CHAPTER X--THE OLD PARK LADY
Central Park, even with its horde of transitory inhabitants, looked morethan ever like home to Peter Pape this late afternoon. Feeling thenecessity of a private conclusion or two, he loped Polkadot into what hehoped would prove the less used path. His thoughts, like the pinto'shoof-beats, were of a rather violent, not to say exclamatory sort.
Three whole days since he had met her, and not once since had he seenher! Considering the emphasis with which he had interpolated himselfinto her acquaintance that opera evening, the length of the unbrokenafter-pause seemed incredible. Here was he, lonelier than before receiptof the advices of 'Donis Moore, in that now he knew what earlier he onlyhad suspected he was missing.
He felt as forlorn as looked a bent old woman who stood beneath thetrail-side shade, leaning against a tree. Out of date was hernondescript bonnet of the poke persuasion, rusty her black silk dress,ineffectual her attitude. Too primitive for the Society into which hehad cantered must be his Far-West methods, since rusted over were hishopes and resultless his to-day.
Sight of a sheep herd browsing over "The Green" sufficiently surprisedand pleased his pastoral eye as to brighten temporarily his mood. Hepolkaed Dot down to a walk.
A flock of Dorsets in the Great Garden of New York Town! More than ahundred horned heads he estimated them, not counting the wobbly-leggedlambs trailing the ewes. Although oil was Pape's bonanza, cattle was hisstock in trade, yet he felt none of the cowman's usual aversion for thewearers of fleece. He was, as a matter of fact, a "mixed" rancher, withsheep of his own on the Hellroaring reaches. He rejoiced that theseanimals, at least, could enjoy the company of their kind and graze totheir taste. Indeed, a more satisfactory pasture could not have beenfound for them, except for the fact that an over-used auto-road"unfenced" that side of it next the bridle path. The condition,precarious both for the sheep and the drivers of cars, hung heavily inhis consideration until he caught sight of the dog that was on guard.
"What d'you think of that, horse-alive?" he made demand of Polkadot. "Apolice hound instead of a collie--a Belgian, at that--close-herding thewoollies?"
When one of the fattest of the mutton-heads waddled into theauto-greased roadway in an ambitious expedition toward the grass-tuftedborder along the path, Pape pulled his painted pony to a stop andwatched with active interest.
"Quick, Kicko, round her up!"
The shouted command came from the flock-master, appearing at a runaround the far side of the band.
Unmistakable as the breed of the dog was the intelligence of his work.With warning, staccato yelps he dashed from among the more discreet ofhis charges, cut off the stray from her goal, snatched her by a mouthfulof wool out of the path of a speeding car, then nipped her into a returnrush to the safety of The Green.
"Great work, Kicko! Here, boy, I want to shake!"
Pape, enthusiastic over the best bit of herding he ever had seen doneunder adverse circumstances, rode toward the dog hero, swung out of thesaddle and met him more than halfway in the paw-shaking, ear-scratchingformalities that followed.
The master, a stout, middle-aged, uniformed expert, showed himself aspleased with the introduction as his canine assistant. He gave his nameas Tom Hoey of the Sheepfold, the gabled roof of which could be plainlyseen a short distance south and nearer the park wall. Willingly enoughhe contributed to the information fund of the easy-going stranger.
Yes, Kicko was a police dog, the gift of a returned army captain and theonly herder of his breed in captivity. The park collie, in activeservice for years, had been about ready for retirement at the time ofthe foreigner's arrival. A short chain attached to the swivel collars onthe necks of both had enabled the old Scot to teach the young Belgianthe trade of disciplining woolly quadrupeds instead of two-leggedhumans.
"I, for one, don't hope to meet a better policer in this world and Isure don't expect to in the next," the owner boasted. "He's got a wholerepertory of tricks that he's worked out for his own amusement, besidesknowing by heart all the dog A-B-C's, such as shaking hands, speakingand fetching things. One of the most useful things he does is going formy lunch noontimes. He brings it nice and hot in a tin pail from myhouse by the wall yonder. There's just one trouble about him,though--eh, old side Kick? If he meets up with one of the many friendshe's made, or even if he takes a special shine to somebody new--Kicko'sone fault is his sociability--he'll like as not present my meal to someone that ain't half as hungry or as entitled to it as I."
