But there was no sound from next door, and presently he was back. “Just wanted to make sure,” he murmured. I was standing by the entrance to the dressing room and he set me aside unceremoniously. “Git away from those swingin’ doors, little gal,” he said. “Papa’s got to dress up.”
Somewhere in this house two men and a woman were in hiding. I thought I knew where they had been. The ransom meeting was to take place at half-past three; it must be after two-thirty now. But if my conjecture should be right what would happen to their plans?
“Barney,” I said through the crack, “those three, Jay and Gertie and what’s-his-name—what if they should think the deal’s off? The baby—”
He was kneeling with his back to me, bending over the Gladstone bag on the low shelf. His hand went from the pocket of the leather jacket he wore, put something into the bag—or took it out—and closed the catch. “Think of the fifty thousand dollars,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s their cut; they want that money. They’ll leave. If the baby is with them, the boys will gang up below: if not, it’ll be duck soup to get her away from Gertie.”
An answer for everything, I thought. Against such confidence, the crooks wouldn’t dare to pull anything unexpected.
Close to my ear a buzzer sounded, and startled me nearly out of my mind; it was the bell from the foyer. Barney was at my side, staring at his watch. So this was the signal he had been expecting!
The watch said 2:45.
The buzzer sounded again. “Five seconds between,” he said. “That means they’ve taken Melissa with them.” He was silent for a moment, staring ahead of him, calculating. Then his lips moved; he communed with himself, just audibly.
“Peterson across the street upstairs, Garwood downstairs. Jim Ferrier at the corner. If they get together in time, it’s all right. But—
“I can’t stand this,” he said, and looked at me unseeingly. “I’ve got to be in on it. I’m going out there.”
“Where?”
“To El Cerrito.”
“The rendezvous? But wasn’t Mr. Cleveland supposed to be alone?”
“I’ll keep out of sight. Orders or no orders, he’ll need someone. My car’s downstairs—”
I moved aside silently. His hand on the doorknob, he paused for an admonition. “Lock yourself in, and don’t answer the door for anyone.”
“Not even you?”
“I have the key; I have all the keys, in fact. Wish me luck,” he said, and without waiting for the wish opened the door and slid through.
I was left staring at the blank panels.
* * *
As if the muffled click of the lock had released a sense that had been long dormant, I had a clear and startling vision of my own conduct. Its enormity was appalling.
What I’d done during the first part of the night could be excused; but in the last sixty minutes—
I had been deliberately knocked for a loop, and the explanation offered had been a palpable lie; but I’d ignored the lie and persuaded myself that the rest was no more than an accident. I’d fought against instinct and longing to keep from throwing myself into the arms of a strange man. I’d not only seen violence and false imprisonment committed on someone else, but I had been accessory before and after the fact.
Cameron, I thought, you used to be a nice sensible girl. What does this make you?
Hurry, now, think of some more excuses. Fix up the assault and battery case, that’s the worst one. Its consequences haven’t come to light as yet—but they will, they will.
All right. Suppose that my wild conjecture about Bassett—the thing I had believed was in Barney’s mind—should be true. If you wrenched the facts about, they could be made to fit. He was the landlady’s nephew, he knew the house and its habits, he’d naturally be called in after his aunt’s “accident” and could be on the spot to confer with his hired thugs.
That would explain where the baby had been taken—on the day of the accident, as soon as the manager’s apartment was empty; that would be where the three kidnappers had been hiding all evening, because I knew they must have been somewhere in the house. It would clear up, too, his inexplicable support of Barney. Whether or not Bassett believed the private-detective story, he couldn’t afford to refuse Barney entry; better to pretend panic and let him in, and then keep him, all unsuspecting, under close observation. Above all, that would be the reason why Bassett also had tried to frighten me away before I could talk to anyone about the neighbors’ baby. He also knew how damaging a witness I could be.
H’m, that’s better. I can almost make myself think that he’s a desperate villain, and that it was socially correct to bop him one and lock him in a closet.
