MRS2 Madame Storey

by Hulbert Footner

  As Showalter's men received their satchel, the smoke billowed up in the usual startling fashion. It started at a point some distance from the men with the money, but spread so fast it overtook them before they could reach the door. There was no fault to be found with the actions of the six; they did their utmost. They had often rehearsed what they were to do in such a contingency. They stopped short where they were, and dropping the satchel on the floor, formed a circle around it, each man with his gun in his right hand, and his left hand on the shoulder of the man next him. Thus they waited.

  On this occasion there was no panic. Not enough of a crowd in the place to start one. One or two of the clerks fainted in their cages, out of sheer excitement, but there was no noise, no running about. The doors to the banking-room were all blocked by guards, and it was felt that the bandit was certainly trapped at last. Those who were in the place afterwards described the ghastly silence that filled it, while all waited for the smoke to clear.

  It was longer than usual in clearing. Some swear that a fresh supply of smoke was released, which was likely true; the bandit had a hard nut to crack. When it finally lifted, the discomfited six, linked together in the middle of the floor with their guns out, beheld their satchel some twenty feet outside the circle, lying on its side, open and empty. And, notwithstanding the guards at the doors, the bird had flown.

  I need not dwell on the sensation that was caused by this affair. All that had gone before was as nothing to it. Three weeks had elapsed since the previous robbery, and people had been telling themselves that the depredations were over. It was felt that, since the man's description had been published, and so many details about him, that he would never dare show himself again. But he had dared further than ever before. There now seemed to be an element of magic in it that scared the boldest. How in the world had the bandit succeeded in winning that satchel from out of a linked ring of armed men?

  "How did he do it? How did he do it?" I asked.

  "Well, my guess," said Mme. Storey, "and it's as good as anybody's, is, that since the smoke rises faster than it spreads sideways, it leaves a clear space of a foot or so close to the floor. If I am right, the bandit works in that, on his belly. How simple to hook the satchel out between the men, and empty it while their heads were lost in the smoke!"

  "But how did he get out of the place?"

  "In much the same way. It is natural for a man blocking a doorway to stand with his legs spread. I believe that the bandit dived out between one of those pairs of legs at the doors."

  "But the guards would have known it," I objected.

  "One of them would," said Mme. Storey dryly, "but he wouldn't give himself away."

  In the same paper that carried news of the robbery Barron gave out an interview in which he maintained his equanimity and his confidence. He still promised the public quick results. This no longer disturbed me. I told myself that, if Barron knew any more than the rest of us, he should have prevented this last outrage.

  As I thought over the matter it had occurred to me that there was something fishy about the thin-faced man in the black velure hat, of whom there had been so much talk. It did not seem reasonable that such a poor specimen, sallow and emaciated, should be supposed capable of the smoke bandit's really brilliant feats of daring. I began to wonder if he might not after all be just an invention of Barron's, put forward to persuade the public that the detective was doing something.

  The thought clung to me. The testimony of those who had come forward after his description had been published, with accounts of how they had seen him here or there, might be disregarded, I felt. For there are always weak-minded people ready to say anything in order to break into print. There remained the evidence of the salesgirl, Bessie Rogers, and the man, Joseph Keating—but come to think of it, we only had Barron's word for the existence of those two. Nobody else had interviewed them.

  When I mentioned my suspicions to Mme. Storey, she smiled at me in her affectionate and teasing way, and said: "'Pon my word, Bella, you are becoming positively acute! Why don't you go over and look up this Keating yourself?"

  I did so. I am a little behind my story now, for this was the morning of the Showalter robbery. Pineapple street is on the edge of the fashionable Columbia Heights section. It is a sober street of plain brick-fronted dwellings, old-fashioned and very American. Number thirty-three was a superior boarding-house. When I asked the pleasant-faced landlady if she knew a Mr. Joseph Keating, she nodded, and I thought I had had my journey for nothing. He was not a myth. But when I asked to see him, she said he no longer lived with her.

