The Case of Jennie Brice

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER VIII

  That was Friday afternoon. All that evening, and most of Saturday andSunday, Mr. Holcombe sat on the floor, with his eye to the reflectingmirror and his note-book beside him. I have it before me.

  On the first page is the "dog meat--two dollars" entry. On the next,the description of what occurred on Sunday night, March fourth, andMonday morning, the fifth. Following that came a sketch, made with acarbon sheet, of the torn paper found behind the wash-stand:

  And then came the entries for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Fridayevening:

  6:30--Eating hearty supper.

  7:00--Lights cigarette and paces floor. Notice that when Mrs. P.knocks, he goes to desk and pretends to be writing.

  8:00--Is examining book. Looks like a railway guide.

  8:30--It is a steamship guide.

  8:45--Tailor's boy brings box. Gives boy fifty cents. Query. Wheredoes he get money, now that J.B. is gone?

  9:00--Tries on new suit, brown.

  9:30--Has been spending a quarter of an hour on his knees lookingbehind furniture and examining base-board.

  10:00--He has the key to the onyx clock. Has hidden it twice, once upthe chimney flue, once behind base-board.

  10:15--He has just thrown key or similar small article outside windowinto yard.

  11:00--Has gone to bed. Light burning. Shall sleep here on floor.

  11:30--He can not sleep. Is up walking the floor and smoking.

  2:00 A.M.--Saturday. Disturbance below. He had had nightmare and wascalling "Jennie!" He got up, took a drink, and is now reading.

  8:00 A.M.--Must have slept. He is shaving.

  12:00 M.--Nothing this morning. He wrote for four hours, sometimesreading aloud what he had written.

  2:00 P.M.--He has a visitor, a man. Can not hear all--word now andthen. "Llewellyn is the very man." "Devil of a risk--" "We'll see youthrough." "Lost the slip--" "Didn't go to the hotel. She went to aprivate house." "Eliza Shaeffer."

  Who went to a private house? Jennie Brice?

  2:30--Can not hear. Are whispering. The visitor has given Ladley rollof bills.

  4:00--Followed the visitor, a tall man with a pointed beard. He wentto the Liberty Theater. Found it was Bronson, business manager there.Who is Llewellyn, and who is Eliza Shaeffer?

  4:15--Had Mrs. P. bring telephone book: six Llewellyns in the book; noEliza Shaeffer. Ladley appears more cheerful since Bronson's visit. Hehas bought all the evening papers and is searching for something. Hasnot found it.

  7:00--Ate well. Have asked Mrs. P. to take my place here, while Iinterview the six Llewellyns.

  11:00--Mrs. P. reports a quiet evening. He read and smoked. Has goneto bed. Light burning. Saw five Llewellyns. None of them knew Bronsonor Ladley. Sixth--a lawyer--out at revival meeting. Went to the churchand walked home with him. He knows something. Acknowledged he knewBronson. Had met Ladley. Did not believe Mrs. Ladley dead. RegrettedI had not been to the meeting. Good sermon. Asked me for a dollar formissions.

  9:00 A.M.--Sunday. Ladley in bad shape. Apparently been drinking allnight. Can not eat. Sent out early for papers, and has searched themall. Found entry on second page, stared at it, then flung the paperaway. Have sent out for same paper.

  10:00 A.M.--Paper says: "Body of woman washed ashore yesterday atSewickley. Much mutilated by flood debris." Ladley in bed, staring atceiling. Wonder if he sees tube? He is ghastly.

  That is the last entry in the note-book for that day. Mr. Holcombecalled me in great excitement shortly after ten and showed me theitem. Neither of us doubted for a moment that it was Jennie Brice whohad been found. He started for Sewickley that same afternoon, and heprobably communicated with the police before he left. For once ortwice I saw Mr. Graves, the detective, sauntering past the house.

  Mr. Ladley ate no dinner. He went out at four, and I had Mr. Reynoldsfollow him. But they were both back in a half-hour. Mr. Reynoldsreported that Mr. Ladley had bought some headache tablets and somebromide powders to make him sleep.

  Mr. Holcombe came back that evening. He thought the body was that ofJennie Brice, but the head was gone. He was much depressed, and didnot immediately go back to the periscope. I asked if the head had beencut off or taken off by a steamer; he was afraid the latter, as a handwas gone, too.

  It was about eleven o'clock that night that the door-bell rang. It wasMr. Graves, with a small man behind him. I knew the man; he lived in ashanty-boat not far from my house--a curious affair with shelvesfull of dishes and tinware. In the spring he would be towed upthe Monongahela a hundred miles or so and float down, tying up atdifferent landings and selling his wares. Timothy Senft was his name.We called him Tim.

