McKenna was a changed man. All the indecision had left him. His eyes
were sparkling with pleasure and he was laughing to himself, as he took
up the telephone.
"Here, give me Clancy," he cried impatiently. "Hello. What's the matter
with Brady; hasn't he come back with that information yet? He has?
Well, why the devil--send in the figures! Quick!"
A moment later a slip was in his hand and he was gazing at it eagerly.
"Mr. Beecher, give me half an hour's start--no, better, three quarters
of an hour. Wait--have you got a car? Good. Drive me up to Mrs.
Kildair's as fast as you can get me there."
"What about Garraboy?" said Gunther. "Is he to go free?"
"Not by a damn sight!" said McKenna joyfully rushing them down the hall.
In the office he stopped to say hurriedly: "Clancy, stick by
Garraboy--feed him--but keep him close until I telephone you!"
*CHAPTER XXIV*
McKenna was not without that penetrating imagination that has in it the
quality of vision, the power to invoke the figures of the past and to
follow an idea into the recesses of the future. All that he had learned
and all that he had tentatively surmised of the mysterious purposes of
Rita Kildair, returned to him with renewed vividness as he entered the
elevator saying briefly to a question:
"I'm expected."
In his long and profound pursuit of human lawlessness, the detective had
formed a crude philosophy, built on the perception of the inequalities
of justice. The beginning of all crime, if he could thus have phrased it
to himself, was failure. For each man that he had sent to jail for
embezzlement, in the capacious corridor of his memory he knew another
who ethically was the greater rogue, and, as he had said to Beecher,
each day he met one such, looked into his eyes, shook his hands and took
his orders. For each woman upon whom public scorn had set the brand of
adventuress, he knew another woman who stood enthroned by that same
society. Confusedly in his mind he had shaped a crude analysis of life.
For him only two classes existed, the strong and the weak. The strong
was that brutal race which could not be held down by the restraints of
society, who must rise, acquire power, dominate, obeying the natural
instinct within them; the weak those who aided them in their upward
progress, who served them when they had arrived, and who committed
crimes in their names. It was not a moral view of life so much as it
was a perception of the persisting law of all animal nature.
The engagement to Slade, following so dramatically his triumphant rise
from threatened disaster, had made him realize that whatever methods she
had dared to employ, Mrs. Kildair was one of those whom society would
never scorn for her failure. Intrigued as he was over the details of the
theft of the ring, what absorbed him most was the woman. And determined
at all hazards to force the defenses of her reserve, he rang the bell.
Mrs. Kildair was at the piano, the riotous movements of an Hungarian
Czardas filling the apartment. She broke off suddenly, rising as
McKenna entered the studio. The mood of whirling ecstasy, suddenly cut
off, was still in her flushed cheeks and excited eyes, as she glided
rapidly toward him.
She was in evening gown, of some flame-colored, filmy material, with
sudden trembling flashes of gold bewildering to the eye, provoking to
the imagination. The bodice, extreme in its daring, was not one of those
stiff cuirasses, in which women encase themselves; rather the effect was
of a billowy scarf that had caught and wrapped itself languidly about
her. The low throat, the graceful arms, the brilliant row of pointed
teeth over the full under lip, all had an extraordinary quality of
vibrant, awake, impatient vitality.
In seeing her thus, McKenna comprehended at once that she had prepared
herself for Slade; but so daring was the effect of the seduction which
she had barbarically planned to tantalize the financier, that McKenna
himself felt the effect with a little nervous, conscious dropping of his
eyes. The movement did not escape her, and not disdaining the tribute
she smiled to herself a quick, feline little smile.
"You, McKenna?" she said. "You are prompt."
"I came immediately."
"I was waiting for you."
They stood a few feet apart in the middle of the studio studying each
other, as two fencers take their measure before joining their swords.
"You were at your office then?" she said the first.
"Yes, I came up in Mr. Beecher's car."
"Mr. Beecher was with you?"
"Yes."
"I sent him--"
"A letter, yes. He received it at my office."
"But why didn't he come up with you?"
"I asked him to give me half an hour here with you."
