Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
LORD JOHN
IN NEW YORK
BY
C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
AUTHORS OF "THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR"
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1918_
BY THE SAME AUTHORS
The Lightning Conductor
The Princess Passes
My Friend the Chauffeur
Lady Betty Across the Water
The Car of Destiny
The Botor Chaperon
Set in Silver
Lord Loveland Discovers America
The Golden Silence
The Guests of Hercules
The Demon
The Wedding Day
The Princess Virginia
The Heather Moon
The Love Pirate
It Happened in Egypt
A Soldier of the Legion
The Shop Girl
The War Wedding
The Lightning Conductress
Secret History
The Cowboy Countess
This Woman to this Man
CONTENTS
EPISODE I
THE KEY
EPISODE II
THE GREY SISTERHOOD
EPISODE III
THE GIRL ON THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR
EPISODE IV
THE DEATH TRYST
EPISODE V
THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT
EPISODE VI
THE CLUE IN THE AIR
EPISODE VII
THE WATCHING EYE
EPISODE VIII
THE HOUSE OF REVENGE
EPISODE IX
THE BELL BUOY
TO A CERTAIN KING
OF A CERTAIN CINEMA COMPANY
WHO PUT
"LORD JOHN IN NEW YORK"
ON THE SCREEN
LORD JOHN IN NEW YORK
EPISODE I
THE KEY
"More letters and flowers for you, Lord John," said my nurse.
Not that I needed a nurse; and, above all things, I needed no more
letters or flowers. The waste-paper basket was full. The room smelt
like a perfume factory. The mantelpiece and all other receptacles
having an army of occupation, vases and bowls were mobilising on the
floor. This would, of course, not be tolerated in hospital; but I was
off the sick list, recovering in a private convalescent home. I was
fed up with being a wounded hero; the fragrance of too many flowers,
and the kindness of too many ladies, was sapping and mining my brain
power; consequently, I could invent no excuse for escape.
The nurse came in, put down the lilies, and gave me three letters.
My heart beat, for I was expecting a note from a woman to whom somehow
or other I was almost engaged, and to whom I didn't in the least wish
to be engaged. She would not have looked at me before the war, when I
was only a younger brother of the Marquis of Haslemere--and the author
of a successful detective story called _The Key_. Now, however; simply
because I'd dropped a few bombs from a monoplane on to a Zeppelin
hangar in Belgium, had been wounded in one arm and two legs, and
through sheer instinct of self-preservation had contrived to escape, I
was a toy worth playing with. She wanted to play with me. All the
women I knew, not busy with better toys, wanted to play with me. My
brother Haslemere, who had been ashamed of my extremely clever, rather
successful book, and the undoubted detective talent it showed, was
proud of me as a mere bomb-dropper. So, too, was my sister-in-law. I
was the principal object of attraction at the moment in Violet's zoo--I
mean her convalescent home. She had cried because men were not being
wounded fast enough to fill its expensively appointed rooms; I was
captured, therefore, to make up for deficiencies and shown off to
Violet's many friends, who were duly photographed bending beautifully
over me.
There was, as I had feared, a letter from Irene Anderson; there was
also--even worse--one from Mrs. Allendale. But the third letter was
from Carr Price. On the envelope was the address of the New York
theatre where the play he had dramatised from my book would shortly be
produced. He had come to England a million years ago, before the war,
to consult me about his work, which would have been brought out in
London if the war had not upset our manager's plans. I like Carr
Price, who is as much poet as playwright; a charming, sensitive,
nervous, wonderful fellow. I gave his letter precedence.
"DEAR LORD JOHN," he began, and I judged from the scrawl that he wrote
in agitation--"for goodness' sake, what have you done to Roger Odell
that he should have a grouch on you? It must have been something
pretty bad. I wish to Heaven you'd given me the tip last summer that
you'd made an enemy of him. Roger Odell, of all men in America! I
suppose the brother of a marquis can stand on his own feet in his own
country, but even if his brother's an archangel his feet are apt to get
cold in New York if Roger Odell turns the heat off.
"The facts--as I've just heard from Julius Felborn--are these.
Yesterday Odell sent for Julius, who went like a bird, for he and Odell
are friends. Odell's money and influence put Julius where he is now,
as a manager, up at the top, though still young. What was Julius's
horror, however, when Odell blurted out a warning not to produce any
play dramatised from a book of yours, because he--Odell--would do his
best to ruin it! Julius asked what the dickens he meant. Odell
wouldn't explain. All he'd say was, that he'd be sorry to hurt Julius
and had nothing against me, but _The Key_ would get no chance in New
York or any old town in the United States where Roger Odell had a
finger in the pie.
