Lady in Peril

by Ben Ames Williams

  Hagan stared at him with lowered brows. He shook his head as though to clear his vision. “I figured you’d be on my side,” he said morosely. “I ought to run you in, old man. Accessory after the fact . . .”

  Tope interposed. “You talk too much, Inspector,” he objected, in a wholly respectful tone. “You talk too much, and you don’t think enough. You know everything I know, as far as facts go; so there’s no accessory business about this. The trouble with you is, you’re thinking about who killed Doctor Canter, and you can’t see anything else.”

  “What else is there to see?” Hagan protested; and these others here listened with a grave attention. Young Clint was near the door, watching them all, twitching at his lip with his finger. Miss Moss was attentive and composed; only now and then she rubbed the back of one gloved hand with the palm of the other, as though smoothing the nap upon the suede. Hammond had come to Lola’s side, stood by her there as though protectingly. Her glowing beauty was like a radiance in the room. And:

  “What else is there to see?” Hagan cried.

  “So much!” Tope exclaimed. “A thousand things! Man, when there’s a murder, the world doesn’t stop moving. There are always a lot of things, little happenings, running down the chutes of time, like a wheat elevator. And a murder is just one of them, like a lump of coal in the wheat. You may miss seeing the lump of coal; but if you look over all the grains of wheat, you’ll find some that are smutted up with coal dust, and some that are bruised and scratched by the lump, and so on.”

  He hesitated, smiled, said like a dreaming old man: “Why, in the old days, when I had your job, I never spent much time trying to find out what folks did before the killing, or while it was going on. I was always watching to see what they’d do afterwards. Throw a rock in water, and the waves keep rippling for a long time. I remember once there was a shooting, and no telling who did it. One of the men that knew the dead man moved away, two years after. I kept track of him, and I used to look him up, once in a while. One day a door slammed in the wind, right behind him, and he jumped; and he turned pale and sweated too. Anybody might jump at a sudden noise like that; but he turned white besides. So I arrested him, and it was him.”

  Hagan insisted harshly: “If this girl hadn’t been a friend of yours, I’d . . .”

  But Tope urged: “Don’t be too quick at arresting people, Hagan. A policeman only has two kinds of people that he ought to arrest. One is the kind he’s sure are guilty; because they deserve it. And the other is the kind he’s sure are innocent and sure they can prove it, because it won’t hurt them, and it may make the guilty man careless if someone else is arrested. You don’t know about Miss Jervis, one way or the other. Till you do, let her alone.”

  But Hagan said grimly: “Watch me!” He looked at Clint and Miss Moss for a moment. “You two,” he directed. “You go home! I’ll know where to look for you.”

  Clint moved as though in relief; but Miss Moss demurred. “I’d like to make one suggestion, if you please,” she remarked.

  “What’s that?”

  “There was an actor,” said the woman steadily. “On the stage with young Mr. Hews. One of the principals. He was the other gangster . . .”

  Hammond suggested: “Max Urbin?”

  “If you’ll send for him,” Miss Moss proposed, “I’d like to ask him a question or two.”

  Hagan hesitated; but there was something in this woman which compelled respect and even obedience. So a moment later Urbin appeared in the door of this small room. He was, in this light, an old man; one of those good troupers who have trod the boards for years, and never had a big part, and never had a small one. One of those old adepts of the stage who can do any bit of business and do it well. He faced them gravely now; and Hammond said reassuringly:

  “Hello, Max.”

  Urbin nodded: “You back, Walter? Man, you gave Madison a job to do tonight!”

  “Sorry,” Hammond said; and Hagan interrupted impatiently:

  “Urbin, this lady’s got something she wants to ask you . . .”

  The old actor bowed to Miss Moss; his smile was amiable. And she said precisely: “Just this, Mr. Urbin. You and Mr. Hews made your exit together, in the second act.”

  “Yes.”

  “You stepped into the elevator, out of sight. Did you stay there while the machine guns were going?”

  Urban shook his head. “They shoot dummy bullets in those guns, madam,” he explained. “Paper wads. They would hurt a man if they hit him; so when we go off, we step out of the way before the shooting starts.”

