CHAPTER XV
A TELEPHONED WOOING
“Yes, little girl—it’s Tommy. Are you alone?”
“Yes—where are you?”
“Never mind—it’s all right. Now, listen, child—is that story true, about your taking the scarab from—from her hand?”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“Why did you do it?”
“It was yours and you cared a lot for it. She had no right to it—had she?”
“Well—no. But I fear it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“Yes—I am in trouble. They say I killed her.”
“Did you?”
“Oh, Tommy! Don’t! How can you say such a thing?”
“Look here, dear, before we go any further—do you think I killed her?”
“Oh—I don’t know”
“Do you think so?”
“I did think so. I saw you run away—and”
“That’s enough. Then, at least, that proves you didn’t do it!”
“Why, I just told you I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, so you did”
“How queer you are, Tommy. Aren’t you ever coming back?”
“No—I think not.”
“Oh”
“Do you care? Pearl Jane, would you care if you never saw me again?”
“Yes—I’d care! But you wouldn’t!”
“Oh, wouldn’t I! Well—but, dear, the whole thing is such a mess. I wish I could see you”
“Well, why can’t you? Oh, Tommy, tell me something! Are you bald?”
“Bald! Lord, no! What do you mean?”
“Don’t you wear a wig?”
“I do not! Oh, you dear little girl, the sound of your voice makes me long to see you—I never knew before how much I cared”
“You didn’t care—the night of—of the masquerade.”
“I did—oh, Pearl Jane, I did—but—I didn’t know it.”
“And I don’t know it now. I think you’re cruel to tantalize me like this—and I’m going to hang up.”
“No, don’t—oh, wait a minute. What shall I do? Look here, Pearl Jane, I don’t know when I can telephone again. Perhaps I can manage it all right—but if these detectives take to watching your wire”
“Good-by, Tommy.”
“Same little saucy thing—aren’t you. Pearl Jane—listen—dear. If I tell you I love you—can you trust me for all else?”
“Yes! yes!” joyfully.
“You won’t lose faith in me—whatever happens?”
“No—no I won’t.”
“Then just trust me—dear. I can’t explain now—it may be a long time—are you sure you can trust me if you don’t hear anything”
“Forever—if need be.”
“You darling! Now about the scarab business. Will you do as I advise you?”
“Of course.”
“Then—then, dear, tell the exact truth—to everybody and in every particular. If you suspect I killed the lady, and if you are asked, say so. If the gloves are yours, say so. If you know anything about the scarab, tell it. Tell everything, but always tell it the same. This will be easy, if you tell the truth every time.”
“But—Tommy, they will arrest me”
“No, they won’t. Don’t be afraid of that. Shall I tell you why they are suspecting—or pretending to suspect you?”
“Why?”
“They don’t really think you are guilty, dear, but they think that by accusing you—they can get hold of me. They know I love you—I believe they knew it before I knew it myself!”
“Didn’t you know it the night of the party?”
“No! Hadn’t an idea of such a thing! It’s come on suddenly—and I’ve a bad attack!”
“Oh, Tommy—I want you!”
“Hush, dear—don’t talk like that—I can’t stand it. Pearl Jane, there’s much more to this whole dreadful business than you can imagine. Or than anyone else imagines. So, keep up a good heart, and—what did you promise to do?”
“Trust you, Tommy.”
“And do you?”
“Yes—until I see you—and after that—forever.”
“Sweetheart! Good-by.”
The voice ceased—and, in a sort of daze, Pearl Jane hung up her receiver.
What did it all mean? Where was Tommy? Why couldn’t he come to her? Unless—no, she knew—she knew he was not guilty. Her Tommy guilty?
And then all thought of guilt or trouble was lost and forgotten in the blissful realization that he was her Tommy!
Was ever woman in this fashion wooed?
She wondered if any other girl in the world had ever had a proposal over the telephone. Doubtless such a thing had happened, but not like hers! She was sure that her experience was unique—and, at any rate, it made her very happy. Now, she must plan her life.
She must not be afraid of the police—Tommy had said so. She must stay right there in these same rooms—Tommy might telephone again.
