The White Moll

by Frank L. Packard

  V. A SECOND VISITOR

  Mechanically Rhoda Gray thrust the paper into the pocket of her skirt.The door swung open. A tall man, well dressed, as far as could be seenin the uncertain light, a slouch hat pulled far down over his eyes,stood on the threshold, surveying the interior of the garret.

  The Adventurer rose composedly to his feet--and moved slightly back outof the direct radius of the candlelight.

  There was silence for a moment, and then the man in the doorway laughedunpleasantly.

  "Hello!" he flung out harshly. "Who's the dude, Nan?"

  Rhoda Gray, on the edge of the bed, shrugged her shoulders. TheAdventurer was standing quite at his ease, his soft hat tucked under hisright arm, his hand thrust into the side pocket of his coat. She couldno longer see his face distinctly.

  "Well?" There was a snarl in the man's voice as he advanced from thedoorway. "You heard me, didn't you? Who is he?"

  "Why don't youse ask him yerself?" inquired Rhoda Gray truculently. "Idunno."

  "You don't, eh?" The man had halted close to where the candle stood onthe floor between himself and the Adventurer. "Well, then, I guess we'llfind out!" He was peering in the Adventurer's direction, and now therecame a sudden savage scowl to his face. "It seems to me I've seen thoseclothes somewhere before, and I guess now we'll take a look at your faceso that there won't be any question about recognition the next time wemeet."

  The Adventurer laughed softly.

  "There will be none on my part," he said calmly. "It's Danglar, isn'tit? I am surely not mistaken. Parson Danglar, alias--ah! Please don't dothat!"

  It seemed to Rhoda Gray that it happened in the space of time it mighttake a watch to tick: The newcomer stooping to the floor, and liftingthe candle with the obvious intention of thrusting it into theAdventurer's face--a glint of metal, as the Adventurer whipped arevolver from the side pocket of his coat--and then, how they got thereshe could not tell, it was done so adroitly and swiftly, the thumb andforefinger of the Adventurer's left hand had closed on the candle wickand snuffed it out, and the garret was in darkness.

  There was a savage oath, a snarl of rage from the man whom theAdventurer had addressed as Danglar; then an instant s silence; and thenthe Adventurer's voice--from the doorway:

  "I beg of you not to vent your disappointment on the lady--Danglar. Iassure you that she is in no way responsible for my visit here, and, asfar as that goes, never saw me before in her life. Also, it is only fairto tell you, in case you should consider leaving here too hurriedly,that I am really not at all a bad shot--even in the dark. I bid yougood-night, Danglar--and you my dear lady!"

  Danglar's voice rose again in a flood of profane rage. He stumbled andmoved around in the dark.

  "Damn it!" he shouted. "Where are the matches? Where's the lamp? Thiscursed candle's put enough to the bad already! Do you hear? Where's thelamp?"

  "It's over dere on de floor, bust to pieces," mumbled Rhoda Gray."Youse'll find the matches on de washstand, an--"

  "What's the idea?" There was a sudden, steel-like note dominating theangry tones. "What are you handing me that hog-wash language for? Eh?It's damned queer! There's been damned queer doings around here eversince last night! See? What's the idea?"

  Rhoda Gray felt her face whiten in the darkness. It was the slip shehad feared; the slip that she had had to take the chance of making, andwhich, if it were not retrieved, and instantly retrieved, now that itwas made, meant discovery, and after that--She shivered a little.

  "You needn't lose your head, just because you've lost your temper!" shesaid tartly, in a guarded whisper. "The door into the hall is still wideopen, isn't it?"

  "Oh, all right!" he said, his tones a sort of sullen admission that herretort was justified. "But even now your voice sounds off color."

  Rhoda Gray bridled.

  "Does it?" she snapped at him. "I've got a cold. Maybe you'd get onetoo, and maybe your voice would be off color, if you had to live in adump like this, and--"

  "Oh, all right, all right!" he broke in hurriedly. "For Heaven's sakedon't start a row! Forget it! See? Forget it!" He walked over to thedoor, peered out, swore savagely to himself, shut the door, held thecandle up to circle the garret, and scowled as its rays fell upon theshattered pieces of the lamp in the corner then, returning, he set thecandle down upon the chair and began to pace restlessly, three or foursteps each way, up and down in front of the bed.

