The next morning, in the hall, right after breakfast I told her what I
had to tell—I mean who I was. It gave her a start—held her listening
with her eyes hard on mine—then when I explained it was for inside work
on the robbery she eased up, got cool and nodded her head at me,
politely agreeing. She understood perfectly and would go wherever she
was wanted; she was glad to do anything that would be of assistance; no
one was more anxious than she to help the family in their distress, and
so forth and so on.
On the way in she was quiet, but I don’t think as peaceful as she acted.
She asked me some questions about my work. I answered brisk and bright
and she said it must be a very interesting profession. I’ve seen nervy
people in my time but no woman that beat her for cool sand, and the way
I’m built I can’t help but respect courage no matter what the person’s
like who has it. Before we reached town I was full of admiration for
that girl who, as far as I could judge, was a crook from the ground up.
When we reached the office I was called into an inner room where the
Chief and Mr. George were waiting. I gave them my paper with the ’phone
message on it, and answered the few questions they had to ask. I learned
then that they’d got hold of more evidence against her. O’Malley had
snooped round the Gayle Street locality and heard that on Friday morning
about half-past eleven a taxi, containing a child resembling Bébita, had
been seen opposite a book bindery on the corner of the block. I didn’t
hear any particulars but I saw by the Chief’s manner, quiet and sort of
absorbed, and by Mr. George, like a blue-ribbon pup straining at the
leash, that they had Esther Maitland dead to rights and the end was in
sight.
After that I was sent back into the hall where I’d left her and told to
bring her into the old man’s private office. We went up the passage, a
murmur of voices growing louder as we advanced. She was ahead and, as
the door opened, she stopped for a moment on the threshold, quick, like
a horse that wants to shy. Over her shoulder I could see in, and I don’t
wonder she pulled up—any one would. There, beside the Chief and Mr.
George, were the two old Janneys and Mrs. Price, sitting stiff as
statues, each of them with their eyes on her, gimlet-sharp and
gimlet-hard. They said some sort of "How d’ye do" business and made bows
like Chinese mandarins, but their faces would have made a chorus girl
get thoughtful. I guessed then they knew about the tapped message and
had come to see Miss Maitland get the third degree. She scented the
trouble ahead too—I don’t see how she could have helped it; there was
thunder in the air. But she said good-morning to them, cordial and easy,
and walked over to the chair Mr. George pushed forward for her.
Sitting there in the midst of them, she looked at the Chief, politely
inquiring, and I couldn’t help but think she was a winner. Mrs. Price,
all weazened up and washed out, was like a cosmetic advertisement beside
her. She held herself very straight, her hands folded together in her
lap, her head up cool and proud. She had on the white hat with the
wreath of grapes and a wash-silk dress of white with lilac stripes that
set easy over her fine shoulders, and, believe me, bad or good, she was
a thoroughbred.
The Chief, turning himself round toward her with a hitch of his chair,
began as bland and friendly as if they’d just met at a tea-fest.
"We’re very sorry to bother you again, Miss Maitland. But certain facts
have come up since you were here that make it necessary for me to ask
you a few more questions."
She just inclined her head a little and murmured:
"It’s no bother at all, Mr. Whitney. I’m only too anxious to help in any
way I can."
Honest-to-God I think the Chief got a jar; the words came as smooth and
as cool as cream just off the ice. For a second he looked at his desk
and moved a paper knife very careful, as if it was precious and he was
afraid of breaking it.
"I’m glad to hear you say that, Miss Maitland. It’s not only what one
would expect you to feel, but it makes me sure that you will be willing
to explain certain circumstances concerning yourself and
your—er—activities—that have—well—er—rather puzzled us."
It was my business to watch her and even if it hadn’t been I couldn’t
have helped doing it. I saw just two things—the light strike white
across the breast of her blouse where a quick breath lifted it, and, for
a second, her hands close tight till the knuckles shone. Then they
relaxed and she said very softly:
"Certainly. I’ll explain anything."
"Very good. I was sure you would." He leaned forward, one arm on the
desk, his big shoulders hunched, his eyes sharp on her but still very
kind. "We have discovered—of course you’ll understand that our
detectives have been busy in all directions—that nearly a month ago you
took a room at 76 Gayle Street. Now that I should ask about this may
seem an unwarranted impertinence, but I would like to know just why you
took that room."
There was a slight pause. Mrs. Price, who was sitting next to me, an
empty chair in front of her, rustled and in the moment of silence I
could hear her breathing, short and catchy, like it was coming hard.
