CHAPTER XIII--MOLLY'S STORY
One of the chief features of detective work is that you must be able tochange your mind. That may not sound hard--especially when the owner ofthe mind happens to be a female--but believe me it's some stunt. You getpointed one way, and to have to shift and face round in another is candyfor a weather vane but bread for a sleuth.
Well, that's what happened to me. In the week that followed my visit tothe Whitneys I had to start out fresh on a new line of thought. I'd leftthe office pretty certain, as the others were, that the bond betweenEsther Maitland and Chapman Price was love, and before those seven dayswere gone I'd thrown that theory into the discard, rolled up my sleeves,taken a cinch in my belt, and set forth to blaze a new trail.
I came round to it slow at first and I came round through Mr. Ferguson.It was fine weather and when Bebita would go off with Annie, I'd curl upin my conning tower in the school room window and take observations. AsI said before, it was a convenient place, just over Miss Maitland'sstudy, deserted all afternoon, and with the Venetian blinds down againstthe sun, I could sit comfortable on my cushion and spy out between theslats.
The first thing that caught my attention was that Mr. Ferguson, who'dcome over pretty nearly every day, wouldn't make straight for the frontpiazza which was the natural way to get there. Instead he'd take aslanting course across the garden, come up some steps to the terrace,and then walk slow past the study door. Sometimes he'd see Miss Maitlandand stop for a chat, and sometimes she wouldn't be there and he'd go by.But each and every time, thinking no one was watching, he'd let a lookcome on his face that's common to the whole male sex when the oneparticular star is expected above the horizon. I guess the cave man gotit when, club in hand, he was chasing the cave girl and Solomon with hissix hundred wives must have had it stamped on his features so it came tobe his habitual expression.
Though it was registered good and plain on Mr. Ferguson's countenance, Icouldn't at first believe it. It was too like a novel, too likeCinderella and the Prince. Then, seeing it so frequent, I was convinced.I'd say to myself "Why not--a girl's a girl if she is a plutocrat'ssocial secretary, and all men are free and equal when it comes todisposing of their young affections." The romance of it got me, grippedat my heart. I'd sit with my eye to the crack in the blinds staring downat him as he'd send that look out for her--that wonderful look, thatlook which gives you chills and fever, blind staggers and heart failureand you'd rather have than a blank check drawn to your order and signedby John Rockefeller. Oh, gee--I was a girl once myself--don't I know!I'd have been interested if it was just an ordinary love story, but itwasn't. It was a love story with a mystery for good measure; it was alove story that had Mrs. Price thrown in to complicate the plot; it wasa love story that was all tangled up with other elements; and it was alove story that I only could see one side of.
For I couldn't get at her feelings at all. This was mostly because Ihardly ever saw her with him. If she did happen to be there when hepassed, she'd be either in her room or under the balcony roof and Icouldn't see how she acted or hear what she said. Also she had such ahold on herself, had such a calm, reserved way with her, that you'd haveto be a clairvoyant to get under her guard.
Any woman would have been thrilled but _me_, knowing what I did--can'tyou see my thoughts going round in wheels and whirligigs? If shereciprocated--and there's few that wouldn't or I don't know my ownsex--what was she doing with Price? Was she a siren playing the two ofthem? Was she Mrs. Price's secret rival with both men? Was she the kindof vampire heroine they have in plays who can break up a burglar-proofhome with one hand tied behind her? You wouldn't think it to look ather--but the more I hit the high spots of society the more I feel youcan't tell people by the ordinary trade-marks.
Then one afternoon toward the end of the week I saw a little scene rightunder my window that lightened up the darkness. It gave me what I callfacts; what the Whitneys, anyway Mr. George--but that belongs fartheron.
Mr. Ferguson came out of the wood path, across the garden and on hisusual beat, up the terrace steps. He had a spray of lemon verbena in hishand and as he walked over the grass with his long, light stride, hekept his eyes on the balcony keen and expectant, his face all eager andserious. Suddenly it changed, brightened, softened, glowed like thesunlight had fallen on it--you didn't need to be a detective to knowshe'd come out of the study.
This time she came down the steps and went toward him. They met under mywindow and stood there, he facing me, brushing his lips with the sprayof lemon verbena and looking down at her, a lover if ever I saw one. Heasked her what she was doing that afternoon, and she said going for awalk, and when he wanted to know where, she said through the woods tothe beach. "A solitary walk?" he asked and she said yes, her walks werealways solitary.
"By preference?"
She turned half away from him and I could see her profile. I'd hardlyhave known it for Miss Maitland's, soft, shy, the cheek pink. Her eyeswere on the toe of her shoe, white against the green grass, and with herhead drooping she was like a girl, bashful and blushing before her beau.
"It generally is by preference," she said.
"Would it exclude me," he asked, "if I tried to butt in?"
She didn't answer for a moment, then said very low:
"Not if you really wanted to come--didn't do it just to be kind to alonesome lady."