  "He was only here a few weeks," she added. "He's a construction engineer, and he's gone to the Coast on a big job. No, I haven't got his address."

  I came away satisfied that "Keating" was merely a plant of Barron's, though I did not suppose that the landlady was a party to it. I so told Mme. Storey.

  "I was sure of it," she said coolly. "If you want to, you can go up to the five and ten cent store to ask for Bessie Rogers. But you'll only be told that she was temporarily engaged for the Christmas rush, or something of that sort."

  "Then there's no such a person as the thin-faced man in the black velure hat!" I cried.

  "Ah, now you're going too fast!" she warned me.

  It was then that we read of the Showalter robbery.

  That same afternoon Barron dropped in at our office on his way up-town. I don't know what his object was. His talk did not reveal it. Perhaps just a hunger to see my mistress's face. He was as guarded as upon his previous visit, but he couldn't quite conceal the conflict of passions that tormented him. He was mad about Mme. Storey; he was jealous of her, he was determined to injure her if he could, and he clearly anticipated some sort of hateful triumph. All this was suggested in the slow, painful turning of his eyes, and it made me uneasy all over, again.

  They discussed the Showalter case in general terms; under the circumstances they could hardly be frank with each other. Later I remember Mme. Storey saying teasingly:

  "I have turned up a new clue to the whereabouts of the thin-faced man with the black velure hat. Hope to lay my hands on him in a day or two."

  "I wish you luck," said Barron with a slight smile, by which he wished to convey that he knew she was bluffing, and was not in the least disturbed by it.

  "You know where he is?" Mme. Storey asked mockingly.

  "I have a good idea," said Barron confidently.

  "Why don't you produce him, then?"

  "I will in good time. My lines are closing about him. He cannot escape me eventually."

  "My dear fellow!" said Mme. Storey. "This is merely the jargon of our trade when we're all at sea."

  "It may be," he said undisturbed; "but in this case it's the literal truth."

  The man's confidence was real, and my breast was heavy with anxiety. Mme. Storey's brow was clear, but you never can tell about her.

  To my astonishment she proceeded to treat Barron better on this occasion than I had ever seen her do. Ignoring his surly look, she was entirely friendly and encouraging. So much so that he dropped his guarded air, and almost lost his head. Only my presence restrained him. He cast poisonous looks in my direction, but I sat tight. In the end, however, Mme. Storey carried him on up-town in her car. I could make nothing of it.

  At noon on the following day, Mme. Storey issued out of her room, cloaked and hatted for the street. "I'm going to drop in on Barron accidentally," she remarked with a casualness that was simply to tease me. "If he asks me to go out to lunch I'll accept."

  I simply stared.

  "They say the food is awfully good at the Shoe and Leather Club."

  "Do women go there?"

  "Yes; I have made inquiries."

  She went on. This move was inexplicable to me. I blamed her for her changed attitude toward Barron. Surely she couldn't be going to fall for the man! That was unthinkable. No, it was some long game that she was playing; the corners of her lips betrayed it. But if it was true tha
t Barron had the upper hand of her in this confounded case, it seemed to me that she was compromising her dignity in making up to him. And whichever way the case went, this would certainly be the cause of trouble with him later on.

  VIII

  All she said when she got back was: "The food is good there; the service wonderful."

  She presently asked about Crider's movements. I told her he was due in, to report at four.

  I was present when Crider made his report, which had to do with some other case. When I had taken it down, Mme. Storey disposed of that matter with a wave of the hand.

  "Tomorrow is Sunday, unfortunately," she said "and we can do nothing. On Monday morning we three must set to work in earnest on the smoke-bandit case."

  Crider and I pricked up our ears.

  "You have a chauffeur's livery, haven't you?" Mme. Storey asked him.

  "Yes, madam."

