CHAPTER V
MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
The next morning Babbitts and I started out for the offices of Whitney &Whitney. They're far downtown, near Wall Street, way up in the top of askyscraper where the air is good even in summer. I'd been in thembefore, and it was funny as we shot up in the elevator to think of thosefirst visits, when I was so scared of Mr. Whitney--"the chief," as JackReddy calls him, and it's his name all right.
We were shown right into his office, like we'd come with amillion-dollar lawsuit, and when he saw me he got up and held out hisbig, white hand.
"Well, well, Molly! How's the smartest girl in New York?" Then he lookedfrom me to Babbitts with a twinkle in his eye. "She's looking fine, myboy. You've taken good care of her." And then back to me, "Treats youwell, eh? If he _doesn't_--remember--Whitney & Whitney's services areyours to command."
That's the way he is, always glad to see you, always with his joke. But,there's another side to him--a sort of terrible, fierce quiet--I've seenit and--Gee whiz! If he ever got after me the way I once saw him getafter a man he thought was guilty I'd crawl under the table and dieright there on the carpet. He isn't a bit good-looking--a big, clumsysort of man, stoop-shouldered, and with a head of rough gray hair andeyes set deep under bushy brows. When he questions you those eyes lookat you kind and pleasant--but, _forget it_! There's not a thing theydon't see. _You_ think your face is solid flesh and blood. It is tomost--but to Mr. Whitney it's no more than a pane of glass.
His son George--he was there and Jack Reddy too--doesn't favor hisfather. He's an awful stylish chap, with blond hair sleeked down on hisskull, and glasses set pert on the bridge of his nose. They say he'ssmart, but not as big as the old man, and he hasn't got the same genial,easy way. But he's always very cordial to us, and even if he wasn't hisfather's son and a close friend of Jack Reddy's, I guess I'd like himanyhow.
They were very interested in what I had to say, but with Mr. Whitneyhimself you never can guess what he thinks. He sits listening, sloucheddown in his armchair, with his shirt bosom crumpled, like an old bearruminating--or hibernating is it?--in a hollow tree. When I was throughhe stretched out his hand, took a cigar from a box on the table andsaid:
"Just call up the Azalea Woods Estates, George, and find out how longMiss Whitehall expects to be there." Then as Mr. George left the room heturned to me and said, "Want to make some money?"
I have a lot of money--ten thousand dollars, the reward they gave meafter the Hesketh Mystery was solved--so money doesn't cut much ice withme. But doing something for Mr. Whitney does, and I guessed right off hehad a little job for Molly Babbitts.
"I want to do whatever Whitney & Whitney asks," I said. "That's aprivilege and you don't get paid for privileges."
He burst out laughing and said:
"It's easily seen half of you's Irish, Molly. There is something you cando for me, and whether you want it or not, you'll be paid for yourservices just as O'Mally, my own detective, is. Here it is. Thatinformation you got from your little friend is valuable. As you weresharp enough to see, Barker may try to get in touch with Miss Whitehall.To my mind he'd be more inclined to try her office than her home wherethere's a mother and a servant to overhear and ask questions. What wouldyou think about going on the switchboard again?"
My old work, the one thing I _could_ do!
"Bully!" I cried out, forgetting my language in my excitement.
Mr. Whitney smiled:
"Then we're agreed. As soon as I can arrange matters I'll let you know,probably this afternoon. I don't now know just where we'll put you but Ifancy in the Black Eagle's own central. And I don't need to say to bothof you that you're to keep as silent as you did in the Hesketh case."
I smiled to myself at that. Mr. Whitney knew, no one better, that whenit comes to keeping mum a deaf mute hasn't anything over me.
Just then Mr. George came back. He had got Tony Ford on the wire andheard from him that Miss Whitehall might be in her offices some timeyet, as she was trying to sublet them.
Late that afternoon I had my instructions. The next morning I was to goto the Black Eagle Building and begin work as a hello girl. Ifquestioned I was to answer that all I knew was Miss McCalmont, the oldgirl, had been transferred and I was temporarily installed in her place.It was my business to listen to every phone message that went into orout from the Azalea Woods Estates. I would be at liberty to give my fullattention as almost every office had its own wire. Miss Whitehall hadhad hers but it had been disconnected since her failure, and she wasonly accessible through the building's central. The work was so easy itseemed a shame to take the money.
