_Blindfold._
The offices of the Joseph P. McCormick Detective Agency, Incorporated,
occupied the entire nineteenth floor of the Leicester Building and
more nearly resembled those of a potentate of finance than a private
investigator. The Chief's sanctum was protected by a series of smaller
communicating offices presided over by subordinates of ascending rank
and importance, through whose hands the visitor, client or culprit,
must pass before gaining audience with the great man himself; a process
which tended either to crush or irritate the stranger, according to his
temperament.
The lady who sent in her card to the Chief on a certain crisp morning
in late winter, however, seemed to find food for amusement in the
ceremonious progression. She was of the type which proclaims rather
than admits age, but in spite of her snow-white hair, her tall figure
was as erect as that of a girl and her snapping gray eyes behind the
gold _pince-nez_ were neither dimmed nor mellowed by time.
A dry smile tightened the fine lines about her lips as she was ushered
into the last of these offices, which served as an ante-chamber to the
supreme consulting room. A slim, mild-looking youth with the face of a
student was seated behind a typewriter table and raised his eyebrows
superciliously as he greeted her with the question which through
reiteration had appealed to her sense of humor.
"You wish to see Mr. McCormick himself?"
"That fact should be self-evident even to a detective, since I
have gained admittance as far as this." Her tone was pleasant, but
peremptory, as if she were addressing an inquisitive schoolboy, and the
young man gasped, but preceded doggedly with the formula.
"You have no appointment?"
"None. I have already stated that to a red-headed boy, two totally
uninterested young ladies and several men, as you are doubtless aware."
A harassed look was creeping into the eyes of her inquisitor.
"If you will kindly state the nature of your business, Madame--"
"I came here to consult a private detective, not to discuss my affairs
with his subordinates or shout them from the housetops." A sharper note
had penetrated her tones as if a smooth weapon were suddenly turned
edge upwards. "If your Mr. McCormick is too busy to talk to me in
person, I prefer not to waste further time."
The young man rose resignedly.
"I think the Chief is at liberty now. Step this way, Madame."
He threw back a door at the farther end of the office, revealing a huge
corner room walled on two sides by windows, from which a dazzling glare
shone full upon their faces. A heavy-set, brawny figure, with keen eyes
beneath beetling brows and a straight-clipped black mustache, rose
impressively to receive her as the door closed behind her guide.
The old lady brusquely forestalled his opening remark.
"Young man," the Chief was at least forty-five, "I've been presented at
five European courts with less fuss and bother than I have experienced
in trying to reach you. Let us come to the point. I want someone found;
if you think you can accomplish it for me, name your price."
The Chief smiled slightly as he glanced at her card on the desk before
him.
"It is possible that I can be of service, Madame Dumois." His voice was
blandly ingratiating. "Take this seat and give me the particulars. Is
the missing person a relative?"
Madame Dumois seated herself as he had indicated and her lips set in a
straight line.
"I did not come here to be cross-examined, my good man, and I haven't
said the person was missing. I mean there has been no mysterious
disappearance, if that is what you are getting at. I will tell you
as much as I have a mind to and no more, and if you do not find it
sufficient to work on, we can stop right here. I have lost track of a
certain young woman, and I want to locate her. Never mind why, or what
our relations have been. I'd pay a good price to lay eyes on her again."
Her voice hardened perceptibly and a faint, angry flush mounted in her
faded cheeks and boded ill for the unfortunate object of her search.
Detective McCormick leaned forward persuasively in his chair.
"But my dear Madame, I must have a few personal details or I shall not
know what type of operative to assign to the case. I take it that it is
strictly confidential?"
"I congratulate you!" Her lips twitched again in grim humor. "I seemed
unable to convey that impression to your various secretaries. Your
operative will have to be a person of intelligence and tact, and if
he is to come in personal contact with this young woman, he must be a
gentleman. She is what you would call a lady, I'll say that much for
her."
"You do not care to give me her name?"
"It is immaterial."
The detective lifted his shaggy brows.
"May I ask if this young woman is a fugitive? Is there a likelihood
that you will bring charges, criminal or civil, when she is located?"
"It is possible, under certain conditions." Madame Dumois' tones
trembled for the first time, then steadied and she added in a sharper
key. "That is beside the point. I want her found; your case ends there.
