woman was not in her room, because the telephone bell had been ringing
there and she hadn't answered. What if she hadn't been able to get back
to her room after the murder? Kit might have locked her door when she
came to have a chat with Peterson. It was likely enough there'd be
things in her quarters which she wouldn't want a prying chambermaid to
see! Perhaps she'd seen Peterson looking at the pearls. Perhaps, when
she knocked, he had thrust the broken rope back into his pocket with the
loose pearls. Perhaps Kit had put him off his guard, chatting of other
things, while he packed. But no, she had caught him unawares when he sat
as he was sitting now! Clo pictured her offering to help him pack. He
had lolled comfortably while Kit worked. Then, she had come behind him
and dealt that frightful blow with the butt of his own pistol. A strong,
determined woman, Kit!
Clo remembered how she and Beverley had walked slowly from the corridor
of the lift into Peterson's corridor, looking at the numbers over the
doors; and remembered how she had said to Angel, "This must be the right
way to turn." Even after that, they had paused a moment for Beverley to
gather up her failing courage; and if Kit had then been in the act of
opening the trunk, she could easily have hidden herself inside before
the owners of the voices she heard had turned the corner. It must have
given her a beautiful fright when someone sat down on the trunk with a
thud! No wonder she had jumped, and made the big box shake!
Kit's actions later could be plausibly accounted for, too. She must have
guessed that one of the women she had heard speaking (had seen, perhaps,
if she contrived to peep from the trunk when their backs were turned)
had been in Peterson's room. How she must have wished that she'd taken
time to lock his door on the outside! As it was, she couldn't have been
sure that an alarm would not be given downstairs. Her one thought must
have been haste; and Clo doubted that, if she had forgotten her key in
Peterson's room, she would have ventured back to get it. No, she would
have crept out of the trunk, and looked at her dress in the dim light to
see whether blood stains showed. If she wore dark clothing, she might
have run the risk. Clo pictured her locking the trunk, and following, as
closely as she dared, the cloaked figures in gray and brown; pictured
her pausing in the background to see whether the pair stopped at the
desk, or went away with their secret; pictured her relief when they
passed on in silence; and the bid for freedom she must have made a
minute later.
"I bet, by the time we were in our taxi, that woman was out of this, and
legging it as fast as she could go. She wouldn't have taken a cab, for
fear of being traced," Clo finished her reflections. She stared at the
pearl in her hand.
"Awkward for me if Kit gets to the man at the other end while her double
chats to him at the Westmorland!" the girl thought, and flew back to the
telephone. "Are you there?" she called.
"You bet your sweet life I'm here. Did you find the beans?"
"I've found something I must bring to you. Where's the safest place?"
"What's the matter with here?"
"It won't do," she answered. "It's on account of Pete!"
"Well, then, come to Churn's. When'll you be there?"
This was a blow. Clo was angling for an address, with street and number.
But she would not be downed by one disappointment. "Same reason holds
good for Churn's," she said. "Can't you think of some place Pete doesn't
know? And think quick, or he'll be back."
"Think quick yourself! We'll go round to your own house, you dub! Pete
ain't sure where your real pitch is--unless you've blabbed."
"I may have dropped something that's put him wise," the girl persisted
in desperation. "I tell you I'm not talking to hear myself talk when I
ask for a new place."
"Krantz's Keller, then, eleven thirty."
"Right for Krantz's Keller. But I can't be sure of eleven thirty. I'll
have to keep an eye on Pete till I know what he's up to. Maybe I can
'phone you there. What's Krantz's number?"
"Can't give it to you without looking it up. Haven't you got the book
there?"
"No. Somebody must have nicked it."
"Ain't there one in your own room next door?"
"Yes. But say--a fool thing's happened. I locked my door when I came in
to Pete's, and I've dropped my key."
"Find it, and go look at the book. Jake's got mine. I'll call you up in
your room in five minutes. Then if Pete's back it won't matter. See?"
"Yes. But----Have you gone?"
There was no answer. Clo could do nothing save hang up the receiver, and
begin to search for a key which, despite her elaborate deductions, might
be in "Kit's" pocket for all she knew. Luck was with her once more,
however. On the floor by the mantelpiece lay a key, almost hidden in the
deep fur of a mangy, goat-hair rug. Clo might have wasted twice the time
in her search, had she not stepped on it.
"I'll make the best of a bad bargain," she promised herself. "If I must
go to Kit's room, I won't throw away a single second."
