Lady in Peril

by Ben Ames Williams

  Lola Cyr sat yonder on the couch, leaning forward, pale and intent upon his first word; and Tope found it hard to believe that this rather plain woman with dull, scant hair could when she chose present such beauty to the world. He stood uncertainly, and Clara came swiftly to Mat’s side, caught him in her arms; and Miss Moss looked her question.

  Inspector Tope spoke to the actress. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s dead,” he said simply.

  He saw the blood drain out of her lips. Her lips parted, and closed, and parted again. Then a keen, small sound like a wail issued from them; a hopeless cry like that of a feeble infant. She toppled slowly forward, and before they could come to her she had collapsed, her head striking with a thump upon the hardwood floor between the rugs.

  Clint and the Inspector lifted her back upon the couch again, and Miss Moss directed: “Let her head hang down, over the edge of the couch. That will revive her.”

  Tope shifted the woman’s inert body, obediently; and he stepped back to yield his place to Miss Moss. She sent Clara for water, and a moment later, while she was moistening Lola’s brow, she said over her shoulder to the Inspector: “She and Mr. Hammond were late leaving the theatre. He had an argument with his valet, discharged the man. That delayed them; but they got home about eleven-thirty or a little later. Annette came with them.”

  Tope nodded intently; and she continued:

  “Annette gives Mrs. Hammond a rub, a massage every night for an hour. Mr. Hammond went to his own room, just after they came home, and she didn’t see him again.”

  “When was it she missed him?”

  “After Annette finished with her. That would make it about half-past twelve or later. She went in to say good night to him.”

  Lola’s eyes opened; she moaned: “He was gone!”

  “I was telling the Inspector,” Miss Moss explained.

  “I couldn’t find him,” the woman whispered. “I telephoned downstairs and no one had seen him. So I came up to you.”

  “Up in the elevator?” Tope asked.

  Miss Moss said: “She ran up the fire stairs!”

  He nodded: “Where’s Annette?”

  “She goes home at night,” Miss Moss explained.

  “Hagan will want her,” Tope suggested. “Where does she live? And he’ll want to talk to the valet, too. About that argument.” He asked the weeping woman: “You know where they live?”

  “Annette’s at a hotel,” Lola told him, and named the hostelry. “I think Mayhew boards, somewhere in the South End. I don’t know where. I’ve heard Walter telephone him.”

  “Remember the number?” Tope asked.

  She did, and repeated it; and he made a note of it. “I’ll go check up with the operator,” he decided. “Find out the address, in case Inspector Hagan wants it. You all can take care of her?”

  “Of course,” Miss Moss assured him.

  Inspector Tope might have used the telephone in the room; but on second thought he went out and rang for the elevator. Inspector Hagan, he found, had not yet arrived. Belowstairs, Tope sat down at the switchboard, and a minute’s conversation brought him the information he desired. Then it occurred to him that he need not wait for Hagan. There was an angry impatience in him now. Mayhew’s boarding house was not a mile away; and Tope was suddenly alert to see this man.

  A taxi, the driver sleeping, stood at the curb. Inspector Tope woke him, and a few minutes later the cab pulled up before a house, one of a block of houses each exactly alike; and the Inspector got out. He ascended the steps and rang the bell.

  He had to wait some time before an answer came. Then a woman in a dingy bathrobe opened the door to him, grumbling and sleepy-eyed. She muttered something; and he said briskly:

  “Sorry to wake you up, ma’am. A gentleman named Mayhew boards here?”

  “Yes,” she told him.

  “Home, is he?”

  “Came in a little while ago,” she admitted. “Lost his latchkey; and he waked me up to let him in. I like my sleep of nights. If he’s going to have visitors this time of night, he can move out of my house!”

  Tope hesitated: “Late getting home, was he?”

  “Quarter past twelve,” she said irascibly. “His watch had stopped, and he set it by mine. I told him if he lost his key again, he’d get in earlier hereafter, or stay out all night.”