The first two days there was nothing doing and it was desperate dull.The telephone office was off the main hall to one side of the elevator,a bright little place on the street level. A good part of the time I satat the desk looking out at the people passing like shadows across theground glass of the windows. There were some calls for Miss Whitehall,all business. These, no matter what they were, I listened to but gotnothing. Sometimes she answered, sometimes Tony Ford.
My desk was set so I could see out through the doorway into the hall,and the first morning I was there I saw her pass. She looked better thanshe had that night in her own apartment, but her face had a grave,worried expression which you couldn't be surprised at, seeing how thingsstood with her.
It was the second evening and I was thinking of getting ready to go--thebuilding's exchange closed at half-past six--when a tall fellow with aswagger in his walk and his shoulders held back like he thought a lot ofhis shape, stopped in the doorway and called out:
"Hello, Miss McCalmont. How goes the times?"
I looked up surprised and when he saw it wasn't Miss McCalmont he lookedsurprised too, raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes with anexaggerated expression like he did it to make you laugh. He was afine-looking chap if size does it--over six feet and wide across thechest--but his face, broad and flat, with cheeks too large for hisfeatures, wasn't the kind I admire. Also I noticed that the good-naturedlook it had was contradicted by the gray, small eyes, sharp as a gimletand hard as a nail. I supposed he was some clerk from one of the officescome to ask Miss McCalmont to dinner--they're always doing that--andanswered careless, fingering at the plugs:
"Miss McCalmont's been transferred."
"You don't say," says he, leaning easy against the doorpost. "Since whenis that?"
"Since I came," I answered.
He grinned, showing teeth as white as split almonds, and his eyes overthe grin began to size me up, shrewd and curious. Taking him for somefresh guy that Miss McCalmont was jollying along--they do that too--Ipaid no attention to him, humming a tune and looking languid at myfinger nails. He wasn't phazed a little bit, but making himselfcomfortable against the doorpost, said:
"Going to stay on here?"
"The central'll give you all the information you want," I answered andwheeling round in my chair looked at the clock. "Ten minutes past six.How slow the time goes when you're dull."
He burst out laughing and he _did_ have a jolly, infectious kind oflaugh.
"Say," he said, "you're a live one, aren't you?"
_'Say,' he said, 'you're a live one, aren't you?'_]
"I wouldn't be long, if I had to listen to all the guys that ain't gotanything better to do than block up doorways and try to be fresh."
He laughed louder and lolled up against the woodwork.
"I like you fine," said he. "Are you a permanency or just a fleetingvision?"
"Talking of fleeting visions, ain't it about your dinner hour?"
"You act to me as if this was your first job," was his answer, sort ofthoughtful.
Wouldn't it make you smile! It did me--a small quiet smile all tomyself. He saw it, dropped his head to one side and said, as smooth andsweet as molasses:
"What do they call you, little one?"
It was all I could do to keep from laughing, but I crumpled up myforehead into a scowl and looked cross at him:
&nb
sp; "What my name is you'll never know and what yours is you needn't tell mefor I've guessed. I've met members of your tribe before--it's large andprominent--the ancient and honorable order of jackasses."
He made me a low bow.
"So flattered at this speedy recognition," he says, airy and smiling."You may know the tribe, but not the individual. Permit me to introducemyself--Anthony Ford."
I gave a start and turned it into a stretch. So _this_ was the wonderfulTony Ford--a slick customer all right.
"That don't convey anything to my mind," I answered. "A rose by anyother name still has its thorns."
"For more data--I'm the managing clerk of the Azalea Woods Estates, seeseventeenth floor, first door to your left."
"Ain't I heard you were closed up there?"
"We are. This may be the last time you'll ever see me, so look well atme. Er--what did you say your name was?"
"One of the unemployed!" I said, falling back in my chair and rolling myeyes up at the ceiling. "Hangs round my switchboard and hasn't the priceof a dinner in his jeans."
"I was too hasty," said he; "this isn't your first job."
"If your place is shut what are you doing here--not at this presentmoment, the actions of fools are an old story to me--but in thebuilding?"
