“If ‘t was me,” said the Major, oracularly, “I’d never marry Weldon.”
“He won’t propose to you, Daddy dear,” returned Patsy, mischievously; “he prefers Louise.”
“I decided long ago,” said Uncle John, “that”
I’d never be allowed to pick out the husbands for my three girls. Husbands are a matter of taste, I guess, and a girl ought to know what sort she wants. If she don’t, and makes a mistake, that’s her look-out. So you can all choose for yourselves, when the time comes, and I’ll stand by you, my dears, through thick and thin. If the husband won’t play fair, you can always bet your Uncle John will.”
“Oh, we know, that,” said Patsy, simply; and Beth added: “Of course, Uncle, dear.”
Thursday evening, the third and last of the series, was after all the banner night of the great Kermess. All the world of society was present and such wares as remained unsold in the booths were quickly auctioned off by several fashionable gentlemen with a talent for such brigandage. Then, the national dances and songs having been given and received enthusiastically, a grand ball wound up the occasion in the merriest possible way.
Charlie Mershone was much in evidence this evening, as he had been before; but he took no active part in the proceedings and refrained from dancing, his pet amusement. Diana observed that he made frequent trips downstairs, perhaps to the hotel offices. No one paid any attention to his movements, except his cousin, and Miss Von Taer, watching him intently, decided that underneath his calm exterior lurked a great deal of suppressed excitement.
At last the crowd began to disperse. Uncle John and the Major took Beth and Patsy away early, as soon as their booth was closed; but Louise stayed for a final waltz or two with Arthur. She soon found, however, that the evening’s work and excitement had tired her, and asked to be taken home.
“I’ll go and get the limousine around,” said Arthur. “That new chauffeur is a stupid fellow. By the time you’ve managed in this jam to get your wraps I shall be ready. Come down in the elevator and I’ll meet you at the Thirty-second street entrance.”
As he reached the street a man — an ordinary servant, to judge from his appearance — ran into him full tilt, and when they recoiled from the impact the fellow with a muttered curse raised his fist and struck young Weldon a powerful blow. Reeling backward, a natural anger seized Arthur, who was inclined to be hot-headed, and he also struck out with his fists, never pausing to consider that the more dignified act would be to call the police.
The little spurt of fistcuffs was brief, but it gave Mershone, who stood in the shadow of the door-way near by, time to whisper to a police officer, who promptly seized the disputants and held them both in a firm grip.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, sternly.
“That drunken loafer assaulted me without cause” gasped Arthur, panting.
“It’s a lie!” retorted the man, calmly; “he struck me first.”
“Well, I arrest you both,” said the officer.
“Arrest!” cried Arthur, indignantly; “why, confound it, man, I’m — ”
“No talk!” was the stern command. “Come along and keep quiet.”
As if the whole affair had been premeditated and prearranged a patrol wagon at that instant backed to the curb and in spite of Arthur Weldon’s loud protests he was thrust inside with his assailant and at once driven away at a rapid gait.
At the same moment a brown limousine drew up quietly before the entrance.
Louise, appearing in the doorway in her opera cloak, stood hesitating on the steps, peering into the street for Arthur. A man in livery approached her.
“This way, please, Miss Merrick,” he said. “Mr. Weldon begs you to be seated in the limousine. He will join you in a moment.”
With this he led the way to the car and held the door open, while the girl, having no suspicion, entered and sank back wearily upon the seat. Then the door abruptly slammed, and the man in livery leaped to the seat beside the chauffeur and with a jerk the car darted away.
So sudden and astounding was this denouement that Louise did not even scream. Indeed, for the moment her wits were dazed.
And now Charlie Mershone stepped from his hiding place and with a satirical smile entered the vestibule and looked at his watch. He found he had time to show himself again at the Kermess, for a few moments, before driving to the ferry to catch the train for East Orange.
Some one touched him on the arm.