Miss Maitland, who, as the Chief had spoken, had dropped her eyes to her
hands, looked up at him:
"I have no objection to telling you. I took it for a school friend of
mine—Aggie Brown, a girl I hadn’t seen for years. A month ago she wrote
me from St. Louis and told me she was coming to New York to study art
and asked me to engage a room for her. She said she had very little
money and it must be inexpensive. I had heard of that place from other
girls—that it was respectable and cheap—so I engaged the room. It so
happens that my friend is not yet in New York. She was delayed by
illness in her family."
I sent a look around and caught them like pictures going quick in a
movie—Mr. Janney glimpsing sideways, worried and frowning, at his wife,
Mr. George, his arm on the back of his chair, pulling at his little
blonde mustache and twisting his mouth around, and the Chief pawing
absent-minded after the paper knife. Miss Maitland, with her chin up and
her shoulders square, had her eye on him, attentive and steady, like a
soldier waiting for orders.
Then out of the silence came Mrs. Janney’s voice, rumbling like distant
thunder:
"But you went to that room yourself?"
The Chief’s hand made a quick wave at her for silence. Miss Maitland
didn’t seem to notice it; she turned to Mrs. Janney and answered:
"Yes, several times, Mrs. Janney. I’d had to pay the rent in advance and
I had a key, so when I was in town and had time to spare I went there.
It was quiet and convenient—I used to write letters and read."
"Would you mind telling me why Mr. Chapman Price went there too?"
It was the Chief’s voice this time, quite low and oh, so deep and mild.
Miss Maitland’s attitude didn’t change, but again her hands clasped and
stayed clasped. She gave a little, provocative smile, almost as if she
was trying to flirt with him, and said:
"You seem to know a great deal about me and my affairs, Mr. Whitney."
He returned the smile, good-humored, as if he liked the way she’d come
back at him.
"A little, Miss Maitland. You see we have had to, unpleasant but still
necessary—you have no objection to answering?"
"Oh, not the least, only—" her glance swept over the solemn faces of the
others—"I’m afraid Mrs. Janney may not approve of what I’ve done. I met
Mr. Price there to tell him about Bébita; I was sorry for him, for the
position he was in. He was fond of her and he heard almost nothing about
her. So I arranged to give him news of her, tell him how she was, and
little funny things she had said. It wasn’t the right thing to do but
I—I—pitied him so."
A sound—I can’t call it anything but a grunt—came from Mrs. Janney. Mr.
George, still pulling at his mustache, shifted uneasily in his chair.
Beside me I could hear that stifled breathing of Mrs. Price, and her
hand, all covered with rings, stole forward and clasped like a bird’s
claw on the chair in front. I don’t think Miss Maitland noticed any of
this. Her eyes were on the Chief, fixed and sort of defiant. Her face
had lost its calm look; there were pink spots on her cheek bones.
"A natural thing to do," said the Chief mildly, "though hardly discreet
considering the situation. But we won’t argue about that—we’ll pass on
to the business of the moment. Now you told us last time you were here
that you left the taxi in front of Justin’s. Inquiries there of the
doorman have elicited the information that he remembers the cab and the
child, and says it was still there when you came out and that you got
into it and drove away."
"How can the doorman at a place where hundreds of carriages stop every
day remember the people in each one?" All the softness was gone out of
her voice and her face began to look different, as if it had grown
thinner. "It’s absurd—he couldn’t possibly be sure of every woman and
child who stopped there. My word is against his, and it seems to me I’m
much more likely to know what I did than he is—especially _that_ day."
"Certainly, certainly." The Chief was all kindly understanding. "Under
the circumstances every event of that morning should be impressed on
your memory. But another fact has come up that seems to us curious. One
of our detectives has heard from a clerk in a book bindery at the corner
near 76 Gayle Street, that on Friday last, at about half-past eleven, he
saw a taxi standing at the curb there. He noticed a child in it talking
to the driver and his description of this child, her appearance and
clothes, is a very accurate description of Bébita."
He looked at her over his glasses, with a sort of ominous, waiting
attention. I’d have wilted under it, but she didn’t, only what had been
a restrained quietness gave place to a sort of steely tension. You could
see that her body all over was as rigid as the hands clenched together,
the fingers knotted round each other. It was will and a fighting spirit
that kept her up. I began to feel my own muscles drawing tight,
wondering if she’d get through and praying that she would—I don’t know
why.
"It’s quite possible that this man—this clerk—may have seen such a taxi
with such a child in it. There must be a great many little girls in New
York whose description would fit Bébita. I dare say if your detective
had gone about the city he would have heard of any number of cabs and
children that would have fitted just as well. I can’t imagine why you’re
asking me these questions or why you don’t seem to believe what I say.
