CAMOUFLAGE?
"Good God," cried Donald Morris, sitting down suddenly and striking
his hand on the arm of Clancy's chair. "Then I was right at first!
Something terrible has happened, something complicated and sinister! I
had a feeling that it was so when I called you. I----"
Peter leaned slightly forward and caught Morris's arm in a steadying
grip.
"Hold hard, Mr. Morris," he said. "The whole thing may be a mare's
nest, only I'll say right now that it does look a bit queer to me.
But we won't get anywhere near the solution if we don't start at the
beginning. Now let's get down to brass tacks."
Clancy felt the muscles under his hand relax somewhat, so he released
his hold of Morris's arm and leaned back in his chair.
"When you called me on the 'phone, you told me nothing except that you
had found a scarf of Miss Blake's stained with blood and that Miss
Blake had disappeared, and asked me to come here as fast as possible.
I beat it down here and found that the apartment had, apparently, been
looted and that neither of the two women who live here were to be
found. Though, for the matter of that, have you any definite reason to
think that either or both of them may not be back at any moment?"
"I think--I believe I have reason to think that Miss Mary Blake
intended to go away--or--oh, I don't know just what to think."
"But you did expect the sister to be here," insisted Peter.
"Yes," Morris nodded. "I think I did expect to find her sister, Anne.
And, as you say, for all I know she may come in at any moment----"
Peter folded his arms and, gripping his chin in his hand, slowly shook
his head.
"She won't be back. Not for some time, anyway," he said, deliberately.
"I'm pretty sure of that. In fact, I feel positive that neither of the
sisters will show up for some little time to come unless their plans
change."
"Why do you think that?" asked Morris, with a quick, eager frown.
"The occupants of this apartment planned to leave it," said Peter,
gravely. "They made their plans well in advance, and one of them, at
least, was a good housekeeper."
"How in the world do you know that?" asked Morris, frankly puzzled.
"Perfectly obvious," answered Peter, with a slight shrug. "Didn't you
notice the bedroom in there?" He jerked his thumb in the direction of
the room adjoining.
"I--I don't think I did, particularly," Morris hesitated. "There was so
much else----"
"I know. But if you'd happened to notice the bed, you'd have seen that
it had nothing on it at all but one sheet, and that wasn't put on in
the usual way, but was all over it, even covering the pillows. No
housekeeper would fix a bed that way if she were coming back to-night,
or to-morrow, or any time soon, would she?"
"I haven't much experience with that sort of thing," said Morris, "but
it doesn't seem as if she would."
"Then there was the kitchen," Clancy went on. "There wasn't a bit of
perishable food anywhere around. The refrigerator was entirely empty
and the doors left open, just as my mother used to do when we all
went away anywhere for a visit. The ice had been taken out and put in
the sink. There's a very little piece of it there now, or was when we
looked the place over. Do you draw any conclusion from that?"
"Only, as you say, that both the sisters must have intended to leave."
"And you get nothing more from the little piece of ice that hasn't
melted yet?"
Morris shook his head.
"Why, don't you see," Peter explained, with a little gleam in his
eye, "that just about fixes the time they left. Given the size of the
ice chamber, which is small, and the fact that the ice couldn't have
been left on Sunday, don't you see that, with a hot night like last
night, it would have melted entirely away if it had been put into the
sink earlier than yesterday afternoon? The box wouldn't have held a
piece big enough to last over if it had been put there in the morning.
Somebody was in this apartment as late, I should say, as five o'clock
yesterday afternoon."
"Then there _was_ someone here when I came, just before lunch,"
exclaimed Morris, quite convinced by the other's rapid reasoning.
"It's more than probable," said Peter. "At least there was someone here
at a much later hour. I'm sure of that. Now, who was it? They evidently
had no maid in the house. There's no bed in the maid's room and only
a single bed and a big couch in the bedroom. Both of the sisters must
have slept in there. Now, were they both here yesterday afternoon? and
did they leave together? And then did someone break in?" he mused.
"That's, of course, what it looks like ... and yet.... Why the glass on
the outside of the kitchen window, if it was an outside job? And how
do we know for certain that anything has been stolen? Is this robbery
business camouflage?" He sat up suddenly and looked Donald Morris
straight in the eye. "What do you think, yourself?"
