The house to which he had been directed was in a side street, one of a whole row of flat houses, all with brownstone stoops, all four stories in height—walk-up flats—most of them fallen upon parlous times from their previous fairly high estate—if a flat house can he presumed to have had a high estate in some mysterious past.
With his motor chugging at the door and his heart chugging within him Val rang the bell labeled “Pomeroy” and was rewarded almost immediately by a ticking at the lock of the door that suggested to him that he could enter if he pushed the door while the ticking was in progress.
He pushed the door and ascended the steps that presented themselves to him at the right of the hallway. Two flights above him he noticed a lightening of the encircling gloom of the hall. This he took, and rightly, to be due to the fact that somebody had opened the door to see who was coming. He gained the door and confronted a neat old woman who looked at him inquiringly.
“I’m looking for Miss Jessica Pomeroy’s apartment,” he said.
“This is her apartment,” said the old woman. “Who wants to see Miss Pomeroy?”
He extracted a card from his wallet, handed it to the ancient servitor and was bidden to come inside. He was ushered into a living room that was a grateful model of good taste, when you take into consideration what he had expected from the surrounding circumstances.
“Miss Pomeroy will be out directly, sir,” said the old woman. He nodded and seated himself on a comfortable divan, inspecting the room with interest. The furniture was gracefully made, combining comfort with a quiet elegance that spoke much for the occupant; a few Japanese prints were on the wall, and over the period mirror on one wall was a colored print of a blooded racehorse—not the usual racehorse print, however—it was to be seen that this print was the work of a master.
On another wall was a Whistler etching, skyrockets and all, and under it was a blue vase in the best Ming period. The portières and draperies were in deep blue velvet, drawn back by cords of burnt orange, and the curtains were a delicate tracery against the transparency of the windows. A baby grand piano jutted out of one corner, and he was thankful that the effect of the room had not been spoiled by an upright, because, he considered, there are no uprights that are not ugly. It was a comfortable room that looked as though it were lived in, with the piano open and a French song on the rack, as though the singer had just stepped out for a moment, and other music scattered carelessly over the top, around the base of the Japanese lamp that stood on the piano.
At his hand were a couple of library books—he opened them. One was a volume of Leonard Merrick. The other was a thin volume, a play by Herman Bahr—“The Master” in the excellent translation of Glazer. He nodded approvingly—this girl had a comfortable taste in literature. He was engaged in examining the latter book when the portières parted and she entered, standing for a moment against the portières, with her copper burnished hair flying against the deep blue in a contrast that would have brought joy to the heart of Velasquez.
He was on his feet in an instant, never taking his eyes from her—actually eating her up with his burning eyes. Her gown, of some soft stuff that lay lovingly next to the white skin of her neck and flared out into panniers at the hips, had a touch of green in it—the touch of green that every light haired girl knows so well how to employ.
Her eyes were two seas of troubled color, and in her cheeks flared two bright spots that were all the more ravishing for the fact that they never came out of a drug store. He could see that she recognized him instantly—the flash of surprise that came into her eyes told him that. Her hand went to her throat in a queer motion, as though her breath came hard, and came away again wearily, down to her side.
“Mr. Morley?” she inquired, and Val had to admit to himself that never had he heard music that was comparable to her intonation of his name. It was like a harp in the south wind, he told himself. He bowed.
“I must apologize for this intrusion,” he began in the conventional form, though his whole being cried out against it. Apologize for nothing! He was here because he wanted to be, and a whole battalion of police couldn’t keep him away.
“I must apologize for this intrusion,” he said again, and she smiled.
“That’s two apologies,” she said. “I accept both of them. Now, if you’ll tell me⸺”
“Yes, I’ll tell all,” he grinned, and they both laughed; neither knew why, exactly. There was something vibrating between them, something of an ethereal chord to which they were both attuned, something. . . .
“Won’t you sit down for a moment, and tell me about it?” She nodded to the divan. She sat down opposite him and he did as he was bidden.
“Why—why—er—the—fact is⸺” he started coherently.
“You can smoke if you want to,” she put in, seeing that he was ill at ease. He smiled his gratitude and lighted a cigarette, feeling more easy at once.
“You see,” he commenced, “I was in old Masterson’s store the other day when you—er—released some books to him.” She nodded.
“I remember,” she said. “I noticed you.” She had noticed him. Val could have shouted it from the housetops. Miracle of miracles—she had seen him—she knew that he was alive—she was conscious of Valentine Morley. “I noticed you.” Val was familiar with the poets, but at the moment he could not think of a poet who had ever lived who had written a sweeter line than that.
“Well, I rather took a fancy to the books,” he went on, “and I bought one of the bundles from Mat. That’s how I happened to know your name—it was in one of the books. You—er—know what happened at Masterson’s, don’t you?” He paused.
A look of absolute fright came into her eyes. Her white hand went to her throat again. He could see she was the victim of some wraith of fear that haunted her waking and her sleeping moments. It was not a new fear, he could see that. It was something expected—something that was always there.
