see that she was interested.
"I think it's a good idea to visit the tea-room," I explained, then
added, doubtfully, "but how are you going to find out whether our
people are remembered there--if they don't happen to be remembered by
name?"
"Nothing simpler," Belle replied. "Some one there will surely remember
faces. We'll settle that in the art department."
Thus, armed with photographs of Shattuck, Vina, Honora, and Wilford
which _The Star_ already possessed in its files, Belle and I set out on
our quest.
The Orange and Blue Tea-room was not easy to find by one unfamiliar
with the Village and its queer twists of streets. But Belle knew it
well and I had some slight recollection of it.
It was originally a low-ceilinged basement in an old house not far from
Washington Square. The upper floors were now "studios." In the former
basement, almost a cellar, were three rows of tables extending the
length of the place and overrunning out into the little back yard where
one dined in summer _al fresco_.
At the far end, on one side, was a little raised platform, and on it
was a piano strummed by a blind player. Opposite was the entrance to
the kitchen, which was subterranean.
Belle and I entered, and immediately the highbrow hold-up began, just
as up-town, with a coat-and-hat check-boy. We made our way to one of
the tables along the wall and seated ourselves. Everywhere orange
and blue decorations, true to the name, smote the eye, on walls, on
ceiling, on chintzes, on the floor, on everything, it seemed, but the
table-cloths and the silverware.
"You know, orange stands for temperament," chatted Belle, as she saw me
marveling at the color riot. "New art, I guess."
"Insanity art," I replied, with a smile. "Don't mistake me, I enjoy it,
though. It's atmosphere--especially when that kitchen door is open."
Belle looked about, as a woman will, at once attentive to our
conversation, taking in whatever was happening within the range of
two ordinary men's vision, now and then nodding to some acquaintance,
sweeping a glance at the menu and tucking in a stray wisp of black
hair, all at once and each without in the least interfering with the
other.
"I suppose the 'Villagers' are here in force," I suggested, noting as
best I could all her simultaneous actions and probably missing the
other half which I have not recorded.
Belle smiled. "Villagers don't come here much. The place is too well
known. Besides, there are not so many 'Villagers' as you would think.
No doubt most of them are up-town. No, most of these people are
skirmishers from the highbrow and curious up-town and out-of-town. You
see, there's a sort of reciprocity about it."
However that might have been, there was enough that was picturesque and
one felt sure that one was really in an environment of the bobbed hair
and maiden names for wives--that is, assuming that the words maiden and
wives were still in the vocabulary.
"All parlor socialists?" I inquired, looking about.
"Have your little joke," frowned Belle. "We all have to, I suppose.
But really, down here, after all, there are people who think, who _do_
things."
I had been waiting for that expression, "do things." They all "do
things" down in Greenwich Village, even if it is only to compose music
for the zither or publish one's own amateur magazine on butcher paper
from hand-set type. Evidently Belle took the Village more or less
seriously, after all.
"Besides," she faltered, "there are no parlor socialists, any more,
anyhow. That belongs to the old muck-raking magazine days."
"I see--limousine liberals now--or boudoir Bolsheviki."
"Maybe you'd better eat," suggested Belle, sarcastically.
"It's a tea-room," I parried, glancing down at the menu. "I suppose
it's orange pekoe--although they don't seem to be drinking it. Perhaps
they're all smoking it. Now that we're all supposed to be so good, I
hear that tobacco will be replaced by dried powdered tea leaves and
coffee grounds. They say a caffein jag or a thein jag has merits.
Passing by the paraldehyde cocktail, what's good?"
Belle's good humor was restored, and with her help I managed to order
everything from soup to nuts--and I am sure that there were a good many
fugitives from the squirrels in the room, whether from up or down town.
I was really enjoying myself, so much so that for the moment I almost
forgot the purpose of our visit, when it was recalled to me by Belle,
who spoke in French to the waiter, rather gross and greasy but
answering to the compensating name of Hyacinthe.
"_Où est Ma'm'selle Zona?_" she asked.
The waiter actually understood, and, though it would have been so much
easier in English, Belle conveyed the idea that she would like to
talk to Miss Dare and the waiter agreed to get her, though I felt he
restrained himself with difficulty from replying in good Manhattanite,
"Sure, miss, I'll dig her up"--meaning from the olfactory Hades beneath
us.
