by Owen Johnson
*CHAPTER XIII*
When he had gone into the brisk air of the street, his mental visionreturned with the crispness of the night. He was astonished at what hehad said and done.
"But I am not in love--not in the least," he repeated. "Then what wasit?"
He was quite perplexed at perceiving the astonishing difference herpresence and her absence made in his attitude. He repeated to himselfquite seriously with a little wonder that, if he were in danger offalling in love, he would be a prey to that disturbing emotion now,absent as well as present.
"I am perfectly calm," he said, flourishing his cane. "Not in the leastexcited. It's very queer."
All the same, he returned to the interview, and recalled the incidentswithout illusion. He comprehended now what he had not comprehendedthen, the full significance of his offer of friendship--in fact, that itwas not an approach to friendship but to something very different, andthe relations which had now been established between them were those ofconfidence and intimacy that lay on the borderline of great emotions.
"It's very odd," he said, "I wish to be honest and open with her, andyet I said what I don't feel--suggested what I have not the leastthought of. I'll be hanged if I understand it, unless she has the powerto make me believe in emotions that don't exist,--Emma Fornez was right,she is the type that provokes you. I must be very careful."
But one thing he did not perceive--that the city no longer oppressed himwith its bleak struggle and serried poverty, that he swung lightly overthe crisp pavements, breathing the alert and joyous air, that in him thejoy of living awakened, as the myriad lights awoke the city of thenight, the city rising from the fatigue of labor with its avid zest forpleasure and excitement.
"What is the clue McKenna's got hold of?" he thought eagerly, as themassive, cheery windows of the club came into view across the stirring,care-fleeing homeward rush of the Avenue.
The moment he entered the crowded anteroom, the tragic day returned withredoubled gloom. The death of Majendie oppressed every voice--nothingelse was discussed. He found himself caught up in the crowd at the bar,listening with a strange sense of irony to those who touched inhaphazard the event which he knew so profoundly. The wildest rumorswere current. Majendie had shot himself after the discovery of anenormous shortage in the funds of the Atlantic Trust. The AtlanticTrust had been looted, the effect on Wall Street had been to confirm thewildest rumors, the market would plunge down to-morrow, the awful lossof the day would be surpassed; it was the panic of '93 over again. Theinevitable mysterious informant in the crowd arrived with a new rumor:Majendie had tried to escape, had been prevented by detectives, who hadbeen shadowing him for days, and had then gone in and shot himself justas the warrant for his arrest arrived. Another gave this version;Majendie had not shot himself, he had been murdered.
Every one exclaimed at this.
"That's the story in the Associated Press offices," continued theinformant obstinately. "A man whose whole fortune was locked up in theAtlantic--a small depositor--got into the house on some pretext, andshot him--crazy, of course. It's not been verified, but that's thestory."
"Tell you what I heard," said another, in a low voice, to a group thateddied about him. "It's true he was shot, but he wasn't shot in his ownhome. He was shot last night in his box at the opera by a man who is aswell known as old Fontaine. The old story, of course, trespassing inmarried quarters. The whole thing was kept dark--got him out of the boxafter the crowd went out, and took him home, where he died at midnight.Heard the names in the case, but pledged not to repeat them."
Each rumor received a momentary credence, in the excitement of themoment. Some one defending the personal friend, insisted on melancholiaand despondency, citing the example of an uncle who had taken his lifeafter the disgrace of his son. No one spoke the name of Mrs. Bloodgood,waiting the moment of confidences _a trois_. In the stupefaction of themoment, even the personal losses, which had been tremendous, weremomentarily forgotten. Gradually inquiries began to be made as to theextent of the panic. Then at once a division was apparent. There wasalready the party of the shorts, eager and vociferous, staking theirlast chance of recouping on a still wider spread of the devastatingdrop, which they now as ardently desired as though a thousand homeswould not suffer for every point acquired.
Beecher separated himself from these enthusiasts of failure, and passedinto the front room, where he was signaled by Gunther, who was in one ofthe numerous small groups. He found a chair and joined the party, inwhich were Fontaine, Lynch, and Steve Plunkett. The conversation, whichwas controversial, continued without interruption.
