But this was no more than an instantaneous reflection. Then Tope took off his hat and walked across to where Miss Moss sat, with that curiously springy gait which was characteristic of the old man, despite his age. She watched him approach, but she made no sign or movement; and he sat down before her, his hat upon his knees. What light there was from the window behind her fell full upon his face, but hers was shadowed still.
He said directly, and his eyes were twinkling: “Well, ma’am, he got away!”
She watched him without replying; yet he thought her shoulders moved as though the muscles tightened there.
“The janitor up there,” he explained. “That man you hired! And fired an hour ago!”
“Oh!” she whispered. She made no pretense that she did not understand. It was as though she perceived that this was a man not readily deceived. But neither did she seek to excuse or justify herself at all.
Tope smoothed his hat thoughtfully. “You know, Miss Moss,” he said reassuringly, “I was on the police force a good many years. But I’m retired. I’m not on duty now. I don’t have to do a thing, just because the law says so and so. It takes a load off a man sometimes.”
She did not speak; and he looked across the room at the young man busy there. Then his glance returned to her. He asked slowly:
“I suppose Clint Jervis and his sister have had to slow down some, since this happened, haven’t they?”
And since she did not answer at once, he said in a grave insistence, curiously comforting: “Ma’am, you can talk to me. And I want you to.”
When she spoke presently, it was more to herself than to him. She said carefully:
“So far as we can find out, Mr. Peace took about four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of securities, they represented money borrowed on the Jervis real estate at six per cent. That means that Clint and Clara lose about a thousand dollars a month in income; each one of them. Yes, they have had to—slew down.” She added, with a faint smile somehow appealing:
“Of course, they still have a hundred or so. That isn’t poverty, but it seems like very little to them!”
He asked, with a nod toward the young man yonder: “What’s Clint doing here? Checking up on things?”
She was not even surprised that he knew Clint was here. “He decided to learn all about the business,” she explained, almost pleadingly. “And Clara is taking a stenographic course; and she comes in every afternoon after her class. And Inspector, they enjoy it. They really do. It’s all so new to them.”
There was always something in Tope’s mien which could elicit confidences. “I expect they’d been running wild before,” he suggested.
She did not at once reply; but he thought her shoulders drooped, as though under a heavy burden. Then they lifted again; and she said at last, in a low tone, summoning old memories:
“I knew them when they were babies. A little girl and a little boy. They were sweet children, and they began to grow up, and went to school. Of course I was just their father’s secretary; but he often worked at home, and they would come into the office . . . Then he died, and they were old enough so that they were free.”
She hesitated, then went on: “I tried to—guide them. But perhaps I was not very wise. They always have—loved me, I think; but Mr. Peace encouraged them to enjoy themselves. I could not oppose him without losing their—affection. So they had too much to spend and too little to do. Clara wanted to act in moving pictures. She went to a theatrical school in California. Not with any serious ambition, I’m afraid, but rather because it promised gay amusement. Clint was studying at Beaux Arts, in Paris.”
She continued reluctantly:
“And then Clara—” She seemed to choose her words.
“Clara was young,” she said. “And the child is naturally affectionately, friendly. There was an older man whom she knew here. If I told you his name . . . But that is not necessary. However, it was because of him that I did not protest when she went to California. But he followed her, or at least he too went out there, and saw a great deal of her. She went with him everywhere—not too wisely! The thing eventually ended in an ugly brawl!”
She made a weary gesture, and her voice seemed about to break, so that Inspector Tope said quickly:
“All that’s over with, ma’am. You never mind about it.” She nodded. “But Clint heard about it in Paris, and started for California to kill the man!”
Tope wagged his head. “Killing is serious! I’ve seen a lot of it, and I don’t like it,” He looked toward Clint yonder and chuckled. “But that boy wouldn’t . . .”