"Well, you must have heard enough about Odell to know what such a
threat amounts to. There are mighty few pies he hasn't got a finger
in. Not that he's a man who threatens as a rule. He's _made_ a good
many men. I never heard of his _breaking_ one. But when he decides to
do a thing, he does it. Julius is in a blue funk. He's not a coward,
but even if he felt strong enough to fight Odell's newspapers and other
influence, he says it would be an act of 'base ingratitude' to do so,
as he'd be 'walking on his uppers' now but for Odell's help, tiding
over rough places in the past. Julius took all night to reflect, and
rang me up this morning. I'm writing in his office at the theatre now,
after our interview. He says Odell would have put him wise before, but
he saw the pars (in his own papers!) for the first time yesterday
morning on the way back from the West Indies, where he'd been on a
short business trip. Queer place for such a man to go on a business
trip! But the whole thing is dashed queer. Now he's off again like a
whirlwind to England for _another_ 'short business trip,' so he told
Julius. But J. let drop one little item of information about a woman,
or rather a girl. _Can_ that be where _you_ come in on this? _Have
you taken this girl away_? Anyhow, whatever you've done, the
consequences seem likely to be serious. Julius is inclined to call a
halt, bribe, wheedle or bluster the star into throwing up his part at
the first rehearsal, by way of an excuse, and to put on Chumley Reed's
_Queen Sweetheart_, which he kept up his sleeve in case _The Key_
failed. But, of course, it _couldn't_ fail, unless it was burked. The
whole cast was wild over _The Key_. Julius himself was wild, and is
sick at having to turn it down. But Odell's too big for him. And I
guess O---- has offered to stand the racket for the loss of wasted
scenery, which has been begun on an elaborate scale. (Think of the
great casino act at Monte Carlo!) Unfortunately, I'm constituted so I
can't help seeing both sides of the shield and putting myself in
others' places. I'm sorry for Julius. But I'm twenty times sorrier
for Carr Price. For you, too, my dear fellow, of course. But I stand
to lose more than you do on this deal.
"I told you confidentially last June just what depends on the success
of _The Key_, and I've counted on that success as certain. So did
_she_. I wish to Heaven she weren't so conscientious--yet no, I love
her all the better for what she is. I shan't ask her to break the
promise she gave her father, who, you may remember, is Governor of my
own State, not to be engaged definitely till I've made good. But if
I'm to have even my _chance_ to make good snatched away, it's hard
lines. I wish to the Lord my dear girl weren't such a howling swell,
with such an important parent! No use hustling around to other
managers. Your book went like hot cakes here. So would your play, but
no man will pit himself against Roger Odell, if Odell means fighting.
And there's no doubt he does mean it--unless you can undo whatever the
fool thing is you've done.
"Probably this letter will go to England in the same ship with Odell.
If you're well enough by the time it reaches you, to crawl about, can't
you see him? I've told Felborn that when you set your wits to work
you're as much of a wonder as your Prime Minister in _The Key_. I've
worked him up to some sort of superstitious belief in you. The next
thing is, to make him merely _put off_ the rehearsal on some pretext,
and do nothing one way or the other till I get a cable. I shan't sleep
or eat till I hear whether there's any hope of your straightening
things with Odell.--Yours, C.P.".
"Straightening things with Odell!" That might have been simple, if
things had ever been crooked with Odell. But I had never met, I had
never seen him. All I knew was what I had read, and vaguely heard from
Americans: that Roger Odell was a millionaire, still a young man, a
popular fellow who had made most of his money out of mines and had
bought up an incredible number of newspapers in order to make his power
felt in the world. But what grudge had he against me? How did he know
that I existed? I decided that I owed it to myself as an expert even
more than to Price and his girl, who was a "governor's daughter," to
turn on the searchlight.
It was nearly my time for an outing. Lady Emily Boynton was coming in
about an hour to collect me in her car, take me to the park and there
let me try a combination of legs and crutches. But in my room was a
telephone. In general I cursed the noisy thing. To-day I blessed it.
I 'phoned to the doctor that, instead of his coming to me, I should
prefer to call on him, explaining my reason when we met. Next I rang
up Lady Emily to say that I was going to Harley Street. She mustn't
trouble to send, as I was ordering a taxi in a hurry. And lest she
should disobey, I hobbled off before her car could arrive--my first
independent expedition since I had been interned by Violet.
I hoped that Roger Odell might be caught at some hotel in London, and
resolved not to stop going till I found him. I began at the Savoy, and
it seemed that luck was with me when I learned that he had arrived the
night before. He had gone out, however, directly after breakfast,
leaving no word as to his return. This was a blow, especially as it
appeared that he had hired a powerful automobile; and even American
millionaires do not hire powerful automobiles to run about town.
They take taxis.
I gave myself a minute's reflection, and decided that it would be
tempting Providence to intern myself again before seeing Odell, or else
definitely failing to see him. I refused to leave my name, saying that
I would call later; and on the way to keep my Harley Street appointment
stopped my taxi at a post office. Thence I sent a cable to Carr Price--
"Count on me to make everything right with Odell. Postpone rehearsals
if necessary, but assure Felborn he can safely prepare production.
Will wire further details.--JOHN HASLE."
Perhaps Price and Felborn would have considered this assurance
premature had they known the little I possessed to go upon. But I had
confidence in myself, and felt justified in rushing off a cheerful
message. Delay and uncertainty were the two fatal obstacles to our
scheme. It seemed fair to presume that, as I've never met nor harmed
Odell, his objection to me must be founded on some misunderstanding
which a few frank words ought to clear up. All I had to do was to see
him; and I _would_ see him if I had to camp at his door for a week.
