Katie

  Philo blushed hot, but said nothing.

  Nedda replied, “She has never disgraced either herself or me. That is more than I could say of some.”

  Now Jewel blushed hot.

  Jewel would have liked to remain in the parlor, for she did not wish to leave Philo and her aunt alone together. She was jealous of the intimacy that Nedda implied was between them. It was vastly annoying that Philo was to go to Saratoga, for Jewel had hoped to be the companion of her aunt – her aunt had a position in society far higher than that of the Varleys, and Jewel would have been introduced to everybody.

  Nedda however asked that Jewel leave her and Philo alone for a while so that they might conduct the morning’s business in private.

  “But I’m your niece!” protested Jewel.

  Nedda smiled. “All the more reason for you not to have to listen to Philomela and me go on about letters and accounts and so forth.”

  Jewel flounced out of the room, unable to conceal her disap­pointment at the whole business.

  When she was gone, Nedda closed the doors and came and sat near Philo at the secretary.

  “You and Jewel were not the best of friends in New Egypt, I take it?” she questioned.

  “Jewel considered the Draxes to be too far beneath the Varleys to admit of much intimacy between us,” Philo replied evenly.

  “Jewel would perhaps be happier living in England, where views are not so democratic as they are in this country.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Nedda, “that the news I had been saving for you was sprung rather too suddenly this morning. I had meant to tell you in a day or so that I wished for you to accompany me to Saratoga this year. Do you much mind going?”

  Philo laughed. “I think I can get back the deposit I made on the mansion in Newport. Of course I would be very pleased to go with you – and be of any help that I can. Once, Jewel told me that I should never get to see Saratoga. She cannot be happy that her own aunt is going to prove her a false prophetess.”

  “Jewel is not often happy,” sighed Nedda. “I invited her some time since to come up to stay with me for a few weeks before going off to Saratoga, but I didn’t have you with me then. I hope you two will be able to get along.”

  “When she can’t get her way, Jewel settles down into reason­ableness,” replied Philo. “I’m sure we’ll rub along all right.”

  “We shall be in Saratoga most of July and all of August. I think it would be sensible for you to give up your chamber at Mrs. Classon’s for that time.”

  “Yes,” replied Philo. “I only hope that when I return she will have a room available to me. I am used to the place, and the young ladies there have always been very friendly to me.”

  “I had another suggestion,” said Nedda hesitantly.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought that when we returned, you might move in here with me.”

  Philo was too startled to reply.

  “If you don’t mind losing your West Thirteenth Street in­de­pendence, that is. I hope that you would keep up your ac­quain­tance with your friends – but the fact is, I have grown childishly dependent on you.” Nedda Maitland had a way of deprecating her strengths and affections that charmed Philo as much as any­thing about her. “And I’d like to indulge that weakness by having you about me all the time.”

  “I don’t think,” said Philo, with an irrepressible grin, “that Jewel is going to be much pleased with this arrangement.”

  That evening Philo returned to West Thirteenth Street with the intention of telling Ella of her good fortune. Ella, having heard the story of meeting Mrs. Maitland on the Broadway stage and following Philo’s progress into the woman’s good graces step by step, had always said, “Lord, Philo, you’re the only one I’ve ever met who lost a fortune, and then bought it back again – with a nickel.”

  But today it was Ella who had the more important news.

  Philo was sitting in the parlor waiting for the dinner bell when Ella came bounding up the steps of the house and flung herself panting into the parlor. She held one arm straight up in the air and was waving an envelope like a flag.

  “What was the name of those people that robbed you and killed your grandfather and your mother?” she demanded breath­lessly.

  “The Slapes,” replied Philo automatically, wondering at her friend’s behavior.

  Ella lowered her arm without bending it at the elbow. The envelope was directly before Philo’s eyes.

  She read the address:

  mrs. hannah Slape

  no. 251 Christerfer st

  new York

  Philo reached for the letter, but Ella snatched it away.

  “But there’s a stamp: ‘Recipient Unknown,’ ” Philo protested, not wanting to believe the Slapes so close by.

  “Don’t believe all that you read,” warned Ella.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re here,” hissed Ella, with a leer, “they’re five streets away right this minute!”

  Chapter 35

  THE RETURNED LETTER

  “How did you come by that?” cried Philo. “That letter?”

  “It was a dead letter – refused at the house,” said Ella. “So it came to the office.”

  Ella was a naturally curious and inquisitive young woman – working in the Dead Letter section of the post office exactly suited her talents and inclinations.

  “I remembered the name,” she went on, “I thought I remem­bered the name, so I slipped it under the front of my dress and brought it to you.”

  So excited was Philo that she forgot to chide Ella for this obvious infraction of the rules of her department.

  “But if it was refused at the house, then obviously the Slapes don’t live there,” said Philo, eagerly eyeing the envelope that Ella mischievously swung through the air just out of Philo’s reach.

  “There’s a thousand reasons for refusing a piece of mail,” said Ella. “It could be they didn’t want to be found out.”

  “Maybe,” said Philo, “maybe it was simply a mistake. You didn’t open the letter, did you?”