Miss Moss set him right. She seemed to find nothing incredible in the fact that she should thus confide in a man she had never seen until today. She said: “I think Clint might have. Mr. Jervis had a furious, uncontrolled temper when his anger was aroused; a really deadly temper, Clint has it, and Clara too. I’ve seen it in them. Clint cabled me that he had heard about Clara, and was sailing for home on his way to California; and I was terrified, afraid of what he might do.
“And then Mr. Peace disappeared, and it seemed almost opportune. I caught Clint on the boat by radio, and wired Clara what had happened; and they hurried home.”
The old man shifted in his chair, he said reassuringly: “I’ve a notion the Jervis Trust will be back on its feet again, by the time these young ones get some idea what money’s for: Don’t you think so?”
He saw her throat work as she tried to speak; but she made no sound. And he said then, in an urgent tone:
“Ma’am, I don’t care anything about Peace. But I hate to see that much money get away. I thought we might do something about that, in a quiet way. You and me.”
She whispered: “They don’t need more money than they have. They’ve never been so happy as they are right now.” He saw her trembling; and he protested: “You don’t have to be upset. If you say it’s best this way, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“You won’t—do anything?”
“You’re going to keep right on running the Jervis family, for all of me,” he assured her. “Only—I might give you a hand!”
And she sat very still, as though relief flowed through her; and he spoke casually, of matters familiar to them both, so that she might become composed again.
“Mr. Peace played it pretty safe,” he remarked. “That was why he came in to see you, pretending to be this Burke. If you recognized him, he could pass it off for a joke; but when you didn’t know him—or didn’t let on—he’d figured it was safe to go ahead.”
“I didn’t understand, at the time,” she told him. “I just thought it was a prank, a jest.”
He saw she was once more mistress of herself, and he spoke more gravely. “But ma’am,” he insisted, “this sort of thing, it doesn’t just happen and then end. There’s a lot of money mixed up in it. That money has been stolen once, and money that’s been stolen once—excuse me, ma’am—is like a woman that’s had a lover. Men are bound to look at it side-wise, soon as they know. Scheming how to get a share.
“I’ve seen killings that were done for a lot less than that,” he continued. “You and me, we ought not to let it lie around loose. Someone will find out Peace has got it, and kill him and take it; or he’ll kill someone to keep it. I’d feel a sight easier if the bonds were back in your safe downstairs.”
“Mr. Peace is clever,” she said, half to herself. “No one will recognize him unless he wishes them to. I have seen him go to a masquerade without a mask, and remain unknown as long as he chose.”
“He can’t do things alone, all the time,” Tope urged. “I’m betting right now that there’s someone knows where he is, and what he looks like . . . Maybe a woman!”
“He would not trust any woman,” she declared.
Tope said slowly: “This is all guesswork. But I’m guessing that Mr. Peace didn’t get hurt as bad as he pretended, in that smash-up two years ago. I’m guessing that his feet are as sound as mine. And I’m doubting about that scar on his head.”
“How could he have pretended that?” she protested; and Tope hesitated, and then he chuckled.
“Why ma’am, I’m talking too much,” he admitted. “But it’s easy to talk to you. He might not have been hurt at all. You see, the doctor that took care of him was a friend of Peace’s; and he wasn’t much of a doctor either. He didn’t have a real high-class reputation. I looked him up. He’s retired now, moved away. Canter was his name.”
He was watching her, so that he saw her head, in silhouette against the light behind, move convulsively as though with deep surprise. But before he could speak, there was an interruption. The door behind them opened, over across the room; and someone called:
“Hullo, folks!” Then, doubtfully: “Oh!”
Tope turned; and he saw a girl standing there just within the door, and he knew this must be Clara Jervis. A fair, tall girl with laughing eyes, in which for all their friendly mirth the shadow of a stale hurt still did well. Tope had expected to see sophistication, recklessness, audacity. But this girl was as wholesome as a red apple in the sun. She came across the room, stripping off her gloves, to greet Miss Moss; and young Clint drew toward them, and Tope saw old Beede watch them both with affectionately twinkling eyes.