"That was better," she said firmly.
All the undisciplined impulses that had been stirring, gradually seemed
to subside as she watched him, warily drawing about her an invisible
defense.
"Here is the ring," she said suddenly, extending her arm with a gesture
that was no longer languid and feminine, but forceful and controlled.
"I'd like to see it," he said.
She drew it from her finger and held it out to him. He laid it in his
palm and studied it profoundly.
"What is it worth?" he asked.
"Over thirty thousand dollars."
"Ah," he said quickly. "Beecher told me you said fifteen thousand."
She looked at him from under her eyelids.
"I have just learned its value."
"Remarkable--a splendid stone. It has had quite a history," he said,
handing it back to her and watching it return to her finger. "Let's
hope it will stay there quietly for some time."
"You know its story?"
"From the beginning. It will interest you. I'll send it to you."
"Do."
The last replies she had given were mechanical, her whole mind focused
on him, alert for any sudden turn to her advantage, seeking to penetrate
the tactics he would employ.
"You kept away--on purpose," she said abruptly.
"That's so."
"Why?"
"Well, call it a matter of vanity," he said.
"In what way?"
"You excited my curiosity--you were a little too clever in our last
interview."
"So you kept on with your investigations?"
"Yes."
"Successful?" she said lightly.
"Very."
"Indeed? Do you know who took the ring?"
"The first time? No."
She stopped, looked at him intently, and said:
"The second time then?"
"Yes, I know who took it the second time."
"Who?"
"You."
She laughed without confusion and, turning from him, went toward the
fireplace, resting one bare arm on the mantel, the red splash of the
ruby showing like a flare of anger against her cheek. She looked back
at McKenna, who had not moved, saying with an admonishing shake of her
head:
"McKenna, you are guessing."
"It's a good guess."
"Let me hear your theory."
"It is not a theory today."
"Indeed?"
"Yesterday it was a guess; today, I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because today I saw Mapleson," he said, watching her.
"Yes? Mapleson, of Sontag & Company? I know him very well," she
replied with still no expression but amusement. "What then?"
"The ring was pawned with him, a personal matter, the morning after the
theft, for the sum of twenty-eight thousand dollars. It was redeemed
today."
"By whom?"
"By you, naturally," said McKenna, yet despite his absolute conviction,
her composure was such that he was almost shaken in his theory.
"Mapleson never told you that."
"No; he refused to answer. It lay in my mind between you and Mrs.
Cheever. The fact that he would not answer, gave me my strongest clue."
"In what way?"
"If it had been Mrs. Cheever, he would not have concealed it, because it
would have been a theft. But as it was you who came to him, he refused
to divulge the name, because he knew that no crime had been committed
and that we had either no right to be investigating, or were doing so to
be blinded by you."
"McKenna, you are guessing," said Mrs. Kildair again. "You are
supposing that only Mrs. Cheever and I are on such terms with him that
we could make such a personal transaction. As a matter of fact, not
only Mrs. Bloodgood, but her husband and Miss Lille could have done the
same thing."
"True," said McKenna, but he added obstinately: "No, the only reason
Mapleson withheld the name was because no crime had been committed."
"Before we go on," she said with the same mocking smile, "would you mind
telling me how you worked out this theory? Sit down. I really am
interested."
If McKenna had not in his possession one bit of information which he had
withheld, he would have felt the nervousness of a possible and
ridiculous failure. At it was, a doubt flashed across his mind; but he
allowed her to see none of this hesitation.
"I'm perfectly willing to let you know how it came about," he said,
sitting down and speaking frankly. "I'm not laying claim to anything
startling. I'll admit now that as to the details of how it was done, and
why it was done, I don't know. I can guess; but I don't know. But as
to tracing the ring and working back from that--that's A.B.C." Then,
with a flash of intuition, he said abruptly: "Of course, Mapleson has
just 'phoned you."
"Well, go on," she said without reply, drawn back a little, listening
intently.
"The first thing I did was to locate the ring," he began. "You yourself
know how easy it is to follow a stone worth thirty thousand. You know
that, because the moment you found out I was on the case, you knew I
would learn that Slade gave it to you. That's why you had me come
here--to block it."