"I don't know what to think, Mr. Clancy," answered Donald, pressing his
hand to his forehead. "I really don't. You see so much more clearly
than I. You are able to reason everything out. You know everything that
I do----"
"Except--" said Peter, slowly and seriously--"you'll forgive my
mentioning it if it has no possible bearing on the case, but it goes
without saying that you're more anxious about Miss Blake than you could
possibly be if she and her sister had just gone off on a trip and their
apartment had been entered when they weren't here. You told me that you
were alarmed about her--that was why you came here this morning. You
mentioned a letter----"
"Yes," said Donald, rising and moving restlessly about the room.
"There was the letter--and this." He paused beside the table on which
still lay the filmy scarf. He shuddered as he looked at it. "I was
almost beside myself when I found it. I thought that the blood on it
had flowed out from--something inside the door.... And the janitor,
not knowing me, refused to open the apartment. It wasn't till I got
the policeman.... Oh, God, it was awful! The suspense----" He strode
abruptly to the window and did not turn until he had partially regained
his composure.
"And then--there was the letter----" Clancy persisted. "You said, some
time ago, that it was strange, unaccountable...."
He waited a moment, watching Morris's face. He could almost see the
struggle which was going on in the mind of this clever, sophisticated
man of the world, into whose world had been thrust an occurrence with
which no previous experience had given him the ability to cope. Would
he show the letter? Could he take a man, as Clancy felt himself to be,
from another sphere, into his entire confidence?
Donald's eyes searched the face before him and Clancy returned his
gaze with a glance so frank and open, so intelligent and resourceful,
that Morris was favourably impressed, even more so than he had been
when his cousin, Dick Schuyler, hastily summoned on the wire, had
enthusiastically recommended Peter Clancy as the only absolutely
dependable detective in New York.
"Mr. Morris, why are you so sure that something has happened to Miss
Blake?" asked Peter, putting an end to an almost imperceptible pause.
"You do think something unpleasant has happened, don't you? Something
pretty awful--else why have you called me in? And now that I am in, how
can I help you if you won't give me a look at the hand you're holding?"
He smiled his winning, cheerful smile and spread out his hands. Morris
straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. The uncertainty was
gone from his eyes.
"You're right, Mr. Clancy. Perfectly right," he said. "I'm sure there's
something wrong, dreadfully wrong here, and I want your help. I will
give you every assistance in my power and will be perfectly frank and
open with you. What I am about to tell you is known to no one and I
will ask you to treat it in confidence."
"You may be quite at ease in your mind about that," said Peter,
promptly. "My job wouldn't amount to a hill of beans if I couldn't
keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. So let me have what you've got
and, believe me," he added, seriously, "it goes to the bottom of the
well, and I'll help you for all I'm worth and then some."
Clancy's manner was so straightforward and engaging that Donald
impulsively held out his hand. Peter returned the strong clasp, and the
two young men, so near in age, so far apart in experience of the world,
became firm allies.
As their hands fell apart, Morris spoke--
"First of all, I must tell you," he said, with dignity, "that I have
asked Miss Mary Blake to become my wife."
Peter drew in a sharp breath. He knew, as all the world knew, of Mary
Blake's sudden leap from obscurity into world-wide fame; he had some
knowledge, through friends in the theatrical profession, of how dark
that obscurity had remained. And Donald Morris--the heir to the Morris
millions! That he should----
"And Miss Blake has accepted." Clancy's words were in no sense a
question, so sure was he that there could be no other conclusion.
Morris flushed slightly.
"She refused," he said, quietly, "but in such a way that I had hopes--I
believed----" He paused, then went on, "That was late Saturday night. I
have not seen her since. There is only her letter, and----"
"May I see the letter?" asked Peter, gravely. "I think, perhaps, that
it's a lot to ask, but, you see," he broke off, "there isn't so much to
show here that there's anything to be alarmed at. It looks as if there
had been a burglary--and there's that scarf. But there isn't an awful
lot to get excited about, seems to me. If Miss Blake went off at the
end of the season and took her sister with her----"
"That's another thing," interrupted Donald, hastily. "Did her sister
go with her? Somehow--I can't just tell you why--I have a feeling that
perhaps she didn't. Though I've never met Miss Anne, somewhere I've
gotten the impression that--that they weren't exactly friendly....
Whether it was the way Mary spoke when I asked about her sister ... or
whether it was what she said in the letter."
"Let me see the letter, Mr. Morris," said Clancy, gravely. "Let me
judge for myself."