She fastened Peterson's door on the outside, and fitted the key she had
found, into the lock of the door at the left, in front of which stood
the brown trunk.
The key served, as she had felt certain it would. Hastily she locked
herself into the room, and switched on the light. It was a mean little
room, a facsimile of Peterson's in most of its features, but a woman's
clothing hung from hooks on the door, and on the bed and chairs and
dressing table a woman's belongings were flung untidily about; hats,
gloves, collars, and a handbag of jet and steel beads. Kit must have
hated to leave that bag, thought Clo. She drew the ribbons, and took a
hasty peep at the bag's contents. There was a soiled suede purse, and in
that purse, mixed up with a few greenbacks, there were some papers. Clo
dared not stop to examine them. She could only hope that they might give
clues which she had failed to obtain from the telephone.
There were four or five frocks hanging on the door, showy blouses and
bright-coloured skirts; but Clo searched in vain for pockets. In the
chest of drawers, which was the twin of Peterson's, was a certain amount
of underclothing, much trimmed with cheap lace. There were silk
petticoats with torn frilling, and shoes and slippers. But nothing was
marked with name, or even initials. Kit, though gaudily coquettish in
her taste, was apparently careless in her habits. Clo no longer visioned
Kit large, masculine, and determined, a tigress woman. Instead she saw a
lithe, cat-like creature, strong, no doubt (it had taken strength to
strike that blow and Clo would have staked her life that it had been
struck by Kit) but not big or massive.
The five minutes grace must certainly have passed before Clo had come to
the end of her inspection, but the telephone was silent. This struck the
girl as ominous, for it might mean that Kit had appeared in person at
the other end of the line. It might mean that some trap was being laid
to catch Kit's double.
"If she turns up, and tells everything, they can't let me get away with
what I know, even about Krantz's Keller," Clo told herself. "They'll
have to send someone to watch, especially if they think I'm a 'tec,
who's found Peterson's body. They won't know what I'm like. All the
same, if they don't call me up in just one minute more, I must make a
bolt. I'll count sixty, and--see what happens."
XXII
THE VOICE THAT DID NOT SEEM STRANGE
What happened was that the telephone began ringing in the next
room--Peterson's room. It began when Clo had counted up to forty.
She had hoped not to go back to the room of the dead man. She had
searched it from end to end. But now she knew the thing would have to be
done.
Already the jet and steel bag hung by its ribbons over her arm. Clo
switched off the electricity, and let herself out into the hall. Before
she had finished her count of sixty seconds she was once more locked in
Peterson's room. So confidently had she expected to hear the same
foreign-sounding accents that she almost dropped the receiver and
started away when her "Hello!" was answered by a strange voice.
Yet--was it a strange voice? As it went on to ask: "Is this Mr.
Peterson?" Clo had a strong impression that she had heard the voice
before. Assuredly it was not the one which had talked to "Kit," but it
sounded astonishingly familiar. Though she could not yet identify the
tones recognition was only a question of instants.
"This is Mr. Peterson's room," she replied. "He is--here. He wishes me
to speak for him."
"I had better tell you before we go further, then, that I'm talking for
Mr. John Heron. When you have explained that, Mr. Peterson will decide
whether he'd rather come to the 'phone and attend to the business
himself."
Clo was glad of the pause. "John Heron!" That was the man Peterson had
mentioned during her second conversation with him. He had said that
Roger Sands was "working for John Heron" when Roger and Beverley met in
the train; and she--Clo--had heard the name with a queer thrill which
she could not understand. So far as she knew, it was strange to her: yet
she seemed to have heard it in dreams--sad dreams, where someone had
sobbed in the dark. Through the strenuous adventures which had kept body
and brain busy the girl had recalled it again and again, since the
moment when the name had fallen from Peterson's lips. She had wondered
if she would ever have the "cheek" to ask Angel who was John Heron.
Whoever he might be, John Heron was in some way concerned with
Beverley's secret, or Peterson would not have spoken his name in that
connection.
She answered quietly: "Mr. Peterson allows me to go on speaking for
him."
"Very well," returned the voice. "Mr. Peterson called Mr. Heron up not
long ago, to say he could sell him a rope of fine pearls for Mrs. Heron,
at a low price. He'd heard, it appears, that Mr. Heron wished to buy
pearls, and he suggested an appointment for to-night. Mr. Heron did not
receive this message himself; he was indisposed at the time it came, and
Mrs. Heron took it, but was unable to answer for her husband. He asks me
to say, in his name, that if Mr. Peterson has some particularly fine
pearls to dispose of, he'll be pleased to look at them, not to-night,
but to-morrow morning about ten o'clock, at his hotel, the Dietz."
