He took it, scrutinizing it, puzzled, through his glasses. Every one of us except Miss Maitland, all standing now, craned forward to see. It was a pointed pink thing about as big as the end of my little finger. The Chief touched it and said:
"It looks like a small rose."
"Yes, a chiffon rosebud," Mrs. Price cried, "and she," pointing to Miss Maitland, "wore a dress that night trimmed with them."
We all turned, as if we were a piece of mechanism worked by the same spring, and stared at Miss Maitland. She sat in the chair, not moving, looking straight before her, weary and indifferent. The Chief held out toward her the piece of paper with the rose on the middle of it.
"Have you a dress trimmed with these?"
She moved her eyes so they rested on the rose, ran her tongue along her lips and said:
"Yes."
"Did you wear it on the night of the robbery?"
"Yes."
"Did you hear what Mrs. Price has just said?"
"Yes."
"What explanation do you make?"
"None – except that I don't know how it got there."
"You deny that you were there yourself that night?"
"Yes – I was never near the safe that night; I haven't the slightest idea how the rose came to be in it; I never took the jewels; I have had nothing to do with Bébita's disappearance; I haven't done any of the things you think I've done. But what's the good of my saying so – what's the good of answering at all?" She dropped her face into her hands, her elbows propped on her knees. The attitude, the tone of her voice, everything about her, suggested an "Oh-what's-the-use!" feeling. From behind her hands the words came dull and listless. "Do anything you like with me; it doesn't make any difference. You think you've got me cornered; that being the case, I'll do whatever you say."
Mrs. Janney made a step toward her:
"Miss Maitland, I'll agree to let the whole matter drop – hush it up and let you go without a word – if you'll tell us where Bébita is."
Without moving her hands the girl answered:
"I can't tell, for I don't know."
Mrs. Price sank into her chair with a loud, sobbing wail. Some one took her away – Mr. George, I think. Then Mr. Janney had his say:
"If you're doing this to protect Price – "
She cut him off with a laugh, at least it was meant to be a laugh, but it was a horrible, harsh sound. As she gave it she lifted her head and cast a look at him, bitter and defiant:
"Protect him! I've no more desire to protect Mr. Price than I have to protect myself."
The Chief's voice fell deep as the church bell at a funeral:
"If you maintain this attitude, Miss Maitland, there's nothing for us to do but let the law take its course. Theft and kidnaping! Those are pretty serious charges."
She nodded:
"I suppose they are. Let the law do whatever it wants; I'm certainly not standing in its way. But as for bribing and frightening me into admitting what isn't true, you can't do it. All your money," she looked at Mrs. Janney and then at the Chief, "and all your threats won't influence me or make me change one word of what I've said."
No one spoke for a minute. She sat silent, her chin on her hands, her eyes staring past them out of the window. I had a feeling that in spite of the position she was in and what they had on her, in a sort of way she had them beaten. Their faces were glum and baffled, even the Chief had an abstracted expression like he was thinking what he ought to do with her. When he spoke it was to the Janneys:
"Since Miss Maitland persists in her present pose of ignorance and denial, the best thing for us is to get together and decide on our course of action." He glanced across at me. "We'll leave you here, Molly. Stay till we come back."
Away they went, a solemn procession, trailing across the room. When the door into the main office opened I could hear Mrs. Price crying, and I watched them, catching Mrs. Janney's words as she disappeared: "Oh, Suzanne, my poor, poor, girl! Don't give up – don't be discouraged – we'll find her!"
It gripped me, made a sort of prickling come in my nose and a twisty feeling in my under lip. I never could have believed that stern old Roman could have spoken so tender and loving to any one.
When I looked at Miss Maitland I forgot all about suffering mothers. She'd sunk down in the chair, her head resting against its back, her eyes closed. She was as white as a corpse, and I wheeled about looking round the room for some kind of first aid and muttering, "Gee, she's fainted!"
A whisper came out of her lips:
"Nothing – all right – in a minute."
There was a bottle of distilled water in a corner and I went to it, drew off a glass and brought it to her. She couldn't hold it and I took her round the shoulders and pulled her up, saying out of the inner depths of me, that's always mushy about anything hurt and forlorn:
"You, poor soul, here take this. I'm sorry for you, and I can't help being sorry that I had to give you away."
