advised. "I've been thinking hard since you told me how 'Chuff' 'phoned
to 'Pete,' and took you for Kit. As for the voice that called 'Come in',
the wall being thin, a man in the room close by might think the knock
was at his door. You're almost surely right about Kit being in the hotel
to watch Peterson. No doubt he was acting for men who have the power
to--trouble Mrs. Sands. Don't look at me like a wild cat! I shan't tell
what you don't want to hear, but there certainly are such men. Most
likely Peterson followed us into the Sands' apartment without being
noticed in the wild confusion of your fainting. He was there to get hold
of the thing he was blackmailing her for, the thing you went back to my
hotel to steal, and then repented stealing. Naturally Peterson didn't
find it, as it was still in my safe at the Dietz, but he might have seen
the pearls. The fellow must have been hiding close to Mrs. Sands and me,
when we talked, or he wouldn't have known that John Heron had wanted to
buy those pearls! He 'phoned, later, from the Westmorland to Heron, as
you must have guessed from what I 'phoned back. As for Kit, she was in
her room next door when he called Heron up, and heard about his having
pearls to sell; or else she went in to help him pack, and saw them. But
it strikes me that a young woman of her class wouldn't bash a man on the
head, and risk the Chair, for the righteous joy of turning a fortune
over to her pals. No, if she killed Peterson, she killed him because she
wanted the pearls for herself or a 'sweetheart.'"
"There's Churn," said Clo. "He and Kit may be a 'case.' She may have
gone straight to him with the pearls."
"'Churn's' possibly a nickname for that Lorenz Czerny, whose name you
found written on a visiting card," O'Reilly said. "What with that card,
and the memorandum, and Kit's bag, we ought to get on to the track of
the gang. I'm on Mrs. Sands' side now. But I know a private detective
who's worked for clients of mine. He's close as an oyster, and true as a
compass. Chuff may keep his appointment, or he may not. If the real
Kit's turned up and told the truth, perhaps he won't dare, for fear of a
trap. Still, he may, if he's got pluck, and a good disguise--or if the
police have nothing 'on' him. The gang won't want the false Kit to get
away with what she knows if the real one's true to them. And they'll be
eager to see whom they're up against. That's why I should like to have
Denham--the detective--on the spot."
"Would that be the best way to get the pearls?" asked Clo.
"Can you suggest a better one?"
"Not on the spur of the moment."
"It's on the spur of the moment we must decide."
"Well--'phone Denham."
"I will," said O'Reilly. "I think I ought to get him now unless he's on
some job. I'll be back in a few minutes. There's no danger of serious
trouble for you here."
"I'm used to taking care of myself," said Clo. The hot, strong coffee
had brought a faint colour to her face, and she looked up with one of
those "cheeky" grins of hers, such as his "cousin" had given him at the
Dietz. O'Reilly went away bewitched with the creature, absorbed in her.
She had done so much for the love of a woman. What would she do for love
of a man?
He had to go upstairs to the telephone, it seemed, at Krantz's. Then the
line was busy. He was obliged to wait.
Meanwhile a tall girl, in a bright pink cloak over a pink dress, hurried
through the gloomy restaurant. She paused only to glance at a clock on
the wall, and then ran downstairs to the "Keller."
XXVI
THE GIRL IN PINK
Clo sat watching the crowd. She had removed her veil, and the long,
brown cloak lent by Beverley. The latter she had folded, and was sitting
upon it.
It was then, when most of the tables were taken, and when a young tenor
with a good voice had replaced the Italian peasants, that the girl in
pink walked in. Clo sat with her face to the entrance, and happened to
be looking that way. At sight of the girl, who came in alone, it was all
she could do to sit still. She felt the blood stream to her face, and
taking up the empty coffee cup, pretended to drink.
