CHAPTER IX
THE SOCIAL SECRETARY
I stood staring at the closed door. What did it mean? Why was Vicky inthere and why wouldn't she let me come in?
Then, as I collected my wits, I laughed at myself. I knew why she wasthere--to get her mail. Doubtless there were important letters thatshe must have, and she had dared discovery to come at dead of night toget them. The patrolman was not in sight. She had looked out for this,of course. It was the merest chance that I had seen her, otherwise shewould have escaped all observation. At three in the morning there arealmost no people abroad in the quieter streets of the city, and Vickyhad timed her visit well. Of course, she had her own keys, and I feltsure she had stealthily entered at the basement door, and waited hertime to secure the letters from the mail-box.
I looked at the mail-box, an unusual appendage to a private residence,but Vicky was away from home so much, it was doubtless necessary. Itried to look in at a window, but all shades were down and there wereno lights inside. I wanted to ring the doorbell again, but a sense ofdelicacy forbade me. I was not a detective, and if I persisted, Imight attract the attention of a passer-by or of the returningpoliceman, and so get Vicky into all sorts of trouble. I wasn'ttracking the girl down. If she was a criminal, let the police findher, I had no desire to aid their efforts, but I did want to see VickyVan. I wanted to offer her my help--not in escaping justice,exactly--but I wondered if I mightn't do some little errands or favorsthat would show my friendliness.
I went slowly toward home, when I had an inspiration. Hastening intomy own house, I flew to the telephone and called Vicky's number, whichI knew well.
I waited some time for a response, but at last I heard Vicky's voicesay, "Who is it, please?"
An impulse of protection for her, not for myself, led me to withholdmy name. Nor did I speak hers.
I said, "This is the man who just left your house. I called up tooffer help, if I can render you any."
"That's good of you," she returned, in a heartfelt way. "I appreciatesuch kindness, but you can do nothing--nothing, thank you."
"At least, talk to me a few minutes. I'm so anxious about you. You arenot implicated in the--in the matter, are you?"
"Don't ask me," she murmured, in such a serious voice, that my heartsank. "What I did--or didn't do--must always remain a mystery. Icannot tell you--anything. Don't ask. And, if you would help me, tryyour best to have inquiries stopped. Can you do this?"
"I fear not. But can't I see you--somewhere--and we can talk plainly?"
"Do you want to?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then you do believe in me? Do you hold me blameless?"
I hesitated at this. I couldn't lie to her, nor could I rid my mind ofthe conviction of her guilt I said, "I will, if you assure me that isthe truth."
"I--I can't do that--good-bye."
"Wait a minute. Did you know the expected guest was coming under anassumed name?"
"I did not."
"Did you know any Somers?"
"No."
"Did you know--the real man?"
"I had met him once, at a dance."
"Did you like him?"
"I neither liked nor disliked. He was an object of utter indifferenceto me."
"Then why did you--"
"Hush! You can never know. I can't tell you--"
"Then don't. Please believe I want to befriend you." The agony andfear in Vicky's voice thrilled me, and I desired only to shield andprotect her. She was so young and alone.
"It is good to have a friendly voice speak to me. But you can onlyforget me."
"No, let me do something definite. Some errand of trust, some matterof confidence--"
"Do you mean it? Will you?"
"Gladly! What is it?"
"Then if you will collect my mail from the box at the door, after afew days--say, three days--and put it aside for me. You saw me get itto-night, I suppose, and it is a dangerous thing for me to do."
"Where are you--I mean, where are you staying?"
"Don't ask. I am safe. I see the newspapers and I know I am to behunted down. So I must hide. I cannot face the inquiries--I feararrest and--and punishment--"
Her tones betrayed guilty fear, and I shuddered at the confirmation ofmy suspicions. But I would do what I could for her.
"How shall I get your letters?" I asked, and I honestly tried not todisclose my sudden knowledge of her guilt. But her quick ears caughtmy changed inflection.
"You believe me guilty!" she said, and she stifled a sob. "Yet, still,you will help me! God bless you! Listen, then, for I must stop thistalking, it is too desperately dangerous. I will leave the key of themail box--no, I will send it to you by mail, that will be the safest.Then will you get the letters and put them--where shall I say?"
"I'll mail them to you."
"No, that would never do. You can get into this house, can't you? Thepolice will let you in at any time?"
"Yes, I can probably manage that."
"Then bring them with you, all of the three days' mail at once, youunderstand, and put them in that great Chinese jar, in the music room.The one with the gold dragon on the cover. No one will look there forthem. I will manage to come and get them very soon. Please don't spyon me, will you, Chester?"
The use of my first name was, I knew, inadvertent and unconscious. Itthrilled me. There was a marvellous fascination always about VickyVan, and now, at the end of this my mysterious night telephoneconversation, I felt its thrill and I agreed to her plea.