Zona Dare proved to be a slender youngish lady, with the conventional
shock of dark bobbed hair--with a dilettante exterior but a very
practical secret self, I am sure. Even a mere introduction to her
told me she was a member of that curious "third sex" that evolution
is giving us. I can't exactly describe it. It is not "she" or "he"
exactly, neither he-woman nor she-man. Certainly it is not neuter.
Maybe when nature, or whatever it is that is operating, gets through we
may be able to classify it.
Belle knew her, of course. Belle knew everybody. In fact she knew her
so well that Zona, on urging, consented to sit down with us awhile and
actually ordered tea--in a pot, too, though whether Russian, English
or Scotch or Rye I am not sure. At any rate, it seemed to promote
conversation and confidence and I covered my raillery with protective
coloring.
What I enjoyed was the utter freedom of the conversation. We had soon
progressed to bolshevism and the government ownership and operation of
women. Finally the conversation put into the ultimate port of the "new
morality."
"One must live one's life," seemed to be the burden of the philosophy,
and I did not quarrel with the 1919 model of hedonism, for by this time
I began to see a ray of hope that finally I might learn something about
those whom Kennedy and I had been studying. I recalled Vina's remark to
us over her contemplated divorce, "I believe every woman should live
her own life as she sees fit." Doubtless she had absorbed it here.
It was evident, however, that there could only be so many triangles a
week--and besides, "the eternal triangle" was in itself condemned by
its mere ancient origin. What next? I guessed right--bolshevism, of
course.
I found I had dropped right into the intelligenzia--the very sovietment
of society, where _The Nation_ and _The New Republic_ were considered
hide-bound conservatives. I did not quarrel even at the addition of red
to the orange-and-blue color scheme, though I adopted the attitude of
one mildly seeking the truth.
"Perhaps Freud can explain," I suggested, after one passage at arms
with Zona, ably seconded by Belle, "why it is that a prosperous
aristocratic feminist should enjoy contemplating casting her rope of
pearls before the proletariat. What do these comfortable nibblers at
anarchy expect to get out of it?"
There was an answer. I have forgotten it, but it was clever and
convincing. It always is, just as glib sophistry and specious phrases
are. The gist was that all psychology, science, the history of
the human race, had been superseded by some quite indefinite idea
originated in a land with problems about as much related to us as the
dredging of Martian canals would relate to Suez and Panama.
However, the purpose was accomplished, and Belle, with her human point
of view, which one gets from seeing this corrupt old world from a
newspaper office, saw it. Gradually, the conversation had drifted about
to Freud.
I was glad that I had learned so much about him from Kennedy, for
I was surprised at the knowledge that Zona really had of him. Was
it superficial--as so much of that little world into which Kennedy
had plunged me? I am not sure. At least, Zona posed as a Freudian
interpreter. I was sorry Kennedy was not present, for I was inclined to
accept her as such. The fact was that it set me thinking that perhaps
she had educated in the theory many to whom a little knowledge is
dynamite.
Belle's keen mind seemed to read my thoughts, even to leap ahead of me.
She reached into her bag and drew forth some photographs.
"Oh, Zona, by the way," she rattled on, "that reminds me. Did you ever
see this man here--or this woman?"
Zona took the photographs of Shattuck and Vina, and with just a glance
answered, "Indeed I have!"
"Do you recall a night when there was a scene here--another woman?"
went on Belle, producing the photograph of Honora.
"Yes--I remember her. I know them all. They're in this case that's in
the papers now. The lawyer who was killed was that woman's husband,"
she added, pointing to Honora. "Why? Are you writing them into your
column?"
"Yes," confessed Belle. "That is, if I can get a good enough story out
of the incident here."
At once Zona's keen, practical mind leaped to the bait of publicity
held out by Belle. What could be better advertising than for the
celebrated case in the news to be connected with the tea-room? It would
crowd the place.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Just what happened."
"I didn't see it all. As nearly as I can recall that man--Mr. Shattuck,
his name is--was at a table with Mrs. Lathrop when Mrs. Wilford
approached. You see, I knew them all slightly. I know so many people
who come here from up-town. It flatters them--and I have a good memory
for names. I had seen Mrs. Wilford here several times before with Mr.