Having got off my cable I called oh the doctor, explaining to him, as
man to man, that I was being killed with kindness, buried under flowers
and jellies, as Tarpeia was buried under shields and bracelets. "I
must get out from under," I said, "or I shall fade like a flower or
dissolve into a jelly myself. Can't you save me?"
"I thought you were enjoying life," he replied. "You're well enough,
as a matter of fact, to do almost anything except go back to the front.
Your legs won't run to that, my boy, for the next six months at least.
If you're such an ungrateful beggar that you want to leave Lady
Haslemere's paradise and all its lovely houris, save yourself. Don't
put the responsibility on me."
"Coward!" I said. (I would have hissed it, but, except in novels, it
is physically impossible to hiss the word "coward.")
"The same to you," he retorted. "Get someone to send you on some
mission and I'll back you up. I'll certify that you're strong enough
to undertake it, if it doesn't depend on your legs, and is not too
strenuous."
"I may need to run over to America," it suddenly occurred to me to say,
as if by inspiration. "I should have to depend on brains, not legs.
Would New York be too strenuous?"
"I hear they're pretty strenuous over there, but--well----"
"You don't know what I go through every day at that confounded home for
milksops when your back is turned," I pleaded, as he hesitated. That
settled it. We both laughed, and I knew he'd see me through. Five
minutes before nothing had been further from my mind than a trip to New
York; but now I felt that it had been my secret intention from the
first. It was strongly impressed upon me that I should have to go.
Why, I could not tell. But the thing would happen.
It was two o'clock and luncheon time when I got back to the Savoy, but
Odell had not returned. I wired (I would not 'phone lest I should be
unearthed like a fox from his hole) to the convalescent home, saying
that all was well and I had the doctor's authority to stop out as long
as I liked. I then ate a substantial meal and inquired again at the
desk. No Odell. I said I would wait. Would they kindly let me know,
in the reading-room, when Mr. Odell arrived? I being wounded and in
khaki, they waived suspicion of a nameless caller. I was given the
freedom of the Savoy, and I waited. I waited three hours, and read all
the magazines and papers. Then I wandered into the foyer and ordered
tea. While I was having it, up trotted a sympathetic clerk with a
flurried manner to inform me that Mr. Odell was not coming back at all.
A telegram had just been received, saying that important business
called him home at once. He was on his way by automobile to Liverpool,
whence he would sail next morning on the _Monarchic_. His luggage was
to be forwarded by messenger in time to go on board the ship.
For a few seconds I felt as if what remained of my tea had been flung
in my face, scalding hot. But by the time I'd thanked my informant,
paid my waiter and picked up my crutches, I knew why I had had that
presentiment. I taxied to Cook's and learned that, owing to the war, I
could get a cabin on any ship I liked. From Cook's to the doctor's;
found him going out, dragged him home with me, and utilised his
services in wrestling with the matron and nurses. "The play of my book
is being produced in New York, and I must be there, dead or alive," I
explained. This seemed to them important, even unanswerable. It would
not to my sister-in-law. But she was having influenza at home, and I
sneaked off before she knew (having got leave from the War Office),
sending her a grateful, regretful telegram from Liverpool.
Even the amateur sleuth doesn't let a ship carry him away to sea
without making sure that his quarry is on board. Roger Odell's name
was not on the passenger list, but neither was mine; we were late
comers. Nevertheless, I knew he was certain to have a good cabin, and
I inquired casually of a steward on the promenade deck whether he had
"Seen Mr. Odell yet?" He fell into my trap and answered that he had
not, but his "mate" would be looking after the gentleman who was in the
bridal suite.
I pricked up my ears, remembering that, according to Carr Price, there
was a girl in the case. Something unexpected had happened to upset
Odell's plans in England. Could he be running off with anybody's wife
or daughter?
"I didn't know that Mr. Odell was on his honeymoon," I ventured as a
feeler.
The steward looked nonplussed, then grinned. "Oh, you're thinking of
the bridal suite, sir!" he patronised my ignorance. "There's nothing
in _that_. Probably the gentleman wired for the best there was. He's
alone, sir. Do you wish to send word to him? I can fetch my mate----"
I broke in with thanks, saying that I would see Mr. Odell later. No
doubt I would do so; but how I should recognise him was the question.
Meanwhile, I limped about the deck, hoping to come across a chair
labelled "Odell," and vainly searching I met a deck-steward. He took
pity on my lameness, and offered to get me a chair at once. "Where
would you like to sit, sir?"
I wanted to say, "Put me next to Mr. Roger Odell," but that was too
crude a means towards the end. I looked around, hesitating and
hoping--in a way I have which sometimes works well--for an inspiration,
and my wandering eyes arrived at a girl. Then they ceased to wander.
She was extraordinarily pretty, and therefore more important than
twenty Roger Odells. She was just settling into her deck-chair. To
the right was another chair, with a rug and a pillow on it. To the
left was an unfilled space.
"There's room over there," I said. "It seems a well-sheltered place."