"We'll meet again."
So Pape assured the shepherd pair on continuing his ride. He wished thatall the folks he met were as friendly and as easy to understand as they.By comparison, for instance, each and every member of that dressed-upparty of Gothamites into whose midst he had insisted himself the othernight seemed doubly complex.
His attitude had been plain as day; theirs, both separately and as awhole, incomprehensible. And since that evening, the conduct of all hadbeen as misleading as his had been direct. This was the afternoon of thethird ineffectual after day. It was all right for handsome fellows likethe traffic cop to advise him to do something that would "make 'em takenotice." He had done it--done it so well that they had noticed himenough to decide not to notice him. To him the situation seemed to callfor some deed even more noticeable. Again, _what_? Leaving the pace tothe piebald, he brisked along in review.
At the enthusiastic hour of six _a.m._ that morning after sightingSociety, he had risen and rigged himself to do and dare on the high-seasof adventure. Any idea of adhering to the original "slow and steady"stipulation of his experiment not already quashed by first sight andsound of Miss Lauderdale must have been ruled out by sub-consciousnessduring his brief sleep. Slow and steady would have been proper enough inalmost any other conceivable case of discovering whether a woman was_the_ woman. But as applied to Jane, any method other than gun-firequick seemed somehow a reflection on her. An excellent rule, nodoubt--slow and steady. She, however, was super-excellent--an exceptionto any rule.
Realization that he was essaying rather an early start had struck him ashe steered a course through Mr. ----or Mrs. Astor's fleet of scrubladies, tugging at their brush anchors over the seas of Jersey-mademarble, evidently about ready to call it a night's voyage. He had lefthis berth without any call, as six _a.m._ long had been and doubtlesslong would remain his hour for setting sail into the whitecaps of eachnew day.
So transformed was The Way outside that he scarcely could recall itsnocturnal whiteness or gayety. Strict business ruled it. Luggage-ladentaxis sped toward or from the ports of early trains. Surface carsdemanded blatantly, if unnecessarily, the right o' way. Motor trucksgroaned hither and yon with their miseries of dripping ice, janglingmilk cans, bread, vegetables--what not. Only the pavements were empty atthat hour. Blocks and blocks of them stretched out, practicallyuncontested.
A moment he "lay-to" for an upward survey of the greeting he had boughtfrom himself to himself, which last evening had seemed the howdy-doo ofDestiny. It wasn't so conspicuous in daytime with the lights off,although the contractor had been clever about blocking in behind theincandescents so that the letters within the bouquet border still werelegible. Even had they not been, he shouldn't have felt disappointed. Toevery electric sign its night, as to every dog his day! Wasn't he nowthe gayest dog that ever believed in signs? And wasn't this to be hisday?
More often than not breakfast to Pape was a matter of bacon, coffee andbuckwheat cakes. Although the more expensive restaurants along The Waywere, like the lobby of his hotel, still in process of being scrubbedout, he soon found a chop-house ready to "stack" for him. At table heate rather abstractedly, his mind and most of his fingers engaged withthe sheaf of morning papers collected during his walk.
Yes, the curiosity of reportorial minds to the number of three had beensufficiently stirred by the mystery of the new sign to give it mention.One touched the subject only to drop it, frankly suspicious of some newadvertising insult. Another treated it in jocular vein, with thatgra
teful spur-of-the-moment wit which occasionally enlivens columnsthrown together under such stress of time. A third declared itsignorance of the whyfore of Why-Not Pape, but had no objection to his,her or its being welcomed to the city. The question was raised, however,of just what awful thing W. N. Pape could have committed in his past toneed the moral support of so rare and roseate a reassurance.
When the last drop of coffee had washed down the last scrap ofwheat-cake, the man from Montana further treated himself to a series ofchuckles. Was the joke on him or on the Big Town? Which or whether, itwas catching on. And there was one small assortment of A1 New Yorkerswho would enjoy the joke with him--who knew the kingdom, gender,case-number and several other etceteras of Why-Not Pape. That is, theywould enjoy it if not too suspicious of him. Just about how suspiciousthey were was the next thing he needed to know.
