Find the Woman

by Arthur Somers Roche

  XIII

  The opened door admitted more than David Randall. It let in a snowy gustthat beat upon Clancy's bosom, rendering her more conscious than even amasculine presence could that the dress she wore was new to herexperience. Randall was almost blown through the doorway. He turned andforced the door closed. Turning again, he recognized Clancy, who hadretreated, a pink picture of embarrassment, to the foot of thestaircase.

  "Do I frighten you?" he asked dryly.

  Clancy recovered the self-possession that never deserted her for long.

  "No one does that," she retorted.

  "I believe you," said Randall. His good-humored face wore a slightlypathetic expression. If no man is a hero to his valet, still less is heto the woman for whom he has conceived a sudden devotion which is as yetunreturned.

  Clancy dropped him a courtesy.

  "Thank you," she said, "for believing me."

  He moved toward her, holding out his big hands. Clancy permitted them toenvelop one of hers. Randall bowed over it. His face, when he lifted it,was red.

  Blushes are as contagious as measles. Clancy was grateful for the cryfrom above.

  "Miss Deane," called Sophie Carey, "who is it?"

  "Mr. Randall," Clancy called back.

  "Send him into the dining-room. Tell him that there are no cocktails,but Scotch and soda are on the sideboard. Come up, won't you? And tellDavid to answer the door-bell."

  Clancy turned to Randall. His mouth sagged open the least bit. He lookeddisappointed.

  "Don't mind," she whispered. "We'll have it by and by."

  "Have what?" he asked blankly.

  "The _tete-a-tete_ you want." She laughed. Then she wheeled and ran upthe stairs, leaving him staring after her, wondering if she were thesweetly simple country maiden that she had appeared last night, or awise coquette.

  Mrs. Carey, still in the bedroom, where she was, by twisting her lithe,luscious figure, managing to hook up her dress in the back, smiled atClancy's entrance.

  "Is he overwhelmed?" she asked.

  Clancy grinned entrancingly. Then she became suddenly demure.

  "He--liked me," she admitted.

  "He would; they all would," said Mrs. Carey.

  She managed the last hook as Clancy offered her aid. She glanced atherself in the mirror, wriggled until the blue frock set more evenlyover the waist-line, then turned to Clancy.

  "Your hair--I said I'd fix it. Come here," she commanded.

  Meekly, Clancy obeyed.

  Deftly, Mrs. Carey unfastened Clancy's hair. It was of a soft texture,hung softly to her hips, and seemed, despite its softness, to have anelectric, flashing quality. Mrs. Carey's eyes lighted. She was,primarily, an artist. Which means that people were rarely individuals toher. They were subjects. Clancy was a subject now. And a satisfyingsubject, Mrs. Carey thought, for if the girl had been transformed by thelow-cut evening gown, so, by the severe coiffure that her hostessrearranged, was she even more transformed. Mrs. Carey looked at her andshook her head.

  "The baby stare went out of fashion on the day that the baby vampirecame in," she said. "But you've achieved a combination, Miss Deane."

  "Vampires" were not popular in Zenith. Clancy did not know whether to beshocked or pleased. She decided to be pleased.

  The door-bell had rung several times during the process of fixingClancy's hair, and from the down-stairs part of the house cameoccasional gleeful shouts. Now Mrs. Carey and Clancy descended. Theyentered the dining-room. A stout, bald gentleman, who, Clancy wouldlearn later, was a Supreme Court judge, lifted a glass and toasted Mrs.Carey.

  "Our lovely hostess. May her eyes always be dry, but her cellar never!"

  Mrs. Carey laughed.

  "You are committing a crime, Judge," she said.

  "But not vandalism, Mrs. Carey," he retorted. "Some day, the seekers ofevil where there is none are coming to this house. They are going toraid you, Mrs. Carey. And what liquor they find here they will pour intothe gutters."

  He beamed upon Clancy, set down his glass, and advanced to her.

