The consultation in the office resulted in Esther Maitland being taken
to O’Malley’s flat in Stuyvesant Square, where his wife and sister
agreed to be responsible for her. This course had been decided upon
after some heated argument. Suzanne had clamored for her arrest, but the
others were still determined to keep the affair out of the public eye,
which, if Esther was brought before a magistrate, would have been
impossible. The Janneys were more than ever convinced that Price was the
prime mover, and the girl’s attitude had been prompted by the combined
motives of love and gain. George, who knew his father’s every phase,
noticed that the old man was reserved in his comments, and wondered if
his conviction had been shaken by Miss Maitland’s desperate denials. But
if it was he said nothing, agreeing that with the girl hidden and unable
to communicate with the outside world, they could concentrate their
attention on Chapman and through him locate the child.
Miss Maitland was docile to all their suggestions. She would go wherever
they wanted, place herself under the surveillance of the two women, and
do whatever was asked of her. She went off in a taxi with O’Malley, and
Molly was sent back to Grasslands. There was no need of her services in
town and it was probable that Chapman, believing his confederate to be
there, would call up the place.
The Janney party returned to the hotel, a silent, gloomy trio. The old
people were very gentle to Suzanne. On the drive up, Mrs. Janney held
her in the hollow of her arm, pressed close, yearning over her in her
shame and sorrow and feebleness. To the strong woman she was a child
again, a soft, helpless thing. The mother blamed herself for having been
hard on her.
After lunch old Sam suggested a drive—the air would do them good. They
tried to persuade Suzanne to come, but the young woman, prone on the
sofa, a salts bottle at hand, refused to stir. She wanted to be quiet;
she wanted to rest. So, knowing the uselessness of argument, they kissed
her and went.
Alone, she lay on her back staring at the wall in a trance-like
concentration. Her expression did not suggest the state of crushed shame
under which her parents thought she languished. In fact her past actions
had no place in her mind; she had forgotten her confession in the
office. An idea, formidable and obsessing, had taken possession of her,
settled on her like a shadow. It was possible that their conclusions
were wrong.
She had had it from the start, off and on, coming at her in rushes of
disintegrating doubt. She had said nothing about it, had tried to force
it down, and, talking to them, had been reassured by their unquestioning
certainty. Now the scene in the office had strengthened it—something
about Esther Maitland, she didn’t know what. She had assured herself
then—she tried to do it now—that there could be no mistake, they had
proofs, the girl hadn’t been able to explain anything. But she could not
argue it away; it persisted, stronger than thought, power or will,
unescapable like the horror of a dream.
It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep down in the recesses
of her being, "Chapman couldn’t have done it." She knew him better than
the others did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines his
weaknesses ran upon. She knew him through and through, to what lengths
anger might urge him, what he could do when aroused and what he never
could do. And trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling the
facts against him, going over them point by point, she couldn’t make
herself believe that he had stolen Bébita.
And if he hadn’t, then where was she?
This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her recognition,
intrusive as Banquo’s ghost and as terrible. She writhed under its
torment, twisting and turning until her clothes were wound about her in
a tangled coil, moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled from
grisly possibilities.
She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad of any interruption she
sat up, and, swinging her feet to the floor, called out a sharp "Come
in." A bell-boy entered with a letter which he presented with the
information that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be brought
immediately to the rooms. The letter was for her, addressed in
typewriting, and as the boy withdrew she rose, heavy-eyed and
heavy-headed, and tore open the envelope. The first line brought a thin,
choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless, her glance
devouring the words. Dated the day before, typewritten on a single sheet
of commercial paper, it ran as follows:
"Mrs. Suzanne Price,
"_Dear Madam:_
"We have your little girl. She is safe with us and will continue
to be if you act in good faith and accede to our demands. We
frankly state that our object in taking her was ransom and we
are now ready to enter upon negotiations with you. This,
however, only upon certain conditions. All transactions between
us must be conducted with absolute secrecy. If any member of
your family is told, if the police are notified, be assured that
we will know it, and that it will react upon your child. Let it
be clearly understood—if you inform against us, if you make an
attempt to trap or apprehend us, she will pay the price. We hold
her as a hostage; her fate is in your hands. If, however, you
know of a person in no wise involved or connected with you or
your family, having no personal interest in the matter, and of
whose discretion and reliability you are convinced, we are
willing to deal through them. Copy the form below, fill in blank
spaces with name and address and insert in _Daily Record_
personals.
"(Name)..................................
"(Address)...............................
"S. O. S.
