The morning after that talk with Ferguson I rose up "loaded for bar." At
breakfast I led Dixon round to the old subject—we were good friends now
and he’d drop his professional manner when we were alone and talk like a
human being. Of course he remembered everything, and opened up as fluent
as a gramophone. Willitts hadn’t found them at the movies till nearly
ten—been delayed on his way in from Cedar Brook, his landlady’s little
girl had been took bad with croup and he’d gone for the doctor—Dr.
Bernard, who was off on a side road half way between Cedar Brook and
Berkeley.
That ought to have been enough for me, but having started I thought I’d
clear it all up, so I borrowed a bike off Ellen and set out on the
double quick for Dr. Bernard’s. I saw Mrs. Bernard and heard all I
wanted. Willitts had been there on the night of July seventh, came on a
bicycle, saw the doctor and gave his message about the sick child. She
thought it was somewhere between eight and half-past—the storm was just
stopping. I lit out for home; I’d got it all now. He’d gone straight
from the doctor’s to Grasslands, taken the jewels, and made a short cut
back to the main road through the woods to where he’d hidden his wheel.
When you get this far on a case there comes over you a sort of terror
that you may slip up. You have it all in your hand, your fingers are
stretched to lay hold on the criminal, and an awful fear takes
possession of you that right on the threshold of success you may lose.
The cup and the lip—that’s the idea.
This seized me on the ride back to Grasslands. Why was the cigar band
gone if he wasn’t wise to what it meant? It was a powerful hot day,
smothering on the wood roads, but the way I made that machine shoot
you’d suppose it was a hard frost and I was peddling to get up my
circulation. He might be gone already, taken fright and skipped! I had a
vision of telling the Chief and what he’d say, and the perspiration came
out on me like the beads on a mint julep glass. I’d go to town right
now—there was an express at eleven—but before I left I’d call up Council
Oaks and find out if he was there.
As I ran up the piazza steps the hall clock chimed out a single note,
half-past ten—I had plenty of time. I called to Dixon to order the
motor—I was going to town—whisked into the telephone closet, and made
the connection. The voice that answered lifted me up out of the
depths—for I guessed it was Willitts by the dialect, English, with the
"H’s" hanging on sort of loose and wobbly. To make sure I asked, and it
answered, smooth as a summer sea—yes, I was talking to Mr. Ferguson’s
valet, Willitts. Mr. Ferguson was not at ’ome, ’ed gone to the city to
be away a day or two. Was there any message? There wasn’t—you could bet
on that—and I eased off in a high-class society drawl.
With a deep breath I dropped back to normal, smoothed my feathers,
powdered my nose, and when the motor came round looked like a shy little
nursery governess, snitching a day off in town.
It was at the station that something happened which ended my peaceful
state and gave me an experience I’ll remember as long as I live.
Just as I was stepping on the train I took a glance back along the
platform and there, close behind me, dressed as neat as a tailor’s
dummy, was Willitts with a bag in his hand. He didn’t notice me, and if
he had he wouldn’t have known me, for I’d only passed him once in the
village and then he wasn’t looking my way. I mounted up the steps and
went into the car. From the tail of my eye I saw him in the doorway and
when he’d taken the seat in front of me, I dropped against the back of
mine, saying to myself: "Hully Gee, he’s _going_!"
All the way into town, I sat with my eyes on his hat, thinking what I’d
better do. There was one thing certain—that stood out like the writing
on the wall—I mustn’t let him out of my sight. Where he went I’d have to
go, tight as a barnacle I’d have to stick to that desperado. I tried to
think how I could get a message to the Whitneys’ office, but I didn’t
see how I was going to find the time or the opportunity. If the worst
came to the worst I could call a cop, but if I knew anything of men like
Willitts, he’d keep a watch out like a warship for periscopes, for
anything that wore brass buttons and connected with the law.
