1
Mrs. Waddington found the authorities at Police Headquarters charming.
It was some little time before they corrected their initial impression
that she had come to give herself up to justice for committing a
jewel-robbery: but, this done, they threw themselves heart and soul
into her cause and became extraordinarily helpful. True, they were
forced to admit that the description which she gave of the thief
conveyed absolutely nothing to them: but if it had done, they assured
her, she would have been amazed at the remorseless speed with which the
machinery of the Law would have been set working.
If, for instance, the girl had been tall and thin with shingled auburn
hair, they would have spread the net at once for "Chicago Kitty." If,
on the other hand, she had had a snub nose and two moles on her chin,
then every precinct would have been warned by telephone to keep an
eye out for "Cincinnati Sue." While, if only she had limped slightly
and spoken with a lisp, the arrest of "Indianapolis Edna" would have
been a mere matter of hours. As it was, they were obliged to confess
themselves completely baffled: and Mrs. Waddington came away with the
feeling that, if she had not happened to possess large private means,
she could have gone into the jewel-stealing business herself and
cleaned up big without any fear of unpleasant consequences. It was
wrong of her, of course, to call the chief detective a fat-faced goop,
but by that time she had become a little annoyed.
She was still annoyed as she came out into the street, but the pleasant
night air had a cooling effect. She was able now to perceive that the
theft of the necklace was, after all, only a side-issue, and that there
lay before her sterner work than the mere bringing to book of female
criminals. The consummation to which she must devote all her faculties
was the downfall of George Finch.
It was at this point that she decided that she needed an ally, a
sympathetic coadjutor who would trot along by her side and do what
he was told and generally supply aid and encouragement in the rather
tricky operations on which she was about to embark. She went to a
public telephone-office and invested five cents in a local call.
"Lord Hunstanton?"
"Hullo?"
"This is Mrs. Waddington."
"Oh, ah? Many happy returns."
"What are you doing just now?"
"I was thinking of popping out and having a bit to eat."
"Meet me at the Ritz-Carlton in ten minutes."
"Right-ho. Thanks, awfully. I will. Yes. Thanks. Right. Fine.
Absolutely. Right-ho."
So now we find Mrs. Waddington seated in the vestibule of the
Ritz-Carlton Hotel, watching the door like a cat at a mouse-hole and
tapping the carpet impatiently with an ample shoe. Like everybody else
who has ever waited five minutes for anybody in a restaurant, she had
the illusion of having been there for several hours. But at last her
patience was rewarded. An elegant figure shimmered through the doorway
and came towards her, beaming with happy anticipation. Lord Hunstanton
was a man who combined a keen appetite with a rugged distaste for
paying for his own meals, and the prospect of a dinner at the Ritz
at somebody else's expense enchanted him. He did not actually lick
his lips, but as he looked brightly up the stairs to where benevolent
waiters were plying contented diners with food, there flitted across
his face a radiant smile.
"Hope I'm not late," said Lord Hunstanton.
"Sit down," said Mrs. Waddington. "I want to talk to you." And
proceeded to do so at some length.
Lord Hunstanton blinked pathetically.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said, as his companion paused for breath. "I
know it's all frightfully interesting, but I don't seem somehow to
follow. How would it be if we slid into the dining-room and thrashed
the whole thing out quietly over a thoughtful steak or something?"
Mrs. Waddington eyed him with a distaste that bordered on contempt.
"You surely do not imagine that I propose to waste time eating?"
"Eh?" His lordship's jaw fell an inch. "Not eat?"
"Certainly not. I will repeat what I was saying, and please listen
attentively this time."
"But I say! No dinner?"
"No."
"No soup?"
"No."
"No fish? No nourishment of any description?"
"Certainly not. We have no time to lose. We must act promptly and
swiftly."
"How about a sand--...?"
"You were present at that appalling scene this afternoon," said Mrs.
Waddington, "so there is no need to describe it to you. You will not
have forgotten how that girl came into the room and denounced George
Finch. You recall all she said."