  "Little stranger," he said, "there are many wicked, wicked men in thisroom to-night. I don't know where Mrs. Carey finds them or why sheassociates with them. Let us go into a corner while I explain to you whyyou should know no one in this vile city but myself."

  A portly, good-humored-looking woman, who seemed to be bursting from hercorsage, tapped the judge on the shoulder.

  "Tom, you behave," she said.

  The judge sighed. He took Clancy's unresisting hand and lifted it to hislips. His wife, the portly woman, snatched Clancy's hand away.

  "Don't pay any attention to him," she said. "He's really an old, old manapproaching senility. I know, because I'm married to him. I myself, whena deluded young girl, decided to be a rich old man's darling instead ofa poor young man's slave. It was a mistake," she whispered hoarsely."Youth should never be tied to age."

  The judge inflated his huge chest.

  "Miss--Miss----"

  "Miss Deane," said Sophie Carey; "Judge and Mrs. Walbrough."

  Clancy, a bit fussed by the judge's heavy good humor, managed to bow.

  "Ah--Miss Deane!" said the judge. "Well, Miss Deane, if you are assensible as, despite your beauty, you seem to be, you will pay noattention to the maunderings of the woman who calls herself my wife. Asa matter of fact, though she does not suspect it, I married her out ofpity. She was much older than myself, and possessed a large fortune,which she did not know how to administer. And so I----"

  Mrs. Walbrough took Clancy's hand. She pushed her husband away. AndClancy noticed that the hand that pushed lingered to caress. Shesuddenly adored the judge and loved his wife.

  From up-stairs sounded now the barbaric strains of "Vamp."

  Randall, who had been hovering near, rushed to her.

  "The first dance? Please, Miss Deane!"

  Mrs. Walbrough smiled.

  "Don't forget to give one to Tom by and by," she said.

  "Indeed I won't," promised Clancy.

  She and Randall were the first couple to reach the studio. The easelshad been removed, and chairs were lined against the walls. At the farend of the room, behind some hastily imported tubs of plants, was anegro orchestra of four men. Into the steps of the fox-trot Randallswung her.

  He was not an extremely good dancer. That is, he knew few steps. But hehad a sense of rhythm, the dancer's most valuable asset, and he was tallenough, so that their figures blended well. Clancy enjoyed the dance.

  Before they had finished, the room was thronged. Mrs. Carey, Clancydecided, must be extremely popular. For Randall knew many of the guests,and their names were familiar, from newspaper reading, even to ClancyDeane, from far-off Zenith. She was extremely interested in seeingpeople who had been mere names to her. It was interesting to know that aman who drew what Clancy thought were the most beautiful girls in theworld was an undistinguished-appearing bald man. It was thrilling tolook at a multimillionaire, even though he wore a rather stupid grin ona rather stupid face; to see a great editor, a famous author, a womanwhose name was known on two continents for her gorgeous entertainments,an ex-mayor of the city. A score of celebrities danced, laughed, andmade merry. And Sophie Carey had managed to summon this crowd uponalmost a moment's notice. She must be more than popular; she must be apower. And this popular power had chosen to befriend Clancy Deane, theundistinguished Clancy Deane, a nobody from Zenith, Maine!

  Randall surrendered her, after the first dance, to Judge Walbrough. Likemost fat men who can dance at all, he danced extremely well. And Clancyfound his flowery compliments amusing.

  Then Sophie Carey brought forward a young man of whose interested regardClancy had been conscious for several minutes. He was good-looking, witha mouth whose firmness verged on stubbornness. His dinner jacket satsnugly upon broad shoulders. He wore glasses that did not entirelydisguise the fact that his eyes were gray and keen. A most presentableyoung man, it was not his youth or good looks that compared favorablywith Randall
's similar qualities, that thrilled Clancy; it was the namethat he bore--Vandervent.

  "Our famous district attorney," Sophie Carey said, as she presented him.All America had read of the appointment of Philip Vandervent to anassistant district attorneyship. Scion of a family notable in financialand social annals, the fact that he had chosen to adopt the legalprofession, instead of becoming the figurehead president of half adozen trust companies, had been a newspaper sensation five years ago.And three months ago not a paper in the United States had failed tocarry the news that he had been appointed an assistant to the districtattorney of New York County.

