The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  As she listened, Constance understood it all now. It was to make Florence Gibbons a piece of property, a thing to be traded in, bartered—that was the idea. Discover her—yes; but first to thrust her into the life if she would not go into it herself—anything to discredit her testimony beforehand, anything to save the precious reputation of one man.

  “Well,” shouted the other voice menacingly, “do you want to know the truth? Haven’t you read it often enough? Instead of hoping you will return, they pray that you are dead!”

  He hissed the words out, then added, “They prefer to think that you are dead. Why—damn it!—they turn to that belief for comfort!”

  Constance had seized Mrs. Palmer by the arm, and, acting in concert, they threw both their weights against the thin wooden door.

  It yielded with a crash.

  Inside the room was dark.

  Indistinctly Constance could make out two figures, one standing, the other seated in a deep rocker.

  A suppressed exclamation of surprise was followed by a hasty lunge of the standing figure toward her.

  Constance reached quickly into her handbag and drew out the little ivory-handled pistol.

  “Bang!” it spat almost into the man’s face.

  Choking, sputtering, the man groped a minute blindly, then fell on the floor and frantically tried to rise again and call out.

  The words seemed to stick in his throat.

  “You—you shot him?” gasped a woman’s voice which Constance now knew was Florence’s.

  “With the new German Secret Service gun,” answered Constance quietly, keeping it leveled to cow any assistance that might be brought. “It blinds and stupefies without killing—a bulletless revolver intended to check and render harmless the criminal instead of maiming him. The cartridges contain several chemicals that combine when they are exploded and form a vapor which blinds a man and puts him out. No one wants to kill such a person as this.”

  She reached over and switched on the lights.

  The man on the floor was Drummond himself.

  “You will tell your real employer, Mr. Preston,” she added contemptuously, “that unless he agrees to our story of his elopement with Florence, marries her, and allows her to start an undefended action for divorce, we intend to make use of the new federal Mann Act—with a jail sentence—for both of you.”

  Drummond looked up sullenly, still blinking and choking.

  “And not a word of this until the suit is filed. Then we will see the reporters—not he. Understand?”

  “Yes,” he muttered, still clutching his throat.

  An hour later Constance was at the telephone in her own apartment.

  “Mr. Gibbons? I must apologize for troubling you at this late, or rather early, hour. But I promised you something which I could not fulfill until now. This is the Mrs. Dunlap who called on you the other day with a clue to your daughter Florence. I have found her—yes—working as a waitress in the Betsy Ross Tea Boom. No—not a word to anyone—not even to her mother. No—not a word. You can see her to-morrow—at my apartment. She is going to live with me for a few days until—well—until we get a few little matters straightened out.”

  Constance had jammed the receiver back on the hook hastily.

  Florence Gibbons, wild-eyed, trembling, imploring, had flung her arms about her neck.

  “No—no—no,” she cried. “I can’t. I won’t.”

  With a force that was almost masculine, Constance took the girl by both shoulders.

  “The one thousand dollar reward which comes to me,” said Constance decisively, “will help us—straighten out those few little matters with Preston. Mrs. Palmer can stretch the time which you have worked for her.”

  Something of Constance’s will seemed to be infused into Florence Gibbons by force of suggestion.

  “And remember,” Constance added in a tense voice, “for anything after your elopement—it’s aphasia, aphasia, aphasia!”

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SHOPLIFTERS

  “Madam, would you mind going with me for a few moments to the office on the third floor?”

  Constance Dunlap had been out on a shopping excursion. She had stopped at the jewelry counter of Stacy’s to have a ring repaired and had gone on to the leather goods department to purchase something else.

  The woman who spoke to her was a quietly dressed young person, quite inconspicuous, with a keen eye that seemed to take in everything within a radius of a wide-angled lens at a glance.

  She leaned over and before Constance could express even surprise, added in a whisper, “Look in your bag.”

  Constance looked hastily, then realized what had happened. The ring was gone!

  It gave her quite a shock, too, for the ring, a fine diamond, was a present from her husband, one of the few pieces of jewelry, treasured not only for its intrinsic value but as a remembrance of Carlton and the supreme sacrifice he had made for her.

  She had noticed nothing in the crowd, nothing more than she had noticed scores of times before. The woman watched her puzzled look.

  “I’ve been following you,” she said. “By this time the other store detectives must have caught the shoplifter and bag-opener who touched you. You see, we don’t make any arrests in the store if we can help it, because we don’t like to make a scene. It’s bad for business. Besides, if she had anything else, we are safer when the case comes to court, if we have caught her actually leaving the store with it. Of course, when we make an arrest on the sidewalk, we bring the shoplifter back, but in a private, back elevator.”

  Constance was following the young woman mechanically. At least there was a chance of recovering the ring.

  “She was standing next to you at the jewelry counter,” she continued, “and if you will help identify her the store management will appreciate it—and make it worth your while. Besides,” she urged, “It’s really your duty to do it, madam.”