"Gracious, why did I never think of her!" she wondered. For this was the
girl who had got out of the elevator at the Westmorland, and had been
stared at by the men, when Clo and Beverley descended the stairs from
Peterson's room. Would there have been time after they had turned their
backs for Kit to get out of the brown trunk (if she'd been in it!),
fasten the lid, and descend to the lift while the two women went down
the six flights of stairs?
Yes, there would have been time. Clo was thankful that she had disposed
of her veil, and was sitting on the cloak. Here at Krantz's she was only
a girl in a white dress, with a brown toque which at the Westmorland had
been hidden with a veil.
There were two or three tables still disengaged, but the one with the
best view of the stage was the one nearest Clo. The girl in pink tripped
to it, without hesitation, stood for a minute staring at the singer, and
sat down. Clo watched her. She could not be certain, but she thought the
girl had caught the eye of the singer and had made him a sign.
Not only had he a good voice, but he was good to look at, dark and
rather "dashing," "almost like a second-hand gentleman," as Clo said to
herself. His song pleased the audience, who clapped violently, demanding
another. But the young man smiled, threw out his hands, shrugged,
touched his throat, and bowed himself off the stage. By this time the
girl in pink had ordered a bottle of wine which, to judge by the loving
care of the waiter, must have been rare and expensive.
The singer sat down with his back to Clo, his companion at his side.
Thus they were able to draw close, and talk without much fear of being
overheard.
"Good Lord, Churn, I thought I'd missed you," were the first words Clo
caught. As the girl spoke she flung a quick glance toward her little
neighbour at the next table, but Clo had never looked so child-like. "I
went to the Riche, and you'd gone," Kit continued. "To the Western; too
late. Gosh! how I hiked for this place! I don't know what I'd done if
I'd lost you!"
"Vot's de row?" Churn asked cheerfully, speaking with a slight and
rather agreeable foreign accent. He poured himself a tumblerful of the
deep-coloured red wine, and drank as if it were water.
"Say, Churn, a big thing's happened. I can't tell you here."
"You want I take you to de hotel?"
"No! I'm never goin' back there. And I can't go to my own digs either.
I'll explain by and by. Could you take me home with you?"
"No, Jake'll be comin' in."
"Well, let's go to Chuff's. We must be somewhere! I've got a thing to
show you, Churn. If there's two rooms free in the house we'll take
'em--or, no, better take one. You'll see why we must be together when
you know. Say, here's money to pay the wine--looks better for you than
me. Then we'll be off."
Clo gazed at the door. No O'Reilly yet. But if this pair went she would
have to go, too. She mustn't lose them!
Churn beckoned a waiter with a ten-dollar bill thrust into his hand by
Kit. The waiter came; but he had to get change. In Clo's lap, hidden
under her napkin, was the bag she had found in Kit's room. Stealthily
she opened it and took out a stub of pencil she had noticed among the
contents. On the table lay a programme of the evening's entertainment.
Neither she nor O'Reilly had glanced at it; but now the girl eagerly
examined the list. Among the names was that of "Lorenz Czerny, Tenor";
and Clo underlined it with the pencil. Beneath, on the margin, she
scrawled: "Kit's come and has been talking to him. They're going away. I
must follow. I leave you all materials for the search--except the pearl.
I keep that. Don't worry about me. I'll take care of myself."
Clo had plenty of money, supplied by Beverley, so a five-dollar bill was
laid conspicuously on the crumbs of rusk.
Kit and Churn were on their feet. The waiter had given change, and Churn
was counting it out. Both stood with their backs to Clo. Clo slipped the
programme into the bead bag and the bead bag into a pocket of Beverley's
brown silk coat, on which she had been sitting. She then whisked the
folded garment from her own chair on to O'Reilly's, and covered it with
his napkin.
"I hope to goodness I'll meet him on the way up," she thought, "or
before I get out of the restaurant above. I daren't take the cloak where
she might see it. Besides, he must have the bag and memorandum."
