CHAPTER IV
It was after four when Mr. Holcombe had finished going over the room.I offered to make both the gentlemen some tea, for Mr. Pitman had beenan Englishman, and I had got into the habit of having a cup in theafternoon, with a cracker or a bit of bread. But they refused. Mr.Howell said he had promised to meet a lady, and to bring her throughthe flooded district in a boat. He shook hands with me, and smiled atMr. Holcombe.
"You will have to restrain his enthusiasm, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "Heis a bloodhound on the scent. If his baying gets on your nerves, justsend for me." He went down the stairs and stepped into the boat."Remember, Holcombe," he called, "every well-constituted murder hastwo things: a motive and a corpse. You haven't either, only a mass ofpiffling details--"
"If everybody waited until he saw flames, instead of relying on thetestimony of the smoke," Mr. Holcombe snapped, "what would the fireloss be?"
Mr. Howell poled his boat to the front door, and sitting down,prepared to row out.
"You are warned, Mrs. Pitman," he called to me. "If he doesn't find abody to fit the clues, he's quite capable of making one to fill thedemand."
"Horn--" said Mr. Holcombe, looking at the slip again. "The tail ofthe 'n' is torn off--evidently only part of a word. Hornet, Horning,Horner--Mrs. Pitman, will you go with me to the police station?"
I was more than anxious to go. In fact, I could not bear the idea ofstaying alone in the house, with heaven only knows what concealedin the depths of that muddy flood. I got on my wraps again, and Mr.Holcombe rowed me out. Peter plunged into the water to follow, and hadto be sent back. He sat on the lower step and whined. Mr. Holcombethrew him another piece of liver, but he did not touch it.
We rowed to the corner of Robinson Street and Federal--it was beforeFederal Street was raised above the flood level--and left the boat incharge of a boy there. And we walked to the police station. On the wayMr. Holcombe questioned me closely about the events of the morning,and I recalled the incident of the burned pillow-slip. He made a noteof it at once, and grew very thoughtful.
He left me, however, at the police station. "I'd rather not appear inthis, Mrs. Pitman," he said apologetically, "and I think better alongmy own lines. Not that I have anything against the police; they'vedone some splendid work. But this case takes imagination, and thepolice department deals with facts. We have no facts yet. What weneed, of course, is to have the man detained until we are sure of ourcase."
He lifted his hat and turned away, and I went slowly up the steps tothe police station. Living, as I had, in a neighborhood where thepolice, like the poor, are always with us, and where the visits ofthe patrol wagon are one of those familiar sights that no amountof repetition enabled any of us to treat with contempt, I wasuncomfortable until I remembered that my grandfather had been one ofthe first mayors of the city, and that, if the patrol had been at myhouse more than once, the entire neighborhood would testify that myboarders were usually orderly.
At the door some one touched me on the arm. It was Mr. Holcombe again.
"I have been thinking it over," he said, "and I believe you'd betternot mention the piece of paper that you found behind the wash-stand.They might say the whole thing is a hoax."
"Very well," I agreed, and went in.
The police sergeant in charge knew me at once, having stopped at myhouse more than once in flood-time for a cup of hot coffee.
"Sit down, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "I suppose you are still making thebest coffee and doughnuts in the city of Allegheny? Well, what's thetrouble in your district? Want an injunction against the river fortrespass?"
"The river has brought me a good bit of trouble," I said. "I'm--I'mworried, Mr. Sergeant. I think a woman from my house has beenmurdered, but I don't know."
"Murdered," he said, and drew up his chair. "Tell me about it."
I told him everything, while he sat back with his eyes half closed,and his fingers beating a tattoo on the arm of his chair.
When I finished he got up and went into an inner room. He came back ina moment.
"I want you to come in and tell that to the chief," he said, and ledthe way.
All told, I repeated my story three times that afternoon, to thesergeant, to the chief of police, and the third time to both theothers and two detectives.
The second time the chief made notes of what I said.
"Know this man Ladley?" he asked the others. None of them did, butthey all knew of Jennie Brice, and some of them had seen her in thetheater.
"Get the theater, Tom," the chief said to one of the detectives.
Luckily, what he learned over the telephone from the theatercorroborated my story. Jennie Brice was not in the cast that week, butshould have reported that morning (Monday) to rehearse the next week'spiece. No message had been received from her, and a substitute hadbeen put in her place.
The chief hung up the receiver and turned to me. "You are sure aboutthe clock, Mrs. Pitman?" he asked. "It was there when they movedup-stairs to the room?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are certain you will not find it on the parlor mantel when thewater goes down?"
"The mantels are uncovered now. It is not there."
"You think Ladley has gone for good?"
"Yes, sir."
"He'd be a fool to try to run away, unless--Graves, you'd better gethold of the fellow, and keep him until either the woman is found or abody. The river is falling. In a couple of days we will know if she isaround the premises anywhere."
Before I left, I described Jennie Brice for them carefully. Asked whatshe probably wore, if she had gone away as her husband said, I had noidea; she had a lot of clothes, and dressed a good bit. But I recalledthat I had seen, lying on the bed, the black and white dress with thered collar, and they took that down, as well as the brown valise.
The chief rose and opened the door for me himself. "If she actuallyleft town at the time you mention," he said, "she ought not to be hardto find. There are not many trains before seven in the morning, andmost of them are locals."
