MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
The next morning Babbitts and I started out for the offices of Whitney &
Whitney. They’re far downtown, near Wall Street, way up in the top of a
skyscraper where the air is good even in summer. I’d been in them
before, and it was funny as we shot up in the elevator to think of those
first visits, when I was so scared of Mr. Whitney—"the chief," as Jack
Reddy calls him, and it’s his name all right.
We were shown right into his office, like we’d come with a
million-dollar lawsuit, and when he saw me he got up and held out his
big, white hand.
"Well, well, Molly! How’s the smartest girl in New York?" Then he looked
from me to Babbitts with a twinkle in his eye. "She’s looking fine, my
boy. You’ve taken good care of her." And then back to me, "Treats you
well, eh? If he _doesn’t_—remember—Whitney & Whitney’s services are
yours to command."
That’s the way he is, always glad to see you, always with his joke. But,
there’s another side to him—a sort of terrible, fierce quiet—I’ve seen
it and—Gee whiz! If he ever got after me the way I once saw him get
after a man he thought was guilty I’d crawl under the table and die
right there on the carpet. He isn’t a bit good-looking—a big, clumsy
sort of man, stoop-shouldered, and with a head of rough gray hair and
eyes set deep under bushy brows. When he questions you those eyes look
at you kind and pleasant—but, _forget it_! There’s not a thing they
don’t see. _You_ think your face is solid flesh and blood. It is to
most—but to Mr. Whitney it’s no more than a pane of glass.
His son George—he was there and Jack Reddy too—doesn’t favor his father.
He’s an awful stylish chap, with blond hair sleeked down on his skull,
and glasses set pert on the bridge of his nose. They say he’s smart, but
not as big as the old man, and he hasn’t got the same genial, easy way.
But he’s always very cordial to us, and even if he wasn’t his father’s
son and a close friend of Jack Reddy’s, I guess I’d like him anyhow.
They were very interested in what I had to say, but with Mr. Whitney
himself you never can guess what he thinks. He sits listening, slouched
down in his armchair, with his shirt bosom crumpled, like an old bear
ruminating—or hibernating is it?—in a hollow tree. When I was through he
stretched out his hand, took a cigar from a box on the table and said:
"Just call up the Azalea Woods Estates, George, and find out how long
Miss Whitehall expects to be there." Then as Mr. George left the room he
turned to me and said, "Want to make some money?"
I have a lot of money—ten thousand dollars, the reward they gave me
after the Hesketh Mystery was solved—so money doesn’t cut much ice with
me. But doing something for Mr. Whitney does, and I guessed right off he
had a little job for Molly Babbitts.
"I want to do whatever Whitney & Whitney asks," I said. "That’s a
privilege and you don’t get paid for privileges."
He burst out laughing and said:
"It’s easily seen half of you’s Irish, Molly. There is something you can
do for me, and whether you want it or not, you’ll be paid for your
services just as O’Mally, my own detective, is. Here it is. That
information you got from your little friend is valuable. As you were
sharp enough to see, Barker may try to get in touch with Miss Whitehall.
To my mind he’d be more inclined to try her office than her home where
there’s a mother and a servant to overhear and ask questions. What would
you think about going on the switchboard again?"
My old work, the one thing I _could_ do!
"Bully!" I cried out, forgetting my language in my excitement.
Mr. Whitney smiled:
"Then we’re agreed. As soon as I can arrange matters I’ll let you know,
probably this afternoon. I don’t now know just where we’ll put you but I
fancy in the Black Eagle’s own central. And I don’t need to say to both
of you that you’re to keep as silent as you did in the Hesketh case."
I smiled to myself at that. Mr. Whitney knew, no one better, that when
it comes to keeping mum a deaf mute hasn’t anything over me.
Just then Mr. George came back. He had got Tony Ford on the wire and
heard from him that Miss Whitehall might be in her offices some time
yet, as she was trying to sublet them.
Late that afternoon I had my instructions. The next morning I was to go
to the Black Eagle Building and begin work as a hello girl. If
questioned I was to answer that all I knew was Miss McCalmont, the old
girl, had been transferred and I was temporarily installed in her place.
It was my business to listen to every phone message that went into or
out from the Azalea Woods Estates. I would be at liberty to give my full
attention as almost every office had its own wire. Miss Whitehall had
had hers but it had been disconnected since her failure, and she was
only accessible through the building’s central. The work was so easy it
seemed a shame to take the money.
