Miss Maitland, Private Secretary
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He did not say this to Mrs. Price. What he did say was that he would leave Berkeley shortly and when he had anything of importance to tell make an appointment with her by letter. It was not necessary to inform her that his next move would be to Cedar Brook where he had heard that Chapman Price spent a good deal of his time.
Cedar Brook, six miles above Berkeley on the main line, had none of the prestige of its aristocratic neighbor. It was in the process of development, new houses rising round its outskirts, fields being turned into lawns. Mr. Larkin took a room in a clapboarded cottage which stared at other clapboarded cottages through the foliage of locust trees. Announcing his intention of buying a piece of land, he was soon an object of general attention and added to his store of knowledge. He heard a good deal of Chapman Price, who was there off and on with the Hartleys, and of his man Willitts. It was understood that Willitts was staying with Price till he got a job, and, as the Hartley house was small, lodged in the village; in fact, Mr. Larkin learned to his satisfaction, was living in one of the clapboarded cottages close to his own.
Professing a desire to study the environs of Cedar Brook he hired a wheel, and the third afternoon of his stay peddled out into the country. It was while passing the private hedge of a large estate, that he came upon a young man engaged over a disabled bicycle.
The day was warm, the salt air of the Sound shut out by forest and hill, the road bathed in a hot glow of sun. The man had taken off his coat, and, as Mr. Larkin drew near, looked up displaying a smooth-shaven, rosy face, beaded with perspiration.
Mr. Larkin, being by nature and profession curious, drew up and made friendly inquiries. The man answered them, explained the nature of the damage, his speech marked by the crisp, clipped enunciation of the Briton. His costume – negligée shirt, knickerbockers and golf stockings – did not suggest the country house guest, nor was his accent quite that of the English gentleman. The detective, who had some knowledge of these delicate distinctions, laid his bicycle against the bank and proffered his assistance. Together they repaired the stranger's wheel, and, when it was done, rested from their labors in the shade of the hedge, and engaged in conversation. This at first was of the war – the young man explaining that he was English and had volunteered at once, but been rejected on the ground of his eyes – very near-sighted, couldn't read the chart at all – touching with an indicating finger the glasses that spanned his nose. After that he'd come to America; he could make good money then and had people dependent on him. At this stage Mr. Larkin asked his profession and learned that he was a valet, by name James Willitts, just now looking for a place. He had been in the employ of Mr. Chapman Price and was still staying with him until he got a new "situation." Mr. Larkin in return recited his little lay about the plumbing business and the bungalow, and, the introductions accomplished, they passed to more general topics and soon reached the Janney robbery.
It was a propitious meeting for the detective, for Willitts proved himself a free and expansive talker. He launched forth into the subject with an artless zest, not needing any prompting from his attentive listener. Mr. Larkin was grateful for it all, but especially so for an account of the movements of Mr. Price the day before the robbery. He had sent his valet to Cedar Brook on the morning train, he to follow later in the afternoon. Willitts, after the unpacking and settling was done, had biked over to Grasslands to see "the help," and then made the engagement to meet them that night at the movies. Of course he had to go back, as part of his work was to lay out Mr. Price's dinner clothes and help him dress, and it was most unfortunate, because, when he went up to Mr. Price's room, Mr. Price said he wouldn't change, would keep on the clothes he had and go motoring.
"Motoring," observed Mr. Larkin, mildly interested, "did he motor in the evening?"
"Not usually – but I don't know if you remember that night. After a heavy rain it cleared and the moon came out as bright as day."
Mr. Larkin didn't remember himself but he had a vague recollection of having read it in some of the papers.
"It was a wonderful night, and if it hadn't been I'd never have kept my date. For I got side-tracked – had to fetch the doctor for my landlady's little girl who was taken bad with the croup. And what with that and the long distance I'd have given it up if it hadn't been for the moon."
The detective did not find these details particularly pertinent, and edged nearer to vital matters:
"Pretty unpleasant position for those two men, Dixon and Isaac. I was in Berkeley before I came here and there was a lot of talk."