Shattuck--and once I think with Mr. Wilford--I'm not sure. Anyhow, I
knew her--I think I sold her a box for our Freud play last year--I'm
not sure. I'd have to look that up. Well, there was quite a scene when
Mrs. Wilford stopped and faced Mrs. Lathrop at her table. But here's
the strange part of it. I don't know whether you know it or not. But
just before that, while Mrs. Wilford was sitting at the table just back
of us--the two were down there near the piano--Mr. Wilford himself
came in. He was about to give his hat and stick to the check-boy when
he caught sight of the back of his wife's head. She was alone--right
there--then. He spoke a few words to a man near the street door. I
don't know _him_. He never came here before and I haven't seen him
since. But, at any rate, Mr. Wilford spoke to him, then turned and left
in a great hurry. I wasn't here through it all. Just a moment, Pedro!"
she called to a waiter who was passing at the moment.
Pedro completed his service at another table, then came over to Zona.
"Did you ever see these people here?" asked Zona, turning over the
photographs of Vina and Shattuck.
Pedro was at first suspicious, and, in fact, I do not believe that he
would have told us a thing had it not been Zona herself who questioned
him.
"Yes," he admitted, finally, "I remember one night they were here."
"Did you serve them?" asked Zona.
"Yes," he replied, apparently reluctant to be drawn into anything.
"Do you remember anything that happened?"
"I was very busy," he evaded. "The woman came in first alone, I
remember, and said she was waiting for a friend. Then the man came in.
I thought she was surprised to see him--but I thought it was all right.
She had said she was going to meet a friend."
I shot a quick glance at Belle, who nodded. It was evident that Vina
had not expected to meet this friend.
"Do you remember anything that was said?" I ventured.
Pedro looked at me suspiciously. "I was too busy serving," he replied.
"It was the busy time."
"What seems to be the trouble?" I asked, not cross-questioningly, but
more as if merely for information. "You don't seem to want to answer.
Are you afraid of something?"
Pedro regarded me a moment, then looked at Zona.
"It's all right," she reassured.
"Well--you see--once I was in a divorce suit--in court--I lose t'ree,
four days' pay--the boss he fire me. Are you detective?"
I smiled and evaded the question, under cover of Zona's presence, and
again reassured him.
"There was another woman came in, wasn't there?" I asked, as Belle
produced the photograph of Honora.
"Yes--that's her."
"She didn't sit with them," I prompted.
"No," he replied, "over there," pointing to the table Zona had already
indicated.
"Did you wait on her?"
"No--Louis."
"But you saw her?"
"But yes--every one did--one could not help. She came in as though she
was looking for some one."
"And then what?"
"I was serving the fish. This woman, she get up quickly and come down
to the table. Oh--but she was angry--at the man--at the woman."
"Did she make a scene--I mean did every one see it?"
"I should say! I had just left the table--but every one see
it--yes--and hear, too, I think."
"What did you hear?"
"I? Nothing. I was by that time at the door to the kitchen. But she was
angry--the color in her cheeks--the voice. I think she must be the wife
of the man--she seem so angry at him, also."
Discreet Pedro, I reflected. He was making everything as indefinite as
possible to render himself less liable to be called to court in case of
trouble. However, he was telling me just what I wanted to know. It was
already sufficiently evident that Vina had actually had the appointment
first with Wilford himself, that she had got there early, that he had
been late, perhaps purposely, due to some suspicion, or perhaps to
make sure of covering himself, for he must have provided for Rascon's
operative in case of trouble.
Piecing the thing together, I was convinced that, in some way, Honora
had learned of the appointment and that Shattuck had learned of it,
too--though it must have been independent, else why their encounter?
Shattuck had come--perhaps to face Wilford. At any rate, he had been
sitting with Honora when Wilford's wife, of all persons, came in and
saw him with Vina.
There my deductions broke down. What were her emotions? Was she jealous
of Shattuck paying attentions to the woman who had so fascinated her
own husband? How far was she piqued at the thought of not having hold
enough over Shattuck, also, to keep him from Vina? As for Shattuck, was
he really fascinated by Vina, after all? I did not try to pursue that
line of analysis farther, yet.
