A BIG TRUNK
"But Mary!" groaned Donald Morris in agony, as the two men, their
unsuccessful investigation over, stood for a moment in the vast
loneliness of the great station. "I don't mind so much that we've lost
all trace of her sister. It's Mary, Mary that I'm thinking about. Where
has she gone? What has happened to her?" The fearful tension of the
morning was apparent in every line of his weary white face. "Let Anne
go! She's nothing to me! But find Mary, Clancy! Find Mary! Put every
ounce of strength you have, every resource of your organization on it.
Spend any amount of money. Leave no stone unturned. I'm afraid--I'm
horribly afraid. She's----"
Clancy put a restraining hand on his arm, and even while he spoke he
was wondering if the same sinister idea which was creeping into his own
thoughts had already, by any possibility, found a place in Morris's
less experienced mind. It was hardly probable, Peter comforted himself
with the thought. A thing so far outside the experience of the young
sculptor would scarcely suggest itself. And if it did, it would be
necessary to combat it as long as possible, for in that direction,
Peter was sure, would lie madness for Donald Morris.
"We'll get on the job at once, Mr. Morris," he said, promptly,
reassuringly. "We'll search the city over to find any trace of her. She
didn't leave the apartment with her sister. We know that much, anyway.
If she took another cab----"
"She's almost certain to have done that," Donald interrupted, eagerly.
"She hated to walk through the streets, even for a short distance, and
all the railroad stations are a long way from Waverly Place."
"Well, if she took a cab, we'll find it," declared Peter, confidently.
"But it may take a little time. I'll have to go to the office now, and
get things started. You can't be any help about this part, and I'd
advise you to get a rest. You aren't used to this kind of thing, and
it's bound to knock you up. Go home and take it easy. I'll 'phone you
if there's any news or if there's anything you can do. Let's get a cab,
and I can drop you at your house on my way to the office. There are a
few things I'd like to have you tell me, and that way we won't waste
any time. How about it?"
"All right," answered Morris, wearily. "But I wish you'd let me go with
you. Somehow I feel----"
"Yes, I guess I know how you feel, all right," said Peter, "but it
won't be any good. You can't help, and you need to get quieted down.
Come on."
With sympathetic consideration he led Donald to a cab, selecting
one which had the front windows closed, so that they might talk in
privacy. As they turned into Seventh Avenue he said:
"Now tell me everything you know about Miss Blake and her sister. Every
little thing. You can never tell what might come in useful. How long
have you known them?"
"As you know, I've never met her sister, and know nothing at all
about her, except that they lived together, and I've always had the
impression that there was something--I don't know just how to put
it--something--well--wrong--about the sister," said Donald, slowly.
"Mary never let me come up to the apartment, and there was something
odd in her face whenever her sister was mentioned. Of course it
happened but rarely--and it's a hard thing to define. Perhaps a person
less interested would scarcely have noticed----"
Donald relapsed into thought. After a moment Peter said:
"And when was it that you first met Miss Blake?"
"About a year or so ago, it was," said Morris, rousing himself, his
eyes kindling. "I'll never forget it! It was at my sister's. I'd heard
a lot about Mary Blake, and had seen her several times on the stage,
of course. She seemed to me, even then, to be the most beautiful woman
and the greatest actress of our time. My sister, Mrs. Atterbury, prides
herself on knowing all the literary and artistic people, all the
eminent musicians and actors in town. It's almost a mild form of mania
with her. And most of them respond readily," with a little shrug, "but
for a long time she couldn't reach Mary Blake, and the fact piqued her
more than a little. Miss Blake's former manager, Arthur Quinn, guarded
her like a dragon. It was amusing to see Helena--my sister--trying to
cajole old Quinn, whom she knew well, into introducing her. It simply
couldn't be done. But when poor Quinn died, and it was known that Miss
Blake had signed up with Frederick Jones, Helena started to work on
him. Jones, it seems, has social ambitions, and whether it was that, or
what it was, my sister induced him to let her go behind the scenes one
night and meet Miss Blake. Helena has a way with her, I must say, and
somehow she prevailed on Mary to give a reading at the house, a thing
she'd never done before, and has never done since. I don't know," he
broke off, "why I'm telling you all these details, Clancy, only you
said----"
"Go on, don't skip anything," said Peter, encouragingly. "So the first
time you met Miss Blake was at the reading at your sister's house?"
"Yes, and, oh, it was wonderful, marvellous!" He spoke slowly, with
the air of one who lives again one of the greatest moments of his
life. "They used the big model platform at one end of my studio for a
stage. The room, of course, was dark, and when the curtains were drawn
aside, she stood there in the dim blue light, her face a pale oval,
shining faintly, like a star." He had forgotten Peter. All his mind
was filled with a poignant remembrance. "She spoke--and it was as if
the stars sang together.... It didn't matter what she said.... The
sheer magnetism of her personality, the beauty of the soul which looked
out of her eyes--so near, so near--drew like cords of steel.... Her
strange, sad face seemed, somehow, oddly familiar ... as if I'd seen it
before ... in a dream, perhaps. It----"
The cab came to a sudden stop at a point of congested traffic. The
change from the detachment and quiet of its smooth forward motion to
the confusion and roar of the busy crossing brought Donald, with a
jerk, back to himself. He glanced at Clancy a trifle confusedly, and as
the cab went on, took up his story in a more normal tone.
"Everybody wanted to be presented to her after the performance was
over, but she would meet no one except the family, Francis Atterbury
and myself. She received us, for a few moments, on the stage, after the
curtains had been drawn. She was gracious and charming, but insisted on
leaving at once. She had told Helena that it would be necessary for her
to do this, that she was very tired. She allowed me to take her down to
her cab, and I said 'Good-night' to her in the dark street.... The next
night I went to the theatre and sent my card to her, between the acts.