"_Clansmen._"
Suzanne’s hand holding the paper dropped to her side and she looked
about the room with eyes vacant and unseeing. All her outward forces
were shocked into temporary suspension; for a moment she had no
realization of where or who she was. The letter was the only fact she
recognized and sentences from it chased through her consciousness: "We
hold her as a hostage, her fate is in your hands. She is safe with us if
you accede to our demands." She saw them written on the walls, they
boomed in her ears like notes of doom. It was confirmation of that
instinct she had tried to smother; like the wand of a baleful genii it
had transformed her nightmare fancies into sinister reality.
She felt a shriek rising to her lips and pressed her hand against them.
Secrecy, silence, her stunned brain had grasped that and directed her
restraining hand. Then the one deep feeling of her shallow nature called
her shattered faculties into order. Love lent her power, steadied her,
gave her the will to act.
She sat down on the sofa and read the letter again, slowly, getting its
full significance. For the first time in her life responsibility was
cast upon her; she could throw the burden on no one else. By her own
efforts, by her own courage and initiative, she must get Bébita back.
She whispered it over, "I must do it. I must do it myself," then fell
silent, her face stony in its tension of thought. Suddenly its rigidity
broke; in an illuminating flash she saw the first step clear, and rising
ran to the telephone. The person she called up was Larkin. He answered
himself and she told him she wanted to see him on a matter of great
importance and would come at once to his office.
Fifteen minutes later, her face hidden by a chiffon veil, her rumpled
smartness covered with a silk motor coat, she was knocking at his door.
Mr. Larkin’s office was cool and shady, the blinds half lowered to keep
out the glare of the afternoon sun. In the midst of its airy neatness,
surrounded by an imposing array of desks, card cabinets, typewriters and
files, Mr. Larkin was waiting alone for his important client.
She dropped into the chair he set for her, and, pushing up her veil,
revealed a countenance so bereft of the petulant prettiness he knew,
that he started and stood gazing in open concern. The sight of his
astonishment caused the tears to well into Suzanne’s eyes, drowned and
sunken by past floods, and her story to break without prelude from her
lips.
Larkin’s surprise at her appearance gave place to a tight-gripped
interest when he grasped the main fact of her narrative. He let her run
through it without interruption nodding now and then, a frowning
sidelong glance on her face.
When she had finished he drew a deep breath and said:
"The moment I saw you, I knew something was wrong. But this—" he raised
his hands and let them drop on the desk—"Good Lord! I hadn’t an idea it
was anything so serious."
But she hadn’t finished—the worst, the thing that had brought her—she
had yet to tell. And she began about the letter received an hour ago. At
that Larkin forgot his sympathies, was the detective again, hardly
concealing his impatience as he watched her fumbling at the cords of her
purse. Finally extracted and given to him he read it, once and then
again, Suzanne eyeing him like a hungry dog.
"Last evening," he muttered after a scrutiny of the postmark, "Grand
Central Station." Then he rose, went to the window and, jerking up the
blind, held the paper against the light, sniffed at it, and felt its
texture between his thumb and finger. Suzanne saw him shake his head,
her avid glance following him as he came back to the desk and studied
the sheet through a magnifying glass.
"Nothing to be got that way," he said. "Typepaper—impossible to trace.
No amateur business about this."
Suzanne’s voice was husky:
"Do you mean it’s professional people—a gang?"
"I can’t say exactly. But from what you tell me—the way it was
accomplished, the plan of action—I should be inclined to think it was
the work of more than one person—possibly a group—who had ability and
experience."
Suzanne, clutching at the corner of the desk with a trembling hand,
cried in her misery:
"Oh, Mr. Larkin, you don’t think they’ll hurt her. They wouldn’t _dare_
to hurt her?"
The detective’s glance was kindly but grave:
"Mrs. Price, I’ll speak frankly. I think your child is in the hands of a
pretty desperate person or persons. But I have no apprehension that
they’ll do her any harm. They don’t want to do that—it’s too dangerous.
What they might do if their plans fail is a thing we’ll not
consider—it’ll only weaken your nerve. And that’s what you’ve got to
keep hold of. You’ll get her back all right, but you must be cool and
brave."
"I’ll be anything; I’ll be like another person. I’ll _do_ anything. No
one need be afraid I’ll be weak or silly _now_."
"Good—that’s the way to talk. Now let me know a little about the way the
situation stands. It’s odd I’ve seen nothing about this in the
papers—heard nothing. Your family must be active in some direction. What
are they doing?"
A sudden color burnt in her wasted cheeks.
