“I understand you, sir,” said Fogerty, drily.
For some moments Mershone now remained silent. Then he asked; “What are your instructions concerning me?”
To his surprise the boy made a simple, frank admission.
“I’m to see you don’t get into more mischief, sir.”
“And how long is this nonsense to continue?” demanded Mershone, showing a touch of anger for the first time.
“Depends on yourself, Mr. Mershone; I’m no judge, myself. I’m so young — and inexperienced.”
“Who is your employer?”
“Oh, I’m just sent out by an agency.”
“Is it a big paying proposition?” asked Charlie, eyeing the diffident youth beside him critically, as if to judge his true caliber.
“Not very big. You see, if I’d been a better detective you’d never have spotted me so quickly.”
“I suppose money counts with you, though, as it does with everyone else in the world?”
“Of course, sir. Every business is undertaken to make money.”
Mershone drew his chair a little nearer.
“I need a clever detective myself,” he announced, confidentially. “I’m anxious to discover what enemy is persecuting me in this way. Would it — er — be impossible for me to employ you to — er — look after my interests?”
Fogerty was very serious.
“You see, sir,” he responded, “if I quit this job they may not give me another. In order to be a successful detective one must keep in the good graces of the agencies.”
“That’s easy enough,” asserted Mershone. “You may pretend to keep this job, but go home and take life easy. I’ll send you a daily statement of what I’ve been doing, and you can fix up a report to your superior from that. In addition to this you can put in a few hours each day trying to find out who is annoying me in this rascally manner, and for this service I’ll pay you five times the agency price. How does that proposition strike you, Mr. — ”
“Riordan. Me name’s Riordan,” said Fogerty, with a smile. “No, Mr. Mershone,” shaking his head gravely, “I can’t see my way to favor you. It’s an easy job now, and I’m afraid to take chances with a harder one.”
Something in the tone nettled Mershone.
“But the pay,” he suggested.
“Oh, the pay. If I’m a detective fifty years, I’ll make an easy two thousand a year. That’s a round hundred thousand. Can you pay me that much to risk my future career as a detective?”
Mershone bit his lip. This fellow was not so simple, after all, boyish as he seemed. And, worse than all, he had a suspicion the youngster was baiting him, and secretly laughing at his offers of bribery.
“They will take you off the job, now that I have discovered your identity,” he asserted, with malicious satisfaction.
“Oh, no,” answered Fogerty; “they won’t do that. This little interview merely simplifies matters. You see, sir, I’m an expert at disguises. That’s my one great talent, as many will testify. But you will notice that in undertaking this job I resorted to no disguise at all. You see me as nature made me — and ‘t was a poor job, I’m thinking.”
“Why were you so careless?”
“It wasn’t carelessness; it was premeditated. There’s not the slightest objection to your knowing me. My only business is to keep you in sight, and I can do that exactly as well as Riordan as I could by disguising myself.”
Mershone had it on his tongue’s end to ask what they expected to discover by shadowing him, but decided it was as well not to open an avenue for the discussion of Miss Merrick’s disappearance. So, finding he could not bribe the youthful detective or use him in any way to his advantage, he closed the interview by rising.
“I’m going to my room to write some letters,” said he, with a yawn. “Would you like to read them before they are mailed?”
Again Fogerty laughed in his cheerful, boyish way.
“You’d make a fine detective yourself, Mr. Mershone,” he declared, “and I advise you to consider the occupation. I’ve a notion it’s safer, and better pay, than your present line.”
Charlie scowled at the insinuation, but walked away without reply. Fogerty eyed his retreating figure a moment, gave a slight shrug and resumed his newspaper.
Day followed day without further event, and gradually Mershone came to feel himself trapped. Wherever he might go he found Fogerty on duty, unobtrusive, silent and watchful. It was very evident that he was waiting for the young man to lead him to the secret hiding place of Louise Merrick.
In one way this constant surveillance was a distinct comfort to Charlie Mershone, for it assured him that the retreat of Louise was still undiscovered. But he must find some way to get rid of his “shadow,” in order that he might proceed to carry out his plans concerning the girl. During his enforced leisure he invented a dozen apparently clever schemes, only to abandon them again as unpractical.
One afternoon, while on a stroll, he chanced to meet the bruiser who had attacked Arthur Weldon at the Waldorf, and been liberally paid by Mershone for his excellent work. He stopped the man, and glancing hastily around found that Fogerty was a block in the rear.
“Listen,” he said; “I want your assistance, and if you’re quick and sure there is a pot of money, waiting for you.”
“I need it, Mr. Mershone,” replied the man, grinning.
“There’s a detective following me; he’s down the street there — a mere boy--just in front of that tobacco store. See him?”
“Sure I see him. It’s Fogerty.”
“His name is Riordan.”
“No; it’s Fogerty. He’s no boy, sir, but the slickest ‘tec’ in the city, an’ that’s goin’ some, I can tell you.”
“Well, you must get him, whoever he is. Drag him away and hold him for three hours — two — one. Give me a chance to slip him; that’s all. Can you do it? I’ll pay you a hundred for the job.”
