Phelps tapped the desk irritably with his fingers; they had had him last night, then, in that house on Kelsey Street, and he had given them the slip! He’d see about that; he’d—
“So he went out and didn’t come back?” he asked, controlling his voice.
“No. I thought he had stayed at my aunt’s apartment, but he didn’t. I’ve been there this morning.”
So she had been anxious. There was more to this, certainly, than met the eye.
“A little while ago you spoke of your marriage,” he said. “Are you engaged to this Warrington?”
“No,” she said, and coloured. “He is only—a roomer in the house.”
“How well did Warrington know your uncle, Mr. Cox?”
“Not at all. I don’t think he had ever even seen him.”
“You are sure of that, are you?”
“Quite sure.”
“Suppose I tell you that they were acquainted as long ago as October? That at that time a small incident happened which concerned Mr. Cox, and that Warrington was with him at the time?”
“I would think there must be a mistake. But I don’t see how it would matter, really.”
“Now, let’s go back a little. You found this suitcase, and after you had taken one bond, you were sorry, eh? You wanted it out of the house so you wouldn’t be tempted again? Is that it?”
“I wanted it back where it belonged. In the bank.”
“And until Warrington surprised you in the attic, he had not known it was there?”
“How could he? It was under the floor.”
“How long is it since any member of the family has seen your father?”
“My mother was there about four weeks ago.”
“Ah! Now, suppose we just go into this from a different angle, for a minute. Suppose, just to see how it works, we say this: Your mother learned at the prison that the suitcase was in the house. Being an honourable person, she did not touch it, but she told her sister. Do you see what I mean? Now, then, your aunt is newly married and she has no secrets from her husband, so she passes the news to Cox. And Cox knows Warrington. Whatever you may think, we can prove that.”
“But it isn’t true. I’ve told you the truth.”
“Then where is this Warrington?” he demanded sternly. “What is he hiding from? Why did he leave the stuff at the Cox house instead of taking it to the bank? My dear Miss Bayne,” he said, leaning forward, “I don’t believe you took that bond. I believe you are protecting—well, we will say somebody else. And it’s no good. Go home and think it over; you have no business being mixed up in this.”
He rang the bell and there was a movement among those waiting in the anteroom. She got up, feeling dizzy and slightly dazed.
“My mother,” she said, “I don’t want my mother to know about this. She has heart trouble, and it would kill her.”
“I see. We’ll be as easy as we can.”
But he was not easy a half-hour or so later, with two detectives lined up unhappily before him.
“I don’t want any more excuses,” he said angrily. “I want this fellow Warrington, and no more slips. What the devil do you fellows think you’re doing with him? Playing peek-a-boo?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FOR SOME REASON BAYLIE, at the office, had chosen to regard Warrington’s desperate message as highly humorous. He roared with laughter over the telephone, and Warrington, as he hung up, felt he had done a reckless thing.
Had he been able to see into the office, he would have been certain of it. Baylie, redheaded and cheerfully sophisticated, wandered over to Miss Sharp’s desk and passed on the glad tidings.
“Can you beat it?” he inquired jovially. “What sort of a boss have you got, anyhow, hanging around a disreputable hotel without his clothes?”
“Quit stringing me, Mr. Baylie.”
“It’s a fact, and I don’t mean maybe. He’s at the Stockton.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, you’ll hear of it again, and he’s going to hear of it, if I live to tell the tale. Says he sent his clothes out to be pressed and can’t get them back!”
They laughed together, not maliciously.
After Baylie had got his hat and started out, Miss Sharp remembered something and went into the outer office, and the detective standing there, surveying the board, turned at her approach.
“Mr. Warrington will be in before long,” she told him. “He’s just telephoned. He’s at the Hotel Stockton just now. But you’d better wait here. He’ll be around soon.”
There was amusement in her face, and he looked at her shrewdly.
“What’s funny, sister? Tell me. I like to laugh.”
“Ask Mr. Warrington when he comes in,” she said, smiling.
“Tell me now. I can’t wait,” he coaxed her.
He was her own sort. She had never seen him before, but in her world, acquaintance and familiarity were not far apart. She looked around, saw they were unobserved, and passed the tale on to him. But he did not laugh. All at once his comradeship disappeared, and he pushed her aside with a movement more forcible than polite.
“How long ago did this Baylie start?” he demanded.
“You asked for that. Now you’ve got it and—”
“How long ago? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”
“He’s just gone,” she said sulkily, and followed him with resentful eyes as he bolted out the door.
“Well, can you beat that?” she muttered, and sullenly went back to her desk.
To the detective, the fact that Warrington was trying to get another suit of clothing meant only one thing: a bolt. He was relieved, therefore, to find that his man was still in the hotel, and, curiously enough, registered under his own name. He sent a bell-hop up to watch the door and used the telephone on the desk, lowering his voice carefully.
“Got him,” he said. “He’s sent out for some different clothes, but I’ve got him, all right. I’ll bring him right around.”