"The Dietz!" cried Clo. "Now I know who's speaking to me. You're Justin
O'Reilly!"
Inadvertently she had kept her lips at the receiver. The cry had flown
to the man who held the line.
"And you're my girl burglar! By Jove, I thought I knew that voice! Are
you in the pearl business, too? Has Mrs. Sands commissioned you and some
fellow called Peterson to sell her pearls to Mrs. Heron? Now I begin to
see light! She tried to make a bargain with me over those pearls. I
refused in Heron's name and my own. What's her game now, when there's
nothing left to bargain for, and you've sent the papers back?"
"Sent the papers back!" Clo gasped into the telephone. This coming into
touch with O'Reilly over the wire had been a shock. But she forgot the
surprise of it in the new surprise of his last words.
"Wasn't it you who sent them?" he went on.
She stopped to think before daring a reply. O'Reilly had got the papers
back, or he wanted her to think so, for some reason of his own.
"Well, if you must know, perhaps I did send them," she prevaricated.
"I'm glad to have this chance to thank you for repenting. I felt at the
time you weren't the stuff trick-confidence-ladies and burglaresses are
made of."
"I didn't exactly repent," confessed Clo. "I had an object to gain. I'm
glad the papers weren't lost on the way. You're sure no one had tampered
with the envelope?"
"Apparently not. The messenger handed it to me sealed up and seemingly
intact, with the address of my bank on it in my own handwriting. The boy
wouldn't say how he knew I was staying at the Dietz. He is an ornament
to his profession! I want you to know that I don't bear malice."
As Clo listened she was surprised at the soothing effect of his voice
upon her nerves. It was like hearing the voice of a friend. After all,
why should they be enemies, since of the two O'Reilly was the injured
party, and had just assured her that he didn't "bear malice?" But he was
going on to ask what was the "object" she had wished to gain. "Do you
mean to tell me, or is it one of your many mysteries?"
"I realized I'd gone to work with you in the wrong way," she ventured.
"Now I need someone's help. I need it horribly. It ought to be a man's
help. And, except Mr. Sands, you're the only man I know."
She heard O'Reilly laughing. He wouldn't laugh if he could see what her
eyes saw!
"So you want to call a truce?" he asked.
"Yes, if I could trust you."
"I like that! I wasn't the betrayer. But never mind. Your second
thoughts are best. And anyhow, you weren't working for yourself. Do you
really want my help?"
"Don't I? But it would be for--for----You know whom I mean. And you're
her enemy, aren't you?"
"Not the least in the world. But I can't buy her pearls, and I'm sure
Heron will refuse to bargain if----"
"The pearls aren't for sale any more. They've been stolen. She thinks
you took them for a hold-up."
"The devil she does! But you know better. Tell me what you wish me to do
for you, and I'll do it; I wanted to see you again. You were like a bad
but interesting dream, broken off in the midst, that I longed to dream
over again."
"I _feel_ as if I had been broken off in the midst!" said Clo. "I may be
broken past mending if somebody doesn't pick up the pieces good and
quick! What I want you to do is to meet me outside the Westmorland. Will
you? And if so, how soon?"
"I will," came the answer. "I'll be there in eight minutes, with a taxi.
Does that suit you?"
"Yes. Have the taxi drawn up in front of the hotel, and as it slows
down, I'll jump in. Give the chauffeur an order--before he starts--not
to stop, you know, but to go on the instant I'm in. A lot may depend on
that."
"What mischief have you been up to?" asked the laughing voice, which to
Clo, in the room of death, seemed to come from another world.
She shuddered as her eyes turned to the figure in the chair.
"Good-bye!" she said, and hung up the receiver without another word.
Eight minutes! It would take her about three to get out of the room,
down the stairs, and to the front door--if all went well. What was she
to do with the other five? Now that her mission was ended, she could not
stay where she was. She had reached, and almost passed, the limit of her
endurance. One idle moment in that place would surely drive her mad! Yet
she could not stand in the street, waiting for O'Reilly to come to the
rescue. Kit and the man who had talked to Kit might be ready to pounce
upon her there.
XXIII
"WHAT'S DONE CAN'T BE UNDONE"
"Don't be frightened, Mums! It's only me, back earlier than I expected,"
Ellen Blackburne announced herself at the door of her mother's bedroom.
