It was the second night after Farriss had given them his instructions
that Miss Donovan and Willis, sitting in the last darkened booth in
Steinway's Café, were rewarded for their vigil. The booth they
occupied was selected for the reason that it immediately joined that
into which Willis had but three days before seen Cavendish and the La
Rue woman enter, and now as they sat toying with their food, their eyes
commanding the entire room, they saw a woman swing into the café
entrance and enter the booth directly ahead of them.
"La Rue!" whispered Willis to Miss Donovan.
Ten minutes later a young man entered the café, swept it quickly with
his eyes, then made directly for the enclosure occupied by his
inamorata. The man was Cavendish.
In the booth behind. Miss Donovan and Willis were all attention, their
ears strained to catch the wisps of conversation that eddied over the
low partition.
"Pray for the orchestra to stop playing," whispered Miss Donovan, and,
strangely enough, as she uttered the words the violins obeyed, leaving
the room comparatively quiet in which it was not impossible to catch
stray sentences of the subdued conversation.
"Well, I'm here." It was John's voice, an ill-humoured voice, too.
"But this is the last time, Celeste. These meetings are dangerous."
"Yes--when you talk so loud." Her soft voice scarcely reached the
listeners. "But this time there was a good reason." She laughed.
"You didn't think it was love, did you, deary?"
"Oh, cut that out!" disgustedly. "I have been foolish enough to
satisfy even your vanity. You want more money, I suppose."
"Well, of course," her voice hardening. "Naturally I feel that I
should share in your good fortune. But the amount I want now, and must
have to-night--to-night, John Cavendish--is not altogether for myself.
I've heard from the West."
"My God! Has he been located?"
"Yes, and is safe for the present. Here, read this telegram. It's not
very clear, but Beaton wants money and asks me to bring it."
"You? Why does he need you?"
"Lack of nerve, I guess; he's out of his element in that country. If
it was the Bowery he'd do this sort of job better. Anyhow, I'm going,
and I want a roll. We can't either of us afford to lie down now."
Cavendish half smothered an oath.
"Money," he ejaculated fiercely. "That is all I hear. Enright has
held me up something fierce, and you never let me alone. Suppose I say
I haven't got it."
"Why, then, I'd laugh at you, that's ail. You may not love me any
more, my dear, but surely you have no occasion to consider me a fool.
I endeavour to keep posted on what the court is doing in our case; I am
naturally interested, you know. You were at the Commercial National
Bank this afternoon."
"How the devil did you know that?"
"I play my cards safe," she laughed mirthlessly. "I could even tell
you the size of your check, and that the money is still on your person.
You intended to place it in a safe-deposit box and keep it hidden for
your own use."
"You hellion, you!" Cavendish's voice rose high, then later Miss
Donovan heard him say more softly: "How much do you want?"
"Ten thousand. I'm willing enough to split fifty-fifty. This Colorado
job is getting to be expensive, deary. I wouldn't dare draw on you
through the banks."
Miss Donovan had only time to nudge Willis enthusiastically before she
overheard the next plea.
"Celeste, are you trimming me again?"
"Don't be a fool!" came back in subdued tones. "Do you think that
telegram is a fake? My Gawd--that is what I want money for! Moreover,
I should think you would be tickled, Johnnie boy, to get me out of
town--and the price is so low."
In the back booth Willis muttered:
"God, things are going great." Then he bent his ear to sedulous
attention and again he could hear the voice of Cavendish.
"You've got to tell me what you're going to do with the money," it said.
The La Rue woman's answer could not be heard; evidently it was a
whispered one, and therefore of utmost importance. Came a pause, a
clink of glasses, and then a few straggling words filtered over the
partition.
"Isn't that the best way?" Celeste La Rue's voice was easily
recognisable. "Of course it will be a--well, a mere accident, and no
questions asked."
"But if the man should talk!"
"Forget it! Ned Beaton is an oyster. Besides, I've got the screws on
him. Come on, Johnnie boy, don't be a fool. We are in this game and
must play it out. It has been safe enough so far, and I know what I am
doing now. You've got too much at stake to haggle over a few thousand,
when the money has come to you as easily as this has. Why, if I'd
breathe a word of what I know in this town----"
"For God's sake, not so loud!"
"Bah! No one here is paying any attention to us. Enright is the only
one who even suspicions, and his mouth is shut. It makes me laugh to
think how easily the fools were gulled. We've got a clear field if you
will only let me play the game out in my own way. Do I get the money?"
He must have acceded, for his voice no longer rose to a high pitch.
Presently, when the orchestra began playing again. Miss Donovan and
Willis judged the pair were giving their attention to the dinner.
Finally, after an hour had passed, Cavendish emerged from the booth,
went to the check-room, and hurriedly left the café. Waiting only long
enough to satisfy herself that Cavendish was gone, Celeste La Rue
herself emerged from the booth and paused for a moment beside its
bamboo curtains. Then turning suddenly, she made her way, not toward
the exit of the café, but to another small booth near the check-room,
and into this she disappeared.
But before she had started this short journey, a yellow piece of paper,
closely folded, slipped from her belt where it had been tucked.