Churn gave the waiter a fifty-cent piece, and followed Kit, who had
started. Neither looked back; and Clo beckoned the waiter. "I've an
engagement," she said, "and can't wait longer for the gentleman I came
with. He's upstairs telephoning. You tell him I've paid. Never mind the
change. I'm leaving my coat for the gentleman to bring home. Can I trust
you to be sure and give it to him?"
"You can, miss," said the man. "I'll take charge of it myself."
He looked trustworthy as well as grateful. Kit and Churn were winding
their way among the tables. Clo pushed after them. O'Reilly was not on
the stairs, nor was he visible in the dull restaurant above. He had the
all-important envelope, it was true, and she could not guess who had
returned it in a way to make him suppose it came from her. O'Reilly was,
however, an honourable man, and he had promised to be "on Mrs. Sands'
side." In the circumstances she saw only one course, and regretfully,
even fearfully, took it. When Kit and Churn walked out into the street
she walked after them, a few paces behind.
Clo had been gone precisely four minutes when O'Reilly tore downstairs
burning to apologize and explain. Mrs. Denham had said that her husband
was out, but she knew where he was, and would 'phone; if
he--O'Reilly--would hold the line she'd have an answer "in no time."
Presently he had been rewarded by "getting" Denham, who, on hearing that
he was urgently wanted, promised to cut short some work he was doing
late at the office, and taxi to Krantz's. This was good news, and
O'Reilly was sure Clo would think it had been worth waiting for. He
could not believe his eyes when he saw the deserted table. What could
have happened to the girl?
He stood forlornly for a moment, staring round the room. As his eyes
searched vainly, the waiter who had served him came hurrying up.
"The young lady's gone, sare. She had to go--very sorry. She left me dis
to give you when you come back. She pay de bill, sare, but I keep de
table for you. You not finish your supper."
O'Reilly had a stab of violent resentment against Clo. But the thought
had only to pass through his brain to be rejected. The girl was a
strange girl, audacious and unscrupulous in her loyalty to Mrs. Sands;
but she could not have told her story in a way to impress its truth upon
him unless she had been sincere.
"The young lady didn't give you any other message?" he asked.
"No, sare. She was in much hurry. But I see her mark on a piece of
paper," the waiter replied. "Maybe she write you a note."
O'Reilly reflected. Which should he do, look for a message in the pocket
of the coat Clo had left, or dash upstairs and find out which way she
had gone? It was almost certain that he would now gain nothing by the
latter course.
O'Reilly sat down at the table, in the chair where he had sat before. He
found the one pocket in the brown coat, and in that pocket Kit's jet and
steel bag. There was nothing else there, so he opened the bag cautiously
in case some of Kit's friends had arrived. As he did so, the folded
programme dropped out.
XXVII
WHEN BEVERLEY CAME HOME
When Clo had shut the taxi door almost in Beverley's face, and had given
the chauffeur orders to drive on, she had said to herself, "Angel will
be so surprised she won't know what to do for a minute. And by the time
she pulls herself together, she'll realize it's too late to stop me."
The girl had judged well. Beverley shrank back from the slammed door
with a jump of the nerves. Then she guessed what Clo meant to do. She
was in the act of tapping to stop the chauffeur, and tell him to turn,
when the question seemed to ask itself aloud in her brain, "What good
will it do for you to go back?"
Before she could reach Clo, if she returned to the hotel now, the girl
would have learned the secret of Peterson's room. When she saw what
Beverley had seen, she would know that there was nothing to be done with
a dead man. She would slip away to avoid being mixed up in the business
of the murder. She would not risk being caught. The girl was too
sensible, and she had plenty of money as well as brains. She had shown
herself equal to desperate emergencies. She would be equal to this. She
was so quick-witted that she would know what to do, and how to do it.