“Very pretty, sir, and quite cleverly done,” remarked a quiet voice.
Mershone started and glared at the speaker, a slender, unassuming man in dark clothes.
“What do you mean, fellow?”
“I’ve been watching the comedy, sir, and I saw you were the star actor, although you took care to keep hidden in the wings. That bruiser who raised the row took his arrest very easily; I suppose you’ve arranged to pay his fine, and he isn’t worried. But the gentleman surely was in hard luck pounded one minute and pinched the next. You arranged it very cleverly, indeed.”
Charlie was relieved that no mention was made of the abduction of Louise. Had that incident escaped notice? He gave the man another sharp look and turned away; but the gentle touch again restrained him.
“Not yet, please, Mr. Mershone.”
“Who are you?” asked the other, scowling.
“The house detective. It’s my business to watch things. So I noticed you talking to the police officer; I also noticed the patrol wagon standing on the opposite side of the street for nearly an hour — my report on that will amuse them at headquarters, won’t it? And I noticed you nod to the bruiser, just as your victim came out.”
“Let go of my arm, sir!”
“Do you prefer handcuffs? I arrest you. We’ll run over to the station and explain things.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Mershone. I believe I ran you in for less than this, some two years ago. You gave the name of Ryder, then. Better take another, to-night.”
“If you’re the house detective, why do you mix up in this affair?” enquired Mershone, his anxiety showing in his tone.
“Your victim was a guest of the house.”
“Not at all. He was merely attending the Kermess.”
“That makes him our guest, sir. Are you ready?”
Mershone glanced around and then lowered his voice.
“It’s all a little joke, my dear fellow,” said he, “and you are liable to spoil everything with your bungling. Here,” drawing; a roll of bills from his pocket, “don’t let us waste any more time. I’m busy.”
The man chuckled and waved aside the bribe.
“You certainly are, sir; you’re very busy, just now! But I think the sergeant over at the station will give you some leisure. And listen, Mr. Mershone: I’ve got it in for that policeman you fixed; he’s a cheeky individual and a new man. I’m inclined to think this night’s work will cost him his position. And the patrol, which I never can get when I want it, seems under your direct management. These things have got to be explained, and I need your help. Ready, sir?”
Mershone looked grave, but he was not wholly checkmated. Thank heaven the bungling detective had missed the departure of Louise altogether. Charlie’s arrest at this critical juncture was most unfortunate, but need not prove disastrous to his cleverly-laid plot. He decided it would be best to go quietly with the “plain-clothes man.”
Weldon had become nearly frantic in his demands to be released when Mershone was ushered into the station. He started at seeing his enemy and began to fear a thousand terrible, indefinite things, knowing how unscrupulous Mershone was. But the Waldorf detective, who seemed friendly with the police sergeant, made a clear, brief statement of the facts he had observed. Mershone denied the accusation; the bruiser denied it; the policeman and the driver of the patrol wagon likewise stolidly denied it. Indeed, they had quite another story to tell.
But the sergeant acted on his own judgment. He locked up Mershon
e, refusing bail. He suspended the policeman and the driver, pending investigation. Then he released Arthur Weldon on his own recognisance, the young man promising to call and testify when required.
The house detective and Arthur started back to the Waldorf together.
“Did you notice a young lady come to the entrance, soon after I was driven away?” he asked, anxiously.
“A lady in a rose-colored opera cloak, sir?”
“Yes! yes!”
“Why, she got into a brown limousine and rode away.”
Arthur gave a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness that chauffeur had a grain of sense,” said he. “I wouldn’t have given him credit for it. Anyway, I’m glad Miss Merrick is safe.”
“Huh!” grunted the detective, stopping short. “I begin to see this thing in its true light. How stupid we’ve been!”
“In what way?” enquired Arthur, uneasily.
“Why did Mershone get you arrested, just at that moment?”
“Because he hated me, I suppose.”
“Tell me, could he have any object in spiriting away that young lady — in abducting her?” asked the detective.