"Don't be an ass, Ed," said Lynch, with irritation; "nothing can stopthe market."
"The Atlantic Trust is as solvent as Gunther & Co.," insisted Fontaine,with a nervous, emphatic gesture. "Every depositor will be paid infull."
"It'll be in the hands of a receiver before the week's over--bet youfive to three."
"Possibly; but then--"
"Moreover, what of the public? What's the public going to do when ithears Majendie's committed suicide? What'll it think? It'll think thewhole blamed institution is rotten to the core--looted!"
"Sure," said Plunkett, and he added savagely, his glance lost in thedistance: "Damn it, if I'd known the news an hour earlier, I could havemade fifty thousand."
"Why, look at the situation," continued Bo Lynch, excited by his ownimages. "The Clearing-house closed against the Associated Trust and allits allies; runs on banks all over the country; Slade forced to thewall, out of it in a couple of days, perhaps--God knows, anothersuicide, maybe; two failures up into the hundreds ofmillions--everything in the country thrown on the market! Look at thesales to-day; they'll be doubled to-morrow. Nothing can hold out againstit. The country'll go crazy! I tell you, '93 was nothing to it."
Gunther rose.
"What do you think, Bruce?" said Plunkett anxiously.
"Don't know a thing about it," said Gunther brusquely. "Neither doesEddie or Bo. If you want to gamble, gamble."
He nodded to Beecher, and they moved out together.
"Let's cut out of this den of lunatics," he said. "My machine's here;supposing we run down to McKenna's and get him off for a quiet chop.I've already telephoned."
"He's got some news?"
"Yes, but I don't know what it is. Jump in."
"What about Garraboy?"
"Rumor is, he's in heavy. McKenna's looking that up, too."
"I say, Bruce, what do you really think about the situation?" saidBeecher, forced to contain his curiosity. "Are we going to thebow-wows?"
"If you ask what I _think_," said Gunther meditatively, "I think it'sthe devil to pay. Far as I can see, a lot depends on John G. Slade.There's no doubt there's a crowd after his scalp."
"Will they get it?"
"Looks so; but he's got nine lives, they say."
"Where the deuce are we going?" said Beecher, suddenly aware of theswift flight through the now deserted regions of the lower city.
"Down to McKenna's offices."
"As late as this?"
"Guess these days keep him pretty busy."
"Didn't he say anything about his clue?"
"Said he'd traced the history of the stone."
They soon came to a stop in one of the blocks on Broadway within astone's throw of old Trinity, and, descending, entered a dingyfour-story building pinched in among the skyscrapers. At the secondflight of worm-eaten stairs, Gunther pushed open a smoky glass door andentered a short antechamber inclosed in sanded glass with slidingpigeon-holes for observation. Their arrival being expected, they wereimmediately shown down a contracted hallway studded with doors, to anopen room, comfortably furnished, with a fire burning in the grate.
"Join you in a moment, gentlemen," said McKenna, nodding around the doorof the adjoining room.
Gunther unceremoniously helped himself at the open box of cigars.
"Ted," he said enthusiasticall
y, "why the deuce do the novelists concocttheir absurdly stalking detectives, who deduce everything at a glance,with their impossible logical processes? Don't they see the real thingis so much bigger? It's not the fake individual mind that's wonderful;it's the system--this system. A great agency like this is simply anexpression of society itself--organized order against unorganizeddisorder. It's an unending struggle, and the odds are all on one side.By George, what impresses me is the completeness with which society hasorganized itself--made use of all inventions, telephone, telegraph, thephotograph, the press, everything turned on the criminal to run himdown. For a hundred detectives employed here, there are a thousandallies, in every trade, in every depot, in every port, along every lineof travel. When you think of the agencies that McKenna can stir up by aword, then you begin to realize the significance of the detective in thestructure of society."
McKenna, who had heard the last words, entered, vitally alert andphysically excited by the joy of unusual labor.