The valet looked at him with sharp surprise:
"But no suspicion rests on them, I'll be bound. I lived in that house since last October and I'll swear that there's not an honester pair in the whole country."
Mr. Larkin, as a stranger to the parties, had no need to display a corresponding warmth, merely remarking that Berkeley was convinced of their innocence.
The young man appeased, felt in his coat for a pipe and drew a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As he filled the bowl, his profile was presented to the detective's vigilant eye, which dwelt thoughtfully on the neat outline, almost handsome except that the chin receded slightly. A good looking fellow, Mr. Larkin thought, and smart – somehow as the conversation had progressed he was beginning to think him smarter than he had at the start.
"How about that Miss Maitland," he said, "the young lady secretary?"
Willitts had the pipe in his mouth and was pressing the tobacco down with his thumb. He spoke through closed teeth:
"What about her?"
"Well, what sort is she? You needn't tell me she's good looking, for I saw her once in the post office and she's a peach."
The valet leaned forward and felt in his coat pocket for matches. The movement presented his face in full to Mr. Larkin's glance, and the detective noticed that its bright alertness had diminished, that a slight film of stolidity had formed over it like ice over a running stream. The man had removed his pipe and held it in one hand while he scrabbled round in his coat with the other.
"She's a very fine young lady; nothing but good's ever been said of her in my hearing. And very competent in her work – they say – and she would be, or Mrs. Janney wouldn't keep her."
He found the matches and, sitting upright, lit one and applied it to the pipe bowl. The detective, with his eyes ready to swerve to the landscape, hazarded a shot at the bull's-eye.
"They were saying – or more hinting I guess you'd call it – that Mr. Price was – er – getting to look her way too often."
Willitts was very still. The watching eyes noticed that the flame of the match burned steady over the pipe bowl; for a moment the valet's breath was held. Then, without moving, his voice peculiarly quiet, he said:
"Now I'd like to know who told you that?"
The other gave a lazy laugh:
"Oh, I can't tell – every kind of rumor was flying about. They were ready to say anything."
"Yes, that's it. Say anything to get listened to and not care whose character they were taking away."
"Then there's nothing in it?"
"Tommyrot!" he snorted out the word with intense irritation. "The silly fools! Mr. Price is no more in love with her than I am. He's not that kind; he's an honorable gentleman. And, believe me, the wrong's not all on his side. It's not for me to tell tales of the family, but I will say that there's not many men could have put up with what he did."
His face was flushed, he was openly exasperated. Mr. Larkin remembered what he had heard of the man's affection for the master, and his thoughts formed into an unspoken sentence, "He knows something and won't tell."
"Well, well," he said cheerfully, "when a big thing happens there's bound to be all sorts of scandal and surmise. People work off their excitement that way; you can't muzzle 'em – "
Willitts grunted a scornful assent and rose. It was time to go; Mr. Price would be coming up from town that night and he would be on duty. The detective, lifting his bicycle from the grass, casually inquired if Mr. Price motored from the city.
"Oh, dear no. He keeps his car here in Sommers' garage – he needs it, taking people about to see the country. He made a tidy bit of money here last week."
"Talking of money," said the other, "did you know that ten thousand dollars' reward has been offered for those jewels?"
Willitts, astride his wheel, stretched a feeling foot for the pedal:
"Yes, I saw it in the papers."
"Easy money for somebody."
"Yes, but is there somebody beside the thief – or thieves – who knows? That's the question."
They pedaled back side by side talking amicably, mutually pleased to find they were neighbors. On the outskirts of the village they parted with promises for a speedy reunion, Willitts to go to the Hartleys, and Mr. Larkin to Sommers' garage to ask the price of a flivver for an excursion beyond the reach of his bicycle.
When he arrived at the garage a large touring car, packed full of veiled females, was drawn up at the entrance. The driver, with Sommers and his assistant beside him, had opened the hood and the three of them were peering into the inner depths with the anxious concentration of doctors studying the anatomy of a patient. Mr. Larkin walked by them and went into the garage. He cast a rapid look about him, over the lined-up motors in the back, and then through the doorway into the small office. The place was empty. With a stealthy glance at the party round the touring car, he strolled in to where the time card rack hung on the wall. He ran his eye down the list of names until he came to "Price" and drew out the card. The second entry was dated July seventh and showed that that night Price had taken out his car at eight-thirty and not returned it until five minutes to two.
