Kissam kept his word and the interest in the Janney robbery began to
languish. Detectives still came and went, morning trains still disgorged
reporters, but it was not as it had been. The first, fine careless
rapture of the chase was over; nothing new was discovered, nothing old
developed. The house settled back to its methodical régime, the faces of
its inmates lost their looks of harassed distress.
Mr. Janney, though much pacified, was not yet restored to his normal
poise. His wife was now the object of his secret attention, for he knew
her to be a very sharp and observant person, and the fear that she might
"catch on" haunted him. It was therefore very upsetting when she
remarked one morning at breakfast that "those men didn’t seem to be
doing much. They were just where they had been ten days ago."
He tried to reassure her—it would be a long slow affair—didn’t she
remember the James case, where a year after the theft the jewels were
found under the skin of a ham hanging in the cellar? Mrs. Janney was not
appeased, she scoffed at the ham, and said the detectives were the
stupidest body of men in the country outside Congress. She was going to
offer a reward, ten thousand dollars—and then she muttered something
about "taking a hand herself." In answer to Mr. Janney’s alarmed
questions she quieted down, laughed, and said she didn’t mean anything.
She did, however, and had Mr. Janney known it wakeful nights would again
have been his portion. But she had no intention of telling him. She had
seen that he was worn out, a mere bundle of nerves, and what she
intended to do would be done without his knowledge or connivance. This
was to start a private inquiry of her own. The written combination,
loose in an unlocked drawer, had influenced her; it was possible some
one in the house had found it. She felt that she owed it to her
dependents and herself to make sure. And the best way to do this was to
have a detective on the spot—but a detective whose profession would be
unknown. Fortunately the plan was workable; there was a vacancy in the
household staff. For the past month she had been advocating the
engagement of a nursery governess for Bébita.
Two days after her slip to Mr. Janney an opportunity came for broaching
the subject. They were at lunch when Suzanne announced that she intended
going to town the next morning. It was about Bébita—the child’s eyes,
which had troubled her in the spring, were again inflamed and she had
complained of pain in them. Suzanne wanted to consult the oculist; she
hoped a prescription would be sufficient, but of course if he insisted
on seeing the child she would have to be taken in for an examination.
Mrs. Janney thought it the right thing to do and said she would
accompany her daughter. Suzanne, who was eating her lunch, paused with
suspended fork and sidelong eye;—why was that necessary, she was
perfectly competent to attend to the matter. Mrs. Janney agreed and said
she was going on another errand—to see about the nursery governess they
had spoken of so often. It was time something was done, Bébita was
running wild, forgetting all she had learned last winter. Mrs. Janney
had heard of several women who might answer and would spend the day
looking them up and interviewing them. Suzanne returned to her food.
"Oh, very well, it might be a good thing, only please get some one young
and cheerful who didn’t put on airs and want to be a member of the
family."
One of Suzanne’s fads was a fear of the Pennsylvania Tunnel. Whether it
was a pose or genuine she absolutely refused to go through it, declaring
that on her one trip she had nearly died of fright and the pressure on
her ears. Since that alarming experience she always went to the city
either by the old Long Island Ferry route, or by motor across the
Queensborough Bridge.
It being a fine morning they decided to drive in—about an hour’s run—and
at ten they started forth. They chatted amicably, for Suzanne, since the
robbery and the knowledge that her debts were paid, had been unusually
gay and good-humored. They separated at Altman’s, Mrs. Janney keeping
the motor, Suzanne taking a taxi. At four they would meet at a tea room
and drive home together.
Mrs. Janney’s first point of call was a strange place in which to look
for a nursery governess. It was the office of Whitney & Whitney, her
lawyers, far downtown near Wall Street. She was at once conducted into
Mr. Whitney’s sanctum, for besides being an important client she was a
personal friend. He moved forward to meet her—a large, slightly stooped,
heavily built man with a shock of thick gray hair, and eyes, singularly
clear and piercing, overshadowed by bushy brows. His son, George, was
sent for, and after greetings, jolly and intimate, they settled down to
talk over Mrs. Janney’s business.