The rest is my affair. Call in your operative and I will put him in
possession of such facts as I consider essential."
"It is absolutely essential that I should know more, myself, before I
can assign anyone to the case." The detective squared himself firmly in
his chair. "Have you any idea where this young woman may be found? Any
possible clue? Where and when was she last seen?"
Madame Dumois rose majestically.
"I will not take up more of your valuable time, Mr. McCormick. I see
that we will be unable to come to an understanding. Good morning."
She turned to the door, but he extended a swift detaining hand.
"My dear Madame Dumois! I am prepared to do anything that is possible
to be of service to you, but you must realize that you have given me no
data whatever to work upon."
"I was under the impression that you would not undertake this matter
personally in any event." She had halted, but there was no yielding in
her tone. "If you have a moderately clever, discreet operative with
the bearing and appearance of a gentleman, I will talk with him. I do
not wish to discuss the details of the case any more than is absolutely
necessary. I will give him a description of the young woman, nothing
more. The rest will be in his hands."
The detective reflected.
"I think I have just the man for you," he announced at last.
"Unfortunately, he is out on a case at the present moment, but I will
recall him and send him up to see you this afternoon, if you will leave
your address."
"I will meet him here," Madame Dumois replied hastily. "If he has tact
enough to accept what information I am prepared to give him, and brains
enough to turn it to account, it will be all I shall ask. At what hour
can you have him here?"
"Shall we say three o'clock? I am confident that you will find Mr. Ross
eminently suitable for your purposes. He is young, good-looking and
discreet, with great personal magnetism--"
"I am not requesting him to make love to the girl." A flash of her old
humor returned. "And now, Mr. McCormick, what are your terms?"
The business arrangement was briefly concluded and the detective bowed
his visitor out with grudging admiration in his eyes. He waited until
her firm, methodical footsteps had died away down the corridor,
and then pressed a button upon the under edge of his desk top. The
studious-looking young man made his appearance almost instantaneously
from the adjoining office.
"Yes, sir?"
"Disappearance. Young woman, good standing. Probable social scandal.
Detail Clark to tail Madame Dumois and get what info he can. Try the
hotels, the old-fashioned conservative ones first. Wire Ross, 192-A.
Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, to return immediately earliest
train and report here at two-thirty. Send Luders out to take his place."
The young man whipped out a pad, wrote rapidly and then paused with an
inquiring glance. His chief nodded, chuckling.
"That's all. Peppery old lady, but she knows her business. Ross is the
chap to handle her."
At precisely half-past two a young man bounded up the steps of the
Leicester Building and, elbowing his way good-naturedly into the
already packed elevator, shot up to the nineteenth floor. He was
boyish-looking and slim, but his broad, straight shoulders and lithe
hips betokened the athlete and his laughing eyes had a habit of
narrowing suddenly in keen intensity.
He nodded a careless greeting to the red-headed boy and the burly
strong-arm man who guarded the outer office, and made his way
unceremoniously into the presence of his chief.
The latter explained the reason for his recall and told him succinctly
of the morning's interview.
"Tactful and brainy and a gentleman; that's what the old lady says
she wants, and I guess you fill the bill, Bert," McCormick added.
"You're the gentleman, all right, because you were born one, and that's
something you never lose and can't fake. For kid glove cases no one
stands in the same class with you, but you'll need more than that in
handling Madame Dumois; asbestos gloves would be safer. She wants to
find the girl, but she's dead scared of our getting a line on her.
Sharp as a steel trap, she is--a regular Tartar!"
"Um--French?" Herbert Ross seemed in no wise perturbed by the
formidable description.
"No. Yankee accent, but there's a Paris look to her clothes. Dressy old
party, in spite of her widow's cap. Shouldn't wonder if she's just back
from the other side. That's why I had her looked up at the hotels, but
I couldn't smoke her out. Don't antagonize her by asking questions or
you're a goner. Just let her do the talking and pick up what scraps of
data you can. I'm not worrying about your ability to make a success of
it, Bert, if you can only get enough out of the old lady to work on,
but blood from a stone would be a cinch in comparison."
"Any hint as to why she wants the subject located?"
Ross lighted a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair.