The first two days there was nothing doing and it was desperate dull.
The telephone office was off the main hall to one side of the elevator,
a bright little place on the street level. A good part of the time I sat
at the desk looking out at the people passing like shadows across the
ground glass of the windows. There were some calls for Miss Whitehall,
all business. These, no matter what they were, I listened to but got
nothing. Sometimes she answered, sometimes Tony Ford.
My desk was set so I could see out through the doorway into the hall,
and the first morning I was there I saw her pass. She looked better than
she had that night in her own apartment, but her face had a grave,
worried expression which you couldn’t be surprised at, seeing how things
stood with her.
It was the second evening and I was thinking of getting ready to go—the
building’s exchange closed at half-past six—when a tall fellow with a
swagger in his walk and his shoulders held back like he thought a lot of
his shape, stopped in the doorway and called out:
"Hello, Miss McCalmont. How goes the times?"
I looked up surprised and when he saw it wasn’t Miss McCalmont he looked
surprised too, raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes with an
exaggerated expression like he did it to make you laugh. He was a
fine-looking chap if size does it—over six feet and wide across the
chest—but his face, broad and flat, with cheeks too large for his
features, wasn’t the kind I admire. Also I noticed that the good-natured
look it had was contradicted by the gray, small eyes, sharp as a gimlet
and hard as a nail. I supposed he was some clerk from one of the offices
come to ask Miss McCalmont to dinner—they’re always doing that—and
answered careless, fingering at the plugs:
"Miss McCalmont’s been transferred."
"You don’t say," says he, leaning easy against the doorpost. "Since when
is that?"
"Since I came," I answered.
He grinned, showing teeth as white as split almonds, and his eyes over
the grin began to size me up, shrewd and curious. Taking him for some
fresh guy that Miss McCalmont was jollying along—they do that too—I paid
no attention to him, humming a tune and looking languid at my finger
nails. He wasn’t phazed a little bit, but making himself comfortable
against the doorpost, said:
"Going to stay on here?"
"The central’ll give you all the information you want," I answered and
wheeling round in my chair looked at the clock. "Ten minutes past six.
How slow the time goes when you’re dull."
He burst out laughing and he _did_ have a jolly, infectious kind of
laugh.
"Say," he said, "you’re a live one, aren’t you?"
[Illustration: _'Say,’ he said, ’you’re a live one, aren’t you?’_]
"I wouldn’t be long, if I had to listen to all the guys that ain’t got
anything better to do than block up doorways and try to be fresh."
He laughed louder and lolled up against the woodwork.
"I like you fine," said he. "Are you a permanency or just a fleeting
vision?"
"Talking of fleeting visions, ain’t it about your dinner hour?"
"You act to me as if this was your first job," was his answer, sort of
thoughtful.
Wouldn’t it make you smile! It did me—a small quiet smile all to myself.
He saw it, dropped his head to one side and said, as smooth and sweet as
molasses:
"What do they call you, little one?"
It was all I could do to keep from laughing, but I crumpled up my
forehead into a scowl and looked cross at him:
"What my name is you’ll never know and what yours is you needn’t tell me
for I’ve guessed. I’ve met members of your tribe before—it’s large and
prominent—the ancient and honorable order of jackasses."
He made me a low bow.
"So flattered at this speedy recognition," he says, airy and smiling.
"You may know the tribe, but not the individual. Permit me to introduce
myself—Anthony Ford."
I gave a start and turned it into a stretch. So _this_ was the wonderful
Tony Ford—a slick customer all right.
"That don’t convey anything to my mind," I answered. "A rose by any
other name still has its thorns."
"For more data—I’m the managing clerk of the Azalea Woods Estates, see
seventeenth floor, first door to your left."
"Ain’t I heard you were closed up there?"
"We are. This may be the last time you’ll ever see me, so look well at
me. Er—what did you say your name was?"
"One of the unemployed!" I said, falling back in my chair and rolling my
eyes up at the ceiling. "Hangs round my switchboard and hasn’t the price
of a dinner in his jeans."
"I was too hasty," said he; "this isn’t your first job."
"If your place is shut what are you doing here—not at this present
moment, the actions of fools are an old story to me—but in the
building?"