"I do indeed. It was the real ginger."
"But unfortunately untrue."
"Eh?"
"It was a ruse. She was a thief. She did it in order to steal a
pearl necklace belonging to my stepdaughter, which was among the
wedding-presents."
"No, really? I say! Fancy that!"
"Unfortunately there seems to be no doubt of it. And so, instead of
being appalled at George Finch's moral turpitude, my stepdaughter looks
upon him as a much-injured man and wishes the marriage to take place as
arranged. Are you listening?"
Lord Hunstanton started. There had come frolicking towards him from the
dining-room a lively young smell composed principally of tournedos and
gravy, and his attention had wandered.
"Sorry," he said. "Thinking of something else for the moment. You
were saying that Miss Waddington was appalled at George Finch's moral
turpitude."
"I was saying precisely the reverse. She is not appalled."
"No? Very broad-minded, these modern girls," said Lord Hunstanton,
turning away and trying not to inhale.
"But," proceeded Mrs. Waddington, "I am convinced that, although in
this particular matter this Finch may be blameless, his morals, if we
only knew it, are as degraded as those of all other artists. I feel as
certain as I am that I am sitting here that George Finch is a loose
fish."
"Fish!" moaned Lord Hunstanton.
"And I have made up my mind that there is only one thing to do if I am
to expose the man in his true colours, and that is to go to the den
which he maintains near Washington Square and question his man-servant
as to his private life. We will start at once."
"But, I say, you don't need me?"
"Certainly I need you. Do you imagine that I propose to call at this
man's lair alone?"
Across the landing at the top of the stairs there passed a waiter
bearing a tray with a smoking dish upon it. Lord Hunstanton followed
him with haggard eyes: and, having watched him enter the restaurant,
wished he had not done so, for there by one of the tables stood another
waiter carving for a party of four what looked like the roast chicken
of a lifetime,--one of those roast chickens you tell your grandchildren
about. His lordship uttered a faint, whinnying sound and clenched his
hands.
"Come!" said Mrs. Waddington. "Let us go."
The thought of defying this overpowering woman did not enter Lord
Hunstanton's mind. Nobody ever defied Mrs. Waddington. And so, some
little time later, a cab drew up outside the Sheridan Apartment House
and two figures proceeded to climb the stairs--for it was one of the
pleasing features of the Sheridan that the elevator was practically
always out of order.
Arrived at the top floor, Lord Hunstanton rang the bell. The sound
echoed faintly within.
"Seems to be out," said his lordship, having tried again.
"We will wait."
"What, here?"
"On the roof."
"How long?"
"Until this Finch's man-servant returns."
"But he may be hours."
"Then we will wait hours."
Lord Hunstanton's aching interior urged him to protest. "Be brave!"
it gurgled. And, whilst still not sufficiently courageous to defy, he
nerved himself to make a suggestion.
"How would it be," he said, "if I just pushed round the corner
somewhere and snatched a bite? I mean to say, you never know whether
this man-servant fellow won't turn nasty. Sticking up for the young
master, I mean to say. In which case, I should be twice the man with a
bit of food inside me. With a dish of beans or something nicely poised
within, I could do my bit."
Mrs. Waddington regarded him scornfully.
"Very well. But kindly return as soon as possible."
"Oh, I will, by Jove! Just want to pack away a hasty prune. I'll be
back before you know I've gone."
"You will find me on the roof."
"On the roof. Right! Well, tinkety-tonk, then, for the moment," said
his lordship, and pattered off down the stairs.
Mrs. Waddington mounted another flight, and came out under the broad
canopy of heaven. She found herself with a choice of views, the
glittering city that stretched away below and the dark windows of the
Finch lair. She chose the windows and watched them narrowly.
She had been watching them for some considerable time, when suddenly
the middle ones, the French windows, lit up. And, as she stepped
forward, her rosiest dreams were realised. Across the yellow blind
there passed a shadow which was plainly that of a young female person,
no doubt of a grade of morality so low that in any other place but
Washington Square it would have provoked the raised eyebrow and the
sharp intake of the breath. Mrs. Waddington advanced to the window and
tapped upon it imperiously.