Mrs. Blackburne was propped up in bed, reading Young's "Night Thoughts."
"Of course, I'm not frightened!" she reassured her daughter. "I'm only
surprised. That's what makes my hands tremble."
"I was in hopes you'd have gone to sleep," said Ellen, "and I could slip
in without giving you a start. I stopped the taxi at the corner on
purpose."
"I'm delighted to have you back. But why did you bring the pearls home
to string? Now you'll be sitting up the whole blessed night!"
"Don't you worry!" Ellen soothed her. "I'm not going to sit up. I'm
going to bed. Shall I leave the door open between the rooms while I
undress, or shall I just kiss you good-night now, and let you rest in
peace?"
The little woman had sat down on the edge of the bed, but as she spoke,
she stood up. It struck the older woman that, for some reason, she was
in a hurry to get away.
"There's something you don't want to tell me, isn't there, dear?" her
mother quietly observed.
"Well, you have the most wonderful intuition!" Ellen praised her parent.
"I believe you could see through a wall. It's only that I didn't want to
wake you up and make you nervous, so you would have a bad night."
"I shall have a better night if I don't need to rack my brain thinking
over what might have happened."
"Oh, all right!" sighed Ellen, and sat down again. "You're a grand
safety valve, you know, Mums, because I can talk to you, and be sure
that whatever I say will be locked up in your strong box. I meant to
write all this down in my notebook, with initials instead of names; but
the diary can't give advice. You can. Only--you're certain we hadn't
best wait till to-morrow?"
"I shouldn't close my eyes!" said Mrs. Blackburne. "But I can say this
to begin with: You did the right thing. You always do."
"This is different from anything that ever came into my experience,"
Ellen answered.
"I told you before I started, I thought I was in for an exciting job. It
wasn't only that Mr. Sands is a sort of celebrity, and everyone has been
talking of Mrs. Sands as a beauty. It was the man himself gave me a kind
of thrilled feeling the minute I saw him. Mums, Roger Sands is the sort
I could fall in love with, if I was the falling-in-love type. He's
strong and silent. He isn't a bit a woman's man. I don't know how to
describe him, exactly. He made me feel as if I longed to do something
for him. I was mighty keen to see what Mrs. Sands would be like. I
suppose to see what style of woman he'd worship enough to pick up from
the gutter."
"Goodness me, child!" broke in Mrs. Blackburne, absorbed. "You don't
mean that's where she came from? I never heard----"
"No--no! I oughtn't to have used that expression," Ellen confessed,
"though they tell all sorts of stories about her origin. I daresay none
of 'em are right, and not a soul knows the truth. People have given her
a nickname: 'the girl from nowhere.' But you've only to see her to
realize at once that whatever she was, she must have been brought up
like a princess."
"Handsome?"
"A dream of beauty. She's worthy of her husband that way, but she's not
in other ways. That's my excuse."
"Your excuse, lovey? For what?"
"For what I did. But you won't know why I did it, or forgive me for
doing it, unless I tell you the story as I understand it."
"Go right on, dear, and take your time. I won't interrupt again." So
Ellen gave her mother a succinct account of all that had befallen her,
until the fateful moment when she discovered that the pearls were not in
their case.
"The case empty! The pearls gone! My goodness me!" gasped the old lady.
"I never had such a scare in my life. Mrs. Sands had told me how she'd
been dressing in her bedroom, with the door wide open into the boudoir,
because the pearls were there, all ready for me to begin on, if I
arrived before she'd got into her gown. She either believed the pearls
were in the case, or else she wanted me to believe she believed it! The
desperate state she was in, under her pretty manner, made me think maybe
she was playing some dreadful trick, and after I'd got over the first
shock of surprise I was mad with that woman. 'She doesn't care if she
ruins me, so she can save herself from a scrape,' was what I thought
about her. I made up my mind I wouldn't be catspaw, to pull her
chestnuts out of the fire."
"What did you do?" breathed Mrs. Blackburne, sitting straight up in bed.
"I rang the bell for the butler. He came to the door in an instant. I
told him to call Mrs. Sands at once, it was urgent. I thought that would
fetch her, but it didn't. It was the man who came back. He seemed a bit
embarrassed: Mrs. Sands was very busy at the moment, it would be a
little while before she was at liberty. It came into my head that she
was leaving me alone as long as possible in the room where her wonderful
pearls were supposed to be, so she could accuse me of making away with
them, when the truth had to come out, that the pearls were gone. I saw
just one thing to do. I told the butler to call Mr. Sands, quick. 'Mr.