"It's the telegram! The one of which they were speaking." Miss
Donovan's voice whispered dramatically as her eyes swept the tiny clue
within their ambit.
Willis started. He almost sprung from the booth to pick it up, but the
girl withheld him with a pressure of the hand.
"Not yet," she begged. "Wait until we see who leaves the other booth
into which La Rue just went."
And Willis fell back into the seat, his pulse pounding. Presently,
with startled eyes, they beheld Celeste la Rue leave the booth, and
then five minutes later a well-dressed man, a suave, youthful man with
a head inclined toward baldness.
"Enright!" muttered Willis.
"Enright," echoed Miss Donovan, "and, Jerry, our hunch was right. He
and La Rue are playing Cavendish--and for something big. But now is
our time to get the telegram. Quick--before the waiter returns."
At her words Willis was out of the booth. As Miss Donovan watched, she
saw him pass by the folded evidence. What was wrong? But,
no--suddenly she saw his handkerchief drop, saw him an instant later
turn and pick it up, and with it the telegram. Disappearing in the
direction of the men's room, he returned a moment later, paid the
check, and with Miss Donovan on his arm left the café.
Outside, and three blocks away from Steinway's, they paused under an
arc-light, and with shaking hands Willis showed her the message. There
in the flickering rays the girl read its torn and yet enlightening
message.
lorado, May 19, 1915.
him safe. Report and collect.
come with roll Monday sure
've seen papers. Remember Haskell.
NED.
"It's terribly cryptic, Jerry," she said to the other, "but two things
we know from it."
"One is that La Rue's going to blow the burg some day--soon."
"The other, that 'Ned' is Ned Beaton, the man mentioned back there in
Steinway's. Whatever his connection is, we don't know. I think we had
better go to Farriss, don't you?"
"A good hunch," Willis replied, taking her arm. "And let's move on it
quick. One of us may have to hop to Colorado if Farriss thinks well of
what we've dug up."
"I hope it's you--you've worked hard," said Miss Donovan.
"But you got the big clue of it all--the telegram," gallantly returned
her companion, as he raised his arm to signal a passing cab which would
take them to the Star office.
Once there, in their enthusiasm they upset the custom of the office and
broke into Farriss's fullest hour, dragged him from his slot in the
copy desk and into his private office, which he rarely used. There,
into his impatient ears they dinned the story of what they had just
learned, ending up by passing him the telegram.
For a mere instant he glanced at them, then his lips began to move.
"Beaton--Ned--Ned Beaton--Ned Beaton," he mused, and then sat bolt
upright in his chair, while he banged the desk with a round, hard fist.
"Hell's bells!" he ejaculated. "You've run across something. I know
that name. I know the man. Ned Beaton is a 'gun,' and he pulled his
first job when I was doing 'police' in Philadelphia for the _Record_.
Well, well, my children, this is splendid! And what next?"
"But, Mr. Farriss, where is he?" put in Stella Donovan. "Where was the
message sent from? Colorado, yes, but where in Colorado? That's the
thing to find out."
"I thought it might be the last word in the message--Haskell," ventured
Willis.
Mr. Farriss paused a moment, then,
"Boy!" he yelled through the open door.
"Boy, get me an atlas here quick, or I'll hang your hair on a
proof-hook!"
A young hopeful, frightened into frenzy, obeyed with alacrity, and
Farriss, seizing the atlas from his hand, thumbed it until he found a
map of Colorado. Together the three pored over it.
"There it is!" Stella Donovan cried suddenly. "Down toward the bottom.
Looks like desert country."
"Pretty dry place for Celeste," laughed Willis. "I might call her up
and kid her about it if----"
Farriss looked at him sourly. "You might get a raise in salary," he
snapped sharply, "if you'd keep your mind on the job. What you can do
is call up, say you're the detective bureau, and ask carelessly about
Beaton. That'll throw a scare into her. You've got her number?"
"Riverside 7683," Willis said in a businesslike voice. "The Beecher
apartments. I'll try it."
He disappeared into the clattering local room, to return a moment
later, white of face, bright of eye, and with lips parted.
"What's the dope?" Farriss shot at him.
"Nothing!" cried the excited young man. "Nothing except that fifteen
minutes ago Celeste La Rue kissed the Beecher apartments good-bye and,
with trunk, puff, and toothbrush, beat it."
"To Haskell," added the city editor, "or my hair is pink. And by God,
I believe there's a story there. What's more, I believe we can get it.
It's blind chance, but we'll take it."
"Let Mr. Willis----" began Miss Donovan.
"Mind your own business, Stella," commanded Farriss, "and see that your
hat's on straight. Because within half an hour you're going to draw on
the night cashier for five hundred dollars and pack your little
portmanteau for Haskell."
Willis's face fell. "Can't I go, too?" he began, but Farriss silenced
him on the instant.
"Kid," he said sharply but kindly, "you're too good a hound for the
desert. The city needs you here--and, dammit, you keep on sniffing."
Turning to the unsettled girl beside him, he went on briskly:
"Work guardedly; query us when you have to; be sure of your facts, and
consign your soul to God. Do I see you moving?"
And when Farriss looked again he did.