There was a startled exclamation from within. The blind shot up,
revealing a stoutish man in sober black. The next moment the window was
opened, and the stoutish man popped his head out.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"I am," said Mrs. Waddington.
"Jiminy Christmas!" said the stoutish man.
2
Frederick Mullett had been in a nervous frame of mind all the
afternoon, more nervous even than that of the ordinary bridegroom on
his wedding-day. For he had been deeply exercised for many hours past
by the problem of what his bride had been up to that afternoon.
Any bridegroom would be upset if his newly-made wife left him
immediately after the ceremony on the plea that she had important
business to attend to and would see him later. Frederick Mullett was
particularly upset. It was not so much the fact that he had planned
a golden afternoon of revelry including a visit to Coney Island and
had had to forgo it that disturbed him. That the delightful programme
should have been cancelled was, of course, a disappointment: but what
really caused him mental anguish was the speculation as to what from
the view-point of a girl like Fanny constituted important business. Her
reticence on this vital question had spoiled his whole day.
He was, in short, in exactly the frame of mind when a man who has
married a pickpocket and has watched her go off on important business
does not want to hear people tapping sharply on windows. If a mouse
had crossed the floor at that moment, Frederick Mullett would have
suspected it of being a detective in disguise. He peered at Mrs.
Waddington with cold horror.
"What do you want?"
"I wish to see and question the young woman who is in this apartment."
Mullett's mouth felt dry. A shiver ran down his spine.
"What young woman?"
"Come, come!"
"There isn't any young woman here."
"Tut, tut!"
"There isn't, I tell you."
Mrs. Waddington's direct mind was impatient of this attempt to deceive.
"I will make it worth your while to tell the truth," she said.
Mullett recoiled. The thought that he was being asked to sell his bride
on the very day of their wedding revolted him. Not that he would have
sold her at any time, of course, but being asked to do so on this day
of all days made the thing seem, as Officer Garroway would have said,
so peculiarly stark and poignant.
With a frenzied gesture of abhorrence he slammed the window. He
switched off the light and with agonised bounds reached the kitchen,
where Mrs. Frederick Mullett was standing at the range stirring a welsh
rarebit.
"Hello, sweetie!" cooed his bride, looking up. "I'm just fixing the
rabbit. The soup's ready."
"And we're in it," said Mullett hollowly.
"Why, whatever do you mean?"
"Fanny, where did you go this afternoon?"
"Just down into the country, dearie. I told you."
"Yes, but you didn't tell me what you did there."
"It's a secret for the present, darling. I want to keep it as a
surprise. It's something to do with some money that's coming to us."
Mullett eyed her wanly.
"Fanny, were you doing a job this afternoon down there in the country?"
"Why, Freddy Mullett! What an idea!"
"Then what are the bulls here for?"
"The bulls!"
"There's a female dick out on the roof right now. And she's asking for
you."
Fanny stared, round-eyed.
"Asking for me? You're crazy."
"She said 'I wish to see and question the young woman who is in this
apartment.' Those were her very words."
"I'll take a peek at her."
"Don't let her see you," begged Mullett, alarmed.
"Is it likely!"
Fanny walked composedly to the sitting-room. She felt no concern.
The most comforting possession in the world is, of course, a quiet
conscience: but almost as good is the knowledge that you have left no
tracks behind you. Fanny was positive that, on taking her departure
from the Waddington home at Hempstead that afternoon, she had made
a nice clean getaway and could not possibly have been followed to
this place by even the most astute of female dicks. Mullett, she was
convinced, must have misunderstood this woman, whoever she might be.
She drew the blind aside an inch and looked cautiously out. The
intruder was standing so close to the window that it was possible even
in the uncertain light to get an adequate view of her: and what she
saw reassured Fanny. She returned to her anxious husband with words of
cheer.
"That's no dick," she said. "I can tell 'em a mile off."
