THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD
Impatiently Jane looked at her wrist watch. It lacked an hour of the
time when she was to meet her mother at the Ritz for tea. Her nerves
still all ajangle from excitement and worry over the morning’s tragedy,
and her own accidental secret knowledge of certain aspects of the case
had made it wholly impossible for her to do anything that day with even
simulated interest.
She had been debating with herself whether or not to confide to her
mother the story of the tragic tableau of which she had been an
accidental witness, when Mrs. Strong had dashed into her bedroom to
give her a hurried peck on the cheek and to say that she was off to
luncheon and the matinée with Mrs. Starrett.
“You’re not looking well to-day, dear,” her mother had said. “Stay in
bed and rest and join us for tea if you like.”
Before she had opportunity to tell what she had seen, her mother was
gone, but Jane had found it impossible to obey her well-meant
injunction. She rose and dressed, her mind busy all the while with the
problem of what her duty was. As she donned her clothing she paused
from time to time to listen for sounds from the next apartment.
What was her neighbor doing now? Had he read of the discovery of the
man’s body in the street? Perhaps he had fled already? Not a sound was
to be heard there. He did not look in the least like what Jane imagined
a murderer would, yet certainly the circumstances pointed all too
plainly to his guilt. She had seen two men dash around the corner, one
in pursuit of the other. One of them had come back alone. Not long
afterward a body—the body of the other man—had been found with a bullet
in his heart. It must have been a murder.
What ought she to do about it? Was it her duty to tell her mother and
Dad about what she had seen? Mother, she knew, would be horrified and
would caution her to say nothing to any one, but Dad was different. He
had strict ideas about right and justice. He would insist on hearing
every word she had to tell. More than likely he would decide that it
was her duty to give the information to the authorities. Her face
blanched at the thought. She could not do that. She pictured to herself
the notoriety that would necessarily ensue. She saw herself being
hounded by reporters, she imagined her picture in the papers, she heard
herself branded as “the witness in that murder case,” she depicted
herself being questioned by detectives and badgered by lawyers.
No, she decided, it would be best for her never to tell a soul, not
even her parents. In persistent silence lay her safest course. After
all she had not witnessed the commission of the crime. She was not even
sure that the man found dead had been one of the two she had watched
from her window. If she saw the body she would not be able to identify
it. She was not even certain in her own mind that the man next door had
done the shooting, however suspicious his actions may have appeared to
her. Besides, he did not look in the least like a murderer. He was too
well-dressed.
In an effort to put the whole thing out of her mind she tried to read,
but was unable to keep her thoughts from wandering. She sat down at the
piano, but music failed to interest or soothe her. She mussed over some
unanswered notes in her desk but could not summon up enough
concentration of mind to answer them. Restless and fidgety, unable to
keep her thoughts from the unusual occurrences that had disturbed her
ordinarily too peaceful life, she decided to take a walk until it was
time to keep her appointment. Something—force of habit probably—led her
to the shopping district. With still half an hour to kill, she went
into a little specialty shop to examine some knitting bags displayed in
the window.
“Why don’t you knit as all the other girls are doing?” was her father’s
constant suggestion every time she asserted her desire to be doing
something in the war.
“There’s no thrill in knitting,” she would answer. “Fix it, Dad, so
that I can go to France as a Red Cross nurse or as an ambulance driver,
won’t you? I want some excitement.”
Always he had refused to consent to her going, insisting that France in
wartime was no place for an untrained girl.
“If I can’t go myself, I certainly am not going to send any knitting,”
she would spiritedly answer, but several times recently the sight of
such charming looking knitting bags had tempted her into almost
breaking her resolution.
Inside the shop she found nothing that appealed to her, and contented
herself with buying some toilet articles. As she made her purchases she
noticed, almost subconsciously, a man standing near, talking with one
of the shopgirls—a middle-aged man with a dark mustache.
“The address, please,” said the girl, who had been waiting on her.
“Miss Strong,” she answered, giving the number of the apartment house
on Riverside Drive.
