Loe raamatut: «The Bandbox», lehekülg 9
XI
THE COLD GREY DAWN
“Well?” snapped Iff irritably. “What’re you staring at?”
“You,” Staff replied calmly. “I was thinking – ”
“About me? What?”
“Merely that you are apparently as much cut up as if the necklace were yours – as if you were in danger of being robbed, instead of Miss Landis – by way of Miss Searle.”
“And I am!” asserted Iff vigorously. “I am, damn it! I’m in no danger of losing any necklace; but if he gets away with the goods, that infernal scoundrel will manage some way to implicate me and rob me of my good name and my liberty as well. Hell!” he exploded – “seems to me I’m entitled to be excited!”
Staff’s unspoken comment was that this explanation of the little man’s agitation was something strained and inconclusive: unsatisfactory at best. It was not apparent how (even assuming the historical Mr. Ismay to be at that moment stealing the Cadogan collar from Miss Searle) the crime could be fastened on Mr. Iff, in the face of the positive alibi Staff could furnish him. On the other hand, it was indubitable that Iff believed himself endangered in some mysterious way, or had some other and still more secret cause for disquiet. For his uneasiness was so manifest, in such sharp contrast with his habitual, semi-cynical repose, that even he hadn’t attempted to deny it.
With a shrug Staff turned back to the telephone and asked for the manager of the exchange, explained his predicament and was promised that, if the call could be traced back to the original station, he should have the number. He was, however, counselled to be patient. Such a search would take time, quite possibly and very probably.
He explained this to Iff, whose disgust was ill-disguised.
“And meanwhile,” he expostulated, “we’re sitting here with our hands in our laps – useless – and Ismay, as like ’s not, is – ” He broke into profanity, trotting up and down and twisting his small hands together.
“I wish,” said Staff, “I knew what makes you act this way. Ismay can’t saddle you with a crime committed by him when you’re in my company – ”
“You don’t know him,” interpolated Iff.
“And you surely can’t be stirred so deeply by simple solicitude for Miss Searle.”
“Oh, can’t I? And how do you know I can’t?” barked the little man. “Gwan – leave me alone! I want to think.”
“Best wishes,” Staff told him pleasantly. “I’m going to change my clothes.”
“Symptoms of intelligence,” grunted Iff. “I was wondering when you’d wake up to the incongruity of knight-erranting it after damsels in distress in an open-faced get-up like that.”
“It’s done, however,” argued Staff good-humouredly. “It’s class, if the illustrators are to be believed. Don’t you ever read modern fiction? In emergencies like these the hero always takes a cold bath and changes his clothes before sallying forth to put a crimp in the villain’s plans. Just the same as me. Only I’m going to shed evening dress instead of – ”
“Good heavens, man!” snorted Iff. “Are you in training for a monologist’s job? If so – if not – anyway – can it! Can the extemporaneous stuff!”
The telephone bell silenced whatever retort Staff may have contemplated. Both men jumped for the desk, but Staff got there first.
“Hello?” he cried, receiver at ear. “Yes? Hello?”
But instead of the masculine accents of the exchange-manager he heard, for the third time that night, the voice of Miss Searle.
“Yes,” he replied almost breathlessly – “it is I, Miss Searle. Thank Heaven you called up! I’ve been worrying silly – ”
“We were cut off,” the girl’s voice responded. He noted, subconsciously, that she was speaking slowly and carefully, as if with effort… “Cut off,” she repeated as by rote, “and I had trouble getting you again.”
“Then you’re – you’re all right?”
“Quite, thank you. I had an unpleasant experience trying to get to you by taxicab. The motor broke down coming through Central Park, and I had to walk home and lost my way. But I am all right now – just tired out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “It’s too bad; I was quite ready to call for the – you understand – and save you the trouble of the trip down here. But I’m glad you’ve had no more unpleasant adventure.”
“The necklace is safe,” the girl’s voice told him with the same deadly precision of utterance.
“Oh, yes; I assumed that. And I may call for it?”
“If you please – today at noon. I am so tired I am afraid I shan’t get up before noon.”
“That’ll be quite convenient to me, thank you,” he assured her. “But where are you stopping?”
There fell a brief pause. Then she said something indistinguishable.
“Yes?” he said. “Beg pardon – I didn’t get that. A little louder please, Miss Searle.”
“The St. Regis.”
“Where?” he repeated in surprise.