  Rhoda Gray, from the edge of the bed, shifted back until her shouldersrested against the wall. Danglar, too, was dressed like a gentleman--butDanglar's face was not appealing. The little round black eyes wereshifty, they seemed to possess no pupils whatever, and they rovedconstantly; there was a hard, unyielding thinness about the lips, andthe face itself was thin, almost gaunt, as though the skin had had toaccommodate itself to more than was expected of it, and was elasticallystretched over the cheek-bones.

  "Well, I'm listening!" jerked out the man abruptly. "You knew our gameat Skarbolov's was queered. You got the 'seven-three-nine,' didn't you?"

  "Yes, of course, I got it," answered Rhoda Gray. "What about it?"

  "For two weeks now, yes, more than two weeks"--the man's voice raspedangrily--"things have been going wrong, and some one has been butting inand getting away with the goods under our noses. We know now, from lastnight, that it must have been the White Moll, for one, though it's notlikely she worked all alone. Skeeny dropped to the fact that the policewere wise about Skarbolov's, and that's why we called it off, and the'seven-three-nine' went out. They must have got wise through shadowingthe White Moll. See? Then they pinch her, but she makes her get-away,and comes here, and, if the dope I've got is right, you hand RoughRorke one, and help her to beat it again. It looks blamed funny--doesn'tit?--when you come to consider that there's a leak somewhere!"

  "Is that so!" Rhoda Gray flashed back. "And did you know before lastnight that it was the White Moll who was queering our game?"

  "If I had," the man gritted between his teeth, "I'd--"

  "Well, then, how did you expect me to know it?" demanded Rhoda Grayheatedly. "And if the White Moll happens to know Gypsy Nan, as she knowseverybody else through her jellies and custards and fake charity, andhappens to be near here when she gets into trouble, and beats it forhere with the police on her heels, and asks for help, what do you expectGypsy Nan's going to do if she wants to stand any chance of stickingaround these parts--as Gypsy Nan?"

  The man paused in his walk, and, jerking back his hat, drew his handnervously across his forehead.

  "You make me tired!" said Rhoda Gray wearily. "Do you think you couldfind the door without too much trouble?"

  Danglar resumed his pacing back and forth, but more slowly now.

  "Oh, I know! I know, Bertha!" he burst out heavily. "I'm talking throughmy hat. You've got the roughest job of any of us, old girl. Don't mindwhat I'm saying. Something's badly wrong, and I'm half crazy. It'scertain now that the White Moll's the one that's been doing us, and whatI really came down here for to-night was to tell you that your job fromnow on was to get the White Moll. You helped her last night. She doesn'tknow you are anybody but Gypsy Nan, and so you're the one person in NewYork she'll dare try to communicate with sooner or later. Understand?That's what I came for, not to talk like a fool--but that fellow I foundhere started me off. Who is he? What did he want?"

  "He wanted the White Moll, too," said Rhoda Gray, with a short laugh.

  "Oh, he did, eh!" Danglar's lips twisted into a sudden, merciless smile."Well, go on! Who is he?"

  "I don't know who he is," Rhoda Gray answered a little impatiently. "Hesaid he was an adventurer--if you can make anything out of that. He saidhe got the White Moll away from Rough Rorke last night, after Rorke hadarrested her; and then he doped the rest out the same as you have--thathe could find the White Moll again through Gypsy Nan. I don't know whathe wanted her for."

  "That's better!" snarled Danglar, the merciless smile still on his lips."I thought she must have had a pal, and we know now who her pal
is. It'sopen and shut that she's sitting so tight she hasn't been able to getinto touch with him, and that's what's worrying Mr. Adventurer."

  Rhoda Gray, save for a nod of her head, made no answer.