  Almost any girl would have been thrilled at meeting Philip Vandervent.And for Clancy Deane, from a little fishing-village in Maine, dancingwith him was a distinction that she had never dreamed of achieving.

  They slid easily into a one-step, and for one circuit of the roomVandervent said nothing. Then, suddenly, he remarked that she dancedwell, adding thereto his opinion that most girls didn't.

  He spoke nervously; an upward glance confirmed Clancy in an amazingimpression, an impression that, when she had observed him staring at heras she danced, she had put down to her own vanity. But now she decidedthat a Vandervent was as easily conquerable as a Randall. And thethought was extremely agreeable.

  "I suppose," she said, "that the district attorney's office is aninteresting place."

  It was a banal remark, but his own nervousness confused her, and shemust say _something_. So she said this desperately. Usually she was athome when flirtation began. But the Vandervent name awed her.

  "Not very," he said. "Not unless one _makes_ it interesting. That's whatI've decided to do. I started something to-day that ought to beinteresting. Very."

  "What is it?" asked Clancy. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

  Vandervent caught her eyes as he reversed. He looked swiftly away again.

  "Oh, I wouldn't mind telling _you_," he said.

  Clancy knew that Vandervent intended flirtation--in the way of all men,using exactly the same words, the same emphasis on the objectivepersonal pronoun.

  "I'd love to hear it," she said. And she cast him an upward glance thatmight have meant anything, but that really meant that Clancy Deaneenjoyed flirtation.

  "Difficulty in our office," said Vandervent jerkily, "is lack ofcooperation with us by the police. Different political parties. Policelie down often. Doing it now on the Beiner murder."

  "On what?" Clancy almost shrieked the question. Luckily, the negromusicians were blaring loudly. Vandervent didn't notice her excitement.

  "The Beiner mystery," he repeated. "They don't usually lie down on amurder. Fact is, I don't really mean that now. But there's inefficiency.We're going to show them up."

  "How?" asked Clancy. Her throat was dry; her lips seemed as though theywere cracked.

  "By catching the murderess," said Vandervent.

  "'Murderess?'" All the fears that had departed from Clancy returned toher, magnified.

  Vandervent enjoyed the effect of his speech.

  "Yes; a woman did it. And we know her name."

  "You do?" Once again the young man thought her excitement due toadmiration.

  "Yes. I'm taking personal charge of the case. Discovered a card ofintroduction to Beiner. Only one we could find in his desk. Right out ontop, too, as though he'd just placed it there. Of course, we may be allwrong, but--we'll know better to-morrow."

  "So soon?" asked Clancy. Her feet were leaden.

  "I hope so. We've found out the company that the woman who gave the cardof introduction is playing in. We've sent a wire to her asking her totell us where we can find the woman, Florine Ladue."

  "Are--are you sure?" asked Clancy.

  "Sure of what? That the Ladue woman committed the murder? Well, no. Buta woman escaped through the window of Beiner's office--you've read thecase? Well, she ran down the fire-escape and then entered the HeberworthBuilding by another window. Why did she do it? We want to ask her that.Of course, this Ladue woman may not be the one, but if she isn't, shecan easily prove it." The music ceased. "I say, I shouldn't talk somuch. You understand that----"

  "Oh, I sha'n't repeat it," said Clancy. She marveled at the calm, thelightness with which she spoke.

  Repeat it? If Vandervent could only know the grimness of the humor inwhich she uttered the promise! If this young multimillionaire whom shehad been captivating by her grace and beauty only knew that the womanwhom he had sought had been in his arms these past ten minutes! Incynicism, she forgot alarm. But only for a moment. It came racing backto her.

  And she'd written to Zenda! He'd look her up to-morrow. What a foolshe'd been! Her face was haggard, almost old, as she surrendered herselfto the arms of Randall.