  “Did you do that tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mr. Hews with you?”

  “Yes:”

  “And you did not come on again? Your part in the performance was done?”

  “Why, yes,” he said. “None of us appear again except Mat. He lies down in the elevator, after the fusillade, so Miss Ransom can be appropriately grief-stricken over his supposed corpse. And then of course it turns out that he’s only wounded, and he recovers later on.”

  “But it is some time,” she suggested, “between his exit and his reappearance in this passive role.”

  He reflected: “It is only about half a minute, I should think.”

  “What did you and he do during that half minute tonight?” Miss Moss asked; and Urbin chuckled.

  “I lit a cigarette,” he confessed, with a grin at Inspector Hagan. “Fire laws don’t always hold, back stage, you know, Inspector. And Mat took a drag, too; and by that time, the shooting was over and it was time for him to lie down and play dead.”

  “So he was with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Moss looked at Inspector Hagan. “Then it wasn’t he,” she pointed out.

  But Hagan cried: “I never said he did it! It’s the girl . . .”

  Miss Moss smiled. “You’re absurd!” she told him. “I’m quite sure about Clara; and now of course I’m equally sure about him!”

  “Just the same,” said Hagan, “I’ll be glad to see them bring her in.” He stood baffled for a moment; he said then: “Where do you live? Where does she live? Let’s have your addresses.”

  Miss Moss quietly gave him the street and number; he set them down. “All right,” he repeated then. “Go home, and stay around till I want you; and if you hear from the girl, tell her she’ll save trouble by turning herself in.”

  “I’ll tell her nothing of the kind,” Miss Moss retorted; and his face was black with wrath, but he only shook his head.

  “Suit yourself,” he muttered. “Anyway, get out of here!”

  So Inspector Tope and Miss Moss and Clint turned to go. When they all emerged from the dressing room into the corridor, Madison, the stage manager, buttonholed the Inspector. The man was frowning with his own importance.

  “I thought you’d want this, Inspector,” he suggested. “Here’s a list of the cast, and the stage hands, and electricians. Everyone who was back stage. And Inspector, there are reporters out front. Luther—he’s our press agent—is there with them, but they want to see you.”

  Hagan took the sheets of paper Madison handed him, and looked at them and scratched his head. “Well, we’ll have to check them all,” he confessed. “But it’s the Jervis girl, I guess!”

  “Miss Jervis?” Madison exclaimed in astonishment. Tope saw Kay Ransom listening a little to one side; saw the quick turn of her head. Then he himself spoke to Madison.

  “No,” he told the man. “Inspector Hagan didn’t mean that. He wants to see Miss Jervis, that’s all.”

  And Hagan lamely confirmed this. “That’s right. I just want to talk to her,” he declared.

  Then Clint touched Hagan’s elbow. “Inspector, may Miss Ransom go with us now?” he suggested. “Kay, I’ll see you home.”

  Hagan looked at the girl appraisingly; but before he could speak Kay said: “Heavens, I’m not ready to go yet, with all this excitement! Besides, the Inspector hasn’t cross-examined me!”

  Cli
nt protested: “You don’t know anything about this.”

  But she retorted: “Is that so, my dear? Well, let me tell you, when I get a chance to make the headlines . . . ‘Beautiful Ingénue Gives Clew to Murder!’ I refuse to go until I’ve told him everything!” She drawled the last word impressively.

  Hagan stared at her, and Clint drew her angrily aside; and then Hammond asked: “What about Miss Cyr and myself, Inspector?”

  Hagan indifferently nodded, still watching Kay yonder. “You can go, too,” he said. “Where do you live?” But when Hammond gave him the address, his interest quickened. “Hello!” he exclaimed, and he looked at Miss Moss. “You’re both the same!”

  “It’s an apartment building,” Hammond explained. “I’ve lodged there during the run of the show.”

  Hagan considered this for a moment wearily. “All right,” he said then. “You can go along.” And he asked Madison: “Where are the reporters?”

  “Out front.”

  “You folks dodge them,” Hagan directed. “Keep your mouths shut. Any talking to be done, I’ll do it. Go out the back way.”

  Lola suggested: “I must dress. My clothes are in my dressing room.”