She nodded her head slowly. “And you’re from the police⸺”
He laughed reassuringly, longing to take her in his arms and swear to protect her forever.
“Certainly not—I’m from Valentine Morley. You see, I happened to be looking through the books and I found something in one of them that might be of value to you—that’s why I took the trouble to look you up.” He plunged his hand into his pocket and fished out his wallet. Out of his wallet he took the ten thousand dollar bill and handed it to her.
She gave a gasp of utter astonishment and surprise when she saw what it was.
“Why, it’s a ten—thousand—dollar bill!” she ejaculated. “A ten thousand dollar bill!”
He nodded his head. “I rather thought you might be glad to see that⸺”
“Glad!” she echoed, “Why, if you know—if you only knew how I needed this money⸺”
“Yes,” he said, “there are few people who don’t need ten thousand dollars.”
“How can I thank you for⸺” she began.
“Don’t try,” he put in. “It was nothing, really. Just a pleasure to be able to⸺”
“Not many people would have returned it,” she insisted. “You must know how grateful I am to you.” She leaned forward and put her small hand on his arm. A thrill went through him. He remembered Browning’s line about the hand of the wife of Andrea del Sarto—he was a Browning enthusiast—“A woman in itself.” That’s what her hand was, he told himself—a woman in itself, in its beautiful, soft and shapely whiteness.
“My father must have placed it there—in the book,” she said, removing her hand.
“It was in a Bible,” he said. She smiled.
“I suppose he decided it was safe there, because nobody ever would open it.” They both smiled at that.
“My father was a peculiar man,” she explained. “He was always afraid of banks—would not trust them. So he left his money in all sorts of peculiar places. Why, when he died we never could find—but there, I must not trouble you with my private affairs.”
“Yes, but you must, Miss Pomeroy. If I can be of any assistance to you, why⸺”
The troubled look came into her eyes again as she shook her head. “I’m afraid nobody can help me after what—after⸺”
“You mean after what happened to Masterson yesterday?” he inquired. She nodded.
“You see, it’s something horrible, something I can’t talk about⸺”
“You know who did it?” he queried.
She nodded her head slowly. “I think I can guess,” she said. “But⸺”
“Well, if it troubles you like that, don’t tell me. But I would like to be of assistance, I assure you, Miss Pomeroy⸺”
A sudden fear came into her face again, a ghost of terror that slipped across her face like a mask.
“Oh, I had forgotten!” she gasped. “You must go, Mr. Morley. You mustn’t stay here. I am expecting some one⸺”
“But can’t I see you again?” he persisted boldly, though his heart was beating absurdly in anticipation of her answer. Suppose she should say no!
“Yes, yes!” she answered hastily, rising. “But you must go now.”
“But when?” he asked. “I feel that you are in trouble. Miss Pomeroy. I would⸺”
“Perhaps—but why should you be mixed up in this terrible affair?” she asked. She looked at him keenly, appraisingly. “And yet I feel that you may be able to help,” she said, and his heart gave a complete somersault and landed in his throat somewhere. He could help her!
“Shall I come here to-morrow night⸺” he offered.
“No—not here,” she said swiftly. “You must not be seen here. I’ll meet you—say, at the Giltmore Hotel at seven thirty—in Peacock Alley. You can take me to dinner. Will that suit?” He nodded his head happily.
Suddenly the doorbell rang, and he heard the old woman going to the door,
“He’s coming now,” said the girl. “You must go!” There was a look of absolute terror in her eyes.
“But perhaps I’d better stay,” he offered. “This man who is coming, he⸺”
“No, you must go,” she said. She was leading him toward the entrance foyer now, a small, square room into which one stepped right from the hall. The door opened and the old woman admitted a tall, middle-aged man who sauntered in as though he belonged there. He and Val gazed at each other for a long moment in the foyer. He was big, but lithe as a cat for his size, and he had his hands in his pockets negligently, not even removing them when the girl spoke to him and I told him to go into the living room, where she would join him presently. He bowed mockingly, looking at Morley squarely with his hard blue eyes. His mouth, composed of two thin lips, bent down at the corners, was cruel and sensuous, Val decided, as he watched his back retreating into the living room.
“To-morrow then,” he said to the girl.
She nodded her head. “Yes, to-morrow—if you still care to meet me.”
“Still care—I don’t care for anything else in the world. Miss Pomeroy,” he insisted, and she smiled at his ardor. “To-morrow, then.”
He opened the door. As he turned to take her extended hand he glanced through the drawn portières into the living room, where the big man had stationed himself at one of the windows and was inspecting the street outside. Val, looking at him, could not help a gasp of astonishment. Having removed his hands from his pockets, the man was standing with his back to them in a negligent attitude, and a singular, creepy feeling came over Val.
The strange visitor had no hands. His arms ended in two stumpy wrists.