Poor Mrs. Merrick was inconsolable as the days dragged by. She clung to Patsy with pitiful entreaties not to be left alone; so Miss Doyle brought her to her own apartments, where the bereft woman was shown every consideration. Vain and selfish though Mrs. Merrick might be, she was passionately devoted to her only child, and her fears for the life and safety of Louise were naturally greatly exaggerated.
The group of anxious relatives and friends canvassed the subject morning, noon and night, and the longer the mystery remained unsolved the more uneasy they all became.
“This, ma’am,” said Uncle John, sternly, as he sat one evening facing Mrs. Merrick, “is the final result of your foolish ambition to get our girls into society.”
“I can’t see it that way, John,” wailed the poor woman. “I’ve never heard of such a thing happening in society before, have you?”
“I don’t keep posted,” he growled. “But everything was moving smoothly with us before this confounded social stunt began, as you must admit.”
“I can’t understand why the papers are not full of it,” sighed Mrs. Merrick, musingly. “Louise is so prominent now in the best circles.”
“Of course,” said the Major, drily; “she’s so prominent, ma’am, that no one can discover her at all! And it’s lucky for us the newspapers know nothing of the calamity. They’d twist the thing into so many shapes that not one of us would ever again dare to look a friend in the eye.”
“I’m sure my darling has been murdered!” declared Mrs. Merrick, weeping miserably. She made the statement on an average of once to every five minutes. “Or, if she hasn’t been killed yet, she’s sure to be soon. Can’t something be done?”
That last appeal was hard to answer. They had done everything that could be thought of. And here it was Tuesday. Louise had been missing for five days.
CHAPTER XVIII
A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS
The Tuesday morning just referred to dawned cold and wintry. A chill wind blew and for a time carried isolated snowflakes whirling here and there. Gradually, as the morning advanced, the flakes became more numerous, until by nine o’clock an old fashioned snowstorm had set in that threatened to last for some time. The frozen ground was soon covered with a thin white mantle and the landscape in city and country seemed especially forbidding.
In spite of these adverse conditions Charlie Mershone decided to go out for a walk. He felt much like a prisoner, and his only recreation was in getting out of the hotel for a daily stroll. Moreover, he had an object in going abroad to-day.
So he buttoned his overcoat up to his chin and fearlessly braved the storm. He had come to wholly disregard the presence of the detective who shadowed him, and if the youthful Fogerty by chance addressed him he was rewarded with a direct snub. This did not seem to disconcert the boy in the least, and to-day, as usual, when Mershone walked out Fogerty followed at a respectful distance. He never appeared to be watching his man closely, yet never for an instant did Mershone feel that he had shaken the fellow off.
On this especial morning the detective was nearly a block in the rear, with the snow driving furiously into his face, when an automobile suddenly rolled up to the curb beside him and two men leaped out and pinioned Fogerty in their arms. There was no struggle, because there was no resistance. The captors quickly tossed the detective into the car, an open one, which again started and turned into a side street.
Fogerty, seated securely between the two burly fellows, managed to straighten up and rearrange his clothing.
“Will you kindly explain this unlawful act, gentlemen?” he enquired.
The man on the left laughed aloud. He was the same individual who had attacked Arthur Weldon, the one who had encountered Mershone in the street the day before.
“Cold day, ain’t it, Fogerty?” he remarked. “But that makes it all the better for a little auto ride. We like you, kid, we’re fond of you — awful fond — ain’t we, Pete?”
“We surely are,” admitted the other.
“So we thought we’d invite you out for a whirl — see? We’ll give you a nice ride, so you can enjoy the scenery. It’s fine out Harlem way, an’ the cold’ll make you feel good. Eh, Pete?”
“That’s the idea,” responded Pete, cheerfully.
“Very kind of you,” said the detective, leaning back comfortably against the cushions and pulling up his coat collar to shield him from the wind. “But are you aware that I’m on duty, and that this will allow my man to slip away from me?”
“Can’t help that; but we’re awful sorry,” was the reply. “We just wanted company, an’ you’re a good fellow, Fogerty, considerin’ your age an’ size.”
“Thank you,” said Fogerty, “You know me, and I know you. You are Bill Leesome, alias Will Dutton — usually called Big Bill. You did time a couple of years ago for knocking out a policeman.”
“I’m safe enough now, though,” responded Big Bill. “You’re not working on the reg’lar force, Fogerty, you’re only a private burr.”
“I am protected, just the same,” asserted Fogerty. “When you knabbed me I was shadowing Mershone, who has made away with a prominent society young lady.”
“Oh, he has, has he?” chuckled Big Bill, and his companion laughed so gleefully that he attracted Fogerty’s attention to himself.
“Ah, I suppose you are one of the two men who lugged the girl off,” he remarked; “and I must congratulate you on having made a good job of it. Isn’t it curious, by the way, that the fellow who stole and hid this girl should be the innocent means of revealing her biding place?”
The two men stared at him blankly. The car, during this conversation, had moved steadily on, turning this and that corner in a way that might have confused anyone not perfectly acquainted with this section of the city.
“What d’ye mean by that talk, Fogerty?” demanded Big Bill.