"And--and if she did not, if he--do you think she is in thehouse--or--or--the cellar?"
"Not unless Ladley is more of a fool than I think he is," he said,smiling. "Personally, I believe she has gone away, as he says she did.But if she hasn't--He probably took the body with him when he said hewas getting medicine, and dropped it in the current somewhere. But wemust go slow with all this. There's no use shouting 'wolf' yet."
"But--the towel?"
"He may have cut himself, shaving. It _has_ been done."
"And the knife?"
He shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.
"I've seen a perfectly good knife spoiled opening a bottle ofpickles."
"But the slippers? And the clock?"
"My good woman, enough shoes and slippers are forgotten in the bottomsof cupboards year after year in flood-time, and are found floatingaround the streets, to make all the old-clothesmen in town happy. Ihave seen almost everything floating about, during one of these annualfloods."
"I dare say you never saw an onyx clock floating around," I replied alittle sharply. I had no sense of humor that day. He stopped smilingat once, and stood tugging at his mustache.
"No," he admitted. "An onyx clock sinks, that's true. That's a verynice little point, that onyx clock. He may be trying to sell it, orperhaps--" He did not finish.
I went back immediately, only stopping at the market to get meat forMr. Reynolds' supper. It was after half past five and dusk was comingon. I got a boat and was rowed directly home. Peter was not at thefoot of the steps. I paid the boatman and let him go, and turned to goup the stairs. Some one was speaking in the hall above.
I have read somewhere that no two voices are exactly alike, just as notwo violins ever produce precisely the same sound. I think it is whatthey call the timbre that is different. I have, for instance, neverheard a voice like Mr. Pitman's, although Mr. Harry Lauder's in aphonograph resembles it. And voices have always done for me what odorsdo for some peop
le, revived forgotten scenes and old memories. But thememory that the voice at the head of the stairs brought back was notvery old, although I had forgotten it. I seemed to hear again, all atonce, the lapping of the water Sunday morning as it began to come inover the door-sill; the sound of Terry ripping up the parlor carpet,and Mrs. Ladley calling me a she-devil in the next room, in reply tothis very voice.
But when I got to the top of the stairs, it was only Mr. Howell, whohad brought his visitor to the flood district, and on getting hersplashed with the muddy water, had taken her to my house for a toweland a cake of soap.
I lighted the lamp in the hall, and Mr. Howell introduced the girl.She was a pretty girl, slim and young, and she had taken her wettinggood-naturedly.
"I know we are intruders, Mrs. Pitman," she said, holding out herhand. "Especially now, when you are in trouble."
"I have told Miss Harvey a little," Mr. Howell said, "and I promisedto show her Peter, but he is not here."
I think I had known it was my sister's child from the moment I lightedthe lamp. There was something of Alma in her, not Alma's hardness orhaughtiness, but Alma's dark blue eyes with black lashes, and Alma'snose. Alma was always the beauty of the family. What with the day'sexcitement, and seeing Alma's child like this, in my house, I feltthings going round and clutched at the stair-rail. Mr. Howell caughtme.
"Why, Mrs. Pitman!" he said. "What's the matter?"
I got myself in hand in a moment and smiled at the girl.
"Nothing at all," I said. "Indigestion, most likely. Too much tea thelast day or two, and not enough solid food. I've been too anxious toeat."
Lida--for she was that to me at once, although I had never seen herbefore--Lida was all sympathy and sweetness. She actually asked me togo with her to a restaurant and have a real dinner. I could imagineAlma, had she known! But I excused myself.
"I have to cook something for Mr. Reynolds," I said, "and I'm betternow, anyhow, thank you. Mr. Howell, may I speak to you for a moment?"
He followed me along the back hall, which was dusk.
"I have remembered something that I had forgotten, Mr. Howell," Isaid. "On Sunday morning, the Ladleys had a visitor."
"Yes?"
"They had very few visitors."
"I see."
"I did not see him, but--I heard his voice." Mr. Howell did not move,but I fancied he drew his breath in quickly. "It sounded--it was notby any chance _you_?"
"I? A newspaper man, who goes to bed at three A.M. on Sunday morning,up and about at ten!"
"I didn't say what time it was," I said sharply.
But at that moment Lida called from the front hall.
"I think I hear Peter," she said. "He is shut in somewhere, whining."
We went forward at once. She was right. Peter was scratching at thedoor of Mr. Ladley's room, although I had left the door closed andPeter in the hall. I let him out, and he crawled to me on three legs,whimpering. Mr. Howell bent over him and felt the fourth.
"Poor little beast!" he said. "His leg is broken!"
He made a splint for the dog, and with Lida helping, they put him tobed in a clothes-basket in my up-stairs kitchen. It was easy to seehow things lay with Mr. Howell. He was all eyes for her: he madeexcuses to touch her hand or her arm--little caressing touchesthat made her color heighten. And with it all, there was a sort ofhopelessness in his manner, as if he knew how far the girl was out ofhis reach. Knowing Alma and her pride, I knew better than they howhopeless it was.
I was not so sure about Lida. I wondered if she was in love with theboy, or only in love with love. She was very young, as I had been. Godhelp her, if, like me, she sacrificed everything, to discover, toolate, that she was only in love with love!
The Case of Jennie Brice Page 4