"Then who is she?"
"You'd better ask her. Listen, you go and kid her along and I'll sneak
out. Then we can meet somewhere when you're through. It's a shame
having to waste this nice supper, but we'll go to a restaurant. Listen,
I'll be waiting for you at the Astor."
"But if she's not a dick, why not stay where we are?"
"You don't want people knowing that I'm here, do you? Suppose your boss
heard of it, what would he say?"
"That's true. All right, then. Wait for me at the Astor. Though it's
kind of a swell place, isn't it?"
"Well, don't you want a swell place to dine at on your wedding-night?"
"You're right."
"I'm always right," said Fanny, giving her husband's cheek a loving
pinch. "That's the first thing you've got to get into your head, now
you're a married man."
Mullett returned to the sitting-room and switched on the light again.
He felt fortified. He opened the window with something of an air.
"You were saying, ma'am?"
Mrs. Waddington was annoyed.
"What do you mean by going away and slamming the window in my face?"
"Had to see to something in the kitchen, ma'am. Is there anything I can
do for you?"
"There is. I wish to know who the young woman is who is in the
apartment."
"No young woman in this apartment, ma'am."
Mrs. Waddington began to feel that she was approaching this matter
from the wrong angle. She dipped in her bag.
"Here is a ten-dollar bill."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I should like to ask you a few questions."
"Very good, ma'am."
"And I shall be obliged if you will answer them truthfully. How long
have you been in Mr. Finch's employment?"
"About a couple of months, ma'am."
"And what is your opinion of Mr. Finch's morals?"
"They're swell."
"Nonsense. Don't attempt to deceive me. Is it not a fact that during
your term of employment you have frequently admitted female visitors to
this apartment?"
"Only models, ma'am."
"Models!"
"Mr. Finch is an artist."
"I am aware of it," said Mrs. Waddington with a shiver. "So you persist
in your statement that Mr. Finch's mode of life is not irregular?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then," said Mrs. Waddington, twitching the ten-dollar bill neatly from
his grasp, "It may interest you to know that I do not believe you."
"Here, hey!" cried Mullett, deeply moved. "You gave me that!"
"And I have taken it back," said Mrs. Waddington, replacing the bill in
her bag. "You do not deserve it."
Mullett slammed the window, outraged in his finest feelings. For
some moments he stood, fermenting. Then, seething with justifiable
indignation, he switched off the light once more and went out.
He had reached the foot of the stairs, when he heard his name spoken,
and, turning, was aware of a long policeman regarding him with a mild
friendliness.
"Surely it is Mr. Mullett?" said the policeman.
"Hullo?" said Mullett, somewhat embarrassed. Habit is not easily
overcome, and there had been a time when the mere sight of a policeman
had made him tremble like a leaf.
"You remember me? My name is Garroway. We met some weeks ago."
"Why, sure," said Mullett, relieved. "You're the poet."
"It is very nice of you to say so," said Officer Garroway, simpering
a little. "I am about to call at Mr. Beamish's apartment now with my
latest effort. And how has the world been using you, Mr. Mullett?"
"All right. Everything hunky-dory with you?"
"Completely. Well, I must not detain you. No doubt you are on your way
to some important appointment."
"That's right. Say!" said Mullett, suddenly inspired. "Are you on duty?"
"Not for the moment."
"But you wouldn't object to making a cop?"
"By no means. I am always willing--and, indeed, anxious--to make a cop."
"Well, there was a suspicious character on our roof just now. A woman.
I didn't like the look of her."
"Indeed? This is extremely interesting."
"She was snooping around, looking in at our windows, and I don't think
she's up to any good. You might go and ask her what she wants."
"I will attend to the matter immediately."
"If I was you, I'd pinch her on suspicion. So long."
"Good night, Mr. Mullett."
Mullett, with the elation which comes from a good deed done, moved
buoyantly off to his tryst. Officer Garroway, swinging his night-stick,
climbed thoughtfully up the stairs.