Miss Moss introduced these two young people to the Inspector. “Clint, Clara, this is Inspector Tope,” she said. “Inspector Howell asked his help in locating Mr. Peace, and they found him, but he got away.”
“Found him?” young Clint ejaculated. “Where?”
Miss Moss looked at Tope; and so did they; and the old man said mildly:
“Why, he’d been sitting tight, waiting for the hunt to quiet down. Even a rabbit knows that the way to keep out of sight is to stay still. Mr. Peace just moved downstairs into the cellar, in the apartment house where he lived. He went to work as the janitor there. Then today Inspector Howell figured out where he was, and went to get him. But he’d gone.”
Clint said shrewdly: “I expect you had something to do with Inspector Howell’s finding him, didn’t you.” Howell’s been chasing his own tail like a kitten for so long!”
Tope chuckled at the thought of comparing big Dave Howell to a kitten; but he had no need to reply, for Clara cried:
“The janitor! Why, for mercy’s sake, I must have talked to him! There was a tap dripping in my bathroom, and I telephoned down, two or three days ago, to the superintendent. He wasn’t there, but a man who said he was the janitor answered; said he’d see to it.”
Tope asked, interested: “You live in that same apartment, do you?”
“We all do,” Clara assured him; and Miss Moss explained:
“Mr. Jervis kept one suite for his own use there. He arranged that it should always be reserved for the children. Rather than let it stand empty, I’ve lived there while they were away; and Clint and Clara came there too, when they came home, and insisted that I stay.”
Clara cried affectionately: “Of course we did.”
And Tope asked: “See this janitor, did you?”
“No,” Clara confessed. “I was gone before he came upstairs.”
Tope nodded. “Nobody ever sees a janitor,” he agreed. “I guess Mr. Peace remembered that, when he figured where to hide.”
“But his voice didn’t sound the same,” Clara protested. “I’d have known Mr. Peace’s voice, I’m sure. It was different, high and reedy.” She spoke to Inspector Tope, her eyes dancing. “I should think you policemen would feel a little bit foolish,” she laughingly declared. “Letting him get away!”
Tope chuckled; and Miss Moss said, defending him: “Inspector Tope is retired, Clara. He’s not a policeman any more. Just a friend of Inspector Howell’s.”
Clara said contritely: “Oh, sorry! I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?”
“Well, nobody can blame you folks,” Tope admitted, “for wondering why the police didn’t get him.”
But Clint spoke reassuringly: “Not a bit of it. Matter of fact, I blame myself. I ought to have been on the job here. I was supposed to take a hand in running things here when I was twenty-five, a year ago. But I let it slide. My own fault, if it’s anybody’s.” He added: “But I don’t give a hoot about the money. Neither does Clara! We’ve having more fun right now than we ever had before. Only I hate to have anyone put it over on us this way!”
Tope glanced at Miss Moss, who watched these two so tenderly; and he said: “I feel the same!” He chuckled. “Point of honor,” he suggested. “Or habit. A policeman hates to see a criminal get away.”
Clara said gaily: “You don’t seem at all like a policeman. I’ve always wanted to know one. Unofficially.” The Inspector caught again that faint shadow in her eyes as though she winced with some almost forgotten pain. “I don’t mean traffic cops, of course; but real policemen, the ones who catch thieves and murderers and people like that.” And as though her own words reminded her, she turned quickly to Miss Moss. “Oh, I saw Mat this afternoon, darling,” she reported. “He wants Clint and me to have dinner with him tonight. Kay Ransom will be there. Why don’t you come, too?”
Inspector Tope saw that she had for a moment forgotten him; and he found himself absurdly wishing that these folk would not forget him. He liked them, he liked Miss Moss; and he was sometimes a lonely old man. He asked:
“Miss Ransom? That’s the young lady in the play at the Booth, isn’t it? I saw it last night.”
“Of course,” Clara assented. “And Mat Hews. He’s in it, too. I knew him in California, you see. Clint and I just keep going to see the show. I’ve been trying to persuade Miss Moss to go with us. You tell her she must. Do!”
