As soon as I had the notes of that ’phone message down I wrote a report
for the Whitney office—just an outline—and posted it myself in the
village. The answer with instructions came the following evening. The
next time Miss Maitland went into town I was to come with her. In the
concourse of the Pennsylvania station I’d see O’Malley (the Whitneys’
detective) and it would be my business to point her out to him. He was
to follow her and I to come to the office and make my full report. Say
nothing of what I’d heard to Mrs. Janney.
That was Tuesday; Thursday was Miss Maitland’s holiday and right along
she’d been going into town. Wednesday afternoon I heard her say she’d go
in as usual on the eight forty-five, tipped off the office by ’phone,
and told Mrs. Janney I’d need that day to make a report to Mr. Whitney—a
business formality that had to be observed.
Miss Maitland and I went in together, looking very sociable on the
outside, and talking about the weather, the new style in skirts, how
flat Long Island was, and other such ladylike topics. Coming off the
train I stuck to her like a burr, was almost arm in arm going up the
stairs, and then in the concourse broke myself loose and faded away
toward the news stand. Right there, leaning against the magazine end,
I’d seen a large, fat, sloppy-looking man, with a tired panama hat back
from his forehead, and a masonic emblem on his watch chain.
O’Malley was a first class worker in his line, and his appearance was
worth rubies. He’d a small-town, corner-grocery look that would have
fooled any one unless they’d a scent for a sleuth like a dog for a bone.
As I edged up near him, reaching out for a magazine, he cast a cold,
disdainful glance at me like the rube that’s wise to the dangers of the
great city. I dragged a magazine out from behind his back and whispered,
"In the lavender dress and the white hat with the grapes round it." And
dreamy, as if his thoughts were back with mother on the farm, he heaved
himself up from the stand and took the trail.
The Chief—that’s my name for Mr. Whitney—and Mr. George were waiting for
me in the old man’s office. Gee, it was great to be there again, like
times in the past when we’d meet together and thrash out the last
findings. Of course the Chief had to have his joke, holding me by the
shoulders and cocking his head to one side as he looked into my face:
"My, my, Molly, but the country’s put a bloom on you! What a pity it is
you’re married or you might get one of those millionaires down there."
And I couldn’t help answering fresh—he just sort of dares you to it:
"I won’t say but what I might, Chief. But it’s poor sport. Seeing what
they’ve got to choose from it would be a shame to take the money."
Mr. George was impatient—he always gets bristly when things are
moving—and cut us off from our fooling when a sharp:
"Come on, Molly, sit down and let’s hear the whole of this."
So I took up the white man’s burden, told them all I’d seen and heard
and picked up, ending off with the full notes of the ’phone talk. Then I
laid the paper on the table and looked at them. The Chief was gazing
thoughtfully at the floor, and Mr. George’s face was puckered with a
frown like he’d eaten a persimmon.
"It’s the queerest thing I ever heard in my life," he said. "Chapman and
that girl! Why, it’s impossible. Are you sure the man on the ’phone
_was_ Chapman?"
"It must have been. He spoke of meeting me in the woods and Mr. Price is
the only man I ever met there."
The Chief looked up, glowering at me from under his big eyebrows:
"What’s your opinion of this Maitland woman?"
"Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong about her—I mean I’d never
get that impression from her general make-up. But before I tapped that
message, I did get a hunch that she was sort of abstracted and shut away
in herself. She’d lonesome habits and she’d look downhearted when she
thought no one saw her. I’d size her up roughly as some one who wasn’t
easy in her mind."
"Have you ever heard anything of her having any sort of affair or
friendship with Price?"
"Not a hint of it. That’s what made me sit up and take notice. Under
everybody’s eye the way they were and yet not a soul suspecting
anything—you’re not as secret as that for nothing."
"While they were talking on the ’phone did you notice anything in their
voices—it certainly wasn’t in the words—that suggested tenderness or
love?"
"No, it was more as if they knew each other well. He sounded as if he
was trying to jolly her along, keep up her spirits; and she as if she
was scared, not at _him_ but at what he might do."
"They’d be careful," said Mr. George. "A man and a woman who were
involved in some dangerous scheme wouldn’t coo at each other over the
wire like two turtle doves."
"Love’s hard to hide," said the old man, "betrays itself in small ways.
And Molly’s got a fine, trained ear."