  “Maybe I did,” said Ella. “Maybe I know something you don’t.”

  “Maybe you do,” said Philo eagerly.

  “And maybe on my way home from the Bible House today I went a spike or two out of my way and strolled down Christopher Street, and maybe I hung about in front of No. 251, and maybe I saw a placard in the window advertising a fortune-teller, and maybe the name of that fortune-teller was Miss Katie.”

  Quite suddenly, with the certainty of the Slapes’ presence in New York put before her, all Philo’s excitement spun away, leav­ing an unpleasant hollowness inside her.

  The Slapes were in New York. They lived five streets to the south. Katie was telling fortunes, and with them – unless they had managed to spend it all – the Slapes had Philo’s thirty thou­sand dollars.

  But Philo was worried; the Slapes were not to be toyed with, they couldn’t be approached directly. She couldn’t even put the police onto them, because as far as she knew they hadn’t been charged with any crime. Philo knew that Katie had murdered her mother and her grandfather, but the law officials of New Jersey were certainly not convinced of that fact.

  Whatever Philo was to do must be done circumspectly. She could not allow the Slapes to get away again.

  Ella saw in Philo’s face the alteration of her thought and mood. She stood still and quietly handed the letter to Philo.

  “And this was refused at the door?” Philo asked.

  Ella nodded and seated herself beside her friend.

  Philo took a paper cutter from the table, and slit open the envelope. Inside she found this letter:

  Camden, June the 12 –71

  Cousin Hannah – Prince and Sue was in new York Sunday and monday inquirring into passage to Californ. for Judiths boy Charles they saw you at the playhouse and followed you home but got the house wrong and couldnt find you again thow thay beat u
ponn the door so iam riteing this to you at that number and hoping a kind nabor who knowse you will give it to you Prince and Sue and idid not know you and John Slape and his girl was in new York and we hope this letter finds you very well at this time threw the Blessinges of god their is nothing like helth in this world of sin and tryals ihad a Blind Boil on mye hand but it has got well now ive got an Irishe girl to do my cooking Prince is shingeling houses for one dollar 25 per day ide rite more icant think of Ennay thing thay all sendes there love to you and youres do not forget to pray Every morning and nite imust End for this time iremanne your Cousin untill Deth

  Lillie jepson

  From this letter Philo concluded that the Slapes were in New York, and that they did not wish that fact known, not even to their relatives in Camden.

  The next morning early, Philo borrowed from Nellie Stan­wood a hat with a veil, and in Ella’s company walked down Hudson Street from West Thirteenth to Christopher. Philo grew more agitated on the way, and despite her veil and bulky dress, was fearful that if she stood before the house, all three of the Slapes would look out their windows and recognize her at once.

  Warning Ella not to appear conspicuous, Philo made her cautious way along the side of the street opposite from No. 251. The traffic from the ferry was heavy along Christopher Street, and many commuters from New Jersey who had disembarked were now heading toward the stage that ran along Seventh Avenue. There was no difficulty, Ella assured Philo, of their re­maining unremarked in such a crush. They came to a recessed doorway directly across the street from No. 251 and paused there for a moment. As Ella appeared to rummage through her reticule, Philo observed the house across the way. On the placard in the window, she could make out Katie’s claims – and from what she had seen of the girl, she thought her capable of that and much more.

  The house had four floors, with two windows in each story. Each window was curtained, but even as Philo watched the house, the draperies across one of the second-floor windows were suddenly pulled aside.

  Katie Slape stood there in a green dress. She looked directly across the street to where Philo and Ella stood in the doorway.

  Philo stiffened.

  “She can’t see through the veil,” hissed Ella. “And she don’t know me!”

  Katie, in the window, grinned and beckoned them.

  She called to them, but her voice couldn’t be heard over the noise of a water cart just then passing on Christopher Street between them.

  But Philo knew what she said. Katie’s mouth formed the words “Come up, Cousin! Come up!”

  PART VIII

  CHRISTOPHER STREET

  Chapter 36

  THE SLAPES CONFER

  The two women in the recessed doorway across from No. 251 Christopher Street would not come up, though Katie beckoned to them. They would not be charmed by her smile.

  Katie watched them scramble furtively away toward Seventh Avenue, and then she called her stepmother. Hannah was in the kitchen, narrowly watching the servants. She wasn’t a hard mistress in that she didn’t require much in the way of thorough cleaning or culinary skills, but she was suspicious and inquiring. She had accused the two girls of listening at doors, and was impatiently attending to their defenses.

  “What’s wanted?” said John Slape, who had heard Katie’s call from upstairs.

  “Par! That girl’s back!”

  “What girl?” he asked, not unexpectedly imagining that Katie spoke of one of her customers who had not been murdered and buried in the cellar of the adjoining house.

  “The old man’s granddaughter, Par!”

  John and Hannah came together in the doorway of Katie’s parlor. John was perplexed.

  “In Goshen?” cried Hannah in astonishment. “The hired girl?”

  “I saw her on Christopher Street,” said Katie. “She was looking up at our windows.”

  “When?” demanded Hannah.

  “Now – just now.”

