by Helen Wells
Cherry clapped her hand over her mouth lest she laugh out loud. But this was no time to laugh—trapped in here. She listened soberly. She was almost sure now that she was going to hear something of use to Scott Owens.
“And the red wig?” Mercer asked derisively.
Carroll laughed. Joe said gruffly, “I told him not to do it. I told him red was too noticeable. I told him he didn’t need no wig at all.”
“Yes, I did need some disguise,” said Carroll. “I’m pretty well known. My eyes give me away. I had to choose a wig more striking than my eyes.”
Mr. Thatch tittered. “Why, you’ve always had a fancy to wear a red wig! This time you had an excuse. Gregory, you are a born actor!”
“All right, all right, the red wig was a stunt,” Mercer cut in. “But it still seems to me I’m the only one who did anything useful. Sitting down there in the bank vault sorting papers until this nurse came in, and then following her back to Owens’s house.”
Cherry gasped. So she had been watched for what she took out of the safety deposit box, and where she went with the blue envelope! She was so excited she seemed to suffocate.
Joe said, “I thought you said neither The Witch or Pride could worm out of them where that box was? Of course, I’ve just come in off the road, I’m not up to date on the Owens case.”
In a voice thick with gloating, Mamie Crawford said, “Kitty Owens told me that herself! Last week I just ‘happened’ to be in Des Moines when she was. She was all wrought up and when she ‘heard’ a good fortuneteller like me was in town, she came running to me as fast as her legs would carry her. For advice. She confided all her troubles to me—how the wicked, wicked Mr. Carroll was going to blackmail her poor, dear brother, and how papers proving her brother’s innocence were lying in their box at the Fourth City Bank right here in this city, and the nurse was going to get them.”
“So then,” said Mercer, and his voice sounded amused, “I rented a safety deposit box, too, at the Fourth City Bank and—”
“Exactly,” said Carroll impatiently. “But what’s our next move to be?”
Cherry could see him pacing up and down the room in thought. He came so near her she could have touched his trouser cuff. At this point, Cherry had an overwhelming impulse to sneeze. She clamped one finger over her upper lip and held back the sneeze. Oh, why had Miss Kitty talked—why hadn’t she—
“Just a minute,” Mercer said. “How much does Bixby know?”
“Bixby? The superintendent here? He knows nothing. I gave him a good, fat tip to ‘preserve our privacy,’ as the management calls it. Bixby has merely been doing his job.”
“Another thing I’d like to know,” Mercer said. “I still haven’t got head nor tail of this Owens story.”
“I can give you a complete report on it,” Mr. Thatch said.
Cherry trembled all over. Every word he spoke burned into her brain.
Twenty years ago Scott Owens was a young man, barely out of his teens. He was as hypersensitive, as impractical, as ignorant of money matters, then as now. He and his sister Kitty were alone, poor, and struggling to get Scott started on his musical career. Their name then was not Owens but Austin. Their only relative was an uncle, Matthew Austin, a driving, well-to-do businessman who had no use for artists “and such tom-foolishness.”
Occasionally and grudgingly, Matthew Austin gave the young brother and sister a little money to tide them over. He had often said to them, and had written to Kitty in letters, that while he heartily disapproved of Scott’s becoming a musician instead of a businessman, he would not let them starve.
“Then came an emergency,” said Mr. Thatch with satisfaction. “The budding pianist and his sister were down to their last few dollars. Scott had a chance, under particularly good auspices, to give his first recital, if only he could pay two hundred dollars toward the rental of a concert hall. It all had to be done in a hurry. Uncle Matthew had been promising them some funds.”
Mr. Thatch chuckled. “That promise was enough for excitable, impractical Scott. Without consulting the uncle or Kitty, he hastily wrote out a check and signed the uncle’s name to it. He thought that since it was family funds, already promised to him, and the same family name, that he had every right to do so. He then went ahead and gave the recital which was a great success.
