Miss Maitland, Private Secretary

He had seen it a few days before, was certain he had, shook up the contents, then overturned the box, strewing the studs and pins on the bureau. But it was fruitless – the band, crushed and flattened as he remembered it, was gone. He muttered an angry phrase, its loss came as a jar on the exaltation of his mood. Then a soft step on the staircase caught his ear, and looking up he saw Willitts' head rise into view. The man came down the passage and spoke with his customary quiet deference:

"I saw the car outside, sir, and knew you'd come back. Would you like dinner – the cook says she can have it ready in a minute?"

"No," Ferguson's voice was short, "I dined in town. Look here, I've lost something – " he pointed to the scattered jewelry – "I had a cigar band in that box and it's gone. Did you see it?"

Willitts looked at the box and shook his head:

"No, sir. A cigar band, a thing made of paper?" There was the faintest suggestion of surprise in his voice.

"Yes, you must have seen it. It was there a few days ago, underneath all that truck – I saw it myself."

The man again shook his head and, moving to the bureau, began to shift the toilet articles and look among them.

"I'm afraid I didn't see it, sir, or if I did I didn't notice. Maybe it's got strayed away somewhere."

He continued his search, Ferguson watching him with moody irritation:

"What the devil could have happened to it? I put it in there myself, put it in that particular place for safekeeping."

Willitts, feeling about the bureau with careful fingers, said:

"Was it of any value, sir?"

"Yes," Ferguson having little hope of finding it turned away and threw himself into a chair, "it was of great value. I wouldn't have lost it for anything. It was evidence – " he stopped, growling a smothered "Damn." He had said enough; he didn't want the servants chattering.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but it doesn't seem to be here. Perhaps the chambermaid threw it away, thinking it had got in the box by mistake."

"I daresay – it sounds likely. I wish the people in this house would let my room alone, control their mad desire for neatness and leave things where I put them. Have the car taken to the garage, I'm not coming down again. If any one calls up I'm out. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said Willitts, and softly withdrew.

CHAPTER XXIII – MOLLY'S STORY

After that Monday night when he went off in a rage, Ferguson didn't show up at Grasslands for several days and I had the place to myself and all the time I wanted. Believe me, I wanted a lot and made use of it. While the others were concentrating on the kidnaping – the big thing that had absorbed all their interest – I went back to the job I was engaged for, the robbery. And I went back with a fresh eye, the old idea cleared out of my head by Mrs. Price's confession.

She'd explained the light, the light by the safe at one-thirty. With that out of the way, I could get busy on the cigar band. I was just aching to do it, for, as I'd told Ferguson, it was an A1 starting point. Given that, there's nothing more exciting in the world than tracking up from it, following different leads, seeing if they'll dovetail, putting bits together like a picture puzzle.

So I started in and for two days collected data, ferreted into the movements of every person on the place, gossiped round in the village, picked up a bit here and a scrap there, and made notes at night in my room. I broke down Dixon's dignity and had a long talk with him; I got Ellen to show me how to knit a sweater and before I'd learnt had her inside out. I spent two hours and broke my best scissors spoiling the lock of the bookcase in my room and had Isaac up to try keys on it. When I was done I knew the movements of everybody in the house on the night of July seventh as if I'd personally conducted each one through that important and exciting evening.

It wasn't love of the work alone, or the feeling that I ought to earn my salary, that pushed me on. There was something else – I wanted to clear Esther Maitland. I wanted it bad. I kept thinking of her eyes looking at me when I gave her the drink of water and it made me sort of sick. In my thoughts I kept telling my husband about it, and I always tried to make out I'd acted very smart and some way or other I knew he wouldn't think so. It wasn't that I felt guilty – I'd done nothing but what I was hired for – but there's a meanness about beating a person down, there's a meanness about staring into their white, twisted face and saying, "Ha – Ha – you're cornered and I did it!" You have to be awfully good yourself to do that sort of thing.