...This is none of I! Can this be our dependable Miss Ferris, mixed up in a melodrama with a quiet, subtle traitor known as the Cork? The Cork, who might be almost anyone, a Nob Hill socialite, or somebody at Caya’s—
While I’m working at impossibilities, I’ll think of Roger Tripp: Roger, who arranged this weekend for me in advance, who told me not to come back to the city until Monday, who had enough control of Caya’s system to have held up any number of defense orders: Roger, who was so obviously good and innocent that any seasoned detective-fan would automatically pick him as the murderer: who had not appeared at all tonight, thus fulfilling the Cork’s chief desire—to keep his own hands clean, his real identity undisclosed.
Those two theories were equally incredible.
Resolutely, I put the thought of Roger out of my mind. I had no doubt that he was as guiltless in this affair as the baby’s parents, but if I pictured him as innocent, inevitably I got round to conjecturing what he’d think about me if this fantastic business were ever made public.
Dear Mr. Tripp, I feel almost homesick for your kind solidity. I’m very sorry I was cross when you admonished me. You didn’t know the half of it, Mr. Tripp. You thought I would never choose an apartment that wasn’t respectable. You said I was too sensible to take up with strange men. Are you going to be startled!
Excuses weren’t any good, when I thought of that.
After awhile I walked slowly into the living room, and stood aimlessly looking about me. You know the way you feel when you’ve missed a train and they tell you there’ll be another one in about two hours? You have to wait; you can’t go home and start reading a book, because you might miss the next one too, so there you sit in the station with nothing to do but think over your past misdeeds.
The room, now that I was alone in it, looked just as bleak and impersonal as a railroad station. All the drama and excitement had gone, as if they had been sucked out the door in Barney’s wake. I hadn’t realized until then how compelling was the force of his personality. I’d been caught up by it, carried along—at first against my will, then, as my belief grew, in entire partisanship. He had worked hard to get me on his side, I thought; all that electric vitality, all that charm, turned on me alone.
Any woman will understand why I then went to look at myself in the mirror. Only one who has suffered from self-doubt, though, can know why I scrutinized my image so long and earnestly.
It didn’t look a bit like Loretta Young.
As an experiment, I let my hair down and left it hanging free to the shoulders. No, that didn’t help much; there was nothing in that rosy-cheeked and dark-browed reflection to drive strong men mad.
The deceiving voice inside me had gone to sleep, and the hard-headed, businesslike Miss Ferris was left in possession of the field. This Miss Ferris reflected somewhat grimly on the enthusiasm with which her alter ego had believed those six impossible things. It had been easy—almost too easy, because I’d wanted it so much.
Well, what did a girl do now? If excitement were really needed, I thought, I could always go next door and get tangled up with Mr. O’Shea.
Mr. O’Shea didn’t like my presence on this scene, not one little bit. And Barney—Barney had at once known the identity of the person on the platform. Maybe the violence of my fall had bee
n accidental. The fact remained that he’d pulled me down—not to save my life, but to keep me from seeing something that must remain hidden. All at once I was deadly certain of that. In spite of his partnership with Barney, I had a fairly shrewd idea of why O’Shea wanted to remain in the background of this evening’s events, and why he must disappear after his work was done. It was clear that none of the principals in this affair wanted the police on the scene. Probably I was the only person in this house who would have welcomed the sight of a blue uniform.
Even Mr. Bassett, anxious for the good name of his property, would not have called them if he could help it. Mr. Bassett, that cartoon figure with the mild, worried brown eyes and the unfortunate taste for Dutch courage—why, how could anyone imagine him as a master criminal, a gambler who staked his own freedom on the dubious chance of committing another crime and getting away with it?
“That’s ridiculous,” said the hard-headed Miss Ferris aloud, and stared at her reflection in the long mirror. Was I the girl who said she didn’t lie her way out of mistakes? This was almost as bad.
