have been in a mess if you hadn't
come right along like a brick and helped me out."
"I don't quite see yet how I have helped you," rather dryly remarked
Petro.
"But I guess you're guessing."
"If I've guessed right, I'm not enjoying the joke."
"Then maybe you _haven't_ guessed right! Give me the benefit of the
doubt till those good men and true are the other side of the front
door, will you? I'm as rattled as they make 'em now! Say, this is a
raid, ain't it? Wonder if they've got the Black Maria outside? Can't
you eat any caviar? Wish you would. Well, shall we skip along to the
consommé?"
"I've just got down my dinner," said Rolls, who was guessing too hard
to taste anything with salt in it, in his old classmate's house.
"Well, a little of this champagne cup, anyhow? It's girls' drink, but
not bad this weather, and old Sims is a nailer at mixing---"
"No, thanks, nothing at all."
"You must let me half fill your glass, or those chaps will get onto it
that you're playing dummy!" As he spoke Logan poured champagne cup
into Peter's tall tumbler and his own. The latter he filled with the
ice-cold, sparkling liquid which, as he said, was "girls' drink," and
then, seizing the glass, emptied it in one long draft.
It was he who did most of the talking that whiled away time till the
policemen returned from their tour of the house; and when they opened
the door of the dining-room once more he was eating chicken salad
while Peter crumbled toast.
"I don't see the lady!" Logan exclaimed facetiously, with his mouth
full.
"Neither did we," said the man who had taken the lead.
"Hope you did the thing thoroughly while you were about it! Garret to
cellar and all the rest?"
"You bet we did," returned the policeman, allowing himself the relief
of a grin now. "I guess you was right about the practical joke. But
you must excuse us if we look behind these curtains."
"Under the table, too!" laughed Logan, jumping to his feet. "Stand and
deliver, Rolls!"
Petro obeyed rather reluctantly, feeling that he had been made a fool
of, at best, in his stupid wish to be good-natured. It might be a
joke, as Logan insisted, but something told him it was not. The look
on the fellow's face as he gulped down the champagne cup had not been
funny. It was in Petro's mind that he had been brought in to cover up
with his presence an unpleasant incident and ignorantly to trick the
police.
Of course, if there were a girl in the house, the police would have
found her. But--there was something queer. He meant to have it all out
with Logan when the police were gone. Meantime, however, he behaved
loyally and stood up to leave the table clear while one of the
detectives did actually bend down to peer under it. As the policeman
stooped Peter mechanically pulled the chair back, and doing so he
caught sight of a thin blue streak lying, like solidified cigarette
smoke, across the red brocade cushion. In this smoke-blue streak there
were little things that glistened--little silver things shaped like
crescent moons set at regular intervals from each other. Peter had
been unconsciously sitting on the smoke wreath, and as the policeman
rose he deliberately sat down on it again. He felt suddenly sick, and
his heart was large and cold in his breast, where it did not beat, but
floundered like a caught fish.