Thursday morning I'd got all I could and with my notes and my fountain pen I went out on the side piazza by Miss Maitland's study; there was a table there and it was quiet and secluded. So I fixed everything convenient and set to work. Taking the cigar band as the central point I built up from it something like this:

It had been dropped by a man – so few women smoke cigars you could put that down as certain. It had been dropped between half-past eight when the storm stopped and half-past ten when Miss Maitland found it. The man could not be Mr. Janney who had driven both ways, nor Dixon or Isaac who had walked to the village by the road and come back the same route. It couldn't have been Otto the chauffeur as he had stayed at Ferguson's garage visiting there with Ferguson's men. The head gardener had gone to the movies with the other Grasslands servants, and the under gardeners had been in their own homes in the village as I had taken pains to find out. Therefore it was no man living on the place at that time.

But that it was some one who was familiar with the house and its interior workings was proved by two facts: – that the dogs, heard to start barking, had suddenly quieted down, and that a rose from Miss Maitland's dress had been found inside the safe.

An expert burglar could have got round all the rest, had a key to the front door, worked out the combination – the house was virtually empty for over two hours – it was known that the family and servants were out. But the most expert burglar in the world couldn't have controlled those dogs – Mrs. Price's Airdale was as savage to strangers as a wolf and had a bark on it like a steam calliope.

The rose figured as a proof this way: It had been put inside the safe to throw suspicion on Miss Maitland, the thief was aware that she knew the combination. This would argue that he was acquainted with the habits of the household. All social secretaries are not given the leeway Miss Maitland was; all social secretaries aren't given the combination of a safe where two hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels are kept. The man knew she had it, and tried to fix the guilt on her. Where his plan slipped up was Mrs. Price coming later, finding the rose, salting it down in a piece of tissue paper, and, for some reason of her own, not saying a word about it.

How did he get the rose? As far as I could see there was just one way. Esther Maitland had spent part of the afternoon of July the seventh altering her evening dress. Ellen had pinned it up on her and she'd taken the waist down to her study to sew on as her room was too hot. When she'd gone upstairs again – it was Ellen who gave me all this – she'd left part of the trimming on the desk. The next morning the parlor maid had given it to Ellen – all cut and picked apart, some of the roses loose in a cardboard box – to put in Miss Maitland's room. It had lain on the desk all night and, in my opinion, the thief had either known it was there or found it, taken the rose, and made his "plant" with it.

Now one man who would be familiar to the dogs and might know Miss Maitland's privileges and habits, was Chapman Price. But it wasn't he, for at nine-thirty, the hour when the thief was busy, Mr. Price was crossing the Queensborough bridge, headed for New York. And anyway, if he hadn't been, you couldn't suspect him of trying to lay the blame on the girl who was his partner. No – Chapman Price was wiped off the map with all the rest of the Grasslands crowd.

When I'd got this far I sat biting my pen handle and sizing it up. A thief, professional, had taken the jewels. He was some one unknown, having no connection with Mr. Price or Miss Maitland. The two crimes that had nearly shaken the Janney family off its throne had been committed by different parties. I was as sure of that as that the sun would rise to-morrow.

After dinner that evening I went out on the balcony and sat there, turning it all over in my head, and looking at the woods, black-edged and solid against the night sky. It was very still, not a breath, and presently, off across the garden, I heard the gravel crunch under a foot, a soft padding on the grass, and then a long, lean figure came into the brightness that shot out across the drive from the hall behind me – Ferguson.

He dropped down on the top step, settled his back against one of the roof posts, and took out a cigarette case. He was right where the light shone on him, and I could see he had a serious, glum look which made me think he still "had a mad on me" as they say on the east side. That didn't trouble me; people getting mad when they've a reason to never does, and he'd reason enough, poor dear.

Puffing out a long shoot of smoke, he said:

"I've come over to speak to you about that idea of mine – that cigar band I told you about."

"Oh," I answered, "you've got round to that, have you?"

"I have, or perhaps you might say half way around."

"Well, I'm the whole way. I've spent three days getting there."

"I thought you'd beat me to it. What have you arrived at?"

"The certainty that the man who dropped the band was the thief."

"We're agreed at last. Have you gone far enough round to come to a suspect?"

"No, I'm stuck there."