I held the glass to her lips and she drank a little. Then I let her fall back and stood watching her, and I felt mean. She raised her eyes and sent a look into mine that I'll never forget – it made me feel meaner than a yellow dog – for it was the look of a suffering soul.
"Thanks," was all she said.
CHAPTER XXI – SIGNED "CLANSMEN"
The consultation in the office resulted in Esther Maitland being taken to O'Malley's flat in Stuyvesant Square, where his wife and sister agreed to be responsible for her. This course had been decided upon after some heated argument. Suzanne had clamored for her arrest, but the others were still determined to keep the affair out of the public eye, which, if Esther was brought before a magistrate, would have been impossible. The Janneys were more than ever convinced that Price was the prime mover, and the girl's attitude had been prompted by the combined motives of love and gain. George, who knew his father's every phase, noticed that the old man was reserved in his comments, and wondered if his conviction had been shaken by Miss Maitland's desperate denials. But if it was he said nothing, agreeing that with the girl hidden and unable to communicate with the outside world, they could concentrate their attention on Chapman and through him locate the child.
Miss Maitland was docile to all their suggestions. She would go wherever they wanted, place herself under the surveillance of the two women, and do whatever was asked of her. She went off in a taxi with O'Malley, and Molly was sent back to Grasslands. There was no need of her services in town and it was probable that Chapman, believing his confederate to be there, would call up the place.
The Janney party returned to the hotel, a silent, gloomy trio. The old people were very gentle to Suzanne. On the drive up, Mrs. Janney held her in the hollow of her arm, pressed close, yearning over her in her shame and sorrow and feebleness. To the strong woman she was a child again, a soft, helpless thing. The mother blamed herself for having been hard on her.
After lunch old Sam suggested a drive – the air would do them good. They tried to persuade Suzanne to come, but the young woman, prone on the sofa, a salts bottle at hand, refused to stir. She wanted to be quiet; she wanted to rest. So, knowing the uselessness of argument, they kissed her and went.
Alone, she lay on her back staring at the wall in a trance-like concentration. Her expression did not suggest the state of crushed shame under which her parents thought she languished. In fact her past actions had no place in her mind; she had forgotten her confession in the office. An idea, formidable and obsessing, had taken possession of her, settled on her like a shadow. It was possible that their conclusions were wrong.
She had had it from the start, off and on, coming at her in rushes of disintegrating doubt. She had said nothing about it, had tried to force it down, and, talking to them, had been reassured by their unquestioning certainty. Now the scene in the office had strengthened it – something about Esther Maitland, she didn't know what. She had assured herself then – she tried to do it now – that there could be no mistake, they had proofs, the girl hadn't been able to explain anything. But she could not argue it away; it persisted, stronger than thought, power or will, unescapable like the horror of a dream.
It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep down in the recesses of her being, "Chapman couldn't have done it." She knew him better than the others did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines his weaknesses ran upon. She knew him through and through, to what lengths anger might urge him, what he could do when aroused and what he never could do. And trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling the facts against him, going over them point by point, she couldn't make herself believe that he had stolen Bébita.
And if he hadn't, then where was she?
This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her recognition, intrusive as Banquo's ghost and as terrible. She writhed under its torment, twisting and turning until her clothes were wound about her in a tangled coil, moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled from grisly possibilities.
She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad of any interruption she sat up, and, swinging her feet to the floor, called out a sharp "Come in." A bell-boy entered with a letter which he presented with the information that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be brought immediately to the rooms. The letter was for her, addressed in typewriting, and as the boy withdrew she rose, heavy-eyed and heavy-headed, and tore open the envelope. The first line brought a thin, choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless, her glance devouring the words. Dated the day before, typewritten on a single sheet of commercial paper, it ran as follows:
"Mrs. Suzanne Price,
"Dear Madam:
"We have your little girl. She is safe with us and will continue to be if you act in good faith and accede to our demands. We frankly state that our object in taking her was ransom and we are now ready to enter upon negotiations with you. This, however, only upon certain conditions. All transactions between us must be conducted with absolute secrecy. If any member of your family is told, if the police are notified, be assured that we will know it, and that it will react upon your child. Let it be clearly understood – if you inform against us, if you make an attempt to trap or apprehend us, she will pay the price. We hold her as a hostage; her fate is in your hands. If, however, you know of a person in no wise involved or connected with you or your family, having no personal interest in the matter, and of whose discretion and reliability you are convinced, we are willing to deal through them. Copy the form below, fill in blank spaces with name and address and insert in Daily Record personals.
