SUSPICION
A DOOR slammed and hasty footsteps sounded down the corridor, then a
figure blocked the doorway to the sitting room of Latimer’s bachelor
apartment.
“She’s gone!”
Latimer dropped the Sunday newspaper he had been reading and stared at
John Hale. For a moment he had not recognized his friend’s voice--it
was hoarse, discordant.
“She--who?” he exclaimed, springing to his feet.
“Polly.” John Hale swayed slightly, then lunged for the nearest chair
and dropped into it. Latimer wasted no words, but poured out a liberal
pony of brandy and placed it in his hand.
“Feel better?” he asked, watching the color steal back into John
Hale’s white cheeks as he put the empty brandy glass on the mantel.
Not receiving an answer to his query, he busied himself about the room
which served as library and office. A colored factotum who “went with
the apartment” served his breakfasts; the other meals Latimer took at
his club or at Rauscher’s. His two rooms, bath, and kitchenette were
unusually large, owing to the building having been, before the World
War, a private residence. The architect, in remodeling it, had been
generous in his allotment of space.
At the end of ten minutes John Hale pulled himself together and signed
to Latimer to draw up a chair.
“Sorry I made such a fool of myself,” he began, “but I’m hard hit.”
Latimer looked at him in distress. “What is wrong?” he asked.
“Polly’s gone.”
“So you stated before. Where has she gone?”
“I can’t find out.” John Hale drummed his fingers nervously up and down
his walking stick to which he still clung. “You know I called up Mrs.
Davis after our fruitless trip to Chevy Chase. She said Polly had come
in and gone to bed.”
“Well, it was pretty late when we got back,” Latimer pointed out.
“Yes, thanks to that traffic cop.” John Hale frowned angrily. “I’d have
seen Polly if he hadn’t insisted on taking us to the police station.”
“Your previous record for speeding was against you, John,” remarked
Latimer mildly. “But what about Polly?”
“This morning I ran over to see her; found her mother in tears, and a
trained nurse looking after her and--” John Hale stopped and pulled out
a crumpled note--“here, read for yourself,” and tossed it to him.
Latimer scanned the few lines:
DEAR MOTHER:
Nurse Phelps will spend a few days with you in my absence. Have run off
for that promised change. Don’t worry, darling.
POLLY.
“Well?” he asked as he returned the note.
“Mrs. Davis told me that she had wished Polly to take a vacation
for some time and visit their cousin, Mrs. Paul Davis, at Markham,
Virginia. She believed Polly had gone there.” John Hale paused. “I’ve
just talked with Mrs. Paul Davis on the long distance telephone. Polly
is not with her, and not expected.”
Latimer regarded John Hale in bewilderment. “Then where has she gone?”
he questioned.
“I have no idea.” Again John Hale played with his walking stick.
Latimer considered him gravely. “What am I to infer?” he asked. “That
Polly has disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“But, my heavens, man! Why?”
John Hale shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other.
“Overwork,” he said briefly; “unbalanced.”
“Good Lord!” Again Latimer considered him. “Polly did not look ill.”
“But she was,” fiercely. “Any fool could have seen it.”
“Possibly so,” agreed Latimer quietly. “I haven’t seen Polly as
frequently as you or Austin.”
John Hale’s strong white teeth snapped viciously at his under lip.
“Leave Austin’s name out of it”--his manner was dictatorial in the
extreme and Latimer flushed.
“I will, with pleasure, but”--he hesitated, then disregarding John
Hale’s glare, continued steadily--“are you quite sure that Austin’s
tragic death has not had something to do with Polly’s--as you
claim--mental condition?”
John Hale compressed his lips ominously. “No,” he declared. “Get such
an idea out of your head at once.”
“I can’t,” Latimer confessed frankly. “Austin and Polly were engaged.”
“Were? Quite so.” John Hale’s laugh was mirthless. “The engagement was
broken by Polly before his death.”
“How soon before his death?”
“Damn! What business is it of yours?” John Hale turned on him savagely.