"It is, sir," replied the steward. Without allowing an eye to twinkle,
he solemnly plumped down my chair at the left of the girl, not too
near, yet not too far distant. She glanced up, as if faintly annoyed
at being given a neighbour, but seeing my crutches, melted and gave me
a brief yet angelic look of sympathy. If she had been a nurse in my
sister-in-law's home I should never have left it. For she was one of
those girls who, if there were only half a dozen men remaining in the
world at the end of the war, would be certain to receive proposals from
at least five. She was the type of the Eternal Feminine, the woman of
our dreams, the face in the sunset and moonbeams. Perhaps you have
seen such a face in real life--just once.
The girl had on a small squirrel toque and a long squirrel coat. She
was wrapped in a squirrel rug to match. She had reddish-brown hair.
All the girls who can take the last men in the world away from all the
other women have more or less of that red glint in their hair. Yet she
seemed far from anxious to take the man who came striding along the
deck and stopped in front of her as the ship got under way.
What she did was to look up and cry out a horrified "Oh!" Her cheeks,
which had been pale, flamed red. She half threw off her fur rug, and
would have struggled out of her chair if the man had not appealed to
her mercy.
"Don't run away from me, Grace," he said, "after all these months."
The name "Grace" suited the girl, or rather expressed her. The man
stared with hungry eyes. I was sorry for him. Somehow, I seemed to
know how he felt. He had an American voice and looked like an
American--that good, strong type of American who can hold his own
anywhere: not tall, not short, not slim, not stout, not very dark, not
very fair; square-jawed, square-shouldered; aggressive-featured,
kind-eyed; one rebellious lock of brown hair falling over a white
forehead.
"But--I _have_ been running away from you all these months. I've been
doing nothing else. I could do nothing else," she reproached him.
They had both forgotten me. Besides, I was not obtrusively near.
"Don't I know you've been running away--to my sorrow?" he flung back at
her. "I heard of you in the West Indies. I went there to hunt you
down. You'd gone. I dashed home. You hadn't come back. I was
told--I won't say by whom--that you were in England. I ran over and
got on your track yesterday; flashed off to Bath in a fast auto;
reached there just as you'd left for Liverpool to sail on this ship.
So now I'm here."
She looked up at him, tears on her lashes. "Oh, Rod!" was all she
said. It did not need that name to tell me who he was, but eyes and
voice told me something more. She was not flirting with him. She was
not pretending to wish that he had not come. With all her heart and
soul she did wish it, yet--_she loved him_. I wondered if he knew
that, or if not how much he would give to learn it.
"You can't get away from me this time," he said, not truculently, but
pleadingly, as if he were afraid she might somehow slip out of his
hands. "We'll have five days and a half--I hope six--together. If I
can't persuade you in five days and a half----"
"You couldn't in five hundred years and a half! Rod, what do you
_think_ of me? Do you suppose I want you to _die_?"
"Do you suppose I'm _afraid_?"
"No. But I am--for you. Nothing on this earth can induce me to change
my mind. You only make us both miserable by keeping on. Oh, Rod, here
comes Aunt Marian! This is her chair."
Roger Odell glanced in the direction the girl's eyes gave him. I did
likewise. A woman was coming, a tall woman in brown. A generation ago
she would have been middle-aged; in our generation such women are
young. She looked about thirty-eight, and so I put her down as ten
years older. She was dusky olive, with a narrow face, banded black
hair, and a swaying throat: rather a beautiful Leonardo da Vinci sort
of woman.
Evidently she was as much astonished to see Odell as the girl had been,
but she had a different way of showing it. She did not seem to mind
his presence when she got over her surprise. She shook hands and let
him put her into her chair, tucking the brown fur rug around her body
and under her slim feet. I thought she seemed more Italian than
American. She was very agreeable to Odell, in a cool, detached way,
but when she inquired if he ought not to be going below to lunch, even
a man of his determination was obliged to take the hint. "We are
having something brought to us on deck," she explained. "Come back if
you like when you have finished."
My lameness gave me an excuse for troubling the deck steward, who
fetched me a plate of cold chicken at about the time when more
elaborately furnished trays were placed before the two ladies. They
had more to eat than I, but they finished sooner; at least, it was so
with the younger. There was no sea on, yet she left her luncheon
almost untouched, and after five minutes' playing with it went indoors.
No sooner had she got safely away than Odell came back to accept the
invitation given by "Aunt Marian," only to find it no longer worth his
acceptance. (Recalling her words, I realised that she had never
expected "Grace" to stay.) Odell asked for a chair, nevertheless, and
had it put next to hers, evidently meaning to annex the place
permanently. These were the right tactics, of course. Even I should
have adopted them; but they were opposed to a more subtle and deadly
strategy. "Grace" proceeded to prove that being on board the same ship
with her did not mean being in her society. She did not appear on deck
again. Odell was forced to realise that he had made the girl a
prisoner in her cabin.
That afternoon the list of passengers was given out, and I searched
eagerly for her name. I had not far down the alphabet to go. There
she was among the "C's"--"Miss Grace Callender." The name was an
electric shock; and seeing it I could guess but too easily why the girl
might love a man and run away from him.