That supper party at the Sturgis house had run its courses smoothlyenough, at least on the surface. But their see-you-again-soons had ahaziness which he could not break through. It is true that Irene had metthe mention of his favorite pastime of horse-backing in the park with afar from hazy hint that they "co-ride." But that possibility he hadpreferred to leave vague. He had "pulled out" creditably, he hoped--withall the good-form he remembered having been taught or told about.
The evening's paramount issue had increased in importanceovernight--that matter of a safe robbed of unnamed loot. What could thestolen treasure be--of a size that could be hidden in a snuff-box, yetso valuable that its loss was tragedy?
Jane Lauderdale was a number of wonderful things. Was she wonderfullyunreasonable or more wonderfully distrustful of him? There was a chancethat overnight she had had one of those changes of mind said to be thepet prerogative of the fair. Just perhaps she now would be willing toaccept the service he had offered--service which he meant should be herswhether she wished it or not.
The next impending question regarded the hour at which young ladies gotup of a morning in this woman's town. This he put to the sleepy-eyedblond cashier of the restaurant.
"You trying to kid me, customer?" was her cautious reply. "If no, itdepends upon where said lady lives. Fifth Avenue in the Sixties? Ain'tyou flapping kinda high? I'd say anywheres from ten _A.M._ to twelvenoon. Why not jingle up her maid and ask? Oh, you're welcome and tospare. Keep the change."
Before entering the nearest cigar store to act on this suggestion, Paperemembered that last night the Sturgis' phone had been declareduseless--its wires cut. He called for the repair department of thecompany. The voice with a rather dubious "smile" at the other end of theline agreed to enquire just when the number would be restored toservice.
"Say, Useless," came the answer in a moment, "that line's in order.Hasn't been out. I just got an O. K. over it. You must have got wronginformation from one of our centrals. Excuse, please."
He would have "excused" with more pleasure if his simple question hadnot started a series of others more involved. How did a 'phone fallacyfit into the robbery plot? Why had the wheezy butler, Jasper, been sentafoot to the nearest police station if the wires had not been cut? DidJane know or did she not that the line was in order when she stopped himin his attempt to call Headquarters?
He decided not to "jingle her maid" at once but to await the hour firstsuggested by the "blond" cashier before asking answers. Jane Lauderdalelooked the kind of girl who would have arisen by ten _a.m._ At any rate,he would give her benefit of doubt. But no mental preparation during theinterim, as to what tack her temper might take, in any way prepared himfor that morning's second shock.
Jasper answered--there was no mistaking his voice. Pape followed theannouncement of his name with a comment over the speed with which thetelephone had been fixed, to which the born butler replied smoothly,impersonally, non-committally.
"Yes, Mr. Pape. The Telephone Company is exceedingly efficient, sir."
The request for speech with Miss Lauderdale was met with equalcompetence.
"The family is all out. They left early this morning for the country,sir, to seek a few days of peace and quiet."
"All of them?"
"Yes, Mr. Pape, all of them."
"What's their address?"
"They left no address. They never do, sir, when they go for peace andquiet. Good day, sir."
With which, actually, that sebacious, ostentatious, fallaciousimportation had hung up on him.
To Pape's daily inquiries since Jasper had replied with consistentpoliteness, if with consistent lack of information. The Westerner hatedhim for his very perfection in his part; was inclined to the belief thatAmerica was no place for an intelligence limited to being a butler.
What about his--Why-Not's--peace and quiet? Wasn't _he_ entitled to anysuch? Indignation had flung with him out of the booth that firstmorning; had matched his pace since; was riding with him to-day.
In the interval Pape had made efforts other than over the Sturgistelephone to locate geographically the rural resting-place mentioned alltoo vaguely by Jasper. His first visit to that mountainous districtknown to the Metropolitan Police as "below the dead-line" was not in thesquaring of certain overdue accounts of his own which had been the basicimpulse of his Eastern exile, but in the hope of locating the othermembers of that Zaza box-party.
