young woman in a brown cloak, entered the hotel. The veils that covered
their close-fitting toques and fell over their faces were not thick, yet
in the electric light the gauze took on a disguising glitter. The pair
in their plain wraps, were not conspicuous figures even in a third-rate
hotel like the Westmorland, and the clerk whom they approached was not
moved to curiosity.
"Mr. Peterson? He's in; came in over an hour ago, and mentioned that he
expected a caller; party to go right up."
"He's expecting us, one or both," Clo cut in hastily. "What's his
number?"
"658, top floor," said the clerk. "The elevator's just over there to the
left--see?"
"We'll go up together," Clo whispered, "and then, if you really think
best to see the man alone, I'll hang about somewhere in the hall till
you come out and call me."
Beverley made no reply. Already she was fathoms deep in thought. The
musty-smelling lift shot them up to the top floor; Beverley, stepping
out ahead of Clo, had the air of having forgotten her existence. The
girl's anxiety deepened. The best she could do was to guide her friend
through dimly lighted, dark-walled corridors, to the right number, 658.
Beverley had, before they left the taxi, given the money and jewels into
her companion's hand. Clo's over-strained nerves began to take their
revenge. This shabby hotel was an evil place. To her it seemed that each
closed door hid something secret and sinister. They met no one between
the elevator and Peterson's room. Involuntarily, the two paused an
instant in front of number 658 before knocking. No sound came from
within. If Peterson were in his room, apparently he was alone. Beverley
tapped--a sharp, nervous tap.
"Come in!" cried a voice which sounded far off, as if the speaker called
from the furthest corner of the room, or from the depths of a wall
cupboard.
"Keep near, but not too near," whispered Beverley, and opened the door.
To her surprise and Clo's there was no light in the room; yet it was not
really dark. The blind on the curtainless window opposite the door was
rolled up to the top, and let in light from the brilliantly illuminated
street six storeys below. As Beverley passed in, Clo caught a glimpse of
a man's figure comfortably seated in a high-backed armchair in front of
the window. She even recognized the mean profile of Peterson, outlined
in black against the luminous square of a window pane, and anger pricked
her that he should dare receive Mrs. Sands without rising. Then the door
shut, and Clo, obeying the order to "keep near, but not too near," took
a few steps down the corridor. Within sight of the door, but not within
hearing of voices on the other side unless they should rise to a shout,
she hovered uneasily.
It was hateful to Clo that Angel should be alone with the ferret-faced
man behind the closed door. He might choke Beverley to death with those
sly, thievish hands of his, and the sentinel outside would not know.
"Why was he sitting there in the dark," she puzzled, "like a spider in
his web, waiting to pounce?" She could not put away the impression that
there was something more terrible even than Beverley had expected. No
one came or went. After all, she had been there only four or five
minutes, though the time seemed long. It might easily be half an hour,
Clo reminded herself, before she could hope to be called into
consultation, or invited to hand over the precious bag. She looked
wistfully toward the nearest end of the corridor. There, in front of a
window, was a big brown trunk. She would go and sit on that trunk to
rest. It was well within sight of Peterson's door. Her eyes would never
leave that door! With renewed life she could spring up as she saw it
opened by Angel.
"Yes, I've got to the limit!" the girl said. She was so spent that her
feet seemed to have weights attached to them as she dragged herself
toward the trunk. Reaching it, she dropped, rather than sat, upon the
rounded top. No sooner had she touched the lid, however, than she
bounded up as if she had received an electric shock. It seemed that
something inside the trunk had given a leap, and that the great box had
quivered under her. At the same instant the door of number 658 was
thrown open. Beverley came out.
XX
MURDER
There was something not natural in Beverley's air and manner. Normally
she had a proud, erect carriage. Now she came stumbling out of Number
658, and with drooping head, and shoulders bent, crept into the hall,
leaving the door half open behind her; but she stopped abruptly and
turned back. Clo, forgetting her own weakness, and forgetting the brown
trunk, hurried to join her friend. But Beverley seemed to be unconscious
of the girl's presence. She stood as far as possible from the door,
closed it without noise, and was walking away again when Clo's arm slid
round her waist.
"Darling, what has he said, what has he done to you?" the girl implored.
Beverley seized Clo by the wrist, and pulled her toward the lift.