Nobody who read the newspapers three years ago could have helped
knowing who Grace Callender was; and if they forgot, she would
certainly have been recalled to their minds a year and a half later.
I, at least, had not forgotten. I owed to the "Callender-Graham
Tragedy" one detail which had helped to make the success of my novel,
and had suggested its name, _The Key_. Miss Callender was (and is) an
American heiress, but England has its own reasons for being interested
in American heiresses. Therefore, at the time of the two great
sensational events in Grace Callender's life, London papers gave long
paragraphs to the story.
Her parents--cousins--were both killed in a motor accident in France
while she was a schoolgirl at home in charge of her aunt, a half-sister
of the father, Graham Callender. Both parents were rich, having, for
their lifetime, the use of an immense fortune, or rather the income
derived from it. The principal could not be touched by them, but
passed to their only child. This arrangement had come about through a
family quarrel in the previous generation; but, as Graham Callender and
his wife were of opinion that injustice had been done, they wished
their daughter to atone for it by her marriage. Half the money ought
rightly to have gone to Philip Callender-Graham, a cousin who had been
disinherited in their favour. He had died poor, leaving a couple of
sons a few years older than Grace. The two had been educated at Graham
Callender's expense, and had spent their holidays at his houses in town
and country. Grace had grown up to look upon both almost as brothers,
though they were only her second cousins. She was fond of the pair--a
little fonder of Perry, the elder, than of his younger brother Ned. As
for the brothers themselves, it appeared later that both were in love
with Grace; but Ned kept his secret and let Perry win the prize. The
engagement of Grace Callender and Perry Callender-Graham was announced
on the girl's nineteenth birthday. One night a few months later, and
just one week before the day fixed for the wedding, Perry
Callender-Graham was found dead in a quiet side street near Riverside
Drive.
There were no marks of violence on his body, and apparently he had not
been robbed. In his pockets were several letters which could have no
bearing on the cause of his death, an empty envelope, a sum of money, a
jewel-case containing a diamond pendant, probably intended as a gift
for his fiancee, and two keys which seemed to be new. Both were
latchkeys: one rather large and long, looking as if it might belong to
the front door of a house; the other was small, not unlike the key to
the door of the dead man's flat. Neither fitted any door of the
private hotel in which he lived, however, and consequently suggested
mystery. But as three specialists certified death by natural causes,
the police came to regard the keys as of no importance. The doctors
testified to a condition known as "status lymphaticus," which cannot be
diagnosed during life, but which may cause a slight shock to be fatal.
It was thought that Callender-Graham--whose body lay close to a street
crossing--might have started back to save himself from being run over
by a swift automobile suddenly turning the corner, and in the shock of
falling have died of heart failure.
Grace Callender was grieved and distressed, but not prostrated with
sorrow, as she would have been over the loss of an adored lover.
Everyone who knew her knew that she had been going to marry her cousin
not because she was in love, but in order to give him the fortune
wrongfully diverted from his father. In these peculiar circumstances,
many people prophesied the thing which happened a year later: her
engagement to Ned Callender-Graham, through whom the restitution could
equally well be made. He seemed to be a popular fellow, even better
liked in general than his dreamy, poetical brother; and as his friends
guessed that he had unselfishly stood in the background for Perry's
sake, all were pleased with his good fortune. The engagement went on
for six months; and then a week before the wedding was to take place,
Ned Callender-Graham was found dead in the same street and almost on
the same spot where his brother had fallen a year and a half before.
This extraordinary coincidence was rendered even more remarkable by the
fact that nearly every detail of the first tragedy was repeated in the
second. Not only had the brothers met their death in the same street,
and almost on the eve of marriage with the same girl, but, according to
doctors' evidence, they had died in the same way and at practically the
same hour. Ned, like Perry, was afflicted with status lymphaticus.
There was no trace of violence on his body. He had not been robbed,
for his pockets were full of money. He carried his brother's watch
which Perry's will had left to him--the watch which Perry had worn on
the night of his death--and two or three letters, together with an
empty envelope. Stranger than all, perhaps, he had in his possession
two new latchkeys--duplicates of the keys found in his dead brother's
pocket.
