"The same with this case. You think I'm in love with Quarles because I
defend him. That's just like a man! The truth is, what hurts me is to
see you deceive yourself, and then look fatuous about it."
She was now wielding a double-edged sword. "But if the woman who loves
him was deceived, surely I have some excuse," I said meekly.
"That's the weakness of her character--or the penalty of her position,
whichever you like. She is so surrounded by flattery and meanness, it
has taught her to suspect even her lover."
"But how did the pearls get in his safe?" I cried, begging for mercy.
"I don't know. It's a mystery. I'm only trying to show you that you
haven't solved the mystery yet." Once more she changed her tone, the
witch! "I'm so keen to have you make a great success of the case, Ben.
And to help a little."
That completed the rout of my forces. "Sadie, darling," I cried. "In
my heart I feel the same as you. I would have given in at once if you
hadn't begun by slapping my face!"
There was a little private interlude here. Boss and operative were
lost sight of.
"Now let's get to work!" I said.
"I hope it's not too late!" she said sadly.
11
I hastened down to Quarles' rooms near Gramercy Square. I found his
old housekeeper in tears. My glimpse beyond her showed me that the
place was partly dismantled. I found that she was half-heartedly
packing. She did not know me without my Faxon makeup, and refused any
information. I suspected that she had been forbidden to speak.
However, by adroit and sympathetic questioning, and because the poor
old soul was bursting with her troubles, it finally came out with a
rush. She thought her master had lost his mind, he had acted so
strangely, but such was her awe of him, she had not dared question his
commands.
All night long he had paced his bedroom and sitting-room, pausing only
to burn papers and cherished mementos in the grate. When she had risen
from her bed and timidly enquired if he were ill, he had harshly
ordered her back to her room. There she had lain trembling until
morning, grieving because she thought she had offended him.
He had left his breakfast untasted. Afterwards he had called her to
him, and in a voice and manner totally unlike his own, had announced
that he was going away, and had given her instructions that terrified
her. His furniture was to be sent to an auctioneer's under an assumed
name, and was to be put up on the first sale day. She was to keep what
it brought in lieu of wages. His clothes were to be sent to the
Salvation Army. His jewelry and knick-knacks she might sell or keep as
she chose. On second thoughts he had written out his instructions in
the form of a letter to her in case any of her acts should be
questioned. He had then called a taxi from the stable he usually
patronised, and had departed without any baggage. This last fact
alarmed her more than all the rest.
All this read fatally clear. I was careful, however, to make light of
it to the grief-stricken old woman. I assumed an authority which she
willingly deferred to. I ordered her to put the rooms in order, and
not to make any other move until she heard from me again. She was
vastly cheered. What she dwelt on most tragically was the necessity of
sending all his beautiful suits to the ragged crew who profited by the
Salvation Army's benefactions.
I found out from the taxi stable that Quarles had been driven to the
Pennsylvania station. I got hold of his driver, a man frequently
employed by him. He had remarked his strange appearance this morning.
On reaching the station Quarles had asked the porter who opened the cab
door what time the next train left for Baltimore. On learning that he
had but three minutes to catch it, he had thrust a bill in the
chauffeur's hand, and rushed away. This had been at ten o'clock; it
was now nearly one. I had the same driver carry me to the station,
where I telephoned Sadie, snatched a bite to eat, and caught the next
express South.
It was not the most cheerful journey I have taken. I had four hours to
think over the tragic possibilities of my mistake, and it was small
comfort to reflect that it was a natural mistake. Quarles, with his
three hours' start had only too much time to put his purpose into
effect. My only hope was that he might instinctively be led to wait
until night. Darkness has an invincible attraction for desperate souls.