The "Penn" station was as hot as a Turkish bath and through it you can
imagine me, trying to trip light and airy, and keeping both eyes as
tight as steel rivets on that man’s back. I’ve never shadowed
anybody—it’s not been included in my college course—all I knew was I
mustn’t lose him and I mustn’t get him suspicious, and if you’re making
away with a fortune in a handbag, suspicion ought to be your natural
state. So I trailed after him as far in the rear as I dared, sometimes,
a gang rushing for a train coming in between us, sometimes the space
clear with him hurrying to the exit and me sort of loitering and gawking
up at the maps on the ceiling.
Out in the street he turned and shot a glance like a searchlight round
behind him. It swept over me and took no notice, which was considerable
of an encouragement. If it was warm in the station, it was sizzling
outside. Men were carrying their coats on their arms, some of them using
palm leaf fans, careful ones keeping to the edge of shade along the
house fronts. But Willitts didn’t mind the sun; I guess when you’re
making off with a fortune you’re indifferent to temperature—it’s another
proof of mind over matter.
After walking down Seventh Avenue for a few minutes he turned to the
left and struck across a side street to Sixth. Half way down the block
he went into a men’s furnishing store, and sauntering slow past the
window, I saw him looking at collars. There was a stationer’s just
beyond and I cast anchor there, by a counter near the door set out with
magazines. A sales girl lounged up, chewing her gum like the heat had
made her languid, and looking interested over my clothes.
"Awful warm, ain’t it?" she said, and I answered, picking up a magazine:
"It’s something fierce. I’ll take this one."
"You got that one already," says she, pointing to the magazine I’d
bought at Berkeley and was still clinging to. "Don’t you wanna try
something new?"
"Oh—it’s the heat; the sun gets my head woozy." I picked out another and
gave her a dollar, the smallest change I had. As she was walking to the
cash register, Willitts passed the door and I was out on the sill,
moving cautious to the sidewalk.
"Say," comes the girl’s voice from behind me, "what are you doin’? You
ain’t got your change yet. You’d oughtn’t to be let out in this sun."
"Keep it," I called back. "I was a working girl once myself."
At the corner of Fifth Avenue he stopped and, a bus coming along, he
haled it. "Lord," thought I, "if he gets into that without me I’ll have
to run after it and they’ll arrest me for a lunatic." Being quite a ways
behind, I had to make a dash for it, waving my magazine and hollering
like the rubes from the country. He was up on the roof, and the bus was
moving when I lit on the step, and was hauled in friendly by the
conductor.
We jolted downtown, me sitting sideways in a rear seat watching the
stairs for Willitts’ legs. It wasn’t until we were below Twenty-third
Street that they came into view, stepping lightly down. The bus heaved
up against the curb and he swung off, me behind him. I was terribly
scared that he’d begin to suspect me, and all I could think of that
would look natural was to roll my eyes flirtatious at the conductor, who
seemed to like it so much I was afraid he wouldn’t let me off.
When I got down on the pavement Willitts was walking along the cross
street back toward Sixth Avenue. Midway down the block, he stopped and
disappeared through a doorway. I was quite a piece behind him and when I
saw him fade out of sight I forgot everything and ran. At the door I
came up short, panting and purple in the face—the place was a
restaurant. It had a large plate glass window with white letters on it
and a man making pancakes where he’d show plainest. Inside I could see
Willitts seating himself at a littered up table.
"Lunch!" I said to myself. "He’s going to eat, the cool devil. Now’s my
chance!"
Almost directly opposite was a drug store with telephone booths close to
the window. I could get a message to the office, and if I caught the
chief or Mr. George, I could have a man up in twenty minutes. If they
weren’t there I’d try headquarters, but I was afraid of that—they’d ask
questions, waste time, want to know who I was and what it was all about.
If only Willitts was hungry, if he’d only eat enough to last till I got
some one, if he’d only order pancakes. As I waited for the connection I
found myself sort of praying "Pancakes—make him order pancakes. They’re
made in the window and they take quite a while. _Please_ make him eat
pancakes!"
Right in the midst of my prayer came the voice of Miss Quinn, the
switchboard girl in the office, and for me it was:
"Quick, Miss Quinn—it’s Mrs. Babbitts. Is Mr. Whitney or Mr. George
there? Give ’em to me—on the jump—if they are."