She seemed to discover in Inspector Tope’s eyes at this suggestion something which amused her; for she insisted: “Do! Please! I know she will if you tell her to!” Her eyes were twinkling with a sober mirth.
But before Tope could reply, Clint asked: “What did you think of the play, Inspector?”
Tope chuckled. “Young friend of mine asked me the same thing, yesterday,” he remembered. “He wrote up a long interview about it for the Sunday paper. I don’t know as I ever met criminals just like the ones in that play; but maybe there are some!”
“But isn’t it thrilling?” Clara insisted, “Doesn’t it make the chills run up and down your spine?”
Tope’s eyes were smiling. “Why, I guess my spine isn’t much of a race track for chills, Miss,” he said gravely. “I don’t know as I’ve been what you might call excited for a good many years now. Don’t know as I recollect when I was excited the last time, for the matter of that.” The old man was not usually so talkative, nor so free to talk about himself; he was suddenly conscious of this, and he added apologetically: “I can see how it might, some people, though.” Clara exclaimed: “Of course you must have seen the most fearful things!” Her eyes were round and still with interest. “Have you always been a policeman?” she asked.
He said gently: “I quit being one, a year or two ago.” His eyes met those of Miss Moss for a moment, with something like a smile in them; and he saw faint color touch her cheeks.
“Did you catch a lot of burglars and murderers and things?” the girl insisted; and Tope felt a warm pleasure at her questionings.
“Why, murderers were my specialty,” he confessed. “I was the homicide man at Headquarters for quite a while.”
“Homicide? That is murder, isn’t it?” the girl echoed. “Do they have special policemen for special things that way?” And when he assured her this was to some extent the case, she said eagerly: “Oh, but I want to ask you millions of questions. You must tell me hundreds of stories, about all the murderers you’ve caught!” She appealed to these others. “Clint. Miss Moss. Don’t let him go away! Do you realize that he knows all the mystery stories himself? He’s been in them!” Her eyes lighted with abrupt inspiration. “I know! We’ll all have dinner together, with Mat and Kay. Mat will want to meet you, Inspector; and you’ll like him.” Her cheeks were bright. “He’s a peach, honestly! And we’ll make Miss
Moss go along, and we’ll go to the show afterward. You must be her beau, Inspector!” She looked at the older woman with quick laughter. “Darling, you’re blushing!” she cried. “The idea!” Her own enthusiasm swept her on. “But you wouldn’t be afraid, with the Inspector there to take care of you!”
Miss Moss said gently: “It’s a long time since I’ve been afraid of anything on my own account, child!”
“Then it’s settled!” Clara cried. “Inspector, you’ll come! I’ll telephone Mat to meet us at the Touraine at six. He and Kay have to be at the theatre by seven-thirty, you know . . .”
“You’ll hardly get seats for tonight,” Inspector Tope suggested, but she said:
“Oh, Mat reserves some good seats for every night, right up to the last minute, in case friends of his want them. He’ll take care of us.” And she caught up the telephone, called a number. While she waited, she watched them over her shoulder. “Don’t move!” she insisted gaily. “I’m going to keep my eye on you. You shan’t get away . . .”
Inspector Tope stood smiling while they all listened to her one-sided conversation with young Mat Hews: “Mat? Yes, it’s me, of course . . . Do so many girls call you up you can’t be sure . . . Darling, the most gorgeous news. We’re all coming to dinner, the Touraine grill, six o’clock. And I’m bringing the most amazing man. He’s a policeman, a regular Sherlock Holmes. He’s caught hundreds of murderers, and he’ll tell stories till your hair stands on end . . . Yes, of course. Inspector Tope . . . You have? Well, I know he is. Tell Kay she’ll be mad about him. But she’ll have to be careful of Miss Moss . . .” Her eyes were dancing. “Right, darling! Six, in the grill. And we’re going to the show afterward. Four of us! Can you get extra tickets? That’s grand! At six, then. ’Bye!”
Lady in Peril Page 4