3
Mrs. Waddington, meanwhile, had not been content with a policy of
watchful waiting. She was convinced that the shadow which she had seen
on the blind had been that of a young woman: and instinct told her that
in an apartment near Washington Square where there was a young woman
present events were not likely to remain static for any considerable
length of time. No doubt the man she had questioned would have warned
the young woman of her visit, and by now she had probably gone away.
But she would return. And George Finch would return. It was simply a
question of exercising patience.
But she must leave the roof. The roof was the first place the guilty
pair would examine. If they found it empty, their fears would be
lulled. The strategic move indicated was to go downstairs and patrol
the street. There she could stay until things began to happen again.
She was about to move away, and had already taken a step towards the
door that led to the stairs, when a slight creaking noise attracted her
attention and she was surprised to observe the window swinging open.
It opened some six inches: then, caught by a gust of wind, closed
again. A moment later, there was another creak and it moved outward
once more. Apparently, in the agony of losing his ten dollars, the man
had omitted to fasten the catch.
Mrs. Waddington stopped. She drew a step nearer. She grasped the handle
and, pulling the window wide open, peered into the dark room. It seemed
to be empty, but Mrs. Waddington was a cautious woman.
"My man!" she called.
Silence.
"I wish to speak to you."
More silence. Mrs. Waddington applied the supreme test.
"I want to return that ten-dollar bill to you."
Still silence. Mrs. Waddington was convinced. She crossed the threshold
and started to feel round the walls for the switch. And, as she did so,
something came to her through the throbbing darkness.
It was the smell of soup.
* * * * *
Mrs. Waddington stiffened like a pointing dog. Although when sitting
in the vestibule of the Ritz-Carlton with Lord Hunstanton she had
apparently been impervious to the fragrant scents which had so deeply
affected his lordship, she was human. It was long past the hour at
which she usually dined, and in the matter of sustenance she was a
woman of regular habits. Already, while standing on the roof, she
had been aware of certain pangs, and now she realised beyond all
possibility of doubt that she was hungry. She quivered from head to
foot. The smell of that soup seemed to call to the deeps of her being
like the voice of an old, old love.
Moving forward like one in a trance, she groped along the wall, and
found herself in an open doorway that appeared to lead into a passage.
Here, away from the window, the darkness was blacker than ever: but,
if she could not see, she could smell, and she needed no other guide
than her nose. She walked along the passage, sniffing, and, coming to
another open door, found the scent so powerful that she almost reeled.
It had become a composite odour now, with a strong welsh rarebit motif
playing through it. Mrs. Waddington felt for the switch, pressed it
down, and saw that she was in a kitchen. And there, simmering on the
range, was a saucepan.
There are moments when even the most single-minded of women will allow
herself to be distracted from the main object of her thoughts. Mrs.
Waddington had reached the stage where soup seemed to her the most
important--if not the only--thing in life. She removed the lid from the
saucepan, and a meaty steaminess touched her like a kiss.
She drew a deep breath. She poured some of the soup into a plate. She
found a spoon. She found bread. She found salt. She found pepper.
And it was while she was lovingly sprinkling the pepper that a voice
spoke behind her.
"You're pinched!" said the voice.
4
There were not many things which could have diverted Mrs. Waddington's
attention at that moment from the plate before her. An earthquake might
have done it. So might the explosion of a bomb. This voice accomplished
it instantaneously. She spun round with a sharp scream, her heart
feeling as if it were performing one of those eccentric South Seas
dances whose popularity she had always deplored.
A policeman was standing in the doorway.
"Arrested, I should have said," added the policeman with a touch of
apology. He seemed distressed that in the first excitement of this
encounter he had failed to achieve the Word Beautiful.
Mrs. Waddington was not a woman often at a loss for speech, but she
could find none now. She stood panting.
"I must ask you, if you will be so good," said the policeman
courteously, "to come along with me. And it will avoid a great deal of
unpleasantness if you come quietly."
The torpor consequent upon the disintegrating shock of this meeting
began to leave Mrs. Waddington.