"Well, it caught no love there, Chief. The only person at Grasslands
who’s got that complaint is Mrs. Price. She’s in love with Mr.
Ferguson."
Mr. George was very much surprised.
"The deuce you say!—Old Dick fallen at last."
The Chief gave a sort of sarcastic grunt.
"Ferguson can take care of himself. He’s not as big a fool as he looks
or pretends to be. Now these extra holidays of Miss Maitland’s you’ve
spoken of—how long has that been going on?"
"Since April. Before that she never wanted time off and often spent her
Thursdays in the house. At Grasslands this summer she’s gone into town
every Thursday and three times asked for extra days. The last was July
the eighth, the day after the robbery."
"Umph!" muttered the old man. "I guess we’ll know something about that
when we hear from O’Malley."
Mr. George, slumped down in his chair, with his hands thrust in his
pockets, his chin pressed on his collar, said gloomily:
"I confess I’m dazed. It’s perfectly possible that Chapman, who didn’t
like his wife, should have fallen in love with the girl, it’s perfectly
natural that they should have kept it dark; but that he’s joined with
her in a plan to steal Mrs. Janney’s jewels!"—he shook his head staring
in front of him—"I can’t get the focus. Price wouldn’t qualify for a
Sunday school superintendent, but I can’t seem to see him as a gentleman
burglar."
"He was mad when he left," I said. "He made a sort of scene."
"What’s that?" growled the old man, looking up quick.
"He got angry and threatened them. I don’t know just in what way because
I’ve only caught it in bits and scraps. But Dixon heard him and told in
the village where I picked up an echo of it. He said they’d stolen his
child."
"Sounds like him—an ugly temper. Try and get exactly what he said if you
can."
We talked on a while, going back and forth over it like a lawn mower
over grass. Then a knock on the door stopped us; a boy put in his head
and announced:
"Mr. O’Malley’s outside and wants to see Mr. Whitney."
Mr. George and I squared round in our chairs with our eyes glued on the
doorway. The Chief, slouched down comfortable with his shirt-bosom
bulging, looked like a sleepy old bear, but from under the jut of his
eyebrows his glance shone as keen as a razor. O’Malley entered, hot and
red, his panama in his hand, and that air about him I’ve seen before—a
suppressed triumph gleaming out through the cracks.
"Well?" says Mr. George, curt and sharp.
O’Malley took a chair and mopped his forehead:
"There’s no mistake she’s got something up her sleeve. She took the
Seventh Avenue car and went downtown until she came to Jefferson Court
house, got out there, went a few blocks into the Greenwich Village
section and stopped at a house on a small sort of thoroughfare called
Gayle Street. I think she let herself in with a key, but I’m not sure.
The place is a shady-looking rookery, no porch or steps, door opening
right on the sidewalk, three windows to each floor, mansard roof. About
ten minutes after she went in, a man came down the street, walking
quick, hat low over his eyes—it was Mr. Chapman Price."
Mr. George stirred and gave a mutter. The old man, stretching his hand
to the cigar box at his elbow, took out a large fat cigar and said:
"Price, eh?—Go on."
"I thought the lady’d used a key, and I saw plain that he did. The door
opened and he went in. I crossed over and looked at the bells. There
were nine of them, all with names underneath except the top floor ones.
These, the last three of the line, had no names, showing the top floor
was vacant.
"There was a drug store right opposite and I went in, took a soda, and
asked the clerk about the locality—said I was looking for lodgings in
that section. I got him round to the house, where I heard I might get a
room cheap. He said maybe I could—being summer there’d be vacancies—that
the place was decent enough, but he’d heard pretty poor and mean. Just
as I got through talking to him and was leaving I saw the door across
the street open, and Mr. Price come out. He came quick, on the slant,
and was among the folks on the sidewalk before you could notice. It was
the way a man acts when he doesn’t want to be seen. He walked off toward
Seventh Avenue, his head down, keeping close to the houses. I didn’t
wait for Miss Maitland—thought I’d better come back here and report."
"Well!" said Mr. George. "I’m jiggered if I can make head or tail of
it."
The Chief took the cigar out of his mouth and addressed O’Malley:
"Find out Price’s movements on the night of July seventh, everything he
did, everywhere he went." He turned to me. "And you want to remember not
a hint of this gets to Mrs. Janney. She hates Price and when her blood’s
up she’s a red Indian. We don’t want the family drawn in until we know
something."