Beverley let the chauffeur drive on. He went to the corner where he had
been hailed by his two passengers. There he stopped, and Beverley got
out. She paid him; and making a pretence of examining her change in the
light of a street lamp, stood still until the taxi had turned and shot
out of sight. Then, with the bag of jewels which Clo had tossed into her
lap, she walked home. Her latch-key opened the door of the flat, she
entered her boudoir, and fell into a chair, sitting as still as the dead
Peterson had sat. It was not much past ten o'clock.
Five minutes later she took off hat and cloak, and peeped into her
bedroom to see if her maid were there. But the room was empty, and she
put away the gray mantle and toque where she had found them. She did not
forget to toss carelessly upon her bed the hat she had worn in the
afternoon, and a pair of white gloves; then she rang for her maid who
came almost at once. She had gone out, Beverley explained quietly, to
help Miss Riley transact a little matter of business.
It was eleven-thirty when Léontine bade her mistress good-night and
softly closed the bedroom door. She had noticed nothing strange in the
manner of Madame, except an unusual lack of vitality.
Left alone, Beverley opened the door of the big, bare room. "Clo," she
called softly.
No answer. She switched on the light. No one was there, and Beverley
hurried on to the little room beyond, which had been Sister Lake's. It,
too, was empty. Something grave, perhaps terrible, had detained the
girl.
"She won't come--she won't come at all." Beverley said aloud. "What
shall I do?" She could not abandon the fragile child who loved her, who
had stood by her with wonderful strength and courage throughout this
dreadful day. Yet what was there she could do?
Roger returned about one o'clock. He moved quietly, as if in order not
to disturb his wife, but she heard the cautious closing of his door. She
did not try or wish to sleep, but lay on her bed, waiting for day.
After six o'clock Beverley could lie still no longer. She stole into her
bathroom, and bathed in cold water. But she felt as utterly spent after
her bath as before.
This morning she did penance by putting on a tailor-made, white linen
suit, of a slightly severe cut, and made her toilet without ringing for
Léontine. She decided to breakfast at the customary hour and in the
customary place, but she did not expect to be joined by Roger. She was
still in her bedroom, fastening a brooch, when he tapped at her door.
"Come in!" she cried, eager for the meeting, yet sick with fear. Roger
came in, fully dressed, looking cool and well groomed. To Beverley's sad
heart it seemed that he had never been so handsome--or so hard.
"Good morning," he said, as he might have spoken to any friend. "I heard
you stirring about, so I thought I might knock. Are you going out
early?" as his eyes wandered over her dress.
"You mean because I'm dressed? No, I didn't think of it. I couldn't
sleep. The night was hot, and the heat was on my nerves, I suppose, so I
got up at six. I hope I didn't disturb you, Roger?"
"Not at all," he politely replied. "I've some business which will take
me out half an hour sooner than usual. I suppose they can give us
breakfast in time for that? Coffee and toast and grape fruit can't take
long to make ready?"
"I'll ring for breakfast. I didn't know if----"
"Didn't know--what?" he caught up her sentence as it broke.
"Oh, nothing--important," she excused herself. Yet she was sure he knew
what had stopped her short of saying that she didn't know if he would
breakfast with her in the boudoir.
"Well, I daresay Johnson has put the newspapers in their place by this
time," Roger said, ignoring her embarrassment. "I'll have a look, to
save time. You'll come when you're ready? I've a suggestion to make that
I think you'll like."
He spoke pleasantly, not at all as if he had a grudge against his wife.
Many women would have been satisfied with such a manner; but Beverley
was not of the "many women," and Roger had never been like other,
ordinary husbands. For the first morning since that day in Chicago when
he had asked her to be his wife, they had not kissed.
"It will always be like this from now on," she told herself. "I hope I
shall die. I can't live without his love, and go on seeing him every
day!"
Roger had not mentioned Clo, and Beverley held her peace. She thought it
would be best to wait and see what the newspapers said. At the end of
ten minutes, as the breakfast tray was being placed on the lace table
cover, she strolled into the boudoir. Roger hardly looked up, feigning
to be deeply interested in his paper. On other mornings--the servant
being out of the room--he would have sprung from his chair to place
hers, and perhaps to kiss the long braid of her golden brown hair, or
the back of her white neck as it showed under her fetching little cap.