"Not in words, but from her manner I judge it is not from any desire
to remember the young woman in her will," the Chief responded dryly.
"Looks more like a scandal than anything else, as she's so anxious to
keep the girl's identity a secret. I tried my level best to worm some
information from her, but she flared up and threatened to call it all
off. The best I've got is that the subject is young, refined and to
all appearances a lady, although Madame Dumois seemed to grudge that
fact. You go to it, Bert, and see what you can do." The young operator
pondered for a moment.
"Well, sir," he began at last, "I can't hope to succeed where you have
failed, if I work along the same lines. In your official capacity you
have had the bad luck to antagonize her, so I think I shall try another
scheme. May I have the reference library for an hour? I'll receive her
there instead of here."
"Take the whole shop if you want it, but get the right dope from her
about the girl!" The detective brought his hand down on the desk in a
resounding slap. "It will be a long step up the ladder for you if you
can start to make a reputation for yourself of successful discreet work
among conservative people of the sort the old lady belongs to. That's
why I put you on this; I haven't the time to go after it myself and it
requires class as well as brains. The woods are full of refined young
ladies who have turned one trick or another; a chance word may give
you a line on how to locate this one. Try any scheme you like, but get
results. That's all we're after."
The reference library was more like a club room than the sanctum of a
private detective. A long, mahogany table surrounded by heavily carved
chairs occupied the center of the room, and the walls were lined with
bookcases, interspersed with tall glass cabinets filled with curios. A
few prints and signed photographs hung above them and over the mantel
was mounted a neat arrangement of firearms and various weapons.
There was nothing remarkable about the room or its appointments at
first glance, save its obvious incongruity with the rest of the
suite, but a closer inspection would have revealed the fact that all
the volumes--with the exception of those in a small case between two
windows--dealt with one subject; crime. The curios in the cabinets, the
weapons above the mantel, each had its individual history, tragic or
sordid, to bear mute testimony to the futility of defiance of the law.
Madame Dumois' return was punctual to the moment and she was ushered
without delay to the apartment, where Ross awaited her. She stared
critically at the slim, straight, immaculate figure as he turned
toward her from the low bookcase, a quaint vellum-covered volume open
in his hands.
"Madame Dumois?" he bowed low with continental courtesy over her hand.
"I have come from Philadelphia to be of what service to you I may; I am
Herbert Ross."
"Mr. McCormick suggested you--" she began, but he interrupted her
swiftly.
"Do you know, while awaiting you I have come upon a real treasure here?
The collected verse of Nizami!"
Mme. Dumois stepped backward, blinking.
"Poetry!" she ejaculated faintly, in blank amazement.
"Ah! I see you are interested." His face lightened in boyish eagerness.
"Nothing so appeals to the woman of rare discernment and feeling as the
lilting charm of the early Persians. The casual reader knows only the
Bacchanalian philosophy of Omar, but you, I am sure are familiar with
Rumi and this greatest of lyricists, Nizami, to say nothing of Hafiz--"
"Upon my soul!" Mme. Dumois had backed until the table barred her
retreat. "You are a most extraordinary young man!"
"Should one permit the ugliness of life to blind one to the beauties
of expression? But I see you have not done so. You possess that rarest
of all gifts, sympathetic appreciation, Madame Dumois!" He beamed
upon her. "Do you remember this lament of Majnun over the grave of
Laili? Where even in the exquisite love letters of your own Abelard to
Heloise, can you find such haunting beauty? Listen, I beg of you:
"_Oh, bower of joy, with blossoms fresh and fair,
But doomed, alas! no ripened fruit to bear.
Where shall I find thee now in darkness shrouded!
Those eyes of liquid fire forever clouded--_"
He sighed dramatically and closed the book. "Your French poets--but I
forgot; I had fancied from your name that you were a native of France--"
"I am American--" Madame Dumois stammered, still dazed from his
unexpected onslaught.
"That I realized at once when I saw you. I knew even the part of the
country from which you came, Madame." He bowed again. "Only the women
of New England retain their girlhood grace and beauty of form with
their native charm of manner through years of cosmopolitan life, as
this little volume has retained its beauty of thought and inspiration
in spite of the fact that it was discovered in the pocket of an arch
murderer when he was searched in the death house."