“The St. Regis. I am here with Mrs. Ilkington – her guest. Good night, Mr. Staff.”
“Good morning,” he laughed; and at once the connection was severed.
“And that’s all right!” he announced cheerfully, swinging round to face Iff. “She was in a taxicab accident and got lost in Central Park – just got home, I infer. The necklace is safe and I’m to call and get it at twelve o’clock.”
“Where’s she stopping?” demanded Iff, shaking his little head as though impatient. Staff named the hotel, and Iff fairly jumped. “Why that’s impossible!” he cried. “She can’t afford it.”
“How do you happen to know she can’t?” enquired Staff, perplexed.
Momentarily Iff showed a face of confusion. “I know a lot of things,” he grumbled, evasively.
Staff waited a moment, then finding that the little man didn’t purpose making any more adequate or satisfactory explanation, observed: “It happens that she’s Mrs. Ilkington’s guest, and I fancy Mrs. Ilkington can afford it – unless you know more about her, too, than I do.”
Iff shook his head, dissatisfied. “All right,” he said wearily. “Now what’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t, now, with nothing to do before noon.”
“Pleasant dreams,” said Iff sourly, as Staff marched off to his bedroom.
Then he sat down on the edge of the divan, hugging the dressing-gown round him, scowled vindictively at nothing and began thoughtfully to gnaw a bony knuckle.
In the other room, his host was undressing with surprising speed. In spite of his nap, he was still tremendously tired; perhaps the reaction caused by Eleanor’s reassurance capping the climax of his excitement had something to do with the sense of complete mental and physical fatigue that swept over him the instant his back rested upon the bed. Within two minutes he was fast asleep.
But in the study Mr. Iff kept vigil, biting his knuckles what time he was not depleting his host’s stock of cigarettes.
Daylight broadened over the city. The sun rose. Not to be outdone, so did Mr. Iff – moving quietly round the room, swearing beneath his breath as his conscience dictated, gradually accumulating more and more of the articles of clothing which he had so disdainfully discarded some hours earlier.
The telephone interrupted him somewhat after six o’clock. He answered it, assuming Staff’s identity for the moment. When the conversation had closed, he sat in reverie for some minutes, then consulted the telephone book and called two numbers in quick succession. Immediately thereafter he tiptoed into the bedroom, assured himself that Staff was fast asleep and proceeded calmly to rifle that gentleman’s pockets, carefully placing what he found in an orderly array upon the bureau. In the end, bringing to light a plump bill-fold, he concluded his investigations.
The pigskin envelope contained a little less than four-hundred dollars, mostly in gold Treasury certificates. Mr. Iff helped himself generously and replaced the bill-fold. Then he returned to the study, found paper and pens and wrote Staff a little note, which he propped against the mirror on the bedroom dresser. Finally, filling one of his pockets with cigarettes, he smiled blandly and let himself out of the apartment and, subsequently, of the house.
Staff slept on, sublimely unconscious, until the sun, slipping round to the south, splashed his face with moulten gold: when he woke, fretful and sweatful. He glanced at his watch and got up promptly: the hour approached eleven. Diving into a bathrobe, he turned the water on for his bath, trotted to the front room and discovered the evasion of Mr. Iff. This, however, failed to surprise him. Iff was, after all, not bound to sit tight until Staff gave him leave to stir.
He rang for Mrs. Shultz and ordered breakfast. Then he bathed and began to dress. It was during this latter ceremony that he found his pockets turned inside out and their contents displayed upon his bureau.
This was a shock, especially when he failed to find his bill-fold at the first sweep. The bottom dropped out of the market for confidence in the integrity of Mr. Iff and conceit in the perspicacity of Mr. Staff. He saw instantly how flimsy had been the tissue of falsehood wherewith the soi-disant Mr. Iff had sought to cloak his duplicity, how egregiously stupid had been his readiness to swallow that extraordinary yarn. The more he considered, the more he marvelled. It surpassed belief – his asininity did; at least he wouldn’t have believed he could be so easily fooled. He felt like kicking himself – and longed unutterably for a chance to kick his erstwhile guest.
In the midst of this transport he found himself staring incredulously at the envelope on the dresser. He snatched it up, tore it open and removed three pieces of white paper. Two of them were crisp and tough and engraved on one side with jet-black ink. The third bore this communication:
“My dear Mr. Staff: – Your bill-fold’s in your waistcoat pocket, where you left it last night. It contained $385 when I found it. It now contains $200. I leave you by way of security Bank of England notes to the extent of £40. There’ll be a bit of change, one way or the other – I’m too hurried to calculate which.