But even if you don’t believe it, that won’t prevent me from sticking to
it."
"A commendable spirit, Miss Maitland, when one is sure of one’s facts,"
said the Chief, and suddenly pushing back his chair he rose. "Now I’ve
just one more matter to call to your attention, a little memorandum
here, which, if you’ll be good enough to explain, we’ll end this rather
trying interview."
He went over to her, fumbling in his vest pocket, and then drew out my
folded paper and put it into her hand:
"It’s the record of a telephone message received by you yesterday at
Grasslands, and tapped by our detective, Miss Rogers."
He stepped back and stood leaning against the desk watching her. We all
did; there wasn’t an eye in that room which wasn’t glued on that
unfortunate girl as she opened the paper and read the words.
It was a knock-out blow. I knew it would be—I didn’t see how it
couldn’t—and yet she’d put up such a fight that some way or other I
thought she’d pull out. But that bowled her over like a nine pin.
She turned as white as the paper and her hands holding it shook so you
could hear it rustle. Then she looked up and her eyes were awful—hunted,
desperate. Yet she made a last frantic effort, with her face like a
death mask and all the breath so gone out of her she had only a hoarse
thread of voice:
"I—I—don’t know what this is—oh, yes, yes, I mean I do. But it—it refers
to something else—it’s—it’s—that friend of mine—Aggie Brown from St.
Louis—she’s come and Mr. Price—"
She couldn’t go on; her lips couldn’t get out any words. You could see
the brain behind them had had such a shock it wouldn’t work.
"Miss Maitland," said the Chief, solemn as an executioner, "we’ve got
you where you can’t keep this up. There’s no use in these evasions and
denials. Where is Bébita?"
"I don’t know—I don’t know anything about her. I swear to Heaven I
don’t."
She raised her voice with the last words and looked at them, round at
those stony faces, wild like an animal cornered.
"What’s the matter with you? Why do you think I’d be a party to such a
thing? Why don’t you believe me—why _can’t_ you believe me? And you
don’t—not one of you. You think I’m guilty of this infamous thing. All
right, _think_ it. Do what you like with me—arrest me, put me in jail, I
don’t care."
She put her hands over her face and collapsed down in her chair, like a
spring that had held her up had broken. That breathing beside me had
grown so loud it sounded as if it came from some one running the last
lap of a race. Now it suddenly broke into a sound—more like a growl than
anything else—and Mrs. Price got up, shuffling and shaking, her hands
holding on to the chair in front.
"She ought to be put in jail," she gasped out. "She’s bad right
through—everything she’s said is a lie. And she’s a thief too."
There was a movement of consternation among them all—getting up, pushing
back chairs, several voices speaking together:
"Keep quiet."
"Mrs. Price, I beg of you—"
"Suzanne, sit down."
But she went on, looking like a withered old witch, with her bird-like
hands clutched on the chair back:
"I won’t sit down, I won’t keep quiet. I’ve sat here listening to all
this and I’ve had enough. I’m crazy; my baby’s gone; she’s taken it,
she’s taken everything—" She turned to her mother. "She took your
jewels—I know it."
Mr. Janney burst in like a bombshell. I never thought he could break
loose that way, with his voice shrill and a shaking finger pointing into
his stepdaughter’s face.
"Stop this. I can’t stand for it—I know something about that—I saw—"
But she wouldn’t stop, no one could make her:
"I saw too, and I’m going to tell you. I don’t care what you say, I
don’t care what you think of me—my heart’s broken and I don’t care for
anything but to have my baby back." She addressed her mother again. "_I_
went to take your jewels that night. Yes, I did; I went to steal
them—not all of them—just that long diamond chain you never wear. _You_
know why; you knew I hadn’t any money and that I had to have it. I was
going to sell it and put what I got in stocks and if I was lucky buy it
back so you’d never know. It was _I_ who took Bébita’s torch—that’s why
it was lost—and I went down to the safe. I’d found the combination in a
drawer in the library and learnt it. And when I opened it everything was
gone. Some one had been there before me, the cases were all together in
their box but they were empty." She clawed at the embroidered purse
hanging on her arm and began to jerk at the cord, pulling it open. "But
I found something, something the thief had dropped, lying on the floor
just inside the door." She drew out a twist of tissue paper, and
unrolling it held it toward the Chief; "I found _that_."
He took it, scrutinizing it, puzzled, through his glasses. Every one of
us except Miss Maitland, all standing now, craned forward to see. It was
a pointed pink thing about as big as the end of my little finger. The
Chief touched it and said:
"It looks like a small rose."
