There was nothing for Odell to regret in the briefness of the voyage,
for Grace Callender remained in her cabin till he sent a message by her
aunt, promising not to try for a word or a look if she came on deck.
After that she appeared again, as if to show appreciation, and Odell
didn't abuse her confidence. He kept himself to the other side of the
deck; but there was no reason why I should give up my place near the
two ladies. After the first night's dinner _en tete-a-tete_, Odell and
I had no more meals together; consequently, the Misses Callender, aunt
and niece, were unaware of our acquaintanceship. They had no reason to
shun their lame neighbour, and my crutches gave me their sympathy, as
they have given me various other blessings. Instead of my picking up a
dropped book, as a man usually contrives to do if he yearns to know a
girl on shipboard, Grace Callender retrieved one for me. After that, I
was permitted, even encouraged, to draw my deck-chair closer to theirs
and "tell them things about the war." I noticed that the girl caught
eagerly, nervously, at any subject which could hold her attention for a
moment, even that of my book and Carr Price's play. I, having the
secret clue, guessed that she was for ever trying to escape from a
thought too engrossing. Her aunt, Miss Marian Callender, had the clue
also; and often I caught her long dark eyes--eyes like those of La
Gioconda--fixed with almost painful intentness on Grace. "She knows
that her niece is thinking about Odell," I told myself. Evidently she
approved the girl's decision to put him out of her life. If she had
been Odell's friend and sympathiser, a woman of her superior age and
strong personal charm (for she had a sort of hypnotic charm, like a
velvet-petalled flower with a penetrating perfume) could surely have
influenced an impressionable girl, especially one so devoted to her as
Grace Callender was.
It was nine o'clock on an April morning when we escaped from the
custom-house men and spun away from the White Star docks in a
glittering grey car. When I say "we," I refer to myself and the two
Misses Callender. They had befriended me to the extent of recommending
me to an hotel and offering to motor me to it; and I was malicious
enough to hope that Odell might see me going off with them. There was
little doubt in my mind that he did so, and none at all of what
feelings must have been roused by the sight. These would have been
still more poignant had he known that it was Grace who impulsively
invited me, Marian who merely followed with a polite echo. They lived
in a large old-fashioned house in Park Avenue, where the car dropped
the ladies and by their order took me on to the Hotel Belmont. There
Carr Price was waiting, for when--the day before our landing--the
Callenders had mentioned the Belmont I marconied him to meet me at the
hotel.
"Why did you wire 'Don't come to the dock?'" he asked almost
resentfully.
"Because I thought it might annoy Roger Odell if I dangled you under
his nose," I explained.
"Roger Odell's nose!" Price gasped. "Where--where----"
"Was it? On the _Monarchic_. And I didn't pull it; neither did he
pull mine. I even have hopes that the two features may come to terms.
To-morrow, at exactly this hour, you're due to know why. But meanwhile
I want you to promise me patience, blind faith and--unquestioning help.
There's no time to waste over it, so here goes! Who's the most
influential man you know in New York?"
"George Gould," he said.
"Pooh! a mere millionaire. He's no use to me. Do you know anyone in
the police force--high enough up to do you a favour?"
Price pondered for an instant. "I know Sam Yelverton. Is that name
familiar to you?"
"It is. Think we'll find him in now if you take me to call?"
"If this is our lucky day we shall."
"Let's put it to the test. I've noticed that New York has taxis as
well as London."
"And you'll notice the difference when you've paid for one. But this
is on me."
The omen of luck was good, for we found our man at the police
head-quarters, and, true to his promise, Carr Price sat as still and
expressionless as an owl while I did the talking. I had been
introduced to the great Sam Yelverton by my own request as the author
of _The Key_, and it really was a stroke of luck that he had read and
liked it. He looked interested when I said that I'd got an idea for my
book from a _cause celebre_ in New York--"The Callender-Graham affair,"
I explained.
"Ah, the latchkeys in the dead men's pockets!" he caught me up.
"Exactly. Now it's a question of a play by Mr. Price, on the same
lines as my book and with the same title, soon, _very_ soon, to be
produced at the Felborn Theatre. It will be of the greatest assistance
to him and to me in working out an important detail if I can have Ned
Callender-Graham's latchkeys--anyhow, the smaller one--in my hands for
a few hours to-day. Indeed, I'm afraid we can't get much 'forrarder'
if you refuse."