  Tope nodded in a slow disappointment. “I guess I won’t wake him up, then, ma’am,” he decided. “I’ll see him tomorrow, instead.” He heard her angry comment on the idiocy of rousing a respectable woman at this time of night and then changing your mind about a thing; but he made no retort. He was curiously depressed by this intelligence that Mayhew had been safe at home a full twenty minutes before Hammond was killed. That instinct of his upon which he had learned more and more to rely had quickened into life when he heard that Mayhew and Hammond tonight had argued on some matter unknown.

  His cab was waiting; he came back again to the apartment. Hagan must have arrived; for there was a police car before the door, and Doctor Gero’s automobile just behind it. Tope hesitated, half minded to go down cellar and join_ them. But Inspector Hagan would resent his presence there.” And—Tope wished to see Miss Moss again.

  So he took the elevator to their floor. He found that they had put Lola Cyr to bed.

  “I gave her a bromide,” Miss Moss confessed. “Poor thing; she is so stricken. She is sleeping now.”

  Clara and Mat Hews were together on the couch, their arms entwined. It was Clint who asked the Inspector: “Where have you been?”

  “Checking up,” the old man said, a little wearily. He looked at Miss Moss and explained: “I went to see where Mayhew lives. I had a sort of feeling about him, a hunch.” He grinned, wagged his head. “Used to trust my hunches, but I’m getting old.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  And he told her: “Hammond was killed about twelve-thirty-five. But Mayhew was home at a quarter past twelve.”

  “How do you know?” she wondered.

  “His landlady had to let him in. She was mad about it. He’d lost his latchkey.”

  “I mean, about Mr. Hammond?” she corrected; and he said:

  “Oh, a bullet hit his watch and stopped it.”

  She considered this. “I see.” And after a moment: “But Inspector . . .”

  But before she could finish what she had begun to say, there came heavy footfalls outside the door, and a harsh knock there. Clint opened, and Inspector Hagan, with a uniformed policeman behind him, strode into the room.

  He said harshly: “Hullo, Tope. They told me that you . . .” Then he saw Clara, and young Hews here, and his face crimsoned. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “This where you’ve been hiding, is it?” He whirled on Tope. “You knew it! Knew I wanted them.”

  But young Hews cried: “He didn’t! We haven’t been here!”

  And Clara, on her feet, that quick temper of hers flaming in her eyes, exclaimed: “No one knew anything, except us! We just came.”

  “Just came?” Hagan echoed.

  “Tonight.”

  “How did you get in? My men didn’t see you.”

  “Through the cellar!”

  Hagan’s eyes narrowed. “What time was that?” he asked, more quietly; and Tope made a quick forward movement. But Hagan swung toward him warningly, and Tope held his tongue, and Clara said frankly:

  “About half-past twelve or quarter of one. Just a little while ago.”

  Inspector Hagan nodded, and his eyes were shining. “Why, that’s fine,” he declared. “That fits right in. I’m glad to know that, young lady.”

  Clara recoiled, puzzled and uneasy; he took a step toward her. But Miss Moss came between.

  “What of it, Inspector?” she asked crisply.

  “Hammond was killed at twelve-thirty-eight,” he told her. “In the cellar. And they were there! That’s what of it. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Moss protested; and Hagan said furiously:

  “Is th
at so? All right, here’s some more nonsense! She hated Canter, and she had a gun, and she went in to the dressing room where he was. Stage hand saw her go in. Saw her come out, too, and hide behind some scenery. He came and told me about it after you left, that night.”

  “I was crying!” Clara told him unhappily. “I didn’t want anyone to see me cry, so I hid.”

  “But you left the gun behind,” he said, his voice rising. “You went back and got it, afterward.”

  Mat Hews stood by her side. “No, I took the gun, Inspector,” he corrected.

  “Where is it?”

  The boy grinned: “In the river! I threw it over the rail when we drove across the bridge!”

  “You’re the one she ran away with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To get married,” said Mat steadily; and his arm encircled her.

  “Ho!” Hagan’s mirth was not appealing. “Married, eh? Well, you’ll honeymoon in jail! Maybe I can give you a double cell. I’ll see.” He turned to the officer beside him. “O’Malley, we’ll take them along!”