  Danglar laughed suddenly, as though in relief; then, coming closer tothe bed, plunged his hand into his coat pocket, and tossed handful ofjewelry carelessly into Rhoda Gray's lap.

  "I feel better than I did!" he said, and laughed again. "It's a cinchnow that we'll get them both through you, and it s a cinch that theWhite Moll won't cut in to-night. Put those sparklers away with the restuntil we get ready to 'fence' them."

  Rhoda Gray did not speak. Mechanically, as though she were livingthrough some hideous nightmare, she began to scoop up the gems from herlap and allow them to trickle back through her fingers. They flashed andscintillated brilliantly, even in the meager light. They seemed alivewith some premonitory, baleful fire.

  "Yes, there's some pretty slick stuff there," said Danglar, with anappraising chuckle; "but there'll be something to-night that'll make allthat bunch look like chicken-feed. The boys are at work now, and we'llhave old Hayden-Bond's necklace in another hour. Skeeny's got theSparrow tied up in the old room behind Shluker's place, and once we'resure there's no back-fire anywhere, the Sparrow will chirp his lastchirp." He laughed out suddenly, and, leaning forward, clapped RhodaGray exultantly on the shoulder. "It was like taking candy froma kid! The Sparrow and the old man fell for the sick-mother,needing-her-son-all-night stuff without batting a lid; but the Sparrowhasn't been holding the old lady's hand at the bedside yet. We took careof that."

  Again Rhoda Gray made no comment. She wondered, as she gripped at therings and brooches in hand, so fiercely that the settings pricked intothe flesh, if her face mirrored in any way the cold, sick misery thathad suddenly taken possession of her soul. The Sparrow! She knew theSparrow; she knew the Sparrow's sick mother. That part of it was true.The Sparrow did have an old mother who was sick. A fine old lady--finerthan the son--Finch, her name was. Indirectly, she knew old Hayden-Bond,the millionaire, and--Almost subconsciously she was aware that Danglarwas speaking again.

  "I guess luck's breaking our way again," he grinned. "The old boy paida hundred thousand cold for that necklace. You know how long we've beenwaiting to get our hooks on it, and we've never had our eyes off hishouse for two months. Well, it pays to wait, and it pays to do thingsright. It broke our way at last to-night, all right, all right! To-day'sSaturday--and the safety deposit vaults aren't open on Sunday. Mrs.Hayden-Bond's been away all week visiting, but she comes back to-morrow,and there's some swell society fuss fixed for to-morrow night, and shewants her necklace to make a splurge, so she writes Mr. H-hyphen-B, andout it comes from the safety deposit vault, and into the library safe.The old man isn't long on social stunts, and he's got pretty well setin his habits; one of those must-have-nine-hours'-sleep bugs, and he'salways in bed by ten--when his wife'll let him. She being away to-night,the boys were able to get to work early. They ought to be able to crackthat box without making any noise about it in an hour and a half at theoutside." He pulled out his watch-and whistled low under his breath."It's a quarter after eleven now," he said hurriedly, and moved abruptlytoward the door. "I can't stick around here any longer. I've got to beon deck where they can slip me the 'white ones,' and then there'sSkeeny waiting for the word to bump off the Sparrow." He jerked his handsuddenly toward the jewels in her lap. "Salt those away before any moreadventurers blow in!" he said, half sharply, half jocularly. "And don'tlet the White Moll slip you--at any cost. Remember! She's bound to cometo you again. Play her--and send out the call. You understand, don'tyou? There's never been a yip out of the police. Our methods are toogood for that. Look at the Sparrow to-night. Where there's no chancetaken of suspicion going anywhere except where we lead it, there'sno chance of any trouble--for us! But this cursed she-fiend's anotherstory. We're not planting plum trees for her to pick any more of thefruit. Understand?"

  She answered him mechanically.

  "Yes," she said.

  "All right, then; that end of it is up to you," he said significantly."You're clever, clever as the devil, Bertha. Use your brains now--weneed 'em. Good-night, old girl. See you later."

  "Good-night," said Rhoda Gray dully.