She let me come behind the scenes, and I talked to her a few minutes
in the wings.... After that I saw her with increasing frequency. We
dined together rather often, in some quiet place. The thought of
attracting any attention to herself, when she was off-stage, was most
distasteful to her--amounting almost to an obsession. That's a strong
word, perhaps, but it almost seemed like that. She lived very quietly,
and never introduced me to any of her friends. I don't even know who
her friends are. I know absolutely nothing of her past life, except
that it was a very unhappy one. I could not force her confidence and
she volunteered nothing, not even when she must have known--must have
seen----"
He hesitated, and Peter met his look with a slight, comprehending nod.
"I understand, Mr. Morris," he said, gravely. "But didn't you think it
was strange, don't you think it was strange now?"
"Yes," Donald admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I don't care how
strange it all is. I don't care who she is, or who her people were,
or what sad or even terrible thing she is keeping from me. She is
beautiful to me--in body, mind, and soul--a wonder-woman! There is no
one like her in all the world, and I ask nothing of God but to give her
back to me. I can trust her. I can be content to know nothing.... Only
find her for me, Clancy! Find her for me!" He clenched his hands and
his eyes burned deep.
Peter turned away his face.
"I'll do my best, Mr. Morris," he said with grave sincerity. "What's
possible to do, I pledge my word shall be done. By the way," he added,
in a changed tone, "do you know Miss Blake's manager personally?"
"Frederick Jones? Yes," answered Morris, quickly. "I've met him often."
"He'd be willing to do you a favour, perhaps?"
"Yes--yes, I think he would."
"I may want to have a little talk with him," said Peter, reflectively.
"Think you could fix it?"
"I'll give you a card," said Donald, at once, and drawing a case from
his pocket, he wrote a few lines and handed the card to Peter.
"That ought to do it," said Peter, glancing at it. "Thanks. I may not
use it, but it's best to be prepared."
They had turned into Gramercy Park. The cab drew up before the broad
entrance of Mrs. Atterbury's house, and Donald Morris stepped out.
"I'm trusting you, Clancy," he said, as he held out his hand, "with
something that is more important than life to me."
"I know," Peter nodded as he grasped the outstretched hand with a firm
pressure. "I'll do my best," he repeated, reassuringly.
He sighed, however, as the cab rolled swiftly through the busy streets.
"Nobody's best is any too good in a case like this," he thought to
himself. "He's a fine chap, all right, is Morris. I hope she's what he
thinks her, and then some.... Wonder what kind of a woman she really
is. He looks as if he might be a judge, but you never can tell....
What is it she's been hiding from him--from everybody ... except one
person.... A woman as successful as she is wouldn't live the way she's
been living, unless there was something.... And the sister? Dammit all,
I can't see----"
He was still cogitating thus when he reached his office. He was
thankful to find that his partner and old friend, Captain O'Malley, was
in and at liberty. It was always a help, a clearance of his mind, to
talk over a case with the astute, experienced old man who had trained
him when he was a cub in the police detective service, and with whom he
had been associated ever since.
The old man listened attentively while Peter detailed the facts as they
had been presented to his notice.
"It looked like robbery," Peter said, in conclusion, "but, I ask you,
wasn't it intended that it should look like robbery, maybe? At least,
isn't that on the cards? That broken window on the fire-escape was a
blind. I'm sure of that much. I didn't mention it to Morris--thought
he had enough on his mind as it was--but not only was the broken glass
all on the outside window-sill, but the catch hadn't even been turned.
Whoever broke the glass wasn't very fly, or else they got scared, for
they didn't unlock the window."
"Or else the thief stopped and locked it after he got outside," said
O'Malley, with a little chuckle.
"Rats!" exclaimed Peter, feelingly. "Quit your kiddin', O'Malley. Don't
joke. This is serious. Both these women are missing, and there's blood
in the apartment and on Miss Blake's scarf. We only know how one of 'em
left the place. She left alone ... with a big trunk.... It was a big
trunk, O'Malley. I could tell by the marks it had made on the wall of
the storeroom, and by the place where there wasn't any dust at all on
the floor. It was all pretty clean, but you just could see where the
trunk had stood.... And then, here's another funny thing--the closets
in the bedroom were all full of beautiful clothes, the sort you'd
expect Mary Blake to wear, and the bureau was, or had been, full of
fine, expensive lingerie, before somebody chucked 'em around the place.
Now, I figure Anne kept her clothes in the storeroom--and there wasn't
a rag there--nothing but a few almost worn-out things in an otherwise
empty chiffonier."
"And you argue from that----" said O'Malley.
"I'm not arguing," said Peter. "I'm only thinking. It looked to me as
if Anne had taken all her clothes (though there probably weren't so
many, judging by the number of hangers and the size of the chiffonier)
and that Mary hadn't taken anything.... Of course it's only a guess.
I can't be sure. But that's the way it looked.... And how would
Mary get along without clothes--unless she might have been going to
use Anne's?... But they didn't go away together.... Morris has the
idea--and I got it myself from the letter he showed me--that there was
a sort of--a kind of antipathy between them. Oh, hell, O'Malley! You
see what I'm driving at--I've been mixed up with so much crime and
stuff that I can't help wondering----"
"Yes," said O'Malley, slowly. "Yes, I see.... The bloody scarf that the
cabby pulled through the door ... the blood on the floor of the hall
just by the trunk-room ... the big trunk.... H'm'm----"
The two detectives looked at each other long and seriously. Then Clancy
brought his closed fist down on the desk.
"It's Anne--it's Anne I want to find, O'Malley! We'll look for Mary for
all we're worth. We won't leave a stone unturned, as I promised. But if
you ask me what we must do to get to the bottom of this proposition, I
say--find Anne Blake!"