"Any exciting news?" she asked in a casual tone, as she sat down--the
sort of tone which other wives perhaps use to other husbands.
"Nothing that interests us specially," Roger answered. "A rather sordid
murder, at a third-rate hotel; there's a mystery, of course."
"What hotel?" Beverley ventured to ask, pouring coffee with a hand that
would shake.
"One I never heard of before. Let me see, what's the name? Oh, the
'Westmorland.' You'll not be interested. Let's get to the thing I want
to talk about. Can you guess what it is?"
Beverley shook her head. "I am a bad guesser."
"It's partly about your pearls. By the by, was the pearl-stringer
satisfactory?"
"Oh, quite," Beverley murmured, sipping her coffee.
"I'm glad she made a good job. The rope looks as fine as if no accident
had happened, I suppose?"
"It's a--wonderful rope," his wife managed to reply.
"I imagined you'd be wearing your gewgaws for breakfast this morning
just to show they were all right!" Roger's eyes smiled coolly into hers.
It was a cruel smile.
"A rope of pearls at breakfast--on a tailor gown of linen--and a queen's
pearls at that! What bad taste! I shall wear these splendours only on
the greatest occasions."
"Well, I've arranged a great occasion," said Roger. "That's principally
what I want to talk about. I'd like you to send out invitations for a
house party and a big dinner and dance directly after we're settled in
the Newport cottage. And I'd like to move there sooner than we meant.
I've decided to take a few weeks' holiday. We'll both be better out of
the city."
"Oh, yes!" Beverley agreed.
"And I want you to do a thing to please me. Wear the queen's
pearls--your pearls--on the night of the dinner and dance."
XXVIII
MR. JONES OF PEORIA
O'Reilly had only just finished reading Clo's note, had folded it up,
and put it in his pocket when he was joined by a man at whom, for a
second, he stared as at a stranger. Then a slight contraction of the
newcomer's eyelid and a twinkle in his eye enlightened Justin.
"Well, this is good, meeting you!" exploded a jolly voice. "I hoped you
hadn't forgotten poor old Dick Jones, though it's a long time since you
blew out our way to Peoria. I'm here in little old New York, seeing the
sights."
"Why, of course, I remember you very well, Mr. Jones," said O'Reilly.
"Sit down at my table, do. What'll you have, in memory of old times?"
As he spoke, he took in the extraordinary changes Mr. William J. Denham
had made in his personal appearance. Denham was a slender, youngish man,
neat and dapper, with light brown hair, a smooth face, and pale skin.
Jones had reddish, rumpled eye-brows, puffy pink lids, and large, roving
eyes behind convex glasses. His hair was also red and rumpled, and
though he was not enormously stout, he was clumsily built, with a
decided paunch.
When he had sat down at O'Reilly's table, the absence of near neighbours
and the momentary inattention of waiters gave the two men a chance to
speak freely. "You sent a hurry call. Something up at Krantz's this
peaceful Sabbath?"
"There's more up than I want to come out," said O'Reilly. "Things have
changed since I 'phoned, but there's more need of you than ever. The
girl I wanted to help was with me. While I talked to you, she
disappeared...."
"Disappeared!"
"Yes. I couldn't follow, because when I knew what had happened it was
too late to get on her track; otherwise you'd have found me flown. I'd
have sacrificed you for her, if there'd been even a sporting chance. But
I didn't see one. Maybe you will, when I put you wise: or somebody may
show up whose face will give you a tip. I'll tell you what I
know--except the name of a lady which mustn't come into the business
even with discretion incarnate like you."
"Reservations often spoil jobs," said Denham.
"Mine won't."
The coming of a waiter broke the conversation.
"Anybody interesting here?" asked Justin, when the waiter had gone.