In a cloud-piercer near the corner of William and Wall Streets he foundthe office suite occupied by ex-Judge Samuel Allen and associatedattorneys, evidently an affiliation of standing "at the bar"--a phrasewhich, since Volstead, is no longer misunderstood as meaning anythingbut "in the Law." He gained admittance into the reception room, but, sofar as achieving audience with the head of the firm, the legal lairproved more impregnable than the ranger-guarded Yellowstone to atusk-hunter.
The "line-fence" was ridden by thick-rouged, thin-bloused office girlswho doubtless had been instructed that all unexpected callers weresuspicious characters and to be treated accordingly. Once the judge wasin court, which court no one seemed to know. Pape left his name. On asecond visit he was allowed to "dig his spurs" into chair rungs most ofan afternoon under the hopeful glances of the "dolls," while awaitingthe end of an alleged conference, only to be told withnone-too-regretful apologies that Mr. Allen, having been called toattend the directors of the Hardened Steel Corporation, had departedwithout knowing that Mr. Pape awaited him. A third time----
But it is enough--was more than enough for him--that he never brokethrough the barrier of too-red lips with their too-patent, stock lies;never caught even a long-distance glimpse of the jurist of small personand large personality.
Failure to find the likeable Mills Harford came more quickly and saved adeal of time. "Harfy's" trail showed plainly in the City Directory andhis "ranch" proved to be another of those "places of business" whereeverything but business was attended, a real-estate office in one of theblock-square structures that surround the Grand Central Terminal. Mr.Harford had departed on a yachting trip around Long Island, Pape wastold--a statement which he had no cause to doubt.
Although Peter Pape had signaled Broadway in general with what he likedto call the "high sign," his desire for adventure had particularized. Hecould not be satisfied to go on to a next, with the first only begun. Hefinished what he started, unless for some reason stronger than his will.
More than by the beauty of Jane Lauderdale's face, he was haunted by itslook of fear. The little drama at the Sturgis house that night could nothave been staged for benefit of himself, whose presence there was purelyaccidental. Its unaccountable denouement had terrorized the aunt as wellas niece. Much more was unexplained than the nature of the stolentreasure and the cause of that false report anent the severed telephonewires.
To epitomize the present state of mind of Why-Not Pape, "making 'emnotice him" had boiled down into one concentrated demand that thehigh-strung girl whom he had self-selected and later approved byinstinct instead of rule--that Jane Lauderdale should notice hisreadiness to do or die in her service.
He had the will. Whither was the way?
Nights and days h
ad passed since he had pressed that thrilling kiss ofallegiance upon her finger-tips. Yet here was he strolling aimlesslydown The Way, after having stabled Polkadot for an equine feast _aufait_ and himself dined at a restaurant near Columbus Circle. The brightlights could have no allurement for him. Signs were dull indeed that onedidn't wish to follow.
The wish formed in his mind for some friend with whom to talk. Not thathe was given to confidence with men or cared to engage any feminine ear,save one. But he would have appreciated a word or look of simplesympathy--a moment of companionship that he knew to be genuine with----
He turned squarely about and started back the way he had come. The verysort of friend he needed!
Kicko would be off duty by now and likely as glad as he to improve theiracquaintance, so pleasantly begun. If Shepherd Tom was about they couldsmoke and talk sheep. There was a lot about woollies these B'way folkdidn't know--that, for instance, they could take care of themselves foreight months of the year and cost only seven cents a day for the otherfour. Yes, he and Tom Hoey could talk sheep at the city's Fold. He wouldseek that "peace and quiet" which he hoped Jane had found in thedeepening shade of the only part of Manhattan that at all resembled hisWest; was more likely to locate it there than along the avenue ofamperes and kilowatts.
His ambition seemed to be shared before announced. Scarcely had heturned into the roadway leading from Central Park West to the Sheepfoldwhen he met the police dog coming out. All that he had hoped for wasKicko's greeting. The more conveniently to vent his feelings, theastute, sharp-featured Belgian placed upon the ground the small tinbucket which he was carrying, evidently the lunch pail of his favorite"trick." Soon picking it up, however, he issued a straight-tailedinvitation to "come along." Pape realized that he had some definiteobjective--probably was taking supper instead of lunch to Shepherd Tom.He accepted.