Arriving in Baltimore I had the whole wide city to choose from, and not
a clue. No chance of anybody's having marked him in the crowd that
left the train there. However, I happened to know of a certain select
hotel invariably patronised by the elite of the profession, and I went
there on a chance. The clerk I saw did not know Mr. Quarles, but upon
my describing him he said that such a young man had been in the hotel
during the afternoon. He was not registered there. He recollected him
because he had stopped at the desk to ask an unusual question. Did the
clerk know where there was a taxidermist in town? Together they had
looked up an address in the business directory, and the young man had
departed. He had not returned.
I hastened to the taxidermist's wondering greatly what could have been
Quarles' errand in such a place. Casting back in my mind, I remembered
having seen several little cases of mounted butterflies among his
treasures. There was something pathetically innocent in the wide open
trail the young fellow was leaving behind him. This surely was no
experienced criminal.
The store was kept by a benignant old man who somehow seemed to belong
with the stuffed birds and pet dogs that lined the walls of his little
place. I also saw many little frames of impaled beetles and
butterflies such as I had seen in Quarles' rooms. The entire place had
an old world look.
The old fellow was a kindly, garrulous soul who required not the
slightest pressure to set him talking. Quarles, it appeared, had made
quite an impression on him. "A handsome young fellow!" he said, "and
such a gentleman." Quarles, he said, had been attracted into his shop
by the butterflies, and they had fallen into talk about butterfly
hunting, of which sport both were devotees. Quarles had finally
purchased three beautiful specimens of something with a terrible Latin
name.
As he was about to leave, Quarles had remarked that he was on his way
out of town for a jaunt, and he had neglected to provide himself with
any cyanide. It seems that cyanide is what they use to kill the
insects. In all innocence the old man had furnished it, and his
customer with one more question had departed. Where was there a second
hand clothes dealer?
Cyanide of potassium, deadliest of poisons! I hastened to the second
hand store with a sickness at the heart.
They remembered Quarles here, too. The story he had told here was that
he wanted some worn old clothes to wear to a masquerade. He had been
furnished with a complete outfit, hat, suit, shirt, socks and shoes.
While things were being wrapped up, he had mentioned idly that he was a
stranger in town, and he had a couple of hours to kill. He wanted to
know of a trolley line that would take him out in the country. The
storekeeper had recommended the Annapolis short line as the pleasantest
ride on a mild evening.
This had been about four, and it was now a little after six. I had
caught up on him a little, I found that the cars left for Annapolis
every half hour. By good luck the car which had left at four returned
while I was waiting in the station. I interviewed the conductor. He
remembered Quarles. His attention had been attracted to him because,
although he held a ticket to Annapolis, he had suddenly risen and left
the car at the Severn river bridge station. I took the six-thirty car
for Annapolis. The conductor told me that the station at the bridge
was used principally by summer residents who had their motor boats meet
them here. At this season, early in May, there was but little business
there. It was almost dark when I got off, a balmy, Spring evening. It
was a lonely-looking spot. There was a little settlement up a hill,
with a path from the station, but I guessed that if my man had been
attracted by the loneliness of the situation, he would not go that way.
I looked about. Crossing the track and climbing down to a deserted
strip of beach beside the wide river, I found with my flashlight that a
solitary person had gone that way before me. He was wearing a shapely
shoe. This would surely be he. The tracks drew me along beside the
river towards its mouth, which was in view. On the other side, farther
down, sparkled the lights of the Naval Academy.
Rounding a point, in a little cove hidden from the world, I found the
remains of a fire on the sand. The embers were still glowing. Poking
among them I found scraps of scorched felt and woollen cloth and bits
of broken glass. Here obviously, Quarles had changed his clothes, and
had destroyed the expensive garments he wore to the scene. Evidently
he was counting on the fact that there is little trouble taken to
establish the identity of a poorly dressed suicide. The glass was no
doubt what remained of the case of butterflies he had bought. Some
coins in the ashes added their mute testimony of his desperate
intention.