"Closing up the business. Did you think I was nosing round for anunlocked door or an open safe? Does this fresh, innocent countenancelook like the mug of a burglar?" He grinned and thrusting a hand intohis pocket rattled the loose silver there. "Hear that? Has a sound likea dinner, hasn't it?"
_That_ made me mad--the vain fool thinking he could flirt with me as hehad with Iola. I slanted a side look at him and his broad shining facewith the eyes that didn't match it gave me a feeling like I longed toslap it good and hard. Gee, I'd have loved to feel my hand come _whang_up against one of those fat cheeks! But it's the curse of being aperfect lady that you can't hit when you feel like it--except with yourtongue.
"I ain't known many burglars," I answered, "but now that I look at youit _does_ come over me that you've a family resemblance to those fewI've met. Seeing which I'll decline the honor of your invitation. Safetyfirst."
That riled him. He flushed up and a surly look passed over his facemaking it ugly. Then he shrugged up his shoulders and leaned off thedoorpost, giving a hitch to the front of his coat.
"I generally like a dash of tabasco in mine," says he, "but when itcomes to the whole bottle spilled in the dish, it's too hot. Just make anote of that against our next meeting. I don't like being disappointedtwice. Good evening."
And off he went, swaggering down the hall.
On the way home I wondered what Soapy'd say when I told him, but when hecame in Tony Ford went straight out of my head for at last there wasexciting news--Barker had been located in Philadelphia.
Two people had seen him there, one a man who knew him well, and saw himthe night before in a taxi, the other an Italian who kept a newsstand.That same evening between eight and nine Barker had stopped at the standand bought several New York papers. The Italian, who was quick-witted,recognized him from his pictures in the papers, and reported to thepolice.
"He's evidently only going out after dark," said Babbitts. "But a mancan't hide for long whose picture's spread broadcast over the country."
"And who's got a face like the American Eagle after it's grown a whitemustache," I answered.
That was Thursday night. Friday morning I toddled down to my job,feeling there wasn't much in it and that when I came home I'd hearBarker was landed and it would be domestic life again for little Molly.
The day went by quiet and uneventful as the others had been. I read anovel and sewed at a tray cloth, and now and then jacked in for a call.It was getting on for evening and I was thinking about home and dinnerwhen--Bang! came two calls, one right after the other, that made me feelI was earning my money.
The first was at a quarter to five. Our central came sharp and clear:
"Hello, Gramercy 3503--Long Distance--Philadelphia's calling you."
Philadelphia! Can you see me stiffening up, with my hand ready to raisethe cam?
"All right--Gramercy 3503."
I could hear the girls in our central, the wait of hum and brokensounds--how well I knew it!--and then a distant voice, brisk andbusiness-like, "Hello, Philadelphia--Waiting." Then a pause andpresently the whispering jar of the wires, "Here's your party. Gramercy3503, all right for Philadelphia."
Running over those miles and miles the voice--a man's--came clear as abell.
"I want to speak to the Azalea Woods Estates."
I made the connection, softly lifted the cam, and listened in.
"Is this the office of the Azalea Woods Estates?"
A woman's voice answered, as close as if she was in the next room:
"Yes--who is it?"
"Is Mr. Anthony Ford there?"
"No, Mr. Ford has left my employment. I am Miss Whitehall, my businessis closed."
There was a pause. My heart which had hit up a lively gait began to easedown. Only Tony Ford--Pshaw!
"Are you there?" said the woman.
"Yes," came the answer. "Could you give me his address?"
"Certainly. Hold the wire for a moment."
After a wait of a minute or two she was back with the address which shegave him. He repeated it carefully, thanked her and hung up.
Talk of false alarms! I was so disappointed thinking I'd got somethingfor Mr. Whitney, that I sat crumpled up in my chair sulking, and rightin the middle of my sulks came the second call.
It was Long Distance again--Toronto.
"I wonder what Toronto wants with her," I thought as I jacked in, andthen, leaning my elbow on the desk listened, not much interested. Threesentences hadn't passed before I was as still as a graven image, all mylife gone into my ears.
"Is that you, Carol?" I could just hear it, a fine little thread ofsound as if it came from a ghost in the other world.
"Yes--who's speaking?"
"It's I--J. W. B."