At any rate, Honora had seen them and in turn had herself been seen
by her own husband, who had stopped only just long enough to give his
detective instructions, then had departed unobserved by the other three
as he entered. Whatever Shattuck's attempt at explanation, when faced
by Honora, it had not been convincing, at least to her. They had left
together, parted at the door. But I knew that the misunderstanding must
have been patched up later, for they had been together since that time.
A few more questions showed that Pedro had nothing to add, and I let
him go. Zona told me what little she had observed. From the other
waiter, Louis, I learned one thing, however, about Honora and her
actions before she rose and made the little scene at the other table.
She had come in rather pale and agitated. As she sat there, having
ordered, but with her food untouched, she had seemed to get much
calmer, though her face became more and more flushed and her eyes
animated as she missed no movement of the other couple. It was that
very absorption that probably had been the cause of her missing the
very man she sought, her husband. But it meant more than that. It told
me something of her nature, that this woman was of the sort that, when
a crisis approached, instead of going to pieces, like many others, was
able to keep such a grip on herself that she swept ahead through the
crisis coolly and clearly, in spite of the suppressed excitement. That
spoke volumes. No doubt when the relaxation came she was on the verge
of collapse. But as long as the need lasted she had complete control.
Did that mean that at the present moment, as she faced Kennedy, she was
repeating the same performance?
Louis had gone, and Zona turned to Belle and myself as if to ask
whether there was anything else she might do for us, at the same time
looking at her watch and fingering her cup as a hint that she was a
busy woman and must get away.
"Why did Shattuck meet her here?" I thought aloud, wondering if,
perhaps, Zona herself might not know them and betray something.
She shrugged, and I was morally certain that she did know them both,
and well. But evidently, as to bringing herself personally or her
theories directly into the case, there was a barrier.
"Mr. Shattuck seemed to be interested--but--you can never tell. He is
one of those men who have the faculty of making every woman think she
is the only woman."
"Did he ever discuss things with you--I mean Freud--current topics of
conversation?" I ventured, covering my interest as best I could.
"Oh yes, in a general way. Almost everybody who comes here does. They
all know my hobbies. That's why they come here, I guess. Isn't it,
Belle?"
"To see you, dear--yes. I know _I_ do. Without Zona--there are a dozen
places one might go. They lack something."
"He seemed interested in Freud?" I pursued.
"Y-yes--but so are we all down here, just now."
Evidently Zona was hedging. I gathered that Shattuck's interest had
been rather more than ordinary.
"And Vina Lathrop--was she interested, too? You must have known her."
"Yes, I knew her. Vina _was_ interested--of course. But, then, who is
not, just now? A few years ago only a few had read Freud. Even after he
was translated, still there were only a few. But now--since my play--we
have other plays, books, stories, articles--even Freud doctors, who
before were unknown to the public, have come outside of the medical
press with their names and work. Of course Vina Lathrop was interested.
All women are interested in Freud. Don't you think it concerns
us--just a bit more intimately than it does men?"
For the moment Zona had forgotten her haste to get away and was leaning
forward earnestly over the empty tea-caddy.
"Most assuredly," I agreed, realizing suddenly one reason why Freud is
taken up so readily in a circle such as that which I was now tangent
to. He offers an easy, scientific highroad to the discussion of
intimate sex--and that is, after all, under the veneer, the middle name
of Greenwich Village, as it is of all "highbrows" when one comes to get
under their skins and truly understand what secretly is back of their
"uplifts" and "reforms" in social evils and hygiene.
"But what of Honora?" I asked, loath to lose the piquant assistance of
Zona, once I had it. "Why was she here? Had she come to watch Shattuck?
Or was it to watch Vina? Or was it really to watch her husband? Her
husband or Shattuck--I wonder which?"
"Suppose it was either?" shrugged Zona, nonchalantly. "What of it?"
Evidently the spell of her interest in the Freud discussion had broken
when she finished her last sentence.
"In the former case she is merely old-fashioned," added Zona, "in the
latter merely foolish."
With this typical meaningless cleverness that in reality hides the
shallowness of our advanced "thinkers" Zona bade us adieu. Belle and
I chatted a few moments, when she suddenly discovered she was half an
hour late for an engagement. I settled the check, and we tipped our way
out and into a cab that whirled us up-town, while Belle poked fun at my
benighted conservatism, which I did not mind in the least. I left her
at her hotel, with hearty thanks for the great help she had been in the
case, and sincerely happy, in addition to that, for a pleasant couple
of hours at dinner with a girl with whom one might disagree yet still
regard highly.