“Could he?” cried Arthur, terrified and trembling. “He had every object known to villainy. Come to the hotel! Let’s hurry, man — let’s fly!”
CHAPTER XII
FOGERTY
At the Waldorf Arthur’s own limousine was standing by the curb. The street was nearly deserted. The last of the Kermess people had gone home.
Weldon ran to his chauffeur.
“Did you take Miss Merrick home?” he eagerly enquired.
“Miss Merrick? Why, I haven’t seen her, sir, I thought you’d all forgotten me.”
The young man’s heart sank. Despair seized him. The detective was carefully examining the car.
“They’re pretty nearly mates, Mr. Weldon. as far as the brown color and general appearances go,” he said. “But I’m almost positive the car that carried the young lady away was of another make.”
“What make was it?”
The man shook his head.
“Can’t say, sir. I was mighty stupid, and that’s a fact. But my mind was so full of that assault and battery case, and the trickery of that fellow Mershone, that I wasn’t looking for anything else.”
“Can you get away?” asked Arthur. “Can you help me on this case?”
“No, sir; I must remain on duty at the hotel. But perhaps the young lady is now safe at home, and we’ve been borrowing trouble. In case she’s been stolen, however, you’d better see Fogerty.”
“Who’s Fogerty?”
“Here’s his card, sir. He’s a private detective, and may be busy just now, for all I know. But if you can get Fogerty you’ve got the best man in all New York.”
Arthur sprang into the seat beside his driver and hurried post-haste to the Merrick residence. In a few minutes Mrs. Merrick was in violent hysterics at the disappearance of her daughter. Arthur stopped long enough to telephone for a doctor and then drove to the Doyles. He routed up Uncle John and the Major, who appeared in pajamas and bath-robes, and told them the startling news.
A council of war was straightway held. Uncle John trembled with nervousness; Arthur was mentally stupefied; the Major alone was calm.
“In the first place,” said he, “what object could the man have in carrying off Louise?”
Arthur hesitated.
“To prevent our marriage, I suppose,” he answered. “Mershone has an idea he loves Louise. He made wild love to her until she cut his acquaintance.”
“But it won’t help him any to separate her from her friends, or her promised husband,” declared the Major. “Don’t worry. We’re sure to find her, sooner or later.”
“How? How shall we find her?” cried Uncle John. “Will he murder her, or what?”
“Why, as for that, John, he’s safe locked up in jail for the present, and unable to murder anyone,” retorted the Major. “It’s probable he meant to follow Louise, and induce her by fair means or foul to marry him. But he’s harmless enough for the time being.”
“It’s not for long, though,” said Arthur, fearfully. “They’re liable to let him out in the morning, for he has powerful friends, scoundrel though he is. And when he is free — ”
“Then he must be shadowed, of course,” returned the Major, nodding wisely. “If it’s true the fellow loves Louise, then he’s no intention of hurting her. So make your minds easy. Wherever the poor lass has been taken to, she’s probably safe enough.”
“But think of her terror — her suffering!” cried Uncle John, wringing his chubby hands. “Poor child! It may be his idea to compromise her, and break her heart!”
“We’ll stop all that, John, never fear,” promised the Major. “The first thing to do is to find a good detective.”
“Fogerty!” exclaimed Arthur, searching for the card.
“Who’s Fogerty?”
“I don’t know.”
“Get the best man possible!” commanded Mr. Merrick. “Spare no expense; hire a regiment of detectives, if necessary; I’ll — ”
“Of course you will,” interrupted the Major, smiling. “But we won’t need a regiment. I’m pretty sure the game is in our hands, from the very start.”
“Fogerty is highly recommended,” explained Arthur, and related what the house detective of the Waldorf had said.
“Better go at once and hunt him up,” suggested Uncle John. “What time is it?”
“After two o’clock. But I’ll go at once.” “Do; and let us hear from you whenever you’ve anything to tell us,” said the Major.