(This was the literal truth, for, unless I could obtain the more
important of those two keys and do with it what I hoped to do, I should
be unable to "deliver the goods" to Roger Odell. I should stand with
him where I had stood before the "hold up" interview, and the play
would be pigeon-holed indefinitely. Price's eyes were starting from
his head, but he kept his tongue between his teeth.)
Mr. Yelverton seemed amused. "I guess I may be able to manage that,"
he said, "if one or both of those keys are still in our hands, as I
believe they are. If I do the trick for you I'll expect a box for the
play on the first night, eh?"
"It's a bargain, isn't it, Carr?" said I.
The dazed Price assented.
"Oh, and by the way, Mr. Yelverton"--I arrested the famous man as he
picked up the receiver of his desk telephone--"if the letters and the
empty envelopes found on the bodies of the two brothers are still among
your police archives, would it be possible for me to have a look at
them?"
Yelverton--a big man with a red face and the keenest eyes I ever saw,
deep set between cushiony lids--threw me a quick glance. "You do
remember the details of that case pretty well, Lord John!" he said.
"I'm an amateur follower in your famous footsteps," I reminded him. He
smiled, called up a number and began telephoning. I admired the clear
way in which he put what he wanted--or what I wanted--without wasting a
word. He asked not only for the keys, but for the whole dossier in the
double case of the Callender-Graham brothers. Then came a moment of
waiting in which my heart ticked like a clock; but I contrived to
answer Mr. Yelverton's mild questions about our weather on shipboard.
At last a sharp ring heralded an end of suspense.
"Sorry, Lord John," the big man began, taking the receiver from the
generous shell of his ear. "They're sending round the dossier, but our
chaps have got none of the Callender-Graham 'exhibits in their
possession--haven't had for nearly a year. I feared it was likely to
be so. You see, there was no proof that any crime had been committed
on either of the two brothers; in fact, the theory was against it.
When the police definitely dropped the case--or cases--the family was
entitled to all personal property of the deceased. Everything found on
the body of Ned Callender-Graham was handed over to the relatives by
their request, as had been done a few weeks after the elder brother's
death, even the letters and those empty envelopes you were intelligent
enough to single out for observation. We had done the same, naturally,
but, in every sense of the word"--he grinned--"there was nothing in
'em."
"The keys on Ned's body were handed over to the Misses Callender,
then?" I inquired, stiffening the muscles of my face to mask my
disappointment.
"Yes. Perhaps, as you remember so much, you recall the fact that the
first two keys were given to the relatives. Miss Marian Callender and
her niece believed that Ned had Perry's keys in his pocket, which would
mean there were but the two. The Callender ladies are the sole
surviving relatives, or, anyhow, the nearest ones. But I've saved my
bit of good news from head-quarters till the last. They 'phoned that
there are duplicate keys. I thought I recalled something of the sort.
Not sure but I suggested making them myself. That pretty millionairess
girl might get herself engaged a third time, and if there were any more
dead men found with latchkeys in their pockets, sample specimens might
be very handy for our fellows."
Sam Yelverton finished with a laugh; but I couldn't echo it. I thought
of Odell, of Grace Callender's lovely face and her young, spoilt life.
I remembered the cruel nicknames "Belladonna" and "Poison Flower." If
even the police prepared for a third tragedy, in case she thought again
of marriage, no wonder the poor girl refused the man she loved.
"Will duplicates do for you, or do I lose my stage-box?" the big man
asked.
I said aloud that I thought duplicates would answer my purpose, and
silently to myself I said that they must do so.
Ten minutes later a policeman of some rank (what rank I couldn't tell,
he being my first American specimen) brought in a parcel of
considerable size. It contained many affidavits concerning the
Callender-Graham tragedy; and on the top of these documents was a
small, neatly labelled packet containing two keys.
The larger was entirely commonplace; and even the smaller one was at
first glance a rather ordinary latchkey, of the Yale order. To an
experienced and observant eye, however, it was of curious workmanship.
"Not a Yale, you see," said Yelverton, taking a magnifying glass from a
small drawer of his tidy desk and passing it on to me. "What do you
make of the thing?"
"Foreign, isn't it?" I remarked carelessly.
"Yes, we thought so. German--or Italian. Both the brothers had
travelled abroad. On a Yale you would read the words 'Yale
paracentric,' and a number. There's neither name nor number on that."
He flung a gesture toward the key in my hand.