"No, dear," I said, and not till afterward did I realize the term Ihad used, "I will not spy. But promise me that you will call on me forany help you may need. And tell me--are you alone or is Julie withyou?"
"Julie is with me," she returned. "She helps protect me, and with yourfriendship, too, I am blessed indeed. But this is good-bye. I shallleave New York in a few days never to return. I must have that mail,or I would go at once. If you will help me get that, you will do allthere is left for any one to do for me in the world."
Her tone frightened me. "Vicky!" I cried, forgetting all caution."Don't--my dear, don't--" but I could not put in words the fear thathad suddenly come to me, and even as I stammered for speech, the clickcame that told me she had hung up the receiver.
I cursed myself for my stupidity in speaking her name. Such a blunder!Why, it might have been overheard by anybody on the line. No wondershe left me. Doubtless I had driven her from her house.
I flew to the window. Then I remembered I had promised not to spy, andI turned quickly away. If she were about to disappear silently andstealthily from that house, I must not know it.
I went to my room, but not to sleep. Clearly, I was not to knowuntroubled slumber again very soon. I sat up and thought it all over.
How strange that I should have "spied" on her just at the moment shewas secretly getting her letters. But, I realized, I had looked atthe house so often it would be stranger still if I had missed her!
And she was to send me her box key, and I was to secrete her lettersfor her. Important indeed, those letters must be, that she should goto such lengths to get them. Well, I had constituted myself her knighterrant in that particular, and I would fulfil the trust.
Beneath the thrilling excitement of the night's occurrence, I felt adull, sad foreboding. All Vicky had said or done pointed to guilt. Hadshe been innocent, she would have told me so, by word or byimplication. She would have given me a tacit assurance of herguiltlessness, or would have cried out at the injustice of suspicion.
But none of these things entered into her talk, or even into her voiceor intonations. She had sounded sad, hopeless, despairing. And herlast words made me fear she contemplated taking her own life.
Poor little Vicky Van. Light-hearted, joy-loving Vicky. What was themystery back of it all? What could it be? Well, at least, I wouldscrupulously perform the task she had set me, and I would do it well.I knew I could manage to get into the house by making up some storyfor the police. But I must wait for th
e promised key.
With a glimmer of hope that the mailed parcel containing the key mightgive me a clue to Vicky's whereabouts, I at last went to sleep.
Next morning at breakfast I said nothing of my night experiences. Itold Winnie, however, that she needn't watch the Van Allen house, as Ihad heard that Vicky had left it permanently.
"However could you hear that?" exclaimed my wideawake sister. "Haveyou had a wireless from the fugitive?"
"Something of the sort," I said, smilingly. "And now, listen here,Win. How do you think that friend of yours, Miss Crowell, would liketo be a social secretary for Mrs. Schuyler?"
"She'd love it!" cried Winnie. "Does Mrs. Schuyler want one?"
"Yes, and she wants her mighty quick. From what you've said of theCrowell girl, I should think she'd be just the one. Can you get her onthe telephone?"
"Yes, but not so early as this. I'll call her about ten."
"All right, you fix it up. I expect Mrs. Schuyler will pay propersalary to the right secretary. Of course, Miss Crowell isexperienced?"
"Oh, yes," assured Win, "and I'm sure she'll love to go. Why, anysecretary would be glad to go there."
"Not just now, I should think," observed Aunt Lucy. "The amount ofwork there must be something fearful."
"It will be heavy, for a time," I agreed, "but it is only for Mrs.Schuyler's personal correspondence and business. I mean, the other twoladies would not expect to use her services."
"All right," said Winnie, "I'll fix it up with Edith Crowell, and ifshe can't go, I'll ask her to recommend somebody. Shall I send herthere to-day?"
"Yes, as soon as she will go. And let me know--telephone the officeabout noon."
"Yep," Winnie promised, and I went away, my head in a whirl with thevarious and sundry matters I had to attend to.
I don't think I thought of the secretary matter again, until at noon,Winnie telephoned me that it was all right. I thanked her, andpromptly forgot the episode.
And so it was, that when I reached home that night, I had one of thesurprises of my life.
Winnie came to dinner, smiling, and rather excited-looking.
"What's up, Infant?" I asked. "Have you accepted a proposal from anice college lad?"
"Huh!" and Win's head tossed. "I guess you'll open your eyes when Itell you what I have accepted!"
"Tell it out, Angel Child. Relieve your own impatience."
"Well, if you please, I have accepted the post of social secretary toMrs. Randolph Schuyler."
"Winifred Elizabeth Calhoun! You haven't!"
"I thought I'd arouse some slight interest," she said, and she calmlywent on with her dinner.
I looked at Aunt Lucy, who sat with a resigned expression, toying withher unused oyster-fork.
"What does she mean?" I asked.