"That's true."
"Now, for a while, I admit I was in the dark, following several clues,
and I don't mind saying here that until your engagement I was not at all
sure it wasn't Mr. Slade himself who had taken that way of recovering
it."
"That's strange," she said, startled. "Yes, I can see that was
possible, too."
"Now, what I was working on," said McKenna, "was the strongest
motive--that whoever took it up, took it because he had to take it to
raise money, to pay a debt or to gamble on the market. So I
investigated two ways--first, the back histories and the present
standing of every one at your party; second, in the great jewelry shops,
to find out if the ring had been sold or pawned."
"Of course."
"I didn't believe it had been done openly--that would have been too
risky--but through some channel like Mapleson. But I wasn't thinking of
Mapleson then. I couldn't locate the ring. I found out that Bloodgood,
Cheever, Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy had all speculated
heavily on the market next day. That didn't help much. Now I come to
my interview with you."
Mrs. Kildair nodded and leaned forward slightly.
"That worried me. After that, I did one thing and thought another.
Down at the bottom, there was something that kept me thinking about you,
something that bothered me. That's where the guess-work comes in, but I
don't know as I'd call it guess-work. It's an instinct you get when you
come in contact with a person--it's put me on the right track many a
time. I saw you didn't want anything done, but what fooled me was, I
thought it was--" He hesitated, and then said boldly: "Mrs. Kildair, no
use talking unless we say what we mean, is there?"
"Quite right, be professional," she said with a quick nod. "You thought
I wished to conceal what my true relations were with Slade? That's it,
isn't it?"
"Yes, that was it," he said slowly. "And being wrong myself, I figured
out a possible motive. I was dead sure you knew who had taken the ring.
Don't ask how--that's instinct--but I knew. So I figured out it was
blackmail you were afraid of, and I began looking around for the lady or
gentleman who would know that the ring had belonged to Slade. Do you
see?"
"Yes, go on. It's very plausible."
"It looked like Garraboy, and it looked like the Cheevers at times," he
said. "Then Mr. Beecher told me of seeing Mapleson in Mrs. Cheever's
box at the opera, and that you said you knew him. That's what started me
on Mapleson. Likewise, I began thinking more and more about that
interview with you. Then came your engagement and I flung over all my
theories, and got down to work. I began to look you up, and when I
found out the situation from Mapleson, I made up my mind then and there,
for one reason or another, you yourself took the ring the second time."
"Is that all?"
"No, this evening I got the last link I'd been waiting for."
"What's that?"
"Your account with your broker, and the record of sales," he said,
bringing out a slip from his pocket.
"Do you get convictions on such evidence as this?" she said steadily.
"No," he said frankly; "but I get confessions."
"Why should I take my own ring?"
"The situation was unusual. You probably learned of Majendie's failure
and you plunged on the short side."
"But why not do so openly?" she said calmly.
He hesitated.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" he said finally.
"We are not mincing words."
"You were not engaged to Mr. Slade at that moment," he began.
"How do you know?"
"I do know. The one thing in your interview with me I particularly
remember was your anxiety that Mr. Slade should know nothing."
She remained thoughtful, bracing her fingers against each other,
carefully considering what he had shown he knew.
"And your theory is that I took the ring the second time," she said,
"when whoever first took it had thrown it on the table, that I called in
detectives to make Slade believe it had been stolen, so that I could
gamble in Wall Street without being suspected."
"Exactly," he said. "I have no means of knowing who took it first, but
I would gamble my soul you took it the second time. For another reason:
any one who took it knew he faced a search--that it was almost
impossible to get it out of the room. The only person who could take it
without being suspected was yourself."
"McKenna," she said at last, but without the amusement that had formerly
been in her eyes, "you are still guessing."
He rose impatiently and went across the room, his hands behind his back.
"Then, Mrs. Kildair," he said, turning, "do you wish me to report what I
have just told you to my client, Mr. Beecher--as a guess?"
She stood up at once, fully alert.