Latimer rose. “None of my business--now,” he said. “You were the first
to bring up the discussion. You are of course at liberty to express
your views; I reserve the right to hold my own opinion. Good-morning.”
“Here, wait--” John Hale pushed Latimer back in his chair. “I spoke
hastily--without thought--and I apologize. I’m a bit unhinged.”
Latimer regarded him with concern.
“Have you had any breakfast?” he asked.
“No--yes--coffee and rolls; all I wanted,” John Hale moved restlessly.
“I must find Polly.”
“Have you reported her disappearance to the police?”
“No, certainly not; we must have no scandal,” John Hale frowned. “You
and I must find Polly.”
“Willingly--but how are we to go about it?”
“For one thing, you can call on Mrs. Davis under pretense of wishing
to engage Polly as your stenographer, and she will probably give
you her present address. You may get more out of her than I did.
Frankly,”--John Hale gave an embarrassed laugh--“Mrs. Davis’ manner to
me has been very peculiar lately. To-day she appeared almost to resent
my questions regarding Polly’s whereabouts.”
Latimer whistled. “So!” he exclaimed. “She may be aiding Polly to avoid
you.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” John Hale admitted. “But why? She knows I
am Polly’s best friend.”
Latimer took out his cigarette case and offered it to his companion.
With his left hand he indicated the box of matches on the smoking stand
at Hale’s elbow.
“Have you and Polly quarreled?” he asked.
It took a few seconds for John Hale to light his cigarette. “No,” he
said between puffs. Then, removing his cigarette, he looked straight at
Latimer. “Polly is everything to me,” he stated solemnly. “I will never
give her up. She shall be my wife,” and his clenched fist struck the
arm of his chair a resounding blow. “Austin, dead or alive, shall not
come between us.”
Latimer looked at him and then away. In the glance he had detected a
glimpse of the man he had never seen before--he had never suspected. In
that instant a naked soul had been bared in all its human frailties.
“Austin has always been a disappointment to me,” John Hale
continued--he spoke almost as if communing with himself and forgetful
of Latimer’s presence. “For his mother’s sake I condoned his wild
habits while at college, his affairs with women,”--his voice rasped
through the room--“then he dared to play fast and loose with Polly.”
“He did?” Latimer looked up, startled. “Good Lord, you don’t
suppose--?” he winced under John Hale’s iron grip and stopped speaking.
“I suppose nothing,” John Hale spoke with fierce intentness. “Austin
had enemies, but Polly was not one of them--she had taken his measure
and ceased to care.”
Latimer broke the ensuing silence.
“Then why has Polly bolted?” he asked.
John Hale winced and tapped his cane against his shoe.
“Polly is ill from overwork,” he insisted doggedly. “Come, we are
wasting time. Suppose I run you down to Polly’s house and you can
question Mrs. Davis. You are not busy, are you?” with a quick look
about the room.
“No; I’ll be with you in a minute,” and Latimer, true to his word, kept
him waiting only long enough to get his overcoat and hat.
Fifteen minutes later Latimer was mounting the high steps of the
old-fashioned mansion on C Street where Polly and her mother eked out
a small and steadily shrinking income by taking “paying guests,” a
profitable business during the World War, but one that had grown less
so with the departure of the army of war-workers who had transformed
Washington from a city of leisure into one of volcanic activity and
unpleasant congestion. It was not until Latimer’s patience had grown
threadbare with repeated rapping and long intervals of waiting that a
small, neatly dressed colored girl, seemingly not over fifteen years of
age, opened the door and invited him to walk inside.
“Magnolia,” called a voice from the direction of the back stairs. “Show
the gentleman into the parlor.”
“Yassam,” Magnolia’s expansive smile disclosed a row of perfect teeth.
“Dis hyar way, suh; de madam will be long d’reckly. Who did you say,
suh?” evidently impressed with his stylish frock coat and neatly
creased trousers. “Miss Polly done gone away.”
“I wish to see Mrs. Davis,” and Latimer handed her a visiting card.
“Yas, suh, sutenly, suh.” Magnolia, meeting his friendly smile, grinned
from ear to ear, then bolted with astonishing rapidity out of the room.