  "I want you to hire me a good-looking car for the day; say a Mackinaw limousine or a Bruce-Vulcan. It must look like a first-class private turn-out. We'll start a few minutes before eleven. We're going to Jersey; near a village called Cranford."

  "I know it," said Crider; "near Plainfield."

  Mme. Storey went on: "I want you to be prepared to break down in front of a house which I'll point out to you, so that Bella and I will have to wait there a bit while you are fetching assistance."

  "The simplest thing would be to run out of gas there," said Crider.

  "No. They might have a supply on hand at this house," said Mme. Storey. "That would defeat my whole purpose. I want an hour there, or at least half an hour. What else can you suggest?"

  "Well, I could make out my engine went dead, in front of the house," said Crider. "Then when I got out and threw up the hood to investigate, I could break the distributor arm, or some other small part of the ignition. I'd have to telephone to a large town such as Elizabeth or Newark for another."

  "Very good," said Mme. Storey. "Let us do that."

  To me she went on: "Bella, you wear your prettiest afternoon dress and your new coat. Pull a cloche over your head—people remember red hair so...We must be prepared to answer questions easily and offhand. I'll be Mrs. Wilkinson. I have an apartment on Park Avenue. You are my friend Miss Chassard of Cleveland visiting me for the season." (Mme. Storey entered into these details of make-believe with all the zest of a child.) "We're motoring to Trenton, where my friend Mrs. Esterbrook is entertaining us at luncheon to be followed by bridge But is Cranford on the road to Trenton, Crider?"

  "Not quite, madam."

  "How could we account for the fact that we were passing that way?"

  "A prettier road, madam, and no heavy traffic."

  "Splendid! We'll go over all this again on the way there."

  Monday morning was clear after rain and bitter cold. There was a whole gale from the Northwest, and even in the well-built car, with a rug over us, we could feel it stealing around our ankles.

  "So much the better," remarked Mme. Storey. "Out of common humanity they'll have to ask us in to get warm."

  "What are we to do when we get in?" I asked.

  "Just keep our eyes and ears open, Bella. I don't know what we will find. Nothing perhaps."

  We crossed on the Weehawken ferry, and made our way via the Hudson Boulevard to the Plank Road, thence through Newark and on to Elizabeth; not a very interesting route. Beyond Elizabeth we passed through a village or two; then Cranford. A sign on the railway station identified it. According to pre-arrangement we paused opposite the station for a final consultation.

  "The house I am looking for is on the road along the river towards Rahway," said Mme. Storey.

  "I know the road," said Crider.

  "It is described to me as being on the right-hand side of the road about half a mile beyond the Lehigh Valley Railway; a farm-house about fifty years old, painted white, and having a fancy porch. The name of the people is Colter, but we mustn't ask the way, of course. Do not stop directly in front of the gate; run a little way beyond. But keep the car within range of the windows if you can."

  Turning to the right, we proceeded. This cross-country road led us into a silvan neighbourhood lying between the lines of populous suburbs that follow the railways. The views of the fields and the winding river were charming, though everything was bare. We presently crossed another railway, and kept a sharp lookout ahead. All the houses seemed to be about fifty years old and all were painted white. However we were saved from any uncertainty by a neat sign alongside the road, which read:

  ABRAM COLTER

  Poultry Farm

  Chickens and Eggs for Sale

  Crider played his part admirably. As we passed the house we felt the power fail, and the car rolled to a slow stop. A surprised look on the face of our chauffeur, and much working of the throttle and spark levers. Mme. Storey leaned forward to ask what was the matter. Shake of the head from Crider. Out of the tail of my eye I perceived a woman at one of the windows of the house, watching us with interest.

  Crider jumped out and threw up the hood of his engine. After fussing about inside, he returned to the door of the car.

  "The distributor is broke, ma'am. We can't move until I can get a new part for it."