"Lonesome lady be hanged," he exclaimed as joyful as if she'd given hima kiss, "it's just the other way round--kindness to a lonesomegentleman. I'm terribly lonesome this afternoon."
But he wasn't going to be long--far from it. Round the corner of thehouse, walking soft as a cat, came Mrs. Price. She made me think of acat every way, stepping so stealthy, her body so slim and lithe, asmall, secret smile on her face as if she'd come on two nice littlehelpless mice. She was all in white, shining and spotless, a tennisracket in one hand, a bunch of letters in the other. They didn't see herand she got quite close, then said, sweet and smooth as treacle:
"Good afternoon, Dick."
They weren't doing anything but planning a walk, but they both startedlike it had been a murder.
"Oh," says Mr. Ferguson, looking blankly disconcerted, "oh, Suzanne, Ididn't see you. How do you do--good afternoon."
She came to a halt and stood softly swinging her racket, looking at himwith that mean, cold smile.
"I was in my room and saw you so I came down at once. It's a splendidafternoon for our game, not a breath of wind."
I saw, and she saw, and I guess any but a blind man could have seen,he'd a date to play tennis with her and had forgotten it. Of course awoman would have scrambled out, had _something_ to offer that made anoise like an excuse; but that poor prune of a man--they're all alikewhen a quick lie's needed--couldn't think of a thing to say. He juststood between them, looking haunted and stammering out such gems ofthought as, "Our game--of course our game--I hadn't noticed it but there_is_ no wind."
She had him; he couldn't throw her down after he'd made the engagement,and with her there he couldn't say what he wanted to Esther Maitland.And neither of them helped him; Mrs. Price listened to his flounderingswith the little smile, light and cool on her painted lips, and MissMaitland stood by, not a word out of her. I noticed that Mrs. Pricenever looked at her, acted as if she wasn't there, and presentlyFerguson, getting desperate, turns to her and says:
"How about taking our walk later--after Mrs. Price and I have finishedour game?"
The girl got red, burning; she started to answer, but Mrs. Price cut in,for the first time addressing her:
"Oh, Miss Maitland, that reminds me--I want these letters answered, ifyou'll be so kind. Just follow the notes on the edges, and please do itas soon as possible--they're rather important. They must go out on theevening mail."
She handed the letters to the girl and Esther Maitland took them with amurmur. I know that kind of answer--it's the agreeing response of thewage-earner. It comes soft and polite--it has to--but like the pleasantrippling of the ocean on the bea
ch it's not the only sound that elementcan give forth.
Ferguson tried to say something; he was mad and mortified and everythingelse he ought to have been, but she wouldn't give him a chance.
"Come along, Dick," she says, bright and easy, "you've kept me waitingwhich is very rude, but I'm in a good humor and I'll forgive you.There's a racket at the court--we were playing there this morning. Youcan walk with Miss Maitland some other day. I'm afraid she'll have toattend to _my_ work this afternoon."
He got balky, lingered, looked at Miss Maitland, but she turned sharplyaway and moved toward the balcony. So there was nothing for him to dobut to go off with his captor. I couldn't but look after them, both inbeautiful white clothes, both rich, both young, he so tall, she so slim,for all the world like a picture of lovers on the cover of a magazine.Then I switched back to Miss Maitland. She's come to a halt, right belowthe window, and, standing there like a graven image, was watching them.
I never saw any one so still. You wouldn't have known she was aliveexcept for her eyes which moved after them, moved and moved, until thepair disappeared behind the rose-covered trellis that hid the courts.Then she let out a sound, a smothered ejaculation that you couldn'tspell with letters; but you didn't need to, it said more than printedpages. Rage was in it and pain and love. They were in her face, too,stamped and cut into it. I wouldn't have known it for hers, it was allmarred and tragic, a pitiful, dreadful face.
She looked blankly at the letters in her hand, at first as if she didn'tknow what they were, then crumpled them, threw them on the ground andmade a run for the balcony. She was almost there, I craning my neck tokeep her in sight, when she stopped, wheeled around, went back to thescattered papers and picked them up. "Oh, bread and butter," I thought,"bread and butter! Aren't you cursing it now?" Bad as I believed her tobe I couldn't but be sorry for her, for I've been in that positionmyself. Take it from me, licking the hand that feeds you is a job thatcomes hard to the worst of us.
She pressed out the letters, smoothed away the creases slow and carefuland came back to the balcony. Just before she disappeared under it shestopped and lifted her face, the eyes closed, the teeth pressed on herunder lip. It quivered like a child's on the brink of tears, but shewasn't crying--fighting, I'd say, against something deeper than tears. Icouldn't bear to look at it and shut my own eyes; when I opened them shewas gone.
You didn't need to tell me any more after that. She was in love withFerguson, not Price; she was in love and straining every nerve to hideit; she was in love so she was jealous of Mrs. Price--and I'd bet a hatshe was the kind who could love fierce and hard.