“The exchange manager has just called up. The interrupted call has been traced back to the Hotel St. Simon in 79th Street, W. I have called the St. Regis; neither Miss Searle nor Mrs. Ilkington has registered there. I have also called the St. Simon; both ladies are there. Your hearing must be defective – or else Miss S. didn’t know where she was at.
“I’m off to line my inwards with food and decorate my outwards with purple and fine underlinen. After which I purpose minding my own business for a few hours or days, as the circumstances may demand. But do not grieve – I shall return eftsoons or thereabouts.
“Yours in the interests of pure crime —“Whiff.
“P. S. – And of course neither of us had the sense to ask: If Miss S. was bound here from the St. Regis, how did her taxi manage to break down in Central Park?”
Prompt investigation revealed the truth of Mr. Iff’s assertion: the bill-fold with its remaining two-hundred dollars was safely tucked away in the waistcoat pocket. Furthermore, the two twenty-pound notes were unquestionably genuine. The tide of Staff’s faith in human nature began again to flood; the flower of his self-conceit flourished amazingly. He surmised that he wasn’t such a bad little judge of mankind, after all.
He breakfasted with a famous appetite, untroubled by Iff’s aspersion on his sense of hearing, which was excellent; and he had certainly heard Miss Searle aright: she had named the St. Regis not once, but twice, and each time with the clearest enunciation. He could only attribute the mistake to her excitement and fatigue; people frequently make such mistakes under unusual conditions; if Miss Searle had wished to deceive him as to her whereabouts, she needed only to refrain from communicating with him at all. And anyway, he knew now where to find her and within the hour would have found her; and then everything would be cleared up.
He was mildly surprised at the sense of pleasant satisfaction with which he looked forward to meeting the girl again. He reminded himself not to forget to interview a manager or two in her interests.
Just to make assurance doubly sure, he telephoned the St. Simon while waiting for Shultz to fetch a taxicab. The switchboard operator at that establishment replied in the affirmative to his enquiry as to whether or not Mrs. Ilkington and Miss Searle were registered there.
On the top of this he was called up by Alison.
“I’m just starting out – cab waiting,” he told her at once – “to go to Miss Searle and get your – property.”
“Oh, you are?” she returned in what he thought a singular tone.
“Yes; she called me up last night – said she’d discovered the mistake and the – ah – property – asked me to call today at noon.”
There was no necessity that he could see of detailing the whole long story over a telephone wire.
“Well,” said Alison after a little pause, “I don’t want to interfere with your amusements, but … I’ve something very particular to say to you. I wish you’d stop here on your way uptown.”
“Why, certainly,” he agreed without hesitation or apprehension.
The actress had put up, in accordance with her custom, at a handsome, expensive and world-famous hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of Staff’s rooms. Consequently he found himself in her presence within fifteen minutes from the end of their talk by telephone.
Dressed for the street and looking uncommonly handsome, she was waiting for him in the sitting-room of her suite. As he entered, she came forward and gave him a cool little hand and a greeting as cool. He received both with an imperturbability founded (he discovered to his great surprise) on solid indifference. It was hard to realise that he no longer cared for her, or whether she were pleased or displeased with him. But he didn’t. He concluded, not without profound amazement, that his passion for her which had burned so long and brightly had been no more than sentimental incandescence. And he began to think himself a very devil of a fellow, who could toy with the love of women with such complete insouciance, who could off with the old love before he had found a new and care not a rap!..
Throughout this self-analysis he was mouthing commonplaces – assuring her that the day was fine, that he had never felt better, that she was looking her charming best. Of a sudden his vision comprehended an article which adorned the centre-table; and words forsook him and his jaw dropped.
It was the bandbox: not that which he had left, with its cargo of trash, in his rooms.
Alison followed his glance, elevated her brows, and indicated the box with a wave of her arm.
“And what d’ you know about that?” she enquired bluntly.
“Where did it come from?” he counter-questioned, all agape.
“I’m asking you.”
“But – I know nothing about it. Did Miss Searle send it – ?”
“I can’t say,” replied the actress drily. “Your name on the tag has been scratched out and mine, with this address, written above it.”