"Hurry!" she whispered. "We must get away as soon as we can, for Roger's
sake!"
"But what about the papers, and the pearls?" Clo persisted. "Had
Peterson taken them? Did he give them to you?"
"I don't know whether he had them or not. Nothing matters now, except to
get home," was the astounding answer. Clo could hardly believe that she
had heard aright. Ten--five minutes ago, nothing in the world mattered,
except the papers and the pearls. Now they had lost all their
importance!
"You don't want them any more?" she gasped.
"Want them?" Beverley echoed. "Yes, more than ever, I want them. But
it's too late. Don't ask me why. Only--come!"
Clo could not argue with Angel, or oppose her, in such a mood as this.
She wished that she had taken her own way, and gone herself to "have it
out" with Peterson. She felt that nothing he could have said or done
would have forced her to give up without at least knowing whether or not
the booty were in his possession. As she kept pace with Beverley she was
screwing up her courage to one last, desperate coup. She would make it
in spite of Angel!
They came to the elevator, but before Clo could put out her hand to
touch the electric button, Beverley drew her farther on, to the
staircase. They went down swiftly and in silence. The entrance hall of
the hotel smelt of tobacco. They descended into it behind the elevator.
A group of men surrounded the desk where they had inquired for Peterson,
and the two girls in motor coats and veiled toques passed without
catching sight of the clerk who had sent them to 658. Three or four men
of the commercial traveller type glanced at the gray and brown figures;
but the elevator had at that moment released a golden-haired, black-eyed
young woman in a pink evening dress. She became at once an object of
interest, and the plainly-cloaked pair vanished unnoticed.
The taxi, which had been ordered to wait, was at a distance. They
hurried to it. It was Clo who opened the door of the cab, and almost
pushed Angel in!
"Shall I tell him to go to the corner where he picked us up?" she asked.
Beverley nodded, and sank back against the shabby leather cushions. This
was Clo's moment. She had led up to it, and decided what to do. First
she placed the bag of jewels in Beverley's lap. Next she spoke to the
chauffeur, giving clear directions. Then she slammed the door shut, and
stepped back upon the sidewalk, motioning to the man to start.
"Angel will be so surprised, she won't know what to do for a minute,"
the girl thought. "By the time she pulls herself together she'll realize
it's too late to stop me."
As fast as she dared, Clo retraced her steps to the hotel. She hated to
leave Beverley alone, but between two evils it seemed that she had
chosen the less. When the taxi stopped Beverley would get out; and then
she would have a few blocks to walk before reaching home. As for the
bag, she could hardly forget it in the cab. The thing was too heavy to
fall from her lap without being noticed. She would have the jewels safe,
while Clo tried to bargain with ferret-face on promises of reward.
By the time she had argued away her worst tremors, Clo had again entered
the Hotel Westmorland. She had decided to say that her friend had
forgotten something if a question were asked; but the desk was still
surrounded with its group of talkative men, and she walked to the stairs
at the back of the hall as if she were a guest of the hotel. Thence she
toiled to the top.
It was only when she approached the door of Number 658, and saw once
more the brown trunk at the end of the hall, that Clo remembered the odd
side-issue of her adventure. She hesitated between the need for haste
and the wish to solve the mystery that troubled her. But it would take
only a minute to run to the trunk, to sit on it again, and see what
happened! Meanwhile, any one who went in, or came out from, Number 658,
must do so under her eyes.
Curiosity conquered. Clo tip-toed to the trunk, sat heavily down on the
rounded top, as she had done before, and nothing happened. There was no
sign of movement within; and Clo wondered if, after all, the thing that
had jumped under the lid had been created by her own jumping nerves.
Suddenly the impulse came upon her to try and open it. She seized the
corner of the rounded lid, but it remained immovable. She picked at the
metal hasp which covered the cheap lock. It did not yield, but her
fingers--or she fancied it--touched moisture. The girl shrank back and
looked at her hand. Thumb and forefinger were smeared with blood.
The girl felt sick, and might have fainted comfortably. "Pooh!" she
scolded herself. "You've cut your finger. Serve you right for not
minding your own business. Go to it now, and no nonsense, if you
please!"
Goading herself to courage she marched to the door of 658 and knocked.