“But Uncle Matthew was offended to the core,” Mr. Thatch gleefully went on. “Whether such a flighty, ignorant way of doing things offended his businessman’s sense of orderliness, or whether it nettled him to see Scott come off a musical success when he had always predicted failure, is hard to know. At any rate, Uncle Matthew asked a punishment far in excess of Scott’s blunder. He brought Scott to court on a charge of forgery, and had the artist—then about as old as that nurse of his—put in jail for two years.”
Cherry’s heart turned over. She waited tensely while Mr. Thatch ruffled through some papers. Then he went on:
“Kitty did all she could to free her brother. Only Uncle Matthew could help, by withdrawing his charge. Matthew refused to do that.”
“But Scott was no forger, no criminal,” Mercer interrupted, “only an impractical, unbusinesslike boy. Took his uncle’s promise of funds a little too literally.”
“But the law reads that Scott had committed forgery,” Mr. Thatch responded dryly. “He had to spend, and did spend, two years in prison.”
He continued with his report: Scott had emerged shamed, publicly disgraced, his health broken. Under Kitty’s courageous guidance, they took the name of Owens, their mother’s name, and moved to the other end of the country. Scott started his musical career all over again.
Uncle Matthew had died some years later, thoroughly ashamed of what he had done to an innocent boy. He had written Scott letters to this effect, absolving him of all blame—letters which Scott had never answered. But Kitty had kept the letters, and had kept the earlier ones from Uncle Matthew offering the funds which Scott accepted by the wrong method. These letters were the proof of Scott’s innocence, and they lay in the blue envelope which Joe had tried to steal.
“And you planned to—?” Mercer started to ask. The phone rang. Cherry nearly suffocated with anxiety while Carroll talked on the phone, and then Mr. Thatch resumed his report.
The blackmailers planned to drag out this old scandal via old newspaper accounts and old photographs of Scott. Ignoring Scott’s innocence, they would notify the world that the celebrated pianist was nothing but a forger and a jailbird. Scott’s only defense, and a weak one, was the letters from Uncle Matthew. Unless Scott paid off, the blackmailers were ready to ruin him utterly.
Again Cherry saw Carroll pacing up and down, thinking. He agitatedly swung his keys on a key ring around and around on his finger. His feet moved near Cherry. The keys dropped to the floor with a little clatter. Carroll bent to retrieve them. But he did not straighten up, for his eyes looked directly into Cherry’s.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said dryly. Cherry gasped. His luminous eyes were like blue ice. “Come on. Get up out of there.”
Cherry rose shakily to her feet. Carroll motioned to her to go stand in the middle of the room. All eyes were trained on her, like guns.
“How much have you heard?” Carroll demanded to know.
Mr. Thatch gave her a hostile glance. “She must have been here since before we came in. She’s heard everything. Haven’t you? Haven’t you!”
“Y-yes.” Cherry’s mind stopped, paralyzed with fear. What were they going to do with her? She could think of nothing to do, to say, in her helplessness. It was all she could manage to continue standing upright. These five cold unscrupulous people were capable of anything.
Joe said it. “Rub her out.”
“No,” said Carroll. He rubbed his upper lip, thinking. Mamie Crawford tossed her tarnished yellow head at Cherry, sniffed, and looked disdainfully away. Mercer smoked in silence.
“We can’t let her go,” Carroll said at length. “We’ll have to detain Miss Ames.” He sa
id her name sarcastically, very formally, like an insult. “Detaining Miss Ames may prove to be of help.” He added threats, clear and terrible.
Cherry was terrified. She knew too much. Her mind began to move again, faster now, and in earnest. “Detained” by a gang of cutthroats like these! But why? What did they want of her? They couldn’t afford to let her go—they knew she would inform the police. But aside from that, how would detaining her do them any good? What else did they want of her? In a burst of shrewd inspiration, she thought, “Appeal to their self-interest! Pretend to be on their side!”
Aloud she said, “I’m not so crazy about Owens as you think.”
This was received in disbelieving silence. Joe cleaned his fingernails. Carroll demanded, “Then why are you trying to help Owens?”
Cherry said stolidly, “He sent me. It’s my job. I’m stuck with him.”
“A likely story. Why don’t you leave the case?”
“And starve? He pays well.” She added softly, “He pays very well, Mr. Carroll.”