  John was still gathering his memory, but he asked helpfully, “Should I go after her?” He felt in his pockets for a knife.

  “Katie’s wrong,” said Hannah. “Couldn’t be here.”

  “What was her name?” asked John.

  “Don’t recall,” said Katie.

  “Drax,” replied Hannah. “Someone Drax.”

  “Katie, you certain you seen her?” asked her father.

  Hannah and John protested not because they disbelieved Katie – who in such matters was never wrong – but rather because they wished Philo Drax at the end of the earth: in a jail in Cape May, in a California mining camp, in Cochin. There having been no reason to think of Philomela Drax, they had nearly excised her image from their minds altogether.

  “What’s she want?” said John.

  Katie shrugged, then replied, “She wants the old man’s money.”

  “No!” said John.

  “The money’s ours,” said Hannah.

  “That’s what she wants,” said Katie. “It’s a sober fact.”

  One of the servants appeared on the landing below. Hannah turned toward her with a growl: “If you heard a word, I’ll slice off your ears and serve ’em up for supper!”

  The servant retreated hastily.

  “She can’t have it,” said John, seating himself at Katie’s table and peering out the window into the street. “Is she there still?” he asked his daughter. “I don’t rightly recall her form.”

  “Where does she stay?” asked Hannah.

  “Don’t know,” said Katie. “Had on a dress that was too big for her. Had on a hat with a thick veil. Didn’t want me to see her. I saw her. Don’t know where she lives though. I wish I’d been on the street. I’d have reached out and touched her arm.” Katie pantomimed this action, with Hannah representing Philo. She brushed her fingers over the sleeve of Hannah’s dress. “I’d touch her arm, and then she’d never get away from us.”

  “Have the girl fetch tea,” said John to his wife. He sat stupor­ously at Katie’s table. Thinking and planning came hard to his occluded consciousness.

  Hannah called up the servant girl, who had been cowering in one of the unoccupied rooms on the floor below. She was sent below for tea, and the kitchen girl was to go out for the parti­cular cookies the Slapes most enjoyed.

  Hannah and Katie seated themselves round the table. The morning sun was bright through the window. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock.

  “When she comes here,” said John slowly, “Katie’ll hit her and then we’ll put her in the cellar.”

  “She won’t come here,” snapped Hannah.

  “Why not?” asked John. “She was looking in the window, Katie said.”

  “She knows I killed the old man, and her mother too,” said Katie. “She won’t come in here. She knows what would happen to her.”

  “Katie’ll find her,” said John, amending his plan. “She’ll find her, and I’ll drive something through her brain.”

  “What if she sends the police first?” said Hannah.

  John looked up in surprise. “Why should she send the police?”

  “She wants the money,” said Katie. “She’ll send the police to get the money.”

  “The police can’t walk in and take our money!”

  “What if they go up to the top of the house – find the hole in the wall?” said Hannah. “What if they go downstairs – look in the cellar? See your spade and the turned earth? Take our money and take us too!”

  This was a distinctly troublesome thought to John. “When they turn, I’ll beat them over the head with the spade,” he said slyly.

  “No, Par!” cried Katie. “There’s so many police!”

  “What do we do then?” he asked simply.

  The tea was brought, and downstairs they heard the door slam – the kitchen girl was returning with the cookies.

  The tea was poured, the cookies brought up, the servant girls banished to the kitchen with strict instructions to close the door and plug their ears, and still the question was unanswered: ??
?What do we do then?”

  “What if she went off directly to get the police?” asked Hannah in a flurry of alarm.

  John peered out the window. “Don’t see none.”

  “No police,” said Katie, craning her neck.

  “Could be around the corner, waiting,” said Hannah.

  “Waiting for what?” said John.

  “We have to leave New York,” said Katie.

  John looked up with severe disappointment. The night before the Slapes had laughed themselves sick over the crushed baby scene in George Fox’s Humpty Dumpty.

  “There’s no theaters in Goshen,” he said.

  “We couldn’t go back to Goshen anyway,” said Hannah. “Not with the old man killed like he was.”

  “She did it!” cried John, referring not to his daughter but to Philo. “I’m not going noplace where there’s not theaters.”

  “She brings the police,” said Hannah, “you’re arrested and put in jail. Won’t never see a theater.”

  “They’ll hang you, Par.”

  “Hang me? Why?”

  “Because of the girls in the cellar.”

  “You killed ’em, Katie!”

  Katie shrugged. “They’ll hang the three of us.”

  “Is that right?” asked John of his wife.

  Hannah nodded.

  John swallowed off the rest of his tea quickly and poured more. He wasn’t a drunkard, because Hannah had told him to avoid drink – and John Slape wasn’t the man to question his wife’s directives.

  “Leave town for a while,” said Hannah. “Go where we’re not known.”

  “Let’s go to Philadelphia,” said John. “There’s theaters in Philadelphia.”

  “Too close to Camden,” said Hannah. “I’m known in Camden.”

  “Par and I ain’t known in Camden.”

  “Split up?” said Hannah musingly. “Maybe so. I could go to Boston.”

  “Does Boston have theaters?” asked John. “Don’t want to split up.”