  The Inspector shook his head. “You can put on a coat over what you’ve got on,” he decided. “One of my men will fetch it. I don’t want that room touched yet, till I can give it a going over. Finger prints, maybe.”

  Miss Moss said smilingly: “You won’t find any finger prints, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?” he asked truculently; and she told him:

  “Because young Mat Hews wiped them all off with his handkerchief. At the same time he took the gun!”

  She delivered this bomb shell in a tone completely matter of fact; but it left Hagan speechless. Then with no other words she turned and walked away from him. Inspector Tope chuckled, and he drew up beside her. Hagan stared after them; he made one step to follow. Then he shook his head hopelessly and turned away.

  Clint overtook them at the stage door—alone; and to Inspector Tope’s inquiring glance he said miserably:

  “She isn’t coming!”

  Tope asked gravely: “Can she tell him anything he doesn’t know?”

  “I don’t see how,” Clint insisted. “If she can, I don’t know what it is.” And he added in a sick regret: “I sort of liked Kay.”

  Miss Moss slipped her arm through his, reassuringly. “Don’t be too hard on her, Clint,” she suggested. “She is very young.” He nodded, and her eyes met those of Inspector Tope. She saw the surprise in his countenance. He had thought she did not like Kay, was surprised that she should defend the girl now. She read his thoughts and smiled at his masculine blindness. Then they said good night to Peterson at the stage door and stepped into the narrow passage outside. A flashlight flared in their very faces; and when their eyes recovered from the glare, Tope saw a group of half a dozen men here confronting them.

  He spoke in an amused and friendly tone. “Hello, boys,” he said. “We had orders to keep away from you! Thought you were out front!”

  Young Charlie Harquail was here. He exclaimed: “You, Tope? Have they called you in?”

  “I was in the audience,” Inspector Tope explained. “Miss Moss, this is Charlie Harquail, an old friend of mine. He’s on the Journal. And these other gentlemen. Hello, Dankert. Hello, Gail. And this is Clint Jervis, gentlemen.”

  Charlie Harquail was the spokesman for them all. “What’s the dope, Inspector?” he asked. “What have they got?”

  “What have you got?” Tope countered.

  “Why, we know the dead man is Doctor Canter; know he was killed in Miss Cyr’s dressing room. How does it look to you, Inspector? Any line?”

  Inspector Tope wagged his head. “Why, boys,” he said, “I’m retired. It’s not my business, now. Hagan’s on the job; you’ll have to talk to him.”

  “What do you think?” Charlie urged.

  Tope pretested: “Now, Charlie, you know I never was a hand to say what I think. I only say a thing when I know it. But I’ll tell you what Hagan thinks if that’s any good to you.” He looked toward Miss Moss in the shadows there for her dissent, but she made no sign; so he said calmly: “Hagan thinks Miss Jervis shot Canter. Clara Jervis. This young fellow is her brother. Miss Moss here is a sort of guardian . . .”

  “A girl?” Charlie cried eagerly. “Where is she?”

  “She and young Hews—you remember him, in the show, Charlie—they’ve gone,” said Tope.

  “Run away?”

  “Well, they may not have run,” the old man said, in a droll tone. “But that’s Hagan’s idea! Anyway, they’re gone.”

  The reporters stared uncertainly; he was so completely casual and unconcerned. Then Charlie Harquail asked Miss Moss: “Is that so? What do you say about it?”

  Miss Moss said smilingly: “I enjoyed watching Inspector Hagan’s mental processes. He seems a most determined man.”

  And Tope told her with a chuckle: “The boys all know Hagan! The Inspector works hard, and he does the best he can. Good night, son. Good night, boys.”

  So he left them laughing at his words. He had dismissed Hagan’s theories with such a friendly, sympathetic smile. Tope called a taxicab and he and Miss Moss and Clint got in and drove away.

  But then Clint leaned toward the old man, half-puzzled, half-angry. “What did you tell them for, Inspector?” he protested. “Now there’ll be another splash in the papers; another dirty scandal.”

  Tope looked at Miss Moss, smilingly; and she explained to Clint.