But whether he did or didn’t, whether she heard from him again in a week or not for a year—she would always trust him.
For—he loved her! He had told her so. Oh—when she should see him—she’d take a sweet revenge for all this mystery!
And she was to tell the truth. This was a real relief, for Pearl Jane was not a very successful liar, and she was apt to forget and get her stories mixed up. But here after—Tommy said—she was to tell the truth—and she was not to fear.
Must she tell of this conversation with him?
That was a problem. But she fell asleep on the decision that she would tell the truth if asked—but if not, she had no intention of sharing her beautiful heart-secret with anybody just yet.
It was the next day that a man came to Andrew Barham’s house with a request that he might have an interview, if only a few moments.
Barham received him in his little library, curious to know if any news regarding the mystery might be forthcoming.
“My name is Locke,” the caller said. “I’m the brother of the artist who has disappeared.”
“That’s very interesting,” Barham said, non-committally; “what can I do for you?”
“You can do this, Mr. Barham. You can use your influence to get the authorities to turn over to me any belongings or estate my brother had. I’m his only heir—but Tom lived so much to himself, and so quiet-like, I’ve no letters or such, to prove my claim. Now, if an influential man like yourself, sir, would just say a word to the police, they’d give me poor Tom’s clothes and furniture and suchlike. I don’t want anything they’d be likely to need for evidence—but I’m a poor man, sir, and I could do with a bit more. Especially when it belonged to my own brother.”
“So you’re Locke’s brother.” Barham looked at him appraisingly. “Are you older than he?”
“Only a year or so older. We were boys together.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Now, where did you live, as boys?”
“In Kansas City.”
“And your father’s name was?”
“John—John Locke. He was a minister, sir.”
“Oh, he was? Well, Mr. Locke, one more question. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Hester—Hester Miller.”
“A Kansas City woman?”
“Yes sir.” The caller began to fidget a little under this direct catechism, and Andrew Barham smiled.
Then he said, “I think there’s some mistake, Mr.—er—Locke. Your brother cannot be the artist we are interested in. You see, the artist, Tommy Locke, was born in Massachusetts. His mother’s maiden name was Jeannette Fessenden, and his father was a fire-insurance agent. So I will ask you to excuse me, and bid you a very good-day.”
Barham turned back to his desk and took up his pen.
“But, sir—” the man began, “won’t you please”
Barham turned back and looked at him. “I said good-day,” he reminded him, and with his penhandle, he pointed toward the door.
The man departed, and strange to say was never heard of again by Barham or the police either.
“Good game—but it didn’t work,” Andrew Barham advised himself.
Nick Nelson came in later.
“I’ve been trying to find that brother of Locke’s,” he said, “I thought I might get a line on the artist through him.
Barham laughed, the first time Nick had seen him laugh since the tragedy.
“You’ll probably never see him again,” he said, and then he related the incident as it happened.
“Why were you so sure he was an impostor?” Nelson asked.
“Oh, he had all the earmarks of the professional vulture. They run around to find people who die or disappear without relatives, and then they try to claim the property. Sometimes they get away with it, and sometimes they don’t.”
“What did you tell him all those other names for? Did you make them up?”
“Of course. I did it to prove myself right. If he had been Locke’s brother, don’t you suppose he would have insisted on his own genealogy? He made up his ancestors’ names, so I had an equal right to make up another set for the missing man.”
“The police cottoned to him, because he had some gold teeth—and so has Tommy Locke,” said Nick.
“Absurd. We aren’t born with gold teeth in our mouths—I suppose heredity might make two brothers lose the same teeth—but, well if the police need him in their business, I’m sorry I sent him off.”
“No; I fancy they owe you a debt of gratitude. Another queer thing has turned up. You know that scarab?”
“Yes—I have seen it. Nothing very valuable.”
“No; so I’m told. But the little girl says it has been changed.”
“Changed—what do you mean?”
“She says the scarab Locke owned was a Royal scarab—from a King’s tomb. And, the one Hutchins has now, the girl says, is quite another stone.”
“Does the girl know about such things?”
“I don’t think she is a connoisseur at all, but she probably knows what Locke told her.”