No answer came, and the girl's heart sank. It seemed too bad to be true
that Peterson should have escaped during the few minutes spent in
putting Angel into a taxi. Besides, she had scarcely gone beyond
eye-shot of the hotel entrance.
"Perhaps he's asleep," thought Clo. She turned the handle, and to her
surprise the door yielded. She had expected to find it locked. As
before, the room was unlit save by golden reflections from the street
below. The girl opened the door wide, and deliberately looked in.
Strange; there sat the man in his easy chair in front of the window,
with his mean profile outlined against the light, just as he had sat
when Beverley had answered the summons to "Come in!" One would say, to
look at him, that he had not moved an inch.
Clo's theory had gone wrong. She had urged her conviction upon Angel
that he was the thief; that, if he were the thief, he would "make his
get-away" in haste. Yet here he sat, in the dark, asleep.
She stepped across the threshold, felt along the wall for an electric
switch, found it, and flooded the room with light. Still the figure in
the chair did not stir.
Clo glanced round the squalid room. Peterson had begun to pack. A
suitcase lay open on the narrow bed. The wrinkled gray-white counterpane
was half covered with scattered clothing.
"If he's fast enough asleep, I can go through everything," she thought,
"including his pockets!"
The girl walked in, and closed the door resolutely but softly, her eyes
always upon the figure in the chair. She mustn't begin to search the
place without making sure that Peterson was not playing "possum." It
would be awful, when her back was turned, to have him pounce upon her
like a monkey. She tip-toed across the room, and stopped in front of the
easy-chair, within a yard of the stretched-out feet, where she could
take a good look at the sleeper. His head was bent down over his breast,
and the girl had to stoop a little to peer into the face. But a glance
sent her reeling back against a chest of drawers. The top of the man's
head had been crushed in by some blunt instrument. His forehead and the
side of his face turned toward the window were covered with blood. His
shirt and coat were soaked with it, in a long red stripe, and a dark
pool had formed in a vague heart-shape on the patterned carpet.
Clo had never before seen a dead man, yet she did not doubt that this
man was dead. He could have been dead for a short time only. The blood
on the livid face glistened wet in the electric light. It had hardly
ceased to drip from the wound in his head.
For a time Clo stood still, as if frozen. But slowly the power to think
came back. To her own horror and disgust she found herself wondering if
Beverley Sands had killed Peterson. It would have been a tremendous blow
for a woman to strike, but Beverley was desperate, and she was strong.
She had boasted of her strength of arm only the other day, to Sister
Lake, who had tested and admired the splendid firmness of her young
muscles. Besides, the man had been caught unawares, and had been struck
from behind; the position of the wound showed that. On a small table by
the chair lay the weapon. It was a long pistol, Clo did not know of what
kind or make, but it looked old-fashioned; and there was no question as
to the way in which it had been used. Someone had taken it by the muzzle
and struck with the butt end, which was coated with blood and hairs.
Perhaps the pistol had not been loaded, or perhaps the murderer--(no,
"avenger" was the better word, with that fear knocking at her heart!)
had not dared fire because of the noise.
Clo's mind began to work more quickly. She pieced details together. The
person who had killed Peterson could not have picked up the pistol from
that table without being seen by him, therefore it had been lying there
before the murder. Most likely it had lain on the bed, among the strewn
things which ferret-face had begun to pack. In that case any one
entering the room might have spied and snatched it, unsuspected by the
man in the chair.
"If my poor, tortured Angel didn't do this, I can bear anything!" Clo
told herself. "It wouldn't so much matter for me. I'd have killed him
for her sake--I believe. But for her it would be horrible!"
The girl remembered the blood on her fingers, which she had found after
touching the lock of the brown trunk, and this remembrance gave her
hope. The murderer must have passed that way, whereas Beverley had not
been near the trunk. "Thank goodness for one good bit of evidence in
case it's ever needed!" Clo thought. "Who knows but the murderer was
hiding in the trunk, and jumped in his fright when I plumped down on it?
Well, if he did, he must either be smothered by now, since the trunk's
been locked since then, or else he's escaped. Oh, Angel, how could I
dream for a minute it might have been you? And yet if this wretch was
dead then, who called 'Come in?'"