There have been plenty of lies told tonight, though, I reflected—and remembered how nearly I myself had been taken in by Barney’s incredibly convincing act, from the time I appeared in the door till the moment when I saw the note in the wastebasket. He’d said I gave him the cue myself; but with what speed he had turned it to his advantage! Quick thinking was of the essence in this affair. What was it Barney had said?—The Cork can deal with any situation, he knows just the right attitude to take with anyone he meets—H’m. That would almost fit Barney himself; from the beginning his manner had been a perfect blend of deference, courtesy, admiration. He knew just how far engaging effrontery could be carried. He knew exactly when to command and when to control himself—
In the last ten minutes, I told myself, I had worked up a case against three innocent persons, without a shred of proof. That came of late hours and too much thinking. Come on, Cameron, get into action. Get down your bags and unpack them.
That tall stepladder was the most unwieldy thing I’d ever tried to handle. Attempting to maneuver it in the narrow space of the kitchenette, I just missed a direct hit on the glass door of the cupboard. It hadn’t looked so heavy in Barney’s hands, I thought, setting it up in the hall and standing on one of the upper treads to lift the square boards from the scuttle hole.
When I dragged my large suitcase toward the opening, it scraped resoundingly on the boards. What made the room seem all at once so quiet? I stood with my head cocked for a moment, and then realized that the rain had ceased its drumming on the roof. This lull might in some measure mitigate the wild dark journey which at least four persons were making at this moment.
I tried to imagine it: the flare of yellow sodium lights on the Bay Bridge, the whine of tires on wet pavement, the damp cold of air striking through an open window. The rendezvous was to take place in a region of meadow land; for a moment it seemed that I actually saw rain-heavy grasses shining as the headlights swept across them.
They had taken the baby, Barney said; and then he’d vanished into the night, to offer some undefined help. Perhaps he was afraid that since Mr. Cleveland could no longer comply with the ransom demands, the kidnappers would discover the substitution of a worthless roll of film for the one which might have been such damning evidence. Then would something be withheld—on their side of the bargain?
I went cautiously to the big window and peered out at the side of the shade. Fog had come in on the heels of the rain, a thick mass gently shifted by the beginning of another wild wind which as yet was no more than a warning of gales to come. The alley was blurred with it, and between fog and darkness I could barely see the window of 4-B, where Colly O’Shea waited.
* * *
There must have been—I figured out later—a time when the street in front of El Central was empty. I was told that Peterson, from an upstairs window across the street, at no time lost sight of the front door of this building. Anyone who came out would at once have been sighted even in the feeble illumination of the foyer; but above the first floor the building was dimmed in fog. No one, unless he had been stationed directly below, could have heard the cautious opening of a window on the stair landing; and if a figure crept out—and upward—no one across the street could have distinguished dark clothing from a dirty gray background, nor have known which was stealthy movement of a person and which was the sullen shifting of mist. It must have happened then. There was no other time, no other way.
* * *
I bustled about in a housewifely manner, unpacking my bags and reflecting that Barney was not an expert in handling women’s clothing. He’d done his best to be careful, but when this night was over I could look forward to a long session with the ironing board. In return, I made a somewhat better job of folding his clothes, which had hung in the dressing room. They might have been left there for him to deal with, but the effect alongside my things was a bit too connubial. I laid his belongings temporarily in the battered Gladstone bag.
Half past three, said the hands of my eight-day traveling clock. Funny to think that it had kept ticking away in hiding, while I searched desperately for one sign to prove my identity.
In a moment I’d tackle the carton in which Barney had placed my pillows and pictures; it was still up in the attic. Allowing myself a moment’s relaxation, I lit a cigarette and stood idly contemplating my handiwork in the dressing room. Should I unpack my bags entirely or leave them here in readiness for a move back to the girls’ club?
The cigarette brushed against the sleeve of a hanging garment, and the live coal, broken off, fell into the open maw of the Gladstone.