This time, owing to the almost miraculous resemblance between the
cases, foul play was suspected. But it seemed that the brothers had no
enemies and, so far as could be learned, no serious rivals with Miss
Callender. The girl and her aunt clung to the belief that Perry and
Ned had died natural deaths, and that the ghastly coincidence was no
more than a coincidence. Miss Marian Callender's theory was that Ned
had fallen a victim to his love for his brother, a too sensitive
conviction of guilt in taking Perry's place, and an unhappy
superstition which he had confided to her--though, naturally, not to
her niece. He believed himself to be haunted by his brother's spirit,
which influenced him to do things he did not wish. He said one day
that he doubted if Perry would ever let him marry Grace, but would
contrive to break off the engagement in some way, even if all went well
until the last moment. Miss Marian Callender suggested that the
apparently mysterious keys were the same keys which Perry had
possessed, they having been given, with other souvenirs of the dead
man, to his brother; that it was characteristic of Ned to keep them by
him, as well as the watch, in a kind of remorseful loyalty to the
brother he had superseded; and that the same half-affectionate,
half-fearful superstition had led him that night into the street where
Perry had fallen. Once there--at an hour the same as that of Perry's
death a week before his appointed marriage--in all probability Ned had
imagined himself confronted by his brother's accusing ghost. The two
were known to be temperamentally as well as physically alike, though
Ned was undoubtedly stronger physically. It was not strange if Perry
had a peculiar weakness of the heart that Ned should have the same; and
the shock of a fancied meeting with Perry's spirit at such a time and
such a place might easily have been too great for a man already at high
nervous tension. Others than Miss Marian Callender talked freely with
reporters and detectives, repeating her story that Ned Callender-Graham
had felt oppressed with a sense of guilt, that he had worried himself
into an emotional state which he had tried to hide, and that he had
attended spiritualistic seances. All this, together with the fact that
there was no evidence of murder, caused the second verdict to be the
same as the first. But Grace Callender found herself so stared at and
pointed at, and gossiped about wherever she went, that her life became
a burden. She knew that terrible nicknames were fastened upon her,
that she was called "Belladonna" and "The Poison Flower," as if her
promise to marry had brought death upon her lovers. She heard women
whispering behind her back, "If I were a man I simply shouldn't _dare_
be engaged to her in spite of her millions"; and what she did not hear
she imagined. She in her turn grew superstitious, or so it was said.
She began to feel that there must be something fatal about her; that a
curse which the father of Perry and Ned was said to have pronounced on
her parents in his first fury at losing a fortune had been visited on
her. Though she had twice come near her wedding she had never yet
deeply loved a man; nevertheless, because of the "curse" and in fear of
it, she resolved to give up all hope of happiness in love, never to
marry, nor even engage herself again.
All this I remembered distinctly, not alone because my memory is a
blotting-pad for such cases, but because the story had captured my
imagination, and because I had used the detail of the keys for my own
book, only substituting one for two.
"By Jove!" I said. "The key! Now, can that be the clue to Roger
Odell's veto?"
I set myself deliberately to think the matter over from this new point
of view. Evidently he was desperately in love with Grace Callender.
Could the mere fact that I had named a book of mine _The Key_, and
turned my plot upon a mysterious key found in a dead man's pocket,
have inspired Odell with revengeful rage? Except for the title, and
the key in the pocket, there was nothing in my book or in Carr Price's
play which bore even the vaguest likeness to the Callender-Graham
tragedy. I didn't see how the most loyal lover could feel that I had
"butted in" upon what to him was sacred; still, the new idea had some
substance in it. Not only had I hit on a possible clue to the man's
enmity, but into my mind from another direction suddenly flashed so
astounding a ray of light that I was almost blinded. I could hardly
wait to try weapons with Odell.
How to get at him and hold him, so to speak, at my mercy was the next
difficulty. I had to think that out too, and I did it by process of
deduction. For reasons of my own, I had not yet secured a seat in the
dining-saloon, but now I limped down below with my inspiration. Others
had made their arrangements and gone, but I managed to catch the head
steward.
"I suppose you're assigning seats for people who want to sit alone at
these small tables?" I began.
"We have assigned only one such, sir," he cautiously admitted. "All
we're able to give."
"Why all?" I wanted to know. "There are plenty of tables and only a
few passengers."
"Yes, sir, that's true. But also, there's only a few stewards. We
haven't enough to spare for scattering around."
"Is Mr. Roger Odell the one fortunate person to whom you've been able
to give a table to himself?" I threw out this question like a lasso.
"Why, yes, sir, as a matter of fact he is," the caught steward
confessed. "We've several tables with parties of two or three, but for
one alone----"
"I may wish to be alone just as much as Mr. Odell does," I argued.
"But the next best thing to being alone is to sit with another man who
wants to be alone. Then there's no fear of too much conversation. Put
me at Mr. Odell's table." As I spoke I slipped a five-pound note into
a surprised but unresisting hand. (I had to bribe high to outbribe a
millionaire.) Even as his fingers closed mechanically on the paper the
steward's tongue began to stammer, "I--I'm afraid he may object, sir."
"He may at first; but not after three minutes. All I ask is to be put
at the table when Mr. Odell is seated, and without his knowing
beforehand that he's obliged to have a companion. If he still objects
after three minutes of my company I've had my money's worth. I'll
leave him in possession of the table; you can put me where you like."
It was a bargain. The steward pointed out the table selected by Odell.
I was dressed and ready for dinner before the bugle sounded, but did
not go down until I thought that most of the passengers would be
already seated. Hovering in the doorway, I saw that Odell was already
in his place. Then I made straight for the table and sat down in the
chair opposite his.
He had been gloomily eating his soup, and looked up from it with a
glare.
"I think you must be making a mistake," he remarked with an effort at
civility. "I asked to be alone."
"So did I," I said.
"But not at this table."
"At this very table."
"Then I'll leave it to you."
"Please don't," I said. "If one of us goes, I'll be the one, as I'm
the last comer. But will you meanwhile be kind enough to answer two
easy questions? First, are you Mr. Roger Odell of New York?"