She told them the situation and her needs—could _they_ find the sort of
person she wanted. She knew they employed detectives of all sorts and
Kissam’s men had been so lacking in energy and so stupid that she wanted
no more of that kind. She had to have a woman of whose character they
were assured, and sufficiently presentable to pass muster with the
master and the servants. Mr. Whitney gave a look at his son and they
exchanged a smile.
"Go and see if you can get her on the wire, George," he said, "and if
she’s willing tell her to come down right now." Then as the young man
left the room he turned to Mrs. Janney. "I know the very person, the
best in New York, if she’ll undertake it."
"Some one who’s thoroughly reliable and can fit into the place?"
"My dear friend, she’s as reliable as you are and that’s saying a good
deal. As to fitting in, leave that to her. In her natural state there
are still some rough edges, but when she’s playing a part they don’t
show. She’s smart enough to hide them."
"Who is she—a detective?"
"Not a real one, not a professional. She was a telephone girl and then
she made a good marriage—fellow named Babbitts, star reporter on the
_Despatch_. She’s in love and happy and prosperous, but now and again
she’ll do work for us. It’s partly for old sakes’ sake and partly
because she has the passion of the artist—can’t resist if the call comes
to her. She came to our notice during the Hesketh case—did some of the
cleverest work I ever saw and got Reddy out of prison. The Reddys are
among her best friends—can’t do too much for her."
Mrs. Janney, who knew the beautiful Mrs. Reddy, was impressed.
"Do you think she’ll come?" she asked anxiously.
He gave her a meaning look and nodded;
"Yes. It’s an unusually interesting case."
Half an hour later Mrs. Janney met Molly Morgenthau Babbitts and laid
the situation before her. She found the much-vaunted young woman, a
pretty, slender girl, with crisply curly black hair, honest brown eyes,
and a pleasantly simple manner. Mrs. Janney liked what she said and
liked her. There was no doubt about her intelligence and as to rousing
any suspicions in the household—she would have deceived Mr. Janney—she
even would have deceived Dixon. As the case was outlined she could not
hide her kindling interest and, when she agreed to undertake the work,
Mrs. Janney felt that the nursery governess idea had been an
inspiration. The interview ended with practical details: Mrs. Babbitts
would make her reports to the Whitneys, who would figure as her
employers and would hand on her findings to Mrs. Janney. She would
arrive by the twelve-thirty train on the following day and be known at
Grasslands as Miss Rodgers. As they were separating she asked if there
was a branch telephone on the upper floor and, being told that there was
in an alcove off the main hall, requested that her room might be near it
as the telephone played an important part in her work.
Suzanne’s course had a curious resemblance to her mother’s, though her
plan of procedure was different.
From the day after the robbery she had developed an interest in the
telephone "Red Book." She had taken it to her room and turning to the
D’s studied the list of detective agencies. After much comparison and
cogitation she had copied down the name of one Horace Larkin, who
appeared to be in business by himself and whose office was in a central
and accessible part of the city.
After she had parted from her mother she went to a department store,
shut herself in a telephone booth, and called up Mr. Larkin. A masculine
voice, that of Larkin himself, had answered, and explaining her desire
to see him on important business, he had made an appointment to meet her
that afternoon at the Janney house on Fifth Avenue.
This was an excellent place for Suzanne’s purpose, closed for the
summer, its porch boarded up, its blue-blinded windows proclaiming its
desertion. An ancient caretaker occupied the basement with her niece,
Aggie McGee, to help and be company. Mrs. Janney never went there, but
now and then Suzanne did, generally on a quest for some needed garment,
so that her presence in the house was in no way remarkable.