He blew out a ring, watched it float away into the darkness and said:

"So am I. But I've a small, single compartment brain that can't accommodate more than one idea at a time. And it's busy just now in another direction. If you'll put that forty horse-power one of yours on this we ought to get round the whole way." He glanced sideways at me, his eyes full of meaning. "You'll find I can be a very grateful person."

"Gratitude's a kind of pay I like."

"Yes – it's stimulating and it can take more than one form." He flung away the cigarette, leaned back against the post and said: "The worst of it is that our main exhibit, the cigar band, is gone. I looked for it last night and found it was lost."

"Lost!" I sat up quick. He'd told me where he kept it and right off I thought it was funny. "Gone out of that box you had it in?"

"Yes. I wanted to see it when I came in – I'd been in town – and it wasn't in the box."

"Had it been there recently?"

"Um – I can't tell just how recently – perhaps a week ago."

"Did you ask about it?"

"Yes, I asked Willitts. He said he hadn't seen it."

"Didn't you tell me you kept studs and jewelry in that box?"

"I did; that's what it's for. I don't see how he could have helped seeing it. I daresay he did and, thinking it was of no use, threw it away and then, when he saw I wanted it, got scared and lied."

A thing like a zigzag of lightning went through me. It stabbed down from my head to my feet, giving my heart a whack as it passed. My voice sounded queer as I spoke:

"He could have known, couldn't he, of that walk you and Miss Maitland took, that walk when you found the band?"

He had been looking, dreamy and indifferent, out into the darkness. Now he turned to me, a little surprised, as if he was wondering at my questions:

"I suppose so. He knew all my crowd up there; they're forever running back and forth from one place to the other. They know everything, and they're the greatest gossips and snobs in the country. I've no doubt he heard it talked threadbare – the boss walking home with Mrs. Janney's secretary. Probably gave their social sensibilities a jolt."

Something lifted me out of my chair, carried me across the balcony, plunked me down beside him on a lower step. I craned up my head near to his and I'll never forget the expression of his face, sort of blank, as if he wasn't sure whether I'd gone crazy or was going to kiss him.

"Some one who knew the family, some one who knew it was out that night, some one who knew Miss Maitland had the combination, some one who could have got a key to the front door, some one the dogs were friendly with!"

He was staring at me as if he was hypnotized – getting a gleam of it but not the full light. I put my hands on his shoulders and gave them a shake.

"You simp, wake up. It's Willitts!"

CHAPTER XXIV – CARDS ON THE TABLE

In spite of Molly's excited certainty that Willitts was the thief, Ferguson was not convinced. He met her impetuous demand for the valet's arrest with a recommendation for a fuller knowledge of his activities on the night of the robbery. Willitts had gone to the movies with the Grasslands servants and if he had been with them the whole evening he was as innocent as Dixon or Isaac. She had to agree and promised to do nothing until she had satisfied herself that his movements tallied with their findings.

Ferguson had a restless night. There was matter on his mind to keep him awake; he was fearful that Suzanne might make some false step. She was at best a shifty, unstable creature, how much more so now strained to the breaking point. He felt he ought to be in town where he could keep her under his eye, and decided to motor in in the morning. Also he began to think that Molly was probably right; she was shrewd and experienced, knew more of such matters than he. He would go to the Whitney office and put the Willitts' affair in their hands, then run up to the St. Boniface, take a room, and have a look in at Suzanne.

He left the house at nine-thirty, telling the butler he was called to the city on business, and might be gone a day or two. At the Whitney office he was informed that Mr. and Mrs. Janney were in consultation with the heads of the firm, and, saying he would not disturb them, waited in an outer room from whence he telephoned to Suzanne, telling her he would be at the hotel later. When the Janneys had gone he was ushered into the old man's office where he found the air still vibrating with the clash of battle. A combined attack had been made on Mrs. Janney who, under its pressure and the slow undermining of her confidence by a week of failure, had given in and consented to a move on Price. It had been planned for that afternoon, when he was to be summoned to the office, charged with the kidnaping and commanded to render up the child.

Whitney and his son listened to Ferguson's story of the cigar band with unconcealed interest. George, however, was skeptical – it was ingenious and plausible, showed Molly's fine Italian hand; but his mind had accepted the theory of Esther's participation and was of the unelastic, unmalleable kind. His father was obviously impressed by it, admitting that his original conviction of the girl's guilt had been shaken. To George's indignant rehearsal of the evidence, he accorded a series of acquiescing nods, agreed that the facts were against him and maintained his stand. He would see Willitts as soon as possible and put him through a grilling examination. O'Malley could be sent to Council Oaks at once to bring him in, and his business could be disposed of before they got round to Price. As Ferguson rose to go George had the receiver of the desk telephone down and was giving low-voiced instructions to O'Malley to report immediately at the office.

It was nearly one when the young man found himself on the street level. There was no use going to the St. Boniface now as the family would be at lunch and speech alone with Suzanne impossible. On the way uptown he stopped at a restaurant, ordered food which he hardly touched, filling out the time with cigarettes. By half-past two he was on the move again, threading a slow way through the traffic, his eye lingering on the clock faces that loomed at intervals along the Avenue. Suzanne had told him that the old people always went for a drive after lunch and he scanned the motors that passed him, hoping to see them. He was in no mood for polite conversation – felt with the passing of the hours an increasing tension, a gathering of his forces for a leap and a struggle.

At the desk in the St. Boniface he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Janney had just gone out, and waited while Mrs. Price's room was called up. There was no response; Mrs. Price must be out too. The information made him uneasy; she had told him she went nowhere except to Larkin's. More than ever anxious to see her, he engaged a room and left the message that he would be there and to be called up when she came in. The door shut on him, his uneasiness increased; wondering what had taken her out, wondering if she had done anything foolish, cursing the fate that had placed so much in her feeble hands, perturbed and restless as a lion in a cage.

Suzanne had gone to Larkin's, called there by a telephone message. It had come almost on the heels of her parents' departure and was brief – a request to come to him as soon as she could. She had scrambled into her street clothes, and, shaking in every limb, slipped out of the hotel's side door and sped across town in a taxi to hear how Bébita was to be found.

She was hardly inside the door, her veil lifted from a face as pale as Cæsar's ghost, when Larkin answered her look of agonized question:

"Yes, the letter's come – what we expect, very clear and explicit. It was sent to me this time – came on the two o'clock delivery."

He turned to the desk and took up a folded paper. Before he could offer it to her, she had leaned forward and snatched it out of his hand. Instantly her eyes were riveted on the lines:

"Mr. Horace Larkin,

"Dear Sir:

"In answer to the ad. in the Daily Record, we are dealing through you as the agent named by Mrs. Price. We do this as we realize that a lady of Mrs. Price's type and experience would be unable to handle alone so important a matter. Before we enter into details we must again repeat our warnings – not only the return of the child but her life is dependent on the actions of her mother and yourself. If you are wise to this and follow our instructions Bébita will be restored to her family on Saturday night.

"The plan of procedure must be as follows: At eight-thirty a roadster, containing only the driver and marked by a handkerchief fastened to the windshield, must leave the village of North Cresson by the Cresson turnpike, at a rate of speed not exceeding fifteen miles an hour. It must proceed eastward along the pike for a distance of ten miles. Somewhere during this run a car will pass it and from its tonneau flash an electric lantern twice. Follow this car. Make no attempt to hail or to overtake it. It will turn from the main road and proceed for some distance. When it stops the driver of the roadster must alight, place the money at a spot indicated, and submit, without parley, to being bound and gagged. When this is done the child will be left beside him. If agreed to insert following personal in The Daily Record of Saturday morning: 'James, meet you at the time and place specified. Tom.'

"(Signed) Clansmen."

The letter fluttered to the desk and Suzanne sank into a chair. Larkin looked at her; his glance showed some anxiety but his voice was hearty and encouraging:

"Well, you agree, of course?"

She nodded, swallowing on a throat too dry for speech.

He picked up the letter and ran a frowning eye over it:

"It simply confirms what I thought – old hands. It's about as secure as such a thing could be. I don't see a loose end."