She recalled afterward that as she mentioned the number the man
standing there had turned and looked sharply at her, but she thought
nothing of it. Her father’s name was well known and he had many
acquaintances in the city. More than likely, she supposed, this man was
some friend of her father who had recognized the name.
She lingered a few moments at some of the other counters, aimlessly
inspecting their offerings, and at last, with ten minutes left to reach
the Ritz, emerged from the store. She was amazed to see the man who had
been inside now standing near the entrance, and something within warned
her that he had been waiting to speak to her. As she attempted to pass
him quickly, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path, but raising
his hat deferentially.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Strong,” he said, “may I have a word with
you?”
Compelled to halt, she looked at him both appraisingly and resentfully.
There was nothing offensive nor flirtatious in his manner, and he
seemed far too respectably dressed to be a beggar. He was almost old
enough to be her father, and besides there was about him an indefinable
air of authority that commanded her attention. She decided that,
unusual as his request appeared, she would hear what he had to say.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to assume an air of hauteur but without
being able wholly to mask her curiosity.
“You are an American, aren’t you?” he asked abruptly.
“Of course.”
“A good American?”
“I hope so.” She decided now that he must be one of the members of some
Red Cross fund “drive,” or perhaps an overenthusiastic salesman for
government bonds. “But I don’t quite understand what it is that you
wish.”
“I can’t explain,” said her questioner, “but if you really are a good
American and you’d like to do your country a great service—an important
service—go at once to the address on this card.”
She took the slip of white pasteboard handed her. On it was written in
pencil “Room 708.” The building was a skyscraper down-town.
“What is it?” she asked half indignantly, “a new scheme to sell bonds?”
“No, no, Miss Strong,” he cried, “it is nothing like that. It is a
great opportunity to do an important service for America.”
“How did you know my name?”
“I heard you give it to the clerk just now.”
“And why,” she inquired with what she intended to be withering sarcasm,
“have I been selected so suddenly for this important work?”
“I heard the address you gave, that’s why,” he answered. “That’s what
makes it so important that you should go to that number at once. Ask
for Mr. Fleck.”
“I can’t go,” she temporized. “I am on my way now to meet my mother at
the Ritz.”
“Go to-morrow, then,” he insisted. “I’ll see Mr. Fleck meanwhile and
tell him about you.”
Puzzled at the man’s unusual and wholly preposterous request, yet in
spite of herself impressed by his evident sincerity, Jane turned the
card nervously in her hand and discovered some small characters on the
back; “K-15” they read.
“What do those figures mean?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you that. Mr. Fleck will explain everything. Promise me
you will go to see him.”
“Who are you?”
“I can’t tell you that, yet.”
“Who, then, is Mr. Fleck?”
“He will explain that to you.”
“What has my address to do with it? I can’t understand yet why you make
this preposterous request of me.”
“I tell you I can’t explain it to you, not yet,” the man replied, “but
it’s because you live where you do you must go to see Mr. Fleck. It’s
about a matter of the highest importance to your government. It is more
important than life and death.”
His last words startled her. They brought to her mind afresh the
mysterious occurrence she had witnessed the night before and the
equally mysterious death near her home. Had this man’s odd request any
connection, she wondered, with what had happened there? The lure of the
unknown, the opportunity for adventure, called to her, though prudence
bade her be cautious.
“I’ll ask my mother,” she temporized.
“Don’t,” cried the man. “You must keep your visit to Mr. Fleck a secret
from everybody. You mustn’t breathe a word about it even to your father
and mother. Take my word for it, Miss Strong, that what I am asking you
to do is right. I’ve two daughters of my own. The thing I’m urging you
to do I’d be proud and honored to have either of them do if they could.
There is no one else in the world but you that can do this particular
thing. A word to a single living soul and you’ll end your usefulness.
You must not even tell any one you have talked with me. See Mr. Fleck.
He’ll explain everything to you. Promise me you’ll see him.”