"May I take it away and keep it till to-morrow morning, to work out my
plot with?" I asked. "The big one I don't care about. I give you my
word I'll send this back in twenty-four--no, let's say twenty-five
hours. I have an engagement for the twenty-fourth hour."
"All right," replied Yelverton good-naturedly. "You might bring the
box-ticket with you. Ha, ha!"
"I will," I laughed. "And as to the dossier, may I sit somewhere out
of your way and glance through it in case there's anything we can work
up to strengthen the realism of our scenario? Of course, we'll
guarantee to use nothing that might recall the Callender-Graham case to
the public or dramatic critics."
"You can sit in the outer office and browse over the bundle till
lunch-time, if you like," said Yelverton. "There's a table there in a
quiet corner. I shall be off on business before you finish, I expect.
See you later--at the Felborn Theatre, your first night. Wish you
luck."
I thanked him and got up. Carr Price followed suit.
"Weren't you a bit premature mentioning the Felborn?" he reproached me
in the next room, beyond earshot of Mr. Yelverton's secretaries and
stenographers.
"No," I reassured him. "To-morrow, at this time or a little later,
you'll know why. Meanwhile, don't worry, but take my word--and a taxi
to the theatre. Tell Felborn I'm on the spot, and there's a truce
between Odell and me, an armistice of twenty-four"--I pulled out my
watch--"no, twenty-two and a half hours. Ask him to lend me his
private office to-morrow morning from nine till ten o'clock. After
that time you and he had better hold yourselves ready to be called in
to discuss dates."
"You're either the wonder child of the British Empire or its champion
fool," remarked Price somewhat waspishly, as he prepared to leave me
alone with the Callender-Graham dossier.
"You've got till to-morrow to make up your mind which," said I, sitting
down to my meal of manuscripts in order not to waste a minute out of
the twenty-two and a half hours which remained to me. It would not
have been wise to add that I didn't know which myself.
Many of the papers I passed over rapidly. Others gave me information
that I couldn't have got from Odell without a confession of ignorance,
or from the Misses Callender without impertinence. Among the latter
was one summarising much of the family history; and, profiting by some
smart detective's researches, I learned a good deal about Miss Grace
Callender and her almost equally interesting aunt.
Even before the girl reached the age of sixteen, it seemed, she had
begun to have offers of marriage. After her parents' death, when she
was not quite fifteen, she had lived for a while with Miss Marian
Callender at the house in Park Avenue left to her by her father. She
had been taught by French governesses, German governesses and English
governesses, but all had failed to prevent a kind of persecution by
young men fascinated with the child's beauty or her money. At last
Miss Callender senior had sent her niece to a boarding-school in the
country where the supervision was notoriously strict, and had herself
gone to Italy, her mother's native land, for a few months' visit.
Eight or nine years before this Marian Callender had fallen in love
with an Italian tenor, singing with enormous success in New York. The
lady's half-brother--Grace's father--had objected to the marriage, and
for that reason or some other the two had parted. Gossips said that
the singer, Paolo Tostini, had not cared enough for Marian Callender to
take her without a _dot_; and all she had came from her millionaire
half-brother. At Graham Callender's death Marian's friends were
surprised that she was left a yearly allowance (though a magnificently
generous one) only while she "continued unmarried and acted as Grace's
guardian." In the event of Grace's marriage, the girl was free to
continue half the same allowance to her aunt if she chose. This was
generally considered unjust to Marian, and the only excuse for the
arrangement seemed to be that Graham Callender feared Paolo Tostini
might come forward again if the woman he had jilted were left with a
fortune.
The police of New York had apparently thought it worth while to ferret
out further facts in connection with the singer, who had not again
returned to America. They learned that the once celebrated tenor had
lost his voice and had spent his money in extravagance, as many artists
do. He was living in comparative poverty with his father (a skilled
mechanician and inventor of a successful time lock for safes) and his
younger brother in Naples at the time of Miss Marian Callender's visit
to Italy, and Grace's school life. Although these facts were inquired
into only after some years had passed, and the two brothers
Callender-Graham had died, Marian's movements must have been easily
traced, for it was learned that she had openly visited the Tostinis at
their small villa between Posilipo and Naples. The family had also
called and dined at her hotel, where they were not unknown. After that
their circumstances had apparently improved, and it appeared not
improbable that Marian Callender had helped her late lover's people.