She didn’t waste a word, and in a minute Mr. George’s voice came sharp:
"Hello, who is it?"
"Molly, Mr. George. And I’ve got Willitts—and I’ve got enough on him to
know he’s the thief—I can’t tell you now but—"
He cut in with:
"I know, I know, Ferguson’s told us. O’Malley’s here now going to
Council Oaks for him."
I almost screamed:
"Send him _here_. Willitts is off; he’s left and I’ve trailed him. I’m
waiting at the door and he’s inside."
"Inside _what_, where the devil are you?"
I gave him the directions and then:
"It’s a restaurant; he’s eating. But it may only be a doughnut and a
glass of milk. If it’s pancakes we’re safe, but a man lighting out with
a fortune in a handbag don’t generally want anything so filling. I’ll
follow him until I drop, but I don’t want to travel round with a jewel
thief unless I have to."
"I’ll send O’Malley now. You stay right there and if Willitts finishes
before he comes, hold him any way you can. Get a cop. I’ll ’phone to
headquarters for a warrant. So long."
Of course I thought of the cop, but spying out from the doorway, there
wasn’t one in sight. And by this time I was considerably worked up,
afraid to move in any direction, afraid to take my eyes from the
restaurant entrance. I pulled up one of the chairs they have for people
getting prescriptions filled, and sat down by the doorway, watching the
place opposite, like a cat camped in front of a mouse hole.
Ten minutes had passed. If the traffic wasn’t too thick on Broadway
O’Malley could make it in less than twenty. But the traffic _was_
thick—it was the middle of the day; if he was stalled or had to make a
detour it might run toward half an hour. He might be—The door of the
restaurant opened and out crept the mouse.
The cat rose up, soft and stealthy, with her claws ready. As I crossed
the street I sent a look both ways—not a taxi in sight, not a cop, only
the whole thoroughfare tangled up with drays and delivery wagons. There
was nothing for it but to stop him, first put out the velvet paw and
then shoot the claws. Jumping quick on the curb I came up alongside of
him, a smile on my face that felt like the grin you get when you make a
joke that no one sees.
"Why, _hullo_," I said, going at him with my hand out, "I couldn’t at
first believe it—but it _is_ you."
He drew up quick, all on the alert, looking at me with hard, ferret
eyes.
"Who are you?" he said, fierce and forbidding. "What do you want?"
I put my head sideways, and tried to take the curse off the smile,
changing it to a sort of trembly sweetness.
"Why, _don’t_ you know me? I can’t be changed that bad. It’s Rosie."
I didn’t know what his Christian name was and anyway, if I had it
wouldn’t have helped—a man like Willitts changes his name as often as he
does his address. But I had to call him something, so when I saw the
anger rising in his eyes, I said, all broken and tender like the
deserted wife in the last act:
"Dearie, don’t pretend you don’t remember me—it’s Rosie from the old
country."
He began to look savage, also alarmed:
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never saw you before in my
life."
He made a movement to pass on, but I drew up close, wiped off the smile,
and put on the look of true love that won’t let go.
"Oh, dearie, don’t say that. Haven’t I worn the soles off my shoes
hunting for you ever since, ever since—" Gee, I didn’t know how to
finish it, then it came in a flash. I moaned out, "ever since we
parted."
"Look ’ere, young woman," he said, low, with a face on him like a meat
ax, "this doesn’t go with me. Now get out; get off or I’ll ’ave you run
in."
I knew he wouldn’t do _that_; he’d hand over the jewels first. I raised
up my voice in a wail and said:
"Oh, dearie, you’re faking; I won’t believe it. You can’t have
forgot—back in the old country, me and you."
A messenger boy, slouching by, heard me and drew up, hopeful of some
fun. Willitts saw him and began to look like murder would be added to
his other offenses. I gave a glance up the street—still only drays and
wagons, not a taxi in sight. Fatima with Sister Anne reporting from the
tower, had nothing over me for watchful waiting.
"It’s Rosie," I whined, "it’s your own little Rosie. If I don’t look the
same it’s the suffering you’ve caused me and Gawd knows it."