"Yes, to question number one. If the next's as easy, perhaps I'll
answer that too."
(He looked faintly amused. The space between his straight black
eyebrows was growing visible again. I had still two minutes and a half
out of the three.)
"Thank you," I said. "The next should be even easier. Why have you
warned Julius Felborn that if he brings out Carr Price's play, _The
Key_, you'll quash it?"
The man's face changed. From half-amused boredom it expressed white
rage. "You are that fellow John Hasle," he said. His voice was low
and in control, but his look was vitriolic. All the same, I liked him.
He was a man, and I had a man's chance with him.
"Yes, I'm that fellow John Hasle. Let me introduce myself," I replied.
"You've hunted me down. You said you wanted to sit alone. That was
not true."
"I said, 'I asked to sit alone.' I wanted to sit with you. It was my
way of getting to do it. I took not only the table and the
opportunity, but my ticket to New York with the same object. I think I
have the right to inquire what's your motive for wishing to injure me
and to expect that you'll answer. If you think differently, I'll get
up at once and go. But I believe I shall have succeeded in spoiling
your appetite."
"You're a cool hand," he said, with no softening of the eyes which gave
me look for look. "Sit still. If you get up and hobble away on those
crutches you'll have the whole room gaping at us." (Not for the first
time were my crutches a blessing in disguise:) "Whether you've a right
to question me or not, I don't mind telling you that I think Americans
are better at detective literature than any Englishman, speaking
generally, and a whole lot better than John Hasle, speaking
particularly."
"I think," said I, "that I shall be able to prove my detective powers
to you later on, speaking very particularly."
"Ah, indeed! In what way?"
"'Later on' was what I said."
"All right. I'm in no hurry."
"I am. Because several matters have got to be settled before I can
progress much further. For one thing, you haven't answered my second
question. Your opinion of my book or my British limitations as a
detective has nothing to do with your attitude toward the play."
"If you know so much, perhaps you know more."
"Frankly, I don't. I ask you to tell me the rest as frankly."
"Very well. Perhaps the medicine will go to the spot quicker if you
understand what it's for. It sounds sort of melodramatic, and maybe it
is so; but my wish--my intention--to strangle your play at birth, or
crush it afterwards, has revenge for its motive."
"Revenge for what?"
"For the cruel act of a member of your family to a member of mine."
"There's only one other member of my family beside myself--my brother."
"Exactly! That's the man. There's only one other member of _my_
family beside myself. That's my adopted sister. I care more for her
than anyone else in the world--except one. Through your brother, my
sister's health and her hopes are both ruined. If you didn't know
before, you know now what you're up against."
"I assure you I didn't know," I said. "This is the last thing that
occurred to me. I admit I thought of something else----"
"Oh, is there something else? It's not needed. Still, you may as well
out with it, so I can put another black mark against the name."
"I'll tell you, when I'm ready to talk of the detective test I spoke
of. But about my brother injuring your adopted sister. There must be
some mistake----"
"Not on your life, if you're Lord John Hasle and your brother's the
Marquis of Haslemere."
"I can't deny that."
"It's a pity!"
"So _he_ often says. He's not proud of me as an author. He'd be still
less proud of me on the stage. You'll be doing him a real service if
you prevent _The Key_ from being produced, and so keep the family name
out of the papers in connection with the theatre."
"Oh, will I?" Odell echoed. He looked rather blank for a moment; then
gathered himself and his black eyebrows together. "You're mighty
intelligent, aren't you?" he sneered.
"I've always thought so. I'm glad you agree. But there's no use our
rotting on like this. We're wasting time. Will you tell me what
Haslemere can possibly have done?"
"Yes! What he positively _did_ do!" the man broke out fiercely, then
controlled himself and glanced quickly round the room as if looking for
someone. But not even Miss Marian Callender had come into the saloon.
Both she and her niece must have been dining in their own suite. "Lord
Haslemere wrote a letter to your British Lord Chamberlain, or whatever
you call his High Mightiness, and caused him to have my sister's
presentation at Court cancelled three days before it should have come
off in May last year."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "What an extraordinary thing to do!"
"What a monstrous, what a beastly thing to do! A defenceless girl. A
beautiful girl. One of the best on earth. It broke her heart--the
humiliation of it, and the shock. She wasn't very strong, and she'd
been looking forward to making her bow to your Royalties. Lord knows
why she should have cared so much. But she did. She loved England.
She has English blood in her veins. She had a sort of loyal feeling to
your King and Queen. That is what she got for it. She's never been
the same since, and I doubt if she ever will be. All her friends knew
she was going to be presented--and then she wasn't. The damned story
leaked out somehow, and has been going the rounds ever since. That's
why, if your play is produced in New York, I shall see it gets what it
deserves--or, anyway, what your family deserves."
"How do you know Haslemere wrote that letter?" I asked.
"My sister got it from a woman who was to present her--a friend of Lord
Haslemere's wife. She'd seen the letter."
"Then she must have seen some reason alleged."
"She did. That to his certain knowledge Miss Madeleine Odell wasn't a
proper person to be introduced to their Majesties. Maida not a proper
person! She's a saint."