  But Miss Moss stepped in front of O’Malley as he moved forward; she spoke to Hagan. “You’re absurd, Inspector,” she said sharply. “You’ll do nothing of the kind!”

  “That so?” he echoed in a sardonic tone; yet he seemed somehow abashed. He hesitated, and when he spoke again it was almost persuasively.

  “Why, here it is,” he urged. “You folks can see it’s reasonable, too. Maybe I’m wrong, but everything I know points to her, and to young Hews here. It’s my job not to take chances. I’ve got to hold the both of them.”

  Miss Moss retorted: “You won’t hold them twelve hours. I’ll have a habeas corpus on your back before you get to Headquarters. Inspector, you’re a fool! Any man’s a fool where women are concerned, but you’re worse than most! Any woman can see with half an eye that Clara had nothing to do with this, nor Mat. They haven’t a thought but each other.”

  “You can see more than I can!” he protested.

  “Of course I can!” she agreed. “You’re blind as a bull bat, my friend.” Her eyes were bright, her tones were curt; and Inspector Tope watched her with a deep approval.

  “I suppose you know who did this?” Hagan challenged.

  She shook her head. “I know no more than you, so far as facts are concerned. I say no word but this. If you molest Clara here, or this boy, I’ll make you the laughingstock of the city. I’ll laugh you out of the Force.”

  He hesitated; and she said summarily: “You’re a boor, and a clown and a dunce! I don’t know how you ever got where you are. Your intelligence is nil, and your manners are unbearable. Now get out of my apartment; and when you come again, bring a warrant to enter, and carry your hat in your hand.”

  Inspector Hagan, with a ludicrous haste, snatched off his hat. He said apologetically: “Why, ma’am, I’m doing the best I know.”

  “You know enough to take your hat off.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking about hats.”

  “It’s time you did,” she said. “Now walk yourself out of here.”

  He hesitated, and he looked appealingly at Tope. But Inspector Tope with a great indifference let his glance wander around the room, and Hagan, denied even this much support, moved reluctantly toward the door. But on the threshold there he paused.

  “Just the same, ma’am,” he said harshly, “you all stay here! I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  “Of course we’ll stay, you idiot!” she told him. “This is where we live.”

  And she moved toward him so vigorously that Hagan in something like a panic abruptly backed out of the room and shut the door.

  Miss Moss saw him go; and she whirled and set her shoulders against the door and leaned there, suddenly weak and shaken. Clara ran toward her in a swift delight; the girl cried: “You old darling, you’re a marvel!”

  Miss Moss smiled weakly. “I’ve taken care of you and Clint so long, child. I’m like a hen fighting for her chicks!”

  “I’m sorry,” Clara whispered. “I got us all in this mess! I’m a little fool . . .”

  But Inspector Tope said cheerfully: “Now Mrs. Hews, you go over there with your new husband. I’ve a notion Miss Moss has a word to say to me.”

  And Clara looked at them, and suddenly she smiled. “You two!” she laughed. “Always whispering like conspirators!” She drew away.

  Tope saw that Miss Moss was blushing at Clara’s amusement; and his own ears burned. But Miss Moss asked, to hide her own confusion:

  “Why did you think I’ve something . . .”

  “You started to say it just before Hagan came,” he reminded her.

  “Oh?” She was silent, seeking to remember. “Oh, yes,” she said then. “About the time Mr. Hammond was killed, and the watch. I was thinking, sometimes watches might be wrong!”

  Tope nodded briefly: “That’s so. But, ma’am, I’m thinking about something else now.” He hesitated, brought the matter out into the light: “Day before yesterday, the day Howell came up here to get Peace, and Peace was gone. You . . .”

  “I telephoned him, yes,” she assented.

  “Call him by name?”

  “No, no. I told him Inspector Howell was coming up to find out whether he knew anything about Peace. No, I called him Burke. But of course he would understand.”

  “How did you know Howell would be coming up here?”

  “I guessed from your questions,” she confessed. “It was clear that you—suspected something; and you would tell Howell.”

  He nodded, frowning at his own thoughts; the expression of concern was strange to see on his calm countenance. “But here it is,” he said. “Even if you didn’t call him by name, he’d know that you knew him, knew he was Peace.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I suppose he would, but I don’t see . . .”