CHAPTER X – MOLLY'S STORY
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."
CHAPTER XI – FERGUSON'S IDEA
During these days Dick Ferguson thought a good deal and said very little. Like the rest of his world he wondered over the unsolved mystery of the Janney robbery, but his wonderings contained an element of discomfort. He heard the subject discussed everywhere and often the name of Esther Maitland came up in the discussions. Not that any one ever suggested she might be involved; – it was more a sympathetic appreciation of her position. Every one spoke very feelingly about it: – poor girl, so uncomfortable for her, knowing the combination and all that sort of thing – the Janneys had stood by her splendidly, but still it wastrying.
It tried him a good deal, made inroads on his temper, until it lost its sunny evenness and he was sometimes short and surly. The day after Molly and Esther went to town he had been called to a conference in the Fairfax house on the bluff. A gang of motor boat thieves had been operating along the Sound, had already stolen two launches, and the owners of water-front property had convened to decide on a course. Ferguson, with a small fleet to his credit, had taken rather a high hand, and shown an unwonted irritation at the indecision of his associates. If they wanted their boats protected it was up to them to do it, establish a shore police patrol financed by themselves. That was what he intended to do and they could join with him or not as they pleased. He left them, ruffled by his brusqueness and remarking grumpily that "Ferguson was beginning to feel his money."
He went from the meeting to his own beach and on the way met Suzanne returning with Bébita from the morning bath. They stopped for a chat in the course of which Suzanne made a series of remarks not calculated to soothe his perturbed spirit. They were apropos of Miss Maitland, who had taken an early morning swim, all alone, refusing to wait and go in with them. Suzanne said it was a pity Miss Maitland kept so much to herself – the girl seemed depressed and out of spirits lately, didn't he think so? Quite different to what she had been earlier in the season, seemed to be troubled about something. Too bad – every one liked her so much, and people did talk so. Then with an artless smile she went off under her white parasol.
There was no smile on Ferguson's face as he walked to his boat houses. He told his men of the police patrol – to operate along the shore after nightfall – gave a few gruff orders and disappeared into a bath house. When he emerged, stripped for a swim, he stalked silently by them and dove from the end of the wharf. They were surprised at his manner, usually so genial, and wondered among themselves watching his head, sleek as a wet seal's, receding over the shining water.
The head was full of what Suzanne had said. Though he had offered no agreement to her suggestions, he had noticed the change in Esther. He had noticed it soon after the robbery, in fact before that, for it had dated from the evening when she dined at his house, the night the jewels were taken. Disturbance grew in him as he thought: – if so shallow a creature as Suzanne could see it, others could. And Suzanne had no sense, no realization of the weight of words. She might go round chattering like a fool and get the girl talked about. It would be the decent thing to give Esther a hint, put her wise to the fact that she ought to brighten up – not give any one a chance to say she was not as she had been.
As his long, muscular body slid through the water he decided to go over and have a talk with her. The decision cheered him, for to be with Esther Maitland was the keenest pleasure he knew.
Suzanne had told him she and her mother would be out that afternoon, so at three – the hour they were to leave – he set out for Grasslands by the wood path. As he crossed the garden his questing glance met an encouraging sight – Esther Maitland sitting under a group of maples at the end of the terrace. She was alone, an empty chair beside her, her head bowed over a book.
Her welcoming smile was very sweet; his eye noticed a faint color rise in her cheeks as he came up. These signs were so agreeable that he would like to have sat there, placidly enjoying her presence, but he was a person who once possessed by an idea "had to get it out of his system." This he proceeded to do, advancing on his subject with what he thought was a crafty indirectness:
"You know, Miss Maitland, you're not a credit to Long Island."
She raised her brows, deprecating, also amused: