Find the Woman

by Arthur Somers Roche

  V

  Clancy woke clear-brained. She knew exactly what she was to do. Lastnight, after eating dinner in her room, she had tried to get Zenda onthe telephone. Not finding his number in the book, she had endeavored toobtain it from "Information," only to learn that "it is a private wire,and we can't tell it to you." So, disappointed, she went to bed.

  Her resolution had not changed over-night. She'd made a little idiot ofherself in running away from the Zenda apartment night before last. Butnow that she found herself involved in a mass of nasty intrigue, shewould do the sensible thing, tell the truth, and let the consequences bewhat they might.

  Consequences? She mustn't be absurd. Innocently she had become entangledin something, but a few words would straighten the matter out. Ofcourse, she would incur the enmity of Ike Weber, but what difference didthat make? And Morris Beiner--she hoped, with a pardonable viciousness,that his head would ache for a week. The nasty beast!

  In the tub, she scrubbed herself harshly, as though to remove fromherself any possible lingering taint of contact with Beiner. A littlelater, she descended to the Napoli dining-room and ordered breakfast. Itwas as substantial as yesterday's. Exciting though yesterday had been,Clancy had not yet reached the age where we pay for yesterday'sdeviation from the normal with to-day's lack of appetite.

  As at her previous breakfast, she had the dining-room to herself. MadameNapoli waddled beamingly over to her and offered her a morning paper.Clancy thanked her and put it aside until she should have finished heromelet. But, finally, the keen edge of her appetite blunted, she pickedup the paper. It was a sheet devoted to matters theatrical, so that thearticle which struck her eye was accorded greater space in thisnewspaper than in any other in the city.

  For a moment, Clancy's eyes were blurred as the import of the words of ahead-line sunk into her understanding. It was impossible for her to holdthe paper steadily enough to read. She gulped her second cup of coffee,put a bill on the table, and, without waiting for her change, left theroom. Madame Napoli uttered some pleasant word, and Clancy managed tostammer something in reply.

  Up in her room, she locked the door and lay down upon the bed. Fiveminutes, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she stayed there. Then shesat up and looked at the paper. She read:

  THEATRICAL MAN FOUND SLAIN

  MORRIS BEINER STABBED TO DEATH IN OWN OFFICE

  Morris Beiner, an old-time manager, more recently a theatrical agent, was killed in his office some time yesterday afternoon under mysterious circumstances. He was stabbed with a paper-knife, one that has been identified as belonging to the dead man.

  The discovery was made by Lemuel Burkan, the watchman of the Heberworth Building, in which Beiner had his office. According to Burkan's statement, he has been in the habit of answering telephone calls for many of the tenants during their temporary absences. Last evening, at six-thirty, while making his first night-round of the building, Burkan heard the telephone ringing in Beiner's office. Although the light was on, the telephone was unanswered. Burkan unlocked the door to answer the call and take the message. He found Beiner lying upon the floor, the paper-knife driven into his chest.

  Burkan did not lose his head, but answered the call. Frank Hildebloom, of the Rosebush Film Company, was on the wire. On being informed of the tragedy by the watchman, Hildebloom immediately came over to the dead man's office. To the police, who were immediately summoned by Burkan, Hildebloom stated that Beiner had telephoned him in the morning, stating that he wished to make an engagement for a young actress to make a film-test. Hildebloom was telephoning because the engagement was overdue and he could wait no longer. An old friend of the murdered man, he was overcome by the tragedy.

  The police, investigating the murder, learned from the janitor of the adjoining building, the Bellwood, that he had seen a young woman emerge from a window on the fifth floor of the Heberworth Building at shortly before six o'clock yesterday. She had descended by the fire-escape to the fourth floor and climbed through a window there. The janitor, who is named Fred Garbey, said that, while the incident was unusual, he'd thought little of it. He gave a description of the young woman to the police, who express confidence in their ability to find her, and believe that she must be the same woman for whom Beiner had made the engagement with Hildebloom.

  None of the dead man's friends who could be reached last night could advance any reason for the killing. Beiner was apparently rather popular in the profession, having a wide acquaintance.

  There followed a brief _resume_ of the dead man's career, but Clancy didnot read it. She dropped the paper and again stared at the ceiling.

  _She_ was the woman who had fled by the fire-escape from Beiner'soffice, for whom the engagement had been made with Hildebloom! And thepolice were looking for her!

  Beiner had been murdered! She had not killed him, but--who had? Andwould the police believe her story? She'd heard of third degrees. Wouldthey believe her? Her whole story--if she admitted having been inBeiner's office, she must admit her method of egress. That descent bythe fire-escape would have to be explained. She would have to tell thepolice that Beiner had seized her, had held her. Having admitted thatmuch to the police, would they believe the rest of her story?

  She shook her head. Of course they wouldn't! Beiner had been killed withhis own paper-knife. The police would believe that she had picked it upand used it in self-defense.

  She became unnaturally calm. Of course, she was a girl; her story mightwin her acquittal, even though a jury were convinced that she was amurderess. She knew of dozens of cases that had filled the newspaperswherein women had been set free by sentimental juries.

  But the disgrace! The waiting in jail! Some one else had enteredBeiner's office, had, perhaps, found him still unconscious, and killedhim. But would that some one come forward and admit his or her guilt tofree Clancy Deane?

  She laughed harshly at the mere thought. Everything pointed to her,Clancy Deane, as the murderess. Why, even at this very moment, thepolice might be down-stairs, making inquiries of Madame Napoli abouther!

  She leaped from the bed. She stared out the window at the tall buildingsin Times Square. How harsh and forbidding they were! Yesterday they hadbeen different, had suggested romance, because in them were people who,like herself, had come to New York to conquer it.

  But to-day these stone walls suggested the stone walls of jails. Jails!She turned from the window, overwhelmed by the desire for instantflight. She must get away! In a veritable frenzy of fear, she began topack her valise.

  Midway in the packing, she paused. The physical labor of openingdrawers, of taking dresses from the closet, had helped to clear herbrain. And it was a straight-thinking brain, most of the time. It becamekeener now. She sat down on the floor and began to marshal the facts.

  Only one person in the world knew that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deanewere the same girl. That person was Fanchon DeLisle, and probably bythis time Fanchon DeLisle had forgotten the card of introduction.

  Morris Beiner had not mentioned to Hildebloom the name of Florine Ladue.Hildebloom could not tell the police to search for the bearer of thatname. Fay Marston knew who Florine Ladue was, but Fay Marston didn'tknow that Florine had been intending to call on Morris Beiner. Nor didMadame Napoli or her daughter. Zenda and the members of his party hadnever heard Florine's last name, and while the discovery of that card ofintroduction in Morris Beiner's office _might_ lead the police tosuspect that Florine Ladue had been the woman who descended thefire-escape, it couldn't be proved.

  Then she shook her head. If the police found that card ofintroduction--and, of course, they would--they'd look up Florine Ladue.The elevator-boy in the Heberworth Building would probably identify heras a woman who had ridden in his car yesterday afternoon at five.

  The first name would attract the attention of Zenda
and his friends. Heracquaintance with Fay Marston and her card-sharp husband would come out._She wasn't thinking clearly._ The affair at Zenda's was unimportantnow. The only important thing in the world was the murder of MorrisBeiner.

  She got back to her first fact--only Fanchon DeLisle could know thatFlorine Ladue and Clancy Deane were the same person. If, then, Fanchonhad forgotten that high-sounding name, had forgotten that she had givena card of introduction to Clancy-- What difference would it make ifFanchon had forgotten the incident of the card? The police would remindher of it, wouldn't they?

  She put her palms to her eyes and rocked back and forth. She couldn't_think_! For five minutes she sat thus, pressing against her eyes,slowly, out of the reek of fearsome thoughts that crowded upon herbrain, she resolved the salient one. Until Fanchon DeLisle told thepolice that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane were one and the samepersons, she was safe.

  It would take time to locate Fanchon. Meanwhile, Clancy was safe. Thatis, unless the police began to look up the hotels to find Florine Ladueright away, without waiting to communicate with Fanchon. She leaped toher feet. She'd decided, several minutes ago, that that was exactlywhat the police would do. Therefore, she must get out of the Napoli.

  Now, with definite action decided upon, Clancy could think straightly.She tilted her hat forward, so that it shielded her features, anddescended from her room to the street. Yesterday afternoon she hadnoticed a telegraph office on Forty-second Street. To it she went now.

  She wrote out a telegram: "Florine Ladue, Hotel Napoli, Forty-seventhStreet, New York. Come home at once. Mother is ill." She signed it,"Mary."

  The receiving clerk stared at her.

  "You could walk up there in five minutes and save money," he said.

  Clancy stared at him. The clerk lowered his eyes, and she walked out,feeling a bit triumphant, not at her poor victory over the clerk butbecause she had demonstrated to herself that she was mistress ofherself.

  Back in the Napoli, she packed her valise. She had almost finished whenPaul, the 'bus-boy porter, knocked at her door. He gave her the telegramwhich she had written a little while ago.

  Clancy, holding the door partly shut, so that he could not see herpreparations for departure, read the wire. She gasped.

  "Bad news, miss?" asked Paul.

  "Oh, terrible!" she cried. "My mother is ill--I must go home--get me ataxi--tell Madame Napoli to make up my bill----"

  The boy murmured something meant to be sympathetic, and disappeared downthe hall. Five minutes later, Madame Napoli came wheezing up thestairs. She refused to permit Clancy to pack. Clancy was a good girl toworry so about her mother. She must sit still and drink the coffee thatPaul was fetching. Madame Napoli would pack her bag. And _madame_ hadsent for a taxi.

  It was all very easy. Without arousing the slightest suspicion, Clancyleft the Napoli.

  She told the driver to take her to the Grand Central Station. There shechecked her valise. For she was not running back to Zenith. No, indeed!She'd come to New York to succeed, and she _would_ succeed. Truth mustprevail, and, sooner or later, the murderer of Morris Beiner would beapprehended. Then--Clancy would be free to go about the making of hercareer. But now, safety was her only thought. But safety in Zenith wasnot what she sought.

  In the waiting-room she purchased a newspaper. She found a list oflodging-houses advertised there. Inquiry at the information-desk helpedher to orientate herself. She wished to be settled some distance fromTimes Square. She learned that Washington Square was a couple of milesfrom the Napoli. Two miles seemed a long distance to Clancy.

  She reacquired her valise, got another taxi, and shortly had engaged aroom in the lodging-house of Mrs. Simon Gerand, on Washington SquareSouth. Mrs. Gerand was not at all like Madame Napoli, save in onerespect--she demanded her rent in advance. Clancy paid her. She notedthat she had only seven dollars left in her purse. So, in her room, shetook out her check-book and wrote her first check, payable to "self,"for twenty-five dollars. She'd take a 'bus, one of those that she couldsee from her tiny room on the square below, ride to Forty-secondStreet, cross to the Thespian Bank. No, she wouldn't; she might beseen. She'd ask Mrs. Gerand to cash her check.

  She sat suddenly down upon a shabby chair. She couldn't cash her check,for Florine Ladue could be traced through her bank-account as well asthrough any other way!

  She rose and walked to the window. It was a different view from thatwhich she had had at the Napoli. She might be in another country. Acrossthe park stood solid-looking mansions that even the untutored eyes ofClancy knew were inhabited by a different class of people than lived atMrs. Gerand's. The well-keptness of the houses reminded her of awell-dressed woman drawing aside her skirts as the wheel of a carriage,spattering mud, approached too closely. She did not know that anold-time aristocracy still held its ground on the north side ofWashington Square, against the encroachments of a colony of immigrantsfrom Italy, against the wave of a bohemia that, in recent years, hadbecome fashionable.

  Despite the chill of the winter day, scores of children of all agesplayed in the park. Some were shabby, tattered, children of the slumsthat lurked, though she did not yet know it, south of the square. Otherswere carefully dressed, guarded by uniformed nurses. These came from themansions opposite, from the fashionable apartments on lower FifthAvenue.

  Girls in tams, accompanied by youths, carelessly though not tooinexpensively dressed, sauntered across the park. They were bound forlittle coffee-houses, for strange little restaurants. They were of thatliterary and artistic and musical set which had found the neighborhoodcongenial for work and play.

  But, to Clancy, they were all just people. And people made laws, whichcreated policemen, who hunted girls who hadn't done anything.

  She had come to New York to achieve success. Here, within forty-eighthours after her arrival, she had not only roused the suspicions of oneof the biggest men in the profession which she had hoped to adopt butwas wanted by the police on the charge of murder, and had only sevendollars in the world. She stared at the greasy wall-paper of herill-kept room. Without friends, or money--in danger of arrest! And stillshe did not think of going to the police, of confessing to circumstancesthat really were innocent. She had not learned over-night. She was stillyoung. She still believed in the efficacy of flight. Queerly, shethought of the young man who had taken her home from the Zendas'apartment in the runabout. She remembered not merely his blue, kindlyeyes, and the cleft in his chin, and his bigness, but things about himthat she had not known, at the time, that she had noticed--his firmmouth, his thick brown hair. And he'd had the kindest-seeming face she'dever seen. The only really kind face she'd seen in New York. All therest---- Clancy wept.