“It’s worth two hundred, Mr. Mershone. It isn’t safe to fool with Fogerty.”
“I’ll make it two hundred.”
“Then rest easy,” said the man. “I know the guy, and how to handle him. You just watch him like he’s watching you, Mr. Mershone, and if anything happens you skip as lively as a flea. I can use that two hundred in my business.”
Then the fellow passed on, and Fogerty was still so far distant up the street that neither of them could see the amused smile upon his thin face.
CHAPTER XV
A BEWILDERING EXPERIENCE
When Louise Merrick entered the brown limousine, which she naturally supposed to belong to Arthur Weldon, she had not the faintest suspicion of any evil in her mind. Indeed, the girl was very happy this especial evening, although tired with her duties at the Kermess. A climax in her young life had arrived, and she greeted it joyously, believing she loved Arthur well enough to become his wife.
Now that the engagement had been announced to their immediate circle of friends she felt as proud and elated as any young girl has a right to be under the circumstances.
Added to this pleasant event was the social triumph she and her cousins had enjoyed at the Kermess, where Louise especially had met with rare favor. The fashionable world had united in being most kind and considerate to the dainty, attractive young debutante, and only Diana had seemed to slight her. This was not surprising in view of the fact that Diana evidently wanted Arthur for herself, and there was some satisfaction in winning a lover who was elsewhere in prime demand. In addition to all this the little dance that concluded the evening’s entertainment had been quite delightful, and all things conspired to put Louise in a very contented frame of mind.
Still fluttering with the innocent excitements of the hour the girl went to join Arthur without a fear of impending misfortune. She did not think of Charlie Mershone at all. He had been annoying and impertinent, and she had rebuked him and sent him away, cutting him out of her life altogether. Perhaps she ought to have remembered that she had mildly flirted with Di
ana’s cousin and given him opportunity for the impassioned speeches she resented; but Louise had a girlish idea that there was no harm in flirting, considering it a feminine license. She saw young Mershone at the Kermess that evening paying indifferent attentions to other women and ignoring her, and was sincerely glad to have done with him for good and all.
She obeyed readily the man who asked her to be seated in the limousine. Arthur would be with her in a minute, he said. When the door closed and the car started she had an impulse to cry out but next moment controlled it and imagined they were to pick up Mr. Weldon on some corner.
On and on they rolled, and still no evidence of the owner of the limousine. What could it mean, Louise began to wonder. Had something happened to Arthur, so that he had been forced to send her home alone? As the disquieting thought came she tried to speak with the chauffeur, but could not find the tube. The car was whirling along rapidly; the night seemed very dark, only a few lights twinkled here and there outside.
Suddenly the speed slackened. There was a momentary pause, and then the machine slowly rolled upon a wooden platform. A bell clanged, there was a whistle and the sound of revolving water-wheels. Louise decided they must be upon a ferry-boat, and became alarmed for the first time.
The man in livery now opened the door, as if to reassure her.
“Where are we? Where is Mr. Weldon?” enquired the girl, almost hysterically.
“He is on the boat, miss, and will be with you shortly now,” replied the man, very respectfully. “Mr. Weldon is very sorry to have annoyed you, Miss Merrick, but says he will soon explain everything, so that you will understand why he left you.”
With this he quietly closed the door again, although Louise was eager to ask a dozen more questions. Prominent was the query why they should be on a ferry-boat instead of going directly home. She knew the hour must be late.
But while these questions were revolving in her mind she still suspected no plot against her liberty. She must perforce wait for Arthur to explain his queer conduct; so she sat quietly enough in her place awaiting his coming, while the ferry puffed steadily across the river to the Jersey shore.
The stopping of the boat aroused Louise from her reflections. Arthur not here yet? Voices were calling outside; vehicles were noisily leaving their positions on the boat to clatter across the platforms. But there was no sign of Arthur.
Again Louise tried to find the speaking tube. Then she made an endeavor to open the door, although just then the car started with a jerk that flung her back against the cushions.
The knowledge that she had been grossly deceived by her conductor at last had the effect of arousing the girl to a sense of her danger. Something must be wrong. Something was decidedly wrong, and fear crept into her heart. She pounded on the glass windows with all her strength, and shouted as loudly as she could, but all to no avail.
Swiftly the limousine whirled over the dusky road and either her voice could not be heard through the glass cage in which she was confined or there was no one near who was willing to hear or to rescue her.
She now realized how wrong she had been to sit idly during the trip across the ferry, where a score of passengers would gladly have assisted her. How cunning her captors had been to lull her fears during that critical period! Now, alas, it was too late to cry out, and she had no idea where she was being taken or the reason of her going.
Presently it occurred to her that this was not Arthur’s limousine at all. There was no speaking tube for one thing. She leaned forward and felt for the leathern pocket in which she kept a veil and her street gloves. No pocket of any sort was to be found.
An unreasoning terror now possessed her. She knew not what to fear, yet feared everything. She made another attempt to cry aloud for help and then fell back unconscious on the cushions.