"I can explain!" she cried.
"You will have every opportunity of doing so at the station-house,"
said the policeman. "In your own interests I should advise you until
then to say as little as possible. For I must warn you that in
pursuance of my duty I shall take a memorandum of any statement which
you may make. See, I have my note-book and pencil here in readiness."
"I was doing no harm."
"That, is for the judge to decide. I need scarcely point out that
your presence in this apartment is, to say the least, equivocal. You
came in through a window,--an action which constitutes breaking and
entering, and, furthermore, I find you in the act of purloining the
property of the owner of the apartment,--to wit, soup. I am afraid I
must ask you to accompany me."
Mrs. Waddington started to clasp her hands in a desperate appeal: and,
doing so, was aware that some obstacle prevented this gesture.
It was suddenly borne in upon her that she was still holding the
pepper-pot. And suddenly a thought came like a full-blown rose,
flushing her brow.
"Ha!" she exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon?" said the policeman.
Everything in this world, every little experience which we undergo or
even merely read about, is intended, philosophers tell us, to teach
us something, to help to equip us for the battle of life. It was
not, according to this theory, mere accident, therefore, which a few
days before had caused Mrs. Waddington to read and sub-consciously
memorise the report that had appeared in the evening paper to which she
subscribed of a burglary at the residence of a certain leading citizen
of West Orange, New Jersey. The story had been sent to help her.
Of the less important details of this affair she retained no
recollection: but the one salient point in connection with it came back
to her now with all the force of an inspiration from above. Cornered
by an indignant householder, she recalled, the West Orange burglar had
made his escape by the simple means of throwing about two ounces of
pepper in the householder's face.
What this humble, probably uneducated man had been able to achieve was
surely not beyond the powers of a woman like herself,--the honorary
president of twenty-three charitable societies and a well-known
lecturer on the upbringing of infants. Turning coyly sideways, she
began to unscrew the top of the pot.
"You will understand," said the policeman deprecatingly, "that this is
extremely unpleasant for me...."
He was perfectly right. Unpleasant, he realised a moment later, was the
exact adjective which the most punctilious stylist would have chosen.
For suddenly the universe seemed to dissolve in one great cloud-burst
of pepper. Pepper tickled his mouth: pepper filled his nose: pepper
strayed into his eyes and caressed his Adam's apple. For an instant he
writhed blindly: then, clutching at the table for support, he began to
sneeze.
With the sound of those titanic sneezes ringing in her ears, Mrs.
Waddington bumped her way through the darkness till she came to the
open window: then, galloping across the roof, hurled herself down the
fire-escape.
5
The only thing in the nature of a policy or plan of action which Mrs.
Waddington had had when making for the fire-escape had been a general
desire to be as far away as possible from the representative of the Law
when he stopped sneezing and opened his eyes and began to look around
him for his assailant. But, as her feet touched the first rungs, more
definite schemes began to shape themselves. Fire-escapes, she knew,
led, if followed long enough, to the ground: and she decided to climb
to safety down this one. It was only when she had descended as far as
the ninth floor that, glancing below her, she discovered that this
particular fire-escape terminated not, as she had supposed, in some
back-alley, but in the gaily-lighted outdoor premises of a restaurant,
half the tables of which were already filled.
This sight gave her pause. In fact, to be accurate, it froze her
stiff. Nor was her agitation without reason. Those of the readers of
this chronicle who have ever thrown pepper in a policeman's face, and
skimmed away down a fire-escape are aware that fire-escapes, considered
as a refuge, have the defect of being uncomfortably exposed to view.
At any moment, felt Mrs. Waddington, the policeman might come to the
edge of the roof and look down: and to deceive him into supposing that
she was merely an ash-can or a milk-bottle was, she knew, beyond her
histrionic powers.
The instinct for self-preservation not only sharpens the wits, but
at the same time dulls the moral sensibility. It was so with Mrs.