"(Name)............
"(Address)...........
"S. O. S.
"Clansmen."
Suzanne's hand holding the paper dropped to her side and she looked about the room with eyes vacant and unseeing. All her outward forces were shocked into temporary suspension; for a moment she had no realization of where or who she was. The letter was the only fact she recognized and sentences from it chased through her consciousness: "We hold her as a hostage, her fate is in your hands. She is safe with us if you accede to our demands." She saw them written on the walls, they boomed in her ears like notes of doom. It was confirmation of that instinct she had tried to smother; like the wand of a baleful genii it had transformed her nightmare fancies into sinister reality.
She felt a shriek rising to her lips and pressed her hand against them. Secrecy, silence, her stunned brain had grasped that and directed her restraining hand. Then the one deep feeling of her shallow nature called her shattered faculties into order. Love lent her power, steadied her, gave her the will to act.
She sat down on the sofa and read the letter again, slowly, getting its full significance. For the first time in her life responsibility was cast upon her; she could throw the burden on no one else. By her own efforts, by her own courage and initiative, she must get Bébita back. She whispered it over, "I must do it. I must do it myself," then fell silent, her face stony in its tension of thought. Suddenly its rigidity broke; in an illuminating flash she saw the first step clear, and rising ran to the telephone. The person she called up was Larkin. He answered himself and she told him she wanted to see him on a matter of great importance and would come at once to his office.
Fifteen minutes later, her face hidden by a chiffon veil, her rumpled smartness covered with a silk motor coat, she was knocking at his door.
Mr. Larkin's office was cool and shady, the blinds half lowered to keep out the glare of the afternoon sun. In the midst of its airy neatness, surrounded by an imposing array of desks, card cabinets, typewriters and files, Mr. Larkin was waiting alone for his important client.
She dropped into the chair he set for her, and, pushing up her veil, revealed a countenance so bereft of the petulant prettiness he knew, that he started and stood gazing in open concern. The sight of his astonishment caused the tears to well into Suzanne's eyes, drowned and sunken by past floods, and her story to break without prelude from her lips.
Larkin's surprise at her appearance gave place to a tight-gripped interest when he grasped the main fact of her narrative. He let her run through it without interruption nodding now and then, a frowning sidelong glance on her face.
When she had finished he drew a deep breath and said:
"The moment I saw you, I knew something was wrong. But this – " he raised his hands and let them drop on the desk – "Good Lord! I hadn't an idea it was anything so serious."
But she hadn't finished – the worst, the thing that had brought her – she had yet to tell. And she began about the letter received an hour ago. At that Larkin forgot his sympathies, was the detective again, hardly concealing his impatience as he watched her fumbling at the cords of her purse. Finally extracted and given to him he read it, once and then again, Suzanne eyeing him like a hungry dog.
"Last evening," he muttered after a scrutiny of the postmark, "Grand Central Station." Then he rose, went to the window and, jerking up the blind, held the paper against the light, sniffed at it, and felt its texture between his thumb and finger. Suzanne saw him shake his head, her avid glance following him as he came back to the desk and studied the sheet through a magnifying glass.
"Nothing to be got that way," he said. "Typepaper – impossible to trace. No amateur business about this."
Suzanne's voice was husky:
"Do you mean it's professional people – a gang?"
"I can't say exactly. But from what you tell me – the way it was accomplished, the plan of action – I should be inclined to think it was the work of more than one person – possibly a group – who had ability and experience."
Suzanne, clutching at the corner of the desk with a trembling hand, cried in her misery:
"Oh, Mr. Larkin, you don't think they'll hurt her. They wouldn't dareto hurt her?"
The detective's glance was kindly but grave:
"Mrs. Price, I'll speak frankly. I think your child is in the hands of a pretty desperate person or persons. But I have no apprehension that they'll do her any harm. They don't want to do that – it's too dangerous. What they might do if their plans fail is a thing we'll not consider – it'll only weaken your nerve. And that's what you've got to keep hold of. You'll get her back all right, but you must be cool and brave."
"I'll be anything; I'll be like another person. I'll do anything. No one need be afraid I'll be weak or silly now."
"Good – that's the way to talk. Now let me know a little about the way the situation stands. It's odd I've seen nothing about this in the papers – heard nothing. Your family must be active in some direction. What are they doing?"
