"Sure?"
"Yes. Good-night--or good-morning. Tell 'em down stairs I'm much
obliged, as usual."
The two men ate heartily and in silence. It was not till the plates were
scraped that either spoke. With the last sip of the soothing beverage
Brencherly closed his eyes peacefully.
"Old man," he said, "this night's work is the best luck I've ever had.
Now, tell me, did the lady say anything at any time? or did she remain
as she is?"
"She didn't say much. Grumbled a little at being moved around; in fact,
I thought she was coming out of it for a minute when we first got her in
here. Then she straightened out for another lap of sleep. Here's her
kit."
He rose as he spoke, and took from the mantel the package she had clung
to during all her enforced journey. He untied the parcel, and both men
bent over its meager contents. Though Brencherly had seen them under the
wavering arc lights of Washington Square, he now gave each article the
closest scrutiny. Nothing offered any clew, except the wallet. That,
worn as it was, showed its costly texture, and the marks of careful
mountings. It was unmistakably a man's wallet, and its flexibility
denoted constant use. Brencherly set it on one side.
"Anything else?" he asked.
The other nodded. He had the most important find in reserve.
"These," he said, and drew from his pocket a bunch of newspaper
clippings. He laid each one on the table. "Now, _what_ do you think of
_that_?" His lean, cadaverous face took on a look of satisfied cunning.
If his colleague had not chosen to take him into his confidence, he
could show him that he was quite capable of drawing his own inferences
and making his own conclusions. He sat back and nonchalantly lit a
cigarette.
There were at least twenty cuttings, of all sizes, from a half page from
a Sunday supplement to a couple of lines from a financial column. But
all bore the name of Victor Mahr more or less conspicuously displayed.
Two scraps showed conclusively that they had been cherished and handled
more than all the others. One was a sketch of the millionaire's country
estate; the other, a reproduction from a photograph of his old-fashioned
and imposing city residence.
"H'm!" said Brencherly. "It's pretty clear that she had a reason for
occupying that park bench, hey? And she certainly has patronized the
news bureau, or been a patient collector herself. See that?" He pushed
forward the largest of the clippings. "That's three years old. I
remember when that came out. It was after Teddy's sensational playing at
the Yale-Harvard game. They had the limelight well turned on then, you
remember. And that"--he smoothed another slip--"that announcement of his
purchase of 'Allanbrae' is at least five years old. She's been
treasuring all this for a long time. Where did you find them?"
"When I put her on the bed," Long replied, "her collar seemed to be
choking her, so I loosened it, and a button or two. There was a pink
string around her throat and a little old chamois bag--like you might
put a turnip-watch in. I took it in here and found--that stuff--what do
you think?"
"I think that we're getting near the answer to something we all want to
know," said Brencherly. "But it means a lot to a lot of people to keep
the police off--for the present. I want to be sure."
"How do you suppose she got in?" said Long, insinuatingly.
"Don't know yet--but we'll find that out. Meantime, don't use the
telephone for anything you have to say to anybody. And the other woman,
let me tell you, has nothing to do with this case. I'll tell you now,
before your curiosity makes you make a fool of yourself--she's been
hunted for high and low, because she's had aphasia--forgets who she is,
and all that, every once in a while, and her people have been offering a
reward. Just happened to make a double haul, that's all. But you don't
get in on the first one. Now are you satisfied?" Brencherly looked at
his companion quizzically.
Long grunted. He was rather annoyed at having the occurrence so simply
explained.
"Oh, well," he yawned, "you're on this case, and I'm only your lobbygow;
so I suppose I've got to let it go at that. But, say, I'm tired. Let's
turn in, or, if you don't want me in your joint, I'll go down stairs and
get them to bunk me somewhere in the dump." He rose. "I suppose they'll
fix me up?"
Brencherly went to the telephone and spoke for a moment. "All right," he
said; "they'll give you number seventy-three on this floor. I want you
to do something for me to-morrow, so set the bellboy for eight o'clock,
will you?" A moment later he turned his assistant over to the hotel
roundsman, and turned to his own well earned rest. Making a neat packet
of the clippings, he stowed them away once more in their worn
receptacle--he hesitated, then nodded to himself, having decided to
replace them. He must gain this woman's confidence. She must not be made
suspicious. Above all, her anger must not be roused. She might become
stubborn and uncommunicative. He stepped into the adjoining room and
turned on the electrics. The quick flash of the light made him shut his
eyes. When he opened them he gave a cry of dismay. The tumbled bed was
empty--the window stood wide open. It flashed into his mind, that as he
had talked with Long over the incriminating bits of paper, he had felt a
draft of air; but his knowledge that his captive was securely tied had
eliminated from his mind any idea of the possibility of an attempt at
escape. Then, cursing himself, he recalled how he had loosened the cords
about her ankles. With a bound he was at the window, looking down at the
spidery threads of fire escape ladders, leading down to the utter dark
of the service alley.