A few minutes later I was at the laboratory, full of a new-born theory
that Shattuck, down in the Village, had studied Freud more than we
had suspected merely from finding Freud's books in his library--that
he must have known Honora's dreams, interpreted them, and found out
secretly she still loved him, as her open jealousy had, perhaps, showed
in the incident I had unearthed.
Craig was already there, and at work. He listened attentively and
without comment to what I had to report.
"What have _you_ found?" I asked, finally, when I had finished with my
own facts and theories.
"Oh, I've been down to Shattuck's office in Wall Street," he answered,
rather absently.
"And you saw him? How did he take it?"
"He was very angry. Asked me if I was going to try my case in the
newspapers--was very sarcastic. I was just about leaving when I met
Doctor Lathrop coming in."
"Doctor Lathrop--coming in!" I exclaimed. "How was that? How was
Lathrop--and why there?"
"I saw him alone first. He was very much upstage with me. I thought
there was something brewing, so I stayed--that is, went back with him.
I'm glad I did. I think I narrowly averted a fight. Lathrop threatened
Shattuck--that is, I mean, all in a very polite way--but it practically
amounted to telling him to stop seeing his wife, to have no more
business relations with her, and all that. It was in the nature of
serving notice. Shattuck is very high-spirited. I think if I had not
been there there would have been trouble. But Lathrop was very suave
and diplomatic."
"I'm wondering about this man Shattuck," I put in. "Is he woman-crazy?"
The laboratory door was suddenly flung open and Doyle burst in.
"_Some_ news!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "The dictagraph works."
"I should expect it to do so," calmed Kennedy. "It has never failed me
yet, when properly used, like all science and invention, at the right
time and place."
"Say--you're a cold shower. Listen--I'm getting closer to her!"
XIII
THE MECHANICAL EAR
"Then it was Honora you overheard over the dictagraph?" I asked,
quickly.
"Not at first," replied Doyle. "I'll come to that later. Let me give it
all to you first."
He pulled from his pocket a set of typewritten notes and excitedly
began to condense what McCabe had just heard over the dictagraph in
the Wilford apartment, sometimes giving it to us from memory, then
refreshing his mind from what McCabe had transcribed.
"It seems that the maid, Celeste, had a visitor," began Doyle.
"Who was it?" hastened Kennedy, impatiently.
"A man named Chase."
"Who's he?"
"Another detective."
"Like Rascon?"
Doyle nodded doubtfully. "I don't seem to know him," he remarked,
sententiously, though in a tone that was prejudiced.
To Doyle all private detective agencies were as the scum of the earth.
I know Kennedy made mental note to look the man up, unprejudiced.
"What do you know about him?" asked Craig.
"Very little--except that from what Celeste said Mrs. Wilford herself
must have employed him at one time or another--perhaps even now. I
guess that woman knew more about what was going on than we think."
I glanced from Doyle to Kennedy. Could it be possible that we
ourselves, in turn, were being watched by her? And was Honora not the
simple, unsophisticated woman I had thought?
"Evidently," went on Doyle, "Celeste was trying to fasten the crime on
Vina Lathrop."
"How's that?" queried Kennedy, sharply.
"Well," returned Doyle, running his eye over the transcribed
conversation to pick out that part which substantiated the statement,
"it seems as though Celeste was trying to tell Chase something that
Chase didn't accept. Here it is. Chase's remark was lost--but it must
have been about Mrs. Wilford's actions that night of the murder.
"'No, no, no--she was not out of this apartment that night.' That was
what Celeste said in answer to him.
"'Come, come, now,' Chase said, 'what's the use of that? You might tell
that to Doyle--but why tell me? Where was she?'
"You see, they're all trying to put it over on me," interjected Doyle,
apoplectically.
"She might have been out--and still not have been near Mr. Wilford or
his office," I returned.
Doyle gave me a withering glance and did not even deign to reply to a
mere reporter.
"Here's the other thing, Kennedy," ignored Doyle. "I mean about trying
to put it on Vina Lathrop--to save Mrs. Wilford.
"'Wasn't _she_ at Mr. Wilford's office?' That's a return question from
Celeste to Chase to divert attention, I tell you."
"What was Chase's answer?"