XIX
MR. GRYCE AND THE TIMID CHILD
"Assurance does it, sir--a great deal of assurance. Not that I havemuch----"
Here Mr. Gryce laughed, with the result that Sweetwater laughed also. Amoment of fun was a welcome relief, and they both made the most of it.
"Not that I lack it entirely," Sweetwater hastened to say. Then theylaughed again--after which their talk proceeded on serious lines.
"Sweetwater, what is that you once told me about a family named Duclos?"
"Why, this, sir: There is one such family in town, as Peters discoveredin looking up the name in the directory a day or two after Madame'sdisappearance. But there's nothing to be learned from them. Mr. and Mrs.Edward Duclos are a most respectable couple and have but one answer toevery question. They know no one of their name outside their own family.Though the man of the house is Breton born, he has lived many years inthis country, and in all that time has never met another Duclos."
"And Peters let it go at that?"
"Had to. What else could he do? However, he did make this admission--thatthere was a child in the room who betrayed a nervousness under hisquestions which was not observable in her elders, a girl of twelve or sowho put her hands behind her when she found she could not control theirtwitching. And I've an idea that if he could have got this child byherself, he might have heard something quite different from the plaindenial he got from the mother. I've always thought so; but I've had toomany other things to do to make an effort in this direction.
"Now, if you approve, I'll see what I can do with this girl, for itstands to reason there must be some place in town where this woman, justoff ship, found an immediate refuge and a change of clothing and effects.Nor should I be much surprised if we should discover that she is aninmate of this very house. What do you think, Mr. Gryce? Is it worthlooking into?"
"It is worth my looking into. I have other work for you. Where does thisDuclos family live?"
Sweetwater told him. It was in one of the Eighties, not a quarter of amile from the Hotel Universal.
This settled, Mr. Gryce took from his pocket the mutilated photographwhich had served as a target to the woman in Fifty-third Street.
"You see this," said he. "The face is all gone; only a sweep of the hairon one side, and a bit of collar and the tip of a shoulder on the other,remain to act as a clue. Yet I expect you to find the negative from whichthis photograph was printed. It should not be so difficult,--that is, ifin the course of time it has not been destroyed,--for look here." Andturning over what remained of the mutilated photograph he displayed thefollowing:
Cor. 9th Street w York)
"New York! The portrait was made here and--at Fredericks'. His studio wason the corner of Ninth Street up to a few years ago. It's a trail aftermy own mind. If that negative is in existence, I'll find it, if I have toransack half the photograph-studios in town. About how old do you thinkthis picture is?"
"Old enough to give you trouble. But that you're used to. What we want toknow--what we must know--is this: The name of the man who has incurredMadame's enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of thenight in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph. Ifit should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we mightconsistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turnsout to be that of a private individual--well, in that case, I shall havea task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which wehave just acknowledged you possess a limited share."
That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up anddown a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in frontof a certain drug-store to let an old man out. He seemed very feeble andleaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store.But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes theills of life without bitterness or complaint. When halfway to hisgoal,--for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himselfcarefully with every one,--he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew outof his hand. Happily--because he seemed unable to reach it himself--ayoung girl just emerging from the drug-store saw his plight and stoopingfor the stick, handed it to him. He received it with a smile, and whileit was yet in both of their hands, said in the most matter-of-fact way inthe world:
"Thank you, little Miss Duclos." Then suddenly: "Where's your aunt?"
She did not stop to think. She did not stop to ask herself what thisquestion meant or whether this old gentleman who seemed to know so muchabout her and the family's secrets had a right to ask it, but blurted outin nervous haste as if she knew of nothing else to do, "She's gone," andthen started to run away.
"Come back, little one." His tone was very imperative, but for all thatof a nature to win upon a frightened child. "I know she's gone," he addedsoothingly as she looked back, hesitating. "And I'm sorry, for I havesomething for her. I recognized you the moment you stepped out of thestore; but I see that you don't remember me. But why should you? Littlegirls don't remember old men."
Again that benevolent smile as he poked about in one of his pockets andfinally drew out a little parcel which he held out toward her.
"This belongs to your aunt. See, it has her name on it, Madame AntoinetteDuclos. It came to the lodging-house in Fifty-third Street just after sheleft, and I was asked to bring it to her. I was going to your house assoon as I had done my little errand at this store, but now that I havemet you, I will ask you to see that she gets it."
The girl looked down at the parcel, then up at him, and reaching out herhand, took it.
His old heart, which had almost stopped, beat again naturally and withrenewed strength. He was on the correct trail. When Mrs. Duclos and therest of them had said that they knew of no one of their name in thiscountry but themselves, it was because the Madame of the Hotel Universalwas of their family--the widow of their brother, as this child'sacknowledgment showed.