The appointment was for two and, after telling Aggie McGee that a
gentleman would call and to show him into the reception room, she
retired to the long Louis Quinze salon and threw herself on a sofa. She
was a little scared at what she had planned but she did not let her
uneasiness interfere with her intention, for, her mind once set on a
goal, she was as determined as her mother. Stretched comfortably on the
sofa, her glance traveling over the covered walls, the chandelier, a
misshapen bulging whiteness below the frescoed ceiling, she carefully
thought out what she would say to Mr. Larkin.
A ring of the bell brought her to a sitting position, her hands pushing
in loosened hairpins. She waited listening, heard the opening and
closing of doors and then Aggie McGee’s head appeared between the
shrouded portières and announced, "The gentleman to see you, ma’am."
Her first impression of him was as a tall, broad-shouldered shape,
detailless against the light of the window. Then, as she sunk into a
chair, motioning him to one opposite, a nearer view showed him as a
fine-looking man, on to forty, with a fresh-colored, rounded face, its
expression smilingly good-humored. After the unkempt and slouchy
detectives she had seen at Grasslands his appearance, natty, smart,
almost that of a man of fashion, surprised and pleased her. She had an
instinctive distaste for all ungroomed and ill-dressed people and seeing
him so like the members of her own world, she felt a rising confidence
and reassurance. Also his manners were good, respectful, businesslike.
The one thing about him that suggested the wily sleuth were his eyes,
very light colored in his ruddy face, small, shrewd and piercing.
He came to the matter of the moment without any preamble. Yes, he knew
of the robbery and knew who she was; he supposed she had called him up
to consult him about the case.
"Of course, Mr. Larkin," she said, "that’s what I wanted. But before I
say anything it must be understood between us that this—er—sending for
you—is entirely my affair. I want to employ you myself independently of
the others."
He nodded, showing no surprise;
"You want to put your own detective on the case."
"Exactly. You’re to be employed by me but no one must know you are or
know what you’re doing."
He smothered a smile and said:
"I see."
"I don’t think the men that are working over it now are very clever or
interested. They just poke about and ask the same questions over and
over. The way they’re going I should say we’d never get anything back.
So I decided I’d start an inquiry of my own and in a direction no one
else had thought of."
Mr. Larkin gave a slight movement an almost imperceptible straightening
up of his body:
"Do you mean that you suspect some one?"
Suzanne looked at the arm of her chair and then smoothed its linen cover
with delicate finger tips. A very slight color deepened the artificial
rose of her cheek.
"I’m afraid I do," she murmured.
"Afraid?"
She nodded, closing her eyes with the movement. She had the appearance
of a person distressed but resolute.
"I can’t help suspecting some one that I don’t like to suspect. And
that’s why I want your assistance."
"I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Price."
"_This_ is the explanation. If it were known that this person was guilty
it would ruin and destroy them. My idea is to be sure that they did
it—have evidence—and then tell my mother. We could keep quiet about it,
get the jewels back and not have the thief disgraced and sent to jail."
"Oh, I see. You want to face the party with a knowledge of their guilt,
have them restore the jewels, and let the matter drop."
"Precisely. And I don’t want to say anything until I’m sure, can come
out with everything all clear and proved. That’s _where_ I expect you to
help, put things together, find out, work up the case."
"Who is the person?"
Her color burned to a deep flush; she leaned toward him, urgent, almost
pleading:
"Mr. Larkin, I hardly like to say it even to you, but I must. It’s my
mother’s secretary, Miss Maitland."
He looked stolidly unmoved:
"She lives in the house?"
"Yes, for over a year now. My mother thinks everything of her, wouldn’t
believe it unless it was proved past a doubt."
"What are your reasons for suspecting her?"
Suzanne was silent for a moment moving her glance from him to the
window. Mr. Larkin had a good chance to look at her and took it. He
noticed the feverish color, the line between the brows, the tightened
muscles under the thin cheeks. He made a mental note of the fact that
she was agitated.