"Mrs. Kildair, I am not an enemy," he continued, with a sudden change of
manner. "I may not know all--but I know too much. Now, I'll tell you
right out why I want your confidence. You marry John G. Slade. Slade
is going to be one of the biggest figures in the country; I know that.
I've had his business; I want to keep it. It's going to be ten times
what it was before. More, I want his backing. I want several big jobs
other agencies have got--The Bankers' Association, for one. Now, from
what I've seen of you, the force back of Slade will be Mrs. Slade. Tell
me yourself what I already know and I know I've got you as a friend.
Keep it from me, and I know you'll supplant me with your husband. There
may come a time when I can serve you--you never can tell. It's worth
trying. I repeat I know too much. The only way to guard against it is
by full confidence."
"You are right. I will tell you," she said suddenly, and she added
seriously, "I was prepared to tell you. But it is understood this
remains our secret."
"My word."
"And that Mr. Beecher is not to have the slightest clue. Can you
promise me that?"
"I have another story ready."
"Good. Then it is an alliance," she said, and she offered her hand
abruptly, with a movement full of authority.
McKenna shook hands, surprised at the masculine directness of her grip,
surprised too at the utter disappearance from her face and attitude of
all the impulsive fire and fascination that had first struck him.
"You are right, and you are wrong," she said directly. "I took the
ring, but in an entirely different way from what you believe. I did not
take it at the table, as you think--do you know where I found it?"
"Where?"
"In the pocket of Mr. Beecher's overcoat."
*CHAPTER XXV*
McKenna was so startled at this announcement that the expression on his
face brought a smile to the face of the woman.
"Let me begin at the beginning," she said.
While he seated himself, she continued moving about, her head down, her
lip closed over her under lip, carefully considering the situation. She
had no fear to give her confidence. She understood the man with whom
she was dealing, the more so for his open avowal of his reasons for
seeking her friendship. Also she was fully alive as to the strength of
such an alliance. What she considered was how much she should reveal.
To-morrow she would be Mrs. John G. Slade, at the goal of her ambitions,
over what perilous paths only she herself knew. The knowledge of what
she had won suffocated her, for the nature of dramatic and adventurous
spirits is such that they must seek relief in confidence. More, they
crave the admiration that only another can bring to complete their
moments of self-intoxication. At this moment, when her role had been
played, she craved applause. McKenna was not a friend--he was a
machine, a rock that would give back an echo. Beside, what had he not
divined?
"McKenna," she began quietly, though weighing her words, "to any one
else I might tell my story differently. With you it is otherwise. You
are no fool. I shall speak openly. On the night of my party I was
virtually ruined."
"Ruined!" exclaimed McKenna, with an involuntary glance at the luxury
which surrounded them.
"When I say ruined, I mean for me," she said, nodding. She became
thoughtful, looking beyond him, seeing a distant self. "When I came
here I had fifteen thousand a year. I was not satisfied. I wanted
forty. I gambled. I have always gambled. I lost heavily. That night I
had only five thousand a year left. That was ruin for me. I speculated
on the tips of a man who deliberately and for a purpose misinformed me.
Can you guess who that man was?"
"Slade," said McKenna instantly.
"Yes, Slade," she said. "It has been a desperate struggle between us.
Tomorrow I shall become his wife. That is what I want more than I have
ever wanted anything else. It is my right--you will see what I will do.
Understand me, if Slade had failed I should not have married him, and
yet I tell you frankly he is the only man I have known that appeals to
me in every way. However," she added, with a little abrupt movement of
her closed hand, "that's over. I have won."
"Did he know that you had lost?" asked McKenna slowly.
"No," she said with a smile, "he never knew. Not that he would not have
made it up--in his way. It is a game he must have played many times."
She went to a writing-desk and, unlocking a drawer, brought out a note.
"When I told you he gave me this ring with an offer of marriage," she
said, returning, "that was not true. He had no thought of marriage
then--far from it. He offered me the ring and I refused it, knowing
that he did so only to try my weakness. Also, he wanted to find out
what I knew of Majendie and the Atlantic Trust. When he left he sent it
back with this note. Read it."
McKenna took the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles, and held it up.