A wild impulse to run away seized the girl. She started toward the door,
but stopped half way. No, she would not fail Angel. The man was dead. He
could do her no harm. If Beverley's pearls, or if Beverley's papers,
were in this room, no matter where, even if she had to touch that
blood-stained coat to search the pockets, she would not go without them.
The dark blind ought to be pulled down, because from some high window
she might be seen and identified afterward, if trouble came of this
night's work. To reach the blind she had to step over the feet which
sprawled beyond the chair; and stretching up her arm to touch the broken
cord, she was conscious that her dress brushed the dead man's knees.
Next she went to the bed, and began turning over Peterson's miserable
belongings. She prayed that, by a miracle, she might come across the
sealed envelope. As for the pearls, if the murderer were of the Peterson
type, to steal them would have been his first thought. But--it would
need a stout-hearted criminal to go through the pockets of his victim,
and if the motive were other than theft, it might be that the pearls and
papers were still on the body. If Clo failed to find them elsewhere she
would have to ransack those pockets. The thought was too horrible to
dwell upon. Frantically she tossed over the contents of the suitcase,
lifting and shaking every garment scattered on the bed. She peered under
the pillows; she pulled out the drawers of wash-stand and
dressing-table; but there was nothing to be found there, not even a
letter, not a torn morsel of paper which could serve Beverley's cause.
Clo's spirit groaned a prayer for strength when at last--sick and
shaking, her palms damp--she had to set about the pillage of the dead
man's pockets. Some she needed merely to touch with her finger ends, to
make sure that they were empty. Others had to be searched to their
depths: and the girl felt convinced that she would die if in the horrid
business she plunged a hand into some unseen sop of blood.
From a waistcoat pocket she pulled out a small leather cigarette case,
still warm from the wearer's breast--another proof, if she had let
herself think of it, that he had not long been dead. In the leather
case, behind a store of tightly packed cigarettes, was a card--the
cheapest sort of visiting card, on which, scrawled in pencil, was the
name Lorenz Czerny. On the back of this card, in a different
handwriting, but also in pencil, a memorandum had been scribbled. A
glance showed Clo that it consisted of names, abbreviated addresses, and
the hours of appointments, or perhaps of trains. She did not stop to
examine the card thoroughly, but slipped it into her pocket for future
reference, and went on with her task.
The sealed envelope she sought was too large not to protrude over the
top of any pocket of a man's indoor coat; but Clo reflected that the
envelope might have been destroyed, and the contents distributed, or
folded into smaller compass. With this idea she spared herself nothing
in her quest; but the sole reward she had (save for the cigarette case)
was the finding of a paragraph cut from a newspaper, a roll of
blood-stained greenbacks, which she hastily replaced, and a torn silk
handkerchief. The newspaper cutting told of Roger Sands' magnificent
house in Newport, whither he and his "beautiful young bride" would
shortly move. This also Clo annexed, in order that no connection should
seem to exist between Beverley Sands and the man Peterson when the
police got to work. The handkerchief she took from the coat pocket into
which it had been untidily stuffed, in order to search underneath. But
the nervous jerk she gave pulled out something else also--something
small, which fell to the floor with a tinkle as of a tiny stone striking
wood, when it touched a chair leg, and rolled under the chest of
drawers. Clo had not time to see what the thing was. There was only a
flashing glimpse of a pebble-like object as it disappeared. But her
heart leaped at the thought of what it might be. Thrusting the ragged
handkerchief into a pocket already examined, she had just stooped to
peer under the clumsy piece of furniture when a telephone bell began to
ring.
The girl sprang to her feet, quivering and alert. It seemed that the
bell had rung almost in her ear. Someone was calling for Peterson!
XXI
"KIT!"
Somehow Clo got to the telephone, which was placed on the wall by the
door, and her hand trembled on the receiver before she realized that the
bell which rang was in the adjoining room. There was no communicating
door between, but the wall must be almost as thin as cardboard, for the
noise seemed to smite her ear-drum. For an instant Clo's relief was
overwhelming; but as the shrill noise struck her nerves blow after blow,
they rebelled. Her brain refused to work until, suddenly, blessed
silence fell.