“Of course it was Mershone who stole the girl,” explained the detective, calmly; “we know that. But Mershone is a clever chap. He knew he was watched, and so he has never made a movement to go to his prisoner. But he grew restless in time, and when he met you, yesterday, fixed up a deal with you to carry me away, so he could escape.”
Big Bill looked uncomfortable.
“You know a lot, Fogerty,” he said, doggedly.
“Yes; I’ve found that human nature is much the same the world over,” replied the detective. “Of course I suspected you would undertake to give Mershone his chance by grabbing me, and that is exactly what you have done. But, my lads, what do you suppose I have done in the meantime?”
They both looked their curiosity but said nothing.
“I’ve simply used your clever plot to my own advantage, in order to bring things to a climax,” continued Fogerty. “While we are joy-riding here, a half dozen of my men are watching every move that Mershone makes. I believe he will lead them straight to the girl; don’t you?”
Big Bill growled some words that were not very choice and then yelled to the chauffeur to stop. The other man was pale and evidently frightened.
“See here, Fogerty; you make tracks!” was the sharp command, as the automobile came to a halt. “You’ve worked a pretty trick on us, ‘cordin’ to your own showin’, and we must find Mr. Mershone before it’s too late — if we can.”
“Good morning,” said Fogerty, alighting. “Thank you for a pleasant ride — and other things.”
They dashed away and left him standing on the curb; and after watching them disappear the detective walked over to a drug store and entered the telephone booth.
“That you, Hyde? — This is Fogerty.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Mershone has just crossed the ferry to Jersey. Adams is with him. I’ll hear from him again in a minute: hold the wire.”
Fogerty waited. Soon he learned that Mershone had purchased a ticket for East Orange. The train would leave in fifteen minutes.
Fogerty decided quickly. After looking at his watch he rushed out and arrested a passing taxicab.
“R
eady for a quick run — perhaps a long one?” he asked.
“Ready for anything,” declared the man.
The detective jumped in and gave hurried directions.
“Never mind the speed limit,” he said. “No one will interfere with us. I’m Fogerty.”
CHAPTER XIX
POLITIC REPENTANCE
Perhaps no one — not even Mrs. Merrick — was so unhappy in consequence of the lamentable crime that had been committed as Diana Von Taer. Immediately after her interview with Beth her mood changed, and she would have given worlds to be free from complicity in the abduction. Bitterly, indeed, she reproached herself for her enmity toward the unsuspecting girl, an innocent victim of Diana’s own vain desires and Charles Mershone’s heartless wiles. Repenting her folly and reasoning out the thing when it was too late, Diana saw clearly that she had gained no possible advantage, but had thoughtlessly conspired to ruin the reputation of an honest, ingenuous girl.
Not long ago she had said that her life was dull, a stupid round of social functions that bored her dreadfully. She had hoped by adopting John Merrick’s nieces as her protégées and introducing them to society to find a novel and pleasurable excitement that would serve to take her out of her unfortunate ennui — a condition to which she had practically been born.
But Diana had never bargained for such excitement as this; she had never thought to win self abhorrence by acts of petty malice and callous cruelties.
Yet so intrenched was she in the conservatism of her class that she could not at once bring herself to the point of exposing her own guilt that she might make amends for what had been done. She told herself she would rather die than permit Louise to suffer through her connivance with her reckless, unprincipled cousin. She realized perfectly that she ought to fly, without a moment’s delay, to the poor girl’s assistance. Yet fear of exposure, of ridicule, of loss of caste, held her a helpless prisoner in her own home, where she paced the floor and moaned and wrung her hands until she was on the verge of nervous prostration. If at any time she seemed to acquire sufficient courage to go to Louise, a glance at the detective watching the house unnerved her and prevented her from carrying out her good intentions.
You must not believe that Diana was really bad; her lifelong training along set lines and practical seclusion from the everyday world were largely responsible for her evil impulses. Mischief is sure to crop up, in one form or another, among the idle and ambitionless. More daring wickedness is said to be accomplished by the wealthy and aimless creatures of our false society than by the poorer and uneducated classes, wherein criminals are supposed to thrive. These sins are often unpublished, although not always undiscovered, but they are no more venial because they are suppressed by wealth and power.
Diana Von Taer was a girl who, rightly led, might have been capable of developing a noble womanhood; yet the conditions of her limited environment had induced her to countenance a most dastardly and despicable act. It speaks well for the innate goodness of this girl that she at last actually rebelled and resolved to undo, insofar as she was able, the wrong that had been accomplished.
For four days she suffered tortures of remorse. On the morning of the fifth day she firmly decided to act. Regardless of who might be watching, or of any unpleasant consequences to herself, she quietly left the house, unattended, and started directly for the East Orange mansion.
CHAPTER XX
A TELEPHONE CALL
Still another laggard awoke to action on this eventful Tuesday morning.
Madame Cerise had been growing more and more morose and dissatisfied day by day. Her grievance was very tangible. A young girl had been brought forcibly to the house and placed in her care to be treated as a prisoner. From that time the perpetrators of the deed had left the woman to her own resources, never communicating with her in any way.