When she returned to New York it was to find that Grace was being
bombarded with love letters at school, and that the hotel in the
village near by had for its principal clients a crowd of young men
whose whole business in life was lying in wait for the heiress. In
consequence, Marian brought her niece back to the house in Park Avenue;
and soon after, before the girl had been allowed to come out in
society, Antonio, the younger brother of Paolo Tostini, arrived in New
York. His business was that of an analytical chemist. He had
first-rate recommendations, and was an extremely brilliant, as well as
singularly good-looking young man, some (who remembered the tenor)
thought even handsomer than Paolo. Antonio Tostini, thanks to his own
ability and the introductions he had from Miss Callender and others,
got on well both in business and society. No one was surprised, and no
one blamed her, when Marian Callender threw the clever young Italian
and Grace Callender together--except that the girl was young to make up
her mind, and her dead father had favoured a match with one of the
disinherited cousins.
From these rough notes, crudely classifying Antonio Tostini's courtship
of Grace Callender, I gathered that the young Italian had fallen
desperately in love with the girl. He had assured friends whom they
had in common that even if, to marry him, she were obliged to give up
her fortune, he would still think himself the happiest man on earth to
win her. Grace's aunt, who had tried to keep the girl out of other
men's way, evidently favoured her old love's brother. She chaperoned a
yachting party, of which Grace and Antonio were the most important
members, a party in which the Callender-Grahams were not included,
though they wished for invitations. This match-making effort on
Marion's part stifled all suspicion that she discouraged Grace from
marrying in order to retain a charming home, a large, certain income,
and all kinds of other luxuries for herself. She had taken Grace's
refusal of Antonio Tostini almost as hard as he had taken it himself.
She had even been ill for several weeks when for the third time Grace
had sent him away, and he returned in despair to Italy. It was not
long after this affair (the dossier informed me) that, in accordance
with her father's desire, the girl engaged herself to Perry
Callender-Graham, and Marian consented to the inevitable. Her
affection and support during the tragic experiences that followed had
given great comfort to Grace, and, so far as was known, Antonio Tostini
had had the good taste never to appear on the scene again.
Here were many details which I had been anxious, but not decently able,
to learn, as the Misses Callenders' shipboard friendship had confined
itself to lending me books, telling me what to do in New York, inviting
me to call, listening to talk about the war or the play, and allowing
me to snapshot them on deck.
Having looked through the dossier, I took my departure with the key.
It was only a duplicate, yet I couldn't rid myself of a queer,
superstitious feeling for the thing, as if it were offered to me by the
unseen hand of a dead man.
I taxied back to my hotel and mentioned to a clerk that I wanted to see
houses and flats in the direction of Riverside Drive. Could he direct
me to an agent who would have the letting of apartments in that
neighbourhood? If my foreign way of expressing myself amused him, he
hid his mirth and looked up in a big book the addresses of several
agents.
I had not cared to be too specific in my questions, but I chose the
address nearest the street I wanted, taxied there, found the agent, and
inquired if there were anything to be let. It was the street in which
Perry Callender-Graham and Ned, his brother, had met their death.
"I have been recommended to that particular street by an American
friend in England," I said. "He has told me that it's very quiet.
There are several apartment houses in it, are there not?
"Yes," replied a spruce young man who looked willing to let me half
residential New York. "But it's a favourite street; I'm afraid there's
nothing doing there now. As for houses, they're all owned, or have
been rented for many years. A little farther north or south----"
"Hold on," I pulled him back. "Somebody might be induced to let. My
friend was telling me about a charming flat--oh, apartment you call
it?--in that street which a friend of _his_ took---let me see, it must
have been three years ago or thereabouts. Anyhow, not later. He had
reason to believe I might get that very flat. Stupid of me! I can't
remember the number or name--whichever it was--of the house. I know
the flat was a furnished one, however; and if your agency----"
"Oh, if the apartment was furnished, and changed hands three years ago,
there's only one it _could_ be, if you're sure it's in that street?"
"I'm sure," I replied. I staked all on that sureness, though
logically---- But I would not let my mind wander to any other
deduction than the one to which, for better or worse, I pinned my faith.
"We had the letting of a furnished apartment in the Alhambra, as the
house is named, put into our hands three years ago on the 30th of last
month," said the youth, referring to a book. "To my certain knowledge
no other furnished one was to be had in the street at that time, and
there hasn't been since. Isn't likely to be either, so far as I can
see. That was the grand chance. German-American lady and gentleman,
Mr. and Mrs. Maurice Lowenstein, going unexpectedly to Europe, and glad
to get rid of their apartment to a good tenant at a nominal price."