Waddington now. Her quickened intelligence perceived in a flash that if
she climbed in through the window outside which she was now standing
she would be safe from scrutiny: and her blunted moral sense refused
to consider the fact that such an action--amounting, as it did, to
what her policeman playmate had called breaking and entering--would be
most reprehensible. Besides, she had broken and entered one apartment
already that night, and the appetite grows by what it feeds on. Some
ten seconds later, therefore, Mrs. Waddington was once more groping
through the darkness of somebody else's dwelling-place.
A well-defined scent of grease, damp towels and old cabbages told
her that the room through which she was creeping was a kitchen:
but the blackness was so uniform that she could see nothing of her
surroundings. The only thing she was able to say definitely of this
kitchen at the moment was that it contained a broom. This she knew
because she had just stepped on the end of it and the handle had shot
up and struck her very painfully on the forehead.
"Ouch!" cried Mrs. Waddington.
She had not intended to express any verbal comment on the incident, for
those who creep at night through other people's kitchens must be silent
and wary: but the sudden agony was so keen that she could not refrain
from comment. And to her horror she found that her cry had been heard.
There came through the darkness a curious noise like the drawing of a
cork, and then somebody spoke.
"Who are you?" said an unpleasant, guttural voice.
Mrs. Waddington stopped, paralysed. She would not, in the
circumstances, have heard with any real pleasure the most musical
of speech: but a soft, sympathetic utterance would undoubtedly have
afflicted her with a shade less of anguish and alarm. This voice was
the voice of one without human pity; a grating, malevolent voice; a
voice that set Mrs. Waddington thinking quiveringly in headlines:
'SOCIETY LEADER FOUND SLAIN IN KITCHEN.'
"Who are you?"
'BODY DISMEMBERED BENEATH SINK.'
"Who are you?"
'SEVERED HEAD LEADS TRACKERS TO DEATH-SPOT.'
"Who are you?"
Mrs. Waddington gulped.
"I am Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington," she faltered. And it would have
amazed Sigsbee H., had he heard her, to discover that it was possible
for her to speak with such a winning meekness.
"Who are you?"
"Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington, of East Seventy-Ninth Street and
Hempstead, Long Island. I must apologise for the apparent strangeness
of my conduct in...."
"Who are you?"
Annoyance began to compete with Mrs. Waddington's terror. Deaf persons
had always irritated her, for like so many women of an impatient
and masterful turn of mind she was of opinion that they could hear
perfectly well if they took the trouble. She raised her voice and
answered with a certain stiffness.
"I have already informed you that I am Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington...."
"Have a nut," said the voice, changing the subject.
Mrs. Waddington's teeth came together with a sharp click. All the other
emotions which had been afflicting her passed abruptly away, to be
succeeded by a cold fury. Few things are more mortifying to a proud
woman than the discovery that she had been wasting her time being
respectful to a parrot: and only her inability to locate the bird in
the surrounding blackness prevented a rather unpleasant brawl. Had she
been able to come to grips with it, Mrs. Waddington at that moment
would undoubtedly have done the parrot no good whatever.
"Brrh!" she exclaimed, expressing her indignation as effectively as
was possible by mere speech: and, ignoring the other's request--in
the circumstances, ill-timed and tasteless--that she should stop and
scratch its head, she pushed forward in search of the door.
Reaction had left her almost calm. The trepidation of a few moments
back had vanished; and she advanced now in a brisk and business-like
way. She found the door and opened it. There was more darkness beyond,
but an uncurtained window gave sufficient light for her to see that she
was in a sitting-room. Across one corner of this room lay a high-backed
chesterfield. In another corner stood a pedestal desk. And about the
soft carpet there were distributed easy chairs in any one of which
Mrs. Waddington, had the conditions been different, would have been
delighted to sit and rest.
But, though she had been on her feet some considerable time now and
was not a woman who enjoyed standing, prudence warned her that the
temptation to relax must be resisted. It was a moment for action, not
repose. She turned to the door which presumably led into the front hall
and thence to the stairs and safety: and had just opened it when there
came the click of a turning key.