I hurried on. The footprints recommenced beyond the fire, their shape
somewhat altered, for he had changed his shoes with the rest. His fine
shoes he must have filled with stones and thrown in the river for I
found no remains of leather in the fire. I hoped that with the time he
had spent doing all this he would now be but a short distance ahead of
me. Unfortunately half a minute--half of that, would be enough for him
to accomplish his purpose.
I came to the main road from Baltimore to Annapolis which crosses the
Severn by another long bridge. Automobiles crossed it at intervals.
Since the footprints were not resumed in the sand across the road it
was clear he had turned into it one way or the other. The river seemed
likeliest. I started out on the bridge, dreading most of all to hear a
splash just out of my reach. It was now quite dark.
Out in the middle of the bridge close to the draw I came upon a
motionless, slouching figure with battered hat pulled down over the
face. Notwithstanding the shapeless clothes the tall slenderness was
unmistakable. He was leaning with his elbows on the guard rail
regarding something that he held in one hand. The object caught a
spark from the red light of the draw overhead. It was the vial of
cyanide. My heart bounded with relief. I was in time--but barely.
"Quarles," I said softly.
He straightened up with a terrified hissing intake of the breath. I
turned the flashlight on myself to save lengthy explanations.
"_You!_" he said after a moment, in a low bitter tone. "God! must you
dog me here!"
"I am your friend," I said.
He laughed. "Friend!" he said. "That's good!" Then his tone changed.
"You'd better be on your way," he said threateningly. "I'm in no mood
for fooling."
"I've been trying to overtake you since noon," I said, merely to be
saying something. An instinct told me there was nothing like a little
conversation to let down a desperate man.
"Why, in God's name?" he demanded. "What good am I to you now?"
"I no longer believe you guilty."
"I don't give a damn what you believe."
"I want you to help me find the thief."
"It's nothing to me who took the pearls. She's got 'em back again.
You'd better go on. I won't stand for any interference."
"You won't do it now," I said confidently.
"Won't I!"
He made a move to uncork the little vial. I struck his wrist and it
fell to the ground. We searched for it frantically in the dark. I had
the light, and I saw it first. I put my heel on it, and ground the
fragile, deadly thing into the planks of the bridge floor. He cursed
me.
"There is still the water," I said.
"I'm a swimmer," he said sullenly. "I couldn't go down. I meant to
climb on the rail and take the stuff, so it would look like drowning.
But there are plenty of ways."
"Be a man and _live_!" I said.
He laughed again. "There's nothing in that cant for a man who's sick
of the game."
"Live for her sake," I hazarded. "She loves you."
"You've mistaken your job, old man," he said with grim amusement. "You
ought to be a playwright. Write her a play. She's a great actress.
Yah! I'm sick of it! Love! There's no such thing. Not in women!
This is real, anyhow."
I had got him talking. Something told me the crisis was past. I took
a new tack.
"She certainly has treated you badly," I said. "I don't wonder you're
sore. I know just how you feel."
He turned on me with clenched fist and a furious command to be silent.
"It's no damned policeman's business what I feel!"
"Revenge is sweet," I murmured.
It brought him up all standing. In the dark I heard him breathing
quickly.
"Do you want to crawl away like a cur and die in a hole?" I asked.
"Why in Hell can't you let me alone?" he said fretfully. "What do you
want to drag me back for?"
I saw I had him going now. "Make her suffer," I urged. "The most
perfect revenge in the world is yours if you want it, because she loves
you."
"What are you getting at?"
"Prove your innocence to her."
"I doubt if I could," he said weakly. "I shouldn't know how to begin.
I seem to be caught in a net."
"I am offering to help you."
"What's your game?" he demanded suspiciously.
"I've made a serious mistake," I said. "I've got my professional
reputation to think of. Besides, I'm only human. I don't want to have
your untimely end on my conscience."
"It needn't be. I'm my own master."
I decided to risk all on one throw. I laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Look here," I said frankly. "You and I are not strangers. We took to
each other from the first, though I happened to be wearing a disguise.