She was totally oblivious of the fact that her youthful, penetrating
voice, raised to a pitch to reach Mrs. Davis standing on the top stair
landing, carried her words to Latimer’s ears.
“Dar’s a splendiferous lookin’ gentle’um in his Sunday clothes waitin’
ter see yo’; no, ma’am, he didn’t arsk fo’ Miss Polly, jes’ fo’
you’--he’s got on great big spectacles and a top hat. What dat--you
wish de gentle’um’s cyard? Laws, ’scuse me, I done forgot”--and with
a loud snicker, Magnolia raced up the steps and pushed the pasteboard
into Mrs. Davis’s outstretched hand.
Latimer had met Mrs. Davis a number of times at Mrs. Hale’s and she had
chaperoned a number of parties given in Polly’s honor by John Hale. She
looked extremely pretty, with her soft gray hair becomingly dressed,
her cheeks, unwrinkled in spite of multiplied cares, held a deeper
touch of color as she entered the parlor and greeted Latimer. He
admired her gentle manner and her air of breeding which no contact with
the rough workaday world had the power to efface.
“I trust I have not disturbed you by selecting this unconventional
hour to call,” he began, seating himself somewhat gingerly on the edge
of a rickety antique chair which had been the pride of Polly’s great
grandfather. “Your maid said that Miss Polly was out, and as my errand
is somewhat urgent, I asked to see you.”
Mrs. Davis’s brilliant color receded somewhat and her left hand played
nervously with her chain of coral from which was suspended a gold
locket.
“You are always welcome,” she said, “no matter what your errand.”
“Thanks,” and Latimer, much touched, smiled with equal cordiality. “I
am in immediate need of a first class stenographer, and I wondered if I
could persuade Miss Polly to forsake Robert Hale and come to me. I will
double her present salary.”
Mrs. Davis drew in her breath. “That is a handsome offer,” she
exclaimed. “Of course I cannot answer for Polly, but, as she has
already resigned her position with Robert Hale--”
“She has resigned, then?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Davis looked her surprise at the abruptness of the
question. “I--I did not approve of her working so late at night. Mr.
Hale is kind in his way, but he is most exacting. The idea of keeping
her out until long after midnight on Tuesday, and night before last,
and then letting her come home in the street cars! He might at least,
have sent her home in his limousine.” Mrs. Davis came to an indignant
pause and Latimer looked his sympathy.
“Miss Polly will have no night work to do for me,” he said. “And the
office hours are not long--the Stock Exchange closes early, you know,
and not much business is transacted after that.”
Mrs. Davis nodded her head wisely. “I realize that,” she agreed. “The
stock market appears a bit more lively just now, Mr. Latimer. Tell
me,”--and she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch--“how are the
Troy Valve bonds rated now?”
“They have picked up five points.” Latimer regarded her in some
surprise. “I did not know you took an interest in the stock market,
Mrs. Davis.”
She colored painfully. “In former years we were large stockholders,”
she said; “now, alas, our securities have shrunk to these of Valve
bonds. I must tell Polly what you say. It is always well to sell on a
rising market, isn’t it?”
“If you wish to sell, yes,” dryly. Latimer, conscious of the passing
time, was having difficulty concealing his uneasiness as he thought of
John Hale waiting a block away in his car. In his impatience he might
forget the rôle he had cast for Latimer and, instead of awaiting the
latter’s return, walk in at any moment and, by incautious questions,
betray his own plot to discover Polly’s whereabouts. “How soon will
Miss Polly be in?”
“Oh, she is at Markham, Virginia, with my cousin, Mrs. Paul Davis,” she
responded easily. “You had best write to her there or, if you prefer, I
will write and tell her of your offer.”
“That is kind of you.” Latimer had some difficulty schooling his voice
to the proper pitch of enthusiasm for his rôle. “But I must have Miss
Polly’s answer to-day. Can we not call her up on the long distance? I
see your telephone is in that corner”--and he stepped toward it.