In the sort of panic that always accompanies this particular fire hazard, I scrambled among Barney’s belongings. The coal must have gone clear to the bottom; I up-ended the bag ruthlessly, and dumped out a motley collection of objects, including a piece of the lining. As I found the coal and stamped on it, I observed that the inner bottom of the bag had been loose anyway. What a way to travel, with your luggage falling to pieces.
And now the things all had to be replaced. I discarded the shirt cardboards, stacked the clean handkerchiefs neatly in a pocket, and wadded the crumpled ones together. A small object had slid under the shelf, and I reached for it.
It was of tin, heavy, smooth and rectangular. I crouched there among the scattered garments, staring at the printing on the cover. An ink-pad, the kind you use for stamping—
I didn’t need to open it. I knew the ink was purple.
The false bottom of the bag; a pad such as this, an uncommon object for anyone to carry around; the notes that had borne the initial C, in purple; all these things crowded together in my mind, and the hand that held the tin box was suddenly cold.
The other things went back into the Gladstone bag in a methodical hurry. I fingered each one as I put it in, but there was no rubber stamp among them. Only one more suspicious object was there: a clip of cartridges for an automatic pistol.
Now, look here, I said to myself, there may be a natural explanation for this. I don’t know that the pad was hidden beneath the loose bottom, it might have fallen out of a pocket. Suppose he’d found it in the kidnappers’ apartment, when he went in with O’Shea? Had there been some remark about a treasure trove down the cracks of a sofa? A careful search might have uncovered just such a bit of evidence as this.
But he didn’t show it to me. He said nothing about it.
Well, why should he? I believed his story without this kind of proof. Maybe he’d slipped it into the pocket of the leather jacket he was wearing, and forgot about it until he dressed to go out.
—There’s another motif that’s been running through this whole affair: The Cork takes care to be plausible, everything that he did up to the time of the murder had a simple natural explanation—
I got up stiffly, and after a moment’s thought replaced the ink-pad under the loose bottom of the bag. There was an easy way out of this perplexity
. When Barney came back, I could ask him.
I’ve never had any patience with the ladies in the old songs, who would cast off a swain and never speak to him again because they’d seen him out with another woman. If they’d had sense enough to inquire, the woman would have turned out to be the swain’s sister. Figuratively, I could demand, “Who was that lady I seen you with last night?” and—and see if his story satisfied me.
Why, how could I condemn him, how could I jump to such a conclusion after the time we’d passed together? I liked him—
Once more hard common sense spoke to me. It said, “You believe what you want to believe.”
It would all fit! He tried to get rid of me, too, and then when he found I’d seen the baby he told me I couldn’t go; but he kept me by a subtler method than lying in wait at the mouth of a dark alley. If Barney were the hunted instead of the hunter, he could have told me the whole story, in the very words he had used, knowing that I could check up on it later. It was all true, except for a little matter of identity; and what surer way of disarming me could he have found?
(Don’t think it; you trusted him; said the treacherous inner voice, coming strongly to the fore.)
Between the two voices, and the confusion of my thoughts, I was in a whirling void of indecision; but the very measure of my doubt reminded me of how little I knew about this man, and how much he had asked me to accept on his word alone.
I’d bought it, sight unseen.
TEN
Suitable for Framing
I DON’T KNOW HOW long I stood there, nervously swinging the door of the dressing room back and forth. Closed, it showed me myself in the mirror; open, only the bleak emptiness of the hall. Once I started and looked up at the open square of the scuttle hole, willing to believe that I’d heard the crunch of footsteps, stealthily crossing the roof; but I decided that it was only imagination. Everyone was gone. I went back to my aimless swinging of the door.
My mind flicked back and forth in much the same way. Now I looked at an illusion, now into a hard and empty vista. By a simple act of will, either could seem the only reality; but the story, the background, was as solid between them as a panel of wood.
The 9 Dark Hours Page 12