He was turning back to his taxi when the child, still trembling verymuch, took a step toward him and said:
"I don't know where to find my aunt. She didn't tell us where she wasgoing; and--and I had rather not take this parcel back with me. Motherdon't like us to speak of Aunt Nettie; and--and I don't believe AuntNettie would care to have this now. Won't--won't you forget about it,sir, if I promise to tell her some day that it was brought back and Iwouldn't take it?"
Mr. Gryce felt a qualm of conscience. The child really was too simple tobe made game of. Besides, he felt sure that she had spoken the truth, sofar as she herself was concerned. She didn't know where her erratic aunthad gone; and any further questioning would only frighten her withoutwinning him the knowledge he sought. He therefore took the parcel back,said some soothing words and made his way across the walk to his taxi.But the number he gave the chauffeur was that of the house where thislittle girl lived.
He arrived there first. To him, waiting in the parlor and very near thewindow, her shrinking little figure looked pathetic enough, as glancingin at the taxi, and finding it empty, she realized who might be awaitingher under her mother's eye. He remembered his grandchild, and made up hismind, as she slid nervously in, that no matter what happened he wouldkeep this innocent child out of trouble.
The lady who presently came in to receive him was one who called himinstinctively to his feet in respect and admiration. She was an Americanand of the best type, a woman who, if she told a lie, would not tell itfor her own comfort or gain, but to help some one else to whom she owedfealty or love. But would she lie for anyone? As he studied her longer,taking in, in his own way, the candid expression of her eye and the sweetbut firm set of her lips, he began to think she would not, and theinterest with which he proceeded to address her was as much due toherself as to the knowledge he hoped to gain from her.
"Mrs. Duclos?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. And you?"
"I am a member of the New York police. My errand is one which you canprobably guess. You have a sister-in-law, the widow of your husband'sbrother. As her testimony
is of the utmost importance in the inquirywhich is to be made into the cause and manner of her daughter's death, Ishould be very glad to have a few minutes' talk with her if, as we haveevery reason to believe, she is in this house at the present moment."
Mrs. Edward Duclos was a strong and upright woman, but this directaddress, this open attack, was too much for her. However, beforereplying, she had a question of her own to put, and she proceeded to askit firmly, quietly and apparently with every expectation of its beinganswered:
"How did you learn that Mr. Duclos had a brother and that this brotherhad left a widow?"
"Not from you, madam," he smiled. "Nor from your husband. I very muchwish we had. We have been waiting for some such word ever since ouradvertisement appeared. It has not come."
She gave him a quick interrogating glance, folded her hands and answeredwithout further hesitation:
"We had our reasons for silence, reasons which we thought quitejustifiable. But they don't hold good if we are to be brought intoconflict with the police. Mr. Duclos told me this morning that if we weredriven to speak we must do so with complete honesty and without quibble.What do you want to know?"
"Everything. First, your sister-in-law's story, then her reasons forsending her child alone to the museum, as well as the cause of her flightbefore she could have heard of that poor child's fate. More hangs upon anunderstanding of these facts than I am at liberty to tell you. Sheherself would agree with me in this if I could have a few minutes'conversation with her."
"She is not in the house. She left us late last night without giving usthe least hint as to where she was going. She is, as you can very wellsee, as little anxious to talk of her great trouble as you are to haveher, and recognizing that attempts were being made to find her and makeher speak, she fled before it was too late. I am sorry she did so, sorryfor her and sorry for ourselves. We do not approve her course, whateverreasons she may have for it. At the same time, I feel bound to assureyou that to her they are all-sufficient. She is a conscientious woman,with many fine qualities, and when she says as she did to us, 'It is myduty to flee,' and again as she bade us a final adieu, 'I will die ratherthan speak a word of what is on my mind,' I know that it is no smallmatter which sends her wandering about like this."
"I should think not. A mother to leave her daughter to be exposed at themorgue, and never intervene to protect her from this ignominy or to seethat she has proper burial after that dread display is over!"
"I know--it was dreadful--and we! Do you not think we felt the horror ofthis also?"
"Your own flesh and blood--that is, your husband's. I wonder you couldstand it."
"We had promised. She made us promise the first day she came that wewould keep still and make no move, whatever happened."
"It was here she came then, directly from the hotel?"
"I am obliged to admit it."
"With her torn dress and her little bag?"
"Yes."
"And you procured her different clothes and the suit-case in which shenow lugs about her effects?"
"You seem to know it all."