  The door closed. The short, ladder-like steps to the hallway belowcreaked once, and then all was still. Danglar did have on rubber-soledshoes. She sat upright, her hands, clenched now, pressed hard againsther throbbing temples. It wasn't true! None of this was true--thishovel of a place, those jewels glinting like evil eyes in her lap; herexistence itself wasn't true; it was only her brain now, sick like hersoul, that conjured up these ugly phantoms with horrible, plausibleingenuity. And then an inner voice seemed to answer her with a calmnessthat was hideous in its finality. It was true. All of it was true.Those words of Danglar, and their bald meaning, were true. Men did suchthings; men made in the image of their Maker did such things. They weregoing to kill a man to-night--an innocent man whom they had made theirpawn.

  She swept the jewels from her lap to the blanket, and rising, seized thecandle, went to the door, looked out, and, holding the candle high aboveher head, peered down the stairs. Yes, he was gone. There was no onethere.

  She locked the door again, returned to the bed, set the candle down uponthe chair, and stood there, her face white and drawn, staring with wide,tormented eyes about her. Murder. Danglar had spoken of it with inhumancallousness--and had laughed at it. They were going to take a man'slife. And there was only herself, already driven to extremity, alreadywith her own back against the wall in an effort to save herself, onlyherself to carry the burden of the responsibility of doing something-tosave a man's life.

  It seemed to plumb the depths of irony and mockery. She could not makea move as Gypsy Nan. It would only result in their turning upon her, ofthe discovery that she was not Gypsy Nan at all, of the almost certaintythat it would cost her her own life without saving the Sparrow's. Thatway was closed to her from the start. As the White Moll, then? Outsidethere in the great city, every plain-clothes man, every policeman onevery beat, was staring into every woman's face he met--searching forthe White Moll.

  She wrung her hands in cruel desperation. Even to her own problem shehad found no solution, though she had wrestled with it all last night,and all through the day; no solution save the negative one of clingingto this one refuge that remained to her, such as it was, temporarily.She had found no solution to that; what solution was there to this! Shehad thought of leaving the city as Gypsy Nan, and then somewhere faraway, of sloughing off the character of Gypsy Nan, and of resuming herown personality again under an assumed name. But that would have meantthe loss of everything she had in life, her little patrimony, theirredeemable stamp of shame upon the name she once had owned; and alsothe constant fear and dread that at any moment the police net, wide asthe continent was wide, would close around her, as, sooner or later, itwas almost inevitable that it would close around her. It had seemed thather only chance was to keep on striving to play the role of Gypsy Nan,because it was these associates of Gypsy Nan who were at the bottom ofthe crime of which she, Rhoda Gray, was held guilty, and because therewas always the hope that in this way, through confidences to a supposedconfederate, she could find the evidence that would convict thoseactually guilty, and so prove her own innocence. But in holding tothe role of Gypsy Nan for the purpose of receiving those criminalconfidences, she had not thought of this--that upon her would rest themoral responsibility of other crimes of which she would have knowledge,and, least of all, that she should be faced with what lay before hernow, to-night, at the first contact with those who had been Gypsy Nan'sconfederates.

  What was she to do? Upon her, and upon her alone, depended a man's life,and, adding to her distraction, she knew the man--the Sparrow, who hadalready done time; that was the vile ingenuity of it all. And therewould le corroborative evidence, of course; they would have seen tothat. If the Sparrow disappeared and was never heard of again, even achild
would deduce the assumption that the proceeds of the robbery haddisappeared with him.

  Her brain seemed to grow panicky. She was standing here helplessly. Andtime, the one precious ally that she possessed, was slipping away fromher. She could not go to the police as Gypsy Nan--and, much less, asthe White Moll! She could not go to the police in any case, for the"corroborative" evidence, that obviously must exist, unless Danglar andthose with him were fools, would indubitably damn the Sparrow to anotherprison term, even supposing that through the intervention of the policehis life were saved. What was she to do?