Once more she had a sense of being saved. The power of recollection came
back. She knew that she had been going to look for the thing which had
dropped out of Peterson's handkerchief, and rolled out of sight. She
went down on her knees for the second time, but only to spring up, and
stand quivering like a creature at bay. Again the telephone bell was
ringing, and now the sound was in the room. The call was for 658. She
answered at once.
"Hello!" she saluted the unknown.
"Hello!" came the response, in a man's voice. "This is Chuff calling.
Are you Peterson?"
"Peterson is in the room," returned Clo, after an instant's pause, in
which her heart missed a beat. "But he can't come to the 'phone."
"Oh, say, is that you, Kit?" the man wanted to know.
Clo was almost incapable of thinking; but she was vaguely aware that the
accent was slightly foreign. "Yes," she ventured. "It's Kit."
"Nice thing you are! I've been trying to get you the last ten minutes.
Thought your room was next door to his. Couldn't you hear your own
'phone from Petes'?"
"I've just come in," said Clo.
"You're late. Anything wrong? Your voice sounds sort of queer."
"I've got chewing gum in my mouth," said Clo "What do you want to say to
Pete?"
"I want to know if he's got the papers."
Clo's blood rushed to her head. This looked like a wonderful chance to
tap a secret, if she didn't lose it by giving the wrong answers.
Beverley Sands' whole future might depend upon the next few minutes.
"Hold the line a second or two," she said. She needed to think.
If she replied that Peterson had the papers, embarrassing questions
might be asked. If she said that he hadn't, the man at the telephone
might end the conversation before she had learned enough to help Angel.
"I'll try hedging," she decided, and began again with a tentative
"Hello!" For an instant there was no response, and Clo was sick with
fear lest she had been cut off. But luck was with her. The
foreign-sounding voice began again: "Well, is Pete there this time?"
"No," said the girl. "Pete is--packing. He wants me to say it isn't much
after ten. He's expecting to get the papers any minute now."
"He 'phoned me he'd made ten the time limit. Didn't he tell Olga that
Stephen would sure be done for if she didn't hand over the real docs by
ten o'clock sharp?"
"Olga!" ... "Stephen!" ... Clo felt that she was hearing things she had
no right to know.
"The lady's had her hands full all the afternoon and evening," she
answered carefully. "I suppose you know what's been going on?"
"Don't know a damned thing since Pete 'phoned some little skirt had
brought around the wrong papers to the hotel. Tell him to quit his
packing and show up at the 'phone."
"He's gone out this very instant," said Clo. "A boy has come to the door
to say there was someone to see him downstairs. Maybe it's the right
one. He won't be long anyhow. But I'm just as glad to have a chance for
a word with you while he's out of the way. Seems sort of funny he didn't
put you wise about the excitement, you know where."
"You mean Park Avenue?"
"Yes. I can't talk in the 'phone the way I would if the wall was
thicker. Didn't Pete tell you about the present of pearls the lady got
from her husband?"
"What pearls?"
"I can't give you their whole history, but maybe Pete could, if he
wanted to."
"What makes you think so? Have you got on to some frame up, or are you
kidding?"
"Well. Somebody relieved the lady of them. That's what's made her busy
the rest of the time. Might account for documents being late."
"Say, what are you giving me? Has Pete made a deal on his own?... Pearls
instead of papers?"
"Hold the line again for a jiffy, and I'll go through his togs."
"All right. Look sharp."
Clo let the receiver hang loose, and for the third time went down on her
knees before the chest of drawers. Thrusting her arm underneath, she
passed her hand over the dirty carpet. Lodged against the wall at the
back, and in a corner, was something round and hard, a thing which
seemed to be about the size of a small filbert. The girl brought it out
between thumb and finger, freed it of dust, and saw an immense pearl.
"That settles that!" she said to herself. Peterson was the thief. But
had he stolen the envelope as well as the pearls? Oh, if she could only
galvanize the dead to speak! But the next best thing was to speak to the
telephone. The truth might come from that direction, bit by bit, piecing
the different parts of the story together.
Clo, getting to her feet again, was struck with a sudden luminous idea.
"Kit," the woman she was personating, the woman apparently set to watch
Peterson, had found out about the pearls. Either she had believed him a
traitor to the "gang," or she had wanted the pearls for herself. In
either case she had killed him to get them; and one pearl had escaped to
tell the tale of its fellows.