"Now I'm with you," he said, appropriating an easy-chair. "Let's seewhere we'll begin. Oh, Mr. Beecher, you wanted certain informationabout that broker Garraboy, didn't you?"
"What have you found out?" said Beecher, with a conscious eagerness thatstruck both hearers.
"It just so happened I had a line on your man from another direction,"said McKenna. "Well, he's hit the market right. What would havehappened if this panic hadn't come just right, is another question--arather interesting question. However, Garraboy's known to have beenheavy on the short side, and, from all reports, stands to make akilling."
"Then Miss Charters' stocks are all right?"
"They're all right--yes--now," said McKenna carefully; "but my advice isto get hold of them--P.D.Q. Mr. Garraboy is somewhat of a gambler. Now,here's a bit of history about a certain ruby that will interest you," hecontinued, drawing out a memorandum. In his manner was a little amusedself-satisfaction, as one who relished the mystification of theoutsiders. "In the first place, your ruby ring is not worth fifteenthousand."
"No?" said Beecher in amazement.
"It's worth considerably more," said the detective, with a grin. "Itslast sale was at the price of thirty-two thousand dollars."
"What!" said both young men in chorus.
"Just that."
"But then, why should Mrs. Kildair value it at fifteen?" exclaimedBeecher.
"That's rather an interesting point," said McKenna, "and we'll touch onthat later. The stone is as well known in the trade as John L. Sullivanto you and me. It was first sold in New Amsterdam in the year 1852 to afirm of Parisian jewelers. From them it was bought for a well-known,rather frisky lady called La Panthere by a Count d'Ussac, who ruinedhimself. La Panthere was killed later by a South American lover and hereffects sold at auction. The ruby was bought by the firm of GaspardFreres, and set in a necklace which was sold to the Princess deGrandliev. At the fall of the Second Empire, the necklace was broken upand this particular stone went over to England, where it was set in aring and sold to a young dandy, the Earl of Westmorley, who was killedsteeplechasing. A woman named Clara Hauk, an adventuress, had the ringin her possession, and successfully defeated the efforts of the familyto regain it. She got into bad water in the '80's and sold it to aSouth African, who carried it off to the Transvaal with him. Itreappeared in the offices of Gaspard Freres in 1891 on the finger of ayoung Austrian woman who sold it for twenty-two thousand dollars anddisappeared without giving her name. An Italian, the Marchese diRubino, bought it for a wedding present to his daughter, who kept ituntil 1900, when she pledged it to pay the gambling debts of herhusband. It was then brought to this country by the wife of a Westernrancher, who sold it five years later to Sontag & Co. The last saleknown was just two months ago."
"Two months?" said Beecher, craning forward.
"The price, as I said, was thirty-two thousand, and the purchaser was acertain gentleman very much before the public now--John G. Slade."
This announcement was so entirely unexpected that it left the two youngmen staring at each other, absolutely incapable of speech.
"But then," said Gunther, the first to recover, "the ring was given herby Slade!"
"At a cost of thirty-two thousand," said the detective in a quick,businesslike tone.
"You are sure?"
"As positive as any one can be. There are only three other rings--"
"That's why she wanted to keep it quiet!" exclaimed Beecher, rousinghimself from his stupor. The whole machination of Mrs. Kildair becamecomprehensible to him on the instant. "Now I see!"
"Precisely," said McKenna. "Of course there is a chance that Slade didnot give her the ring; that I'll know tomorrow."
"How?"
"Make an inquiry--for a supposed purchaser, of course; find out if thering is still at Slade's."
"It's useless," said Beecher firmly. "I know that McKenna's right.This explains everything," he continued, turning to the detective."That's why she acted so strangely "--he checked himself. "I saw Mrs.Kildair--took lunch with her--to-day--"
"Did you find out whom she employed?" said McKenna quietly.
Beecher opened his lips to answer in the affirmative, and stoppedabruptly. For the first time, he realized that Mrs. Kildair had takenback the address. He rose nervously, frowning at the stupidity he wouldbe forced to disclose.
"By Jove, I am an ass!" he said, dropping his glance; and he related thescene in which Mrs. Kildair had first given him the address and thentaken it away.