A sudden color burnt in her wasted cheeks.
"They suspect my husband. They think he did it – to – to – get square. We'd quarreled – separated – and he'd made threats."
"Ah, yes, yes, I see – kidnaped his own child, and they're keeping it quiet. I understand perfectly. But you didn't believe this?"
She shook her head and bit on her underlip to control its trembling.
"No – I couldn't, though I tried to. I knew he wouldn't have done it – it's not – it's not – like him. And then while I was thinking the letter came, and I knew, no matter what they thought, no matter what the facts were, that that was true."
"Um," Larkin, his mouth compressed, nodded in understanding. "You would know better than any one else. In these matters instinct is one of the most important factors." He was silent for a moment, then looked at her, a glance of piercing question. "Do I understand that you are willing to enter into these negotiations?"
"Willing!" she cried. "Why should I be here if I wasn't willing?"
"Yes, yes, exactly, but let us understand one another. What I mean is are you willing – realizing what they are – to deal with them on their own terms? In short, pay them what they ask and let them go?"
"Of course." She almost cried it out in her effort to make him comprehend her position. "That's what I want to do; that's why I haven't told any of my own people and won't. I'd have gone straight to my mother with this but I knew she wouldn't agree to it, she'd get the police, want to fight them and bring them to justice."
"Could you be relied on to maintain the secrecy necessary?"
"I can be relied on for anything. Oh, Mr. Larkin, if you knew what I feel you wouldn't waste time asking these questions."
He answered very gently:
"Mrs. Price, I appreciate your feelings to the full, but this is a hazardous undertaking. You don't want to rush into it without realizing what it means. There is the question of money for example – the ransom. Your family is known for its wealth. You can be pretty certain that the parties you're dealing with will hold the child for a large sum."
Suzanne clasped her hands on her breast and the tears, brimming in her eyes, spilled over, falling in a trickle down her cheeks.
"Oh, what's money!" she wailed. "I'd give all the money I have, I've ever had, I ever thought of having, to get my baby back."
Larkin was moved. He looked away from that pitiful, quivering face and his voice showed a slight huskiness as he answered:
"Well, that's all right, Mrs. Price – and don't take it so hard, don't let your fears get the upper hand. There's no harm can come to her; it's to their interest to take care of her. If we do our part cleverly, follow their instructions and keep our heads, you'll have her back in no time." He stopped, arrested by a sudden thought. "I say 'we,' but maybe I'm presupposing too much. Was it your intention to ask for my assistance?"
She dashed her tears away and leaned forward in eager urgence:
"Of course – that's why I came. And you will give it – you will? The letter says it has to be some one having no ties or interests with the family – some one I could trust. I couldn't think of any one at first, and then when I remembered you it was like an inspiration. Oh, you must do it – I'll pay you anything if you will."
Larkin's face satisfied her; she dropped back with a moan of relief.
"I'll undertake it willingly – not only to give you any help I can, but because it will be a good thing for me. Don't be shocked at my plain speaking, but I want to be frank and straight with you. I'm not referring to pay – we can arrange about that later – it's work done for the Janney family, successful work. And with your coöperation, Mrs. Price, this is going to be successful. Now let's get to business." He picked up the letter and glanced over it. "Headed 'Clansmen' and signed 'S. O. S.' I'll copy it, insert my name and address, and have it in to-morrow's Daily Record. Then we'll see what happens."
He smiled at her, reassuring and kindly. There was no response in her tragic face.
"It may be days before they answer," she murmured.
But he was determined to uphold her fainting spirit.
"I think not. They want to end this thing as quickly as they can – get their loot and go. You've got to remember that their position is terribly dangerous and at the first sign from us they'll get busy."
She rose, took the letter and put it in her purse:
"I hope to Heaven you're right. It's so awful to wait."
"I don't think you'll have to. They'll see our answer to-morrow morning and I'll expect a move from them by that evening or the next day. If they communicate with me, I'll let you know at once, and if you hear, do the same by me. It's going to be all right. Keep up your courage and remember – not a word or a sign to any one."
"Oh, I know," she said, drawing down her veil with limp hands, "you needn't be afraid I'll spoil it. You thought me a fool, perhaps, when I first consulted you, and I was, bothering about things that didn't matter – jewels! There isn't one of us that hasn't forgotten all about them now. Good-by. No, don't come out with me. I have a taxi waiting."