  Constance remembered now the rather simply but richly gowned young woman who had been standing next to her at the counter, seemingly unable to decide which of a number of beautiful rings she really wanted. She remembered because, with her own love of beauty, she had wanted one herself, in fact had thought at the time that she, too, might have difficulty in choosing.

  With the added feeling of curiosity, Constance followed the woman detective up in the elevator.

  In the office, apart in a little room curiously furnished with a camera, innumerable photographs, cabinets, and filing cases, was a young woman, perhaps twenty-six or seven. On a table before her lay a pile of laces and small trinkets. There, too, was the beautiful diamond ring which she had hidden in her muff. Constance fairly gasped at the sight.

  The girl was sitting limply in a chair crying bitterly. She was not a hardened looking creature. In fact, her face bore evident traces of refinement, and her long, slender fingers hinted at a nervous, artistic temperament. It was rather a shock to see such a girl under such distressing circumstances.

  “We’ve lost so much lately,” a small ferret-eyed man was saying, “that we must make an example of some one. It’s serious for us detectives, too. We’ll lose our jobs unless we can stop you boosters.”

  “Oh—I—I didn’t mean to do it. I—I just couldn’t help it,” sobbed the girl over and over again.

  “Yes,” drawled the man, “that’s what they all say. But you’ve been caught with the goods, this time, young lady.”

  A woman entered, and the man turned to her quickly.

  “Carr—Kitty Carr. Did you find anything under that name?”

  “No, sir,” replied the woman store detective. “We’ve looked all through the records and the photographs. We don’t find her. And yet I don’t think it is an alias—at least, if it is, not an alias for any one we have any record of. I’ve a good
eye for faces, and there isn’t one we have on file as—as good looking,” she added, perhaps with a little touch of wistfulness at her own plainness and this beauty gone wrong.

  “This is the woman who lost the ring,” put in the other woman detective, motioning to Constance, who had accompanied her and was standing, a silent spectator.

  The man held up the ring, which Constance had already recognized.

  “Is that yours?” he asked.

  For a moment, strangely, she hesitated. If it had been any other ring in the world she felt sure that she would have said no. But, then, she reflected, there was that pile of stuff. There was no use in concealing her ownership of the ring. “Yes,” she murmured.

  “One moment, please,” answered the man brusquely. “I must send down for the salesgirl who waited on you to identify you and your check—a mere formality, you know, but necessary to keep things straight.”

  Constance sat down.

  “I suppose you don’t realize it,” explained the man, turning to Constance, “but the shoplifters of the city get away with a couple of million dollars’ worth of stuff every year. It’s the price we have to pay for displaying our goods. But it’s too high. They are the department store’s greatest unsolved problem. Now most of the stores are working together for their common interests, seeing what they can do to root them out. We all keep a sort of private rogue’s gallery of them. But we don’t seem to have anything on this girl, nor have any of the other stores who exchange photographs and information with us anything on her.”

  “Evidently, then, it is her first offense,” put in Constance, wondering at herself. Strangely, she felt more of sympathy than of anger for the girl.

  “You mean the first time she has been caught at it,” corrected the head of the store detectives.

  “It is my weakness,” sobbed the girl. “Sometimes an irresistible impulse to steal comes over me. I just can’t help it.”

  She was sobbing convulsively. As she talked and listened there seemed to come a complete breakdown. She wept as though her heart would break.

  “Oh,” exclaimed the man, “can it! Cut out the sob stuff!”

  “And yet,” mused Constance half to herself, watching the girl closely, “when one walks through the shops and sees thousands of dollars’ worth of goods lying unprotected on the counters, is it any wonder that some poor woman or girl should be tempted and fall? There, before her eyes and within her grasp, lies the very article above all others which she so ardently craves. No one is looking. The salesgirl is busy with another customer. The rest is easy. And then the store detective steps in—and here she is—captured.”

  The girl had been listening wildly through her tears. “Oh,” she sobbed, “you don’t understand—none of you. I don’t crave anything. I—I just—can’t help it—and then, afterwards—I—I hate the stuff—and I am so—afraid. I hurry home—and I—oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”

  Constance pitied her deeply. She looked from the wild-eyed, tear-stained face to the miscellaneous pile of material on the table, and the unwinking gaze of the store detectives. True, the girl had taken a very valuable diamond ring, and from herself. But the laces, the trinkets, all were abominably cheap, not worth risking anything for.

  Constance’s attention was recalled by the man who beckoned her aside to talk to the salesgirl who had waited on her.

  “You remember seeing this lady at the counter?” he asked of the girl. She nodded. “And that woman in there?” he motioned. Again the salesgirl nodded.

  “Do you remember anything else that happened?” he asked Constance as they faced Kitty Carr and he handed Constance the ring.

  Constance looked the detective squarely in the face for a moment.

  “I have my ring. You have the other stuff,” she murmured. “Besides, there is no record against her. She doesn’t even look like a professional bad character. No—I’ll not appear to press the charge—I’ll make it as hard as I can before I’ll do it,” she added positively.