"Yes, a chiffon rosebud," Mrs. Price cried, "and she," pointing to Miss
Maitland, "wore a dress that night trimmed with them."
We all turned, as if we were a piece of mechanism worked by the same
spring, and stared at Miss Maitland. She sat in the chair, not moving,
looking straight before her, weary and indifferent. The Chief held out
toward her the piece of paper with the rose on the middle of it.
"Have you a dress trimmed with these?"
She moved her eyes so they rested on the rose, ran her tongue along her
lips and said:
"Yes."
"Did you wear it on the night of the robbery?"
"Yes."
"Did you hear what Mrs. Price has just said?"
"Yes."
"What explanation do you make?"
"None—except that I don’t know how it got there."
"You deny that you were there yourself that night?"
"Yes—I was never near the safe that night; I haven’t the slightest idea
how the rose came to be in it; I never took the jewels; I have had
nothing to do with Bébita’s disappearance; I haven’t done any of the
things you think I’ve done. But what’s the good of my saying so—what’s
the good of answering at all?" She dropped her face into her hands, her
elbows propped on her knees. The attitude, the tone of her voice,
everything about her, suggested an "Oh-what’s-the-use!" feeling. From
behind her hands the words came dull and listless. "Do anything you like
with me; it doesn’t make any difference. You think you’ve got me
cornered; that being the case, I’ll do whatever you say."
Mrs. Janney made a step toward her:
"Miss Maitland, I’ll agree to let the whole matter drop—hush it up and
let you go without a word—if you’ll tell us where Bébita is."
Without moving her hands the girl answered:
"I can’t tell, for I don’t know."
Mrs. Price sank into her chair with a loud, sobbing wail. Some one took
her away—Mr. George, I think. Then Mr. Janney had his say:
"If you’re doing this to protect Price—"
She cut him off with a laugh, at least it was meant to be a laugh, but
it was a horrible, harsh sound. As she gave it she lifted her head and
cast a look at him, bitter and defiant:
"Protect him! I’ve no more desire to protect Mr. Price than I have to
protect myself."
The Chief’s voice fell deep as the church bell at a funeral:
"If you maintain this attitude, Miss Maitland, there’s nothing for us to
do but let the law take its course. Theft and kidnaping! Those are
pretty serious charges."
She nodded:
"I suppose they are. Let the law do whatever it wants; I’m certainly not
standing in its way. But as for bribing and frightening me into
admitting what isn’t true, you can’t do it. All your money," she looked
at Mrs. Janney and then at the Chief, "and all _your_ threats won’t
influence me or make me change one word of what I’ve said."
No one spoke for a minute. She sat silent, her chin on her hands, her
eyes staring past them out of the window. I had a feeling that in spite
of the position she was in and what they had on her, in a sort of way
she had them beaten. Their faces were glum and baffled, even the Chief
had an abstracted expression like he was thinking what he ought to do
with her. When he spoke it was to the Janneys:
"Since Miss Maitland persists in her present pose of ignorance and
denial, the best thing for us is to get together and decide on our
course of action." He glanced across at me. "We’ll leave you here,
Molly. Stay till we come back."
Away they went, a solemn procession, trailing across the room. When the
door into the main office opened I could hear Mrs. Price crying, and I
watched them, catching Mrs. Janney’s words as she disappeared: "Oh,
Suzanne, my poor, poor, girl! Don’t give up—don’t be discouraged—we’ll
find her!"
It gripped me, made a sort of prickling come in my nose and a twisty
feeling in my under lip. I never could have believed that stern old
Roman could have spoken so tender and loving to any one.
When I looked at Miss Maitland I forgot all about suffering mothers.
She’d sunk down in the chair, her head resting against its back, her
eyes closed. She was as white as a corpse, and I wheeled about looking
round the room for some kind of first aid and muttering, "Gee, she’s
fainted!"
A whisper came out of her lips:
"Nothing—all right—in a minute."
There was a bottle of distilled water in a corner and I went to it, drew
off a glass and brought it to her. She couldn’t hold it and I took her
round the shoulders and pulled her up, saying out of the inner depths of
me, that’s always mushy about anything hurt and forlorn:
"You, poor soul, here take this. I’m sorry for you, and I can’t help
being sorry that I had to give you away."
I held the glass to her lips and she drank a little. Then I let her fall
back and stood watching her, and I felt mean. She raised her eyes and
sent a look into mine that I’ll never forget—it made me feel meaner than
a yellow dog—for it was the look of a suffering soul.
"Thanks," was all she said.