It was about that time that Warrington’s suit, neatly pressed and repaired, was passed through his door, and the detective caught him as he was leaving his room.
He took the arrest very quietly.
“I was on my way, anyhow,” was all he said.
They went down together in the elevator, and out on the pavement another man took up a position on his other side. He walked between them, a free man to all appearances, a free man in a neatly pressed suit, with James’s old cap on his head and his linen exceedingly dirty. But he was not a free man; he was on his way to jail.
However, they did not commit him at once. They took him first to the City Hall, and to the District Attorney’s office. But before that, he had to wait for some time in the outer room, where one of the detectives chewed tobacco morosely, spitting into a large brass cuspidor, and the other cleaned his nails with his penknife.
At last one of the men took him in. He had no idea of what he was expected to do or say, and so he stood still and waited. The detective had taken off his hat, so he did the same. The District Attorney was looking at him.
“Come over and sit down, Warrington,” he said. “I want to talk to you. Wait out there, will you, Lyell?”
The detective went out. Warrington sat down near the desk. There was a silence, and then the District Attorney cleared his throat.
“I suppose you know why you’re here?”
“I suppose I do. Yes.”
There was another silence. He could feel the District Attorney’s eyes moving over him, studying, watching.
“How did you get mixed up with this thing, Warrington? I understand your record’s been clean, so far?”
“That depends on how far you think I am mixed up in it.”
“Don’t spar for time,” said the District Attorney, rather more sharply. “We know you had those bonds. We know you sold one of them. That was a fool thing to do, in the first place. Why? Were you trying out the market?”
“I didn’t know it was stolen when I offer
ed it.”
“When the Bayne girl asked you to sell it, you didn’t suspect that it was a part of the Harrison Bank loot?”
“She never gave it to me. She never saw it.”
“She says she did.”
“Then she’s lying.”
The District Attorney bent forward.
“Now, see here, Warrington,” he said. “You’re in a pretty bad way, and you know it. We know that you came into possession of those securities, that you knew they were from the Harrison Bank and that you hid them in the house of one James Cox, with or without his consent.”
“Without it. I hardly knew the man.”
“You knew him well enough to be with him on the 17th of October when he was arrested for attacking a police officer.”
“That’s the only time I ever saw him until last night. And I wasn’t hiding them in your sense of the word.”
“Oh! So you saw Cox last night! What did you see him about?”
“I’d got him into trouble. I wanted to see what I could do. He didn’t even know the stuff was in the house yesterday until they picked him up at the store. I’d only left it there until I could arrange to deliver it at the bank.”
“But you didn’t arrange to deliver it at the bank.”
“I went there, but I couldn’t find anybody responsible enough to take it. It was a delicate matter. We didn’t want any publicity.”
“Who were ‘we’?”
“Miss Bayne and myself. You see, Bayne was coming home. She didn’t want him to find the securities there. As God’s my witness, her sole idea was to get the stuff out of the house and back to the bank before anything more happened to it.”
“Anything more? What do you mean?” He saw he had slipped there. The District Attorney leaned back in his chair and, his legs thrust out before him, sat surveying him with his head lowered.
“It won’t wash, Warrington,” he said. “Either you or this girl took that bond. It sold, all right, but you began to get cold feet on the proposition. Somebody might check it up; sooner or later it would be checked up, almost certainly. If that happened before you’d disposed of the rest, there would be a search of the house, so you tried to get rid of the rest. This story about taking them back to the bank is all poppycock. There’s another point you’ve overlooked, Warrington, and this is it: this inquiry might have taken a different form if you’d acted like an honest man. You haven’t. You escaped last night and hid yourself at an obscure hotel; this morning you sent for another suit of clothes. You wear a hat usually, don’t you? What are you doing with that cap? If we hadn’t landed you, where would you be now? Making a get-away!”
Suddenly Warrington laughed. There was a bit of hysteria in the laughter, but he could not help himself. He got out a not overclean handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
“Making a get-away!” he said. “Oh, my Lord, that’s funny! Listen, Mr. District Attorney, if that’s who you are—I didn’t catch the name when we were introduced. What do you do when you tear your trousers? I tore mine getting away from some friends of yours last night. Tore them on a fence. You can send around and find that out from the tailor who mended them—if you can locate him. I couldn’t, all morning.”
In spite of himself the District Attorney smiled. The little break had relieved the tension, and his voice was not so hard when he began again.
“Why don’t you come clean on this, Warrington?” he said. “The bank people don’t want to prosecute; they’re sitting very pretty. Let’s have the whole story and see what can be done about it.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know, except how I got the bond I sold.”
“I know all the rest. You know as well as I do that the situation hinges on that. And I’ll tell you this: if I can prove that Tom Bayne’s family has known that stuff was in the house for the past ten years, I’ll go after them. And I’ll prove it if I can.”
“They didn’t know it. I’ll swear to that.”
“And you won’t tell about the bond?”
“No.”