"What lie about her could have been told to my brother?"
"I know what lie was told, because it has been told to others. It's
blighted her life for years, go where she would on our side of the
water. She hoped it wouldn't have got so far as England; and if it
hadn't, she'd have settled down in that country to enjoy a little
peace. But there it was, like a snake in the grass! The thing I'd
give my head to find out is, _who spread the lie_?"
"You don't know, then?"
"No, I don't. It's a black mystery."
"Better let me use my despised detective talents to solve it."
"Oh, _that's_ what you've been working up to, is it?"
"No. How could it be, as I hadn't heard the story when I began to
work? But I'm willing to take it on as an extra by and by. My brother
and I are scarcely friends. I'm not responsible for his act, and
whatever the motive, I don't excuse it. Why go out of his way to hurt
a woman? Yet I may be able to atone."
"Never!"
"Never's a long word. But just here the time has come to mention the
two things I promised to tell you 'later on.' I thought what you had
against me might be the name and the plot of my book, dramatised by
Carr Price."
"What the devil is the name or plot of your play to me?"
"Ah, that was what I wanted to know. It occurred to me as possible
that you resented the incident of a key being found in a dead man's
pocket, and the title of the book and play which might recall a certain
double tragedy to the public mind."
The blood rushed to the man's face. He understood instantly, and did
not choose to pretend ignorance. "How dare you presume that I have a
right to resent any such reference?" he challenged me.
"I dare, because of the second of the two things I reserved to tell you
later: the wish I have to prove my detective powers for your benefit.
I couldn't help seeing to-day your meeting on deck with Miss Callender.
I couldn't help hearing a few words. Because I play at being a
detective I keep my wits about me. Also I have a good memory for names
and stories connected with them. Mr. Odell, will you separate me in
your mind from my brother and give Carr Price's play a chance for its
life if I tell you who killed Perry and Ned Callender-Graham, and prove
to Miss Callender that there's no reason why she need be afraid to give
her love to any man?"
Odell stared as if he thought I had gone mad or he was dreaming.
"Who _killed_ Perry and Ned Graham?" he repeated. "No one killed them."
"You are wrong," I said quietly.
"That's your opinion!" he blurted out.
"That's my opinion. And if I'm right, if those two were murdered, and
if the murderer or murderers can be found, won't Miss Callender feel
she may safely marry a man she loves without delivering him up to
danger?"
"Yes," Odell admitted. "Great Heaven, _if_ you were right!"
"Supposing I am, and can prove it?"
"There's nothing on God's earth I wouldn't do for you."
"Well," I said, "I believe there's something in that opinion of mine.
Don't dream that now I am getting at this truth I would bury it even if
you did worse than crush my play. I'll go on, anyhow, but----"
"You say you are getting at the truth," he broke in. "What do you
think--what do you know? But how can you, a stranger, _know_ anything?"
"A stranger to you and those connected with the case, but not to the
case itself. You may thank that despised detective instinct of mine
for my keen interest in its details."
"If you thought you'd unearthed the clue to a mystery, why didn't you
advertise yourself by pointing it out to the police a year and a half
ago?"
"I certainly should if I'd got hold of it then, though not for the
motive you suggest, Mr. Odell. My publishers were giving me all the
publicity I wanted. As it happens, I picked up the clue in question
only--a short time ago."
"Only a few hours ago" were the words which all but slipped out. I bit
them back, however. My line with a keen business man like Roger Odell
was not to give away something for nothing. It was to sell--for a
price.
He tried to keep his countenance, but his eyes lit. I saw that my
hint, like a spark to gun-cotton, had set him aflame with curiosity.
Already, in spite of himself, he began to look on me less as an enemy
than an agent; perhaps (a wonderful "perhaps" he could not help
envisaging) a deliverer.
"For God's sake, speak out and say what you mean!" The appeal was
forced from him. He looked half ashamed of it.
"I can't do that--yet," I returned. "I might tell you my suspicions;
but that wouldn't be fair to myself, or you, or--anyone concerned. I
must land first. Once off the ship, twenty-four hours are all I shall
need to find--I won't say the '_missing_ link,' because I have reason
to think it will not be missing, but the link I can't touch this side
of New York. I will make a rendezvous with you at the end of that
time, either to tell you I've put two and two together with the link,
or else to confess that the ends of the chain can't be made to fit."
Odell stared at me hungrily.
"You want only twenty-four hours to do what the best police in the
world haven't done in a year and a half," he growled at me. "You think
something of yourself, don't you?"
"You see, I've known myself for a long time," I said modestly. "You've
only just been introduced to me, and were prejudiced to begin with.
About that rendezvous--do you consent to my appointing the place?"
"Yes," he agreed. "Your hotel?"
"No. In the manager's private office at the Felborn Theatre; the time,
twenty-four hours after we get away from the dock. That will be the
most convenient place for both of us in case of my success, for Julius
Felborn and Carr Price can be called in to fix a date for the first
rehearsal of _The Key_."
The man could not keep back a laugh. It was harsh and short; but it
was a score for me and he knew it. "The Felborn Theatre let it be," he
said grimly.