  The woman, who had overheard, looked her gratitude. The detectives were preparing to argue. Constance hardly knew what she was saying, as she hurried on before any one else could speak.

  “No,” she added, “but I’ll tell you what I will do. If you will let her go I will look after her. Parole her, unofficially, with me.”

  Constance drew a card from her case and handed it to the detective. He read it carefully, and a puzzled look came over his face. “Charge account—good customer—pays promptly,” he muttered under his breath.

  For a moment he hesitated. Then he sat down at a desk.

  “Mrs. Dunlap,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

  He pulled a piece of printed paper from the desk, filled in a few blanks, then turned to Kitty Carr, handing her a pen.

  “Sign here,” he said brusquely.

  Constance bent over and read. It was a form of release:

  “I, Kitty Carr, residing at — East —th Street, single, age twenty-seven years, in consideration of the sum of One Dollar, hereby admit taking the following property… without having paid therefor and with intent not to pay therefor, and by reason of the withdrawal of the complaint of larceny, of which i am guilty, I hereby remise, release, and forever discharge the said Stacy Co. or its representatives from any claims, action, or causes of action which I may have against the Stacy Co. or its representatives or agents by reason of the withdrawal of said charge of larceny and failure to prosecute.”

  “Signed, Kitty Carr.”

  “Now, Kitty,” soothed Constance, as the trembling signature was blotted and added to a photograph which had quietly been taken, “they are going to let you go this time—with me. Come, straighten your hat, wipe your eyes. You must take me home with you—where we can have a nice long talk. Remember, I am your friend.”

  On the way uptown and across the city the girl managed to tell most of her history. She came from a family of means in another city. Her father was dead, but her mother and a brother were living. She herself had a small annuity, sufficient to live on modestly, and had come to New York seeking a career as an artist. Her story, her ambitions appealed to Constance, who had been somewhat of an artist herself and recognized even in talking to the girl that she was not without some ability.

  Then, too, she found that Kitty actually lived, as she had said, in a cozy little kitchenette apartment with two friends, a man and his wife, both of whom happened to be out when they arrived. As Constance looked about she could see clearly that there was indeed no adequate reason why the girl should steal.

  “How do you feel?” asked Constance when the girl had sunk half exhausted on a couch in the living room.

  “Oh, so nervous,” she replied, pressing her hands to the back of her head, “and I have a terrible headache, although it is a little better now.”

  They had talked for perhaps half an hour, as Constance soothed her, when there was the sound of a key in the door. A young woman in black entered. She was well-dressed, in fact elegantly dressed in a quiet way, somewhat older than Kitty, but by no means as attractive.

  “Why—hello, Kitty,” she cried, “what’s the matter!”

  “Oh, Annie, I’m so unstrung,” replied the girl, then recollecting Constance, added, “let me introduce my friend, Mrs. Dunlap. This is Mrs. Annie Grayson, who has taken me in as a lodger and is ever so kind to me.”

  Constance nodded, and the woman held out her hand frankly.

  “Very glad to meet you,” she said. “My husband, Jim, is not at home, but we are a very happy little family up here. Why, Kitty, what is the matter?”

  The girl had turned her face down in the sofa pillows and was sobbing again. Between sobs she blurted out the whole of the sordid story. And as she proceeded, Annie glanced quickly from her to Constance, for confirmation.

  Suddenly she
rose and extended her hand to Constance.

  “Mrs. Dunlap,” she said, “how can I ever thank you for what you have done for Kitty? She is almost like a sister to me. You—you were—too good.”

  There was a little catch in the woman’s voice. But Constance could not quite make out whether it was acted or wholly genuine.

  “Did she ever do anything like that before?” she asked.

  “Only once,” replied Annie Grayson, “and then I gave her such a talking to that I thought she would be able to restrain herself when she felt that way again.”

  It was growing late and Constance recollected that she had an engagement for the evening. As she rose to go Kitty almost overwhelmed her with embraces.

  “I’ll keep in touch with Kitty,” whispered Constance at the door, “and if you will let me know when anything comes up that I may help her in, I shall thank you.”

  “Depend on me,” answered Mrs. Grayson, “and I want to add my thanks to Kitty’s for what you have done. I’ll try to help you.”

  As she groped her way down the as yet unlighted stairs, Constance became aware of two men talking in the hall. As she passed them she thought she recognized one of the voices. She lowered her head, and fortunately her thin veil in the half-light did the rest. She passed unnoticed and reached the door of the apartment.

  As she opened it she heard the men turn and mount the stairs. Instinctively she realized that something was wrong. One of the men was her old enemy, Drummond, the detective.

  They had not recognized her, and as she stood for a moment with her hand on the knob, she tried to reason it out. Then she crept back, and climbed the stairs noiselessly. Voices inside the apartment told her that she had not been mistaken. It was the apartment of the Graysons and Kitty that they sought.

  The hall door was of thin, light wood, and as she stood there she could easily hear what passed inside.

  “What—is Kitty ill?” she heard the strange man’s voice inquire.