“Ah, yes—what Locke told her. But, Nick, isn’t it conceivable that Locke described his treasure as being of a higher value than it really was? Can’t you see him, desiring to impress his artist friends, claiming a royal history for a scarab that was merely a poor commoner?”
“That’s easy, too. But the girl declares she knows that the one Hutchins has now—is not the one she gave him.”
“That girl seems bound to make trouble. What’s she like, Nick?”
“Lord, Andrew, I’ve described her to you half a dozen times. Like an Art Student—of course. Big eyes, bobbed hair, little turn-up nose, and a skin like a satin rose-leaf”
“Hold hard, Nick, you sound like an interested observer!”
“No; I’m telling you the truth. You don’t see that sort of skin among our sort of women.”
“Could be, if they didn’t overdo the rouge pots.”
“No, it’s different. Healthier. Well, as for the rest, she’s a little thing—and she dresses in that studio style, but she gets away with it. And—she’s nobody’s fool.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean she’s sensible and straightforward—though I believe if you’d know her well, she’s full of the devil—capers, I mean. She has a jolly little gleam in her eye”
“Well, considering you saw her only once, at the Inquest, you took her in rather completely.”
“Do quit fumbling in that desk drawer, Drew! What is the matter with you? Are you hunting for a letter or something?”
“No,” and Barham let go the papers, and pushed the drawer shut. “Go on, Nick. You’re here for something special. Out with it.”
“All right—out it is. The truth is, Drew, Hutchins thinks you exchanged those scarabs. He thinks when you took Locke’s into the other room to look it up in your book, that you substituted a less valuable stone.”
“Oh, he does, does he? Well, old chap, what do you think? Am I given to petty thievery? Would I be likely to steal a scarab from a poor artist—or from the police?”
“Of course not, Drew, don’t be silly. But I thought maybe you could help trace it. I think that somehow Locke has managed to get it back and he has made the substitution.”
“You’re sure there was a substitution?”
“It looks that way. The girl described minutely the design on Locke’s scarab—she says he did consider it his lucky piece—and the figures on the one Hutchins has now are quite dissimilar.”
“My dear Nick, no one who hasn’t studied scarabs can tell one from another—least of all, a little bob-haired girl with a turn-up nose. Why not suspect the Chinaman. He had the job of finding the thing, I’m told. Say he found it, and—those Orientals are tricky, and they know about curios—say he made the substitution. How’s that?”
“I don’t think he has seen it?”
“But you don’t know that he hasn’t.”
“No. Oh, well, I dare say it’s the same old scarab. Also I guess they’ll arrest the little girl soon, and then there’ll be a sensation. Somehow I hate to see her arrested. A mere child”
“How can they arrest her? They’ve no real evidence.”
“They hold that they have. The Chinaman saw her bending over the body. He saw her take the scarab, which afterward was found hidden in her room. Also, the pair of stained gloves are her size. Also the bronze book-end has been photographed for finger prints—and it shows the prints of Miss Cutler’s fingers.”
“I don’t believe it!” Andrew Barham sat up straight, and spoke so strongly that Nelson looked at him curiously.
“Why, Drew, what’s the great excitement?”
“Only that I’m a champion of women—all women, as you know. And I think it’s outrageous to arrest that girl—almost a child, you tell me—for a crime of that sort!”
“Don’t say ‘of that sort’ for it’s just the sort of weapon a woman would use.”
“But why, why would that girl kill Maddy? Why—answer me that!”
“Good Lord, I can’t answer that! If I could, I’d have the whole problem solved. Will you stop fumbling in that drawer? If you’ve lost a paper, hunt for it—do. But quit poking aimlessly about among the old documents.”
Again Barham slammed the drawer shut.
“There’s no reason why that girl could possibly have killed Madeleine, unless it was jealousy. Now, I hold she couldn’t have been jealous of my wife, for my wife had no knowledge of those people at all—she had no acquaintance down there.”
“To your knowledge.”
“To my knowledge, or outside it. I didn’t live with Madeleine all those years without knowing her whole mind—and she would never have chummed with those people—never!”
“Maybe she went down there with some of our own crowd—curiosity, you know. Maybe we can find out who went with her. Have you tried?”