  Mr. Graves motioned me to be quiet. Both of us knew that behind theparlor door Ladley was probably listening.

  "Sorry to get you up, Mrs. Pitman," said Mr. Graves, "but this mansays he has bought beer here to-day. That won't do, Mrs. Pitman."

  "Beer! I haven't such a thing in the house. Come in and look," Isnapped. And the two of them went back to the kitchen.

  "Now," said Mr. Graves, when I had shut the door, "where's thedog's-meat man?"

  "Up-stairs."

  "Bring him quietly."

  I called Mr. Holcombe, and he came eagerly, note-book and all. "Ah!"he said, when he saw Tim. "So you've turned up!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "It seems, Mr. Dog's--Mr. Holcombe," said Mr. Graves, "that you areright, partly, anyhow. Tim here _did_ help a man with a boat thatnight--"

  "Threw him a rope, sir," Tim broke in. "He'd got out in the current,and what with the ice, and his not knowing much about a boat, he'dhave kept on to New Orleans if I hadn't caught him--or Kingdom Come."

  "Exactly. And what time did you say this was?"

  "Between three and four last Sunday night--or Monday morning. He saidhe couldn't sleep and went out in a boat, meaning to keep in close toshore. But he got drawn out in the current."

  "Where did you see him first?"

  "By the Ninth Street bridge."

  "Did you hail him?"

  "He saw my light and hailed me. I was making fast to a coal bargeafter one of my ropes had busted."

  "You threw the line to him there?"

  "No, sir. He tried to work in to shore. I ran along River Avenue tobelow the Sixth Street bridge. He got pretty close in there and Ithrew him a rope. He was about done up."

  "Would you know him again?"

  "Yes, sir. He gave me five dollars, and said to say nothing about it.He didn't want anybody to know he had been such a fool."

  They took him quietly up stairs then and let him look through theperiscope. _He identified Mr. Ladley absolutely_.

  When Tim and Mr. Graves had gone, Mr. Holcombe and I were left alonein the kitchen. Mr. Holcombe leaned over and patted Peter as he lay inhis basket.

  "We've got him, old boy," he said. "The chain is just about complete.He'll never kick you again."

  But Mr. Holcombe was wrong, not about kicking Peter,--although I don'tbelieve Mr. Ladley ever did that again,--but in thinking we had him.

  I washed that next morning, Monday, but all the time I was rubbing andstarching and hanging out, my mind was with Jennie Brice. The sight ofMolly Maguire, next door, at the window, rubbing and brushing at thefur coat, only made things worse.

  At noon when the Maguire youngsters came home from school, I bribedTommy, the youngest, into the kitchen, with the promise of a doughnut.

  "I see your mother has a new fur coat," I said, with the plate ofdoughnuts just beyond his reach.

  "Yes'm."

  "She didn't buy it?"

  "She didn't buy it. Say, Mrs. Pitman, gimme that doughnut."

  "Oh, so the coat washed in!"

  "No'm. Pap found it, down by the Point, on a cake of ice. He thoughtit was a dog, and rowed out for it."

  Well, I hadn't wanted the coat, as far as that goes; I'd managedwell enough without furs for twenty years or more. But it was asatisfaction to know that it had not floated into Mrs. Maguire'skitchen an
d spread itself at her feet, as one may say. However, thatwas not the question, after all. The real issue was that if it wasJennie Brice's coat, and was found across the river on a cake of ice,then one of two things was certain: either Jennie Brice's body wrappedin the coat had been thrown into the water, out in the current, or sheherself, hoping to incriminate her husband, had flung her coat intothe river.

  I told Mr. Holcombe, and he interviewed Joe Maguire that afternoon.The upshot of it was that Tommy had been correctly informed. Joe hadwitnesses who had lined up to see him rescue a dog, and had beheld hisreturn in triumph with a wet and soggy fur coat. At three o'clockMrs. Maguire, instructed by Mr. Graves, brought the coat to me foridentification, turning it about for my inspection, but refusing totake her hands off it.

  "If her husband says to me that he wants it back, well and good," shesaid, "but I don't give it up to nobody but him. Some folks I know ofwould be glad enough to have it."

  I was certain it was Jennie Brice's coat, but the maker's name hadbeen ripped out. With Molly holding one arm and I the other, we tookit to Mr. Ladley's door and knocked. He opened it, grumbling.

  "I have asked you not to interrupt me," he said, with his pen in hishand. His eyes fell on the coat. "What's that?" he asked, changingcolor.

  "I think it's Mrs. Ladley's fur coat," I said.

  He stood there looking at it and thinking. Then: "It can't be hers,"he said. "She wore hers when she went away."

  "Perhaps she dropped it in the water."