Many a lead had the whys and why-nots of Peter Pape's nature forced himto follow, but never so interestedly had he followed the lead of a dog.And Kicko showed that he appreciated the confidence. He would dashahead; would stop and look back; would set down his precious pail, mosttimes merely to yap encouragement, twice to return to his new friend andurge him on by licking his hand.
When they left the beaten path for the natural park and approached ahummock marked by rocks and a group of poplars whose artistic settingPape had admired in passing earlier that afternoon, the police dog'sexcitement grew. Beside a dark mass, hunched-over close to the ground,Kicko dropped the bucket with a final yelp of accomplishment.
At once the dark mass straightened into human shape. Pape stopped andstared. Almost at once he recognized the poke-bonneted old lady withwhose forlorn appearance he had compared his own state. Then she hadstood leaning against a tree at the foot of the hill. Now she looked tohave been digging in the woodsy earth. A considerable mound of soil laybeside the hole over which she had crouched and she brandished a trowelagainst Kicko's exuberant importunities. Her back was toward Pape.
As he hesitated over whether to advance or face about, disliking both tostartle her and to be caught in what might seem the retreat of a spy, heoverheard what she was saying to the dog. He shivered from an oddsensation, not like either cold or heat, that passed up his spinalcolumn and into his neck.
"No, you don't, you wriggly wretch! I know perfectly well what you'vegot in that bucket of yours this time of day--nothing but the saved-upold bones that they don't want you to bury in the flower-beds about theSheepfold."
When Kicko, as if acknowledging himself caught, seized the handle of hispail and shook it toward her appealingly, she took off the lid andlaughed aloud at his ruse. In the regardless embrace which she threwaround his scraggy neck, she spilled what showed to be a collection ofmore or less aged bones.
"Just because you're so attractive, I'll _maybe_ let you have your way,"she informed him seriously as though addressing a human. "If I don'tfind what I'm after, you may bury your precious _debris_ as I scoop backthe dirt. But you'll have to wait until I-- Back, now! I tell you,you've got to wait until I'm sure this isn't the place where----"
Pape didn't stand still longer. Her voice--sweet, strong,familiar--lured him. He forgot his question to advance or retreat. Headvanced--and rapidly. By the time he reached her he had outstrode allhis consideration for her age and forlorn state. His hurry made himrough. He stooped over the lowered poke bonnet; unclasped the two armsfrom about Kicko's neck; literally, jerked the woman to her feet.
Well proportioned, for so old and ill-clad a lady, did she show to be asshe sprang back from him, surprised into height, straightness andlissome lines. The face within the scoop of the bonnet was pale frompassion--surprise, anger, fear--or perhaps all three. She was----
"Jane!" he exclaimed.
"_You_!" cried she.
He stared at her, his tongue too crowded with demands to speak any oneof them. He continued to stare as she fell back to her knees and, withher trowel, refilled the hole she had dug. Before he realized what shewas about, she had picked up a pile of wilted plants that lay nearby;had down-doubled her tallness, straightness and lissomeness into herformer old-lady lines; with a rapid, shuffling walk, had started downand around the hummock.
"Just a minute, Miss Lauderdale," he called. "I didn't mean to startleyou. Can't we have a word or two or three?"
She did not answer, did not turn--only hurried away from him the faster.He set out after her; recrossed the bridle path; entered the deepeningshadows toward the heart of the park.
Kicko, who had shown in his whines a spirit torn by regret to forsakeeither his bones or his friends, now caught up with Pape, brieflysniffed his hand, then trotted after the bent, dingy, scuttling figuremerging into the gloom beyond.
The dog's appeal she heeded, but with a well-aimed stone.
"Go back," she ordered him. "Don't you dare follow me. If you do--ifanybody follows me--I'll find a policeman and get you both arrested forannoying me."
Kicko, tail between legs, skulked back in the general direction of histreasure pile.
Pape, too, heeded to some extent her warning, evidently meant more forhim than the dog. But, although he slackened his pace, he did not turnor skulk. There were reasons a-plenty why he felt justified in pursuit.
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