I have suffered like the devil all day. Forgive me my part in
yesterday's affair, and be my friend. Friendship isn't such a common
thing in spite of all the talk about it. I should think you'd
recognise the real thing when it's offered to you."
"Rubbish!" he grumbled. "I don't believe in friendship. I never had a
real friend." But he didn't shake my hand off.
"Try me."
"Oh well, you've spoiled it for to-night, anyway. I'll listen to what
you've got to say. Where can we go? I haven't a cent. And nothing
but these filthy rags."
"That's a trifle," I said joyfully. "I'll find a place."
12
We proceeded on across the bridge into the town of Annapolis. First I
took Roland to a lunch room and commanded him to eat. I had a time
getting him to swallow the first mouthful, but that once down, he
developed a ravenous appetite. I suppose he had not eaten in thirty
hours. It was comical to see how, with a stomachful of hot food inside
him, a zest in living renewed itself. The more his resolution
weakened, the louder he inveighed against life. But he had a sense of
humour. He suddenly became conscious of the absurdity of his attitude,
and we laughed together. From that moment he was safe, and he was
mine. There is nothing to cement a friendship like laughter.
Afterwards I got a room in an obscure hotel. Roland sat down on the
edge of the bed, and proceeded to give me his version of the matters
that perplexed me so. In the middle of a sentence he fell over and
slept like a dead man. I stole out and telegraphed Sadie at Amityville
that I had him safe and sound. Returning, I sat by the hour watching
him. My heart was soft for the human creature I had snatched from the
brink. He looked very boyish and appealing as he lay sleeping. He
seemed years younger than I. I cannot tell you how glad I was to think
that there was warmth in the young body, and sentience under the shut
lids.
Shortly after midnight he awoke as suddenly and thoroughly as he had
fallen asleep. Then he wanted to talk. He was bursting with talk. I
swallowed my yawns and set myself to listen. I let him talk in his own
way, no questions. For a long time I listened to what I already knew,
the tale of his jealous, hopeless passion for Irma. Sometimes he had
suspected that she inclined towards him, but it seemed preposterous to
ask her to give up her profession for him. On the other hand he knew
he could not endure sharing his wife with the public. He had decided
to go away without speaking--and then the miraculous legacy had dropped
from the skies.
"Tell me all about that," I commanded.
"I promised not to tell," he said reluctantly.
"This is a matter of life and death. Why was a promise exacted?"
"To avoid publicity."
"There will be none," I said. "I pledge myself to guard the secret as
well as you could."
"I destroyed the letter I got, with the others," he said. "But I read
it so often I can give it to you almost word for word."
"Too bad it was destroyed!" I said.
"Oh, you can verify the contents by the Amsterdam Trust Company who
paid me the money."
"But if you have a clear case what did you run for?" I asked amazed.
"You will never understand," he said with a wry smile. "I seemed to
die at that moment when I saw that Irma believed I was capable of
robbing her. What did I care about my case?"
Hearing that, my opinion of Sadie's perspicacity went up marvellously.
"Go on," I said.
I took down the letter from his dictation. It was written, he said, on
expensive note-paper, without address, crest or seal, in a large and
somewhat old-fashioned feminine hand.
"DEAR MR. QUARLES:
Although you have never heard of me I think of you as my dearest
friend. I have followed your career from the time of your first
appearance on the stage. I am one of those unfortunates who, condemned
to live, are cut off from life. I watch life pass from behind my iron
screen. It is you who, all unconscious, have supplied me with a dream
to cheat my emptiness. I have warmed my cold hands at your fire.
"Now they tell me my release is at hand. I wish to show my gratitude
to you in the only way that is possible to me. An artist's career is
difficult and uncertain. I want to remove a little of the uncertainty
from yours.
"I must avoid giving rise to silly gossip which would grieve my
relatives. To avoid the publicity of probate I am making secret
arrangements beforehand. An old friend will carry out my wishes for me
when I am gone.