During a long life of servitude Madame Cerise had acquiesced in many things that her own conscience did not approve of, for she considered herself a mere instrument to be used at will by the people who employed and paid her. But her enforced solitude as caretaker of the lonely house at East Orange had given her ample time to think, and her views had lately undergone a decided change.
To become the jailer of a young, pretty and innocent girl was the most severe trial her faithfulness to her employers had ever compelled her to undergo, and the woman deeply resented the doubtful position in which she had been placed.
However, the chances were that Madame Cerise might have obeyed her orders to the letter had not so long a period of waiting ensued. During these days she was constantly thrown in the society of Louise, which had a tendency to make her still more rebellious. The girl clung to Cerise in her helplessness and despair, and constantly implored her to set her free. This, indeed, the Frenchwoman might have done long ago had she not suspected such an act might cause great embarrassment to Diana Von Taer, whom she had held on her knee as an infant and sought to protect with loyal affection.
It was hard, though, to hear the pitiful appeals of the imprisoned girl, and to realize how great was the wrong that was being done her. The old woman was forced to set her jaws firmly and turn deaf ears to the pleadings in order not to succumb to them straightway. Meantime she did her duty conscientiously. She never left Louise’s room without turning the key in the lock, and she steadfastly refused the girl permission to wander in the other rooms of the house. The prison was a real prison, indeed, but the turnkey sought to alleviate the prisoner’s misery by every means in her power. She was indefatigable in her service, keeping the room warm and neat, attending to the girl’s every want and cooking her delicious meals.
While this all tended to Louise’s comfort it had little affect in soothing her misery. Between periods of weeping she sought to cajole the old woman to release her, and at times she succumbed to blank despair. Arthur was always in her mind, and she wondered why he did not come to rescue her. Every night she stole softly from her bed to try the door, hoping Cerise had forgotten to lock it. She examined her prison by stealth to discover any possible way of escape.
There were two small windows and one large one. The latter opened upon the roof of a small porch, but, there were no way to descend from it unless one used a frail lattice at one end, which in summer probably supported a rose or other vine. Louise shrank intuitively from such a desperate undertaking. Unless some dreadful crisis occurred she would never dare trust herself to that frail support. Yet it seemed the only possible way of escape.
Time finally wore out the patience of Madame Cerise, who was unable longer to withstand Louise’s pleadings. She did not indicate by word or look that her attitude had changed, but she made a secret resolve to have done with the affair altogether.
Often in their conversations the girl had mentioned Arthur Weldon. She had given Cerise his address and telephone number, and implored her at least to communicate with him and tell him his sweetheart was safe, although unhappy. This had given the old woman the clever idea on which she finally acted.
By telephoning Mr. Weldon she could give him the information that would lead to his coming for Louise, without anyone knowing who it was that had betrayed the secret. This method commended itself strongly to her, as it would save her from any trouble or reproach.
Leaving Louise at breakfast on this Tuesday morning Madame Cerise went down to the telephone and was soon in communication with Arthur. She told him, in a quiet tone, that Miss Louise Merrick was being secluded in a suburban house near East Orange, and described the place so he could easily find it. The young man questioned her eagerly, but aside from the information that the girl was well and uninjured she vouchsafed no further comment.
It was enough, however. Arthur, in wild excitement, rushed to the rescue.
CHAPTER XXI
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
Madame Cerise, well knowing she had accelerated the march of events to a two-step, calmly sat herself down in the little housekeeper’s room off the lower hall and, leaving Louise to her moody
solitude upstairs, awaited the inevitable developments.
Outside the weather was cold and blustering. The wind whirled its burden of snowflakes in every direction with blinding, bewildering impartiality. It was a bad day to be out, thought the old Frenchwoman; but a snowstorm was not likely to deter an anxious lover. She calculated the time it would take Monsieur Weldon to arrive at the mansion: if he was prompt and energetic he could cover the distance in an hour and a half by train or three hours by motor car. But he must prepare for the journey, and that would consume some time; perhaps she need not expect him within two hours at the earliest.
She read, to pass away the time, selecting a book from a shelf of well-worn French novels. Somehow she did not care to face her tearful prisoner again until she could restore the unhappy girl to the arms of her true lover. There was still romance in the soul of Madame Cerise, however withered her cheeks might be. She was very glad that at last she had summoned courage to act according to the dictates of her heart.
Eh? What is this? A rumble of wheels over the frozen snow caused her to glance at the clock above the mantel. Not by any possibility could Monsieur Weldon arrive so soon. Who, then, could it be?
She sat motionless while the doorbell rang, and rang again. Nothing must interfere with the pretty denouement she had so fondly anticipated when Louise’s faithful knight came to her.
But the one who had just now alighted was persistent. The vehicle had been sent away — she heard the sound of receding wheels — and the new arrival wanted to get in. The bell jerked and jangled unceasingly for a time and then came a crash against the door, as if a stalwart shoulder was endeavoring to break it down.
Madame Cerise laid down her book, placed her pince-nez in the case, and slowly proceeded down the hall. The door shook with another powerful impact, a voice cried out demanding admittance.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 459