"Closing up the business. Did you think I was nosing round for an
unlocked door or an open safe? Does this fresh, innocent countenance
look like the mug of a burglar?" He grinned and thrusting a hand into
his pocket rattled the loose silver there. "Hear that? Has a sound like
a dinner, hasn’t it?"
_That_ made me mad—the vain fool thinking he could flirt with me as he
had with Iola. I slanted a side look at him and his broad shining face
with the eyes that didn’t match it gave me a feeling like I longed to
slap it good and hard. Gee, I’d have loved to feel my hand come _whang_
up against one of those fat cheeks! But it’s the curse of being a
perfect lady that you can’t hit when you feel like it—except with your
tongue.
"I ain’t known many burglars," I answered, "but now that I look at you
it _does_ come over me that you’ve a family resemblance to those few
I’ve met. Seeing which I’ll decline the honor of your invitation. Safety
first."
That riled him. He flushed up and a surly look passed over his face
making it ugly. Then he shrugged up his shoulders and leaned off the
doorpost, giving a hitch to the front of his coat.
"I generally like a dash of tabasco in mine," says he, "but when it
comes to the whole bottle spilled in the dish, it’s too hot. Just make a
note of that against our next meeting. I don’t like being disappointed
twice. Good evening."
And off he went, swaggering down the hall.
On the way home I wondered what Soapy’d say when I told him, but when he
came in Tony Ford went straight out of my head for at last there was
exciting news—Barker had been located in Philadelphia.
Two people had seen him there, one a man who knew him well, and saw him
the night before in a taxi, the other an Italian who kept a newsstand.
That same evening between eight and nine Barker had stopped at the stand
and bought several New York papers. The Italian, who was quick-witted,
recognized him from his pictures in the papers, and reported to the
police.
"He’s evidently only going out after dark," said Babbitts. "But a man
can’t hide for long whose picture’s spread broadcast over the country."
"And who’s got a face like the American Eagle after it’s grown a white
mustache," I answered.
That was Thursday night. Friday morning I toddled down to my job,
feeling there wasn’t much in it and that when I came home I’d hear
Barker was landed and it would be domestic life again for little Molly.
The day went by quiet and uneventful as the others had been. I read a
novel and sewed at a tray cloth, and now and then jacked in for a call.
It was getting on for evening and I was thinking about home and dinner
when—Bang! came two calls, one right after the other, that made me feel
I was earning my money.
The first was at a quarter to five. Our central came sharp and clear:
"Hello, Gramercy 3503—Long Distance—Philadelphia’s calling you."
Philadelphia! Can you see me stiffening up, with my hand ready to raise
the cam?
"All right—Gramercy 3503."
I could hear the girls in our central, the wait of hum and broken
sounds—how well I knew it!—and then a distant voice, brisk and
business-like, "Hello, Philadelphia—Waiting." Then a pause and presently
the whispering jar of the wires, "Here’s your party. Gramercy 3503, all
right for Philadelphia."
Running over those miles and miles the voice—a man’s—came clear as a
bell.
"I want to speak to the Azalea Woods Estates."
I made the connection, softly lifted the cam, and listened in.
"Is this the office of the Azalea Woods Estates?"
A woman’s voice answered, as close as if she was in the next room:
"Yes—who is it?"
"Is Mr. Anthony Ford there?"
"No, Mr. Ford has left my employment. I am Miss Whitehall, my business
is closed."
There was a pause. My heart which had hit up a lively gait began to ease
down. Only Tony Ford—Pshaw!
"Are you there?" said the woman.
"Yes," came the answer. "Could you give me his address?"
"Certainly. Hold the wire for a moment."
After a wait of a minute or two she was back with the address which she
gave him. He repeated it carefully, thanked her and hung up.
Talk of false alarms! I was so disappointed thinking I’d got something
for Mr. Whitney, that I sat crumpled up in my chair sulking, and right
in the middle of my sulks came the second call.
It was Long Distance again—Toronto.
"I wonder what Toronto wants with her," I thought as I jacked in, and
then, leaning my elbow on the desk listened, not much interested. Three
sentences hadn’t passed before I was as still as a graven image, all my
life gone into my ears.
"Is that you, Carol?" I could just hear it, a fine little thread of
sound as if it came from a ghost in the other world.
"Yes—who’s speaking?"
