CRAY CALLS ON MRS. SIMPSON.
It was quite early in the afternoon when Jack Cray reached New Pelham,
and during his journey to that outlying suburb he had plenty of time
in which to think out a plan of action, using as a basis Gordon’s
suggestion that he should present himself as a fellow employee of the
missing Simpson.
Cray walked briskly through the little town, having inquired the
direction in which Floral Avenue lay, and soon came to a steep hill.
On the top of the hill the detective stopped to mop his brow, and as he
did so, his keen eyes took in every detail of the scene that lay before
him. There was not much of it—just a dozen or so houses strewn about at
haphazard in the midst of a maze of newly built roads.
The latter ran here and there, not at right angles, but obliquely, in
sweeping curves, circles, and what not. The houses were all different
and distinctive in type, with not a single old-fashioned veranda to be
seen. In short, the settlement on the hill aimed to be a modern and
“artistic” suburban development, which, like most of its kind, was
still in the early stages of growth.
Floral Avenue proved to be at the very end of the development, and
everything about it seemed newest and most unfinished. At the corner
of it stood a small house of two stories and a half, with dull-red
shingled roof and trimmings.
Beside the door, in big, brass figures, was the number 31.
That it was the only house on the street seemed to have made no
difference to the builder, who doubtless saw all the rest of the houses
from one to thirty and on indefinitely in his mind’s eye.
No. 31 was very new, indeed. The lawn still plainly showed the seams
where the strips of turf met, and the gravel walks evidently had not
been rolled sufficiently, for they were scarred with footprints.
Plainly, Jack Cray had not looked for just this sort of thing. He
paused at the gate and gave his red forehead a thoughtful mopping.
“Looks as if Griswold didn’t know the whole story, or forgot this part
of it,” he speculated. “I got the impression that friend Simpson had
been living in New Pelham for a long time, but he certainly hasn’t been
living long in No. 31 Floral Avenue. Besides, this looks like a buying
proposition, not a renting one.”
He ran his tongue along his lips, and a knowing look came into his eyes.
“I’ll bet he squeezed that fund for a few thousands before he raked in
the whole bunch!” he muttered. “A little slick bookkeeping would have
done the trick while they were disbursing funds for the immediate needs
of the Hattontown sufferers. Some of it went into this house, if I’m
not mighty badly mistaken, and I have a hunch that some more of it went
to buy that electric machine he sported in Hattontown.”
Without further hesitation, Cray opened the gate and started up the
front walk to an oddly shaped little stoop, which gave access to the
front door. A neatly dressed servant answered his summons.
“Mrs. Simpson in?” Cray inquired.
“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, looking doubtfully at him, “but I don’t
believe she will feel like seeing any one. She hasn’t been very well.”
“I hope she will see me,” Cray declared. “Please say that I’m Mr.
Jones, from the _Chronicle and Observer_ office, and would like very
much to see her for a few minutes.”
The girl was obviously impressed by this information, and, without
further argument, conducted him into one of the rooms off the reception
hall, and then hurried away to communicate with her mistress.
With the natural instinct of the detective, Cray looked keenly about
him, and there was something that impressed him at once.
The house he was in was by no means a large one, but the furniture
seemed to have come from a much smaller house. The diminutive hatrack
was positively lost in the square hall, the rugs were little more than
patches on the inlaid floor, and the stair carpet—which he could see
through the door—was shabby, and too narrow for the stairs.
In short, though John Simpson had recently taken a larger house, he
had either been unable to furnish it adequately, or else had been too
hurried or careless to do so.
“Mrs. Simpson will see you, sir,” the maid announced, when she
returned. “She will be down in a few minutes.”
Presently, the fugitive’s wife descended the stairs. She was a small,
slight woman, plainly dressed, and apparently about forty years of age,
though her lined face and gray hair caused her to look much older than
many women do nowadays at that age.
“You have news of my husband, Mr. Jones?” she asked eagerly, holding
her hands out in unconscious pleading, so that Cray could see that they
had been roughened by hard work.
It seemed curious that the mistress of such a house should find it
necessary to do menial labor.
“Not yet, Mrs. Simpson, I’m sorry to say,” Cray answered reluctantly.
The woman sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. There was
no longer the slightest room for doubt as to her innocence. Plainly,
she knew nothing whatever about the theft, although it might be that
some of her worry was due to fear that something of the sort might
account for her husband’s unprecedented absence.
“It’s hard lines, Mrs. Simpson,” the detective said sympathetically.
“Your husband will turn up pretty soon, though, I’m sure.”
The wife raised her head and hastily wiped her eyes.
“You—you don’t think that he’s dead, then?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Cray hastened to assure her.
“Oh, I do hope you are right, sir!” Mrs. Simpson said fervently. “If he
isn’t dead, though, or terribly injured and unable to communicate with
me, what can it possibly mean? Have they reported it to the police yet?”
“You mean the office?”
“Yes.”
Cray shook his head.
“That hasn’t seemed necessary—at least, that’s what the office seems to
think,” he answered. “Mr. Simpson isn’t in a hospital, though, you may
be sure.”
“Then where is he? If they don’t do something at the office, I shall be
obliged to go to the police myself. I can’t understand why it wasn’t
done long ago. John has been gone days and days now, and he’s never
before stayed away from home unexpectedly for more than a few hours
without letting me know just where he was. I don’t understand it; I
don’t, I don’t!”
“I know it’s tough, Mrs. Simpson,” Cray admitted awkwardly. “I wish
I had some good news for you, but I came, instead, to see if you
could not tell me something that might throw some light on it. We are
naturally very much interested at the office, and they thought I might
be able to find out what had happened. Will you help me?”
“Of course, I’ll do anything I possibly can,” the distracted woman
assured him. “It’s very kind in them, and of you, to take all this
trouble. What is it you want to know, though?”