  He looked at me and smiled. "And why would she do that?" he askedmockingly. "Was it out of fashion?"

  "That's Mrs. Ladley's coat," I persisted, but Molly Maguire jerked itfrom me and started away. He stood there looking at me and smiling inhis nasty way.

  "This excitement is telling on you, Mrs. Pitman," he said coolly."You're too emotional for detective work." Then he went in and shutthe door.

  When I went down-stairs, Molly Maguire was waiting in the kitchen, andhad the audacity to ask me if I thought the coat needed a new lining!

  It was on Monday evening that the strangest event in years happened tome. I went to my sister's house! And the fact that I was admitted at aside entrance made it even stranger. It happened in this way:

  Supper was over, and I was cleaning up, when an automobile came to thedoor. It was Alma's car. The chauffeur gave me a note:

  "DEAR MRS PITMAN--I am not at all well, and very anxious. Will you come to see me at once? My mother is out to dinner, and I am alone. The car will bring you. Cordially, "LIDA HARVEY."

  I put on my best dress at once and got into the limousine. Half theneighborhood was out watching. I leaned back in the upholstered seat,fairly quivering with excitement. This was Alma's car; that was Alma'scard-case; the little clock had her monogram on it. Even the flowersin the flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded me of Alma--a trifleshowy, but good to look at! And I was going to her house!

  I was not taken to the main entrance, but to a side door. The queerdream-like feeling was still there. In this back hall, relegated fromthe more conspicuous part of the house, there were even pieces offurniture from the old home, and my father's picture, in an oval giltframe, hung over my head. I had not seen a picture of him for twentyyears. I went over and touched it gently.

  "Father, father!" I said.

  Under it was the tall hall chair that I had climbed over as a child,and had stood on many times, to see myself in the mirror above. Thechair was newly finished and looked the better for its age. I glancedin the old glass. The chair had stood time better than I. I was amiddle-aged woman, lined with poverty and care, shabby, prematurelygray, a little hard. I had thought my father an old man when thatpicture was taken, and now I was even older. "Father!" I whisperedagain, and fell to crying in the dimly lighted hall.

  Lida sent for me at once. I had only time to dry my eyes andstraighten my hat. Had I met Alma on the stairs, I would have passedher without a word. She would not have known me. But I saw no one.

  Lida was in bed. She was lying there with a rose-shaded lamp besideher, and a great bowl of spring flowers on a little stand at herelbow. She sat up when I went in, and had a maid place a chair for mebeside the bed. She looked very childish, with her hair in a braid onthe pillow, and her slim young arms and throat bare.

  "I'm so glad you came!" she said, and would not be satisfied until thelight was just right for my eyes, and my coat unfastened and thrownopen.

  "I'm not really ill," she informed me. "I'm--I'm just tired andnervous, and--and unhappy, Mrs. Pitman."

  "I am sorry," I said. I wanted to lean over and pat her hand, to drawthe covers around her and mother her a little,--I had had no one tomother for so long,--but I could not. She would have thought it queerand presumptuous--or no, not that. She was too sweet to have thoughtthat.

  "Mrs. Pitman," she said suddenly, "_who was_ this Jennie Brice?"

  "She was an actress. She and her husband lived at my house."

  "Was she--was she beautiful?"

  "Well," I said slowly, "I never thought of that. She was handsome, ina large way."

  "Was she young?"

  "Yes. Twenty-eight or so."

  "That isn't very young," she said, looking relieved. "But I don'tthink men like very young women. Do you?"

  "I know one who does," I said, smiling. But she sat up in bed suddenlyand looked at me with her clear childish eyes.

  "I don't want him to like me!" she flashed. "I--I want him to hateme."

  "Tut, tut! You want nothing of the sort."

  "Mrs. Pitman," she said, "I sent for you because I'm nearly crazy. Mr.Howell was a friend of that woman. He has acted like a maniac sinceshe disappeared. He doesn't come to see me, he has given up his workon the paper, and I saw him to-day on the street--he looks like aghost."

  That put me to thinking.

  "He might have been a friend," I admitted. "Although, as far as Iknow, he was never at the house but once, and then he saw both ofthem."

  "When was that?"

  "Sunday morning, the day before she disappeared. They were arguingsomething."

  She was looking at me attentively. "You know more than you are tellingme, Mrs. Pitman," she said. "You--do you think Jennie Brice is dead,and that Mr. Howell knows--who did it?"

  "I think she is dead, and I think possibly Mr. Howell suspects who didit. He does not _know_, or he would have told the police."

  "You do not think he was--was in love with Jennie Brice, do you?"

  "I'm certain of that," I said. "He is very much in love with a foolishgirl, who ought to have more faith in him than she has."

  She sat up in bed suddenly.]