“I promise,” Jane found herself saying, even against her better
judgment, won over by the man’s insistence.
“Good. I knew you would,” said her mysterious questioner, turning on
his heel and vanishing speedily as if afraid to give her an opportunity
of reconsidering.
Puzzled beyond measure not only at the man’s strange conduct but even
more at her own compliance with his request, Jane made her way slowly
and thoughtfully to the Ritz, where she found her mother and Mrs.
Starrett had already arrived.
As they sipped their tea the two elder women chatted complacently about
the matinée, about their acquaintances, about other women in the
tea-room and the gowns they had on, about bridge hands—the usual small
talk of afternoon tea.
To Jane, oppressed with her two secrets, all at once their conversation
seemed the dreariest piffle. Great things were happening everywhere in
the world, nations at war, men fighting and dying in the trenches of
horror for the sake of an ideal, kings were being overthrown, dynasties
tottering, boundaries of nations vanishing. Women, she realized, too,
more than ever in history, were taking an active and important part in
world affairs. In the lands of battle they were nursing the wounded,
driving ambulances, helping to rehabilitate wrecked villages. In the
lands where peace still reigned they were voting, speech-making,
holding jobs, running offices, many of them were uniting to aid in
movements for civic improvement, for better children, for the
improvement of the whole human race.
And here they were—here _she_ was, idling uselessly at the Ritz as she
had done yesterday, last week, last month—forever, it seemed to her.
The vague protest that for some time had been growing within her
against the senselessness and futility of her manner of existence
crystallized itself now into a determination no longer to submit to it.
Courageously she was resolving that she would take the first
opportunity to escape from this boresome routine of pleasure-seeking.
She was wondering if the request that had been so unexpectedly made of
her would prove to be her way out from her prison of desuetude.
The talk of the two women with her drifted aimlessly on. Seldom was she
included in it, save when her mother, nodding to some one she knew,
would turn to say:
“Daughter, there is Mrs. Jones-Lloyd.”
What did she care about Mrs. Jones-Lloyd? What did she care about any
of the people about them, aimless, pleasure-hunting drifters like
themselves. Left to her own devices for mental activity her thoughts
kept recurring to the surprising adventure she had had a few minutes
before. Thoughtfully she pondered over the mysterious message that had
been given to her. The man had said that it was a wonderful opportunity
for her to do her country a great service. She wondered why he had been
so secretive about it. She decided that she would investigate further
and made up her mind to carry out his instructions. What harm could
befall her in visiting an office building in the business district? At
least it would be something to do, something new, something different,
something surely exciting and, perhaps, something useful.
It would be better, she decided, for the present at least, to keep her
intentions entirely to herself. Any hint of her plans to her mother
would surely result in permission being refused. The man certainly had
seemed sincere, honest, and perfectly respectable, even if he was not
of the sort one would ask to dinner. She made up her mind to go
down-town to the address given the very first thing to-morrow morning.
If anything should happen to her, she felt that she could always reach
her father. His office was in the next block.
The problem of making the mysterious journey without her mother’s
knowledge bothered her not at all. As in the case of most
apartment-house families, she and her mother really saw very little of
each other, especially since she had become a “young lady.” Mrs. Strong
went constantly to lectures, to luncheons, to bridge parties, to
matinées with her own particular friends. Jane’s engagements were with
another set entirely, school friends most of them, whose parents and
hers hardly knew each other. Both she and her mother habitually
breakfasted in bed, generally at different hours, and seldom lunched
together. At dinner, when Mr. Strong was present, there were no
intimacies between mother and daughter. The only times they really saw
each other for protracted periods were when they happened to go
shopping, or go to the dressmaker’s together, and then the subject
always uppermost in the minds of both of them was the all-important and
absorbing topic of clothes. Occasionally, Jane poured at one of her
mother’s more formal functions, but for the most part the time of each
was taken up in a mad, senseless hunt for amusement.
Suddenly every thought was driven from Jane’s head. Her face went
white, and with difficulty she managed to suppress an alarmed cry.