"She has done just what she says," replied Aunt Lucy. "But only for afew days. Miss Crowell--"
"Let me tell!" interrupted Winnie. "It's my party! You see, Chet,Edith Crowell is wild to have the place, and is going to take it, butshe can't go until the first of next week. And she doesn't want tolose the chance, so I went over and told Mrs. Schuyler about it. Andthen as she was simply swamped with letters and telegrams andtelephones and callers, and goodness knows what all, I offered to helpher out till Edith can get there. And she was so grateful--oh, I thinkshe is a darling. I never saw anyone I liked and admired so much atfirst sight."
"She is charming," I conceded, "but what a crazy scheme, Win! How didyou persuade Aunt Lucy to agree?"
"I managed her," and Winnie bobbed her wise young head, cannily.
It came to me in a moment. Though not exactly a tuft hunter, Aunt Lucywas deeply impressed by real grandeur and elegance. And it came to meat once, that Winnie's tales of the great house and the aristocraticpeople, had a strong influence on our aunt's views and had broughtabout her permission for Win to go there for a few days. And it was noharm. It wasn't as if Winnie were a regular secretary, but just tohold the place for Miss Crowell, was simply a kindly deed.
And so, after dinner, I settled myself in our cosy library for acomfortable smoke, and bade Winnie tell me every single thing that hadhappened through the day.
"Oh, it was thrilling!" Winnie exclaimed. "Part of the time I was atthe desk in the library, and part of the time upstairs in Mrs.Schuyler's very own room. She was so kind to me, but she is nearlydistracted and I don't wonder! The undertakers' men were in and out,and those two old maids--his sisters, you know--were everlastinglyappearing and disappearing. And they don't like Mrs. Schuyler an awfullot, nor she them. Oh, they're polite and all that, but you can seethey're of totally different types. I like Mrs. Schuyler heaps better,but still, there's something about the old girls that's the realthing. They're Schuylers and also they're Salton-stalls, and fartherback, I believe they're Cabots or something."
"And Mrs. Schuyler, what is she?" I asked, as Win paused for breath.
"I don't know. Nothing particular, I guess. Oh, yes, I learned hername was Ellison before she was married, but the sisters don't consulther about family matters at all. They do about clothes, though. Andshe knows a lot. Why, Chess, she's having the loveliest things made,if they _are_ mourning, and the sisters, they ask her about everythingthey order--to wear, I mean. And, just think! Mrs. Schuyler neverwears any jewels but pearls! It's a whim, you know, or it was herhusband's whim, or something, but anyway, she has oceans of pearls,and no other gems at all."
"Did she tell you so?"
"Yes; but it came in the conversation, you know. She is no boaster.No sir-ee! She's the modestest, gentlest, sweetest little lady I eversaw. I just love her! Well, I answered a lot of letters for her, andshe liked the way I did it, and she liked me, I guess, for she saidshe only hoped Miss Crowell would suit her as well."
"She knows you're my sister?"
"Of course. But that isn't why she likes me, old bunch of conceit!Though, I must admit, she likes you, Chet. She said you were not onlykind, but you have a fair amount of intelligence--no, she didn't usethose words, exactly, but I gathered that was what she meant. Thefuneral is to be tomorrow evening, you know. I had to write andtelephone quite a good deal about that, though the sisters tended toit mostly."
"Was there much said about--about the actual case--Winnie?"
"You mean about the murder?" Win's clear eyes didn't blink at theword; "no, not much in my hearing. But Mrs. Schuyler wasn't in theroom all the time. And I know Mr. Lowney--isn't he the detective?--wasthere once, and I think, twice."
"Did you see anyone else?"
"Only some of the servants. Mrs. Schuyler's own maid, her name isTibbetts, is the sort you read about in English novels. A nice,motherly woman, with gray hair and a black silk apron. I liked her,but the maid who looks after the old sisters, I didn't like so well."
"Never mind the maids, tell me more about Mrs. Schuyler. Does shethink Vicky Van killed Mr. Schuyler? Since you're in this thing sodeep Win, there's no use mincing matters."
"I should say not! Yes, of course, she thinks the Vicky person did thekilling. How could she think anything else? And the two sisters aremadly revengeful. As soon as the funeral is over, they're going towork to find that girl and bring her to justice! They say the inquestwill help a lot. When will that be, Chess? Can I go to it?"
"No, of course not, Winnie?" This from Aunt Lucy. "It's one thing foryou to help Mrs. Schuyler out in an emergency, but you're not to getmixed up in a murder trial!"
"An inquest isn't a trial, Auntie," and Win looked like a wise owl, asshe aired her new and suddenly acquired knowledge. "Can't I go,Chess?"
"We'll see, Infant. Perhaps, if Mrs. Schuyler needs your services shemay want you there with her."
"Oh, in that case--" began Aunt Lucy, but Winnie was off again on oneof her enthusiastic descriptions of the grand ways of the Schuylerhousehold, and Aunt Lucy was quite willing to listen.
As for me, I wanted the benefit of every possible sidelight on thewhole business, and I, too, took in all Winnie's detailed narrations. r />