  She colored a little, and smiled at that, but the next moment she wassitting forward, tense and questioning again.

  "If that is true, Mrs. Pitman," she said, "who was the veiled womanhe met that Monday morning at daylight, and took across the bridge toPittsburgh? I believe it was Jennie Brice. If it was not, who was it?"

  "I don't believe he took any woman across the bridge at that hour. Whosays he did?"

  "Uncle Jim saw him. He had been playing cards all night at one of theclubs, and was walking home. He says he met Mr. Howell face to face,and spoke to him. The woman was tall and veiled. Uncle Jim sent forhim, a day or two later, and he refused to explain. Then they forbadehim the house. Mama objected to him, anyhow, and he only came onsufferance. He is a college man of good family, but without any moneyat all save what he earns.. And now--"

  I had had some young newspaper men with me, and I knew what they got.They were nice boys, but they made fifteen dollars a week. I'mafraid I smiled a little as I looked around the room, with its graygrass-cloth walls, its toilet-table spread with ivory and gold, andthe maid in attendance in her black dress and white apron, collar andcuffs. Even the little nightgown Lida was wearing would have taken aweek's salary or more. She saw my smile.

  "It was to be his chance," she said. "If he made good, he was to havesomething better. My Uncle Jim owns the paper, a
nd he promised me tohelp him. But--"

  So Jim was running a newspaper! That was a curious career for Jim tochoose. Jim, who was twice expelled from school, and who could neverwrite a letter without a dictionary beside him! I had a pang when Iheard his name again, after all the years. For I had written to Jimfrom Oklahoma, after Mr. Pitman died, asking for money to bury him,and had never even had a reply.

  "And you haven't seen him since?"

  "Once. I--didn't hear from him, and I called him up. We--we met in thepark. He said everything was all right, but he couldn't tell me justthen. The next day he resigned from the paper and went away. Mrs.Pitman, it's driving me crazy! For they have found a body, and theythink it is hers. If it is, and he was with her--"

  "Don't be a foolish girl," I protested. "If he was with Jennie Brice,she is still living, and if he was _not_ with Jennie Brice--"

  "If it was _not_ Jennie Brice, then I have a right to know who itwas," she declared. "He was not like himself when I met him. He saidsuch queer things: he talked about an onyx clock, and said he had beenmade a fool of, and that no matter what came out, I was always toremember that he had done what he did for the best, and that--that hecared for me more than for anything in this world or the next."

  "That wasn't so foolish!" I couldn't help it; I leaned over anddrew her nightgown up over her bare white shoulder. "You won't helpanything or anybody by taking cold, my dear," I said. "Call your maidand have her put a dressing-gown around you."

  I left soon after. There was little I could do. But I comforted her asbest I could, and said good night. My heart was heavy as I went downthe stairs. For, twist things as I might, it was clear that in someway the Howell boy was mixed up in the Brice case. Poor littletroubled Lida! Poor distracted boy!

  I had a curious experience down-stairs. I had reached the foot of thestaircase and was turning to go back and along the hall to the sideentrance, when I came face to face with Isaac, the old colored manwho had driven the family carriage when I was a child, and whom I hadseen, at intervals since I came back, pottering around Alma's house.The old man was bent and feeble; he came slowly down the hall, witha bunch of keys in his hand. I had seen him do the same thing manytimes.

  He stopped when he saw me, and I shrank back from the light, but hehad seen me. "Miss Bess!" he said. "Foh Gawd's sake, Miss Bess!"

  "You are making a mistake, my friend," I said, quivering. "I am not'Miss Bess'!"

  He came close to me and stared into my face. And from that he lookedat my cloth gloves, at my coat, and he shook his white head. "I surethought you was Miss Bess," he said, and made no further effort todetain me. He led the way back to the door where the machine waited,his head shaking with the palsy of age, muttering as he went. Heopened the door with his best manner, and stood aside.

  "Good night, ma'am," he quavered.

  I had tears in my eyes. I tried to keep them back. "Good night," Isaid. "Good night, _Ikkie_."

  It had slipped out, my baby name for old Isaac!

  "Miss Bess!" he cried. "Oh, praise Gawd, it's Miss Bess again!"

  He caught my arm and pulled me back into the hall, and there he heldme, crying over me, muttering praises for my return, begging me tocome back, recalling little tender things out of the past that almostkilled me to hear again.

  But I had made my bed and must lie in it. I forced him to swearsilence about my visit; I made him promise not to reveal my identityto Lida; and I told him--Heaven forgive me!--that I was well andprosperous and happy.

  Dear old Isaac! I would not let him come to see me, but the nextday there came a basket, with six bottles of wine, and an olddaguerreotype of my mother, that had been his treasure. Nor was thatbasket the last.