"Mrs. Duclos, I hope you will answer my next question as honestly as youhave the previous ones. Had Madame Duclos heard of her daughter's deathwhen she first presented herself to you?"
"Since you ask me this, I must answer. She was in great distress, but didnot tell me why, till I asked her where Angeline was. Then she broke downutterly and flinging herself face down on the sofa, sobbed and wailed andfinally confided to us that a terrible accident had happened to the childand that she was lying dead in one of the city's great museums."
"Did she say what accident?"
"No; she was almost delirious with grief, and we couldn't question her.After the papers came and we had read the dreadful news, we tried to getfrom her some explanation of what it all meant, but now she wouldn'tanswer; before, she couldn't."
"Did you ask her how she came to know that Angeline was dead, before thenews was circulated outside the museum?"
"Yes; but she did not answer, only looked at us. It was the mostdespairing look I ever saw in my life. It made it easier for us topromise her all she wanted, though we regretted having done this whenwe came to think the matter over."
"So you positively do not know any more than this of what she has soreligiously held secret?"
"No; and I have got to the point where I do not wish to."
"Did you know she was coming to this country?"
"Yes--but not her reasons for doing so. She has been a little mysteriousof late."
"Did she say she was going to bring her daughter with her?"
"Yes, she mentioned Angeline. Also the name of the ship on which theyexpected to sail."
"Was this letter mailed from Paris or London?"
"It came from Paris."
"Did you understand that she was leaving France for good?"
"I got that idea, certainly."
"But not her reasons for it?"
"No. The letter was very short and not very explicit. I really have givenyou all the information I have on this subject."
"Mrs. Duclos, it is my duty to inform you that your sister-in-law had adeep and intense hatred for a man to us at present unknown. Can you namehim? Is there anything in her early history or in what you know of herlater life, here and abroad, to enlighten you as to his identity?"
With a steady look and a slow shake of her head, Mrs. Duclos denied anysuch knowledge, even showing a marked surprise at what was evidently anew development to her.
"Antoinette has had little to do with the men since our brother's death,"she said. "I can hardly conceive of her being greatly interested eitherin favor of or against any of the opposite sex."
"Yet she is--even to the point of wishing him dead."
Mrs. Duclos rose quickly to her feet, but instantly sat again.
"How do you know?" she asked.
Should he tell her? At first he thought not; then he reconsidered hisdecision and spoke out plainly.
"Madam," said he, "some day you will hear what I had rather you heard nowand from me. Madame Duclos left the lodging-house where she was so safebecause she was detected, or was suspicious of having been detected,shooting the face from a photograph she had set up before her as a targetin the small hours of the night."
"Impossible!" The woman thus exclaiming was quite sincere. "I cannotimagine Antoinette doing that."
"Yet she did. We have the remains of the photograph."
"And who was the man?"
"When we know that, we shall know all, or be in the way of knowing all."
"You alarm me!" She certainly looked alarmed.
"Why, madam? Do you not think it better for the truth to be known in sucha case?"
"You forget what I told you. Antoinette will not survive the betrayal ofher secret. She said she would not, and she is a woman who weighs herwords. There is a firm edge to her resolves. It has always worked forgood till now. I cannot bear to think of its working in any way forevil."
"Has she socialistic ideas? Can her hatred be for some of our plutocratsor supposed oppressors of the people?"
"Oh, no; she is of aristocratic descent and proud of her order. TheDuclos are bourgeois, but Antoinette is a De Montfort."
Mr. Gryce suppressed all token of his instinctive amazement. This fineAmerican woman was not without a sense of reflected glory given by thisfact. Her sister-in-law was a De Montfort! Expressing his thanks for hercandor, he rose to depart.
"For all that," said he, "she may be at heart a _revolutionnaire_." Then,as he noticed the negation in her look, he added softly: "The least clueas to her present refuge would make me greatly your debtor."
"I cannot give it; I do not know it."
And somehow he believed her as absolutely as even she could desire. If heshould yet be fortunate enough to find this elusive Madame, it would haveto be through some other agency than these relatives of hers by marriage.
As he passed out, he heard a frightened gasp from somewhere ba
ck in thehall. Turning, he asked in the most natural manner whether there werechildren in the house.
Mrs. Duclos answered with some dignity that she had three daughters.
"You are fortunate, madame," he remarked with his old-fashioned bow. "Ilive alone. My last grandchild left me a year ago for a man many yearsmy junior."
This brought the little one into his view. She was smiling, and he wentaway in a state of relief marred by but one regret:
He was as ignorant as ever where to look for the mother of Angeline.
The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow Page 19