Carroll smiled grimly. “I see what you mean.”
Cherry waited. She was afraid she might say the wrong thing and spoil the little credence she had gained. Better to keep silent, let Carroll take the lead; she would follow his hints.
He asked suddenly, “You went to Owens’s safety deposit box. You have the key and, I suppose, a power of attorney. Have you still got them?”
“Yes. They’re in Owens’s house.”
Carroll thought again. Mamie Crawford said, “Don’t trust her.”
Carroll looked up at Mr. Thatch. “We need—proof. We’ve got to back up our charges—otherwise there’s no provable blackmail angle, only slander, unless we can get—”
“The change of name papers?” Cherry put in quickly. Her mind was racing. “They’re still in the vault.” It was a long shot, Cherry realized, but it might help to get her out of here. She had to do something!
Carroll swung around and glared at her. Then slowly relaxing against his chair, he addressed Thatch.
“We need those papers, Thatch, before we can act. If anything,” he mused, “they’re even more valuable to us than the letters. With those in my hand, I could pounce.”
“Then send this nurse for them,” Thatch suggested, “I know you don’t trust her but she knows everything, anyway. And I really must tell you again,” Mr. Thatch reasoned, “that I cannot locate the change of name papers by legal search. I don’t know the year Scott Owens changed his name nor in what state he did it. It would take me five years to trace it—when the change of name papers are undoubtedly right there in the vault—and this nurse has the key! Use your head, Gregory. We must not wait on this—Owens might die in the meantime and then where would we be?”
Carroll turned to Cherry, who was sick at their callousness. “Listen, Ames. I don’t trust you but I don’t have to. Because you’ll end up in the river if you play us dirty. Understand?” Cherry solemnly nodded. “But if you play it smart,” Carroll said more pleasantly, “there’s a nice chunk of cash in it for you.”
Cherry’s hopes leaped. They were going to afford her a means of escape! She might save herself and Scott yet!
“If—if you want proof,” Cherry said breathlessly, “I can tell you that—that the letters are in the wall safe at home—in a blue envelope—and that Owens’s deposit box is stuffed with papers. There’s a jewel box in there, too.” Just let them try and get it, she thought fiercely. Those things are safe. They could guess what’s in that box, anyway. Anything to make them believe I’m working with them.
“A jewel box?” Mercer was interested. “She talks sense.”
“All right.” Carroll had made his decision. “Now listen carefully, Ames. We’re holding you here until ten-thirty tonight. Oh, yes, Ames,” he hissed softly when he noticed her jump in alarm. “Until ten-thirty tonight. We’ll ‘escort’ you home then. Tomorrow morning at nine-thirty you be at the vault, understand? Get the change of name papers. Never mind the jewelry. Get the change of name papers. And don’t forget to bring the letters from the wall safe. Come directly here with them.”
Cherry protested that her patient was ill, had had an attack that morning, and needed her right away.
“I thought that all out, Ames. You step to the phone there and give instructions to the housekeeper. Tell her you’ve been unavoidably detained, but will be there about eleven tonight. And remember, Ames, no funny stuff.”
Cherry had no choice in the matter but to follow out Carroll’s directions.
At ten-thirty that night, Carroll gave Cherry a final warning before she was released. “Remember, be at the vault at nine-thirty a.m., Ames, and come directly here with the papers and the letters. And remember, also, we’re tapping Owens’s telephone wires. Don’t try any funny business. Joe here will be following you from this minute on. And just one more word of caution,” he added menacingly, “don’t let either the housekeeper or her husband step out of the house or they’ll get hurt. I don’t care how you manage that—that’s your problem—but remember, it will be healthier for them to stay indoors tonight and tomorrow morning.”
Cherry gulped and nodded her head in agreement.
Then Carroll opened the door and let her out. Joe followed her.
It was ludicrous to think that only a short time ago she had had hopes. Now she was completely trapped. Joe’s footsteps sounded behind her.
CHAPTER XIII
Trapped!
TO KNOW EVERY DETAIL OF THE BLACKMAILERS’ schemes—and to be unable to lift a finger against them—To be forced, not merely to stand helplessly by, but to help them strike at Scott Owens—This to Cherry was the final, bitter irony. So this was what efforts to help Scott had led to!