"It's not important, Mr. Beecher," said the detective pensively, hismind working behind the recital. "She didn't give you the rightaddress."
"How do you know?" said Beecher, turning.
"Because she recovered the paper as soon as she found out you wereemploying me," he answered; but his mind was still out of the room. Hetook out a pencil and began tapping his memorandum with quick, nervousjots. "Her mind worked pretty quick," he said.
"Why do you want to know her detectives?" asked Gunther.
"You see, the case is complicated," said McKenna, rousing himself. "Iwon't go into her relations with Slade just now, but it's quite evidentto any one they were such that Mrs. Kildair prefers to lose the ringrather than to have it discovered how it came to her. See?"
"I see," said Gunther.
Beecher, silent, was turning over in his mind all the incidents ofSlade's and Mrs. Kildair's conduct, striving to reach some explanationbut the natural one that forced itself on him.
"That's why," continued McKenna, "I'd like to know, first, if thedetectives are straight--can be depended upon; second, if they were toldto make a search; and, third, if they were told not to find the ring."
"But why not?"
"Because, Mr. Gunther, whoever took that ring the second time didn'ttake it on impulse or without a plan; whoever took it probably--I don'tsay certainly--knew enough of its history to know that Slade gave it toMrs. Kildair, and reckoned on the fact that she would not dare to makeit public. See?"
The corners of his eyes contracted suddenly, as though through themovement of propelling forward the quick, decisive glance.
"Then you think," said Beecher slowly, "that she is--"
"Look here, Mr. Beecher," said the detective quickly, "there is onething no human being can ever say offhand; what says the Bible--the wayof a man with a maid--well, make that woman in general. You don't know,and I don't know, what the situation is right there, and we may neverknow. All the same, we're now started on solid ground; it may lead tosomething, and it may not, but what I want to know before we get muchfurther is who and how many there that night knew or guessed Slade gaveher the ring."
"Of course," said Gunther. "But how--"
"By patience and by running down every alley till we find it is analley," said McKenna. "That's one thing to keep in mind, and let's putit this way. Was there any one there that night who had to have moneyquick, and who knew that the fact of Slade's giving the ring would tieMrs. Kildair's hands? Now, if that condi
tion existed, we're on a strongmotive."
"You don't consider that the only lead," said Beecher, convinced as hewas of the probability of Mr. Majendie's participation.
"Lord, no. Here's one other point to work on, Mr. Beecher. What's thesituation today between Slade and Mrs. Kildair? Has there been anyquarrel--say within the last ten days?"
"I don't think so; and yet--" Beecher stopped, remembering Mrs.Kildair's curious request for him to outstay the promoter. "What ifthere was?"
"Slade's a remarkable character," said McKenna, smiling. "Just howremarkable a few people will learn shortly. If he had quarreled orshe's been trying to trick him--just like him to take the ring thesecond time."
"By George!" said Gunther. "Why not?"
"That's only something to be kept in the background," said McKenna,rising.
He turned to Beecher, considering him profoundly.
"Sorry you told Mrs. Kildair I was on the case," he said.
Beecher blushed at the memory of the way in which he had been brought todisclose the information, and the confusion all at once revealed to thedetective the probable means she had taken.
At this moment the door opened and a voice called him.
"Telephone, sir--personal."
When the detective had left, Beecher and Gunther looked at each other inamazement in which a curious doubt was beginning to form.
"Why the deuce should Slade give her the ring, Ted?" said Guntherabruptly.
"I don't know," Beecher answered, perplexed. "I know what youthink--that's natural; but I don't believe it. She's deeper thanthat--that is, I think so."
But he ended perplexed, contracting his eyebrows, nervously jerking at abutton on his coat.
McKenna reentered, and on his face was a smile of anticipation andmischief.
"Some one called me up just then," he said shortly; "some one I've beenexpecting to call me up. Guess who?"
"Slade," said Gunther, startled.
"Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher.
"Mrs. Kildair is right," said McKenna. "I'm going up to see hertonight." And he added meditatively, "It ought to be quite aninteresting little chat."