“I’ve asked a few of the women—but they won’t tell—if they know, which I doubt.”
“Claudine would know.”
“I’ve asked her, but she gave me no real information.”
“Get her down here—now. I’ve a ghost of an idea that she knows more than she has told.”
The maid was sent for, and appeared, looking a little scared.
“Don’t be frightened, Claudine,” Barham said, kindly. He couldn’t bear to see any woman troubled.
“Just a few questions, Claudine,” Nelson began. “Tell us, briefly, all you know of Madame’s going to the masked ball.”
“I know almost nothing. She had her costume made—perhaps a week beforehand—not more.”
“It was done hastily, then?”
“Yes, Madame usually gave more time than that to her modiste.”
“Then you think Mrs. Barham knew she was going fully a week before the party.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And during that week she didn’t mention the party to you?”
“Not once. Nor to any one. Not to Madame Selden, nor to Madame Gardner, who was here once in my presence.”
“And she said nothing of it to Mr. Barham?”
“Not in my presence.”
“Then, now think very carefully, Claudine, you never heard her speak of it to any one—not over the telephone, even?”
“No”; but a telltale flush that reddened the maid’s cheeks aroused Nelson’s suspicions.
“Tell the truth,” he commanded, sternly. “You do know of some one”
“I will tell—it is perhaps my duty.”
“Yes, Claudine, tell what you know,” Barham assisted her.
“Well, then, the night of the Bal Masque—Madame Sayre came to see Madame, and they sent me from the room while they talked. I”
“Of course, Claudine, you listened,” Nelson said, in a matter-of-fact way. “Well, what did you hear?”
“It is not my habit to listen”
“Oh, no, of course not—we understand all that. Go on, now, and we’ll forgive your listening, if you tell exactly what you heard.”
“But I heard so little. Madame was very secret with her message, and Madame Sayre was equally careful. I heard almost nothing of their talk. But I did hear my Madame say to Madame Sayre that she was going to the Bal Masque and she did tell her where it was to be.”
“And was Madame Sayre surprised?” Nelson asked.
“That I can’t say—I could hear so little. Indeed, I heard but few actual words, but I did hear Washington Square—of that I am sure.”
“But Madame Barham did not tell you she was going there?”
“No, Monsieur Nelson, she did not. I have told all.”
“You may go, Claudine,” and the maid left the room.
“All of no use, Nick,” Barham said, wearily. “I knew all that before, practically, from Rosamond Sayre herself. Maddy sent for her—to borrow some money. And Maddy brought influence to bear—or, at least, I suppose she did. Rose didn’t say that—but she did say that she promised to take the money to Maddy at Emmy Gardner’s that evening. They were both going there to play. Rosamond did go, and Maddy, of course, never showed up. So Claudine gave us no news. Can’t we drop the whole thing, Nick? I mean, can’t we get out of any active part in it? Of course, the police”
“Well, all right, Drew; but you asked me to help you look into these things. You asked me to help you find the murderer of your wife. You asked me to represent you in the matter, and use my judgment as to what should be done so far as we had any choice of procedure. I’ve done these things—I mean I’ve tried to do them. I’ve used all the means at my disposal to accede to your demands and now you’re”
“Well, I’m what?”
“I don’t know, exactly—but, you’re queer—that’s what you are—queer.”
“I dare say I am, Nick. Forgive me, old chap.”
And then Barham dropped his head into his hands and sat for a moment, looking so dejected and so despairing that Nelson was sorry for him.
“No, forgive me, Drew. I know what awful burdens you have to bear.”
“Pshaw—I’m not whining. I have problems—but they must be faced. I can face them. What I’d like, would be to run away for a day or two and think things out by myself. How’d that be?”
“Well—” Nelson hesitated, “don’t go until after they’ve settled their minds about that scarab business. You don’t seem to realize, Drew, they really think you took a rare one and returned to Hutchins a much less valuable specimen.”
“Aren’t they coming to me with this tale? Aren’t they going to accuse me to my face?”
“Yes, I think they are. What shall you say?”
“What can I say, but the truth?”
“And that is?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you exchanged the scarabs.”
“Yes—I did.”