Staff moved over to the table and while he was intently scrutinising the tag, Alison continued:
“It came by messenger about eight this morning; Jane brought it to me when I got up a little while ago.”
“The hat was in it?” he asked.
She nodded impatiently: “Oh, of course – with the lining half ripped out and the necklace missing.”
“Curious!” he murmured.
“Rather,” she agreed. “What do you make of it?”
“This address isn’t her writing,” he said, deep in thought.
“Oh, so you’re familiar with the lady’s hand?” There was an accent in Alison’s voice that told him, before he looked, that her lip was curling and her eyes were hard.
“This is a man’s writing,” he said quietly, wondering if it could be possible that Alison was jealous.
“Well?” she demanded. “What of it?”
“I don’t know. Miss Searle got me on the telephone a little after one last night; she said she’d found the necklace in the hat and was bringing it to me.”
“How did she know it was mine?”
“Heard you order it sent to me, in London. You’ll remember my telling you she knew.”
“Oh, yes. Go on.”
“She didn’t show up, but telephoned again some time round four o’clock explaining that she had been in a taxicab accident in the Park and lost her way but finally got home – that is, to her hotel, the St. Simon. She said the necklace was safe – didn’t mention the hat – and asked me to call for it at noon today. I said I would, and I’m by way of being late now. Doubtless she can explain how the hat came to you this way.”
“I’ll be interested to hear,” said Alison, “and to know that the necklace is really safe. On the face of it – as it stands – there’s something queer – wrong… What are you going to do?”
Staff had moved toward the telephone. He paused, explaining that he was about to call up Miss Searle for reassurance. Alison negatived this instantly.
“Why waste time? If she has the thing, the quickest way to get it is to go to her now – at once. If she hasn’t, the quickest way to get after it is via the same route. I’m all ready and if you are we’ll go immediately.”
Staff bowed, displeased with her manner to the point of silence. He had no objection to her being as temperamental as she pleased, but he objected strongly to having it implied by everything except spoken words that he was in some way responsible for the necklace and that Eleanor Searle was quite capable of conspiring to steal it.
As for Alison, her humour was dangerously impregnated with the consciousness that she had played the fool to such an extent that she stood in a fair way to lose her necklace. Inasmuch as she knew this to be altogether her fault, whatever the outcome, she was in a mood to quarrel with the whole wide world; and she schooled herself to treat with Staff on terms of toleration only by exercise of considerable self-command and because she was exacting a service of him.
So their ride uptown was marked by its atmosphere of distant and dispassionate civility. They spoke infrequently, and then on indifferent topics soon suffered to languish. In due course, however, Staff mastered his resentment and – as evidenced by his wry, secret smile – began to take a philosophic view of the situation, to extract some slight amusement from his insight into Alison’s mental processes. Intuitively sensing this, she grew even more exasperated with him – as well as with everybody aside from her own impeccable self.
At the St. Simon, Staff soberly escorted the woman to the lounge, meaning to leave her there while he enquired for Eleanor at the office; but they had barely set foot in the apartment when their names were shrieked at them in an excitable, shrill, feminine voice, and Mrs. Ilkington bore down upon them in full regalia of sensation.
“My dears!” she cried, regarding them affectionately – “such a surprise! Such a delightful surprise! And so good of you to come to see me so soon! And opportune – I’m dying, positively expiring, for somebody to gossip with. Such a singular thing has happened – ”
Alison interrupted bluntly: “Where’s Miss Searle? Mr. Staff is anxious to see her.”
“That’s just it —just what I want to talk about. You’d never guess what that girl has done – and after all the trouble and thought I’ve taken in her behalf, too! I’m disgusted, positively and finally disgusted; never again will I interest myself in such people. I – ”
“But where is Miss Searle?” demanded Alison, with a significant look to Staff.
“Gone!” announced Mrs. Ilkington impressively.
“Gone?” echoed Staff.
Mrs. Ilkington nodded vigorously, compressing her lips to a thin line of disapproval. “I’m positively at my wits’ end to account for her.”
“I fancy there’s an explanation, however,” Alison put in.
“I wish you’d tell me, then… You see, we dined out, went to the theatre and supper together, last night. The Struyvers asked me, and I made them include her, of course. We got back about one. Of course, my dears, I was fearfully tired and didn’t get up till half an hour ago. Imagine my sensation when I enquired for Miss Searle and was informed that she paid her bill and left at five o’clock this morning, and with a strange man!”