She made no answer and he went on still studying the paper:

"I'm not familiar with this country, but they wouldn't have picked it out unless it offered every chance of escape."

"Escape!" she breathed. "They've got to escape."

It made him smile, the eye he turned on her showed a quizzical amusement:

"You're almost talking like an accomplice, Mrs. Price." But he quickly grew grave as he met her tragic glance. "Pardon me, I shouldn't have said that, but the fact is, with the climax in sight, I'm a bit on edge myself." Then with a brusque change of tone, "Do you know this section of Long Island?"

"Yes, well – I've driven over it often."

"Am I right in thinking there are numbers of roads leading from the Cresson Turnpike?"

"Lots of them, to the Sound and inland."

"Umph!" he threw the letter on the desk and sat down, "I don't think you need worry about their getting away. Now we must settle this up and then I'll go out and have the ad inserted. We've got to hustle – they've only given us a little over twenty-four hours."

She looked dazedly at him and murmured:

"What have we got to do?"

"Why – " he was very gentle as to a stupid and bewildered child – "we have to arrange about this car – our car, the one that gets the signal."

"We can hire it, can't we?"

"Well, we could hire the car, but the driver – we can't very well hire him. He must be some one upon whom we can rely."

She stared at him, her eyes dilating:

"Yes, yes, of course. I'd forgotten that."

"Is there any one you can suggest – any one that you know you could trust and who would be willing to undertake it?"

"Yes," the word came with a sudden decision. "I know some one." Larkin eyed her sharply. She looked more alive than she had done since her entrance, seemed to be vitalized into a roused, responsive intelligence. "I know exactly the person."

"Entirely trustworthy?"

"Absolutely. Mr. Ferguson – Dick Ferguson."

"Oh, yes, Ferguson of Council Oaks." He mused a moment under her hungry scrutiny. "Do you think he'd be willing to – er – agree to their demands as you have?"

"Yes, he'd do it to help me. He's an old friend; I know him through and through. He'd do it if I asked him."

The detective was silent for a moment, then said:

"Well, we have to have some one and if you're willing to vouch for him I'll abide by what you say. Before you came in I was thinking of offering to do it myself. But there are reasons against that. I don't mind helping you this way – quietly, on the side – but to be an actual participant in the final deal, handle the money, be more or less responsible for the person of the child – I'd rather not – I'd better not. And anyway I think I can be more useful as an observer, an unsuspected spectator who may see something worth while."

She gave a stifled scream and caught at his hand, resting on the edge of the desk:

"No, no, Mr. Larkin, please, I beg of you. You're not going to try and catch them."

Her fingers gripped like talons; he laid his free hand over them, soothingly patting them:

"Now, now, Mrs. Price, please have confidence in me. Am I likely, at this stage of the game, to do anything to queer it?"

She did not reply, her eyes shifting from his, her teeth set tight on her quivering underlip. He waited a moment and then spoke with a new note, dominating, authoritative, as one in command:

"My dear lady, you've got to get hold of yourself. I can't go on with this if you don't trust me. We're launched on an enterprise by no means easy and if we don't pull together we'll fail, that's all."

That steadied her. She dropped his hand and broke into tremulous protestations:

"I do, I do, Mr. Larkin. It's only that I'm so terribly afraid, so upset and desperate. Of course I trust you. Would I be here, day after day, if I didn't?"

He was mollified, dropped back with the crisp, alert manner of the detective.

"All right, we'll let it go at that. Now as to Ferguson – you'll have to get word to him at once. Is he in the country?"

"No – he's here. I had a telephone from him this morning to say he was in town and would be at the hotel later in the day. He's probably there now, waiting for me."

"Um!" Larkin considered for a moment. "That's lucky. There's no time to waste. Get his consent and then 'phone me here. Just a word. And you understand he'll have to know the circumstances; he'll have to be wise to everything if he's to play his part."

Suzanne had lied so long and so variously that she did it with a natural ease. No one, having seen her as Larkin had, would have guessed the knowledge she hid. Her air of innocently comprehending his charge was a triumph of duplicity.