"It's a key. It may open the desk where the love letters are kept."
"I guess he's too fly to keep any dangerous papers like that around."
"Yes," I says, "they might set the house on fire."
"Well, ain't you the sassy kid," says he and then the train slowing up
for a station he walked on up the aisle.
In the Jersey City depot I went like a streak for the Telephone
Exchange. My one chance was to catch him at dinner and I gave the
operator the number of his house. When she pointed to the booth I was
trembling like a leaf.
The voice that answered me was a woman's--Irish--the cook's, I guess.
She began right off: "Yes, this is Mr. Cokesbury's residence, but you
can't see him."
"Wait," I almost screamed, scared that she was going to disconnect,
"this is important. It's about a key I've just found. If Mr. Cokesbury's
there tell him a lady wants to see him about a key she picked up a few
minutes ago on the New Jersey train."
"All right. Hold the wire."
I knew he'd come. My heart was beating so I had to hold it hard with my
free hand and I had to bite my lips to make them limber. But, honest to
God, when I heard him--clear and distinct right in my ear--I thought I
was going to faint. For at last I'd got the Voice!
"What's this about finding a key?" he said gruff and sharp.
"Am I speaking to Mr. Cokesbury?"
"You are. Who is it?"
"No one you know, sir. I've just come in from Philadelphia and on the
Pullman step I found a package which seems to have a key in it. I
noticed that it was addressed to you and I looked you up in the
telephone book and am phoning now from Jersey City."
He was very cordial then. His voice was the same deep, pleasant one he'd
used to Sylvia.
"That's very kind of you and very thoughtful. I can't thank you enough.
The package was given to the Pullman conductor and he's evidently
dropped it."
"Then shall I give it to the Pullman conductor now?"
"If you'll be so kind. My servant's gone over there to get it. Just hand
it to the conductor--a tall, thin man, whose name is Sands."
"I'll do it right off. Ain't it lucky I found it?"
"Very. I'm deeply grateful. It would have put me to the greatest
inconvenience if it had been lost. I'd like to know to whom I'm
indebted."
"Oh, that don't need to bother you. I'm just a passenger traveling down
on the train. Awful glad I could be of any service. Good-bye."
I waited a minute till I got my heart quieted down, then took a call for
Babbitts' paper. Luck was with me all round that night, for he was
there. I couldn't tell him everything--I was afraid--but I told him
enough to show him I'd landed Cokesbury and he answered to come across
to town and he'd meet me at the Ferry. I caught a boat as it pulled out
of the slip and at the other side he was waiting for me.
"Come on," he said, putting his hand through my arm and walking quick
for the street, "I got a taxi here. We'll charge it up to the defense."
I got in, supposing he was going to take me somewhere to dinner, but he
wasn't. When I heard where we were bound I was sort of scared--it was to
Wilbur Whitney's house, Jack Reddy's lawyer.
"He's expecting us," Babbitts explained. "I called him up right after
I'd heard from you. You see, Kiddo, we don't want to lose a minute for
we can't stop Cokesbury going unless we got something to stop him for."
Mr. Whitney's house was a big, grand mansion just off Fifth Avenue. A
butler let us in and without waiting to hear who we were showed us into
a room with lights in bunches along the walls, small spindly gold chairs
and sofas, and a floor that shone like glass between elegant soft rugs.
There was some class to it and Babbitts and I looked like a pair of
tramps sitting side by side on two of the gold chairs. I was nervous but
Babbitts kept me up, telling me Mr. Whitney was a delightful gentleman
and was going to jump for all I had to say. Then we heard steps coming
down the stairs--two people--and I swallowed hard being dry in the
mouth, what with fright and having had no supper.
Mr. Whitney was the real thing. He was a big man, with a square jaw and
eyes deep in under thick eyebrows. He spoke so easy and friendly that
you forgot how awful sharp and keen those eyes were and how they watched
you all the time you were talking. A young man came with him--a real
classy chap--that he introduced to me as his son, George.
They couldn't have acted more cordial to me and Babbitts if we'd been
the King and Queen of Spain. When they sat down and asked me to tell
them what I knew I loosened up quite natural and told the whole story.
The young man sat sideways on the gold sofa, smoking a cigarette and
looking into the air with his eyes narrowed up as if he was spying at
something a long ways off. Mr. Whitney was sort of slouched down in an
easy chair with his hands--white as a woman's--hanging over the arms.
Now and then he'd ask me a question--always begging my pardon for
interrupting--and though they were so calm and quiet I could feel, as if
it was in the air, that they were concentrated close on every word I
said.
When I got through Mr. Whitney said, very cheerful, as if I'd been
telling some yarn in a story book:
"That's very interesting, Miss Morganthau, and very well told. Quite a
narrative gift, eh George?" and he looked at his son.
"First-class story," said George, and as careless as you please flicked
off his cigarette ashes on the rug.
Mr. Whitney leaned forward clasping his big white hands between his
knees and looking into my face, half-smiling but with something terrible
keen behind the smile.
"How can you be so sure of the voice, Miss Morganthau? I don't know
whether on the phone I could recognize the voice of my own son here."
"You get that way in my work," I answered. "Your ear gets trained for
voices."
"You're absolutely certain," said young Mr. Whitney, "that in that
message you overheard, the man spoke of coming to the meeting place in
his auto?"
"Yes, sir, I'm certain he said that."
He turned and looked at his father.
"And investigations have shown he had no auto, he telephoned to no other
garage for one, he kept no horses, and to get there on his own feet,
would have had to walk through bad country roads a distance of
twenty-five miles."
"Um," answered old Mr. Whitney as if he wasn't interested and then he
said to me: "In this message you heard to-day no suggestion was given of
what that key was the key of?"
"No, sir. The man just said it was important and Mr. Cokesbury'd had the
house upside down looking for it."
"Um," said Mr. Whitney again. "I rather fancy, Miss Morganthau, you've
done us a double service; in hunting for a voice, you've stumbled on a
key."
Young Mr. Whitney laughed.
"It's probably the key of his front door."
"Perhaps," said his father, and looked down on the carpet as if he was
thinking.
Then Babbitts spoke up:
"Don't criminals, no matter how careful they are, often overlook some
small clew that maybe is the very thing that gives them away?"
"Often," said Mr. Whitney. "In most crimes there's a curious lack of
attention to detail. The large matters are well conceived and skillfully
carried out. And then some minor point is neglected, sometimes
forgotten, sometimes not realized for its proper value."
He got up and shook himself like a big bear and we all rose to our feet.
I was feeling pretty fine, not only the relief of having delivered the
goods, but proud of myself for getting through the interview so well.
Mr. Whitney added to it by saying:
"You're a pretty smart girl, Miss Morganthau. _You_ don't know and _I_
don't know yet the full value of the work you've done for me and my
client. But whatever the outcome may be you've shown an energy and
keenness of mind that is as surprising as it is unusual."
I just swelled up with importance and didn't know what to say. Behind
Mr. Whitney I could see Babbitts' face, all beaming and grinning, and I
was so glad he was there to hear. And then--just when I was at the
top-notch of my pride--Mr. George Whitney, who'd been silent for a
while, said suddenly:
"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Morganthau, I'd like to know what
lucky chance made you listen in to that conversation between Miss
Hesketh and the Unknown Man."
Believe me I came down to earth with a thud. How could I tell them? Say
I listened to everything in the hope of hearing Jack Reddy talking to
Sylvia. I looked down on the floor, feeling my cheeks getting as red as
fire.
"Go ahead," said Babbitts. "Don't be afraid to say anything."
"We're as close here as the confessional," said old Mr. Whitney, smiling
at me like a father.