"You found the good tenant?" I asked.
"We did, sir--or the tenant found us. Wanted a furnished apartment,
not too large or expensive, in a quiet street, quietness the great
consideration. Above all, the proprietors mustn't want to use the
place again for at least five years. That just fitted in, because our
clients were anxious to let for seven years; the husband had a business
opening in Hamburg. The new tenant took the place for that period; and
as there's a long time to run yet, I shouldn't have thought there was
much hope for you. However, your friend may have private information."
"Does the new tenant live there altogether?" I wanted to know.
"Only comes up from the country occasionally. Expensive fad, to rent a
New York apartment that way. But what's money _for_? Some people have
it to burn."
"Quite so," I admitted. "Have you ever met the tenant?"
"Only once--when the apartment was engaged; fixed up in one interview.
The rent comes through the post."
"It must be the apartment my friend talked about!" I exclaimed.
"Can't be any other. Is the name of your friend's friend Paulling?"
"Why, yes, I have the impression of something like that. By the way, I
might be able to find an old photograph, to make quite sure. Would you
recognise it?"
"I might--and I mightn't. Three years is a long time."
"Well, I'll do my best through some acquaintances," I finished. "If
we're speaking of the same person, you may be able to introduce me and
save the delay of communicating with my friend in England."
Each was flattering himself on his discretion, the whole catechism
having been gone through without the question on either side, "Is the
person a man or a woman?" Eventually we parted with the understanding
that I should return later if, after looking at the Alhambra from the
outside, I fancied it as much as I expected to do. And then I was to
bring the photograph with me.
So far so good. But the next steps were not so simple.
I stopped my taxi at the corner (not to advertise myself with
unnecessary noise) and limped the short distance which Perry
Callender-Graham and his brother Ned must have travelled on the secret
errands that led them to their death. The Alhambra was neither as
picturesque nor as imposing as its name suggested. It was just a
substantial brick building, six or seven storeys in height, with
facings of light-coloured stone, and large, cheerful windows. Luckily
for my lame leg, the entrance was but a step above the street level.
As I arrived the door was opened by a chocolate-brown negro in
chocolate-brown livery. He helped a smart nurse to pass out with a
baby in a white and gold chariot, and while he was thus engaged I
hobbled into the hall. A hasty glance at a name board on the wall
opposite gave me the list of occupants and the floor on which each
tenant lived. Evidently there were two flats to each storey. T.
Paulling had an apartment on the third, so also had G. Emmett. I had
to risk something, and so when the brown hall-porter turned to me
(which he did with embarrassing swiftness) I risked inquiring for Mr.
Emmett. I believed, I added, that he was expecting me.
"That's all right, sir. He's in," was the welcome reply, with a
compassionate grin at the crutches which guaranteed the harmlessness of
an unknown visitor. "I'll take you in the elevator."
Up we shot to the third floor, where I feared that my conductor might
insist on guiding me to the door of Mr. Emmett. Fortunately, however,
someone rang for the lift and the porter shot down again, directing me
to the right.
The instant he was out of sight I turned to the left, and, with the
police key in my hand, I stood before the door of T. Paulling.
My blood leaped through my veins, and the hand that tried the key in
the lock shook with the rush of it. I heard its pounding in my ears,
and through the murmurous sound the question whispered, "What if the
key won't fit? Down goes the whole theory. You'll have to confess
yourself a fool to Roger Odell."
As I blundered at the lock in haste and fear that someone might pass,
or that this might be one of T. Paulling's rare days at the flat, I was
aghast at my late self-confidence. Face to face with the test, it
seemed impossible that my-boast to Odell and Carr could succeed. I
felt callow and stupid, altogether incompetent. The key seemed too
large and the wrong shape, which meant that the mystery of the
brothers' death was closed to me, like the door. A voice not far off
made my nerves jump, and--the key slipped into the lock! From
somewhere above or below came the sound of voices, but I could not be
seen from the lift. Almost before I knew what I was doing or what had
happened, I was on the other side of the door, in a dark and stuffy
vestibule.
The sound of voices was suddenly stilled. It was as if with a single
step I had won my way into another world. I drew a long breath of
relief after the strain, for the silence and darkness said that the
tenant was not at home, and I might hope to have the flat to myself.