  Business of indignation from Mme. Storey. "Whatever shall we do! We'll be late for our appointment. Why can't you see to these things before we start out, Thomas. That's your business!" And so on. And so on. Nothing of this could be heard in the house, of course, but the woman was watching the by-play which accompanied it. "Go into that house, and ask if you can telephone for what you want."

  Crider disappeared from our range of vision, and we plumped back in our seats like a pair of excessively annoyed ladies.

  "Don't betray any curiosity about the place," warned Mme. Storey; "just appear to be soothing me down."

  "Suppose there isn't any telephone?" I suggested.

  "Oh, but there is! That's the whole point!"

  "I saw a woman at one of the windows," I remarked.

  "Yes, and she has sharp eyes! I expect she won't be very hospitable, but we'll demand to be taken in as a matter of right."

  Crider was gone a good while. He came back to the car door to report.

  "I telephoned to Newark for the necessary part. Ordered them to spare no expense, and so on. They promised to have it here within forty minutes."

  "Who let you in?" asked Mme. Storey.

  "The woman who was at the window. A decent-looking body, but has a cagey eye. She stuck around while I was telephoning."

  "Anybody else in the house?"

  "Not that I could see."

  "Did she ask us in to wait?"

  "No, madam."

  "Well, we'll wait five minutes, then make her. You be working over your engine."

  At the end of five minutes, with business of shivering, Mme. Storey and I alighted from the car, and retraced our steps to the neat gate in the palings. The whole place was much better kept up than any of its neighbours. Everything spic and span with new paint; the lawn free from litter; glimpses of trim poultry houses and runs in the rear. A short distance behind the house ran the little river.

  As we went up the short gravel path, Mme. Storey murmured: "Don't look. Both windows of the upper room on the left are shuttered. Why should a bedroom be closed up, at this season? We must have a look into that room, my Bella."

  The woman who opened the door to us was in outward appearance a typical farm wife of the better sort. She wore a neat print dress and spotless apron; a woman in her forties, healthy and comely. But the quiet, wary glance of her blue eyes was significant. You immediately felt that she was much more experienced in the world than the usual farm woman. She was not at all put about by Mme. Storey's elegance, but very much mistress of herself.

  "May we come in out of the cold?" asked Mme. Storey, with an assumption of the fashionable woman's condescension towards one whom she regards as an inferior.

  The woman was polite, but not at all cordial. "Certainly," sh
e said, opening the door wide.

  We were admitted into one of those crude, prosperous interiors which are somehow uglier than the direst poverty. All the furnishings were brand-new and in the worst possible taste. There was a narrow central hall and stairway, and in the wall on either side had been cut an archway flanked with hideous varnished pillars. The living-room was on the left; dining-room on the right. The archways were for the purpose of permitting free circulation of the heat which puffed up in great waves from a pipeless furnace in the cellar. The place was suffocating. Both the visible rooms had a set and unused look, and one guessed that the real business of the house was carried on in the kitchen.

  Mme. Storey and I sat down in two of the "over-stuffed" chairs of the living-room suite, while Mrs. Colter hovered in the archway as if of two minds whether to go back about her work or stop and keep an eye on us. The shuttered room was over our heads. Mme. Storey glanced about her superciliously. She was the empty-headed rich woman, to the life. It clearly irritated the woman of the house, but it was well calculated to keep her from conceiving any suspicions of our real purpose.

  "Comfortable place you have here," drawled Mme. Storey.

  "We like it," said Mrs. Colter.

  The conversation did not flourish. Mme. Storey settled her skirts, looked at her finger-nails, moved her shoulders pettishly, toyed with her wrist-watch: in short, the perfect fool. Mrs. Colter watched her somewhat grimly.

  Finally Mme. Storey burst out affectedly: "Isn't it too annoying! We'll be late for our luncheon engagement in Trenton. Poor Mrs. Esterbrook! With bridge to follow, you know! And that man has nothing in the world to do but look after the car, and prevent such accidents from happening. Aren't chauffeurs maddening?"