“Where’s Patsy?” asked Arthur.
“Sound asleep. Mind ye, not a word of this to Patsy till she has to be told. Remember that, John.”
“Well, I’ll go,” said the young man, and hurried away.
Q. Fogerty lived on Eleventh street, according to his card. Arthur drove down town, making good time. The chauffeur asked surlily if this was to be “an all-night job,” and Arthur savagely replied that it might take a week. “Can’t you see, Jones, that I’m in great trouble?” he added. “But you shall be well paid for your extra time.”
“All right, sir. That’s no more than just,” said the man. “It’s none of my affair, you know, if a young lady gets stolen.”
Arthur was wise enough to restrain his temper and the temptation to kick Jones out of the limousine. Five minutes later they paused before a block of ancient brick dwellings and found Fogerty’s number. A card over the bell bore his name, and Arthur lit a match and read it. Then he rang impatiently.
Only silence.
Arthur rang a second time; waited, and rang again. A panic of fear took possession of him. At this hour of night it would be well-nigh impossible to hunt up another detective if Fogerty failed him. He determined to persist as long as there was hope. Again he rang.
“Look above, sir,” called Jones from his station in the car.
Arthur stepped back on the stone landing and looked up. A round spark, as from a cigarette, was visible at the open window. While he gazed the spark glowered brighter and illumined a pale, haggard boy’s face, surmounted by tousled locks of brick colored hair.
“Hi, there!” said Arthur. “Does Mr. Fogerty live here?”
“He pays the rent,” answered a boyish voice, with a tinge of irony. “What’s wanted?”
“Mr. Fogerty is wanted. Is he at home?”
“He is,” responded the boy.
“I must see him at once — on important business. Wake him up, my lad; will you?”
“Wait a minute,” said the youth, and left the window. Presently he opened the front door, slipped gently out and closed the door behind him.
“Let’s sit in your car,” he said, in soft, quiet tones. “We can talk more freely there.”
“But I must see Fogerty at once!” protested Arthur.
“I’m Fogerty.”
“Q. Fogerty?”
“Quintus Fogerty �
� the first and last and only individual of that name.”
Arthur hesitated; he was terribly disappointed.
“Are you a detective?” he enquired.
“By profession.”
“But you can’t be very old.”
The boy laughed.
“I’m no antiquity, sir,” said he, “but I’ve shed the knickerbockers long ago. Who sent you to me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m tired. I’ve been busy twenty-three weeks. Just finished my case yesterday and need a rest — a good long rest. But if you want a man I’ll refer you to a friend.”
“Gorman, of the Waldorf, sent me to you — and said you’d help me.”
“Oh; that’s different. Case urgent, sir?”
“Very. The young lady I’m engaged to marry was abducted less than three hours ago.”
Fogerty lighted another cigarette and the match showed Arthur that the young face was deeply lined, while two cold gray eyes stared blankly into his own.
“Let’s sit in your limousine, sir,” he repeated.
When they had taken their places behind the closed doors the boy asked Arthur to tell him “all about it, and don’t forget any details, please.” So Weldon hastily told the events of the evening and gave a history of Mershone and his relations with Miss Merrick. The story was not half told when Fogerty said:
“Tell your man to drive to the police station.”
On the way Arthur resumed his rapid recital and strove to post the young detective as well as he was able. Fogerty made no remarks, nor did he ask a single question until Weldon had told him everything he could think of. Then he made a few pointed enquiries and presently they had arrived at the station.
The desk sergeant bowed with great respect to the youthful detective. By the dim light Arthur was now able to examine Fogerty for the first time.
He was small, slim and lean. His face attested to but eighteen or nineteen years, in spite of its deep lines and serious expression. Although his hair was tangled and unkempt Fogerty’s clothing and linen were neat and of good quality. He wore a Scotch cap and a horseshoe pin in his cravat.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 455