"It’s I—J. W. B."
Barker’s initials! My heart gave a leap and then began to fox trot. If I
had any doubts, her answer put an end to them. I could hear the gasp in
her breath, the fright in her voice.
"You? What are you doing this for?"
"There’s no danger. I’m careful. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes, this morning."
"Will you come?"
"Are you sure it’s all right? Have you seen the papers here?"
"All of them. Don’t be afraid. I’m taking no risks. Are you coming?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I can leave tonight. There’s a train at eight."
"Good. I’ll meet you and explain everything. Do as I said in the letter.
I’ll be there."
"Very well—understand. Please ring off. Good-bye."
For a moment I sat thinking. She was going to Toronto to meet Barker by
a train that left at eight, and it was now half-past five. There was no
use trying to trace the call—I knew enough for that—so I got Mr.
Whitney’s office and told him, careful, without names. He was awful
pleased and handed me out some compliments that gave me the courage to
ask for something I was crazy to get—the scoop for Babbitts. It would be
a big story—Barker landed through the girl he was in love with. I knew
they’d follow her and could Babbitts go along? I don’t have to tell you
that he agreed, making only one condition—if they were unsuccessful,
_silence_. O’Mally, who was up from Philadelphia, would go. Babbitts
could join him at the Grand Central Station.
I took a call for the _Dispatch_, found Babbitts and told him enough to
send him home on the run—but not much; there’s too many phones in those
newspaper offices. It was nearly seven when I got there myself, dragged
him into our room, and while I packed his grip gave him the last
bulletins. He was up in the air. It would be the biggest story that had
ever come his way.
I had to go down to the station with him, for neither he nor O’Mally
knew her. I was desperate afraid she wouldn’t come—get cold feet the way
women do when they’re eloping. But at a quarter of eight she showed up.
She didn’t look a bit nervous or rattled, and went about getting her
ticket as quiet as if she was going for a week-end to Long Island.
O’Mally—he was a fat, red-faced man, looking more like a commercial
traveler than a sleuth—was right behind her as she bought it. Then as
she walked to the track entrance with her suitcase in her hand, I saw
them follow her, lounging along sort of neighborly and casual, till the
three of them disappeared under the arch.
It was late before I went to sleep that night. I kept imagining them
tracking her through the Toronto Depot, leaping into a taxi that
followed close on hers, and going somewhere—but where I couldn’t
think—to meet Barker. For the first time I began to wonder if any harm
could come to Babbitts. In detective stories when they shadowed people
there were generally revolvers at the finish. But, after all, Johnston
Barker wasn’t flying for his life, or flying from jail. As far as I
could get it, he was just flying away with the Copper Pool’s money.
Perhaps that wasn’t desperate enough for revolvers.
When I finally did go to sleep I dreamed that all of us, the fat man,
Babbitts, Carol Whitehall and I and Mr. Barker, were packed together in
one taxi, which was rushing through the dark, lurching from side to
side. As if we weren’t enough, it was piled high with suitcases, on one
of which I was sitting, squeezed up against Mr. Barker, who had a face
like an eagle, and kept telling me to move so he could get his revolver.
I don’t know what hour I awoke, but the light was coming in between the
curtains and the radiators were beginning to snap with the morning heat
when I opened my eyes. I came awake suddenly with that queer sensation
you sometimes have that you’re not alone.
And I wasn’t. There sitting on a chair by the bedside, all hunched up in
his overcoat, with his suitcase at his feet, was Himself, looking as
cross as a bear.
I sat up with a yelp as if he’d been a burglar.
"_You_ here?" I cried.
He looked at me, glum as an owl, and nodded.
"Yes. It’s all right."
"Why—why—what’s happened?"
"Nothing."
"You haven’t been to Toronto and back in this time?"
"I’ve been to Rochester and back," he snapped. "She got out there,
waited most of this infernal night and took the first return train."
"Came back?"
"Isn’t that what I’m saying?" For Himself to speak that way to me showed
he was riled something dreadful. "She got off at Rochester and stayed
round in the depot—didn’t see anyone, or speak to anyone, or send a
phone, or a wire. She got a train back at three, we followed her and saw
her go up the steps of her own apartment."
"Why—what do you make of it?"
He shrugged:
"Only one of two things. She either changed her mind or saw she was
being shadowed."