“Think a minute. If this case ever gets to a jury, there are two angles to it: either the Bayne family is involved, as I’ve told you, or you are—you and Cox. You knew Cox, and Cox married Mrs. Bayne’s sister. Suppose the sister talks, and Cox tells you what he knows? You go there, take a room, and look about, and finally you locate it. It doesn’t look so good, does it?”
“It looks pretty rotten.”
“Well, come clean. Get out if you can.”
“It will take some thinking over. I don’t care about myself, but I—I didn’t sleep much last night, and I haven’t had any breakfast. I need food, I guess, and a chance to think.”
“I imagine we can provide both of those,” said the District Attorney cheerfully, and rang a bell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MRS. BAYNE HAD HAD a wonderful morning. Nothing was too fine for her; she wanted only the best.
“Haven’t you a better quality?” she would demand, in quite her old-time manner, and out would come boxes and wrappings; and out of those, again, wonderful things: stockings and handkerchiefs, underwear and linen.
But she did not buy Holly’s household linens at Steinfeldt and Roder’s. Not since Margaret’s marriage had she been in that store.
By noon she was very tired. She went up to the restaurant and ordered herself a frugal luncheon, and while waiting for it, she listed her expenditures so far. She had done extremely well, she reflected. True, Holly would not have so many of each sort of thing—she herself had had two dozen of everything when she had married—but what Holly had was very good.
Mrs. Bayne was in high good humour, and when the head waiter remembered her and came to speak to her, it was like old times indeed.
“Glad to see you here again, Mrs. Bayne. You don’t honour us any more.”
And she acknowledged this tribute with a gracious condescension.
“I seldom lunch downtown any more,” she said. “But I always find it pleasant here.”
She had ordered a New England boiled dinner, because it was ready and cheap. The cabbage she knew gave her indigestion; but she was above indigestion that day. She was hungry; she ate heartily, and after luncheon she made some more purchases, looking wistfully at a gray gown with a chinchilla collar for herself for the wedding, and then passing it by. There may have been a moment when she thought of those other bonds, lying where they had lain for years and doing nobody any good, but she put the temptation away from her. And what she called Holly’s money was not to be spent for herself. Not one cent.
But the indigestion began to bother her. She went to the soda fountain and got some baking soda, and then took a taxi home. The floor was piled with her packages; a boy had to carry them out for her. But she could not wait for their delivery. She wanted to get home, and spread them out on her bed and gloat over them, like old times.
Like old times.
She took out the money for her taxi fare, and then carefully closed her bag. After a time she dozed off comfortably.
At the house Holly had mechanically finished her belated morning work and was anxiously watching for her mother.
Holly had worked hard, for she did not want to think—not just yet, anyhow. She had told her story, and they had not believed her. She was free as air. But Howard Warrington was under suspicion. She was free, and they were after him, who had done nothing, known nothing.
Beyond that, her mind at first refused to travel. She felt helpless and resentful, and that was all.
It was noon before she sat down and began really to think; and then her thinking got her nowhere. Some memory of Furness that morning came back, and she wondered if she had driven him away for good. The thought left her entirely indifferent, save for her inner knowledge that, for the first time since she had known him, she had been absolutely honest with him then.
“Honest for once!” she thought. “All along I’ve been acting and lying. It’s been wrong. It’s been immoral.”
B
ut wasn’t there a fundamental immorality in the whole situation? Not only the bond. That had been an accident, a temptation in a weak moment. But all the rest of it, their pretense at gentility, their snobberies and hypocrisies; how about them?
She was through with them. If, after it all came out, she told Furness how she felt about him and he still wanted to marry her, she would. But she would tell him first.
And it was out of that conclusion, slowly and painfully reached, that she came to another. She would marry him, but first her mother would have to clear things up. She would have to tell the police about the bond.
It would not be so terrible, after all. They would not arrest her mother any more than they had arrested her. One could go to the District Attorney and tell him the truth, and so long as there was no conspiracy, and the money was returned, there would be no punishment. She knew that now.
She made a bargain with herself: if her mother would clear Howard, she would pay the price. She would marry Furness if he still wanted her.
She went down the stairs when she heard the front door open, and found Mrs. Bayne in the lower hall, her arms filled with bundles and her face radiant.
“Oh, my dear,” she said. “Such a morning! I’m so tired I could drop.”
She dropped her parcels on the hall table and sat down, a trifle breathlessly.
“As soon as I can walk, we’ll go up and open these things,” she went on. “I bought a new rug for the vestibule. The old one was dreadful.”
“Have you had anything to eat?” There was a new gentleness in the girl’s voice. To see all this happiness and to know one was going to kill it—it was cruel.
“I lunched downtown, and I ate cabbage. Stupid of me, but I like it, and one can’t cook it in the house. It smells so. I think I’ll take a little more baking soda.”
She felt around in her lap, preparatory to rising, then, still sitting, she glanced about her on the floor.
“What is it you are looking for, Mother?” Holly asked.
“My purse,” replied Mrs. Bayne. “It’s here somewhere. I’ve dropped it.”
Two Flights Up Page 11