  “They’d have found out about Clara and Mat anyway,” she pointed out. “But if they got it from Hagan, or dug it up themselves, they’d take it seriously. As long as they saw that Inspector Tope and I laughed at it, they’ll go easy on Clara; maybe laugh at Hagan a little bit themselves.”

  And Tope added wisely: “I’ve had a lot to do with newspaper men in my time, son. I always found it paid to tell them things—if they were bound to find out anyway.” Clint nodded his doubtful understanding; and for a while they rode in silence. Then the young man confessed unhappily: “Just the same, I’d like to know where Clara was tonight, during that second act, after she left me.”

  Miss Moss said gravely: “I feel sure she spoke to Doctor Canter!” And at Clint’s ejaculation she explained: “Clara is headstrong, with a hot, reckless temper. She would pass the door of Miss Cyr’s dressing room, in going across the back of the stage. If the door were open, she might see him; and if she did, she would surely go in. How long was it, Clint, that she was gone?”

  “Five minutes, maybe ten,” he said. “I don’t think she left me till after Hammond and Miss Cyr went on. After that there’s a scene between Hammond and Urbin; and then the guns; and then the police; and then Hammond and Miss Cyr come off. When it was time for Hammond’s next entrance—it wasn’t long—they missed him; and it was after that I started to hunt for Clara.”

  For a while then they said no more. The hour was late, the streets deserted, the night was chill and cold. Inspector Tope looked once or twice at the woman by his side. Seated here, somehow relaxed, she wore no longer that aspect of assurance and composure which was her habit; rather she was suddenly small, and soft and fragile, and he said awkwardly:

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re pretty tired. So much going on; so late and all.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she assured him. “I don’t feel tired. Perhaps I am, without knowing it. I’m trying to think this out.”

  He nodded soberly. “A thing like this takes hold of you,” he assented. “You dream it at night and think it all day, and there’s nothing but confusion in it, till all of a sudden it falls into line, all clear.”

  “I shall want to talk with you tomorrow,” she suggested. “To talk it over, from the beginning.” And she added after a moment: “Something you said tonight; you said you told Mat to take Clara away. Was that true?”

  The old man chuckled. “Mat couldn’t swea
r to it,” he assured her. “But—I’d watched them. A blind man could see how it is with them.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “When we came back stage,” Tope explained, “I told him that she’d lied to Hagan. That is, I told him what she said. Hews would know it was a lie; and he’d know she’d get in trouble by it. I thought he’d do something about it if he could; maybe get her away and give her a chance to calm down.”

  “They’ll be back, of course,” Miss Moss murmured. “Certain,” he assented.

  “But I wish I knew,” she reflected, half to herself. “I’ve never had a daughter of my own, of course. But Clara’s been—like one, in my heart, always.”

  Tope said reassuringly: “Oh, she’ll be fine!”

  So they came home, and alighted all together, and paused for a moment between the curb and the door of the lobby; and Tope remarked: “A raw, ugly night.”

  “Yes.” She stood thoughtfully.

  Clint, with an instinctive courtesy, moved away from them, waited by the door; and Tope asked Miss Moss: “Anything worrying you? Anything I can do?”

  She hesitated, said at last in a slow passion: “I feel that this is—our concern, Inspector. That we ought to help. We must find the truth, somehow!” She whispered, shaken: “It hits so close home to me.”

  “It will straighten out,” he promised.

  “I want to have a hand in it,” she insisted. “But Inspector Hagan is—hostile. He doesn’t accept suggestions.”

  “That’s so,” Tope agreed. “Hagan doesn’t want any—helping. But ma’am,” he suggested, “we can take a hand. I’ll get hold of Dave Howell. He’ll want to check up on this business tonight; see if he can hook it up with Peace, anyway. We can work through Dave.”

  Her head lifted in a quick attention, but before she could speak, another taxicab stopped beside them, and Hammond and Lola Cyr alighted. Tope could see the silver gleam of the woman’s turban; the warmth of her beauty for a moment filled the night about them. Hammond paid off the cab, and these two looked at Tope and Miss Moss for a moment, hesitantly. Then Hammond touched Lola’s arm and with only a nod of greeting they crossed the sidewalk, passed Clint, went inside.