  “Ma’am,” he insisted soberly. “You’re a grown woman, you can listen. If Peace killed the doctor and Hammond, he won’t mind another killing. And if he killed them, it was because they knew him, could give him away. Well, you knew him, tool”

  She understood. “But I’m not afraid!” she said. “And he might even be grateful for my warning.”

  Inspector Tope urged: “It’s more likely he figures you were the one gave him away.”

  “If I hadn’t warned him,” Miss Moss reflected wearily, “Inspector Howell would have caught him that day. And—Doctor Canter, and Mr. Hammond would still be alive. I blame myself. But I was thinking of the children!”

  He shook his head. “Ma’am, you’re not to worry about that,” he advised her. “Maybe they had it coming. And anyway, no one can do better than his best. You did the thing that seemed best to you then. Don’t go regretting it now.” She said gently: “You find, always, some reassuring word. Thank you!”

  And Inspector Tope colored with pleasure; but he insisted:

  “The thing is—I’m afraid for you. I’m asking you to let me stay the night right here.”

  Miss Moss considered; and she smiled. “We’re already crowded!” she reminded him. “With a new bride and groom to be made comfortable; and Miss Cyr in the guest room. I can only give you a blanket on the couch, Inspector?”

  “I don’t aim to sleep,” he assured her.

  “Why then, I might sit and keep you company,” she offered.

  He said huskily: “I’d admire that, ma’am. I’d like that, if you would . . .”

  Lola Cyr was long since asleep, but these others were in no Haste to be abed. Clara and Mat had so much to tell, so much to ask. They sat side by side on the broad couch, very close together; and Clint laughed at their eager ardor now and then, and he protested once to Clara:

  “Leave him alone for a minute, can’t you sis! Keep your hands off him. You act like a kid with a new doll. His tie’s all right, and so’s his hair!”

  “Well, I don’t care,” Clara declared in a laughing pride. “I have to take care of him! H
e’s always so rumpled!”

  Mat chuckled happily. “She mended a hole in my socks this morning,” he told them. “And she’d have sewed a button on, if there’d been one that needed it.”

  They chattered cheerfully together, in the quick forgetfulness of youth already neglecting that tragedy which had stalked so near them, touched them with its shadow passing by. But they came back to it at last; this death of Hammond; that of Doctor Canter. And Miss Moss asked Clara a question, and Clint and Mat supplemented her reply, so that between them they gave some orderly account of what had happened back stage on the night of Doctor Canter’s death. Tope, listening, sought to assort the matter in his mind.

  It assumed a smooth chronology. First the four young folk were in the dressing room; Clara with Kay, Clint with Mat. Then Clara and Kay crossed to join the two young men; and Clara saw the pistol in Mat’s dressing table drawer, and picked it up and would not give it back to him.

  “Why not?” Miss Moss asked; and Clara’s cheeks were bright.

  “Clint was so superior about it,” she confessed. “And—I wanted Mat to—to sort of chase me.” She was laughing at her own folly. “I wanted him to take it away from me.” She looked at Mat, and added mischievously. “I’d been trying to drive him to violence, or something, for weeks. He’s the slowest man!”

  And they laughed at her and with her; then drew soberly back once more to the matter here in hand.

  She and Mat were tussling in the corridor outside the dressing room, the others cheering them on, when Doctor Canter came up the steps from the stage door. When he was about to pass them, Clara recognized him, cried his name; and Clint swung furiously toward the man. So they had some swift, hot words, Clint angry, Doctor Canter mocking him, Clara blind with rage!

  “I wanted to just—slap him,” Clara declared. “Only I was so mad I couldn’t move!”

  Then suddenly there was the curtain, and Mat and Kay must go on. Clint and Clara followed them as far as the entrance; but Clara watched Doctor Canter. She saw him pause outside Walter Hammond’s door.

  “Mr. Hammond’s man spoke to him,” she said. “And then Mr. Hammond came out, and he and Doctor Canter talked a minute, and then Doctor Canter laughed in that nasty way he had, and went on.”