"They suspect my husband. They think he did it—to—to—get square. We’d
quarreled—separated—and he’d made threats."
"Ah, yes, yes, I see—kidnaped his own child, and they’re keeping it
quiet. I understand perfectly. But _you_ didn’t believe this?"
She shook her head and bit on her underlip to control its trembling.
"No—I couldn’t, though I tried to. I knew he wouldn’t have done it—it’s
not—it’s not—like him. And then while I was thinking the letter came,
and I knew, no matter what they thought, no matter what the facts were,
that _that_ was true."
"Um," Larkin, his mouth compressed, nodded in understanding. "You would
know better than any one else. In these matters instinct is one of the
most important factors." He was silent for a moment, then looked at her,
a glance of piercing question. "Do I understand that you are willing to
enter into these negotiations?"
"Willing!" she cried. "Why should I be here if I wasn’t willing?"
"Yes, yes, exactly, but let us understand one another. What I mean is
are you willing—realizing what they are—to deal with them on their own
terms? In short, pay them what they ask and let them go?"
"Of course." She almost cried it out in her effort to make him
comprehend her position. "_That’s_ what I want to do; that’s why I
haven’t told any of my own people and won’t. I’d have gone straight to
my mother with this but I knew she wouldn’t agree to it, she’d get the
police, want to fight them and bring them to justice."
"Could you be relied on to maintain the secrecy necessary?"
"I can be relied on for anything. Oh, Mr. Larkin, if you knew what I
feel you wouldn’t waste time asking these questions."
He answered very gently:
"Mrs. Price, I appreciate your feelings to the full, but this is a
hazardous undertaking. You don’t want to rush into it without realizing
what it means. There is the question of money for example—the ransom.
Your family is known for its wealth. You can be pretty certain that the
parties you’re dealing with will hold the child for a large sum."
Suzanne clasped her hands on her breast and the tears, brimming in her
eyes, spilled over, falling in a trickle down her cheeks.
"Oh, what’s money!" she wailed. "I’d give all the money I have, I’ve
ever had, I ever thought of having, to get my baby back."
Larkin was moved. He looked away from that pitiful, quivering face and
his voice showed a slight huskiness as he answered:
"Well, that’s all right, Mrs. Price—and don’t take it so hard, don’t let
your fears get the upper hand. There’s no harm can come to her; it’s to
their interest to take care of her. If we do our part cleverly, follow
their instructions and keep our heads, you’ll have her back in no time."
He stopped, arrested by a sudden thought. "I say ’we,’ but maybe I’m
presupposing too much. Was it your intention to ask for my assistance?"
She dashed her tears away and leaned forward in eager urgence:
"Of course—that’s why I came. And you will give it—you will? The letter
says it has to be some one having no ties or interests with the
family—some one I could trust. I couldn’t think of any one at first, and
then when I remembered you it was like an inspiration. Oh, you must do
it—I’ll pay you anything if you will."
Larkin’s face satisfied her; she dropped back with a moan of relief.
"I’ll undertake it willingly—not only to give you any help I can, but
because it will be a good thing for me. Don’t be shocked at my plain
speaking, but I want to be frank and straight with you. I’m not
referring to pay—we can arrange about that later—it’s work done for the
Janney family, successful work. And with your coöperation, Mrs. Price,
this is going to be successful. Now let’s get to business." He picked up
the letter and glanced over it. "Headed ’Clansmen’ and signed 'S. O. S.’
I’ll copy it, insert my name and address, and have it in to-morrow’s
_Daily Record_. Then we’ll see what happens."
He smiled at her, reassuring and kindly. There was no response in her
tragic face.
"It may be days before they answer," she murmured.
But he was determined to uphold her fainting spirit.
"I think not. They want to end this thing as quickly as they can—get
their loot and go. You’ve got to remember that their position is
terribly dangerous and at the first sign from us they’ll get busy."
She rose, took the letter and put it in her purse:
"I hope to Heaven you’re right. It’s so awful to wait."
"I don’t think you’ll have to. They’ll see our answer to-morrow morning
and I’ll expect a move from them by that evening or the next day. If
they communicate with me, I’ll let you know at once, and if you hear, do
the same by me. It’s going to be all right. Keep up your courage and
remember—not a word or a sign to any one."
"Oh, I know," she said, drawing down her veil with limp hands, "you
needn’t be afraid I’ll spoil it. You thought me a fool, perhaps, when I
first consulted you, and I _was_, bothering about things that didn’t
matter—jewels! There isn’t one of us that hasn’t forgotten all about
them now. Good-by. No, don’t come out with me. I have a taxi waiting."