"The doctors give me a week longer. Upon my death this letter will be
mailed to you. You will then hear from the Amsterdam Trust Company
that a sum of money awaits your order. You will never know my name.
But if you should let even the bare facts become known, some busybody
would eventually connect them with my name, and unhappy gossip result.
Therefore I ask you as a man of honour to keep the whole transaction
locked in your breast."
"That is all," said Roland. "It was signed: 'Your grateful friend.'"
"Did you look in the recent obituaries for a clue?" I asked.
"Yes," he confessed. "There was none."
"Go ahead with your story. We'll return to the letter later."
"At first I thought it was a hoax," he resumed, "but sure enough, in
two or three days I received a letter from the Trust Company asking me
to call. I saw the President. He said that the sum of forty thousand
dollars had been deposited with them to be turned over to me in cash.
He said it had been bequeathed to me by one who desired to remain
unknown. He said he did not know himself who my benefactor was. He
had dealt with a lawyer. He said that there was but one condition
attached to the legacy, namely that I give my word never to speak of
the matter. I had met this Mr. Ambler the president, and he had seen
me act, so there was no difficulty about identifying me. I left his
office carrying the money, and carried it to my own bank to deposit.
That is all there is to that."
"Good!" I said. "The Amsterdam Trust Company is a solid institution,
and the president a well-known man. They will still be there if we
need them."
"It mustn't get in the newspapers," he said nervously.
"Trust me for that. I'm not going to make you break your word. Now
about the bet you made with Miss Hamerton."
He winced at the sound of her name. "There's no more in that than
appears on the surface," he said irritably. "I couldn't have told the
paste from the genuine. I wanted to give her a box of gloves. But she
never claimed them, and I forgot about it."
"The cryptogram you have already explained," said I.
"I did not know there was such a paper in my pocket."
"Hold on," he cried suddenly, "about that bet. I have just remembered
that I once had a talk about precious stones, pearls, with a man in the
company."
"Milbourne?"
"Sure! How did you know?"
"I believe he took them. But it's going to be a job to prove it."
"It was just a trifling conversation," Roland resumed, thinking hard.
"I can't remember exactly. He marked the beauty and oddity of Ir--of
Miss Hamerton's necklace. I think he said he hoped that she did not
risk wearing real pearls on the stage. That may have been to find out
if I knew they were artificial. I told him she did not wear the real
ones. There was more talk. He seemed to know about pearls, and I
believe I asked him how to tell the real from the artificial. I never
thought of it then, but looking back I see that it may have been that
talk which gave me the idea of making a bet with Ir--with her. Oh, I
have been a fool!"
"This is all interesting," I said, "but it doesn't give us anything
solid to go on. Now for the main thing. How did the real pearls get
in your safe?"
Roland struck his forehead. "I have been everybody's dupe!" he groaned.
"It's a part we all have to play occasionally," I said soothingly. "Go
ahead."
"About this time I began to get circular letters from a firm of
jewellers called Jones and Sanford with an address on Maiden Lane,
where all the jewellers used to be. They were fac-simile letters, very
well written."
"The kind that are made to look like personal letters, but like false
teeth, deceive nobody?"
"Precisely. I got one every few days. They were all to the effect
that the writers as brokers, were prepared to sell precious stones at
prices much under those asked by the big jewellers. There was a lot of
rigmarole about saving on overhead charges, interest on valuable stocks
and so on, about what you would expect in such letters. There were a
lot of imposing-looking references, too."
"At first I paid no attention to the letters; precious stones didn't
interest me. But when I got all that money I began to read them. You
see I--I wanted to make Irma a present, and I knew she loved pearls
better than anything else in the world."
I let a whistle of astonishment out of me. "Do you mean to say you
bought Miss Hamerton's pearls with the idea of presenting her with
them, to add to her collection?"