"My God!" he exclaimed aloud. "My God!" He feared to find a crushed and
broken little body at the foot of those steep iron ladders. It seemed
impossible for such a frail and aged woman to have, unaided, made her
way down the sides of that inky precipice. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed
again, "if only she isn't killed!" He stood looking out, leaning as far
over the iron railing as he dared, waiting till his eyes should become
accustomed to the darkness. Gradually the details of the structure
became clear to his vision. No ominous dark mass took shape on the
pavement, far beneath. He could vaguely make out the contours of an ash
can or two and an abandoned wheelbarrow. But the alley from end to end
held no human form. She had succeeded in making her escape! Then at all
costs he must find her; and the police must not get hold of her. The
evidence of the clippings, her angry words as she prepared to attack
Mrs. Marteen--all outlined a possible solution to the tragedy in
Washington Square.
He hesitated a moment. His first impulse was to descend the fire escapes
in turn and look below for further trace of her going. But he realized
that he could reach the alley quicker by going through the house. He
cursed himself for a careless fool. How could he have allowed this to
happen!
He turned quickly, intent on losing no further moments, when he was
frozen into immobility by a sound, the most curiously unexpected of all
sounds--a laugh, a faint treble chuckle! It seemed to come from the
outer air, from nowhere, to hang suspended in the damp air of the shaft.
It was eerie, ghostly. Was the spirit of the dead man laughing at his
folly? The detective stepped back on the grating, flattening himself
against the outer sill of his window. Again the chuckler--now an
unmistakable laugh floated to his ears. With a smothered exclamation he
stepped forward again, and looked upward. There, against the violet-gray
of the star-sprinkled sky, bulked a crouching shape, cuddled on the
landing above.
Brencherly held his breath. It seemed that the woman must fall from her
perch, so insecure it seemed. He controlled himself, thinking rapidly.
Then he laughed in return.
"That _was_ a good joke you played on me," he said. "How did you ever
think of it?"
"Oh," came the answer, punctuated by smothered peals of laughter.
"That's the way I got away from the Sanatorium. I just went up instead
of down, and stayed there, till they'd hunted all the place over. Then
when I saw where they weren't, I just went down and walked out."
"That was clever," he exclaimed. "But you can't be comfortable up there.
Won't you come down, and I'll get something for you to eat. You must be
hungry, and cold, too."
"No," came the response. "I sort of like it here. It reminds me of the
way I fooled them all back there; and they thinking themselves that
sharp, too. It's sort of nice, too, looking at the stars--sort of feels
like a bird in a nest, don't it?"
"I hope to goodness, she don't take it into her head she can fly,"
thought Brencherly. Aloud he said: "Say, do you mind if I come up there
and sit with you a while? I'm sort of lonesome here myself." He had
already moved silently forward, and was slowly mounting the iron
ladder--very slowly, a rung at a time, talking all the while in a
cordial, friendly voice. He feared she might take fright and precipitate
herself to the stones below. But her mood was otherwise.
"I don't mind," she said. "I don't seem to know just how I got here, and
perhaps you can tell me. I just woke up and found myself sleepin' on
somebody's bed. I thought at first that I was back in the ward, when I
found my feet was tied up. Then when I got loose and had time to feel
around, I saw 'twas some strange place. Then the fire escapes sort of
looked nice and cool, so I came out."
By this time her visitor had climbed beside her and had seated himself
on the landing in such fashion that no move of hers could dislodge
either of the strange couple. He noted with relief that they were
outside of a door instead of a window, as was the case on all the floors
below. The drying roof of the hotel only was above them. He did not wish
this extraordinary interview to be interrupted. His airy nest-mate
seemed amenable to conversation.
"Well, well!" he resumed, "so _that_ was the way you worked it. Wouldn't
that make the doctor mad, though--what was the old duffer's name,
anyway? You did tell me, but I've got such a poor memory--now, yours is
good, I'll bet a hat."
"Well," she said, "'tain't what it used to be, but I'll never forget old
Malbey's name as long as I live, nor what he looks like, either. He
looks like a potato with sprouts for eyes."
Brencherly laughed. He had a very clear, if unflattering, picture of the
learned physician.
"But, say," she cried suddenly, "you're not trying to get me, are you?"
"Oh, _I'm_ no friend of the doctor's," he said easily. "Why, I brought
you up here to hide you away safely. That was one of my rooms you woke
up in. You see, I found you on a bench in the park out there, and you
went to sleep so suddenly right while I was talking to you, that I
thought you must be tired out."
She leaned forward, peering at him through the dusk. Her white pinched
face looked skull-like in the faint light.
"Yes," she said slowly, "seems to me that I remember some woman saying
she killed Victor Mahr, and me getting angry about it--and then I don't
seem to know just _what_ happened. Well, young man, I'm much obliged to
you, I'm sure. 'Tain't often an old woman like me gets so well taken
care of."
"But why," he questioned softly, "were you so annoyed with the other
lady? She had just as much right as you had, I suppose, to kill the
gentleman?"
"She had not!" she shrilled. "She had not!" Then lowering her voice to a
whisper, she murmured confidentially: "_My_ name ain't Welles!"
"Why, Mrs. Welles," he exclaimed, "how can you say so? If you aren't
Mrs. Welles, who are you?"
"Just as if you didn't know!" she retorted scornfully.
"Well, perhaps," he admitted. "But never mind that now. Do you know that
you lost your bag of clippings?"