  And then, for a moment, her eyes lighted in relief. The Adventurer!She thrust her hand into the pocket of her skirt, and drew out the tornpiece of paper, and studied the telephone number upon it--and slowly thehurt and misery came back into her eyes again. Who was he? He had toldher. An adventurer. He had given her to understand that he, if she hadnot been just a few minutes ahead of him, would have taken that moneyfrom Skarbolov's escritoire last night. Therefore he was a crook.Danglar had said that some one had been getting in ahead of them latelyand snatching the plunder from under their noses; and Danglar nowbelieved that it had been the White Moll. A wan smile came to her lips.Instead of the White Moll, it appeared to be quite obvious that it wasthe Adventurer. It therefore appeared to be quite as obvious that theman was a professional thief, and an extremely clever one, at that. Shedared not trust him. To enlist his aid she would have to explainthe gang's plot; and while the Adventurer might go to the Sparrow'sassistance, he might also be very much more interested in the diamondnecklace that was involved, and not be entirely averse to Danglar's planof using the Sparrow as a pawn, who, in that case, would make a veryconvenient scapegoat for the Adventurer--instead of Danglar! She darednot trust the man. She could not absolve her conscience by stakinganother's life on a hazard, on the supposition that the Adventurer mightdo this or that. It was not good enough.

  She was quick in her movements now. Subconsciously her decision had beenmade. There was only one way--only one. She gathered up the jewels fromthe bed and thrust them, with the Adventurer's torn piece of paper, intoher pocket. And now she reached for the little notebook that she hadhidden under the blanket. It contained the gang's secret code, and shehad found it in the cash box in Gypsy Nan's strange hiding place thatevening. Half running now, carrying the candle, she started toward thelower end of the attic, where the roof sloped down to little morethan shoulder high. "Seven-Three-Nine!" Danglar had almost decoded themessage word for word in the course of his conversation. In the littlenotebook, set against the figures, were the words: "Danger. The gameis off. Make no further move." It was only one of many, that arbitraryarrangement of figures, each combination having its own specialsignificance; but, besides these, there was the key to a completecipher into which any message might be coded, and--But why was her brainswerving off at inconsequential tangents? What did a coder or code book,matter at the present moment?

  She was standing under the narrow trap-door in the low ceiling now, andnow she pushed it up, and lifting the candle through the opening, set itdown on the inner surface of the ceiling, which, like some vast shelf,Gypsy Nan had metamorphosed into that exhaustive storehouse of edibles,of plunder--a curious and sinister collection that was eloquent of agauntlet long flung down against the law. She emptied the pocket of herskirt, retaining only the revolver, and substituted the articles she hadremoved with the tin box that contained the dark compound Gypsy Nan, andshe herself, as Gypsy Nan, had used to rob her face of youthfulness, andgive it the grimy, dissolute and haggard aspect which was so simple andyet so efficient a disguise.

  She worked rapidly now, changing her clothes. She could not go, or act,as Gypsy Nan; and so she must go in her own character, go as the WhiteMoll--because that was the lesser danger, the one that held the onlypromise of success. There wasn't any other way. She could not very wellrefuse to risk her capture by the police, could she, when by so doingshe might save another's life? She could not balance in cowardlyselfishness the possibility of a prison term for herself, hideous asthat might be, against the penalty of death that the Sparrow would payif she remained inactive. But she could not leave here as the WhiteMoll. Somewhere, somewhere out in the night, somewhere away from thisgarret where all connection with it was severed, she must complete thetransformation from Gypsy Nan to the White Moll. She could only preparefor that now as best she could.

  And there was not a moment to lose. The thought made her frantic. Overher own clothes she put on again Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, and drew onagain, over her own silk ones, Gypsy Nan's coarse stockings. She put onGypsy Nan's heavy and disreputable boots, and threw the old shawl againover her head and shoulders. And then, with her hat--for the small shapeof which she breathed a prayer of thankfulness!--and her own shoes underher arm and covered by the shawl, she took the candle again, closed thetrap-door, and stepped over to the washstand. Here, she dampened arag, that did duty as a facecloth, and thrust it into her pocket; then,blowing out the candle, she groped her way to the door, locked it behindher, and without any attempt at secrecy made her way downstairs.