Mrs. Davis stopped him with a gesture. “No use, Mrs. Paul Davis has no
telephone,” she stated calmly. “I can send my letter special delivery
and she will get it to-day and wire to-morrow morning when the
telegraph office is open.”
“That would perhaps be best.” Latimer made no effort, however, to
conceal his disappointment. “Is there any chance of Miss Polly’s
returning this afternoon?”
“Hardly,” Mrs. Davis smiled in open amusement. “She left for Markham
only this morning.”
“In that case it looks as if I shall have to wait until to-morrow,”
Latimer’s voice was rueful. “I wish that I had asked John Hale to tell
Miss Polly last night that I wished to engage her as my secretary.”
“John did not see Polly last night.” A faint hardness crept into
Mrs. Davis’s softly modulated tone. “She worked very late at the
Hales’”--she hesitated, looked up, and caught his sympathetic
expression. “Oh, Mr. Latimer, I cannot help feeling that Polly sees too
much of the Hales--thinks too much of them and their interests--they
are so cold-blooded--so calculating. I wish”--and her voice choked with
feeling--“I wish that she had been dead before she ever saw John Hale.”
Latimer regarded Mrs. Davis steadily. “John is a good fellow,” he
protested, “a loyal friend and a devoted admirer of your daughter.” He
studied her covertly. “Much more so than Austin--”
“Ah, there you are wrong”--Mrs. Davis stopped and cast a frightened
look about the room. “Poor Austin, I cannot realize that he has gone
from us. He was so full of life, so anxious to succeed--his death is a
tragedy.”
“And a mystery,” supplemented Latimer dryly.
“A mystery indeed.” Mrs. Davis raised a small perfumed handkerchief
to her dry eyes. “My heart goes out to the Hales, they have much to
endure.” Latimer stared--she was expressing somewhat contradictory
views about the Hale family almost in one breath. She moved closer to
him. “Have the police discovered any fresh clews?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Latimer edged toward the hall door. He dared
not linger, every extra moment might bring John Hale in search of him.
“Suppose you write to your daughter, Mrs. Davis, and I will also send
her a note within the hour. If you have word from her will you promise
to let me know at once?”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Davis accompanied him to the front door. “I feel sure
Polly will gladly accept your offer. How soon would you wish her to
commence work?”
“Immediately.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Davis looked taken aback. “She really needs rest and
recreation, Mr. Latimer. Remember, she has just started on her
vacation.”
Latimer thought a moment. “She might come to me for a few weeks, just
over this month, then go on another vacation, or rather, continue this
one, with pay.”
“I will write that to Polly.” She shook his hand warmly. “I appreciate
your kindness and I am confident that Polly will come to you if she is
physically able.”
“Then I am fortunate,” laughed Latimer. Mrs. Davis’s smile was
infectious.
“Just a moment.” Mrs. Davis detained him as he was about to run down
the steps. Her pretty coaxing manner reminded him of Polly--mother and
daughter were much alike in appearance; only to Latimer’s fastidious
taste, Mrs. Davis was the more attractive. There was a certain
aggressiveness about Polly, in spite of her good looks, which always
repelled him. “Please treat what I said just now about John Hale as
strictly confidential.”
“Certainly, madam,” and Latimer returned the pressure of her hand,
then he continued down the steps, her parting hail ringing in his ears:
“Remember, not a word!”
When Latimer rounded the corner into Pennsylvania Avenue where John
Hale had agreed to wait for him, his face was grave. He said nothing as
he climbed into the car and dropped down beside his friend, but as the
car continued up the avenue, he broke his silence.
“I failed,” he admitted honestly, and a groan of disappointment broke
from John Hale. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Polly’s address to-morrow. Mrs.
Davis thinks I called to engage Polly as my secretary.”
Had either Latimer or John Hale turned his head and looked backward
he could not have failed to see a woman standing under a tree at the
corner of John Marshall Place. Their car was lost in the traffic before
Mrs. Davis, recovering from a feeling of breathlessness produced by the
unusual exertion of running, turned slowly homeward.