How long she lay in the faint she did not know. When she recovered the limousine was still rattling forward at a brisk gait but bumping over ruts in a manner that indicated a country road.
Through the curtains she could see little but the black night, although there was a glow ahead cast by the searchlights of the car. Louise was weak and unnerved. She had no energy to find a way to combat her fate, if such a way were possible. A dim thought of smashing a window and hurling herself through it gave her only a shudder of repulsion. She lacked strength for such a desperate attempt.
On, on, on. Would the dreary journey never end? How long must she sit and suffer before she could know her fate, or at least find some explanation of the dreadful mystery of this wild midnight ride?
At last, when she had settled down to dull despair, the car came to a paved road and began to move more slowly. It even stopped once or twice, as if the driver was not sure of his way. But they kept moving, nevertheless, and before long entered a driveway. There was another stop now, and a long wait.
Louise lay dismally back upon the cushions, sobbing hysterically into her dripping handkerchief. The door of her prison at last opened and a light shone in upon her.
“Here we are, miss,” said the man in uniform, still in quiet, respectful tones. “Shall I assist you to alight?”
She started up eagerly, her courage returning with a bound. Stepping unassisted to the ground she looked around her in bewilderment.
The car stood before the entrance to a modest country house. There was a light in the hall and another upon the broad porch. Around the house a mass of trees and shrubbery loomed dark and forbidding.
“Where am I?” demanded Louise, drawing back haughtily as the man extended a hand toward her.
“At your destination, miss,” was the answer. “Will you please enter?”
“No! Not until I have an explanation of this — this — singular, high-handed proceeding,” she replied, firmly.
Then she glanced at the house. The hall door had opened and a woman stood peering anxiously at the scene outside.
With sudden resolve Louise sprang up the steps and approached her. Any woman, she felt, in this emergency, was a welcome refuge.
“Who are you?” she asked eagerly, “and why have I been brought here?”
“Mademoiselle will come inside, please,” said the woman, with a foreign accent. “It is cold in the night air, N’est-ce-pas?”
She turned to lead the way inside. While Louise hesitated to follow the limousine started with a roar from its cylinders and disappeared down the driveway, the two men going with it. The absence of the lamps rendered the darkness around the solitary house rather uncanny. An intense stillness prevailed except for the diminishing rattle of the receding motor car. In the hall was a light and a woman.
Louise went in.
CHAPTER XVI
MADAME CERISE, CUSTODIAN
The woman closed the hall door and locked it. Then she led the way to a long, dim drawing-room in which a grate fire was smouldering. A stand lamp of antique pattern but dimly illuminated the place, which seemed well furnished in an old fashioned way.
“Will not you remove your wraps, Mees — Mees — I do not know ma’m’selle’s name.”
“What is your own name?” asked Louise, coming closer to gaze earnestly into the other’s face.
“I am called Madame Cerise, if it please you.”
Her voice, while softened to an extent by the French accent, was nevertheless harsh and emotionless. She spoke as an automaton, slowly, and pausing to choose her words. The woman was of medium size, slim and straight in spite of many years. Her skin resembled brown parchment; her eyes were small, black and beady; her nose somewhat fleshy and her lips red and full as those of a young girl. The age of Madame Cerise might be anywhere between fifty and seventy; assuredly she had long been a stranger to youth, although her dark hair was but slightly streaked with gray. She wore a somber-hued gown and a maid’s jaunty apron and cap.
Louise inspected her closely, longing to find a friend and protector in this curious and strange woman. Her eyes were moist and pleading — an appeal hard to resist. But Madame Cerise returned her
scrutiny with a wholly impassive expression.
“You are a French maid?” asked Louise, softly.
“A housekeeper, ma’m’selle. For a time, a caretaker.”
“Ah, I understand. Are your employers asleep?”
“I cannot say, ma’m’seile. They are not here.”
“You are alone in this house?”
“Alone with you, ma’m’seile.”
Louise had a sudden access of alarm.
“And why am I here?” she cried, wringing her hands pitifully.
“Ah, who can tell that?” returned the woman, composedly. “Not Cerise, indeed. Cerise is told nothing — except what is required of her. I but obey my orders.”
Louise turned quickly, at this.
“What are your orders, then?” she asked.
“To attend ma’m’selle with my best skill, to give her every comfort and care, to — ”
“Yes — yes!”
“To keep her safely until she is called for. That is all.”
The girl drew a long breath.
“Who will call for me, then?”
“I am not inform, ma’m’selle.”
“And I am a prisoner in this house?”
“Ma’m’selle may call it so, if it please her. But reflect; there is no place else to go. It is bleak weather, the winter soon comes. And here I can make you the comforts you need.”
Louise pondered this speech, which did not deceive her. While still perplexed as to her abduction, with no comprehension why she should have been seized in such a summary manner and spirited to this lonely, out-of-the-way place, she realized she was in no immediate danger. Her weariness returned tenfold, and she staggered and caught the back of a chair for support.
The old woman observed this.
“Ma’m’selle is tired,” said she. “See; it is past four by the clock, and you must be much fatigue by the ride and the nervous strain.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 457