"No familiar faces. But there may be, later."
O'Reilly shook his head. "It's a quarter to twelve. The man or men who
made an appointment--not with me; with the girl who's gone--should have
turned up at eleven-thirty."
"If they're sure of themselves--sure their faces aren't known--they're
probably here," remarked Denham. "But out with your story. A lot may
hang on that."
"A lot does," said O'Reilly; and told it. He omitted no detail given by
Clo except such as led too close to Mrs. Sands. O'Reilly hardly
disguised the fact that the crime and its punishment were of slight
importance to him compared with the finding of Clo Riley. "I don't want
her mixed up in this murder business," he finished, "and she doesn't
want to be mixed up in it, not for her own sake, but because of the
woman she's protecting. You could get the name of that woman, but I ask
you not to concern yourself with it."
"Right you are," Denham reassured him. "I've got enough to do without
meddling in other folks' business. The lady outside the case doesn't
exist. But as for 'Churn' being Lorenz Czerny, it doesn't go without
saying that we shall spot Chuff and Jake, and the rest of the gang
through him. That will depend on himself, and his Moll--Kit. I wouldn't
mind offering your young lady a good place and good pay when this mix-up
comes to an end."
"I do not believe she'll be looking for work," said O'Reilly.
"This Kit must be pretty sharp, too. It looks as if Churn was her
'steady.' If she did the job at the Westmorland, it was to set him and
her up in housekeeping, later on, well away from Chuff and Co. Looks as
if Kit had been used for a catspaw, and maybe hadn't got enough out of
the job for herself. Suddenly she saw a whole dazzling lot. I can't get
on to who this Kit is yet. But maybe I will. Your little friend does
shoot quick--and low."
"She does," said O'Reilly. "But she doesn't hit below the belt."
"Folks like Kit and Churn and Chuff haven't got belts," said Denham.
O'Reilly laughed again. But he wanted Clo. She was made for him--the
demon, the darling, the only girl he had ever seriously desired. He
hadn't known that she existed till to-night, when she'd begun their
acquaintance by tricking and stealing from him. Though he might laugh,
he wouldn't know a happy moment till she was safe. For an instant he
forgot Denham and the business in hand. "I think she likes me," he told
himself. "I'll make her like me a lot more when I get half a chance."
"That couple will hide," Denham was saying. "Churn may send word to
Krantz that he can't sing; he'll say he's sick. But I shan't do any such
thing as put Krantz wise that his tenor is wanted. Krantz is a fox. Our
hope is in Miss Riley."
"You'll come to the Dietz, won't you?" asked O'Reilly.
"Yes," said the detective, finishing his cool beer. "I'll come. But I
haven't got much hope from what may be in that bead bag. People who have
things to hide, hide 'em better than in bags. However, we'll see." When
Justin had paid for Denham's drink, they went, with the bead bag in the
pocket of Clo's brown cloak hanging over O'Reilly's arm. It was after
midnight.
XXIX
ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS
Roger had talked of nothing but his plan for the Newport house-warming,
after starting the subject; and he had told Beverley that they ought to
be able to move in a week. She must make everything right about the
servants: he would see to outside arrangements. And this "big party"
could take place in a fortnight. It was ostentatious sending out
invitations longer in advance. They must make a "splash"--worthy of the
house--and the pearls. Beverley must think up something original in the
way of entertainment--a surprise. And as he talked it seemed to the girl
that his eyes never left her face. Beverley promised to move to Newport
when Roger wished. She promised to write the invitations, and--she
promised to wear the queen's pearls.
At last Roger went, without having alluded to Clodagh Riley. Whether
this were deliberate, or careless, Beverley could not guess. But she was
thankful.
The instant Roger had gone Beverley seized the paper he had dropped, and
found what she wanted. "Mysterious Murder at Hotel Westmorland" was the
heading at the top of a column on the first page. She sat down and read
the whole report.