Mrs. Waddington acted swiftly. The strange calm which had been upon her
dissolved into a panic fear. She darted back into the sitting-room:
and, taking the chesterfield in an inspired bound, sank down behind it
and tried not to snort.
"Been waiting long?" asked some person unseen, switching on the light
and addressing an invisible companion.
The voice was strange to Mrs. Waddington: but about the one that
replied to it there was something so fruitily familiar that she
stiffened where she lay, scarcely able to credit her senses. For it was
the voice of Ferris, her butler. And Ferris, if the truth was in him,
should by now have been at the sick-bed of a relative.
"Some little time, sir, but it has caused me no inconvenience."
"What did you want to see me about?"
"I am addressing Mr. Lancelot Biffen, the editor-in-chief of 'Town
Gossip'?"
"Yes. Talk quick. I've got to go out again in a minute."
"I understand, Mr. Biffen, that 'Town Gossip' is glad to receive and
pay a substantial remuneration for items of interest concerning those
prominent in New York Society. I have such an item."
"Who's it about?"
"My employer,--Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington, sir."
"What's she been doing?"
"It is a long story...."
"Then I haven't time to listen to it."
"It concerns the sensational interruption to the marriage of Mrs.
Waddington's stepdaughter...."
"Didn't the wedding come off, then?"
"No, sir. And the circumstances which prevented it...."
Mr. Biffen uttered an exclamation. He had apparently looked at his
watch and been dismayed by the flight of time.
"I must run," he said. "I've a date at the Algonquin in a quarter of an
hour. Come and talk to me at the office to-morrow."
"I fear that will be impossible, sir, owing to...."
"Then, see here. Have you ever done any writing?"
"Yes, sir. At Little-Seeping-in-the-Wold I frequently contributed short
articles to the parish magazine. The vicar spoke highly of them."
"Then sit down and write the thing out. Use your own words and I'll
polish it up later. I'll be back in an hour, if you want to wait."
"Very good, sir. And the remuneration?"
"We'll talk about that later."
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Biffen left the room. There followed a confused noise,--apparently
from his bedroom, in which he seemed to be searching for something.
Then the front door slammed, and quiet descended upon the apartment.
* * * * *
Mrs. Waddington continued to crouch behind her chesterfield. There had
been a moment, immediately after the departure of Mr. Biffen, when she
had half risen with the intention of confronting her traitorous butler
and informing him that he had ceased to be in her employment. But
second thoughts had held her back. Gratifying as it would undoubtedly
be to pop her head up over the back of the sofa and watch the man cower
beneath her eye, the situation, she realised, was too complicated to
permit such a procedure. She remained where she was, and whiled away
the time by trying out methods to relieve the cramp from which her
lower limbs had already begun to suffer.
From the direction of the desk came the soft scratching of pen on
paper. Ferris was plainly making quite a job of it, putting all his
energies into his task. He seemed to be one of those writers, like
Flaubert, who spared no pains in the quest for perfect clarity and are
prepared to correct and re-correct indefinitely till their artist-souls
are satisfied. It seemed to Mrs. Waddington as though her vigil was to
go on for ever.
But in a bustling city like New York it is rarely that the artist
is permitted to concentrate for long without interruption. A
telephone-bell broke raspingly upon the stillness: and the first
sensation of pleasure which Mrs. Waddington had experienced for a very
long time came to her as she realised that the instrument was ringing
in the passage outside and not in the room. With something of the wild
joy which reprieved prisoners feel at the announcement of release she
heard the butler rise. And presently there came from a distance his
measured voice informing some unseen inquirer that Mr. Biffen was not
at home.
Mrs. Waddington rose from her form. She had about twenty seconds in
which to act, and she wasted none of them. By the time Ferris had
returned and was once more engrossed in his literary composition, she
was in the kitchen.
She stood by the window, looking out at the fire-escape. Surely by this
time, she felt, it would be safe to climb once more up to the roof. She
decided to count three hundred very slowly and risk it.