A faint flush had risen to the faded cheeks of the old lady at his
daring flattery, but she paled again with an involuntary shudder.
"Mercy! Put the horrid thing away!"
He laid the book upon the table.
"Forgive the digression, Madame Dumois. I am at your service."
For once she seemed at a loss.
"You are really a detective?" Her eyes searched his face keenly, as he
pulled out a chair for her.
"That is my profession," responded Ross, with a touch of quiet dignity.
"This McCormick person has told you what I require?"
"You wish to find a certain young lady, whom you will describe to me."
"Precisely." Madame Dumois' tone was gracious. "I think, Mr. Ross, that
we shall get on. This young woman appears refined, well-bred and rather
more comprehensively educated than the average girl of today, but in
appearance she is quite a usual type, neither blonde nor brunette, not
actually pretty nor strikingly plain."
Ross nodded encouragingly as if he found valuable points in the
negative description, and the old lady warmed to her task.
"She has brown hair and blue eyes, and her taste in dress is
conservative, but her manner when last I saw her was altogether too
self-reliant; pert, it would have been considered when I was a girl.
There is very little more that I can tell you about her, but I believe
her to be in the city somewhere."
"Your description is remarkably clear." The young detective preserved
an inscrutable face as he added blandly: "No doubt you have a
photograph of her?"
"If I had, young man, I should not exhibit it," the old lady retorted.
"Only to me," he smiled persuasively, then dodged the issue. "You say,
Madame Dumois, that the young woman is well educated. Is she also
accomplished? Music, art, languages?"
"A mere smattering of music, but she is a perfect parrot in picking
up strange tongues; a born linguist." She caught herself up abruptly.
"However, I did not come here to answer questions, Mr. Ross, as I
explained very definitely this morning. I want this young woman found.
You have her description; now go ahead and find her."
"I will do my best." His smile had not wavered, and he bent forward
ingratiatingly. "But will you permit one solitary question? It will
not be an impertinent one, and it would simplify matters greatly. It
has been said, you know, that the most passive, idle-minded of us has
one pet enthusiasm, one hobby or talent, call it what you will, which
interests us above all other things. Has this young woman any special
predilection?"
"I hadn't thought of that!" Madame Dumois exclaimed. "Of course, she
has, and a most ridiculous one for a gentlewoman: Egyptology."
The detective gave no sign that at last a clue lay within his grasp,
but remarked with studied carelessness:
"Oh, that sort of thing is a fad nowadays, to acquire the patter
of some science or art and pose as a savant or connoisseur. In all
probability the young woman has no real knowledge of the subject."
"If she hasn't it is her own fault." The old lady returned in unguarded
haste. "She was a pupil of the greatest authority of the age, Professor
Mallory, of Cairo."
"Indeed. I have not heard of him." Ross brushed the information aside
with a slight gesture, as if it were of no moment. "I think, however,
that I shall be able to proceed with the data you have given me."
Madame Dumois rose, and her sharp eyes flashed in a sort of grim
exultation.
"In that case, I can only wait for your success. If you can lay
your hands on that young woman, Mr. Ross, you will not find me
unappreciative. You will report to me----?"
"But not here!" he expostulated. "The atmosphere, you know, for a
person of your delicate sensibility in frequent visits to a detective
agency would be too repellent to be borne. I will be delighted to
come to you, Madame Dumois. I do not anticipate any insurmountable
difficulty in the case, but if I find myself in a quandary I am sure
your opinion and advice would be of inestimable value."
The broad touch of flattery proved the final straw to break the back of
her prejudice, and the old lady capitulated.
"Well, you may call, if you like. I am staying with an old friend, Mrs.
Hemmingway, on the North Drive, but I do not care to have my address
bandied about this office, Mr. Ross."
"I quite understand." As he held the door open for her to depart he
added coolly: "I will come tomorrow for the photograph."
"Which you will not get!" She chuckled in frank enjoyment of his
pertinacity. Then the stern lines tightened about her mouth. "Find this
young woman with the information I have given you, Mr. Ross, or drop
the case. You have wormed more out of me than I meant you to, but I
think I can trust you not to take advantage of it in any way other than
to promote my object. The girl must be found."