Sands is just going,' he said. 'I was ready to help him on with his coat
when you rang.' 'Well, beg him to step in here one instant,' said I. The
man went out; and I couldn't have counted ten before Mr. Sands appeared.
I pointed to the empty case that was open on the table, and explained in
about a dozen words--I wanted to finish before Madam arrived!--that Mrs.
Sands had told me to look in the case for the pearls; that she went out
in a hurry; and when I looked, the pearls weren't there. 'I sent and
asked her to come,' I went on, 'but she was busy.'
"Well, Mother, the face of that man just broke my heart! It was more as
if some awful thing he'd half expected, had come true. I might have
stuck a knife in his heart.
"'Does my wife know you asked for me when she couldn't come?' was the
first thing he said after he'd stood quite still for a second or two. I
told him no, I'd taken the responsibility on myself, and I hoped I
hadn't done wrong.
"'Not wrong,' said he. 'You meant well, I'm sure. Still, I wish the news
had come to me from my wife and no one else.'
"Then he walked over to the window, and stood looking out. If I hadn't
known he was there, I shouldn't have seen him. The curtains were drawn,
not all across, but partly, and it was a sort of bay window, so there
was room for him to stand behind the curtains, in the shadow they made.
He hadn't been there two seconds, I give you my word, when the door flew
open, and Mrs. Sands bounced in.
"'You sent for me?' she asked, and threw a look round the room, as if
searching for someone. I felt I should die if her husband came out--but
he didn't. I managed to stammer that the pearls weren't in their case,
and so on; and it seemed as if my words turned her to a block of marble!
She just stared at me. 'Maybe you think I stole the pearls!' I said
right out. She assured me quite nicely that she believed nothing so
foolish, and that even if I'd wanted to steal the things, I couldn't
have smuggled them away from the house. (Of course, I could, though, if
there had been time.) My heart melted to her, I must confess. But I was
thinking more of her husband. It was up to me to get him out of the fix.
I suggested to Mrs. Sands calling in Clo, to see what she could make of
the business. The instant she was gone, out from the bay window stalked
her husband! By that time I was at the door. I'd opened it for Mrs.
Sands. I hardly dared glance at him--it seemed so prying. All I
know--for sure, now--is that he stopped for an instant at the table. He
had to pass it, on the way from his hiding place to the door. I supposed
then, when he paused there, that he would be gazing at the empty velvet
case. But he may have been doing something different--I'll tell you why
and what, in a minute.
"I stood without moving, and, as he came near the door he stopped again.
'Miss Blackburne,' he said, 'you've been mixed up against your will, and
not by any fault of your own, in an unfortunate business. It's a family
affair, and I feel certain you'll keep your own counsel. Don't think I'm
trying to bribe you. I'm not. But I should like you to accept this.' My
arms were hanging straight down at my sides, but he managed to stick
something into one of my hands. What do you think it was?"
"Fifty dollars?" her mother guessed.
"Fifty fiddlesticks! It was five hundred!"
"My heavens! Enough to pay off the mortgage. But you couldn't possibly
accept it?"
"I said no. I swore that I'd done nothing to earn a cent: that wild
horses wouldn't drag from me anything I'd seen, or heard, or even
imagined, in his house. But Mr. Sands insisted. 'It will give me
pleasure for you to have the money. It's little enough,' he said. Then
he walked right out. He must have gone back to his own room instead of
leaving the flat just then, for I saw him again later. I'll tell you
about that. But do you think it was wrong to keep the money?"
"In the circumstances, no," Mrs. Blackburne decided. "It would have hurt
his feelings to give it back. Oh, my dear, five hundred dollars! It's
like a fairy gift, just when we're needing it so much!"
"Well, I'd got the bills tucked away when Mrs. Sands came running in.
She made for the table, the way a pointer goes for a shot bird. She
hadn't a glance for the velvet case. She was searching for something
else. Oh, Mother, it scared me to see her! She threw everything about.
She was out of her head. A tall vase of flowers tipped over, and
splashed water on the books, and even on the velvet case. I don't think
she knew it had happened. Books fell on the floor. She didn't see or
care. Then she sank all of a heap into a big chair close by. 'The
envelope?' she gasped, as if she were choked by a hand on her throat.
'It was there. Where is it now?'