"Well that night, the night of July the seventh," she said in a low
voice, "I was wakeful. I often am, I’ve always been a nervous, restless
sort of person. About half past one I thought I heard a noise—some one
on the stairs—and I got up and looked out of my door. I can see the head
of the stairs from there, and as it was very bright moonlight any one
coming up would be perfectly plain—I couldn’t make a mistake—what I saw
was Miss Maitland. She was going very carefully, tiptoeing along as if
she was trying to make no noise. At the top she turned and went down the
passage to her own room which is just beyond my mother’s."
She paused and shot a tentative look at him. He met it, teetered his
head in quiet comprehension and murmured:
"She didn’t see you?"
"Oh no, she was not looking that way. And I didn’t say anything or think
anything then—thought she’d gone downstairs for something she’d
forgotten. The next day it had passed out of my mind; it wasn’t until I
heard that the jewels were gone that it came back and then I was too
shocked to say a word. It all came upon me in a minute—I remembered how
I’d seen her and remembered that she knew the combination of the safe."
"Oh," said Mr. Larkin, "she knew that, did she?"
"Yes, she keeps her account books and money in there, things she uses in
her work. You see she’s been thoroughly trusted—never looked upon as
anything but perfectly honest and reliable."
"Then she’s filled her position to Mrs. Janney’s satisfaction?"
"Entirely. Of course we really don’t know very much about her. She was
highly recommended when she came, but people in her position if they do
their work well—one doesn’t bother much about them."
"Have you noticed anything in her conduct or manner of life lately that
could—er—have any connection with or throw any light on such an action?"
Suzanne pondered for a moment then said:
"No—she’s always been about the same. She’s gone into the city more this
summer than she did last year, on her holidays, I mean. And—oh yes, this
may be important—that night, when we came home from dinner, she asked my
mother if she could have the following day—Saturday—in town. Mrs. Janney
said she might and she went in before any of the family were up."
"Um," murmured Mr. Larkin and then fell into a silence in which he
appeared to be digesting this last item. When he spoke again it was to
propound a question that ruffled Suzanne’s composure and caused her blue
eyes to give out a sudden spark:
"Do you happen to know if she has any admirer—lover or fiancé or
anything of that sort?"
"I know nothing whatever about it, but I should say _not_. Certainly I
never heard of such a person. I never saw any man in the least attracted
by her and I should imagine she was a girl who had no charm for the
other sex."
Mr. Larkin stirred in a slow, large way and said:
"Such a robbery is a pretty big thing for a girl like that to attempt.
She must know—any one would—that jewels like Mrs. Janney’s are hard to
dispose of without detection."
Suzanne shrugged, her tone showing an edge of irritation:
"That may be the case, I suppose it is. But couldn’t she have been
employed by some one—aren’t there gangs who put people on the spot to
rob for them?"
"Certainly there are. And that would be the most plausible explanation.
Not necessarily a gang, however, an individual might be behind her. At
this stage, knowing what I do, that would be my idea. But, of course, I
can say nothing until I’m better informed. What I’ll do now will be to
look up her record and then I think I’ll take a run down to Berkeley and
see if I can pick up anything there."
Suzanne looked uneasy:
"But you’ll be careful, and not let any one guess what you’re doing or
that you have any business with me?"
He smiled openly at that:
"Mrs. Price, you can trust me. This is not my first case."
After that there was talk of financial arrangements and future plans.
Mr. Larkin thought he would come out to Berkeley in a day or two and
take a lodging in the village. When he had anything of moment to impart
he would drop a note to Mrs. Price and she could designate a rendezvous.
They parted amicably, Suzanne feeling that she had found the right man
and Mr. Larkin secretly elated, for this was the first case of real
magnitude that had come his way.
At the appointed time Suzanne met Mrs. Janney at the tea room and on the
way home they exchanged their news. The nursery governess had been
found, approved and engaged, and the oculist had said to go on with the
lotion and if Bébita’s eyes did not improve to bring her in to see him.
Both ladies agreed that their labors had exhausted them, but each looked
unusually vivacious and mettlesome.