Barker's initials! My heart gave a leap and then began to fox trot. If Ihad any doubts, her answer put an end to them. I could hear the gasp inher breath, the fright in her voice.
"You? What are you doing this for?"
"There's no danger. I'm careful. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes, this morning."
"Will you come?"
"Are you sure it's all right? Have you seen the papers here?"
"All of them. Don't be afraid. I'm taking no risks. Are you coming?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I can leave tonight. There's a train at eight."
"Good. I'll meet you and explain everything. Do as I said in the letter.I'll be there."
"Very well--understand. Please ring off. Good-bye."
For a moment I sat thinking. She was going to Toronto to meet Barker bya train that left at eight, and it was now half-past five. There was nouse trying to trace the call--I knew enough for that--so I got Mr.Whitney's office and told him, careful, without names. He was awfulpleased and handed me out some compliments that gave me the courage toask for something I was crazy to get--the scoop for Babbitts. It wouldbe a big story--Barker landed through the girl he was in love with. Iknew they'd follow her and could Babbitts go along? I don't have to tellyou that he agreed, making only one condition--if they wereunsuccessful, _silence_. O'Mally, who was up from Philadelphia, wouldgo. Babbitts could join him at the Grand Central Station.
I took a call for the _Dispatch_, found Babbitts and told him enough tosend him home on the run--but not much; there's too many phones in thosenewspaper offices. It was nearly seven when I got there myself, draggedhim into our room, and while I packed his grip gave him the lastbulletins. He was up in the air. It would be the biggest story that hadever come his way.
I had to go down to the station with him, for neither he nor O'Mallyknew her. I was desperate afraid she wouldn't come--get cold feet theway women do when they're eloping. But at a quarter
of eight she showedup. She didn't look a bit nervous or rattled, and went about getting herticket as quiet as if she was going for a week-end to Long Island.O'Mally--he was a fat, red-faced man, looking more like a commercialtraveler than a sleuth--was right behind her as she bought it. Then asshe walked to the track entrance with her suitcase in her hand, I sawthem follow her, lounging along sort of neighborly and casual, till thethree of them disappeared under the arch.
It was late before I went to sleep that night. I kept imagining themtracking her through the Toronto Depot, leaping into a taxi thatfollowed close on hers, and going somewhere--but where I couldn'tthink--to meet Barker. For the first time I began to wonder if any harmcould come to Babbitts. In detective stories when they shadowed peoplethere were generally revolvers at the finish. But, after all, JohnstonBarker wasn't flying for his life, or flying from jail. As far as Icould get it, he was just flying away with the Copper Pool's money.Perhaps that wasn't desperate enough for revolvers.
When I finally did go to sleep I dreamed that all of us, the fat man,Babbitts, Carol Whitehall and I and Mr. Barker, were packed together inone taxi, which was rushing through the dark, lurching from side toside. As if we weren't enough, it was piled high with suitcases, on oneof which I was sitting, squeezed up against Mr. Barker, who had a facelike an eagle, and kept telling me to move so he could get his revolver.
I don't know what hour I awoke, but the light was coming in between thecurtains and the radiators were beginning to snap with the morning heatwhen I opened my eyes. I came awake suddenly with that queer sensationyou sometimes have that you're not alone.
And I wasn't. There sitting on a chair by the bedside, all hunched up inhis overcoat, with his suitcase at his feet, was Himself, looking ascross as a bear.
I sat up with a yelp as if he'd been a burglar.
"_You_ here?" I cried.
He looked at me, glum as an owl, and nodded.
"Yes. It's all right."
"Why--why--what's happened?"
"Nothing."
"You haven't been to Toronto and back in this time?"
"I've been to Rochester and back," he snapped. "She got out there,waited most of this infernal night and took the first return train."
"Came back?"
"Isn't that what I'm saying?" For Himself to speak that way to me showedhe was riled something dreadful. "She got off at Rochester and stayedround in the depot--didn't see anyone, or speak to anyone, or send aphone, or a wire. She got a train back at three, we followed her and sawher go up the steps of her own apartment."
"Why--what do you make of it?"
He shrugged:
"Only one of two things. She either changed her mind or saw she wasbeing shadowed."
The Black Eagle Mystery Page 5