“What is it, daughter?” asked her mother, noting her perturbation. “Are
you feeling ill?”
“A touch of neuralgia,” she managed to answer.
“Too many late hours,” warned Mrs. Starrett reprovingly.
“I’m afraid so,” said Mrs. Strong. “As soon as I’ve paid my check we’ll
go.”
“I’m perfectly all right now,” said Jane, controlling herself with
effort, though her face was still white.
The danger that she had feared had passed for the present at least.
Glancing toward the entrance a moment before she had been terrified to
see entering the black-mustached man who had accosted her a few moments
before. Her one thought now had been that he had followed her here, and
in a panic she was wondering how she should make explanations if he
came up to their table and spoke. To her great relief he gave no
intimation of having seen her, but settled himself into a chair near
the door where he was half hidden from her by a great palm. Furtively
she watched him, trying to divine his intention in having followed her
there. Respectable enough though he was in appearance and garb, he did
not seem in the least like the sort of man likely to be found at
tea-time in an exclusive hotel. As she studied him she soon saw that
his attention seemed to be riveted on some one sitting at the other
side of the room. Wonderingly she let her eyes follow his, and once
more it was with difficulty that she suppressed an excited gasp.
There, across the room, calmly sipping some coffee, was the handsome
young man from the next apartment—the man whom she had felt sure, or at
least almost sure, was a murderer, about whom she had been wondering
all day long, picturing him as a hunted criminal fleeing from the law.
Chatting interestedly with him was another man, a young man in the
uniform of a lieutenant in the navy.
What did it all mean? Why was the black-mustached man watching them so
intently? Her eyes turned back to him. He was still sitting there,
leaning forward a little, his brows in a pucker of concentration, his
eyes still fixed on the pair opposite. It looked almost as if he was
trying to read their lips and tell what they were talking about.
Jane thrilled with excitement. The black-mustached man, she decided,
must be a detective. She recalled that he had said to her it was
because she lived at the address she did that she was available for the
mission for which he wanted her. Did he, she wondered, know about the
mysterious death in the street outside their apartment house? Was that
the reason he was spying on her neighbor? But what could be his motive
in seeking to involve her in the matter?
Unable to find satisfactory answers to her questions she gave herself
up interestedly to studying the faces of the two young men across the
room. Neither of them, she decided, could be much more than thirty. The
face that only a few hours before she had seen utterly convulsed with
bitter hate, now placid and smiling, was really an attractive one, not
in the least like a murderer’s. Frank, alert blue eyes looked out from
under an intellectual forehead. A small military mustache lent emphasis
to a clean-shaven, forceful jaw. His flaxen hair was neatly trimmed.
His linen and clothing were immaculate, and the hand that curved around
his cup had long, tapering, well-manicured fingers. The cut of his
clothing, his manners, everything about him seemed American, yet there
was an indefinable something in his appearance that suggested foreign
birth or parentage, probably either Swedish or German. The man with him
was smaller and slighter. Despite the air of importance his uniform
gave him, it was palpable that he was the less forceful of the two, his
handsome face, it seemed to Jane, betraying weakness of character and a
fondness for the good things of life.
“Come, daughter,” said Mrs. Strong, rising, “we must be going.”
So intent was Jane on her study of the two men that her mother had to
speak twice to her.
“Yes, mother,” she answered obediently, rising hastily as the hint of
annoyance in her mother’s repeated remark brought her to a realization
of having been addressed.
Letting her mother and Mrs. Starrett precede her in the doorway she
paused to look back at the scene that had interested her so strongly.
What _could_ it mean? What was going on? How was she involved in it?
Her glance moved quickly from the watcher to the watched. The blond
young man caught her eye. Amazedly, it seemed to her, he stopped right
in the middle of what he was saying and sat there, his gaze fixed full
on her. She let her eyes fall, abashed, and turned to hasten after her
mother, but not so quickly did she turn but that she observed he had
hastily seized his cup and appeared to be drinking to her, not so much
impudently as admiringly.