I laid my hand on his arm. With a movement of fury he shook it off and
began to back away from me. Another boy had come up against the
messenger and lodged there like a leaf in a stream, caught in an eddy. I
heard him say, "What’s on?" and the other answered:
"Don’t know but I guess it’s the movies."
And they both looked round for the camera man.
I don’t think Willitts heard them. His back was that way and his face to
me, hard as iron and savage as a hungry wolf’s. He tried to speak low
and soothing:
"Now ’old your tongue, don’t make such a fuss. I’ll give you something
and you go off quiet and respectable." His hand felt in his pocket and I
raised a loud, tearful howl:
"_Money!_ Is it money you’re offering? What’s money to me whose heart
you’ve broken?"
"I don’t see no camera man," came the messenger boy’s voice.
"Aw, he’s in one of them wagons," said the other. "I’ve seen ’em in
wagons."
The perspiration was on Willitts’ forehead in beads, he was whitening
round the mouth. Putting his face close down to mine he breathed out
through his teeth:
"What in ’ell do you want?"
"_You!_" I cried and out of the tail of my eye I saw a taxi shoot round
the corner from Fifth Avenue. Willitts drew away from me, shrunk
together for a race. I saw it and I knew even now, with O’Malley
plunging through the traffic, it might be too late. Embracing is not my
strong suit, no man but my lawful husband ever felt my arms about him.
But duty’s a strong word with me and then my sporting blood was up. So
with my teeth set, I just made a lunge at that crook and clasped him
like an octopus.
I didn’t know a man was so much stronger than a woman. Willitts wasn’t
much taller than I and he was a thin little shrimp, but believe me, he
was as tough as leather and as slippery as an eel. I could see the two
boys, delighted, drinking it in, and a dray man in a jumper, drop a
crate and come up on the run, bawling: "Say, you feller, let the lady
alone," The boys chorused out: "Aw, keep out—it’s the movies!" Willitts
must have heard too, and I guess he saw his chance, for he suddenly
squirmed one arm loose, and whang! came a blow on the side of my head.
It might have seemed part of the play but he did it too hard—calculated
wrong in his excitement. I let go, seeing everything—the houses, the
sky, the crowd that seemed to start up out of the pavements—whirling
round and shot over with zigzags. There was a roaring noise in my ears
and all about, and I dropped over into somebody’s arms, things getting
swimmy and dark.
When I came out of it I was sitting on a packing box with a man fanning
me and O’Malley, red as a tomato and Willitts the color of ashes in the
middle of a mob. There was a terrible hubbub, people jamming together,
the wagons stopped and the drivers yelling to know what was up, heads
out of every window, and then two policemen, fighting their way through.
I felt queer, sickish, and as if the muscles of my face were all slack
so my mouth wouldn’t stay shut. But the gentleman fanning me acted awful
kind and a clerk came out of a store with ice water and a wet
handkerchief that he patted soft on the side of my head.
I could see O’Malley and the policeman (they’d come from headquarters I
heard afterward) go off into a vestibule with Willitts and the crowd
that couldn’t get a look-in came squeezing round me, heads peering up
over heads. They’d got the idea that Willitts was my husband, seeming to
think only a lawful spouse would dare to hit a woman before witnesses in
the public street. The guys in the front were explaining it to the guys
in the back and calling Willitts names I couldn’t put down in these
refined pages.
It got me laughing, especially when an old Jew who had been sizing me up
like a piece of goods nodded slow and solemn and said: "And she ain’d zo
bad lookin’ neither." I burst right out at that and the man with the fan
waved his arms at them, shouting:
"Give way there—back—back! She wants air—she’s hysterical. She’s gone
through more than she can bear."
Gee, how I laughed!
Presently in the center of a surging mass we crowded our way to the
taxi, the policemen going in front and hitting round light with their
clubs. O’Malley with Willitts handcuffed to him got in the back seat, me
opposite, with my hat off, holding the handkerchief against my head. As
we pulled out I looked back over the sea of faces and caught the eye of
one of the policemen. He straightened up, very serious and dignified,
and saluted.