“She left you a note, of course?” Staff suggested.
“Not a line – nothing! I might be the dirt beneath her feet, the way she’s treated me. I’m thoroughly disillusioned – disgusted!”
“Pardon me,” said Staff; “I’ll have a word with the office.”
He hurried away, leaving Mrs. Ilkington still volubly dilating on that indignity that had been put upon her: Alison listening with an air of infinite detachment.
His enquiry was fruitless enough. The day-clerk, he was informed by that personage, had not come on duty until eight o’clock; he knew nothing of the affair beyond what he had been told by the night-clerk – that Miss Searle had called for her bill and paid it at five o’clock; had given instructions to have her luggage removed from her room and delivered on presentation of her written order; and had then left the hotel in company with a gentleman who registered as “I. Arbuthnot” at one o’clock in the morning, paying for his room in advance.
Staff, consumed with curiosity about this gentleman, was so persistent in his enquiry that he finally unearthed the bellboy who had shown that guest to his room and who furnished what seemed to be a tolerably accurate sketch of him.
The man described was – Iff.
Discouraged and apprehensive, Staff returned to the lounge and made his report – one received by Alison with frigid disapproval, by Mrs. Ilkington with every symptom of cordial animation; from which it became immediately apparent that Alison had told the elder woman everything she should not have told her.
“‘I. Arbuthnot,’” Alison translated: “Arbuthnot Ismay.”
“Gracious!” Mrs. Ilkington squealed. “Isn’t that the real name of that odd creature who called himself Iff and pretended to be a Secret Service man?”
Staff nodded a glum assent.
“It’s plain enough,” Alison went on; “this Searle woman was in league with him – ”
“I disagree with you,” said Staff.
“On what grounds?”
“I don’t believe that Miss Searle – ”
“On what grounds?”
He shrugged, acknowledging his inability to explain.
“And what will you do?” interrupted Mrs. Ilkington.
“I shall inform the police, of course,” said Alison; “and the sooner the better.”
“If I may venture so far,” Staff said stiffly, “I advise you to do nothing of the sort.”
“And why not, if you please?”
“It’s rather a delicate case,” he said – “if you’ll pause to consider it. You must not forget that you yourself broke the law when you contrived to smuggle the necklace into this country. The minute you make this matter public, you lay yourself open to arrest and prosecution for swindling the Government.”
“Swindling!” Alison repeated with a flaming face.
Staff bowed, confirming the word. “It is a very serious charge these days,” he said soberly. “I’d advise you to think twice before you make any overt move.”
“But if I deny attempting to smuggle the necklace? If I insist that it was stolen from me aboard the Autocratic – stolen by this Mr. Ismay and this Searle woman – ?”
“Miss Searle did not steal your necklace. If she had intended anything of the sort, she wouldn’t have telephoned me about it last night.”
“Nevertheless, she has gone away with it, arm-in-arm with a notorious thief, hasn’t she?”
“We’re not yet positive what she has done. For my part, I am confident she will communicate with us and return the necklace with the least possible delay.”
“Nevertheless, I shall set the police after her!” Alison insisted obstinately.
“Again I advise you – ”
“But I shall deny the smuggling, base my charge on – ”
“One moment,” Staff interposed firmly. “You forget me. I’m afraid I can adduce considerable evidence to prove that you not only attempted to smuggle, but as a matter of fact did.”
“And you would do that – to me?” snapped the actress.
“I mean that Miss Searle shall have every chance to prove her innocence,” he returned in an even and unyielding voice.
“Why? What’s your interest in her?”
“Simple justice,” he said – and knew his answer to be evasive and unconvincing.
“As a matter of fact,” said Alison, rising in her anger, “you’ve fallen in love with the girl!”
Staff held her gaze in silence.
“You’re in love with her,” insisted the actress – “in love with this common thief and confidence-woman!”
Staff nodded gently. “Perhaps,” said he, “you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way before… But, if you doubt my motive in advising you to go slow, consult somebody else – somebody you feel you can trust: Max, for instance, or your attorney. Meanwhile, I’d ask Mrs. Ilkington to be discreet, if I were you.”
Saluting them ceremoniously, he turned and left the hotel, deeply dejected, profoundly bewildered and … wondering whether or not Alison in her rage had uncovered a secret unsuspected even by himself, to whom it should have been most intimate.