I had to get this into the office and the next day asked for time offfrom Mrs. Janney and went in. I found them different to what they hadbeen on my first visit, taking it serious like they were warming to it.I'd hardly sat down before I heard the reason. O'Malley had been busyand turned up enough evidence to make them sure that Chapman Price andMiss Maitland were in deep in some sort of plot or conspiracy.
O'Malley's investigation of Price's movements on the night of July theseventh had revealed these facts: Price had taken his car from Sommers'garage at Cedar Brook at eight-thirty, not returning till five minutesbefore two. To one of the garage men he had said that the night being sofine he had gone for a long run over the island. No trace of hiswhereabouts during these hours had been found until O'Malley dropped ona policeman at the end of the Queensborough Bridge. This man said Pricehad crossed over to the city between nine-thirty and ten. He waspositive of his identification, as early in June he had stopped theyoung man for exceeding the speed limit on the bridge, taken his nameand address and had a heated altercation with him. From that time to hisreturn to Cedar Brook Price had dropped out of sight. He had not been inthe lodgings he kept in town or in any of the garages he patronized.Whatever his business had been in the city he had had plenty of time toreturn to Grasslands and participate in the theft of the jewels.
A continued watch of the house at 76 Gayle Street had shown that bothMiss Maitland and Price had been there on the Thursday previous andPrice on Sunday afternoon. Each had entered with noiseless haste andeach had used a latchkey. O'Malley in a search for a room hadinterviewed the janitor, a grouchy old chap living in the basement; andgot a line on all the tenants, none of whom answered to the descriptionof Price or Miss Maitland. Of their visits to the house the man wasevidently ignorant, but he supplied some information which showed howthey could come and go without his cognizance.
On July the eighth a lady, giving no name, had taken the right handfront room on the top floor for a friend, Miss Agnes Brown, an artstudent coming from the west but not yet arrived in the city. The ladypaid a month's rent in advance, took the key, and said when Miss Brownarrived, the janitor would be informed, but that she might be delayedthrough illness in her family. This lady, as described by the janitor,was beyond a doubt Esther Maitland.
O'Malley was positive that the man honestly believed the room unused andawaiting its occupant. He had seen no signs of habitation, heard nosound from behind its closed door. Cooking was permitted in the houseand it was part of his business to sweep down the halls every morningand empty the pails containing the food refuse which were placed outsidethe doors. He had seen no pail, no milk bottles, and never at night,when he went up to light the hall gas, had there been a gleam from thetransom of Miss Brown's apartment.
The room had been engaged by Esther Maitland the day after the robbery,had been secured for a tenant who had not materialized. She had takenthe key herself and had visited the place, as Chapman Price had done.Both had made their exits and entrances so carefully that the janitorhad no idea any one had ever been inside the door since the day it wasrented.
After I'd heard all this I opened up with what I'd collected. The Chiefdidn't say much, which is his way when you come in with a new "twist,"but Mr. George wouldn't have it, got quite peevish and said myimagination had run away with me.
"Do you think a girl in love with another man would have embroiledherself with Price the way she has?" he snapped out.
"I don't know, Mr. George. I'm not ready to say yet what she's done orhasn't done. No one can deny that things are dead against her. All I'msure of now is that she is in love with Mr. Ferguson and, that being thecase, I don't think she's the kind, guilty or innocent, who'd take upwith another man."
"But you can't base a conviction on a moment's pantomime such as youoverlooked. The girl was probably angry at Mrs. Price's manner. It canbe a deuced disagreeable manner; I've seen it."
"She didn't act like that--it wasn't only anger--it was all sorts offeelings."
He couldn't see it any way but his own and hammered at me.
"But the whole structure's built on the assumption of an affair betweenher and Price. Do you think she'd steal for him, lie for him, hire aroom to meet him in, unless she was so crazy about him she was clay inhis hands?"
"Mr. George," I said, dropping back in my chair sort of helpless butstill as obstinate as a government mule, "every word you say sounds likesense and I'm not saying it isn't. But while I'm not passing anycriticisms on you, in this kind of question, I'd back my own judgmentagainst any man's that ever lived since Adam tried to throw the blame onEve."
The Chief laughed like he was amused at the scrapping of two kids.
"That's right, Molly," he says, "don't let him brow-beat you, stick toyour own opinion."
"Well, what do _you_ think?" Mr. George turned to him all red andruffled up. "Isn't she building up theories on the flimsiest kind offoundation?"
The Chief wouldn't give him any satisfaction.
"I'll take a leaf out of her book," he said, "not pass any criticisms.And I think we're going on too fast. I expect to have Chapman herehimself in a day or two and ask some questions about that long ride onthe night of July the seventh. After that we'll be on a firmerfooting--or we ought to be. Meantime, Molly, you go back to Grasslands.Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and if anything turns up let meknow."