She suffered an unspeakable wretchedness. The echoes of the man’s footsteps sounded behind her constantly, in her imagination and in fact.
Several times, during that terrible night, Cherry lifted the receiver from the telephone, only to put it despairingly down again. Twice in the night shadows, she tried slipping out of the house, but two husky men, whom she had never seen before, patrolled the sidewalk in front of the Owens house, and Joe himself lay hidden in the back garden. Cherry was caught tight—she could do nothing. Finally in despair she threw herself on the bed.
Wild plans of escape shaped up out of the shadows. Set the house afire! Get out in the confusion and report Carroll! But the excitement could kill Mr. Scott—and one did not actually, deliberately set a house on fire. Try telephoning anyway! No, that was hopeless: the wires were tapped and no mistake. Go to a telegraph office and send a telegram to the police? “Yes,” Cherry thought ironically, “with that gangster looking over my shoulder as I write the telegram!”
Toward daylight she fell into a fitful sleep. Her nightmares anguished her so, that she rose and bathed and dressed, more tired than when she had gone to bed, and then waited for the household to awaken. It was an eternity of loneliness and foreboding.
At eight Mr. Scott woke up. “I don’t feel so well today, Cherry,” he said. “Must I really eat breakfast?”
“You must eat something,” Cherry said, and sat with him and coaxed the food down. It took every ounce of Cherry’s will power to concentrate on feeding him for she was consciously aware of the clock relentlessly ticking away the precious minutes.
It was nine o’clock! Cherry hurried in search of Jen and Lucien and found them in the kitchen, enjoying a peaceful snack. Cherry shuddered at a mental picture of these two nice souls being tortured by the gangsters. Quickly, giving them no time to ask questions, she demanded that they both stay within Mr. Scott’s call—both of them—Mr. Scott was ill and under no condition were either of them to leave the house until she got back—she had an important errand to do for Mr. Scott and would be back just as fast as she possibly could—her words came tumbling out. Before they had the chance to say anything, she ran quickly out of the kitchen and dashed up the stairs to her room.
Nine-fifteen! Cherry couldn’t
repress the shudder that shook her.
She slapped on her hat, grabbed up her purse, gloves, the vault key, and Miss Owens’s letter giving her power of attorney. She opened the front door and froze to the top step, looking around for the man. There Joe was, across the street, watching for her. She walked down the street, and heard him behind her. Numbly she got on a streetcar. He got on too, and sat across the aisle from her. His face, which she saw fully for the first time, was coarse and brutal. He never took his eyes from Cherry.
Nine-thirty o’clock!
Cherry got off the streetcar, pushed into the bank’s revolving doors, and caught a reflected glimpse of the man in the glass of the doors.
She walked across the marble bank corridor, her heels tapping, the heavy, ruthless footsteps dogging her. Busy men and women filled the bank. Cherry longed to cry out to them for help. She walked steadily, mechanically on, as in a bad dream—only this was no dream, this was real.
Down the stairs she went and along the airless basement corridor. The man came right behind her, like evil itself pursuing her, into this subterranean place of bright electric lights.
At the barred door to the first, office room, the guard glanced at the key in Cherry’s hand and unlocked the iron door. “Good morning,” the guard said pleasantly. Cherry swallowed hard and walked through. Joe quickly slipped in with her. The guard locked the door again.
“We’re together,” Joe said to the guard. He took a cruel grip on Cherry’s arm. “I’m staying right with you,” he said under his breath. “I’m not giving you any chance to try anything, see?”
Cherry felt so choked with fear and grief that she could hardly breathe. With the loathesome man at her side, she went through the routine of showing an office manager her power of attorney, showing the key to the box, signing a verified signature for access to Owens’s box, and, finally, she received the stamped slip of paper. Her mind was no longer functioning in orderly fashion: questions like “What will Scott think when he checks back and finds my signature?”—broken bit of pictures of Scott in court, Scott at home stricken with a heart attack, Carroll’s cold smile and Mercer’s greedy face—