Читать книгу A Matter Of Millions - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 11

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Late at night, there sat in a small room two men. Their figures are familiar, yet perhaps it is best to describe them. One is large, benevolent-looking and elderly, with a smooth face and kindly bearing, but with a curious mannerism affecting all his actions that at once draws attention and inspires inquiry. He never looks at the person he addresses, but gives all his glances and seemingly all his attention to some insignificant object in his vicinity, filling it with his confidences and extracting from it the inspiration which most men gather from the eye or smile of those with whom they are conversing.

Whether this is a mere habit caught in the long exercise of a calling demanding secrecy of intention, or whether it is the result of a deliberate determination on this man’s part to seem to know less and see less than he really does, has never been decided, even by those most nearly connected with him. But that it marks the man and gives him a power at once weird and controlling, no one has ever disputed, not even those who suffer most from his talents. These are the aspiring ones who seek to compete with him in his success and invariably fail, though he is an old man now, verging on to seventy, and both from age and infirmity in no condition to engage in the active exercise of that detective work which has employed his energies for so many years.

The other is a young man of a well-built frame, attractive features, good expression and cultivated manners. He is a detective, too, but neither in speech, look nor action does he show it; hence his usefulness and growing favor with the chief. The names of these men are Gryce and Byrd, names, as I have said, with which you are familiar, even if you have never seen them mentioned save in this narrative.

They are talking, and Mr. Gryce’s voice is the one we hear first.

“The reward, of course, is a fine one, but friendship has some claims, and I think the traces you should follow are those of the disappointed prima donna. If, in doing this, you strike, as is probable enough, upon the clew we are all in search of, viz.: the secret of a conspiracy involving so many girls of one name, virtue will have its reward in more senses than one, and I for one shall congratulate you; but if you do not, and yet find the signorina, and so relieve Degraw from his anxieties, why, you will have done a good work that will always give you satisfaction. The man with the black mustache and gray eyes who has been seen in connection with every one of these girls, but the signorina, will not be found so readily. The daughter of Abram Rogers is buried, and consequently his interest in her is ended; the publicity attending the inquest following the death of the girl in Blind Alley will frighten him away from her, while the similarity between the name of the heiress and these two other victims to his machinations will deter him from being seen with her till public attention has been drawn from the name and all those who have been known to bear it. But the Signorina Valdi has not been known to have borne it, except by very few persons. With her, he may yet carry on his schemes, whatever they may be, with seeming impunity. If, therefore, he is the strong man he appears, and if the conspiracy, as we have termed it, has any good reason for being, you will find her in the toils or under the influence of this man whose name may or may not be Montelli, but who is certainly a person of resources demanding all our skill and energy in tracing him.”

“Mr. Gryce, how can I thank you? You fire me at once with courage and enthusiasm. I hated to miss the reward, for I needed it, but if judgment points in the same direction as duty, how easy it will be for me to go forward.”

“True; but remember that I promise nothing. I only point out the course I should follow if I were of your age, and engaged in active service.”

“That is all that is necessary. I desire no wiser mentor nor more disinterested friend. And now let us look into the clews I have picked up in my day’s search, and decide as to which one I shall follow first. It will not take long, for the facts are few and meager.”

The old detective showed his interest in his usual benevolent way, and, after a short discussion, too technical to be interesting to the reader, the two men parted, and Byrd returned home. The next morning he called at Mr. Degraw’s studio,

“I should like to see the sketch you drew of Signorina Valdi.”

Mr. Degraw hastened to show it, meanwhile overwhelming the detective with questions.

“What have you discovered? Whom have you seen? What hope is there of finding her?”

But Byrd was reticent.

“I have discovered nothing as yet,” he replied. “The task you have given me is not an easy one. Were her beauty less, or her characteristics not so pronounced, I should almost despair of solving the mystery that surrounds her; but with such a face as hers, she cannot long remain anywhere unnoticed; and now that I know its characteristics, the chances are fewer still of her escaping me. If you were to photograph this—”

The artist shook his head.

“I have an invincible repugnance to making her features the common property of a dozen police officers. The case does not seem sufficiently pressing. If you can get along without it, do. I am sure her womanly delicacy should be considered.”

“I will try; but it may occasion delay. Have you Montelli’s note about you?”

“I believe so; yes, here it is.”

“I suppose you have no objection to letting me have that?”

“None whatever,”

“And now for a minute description of this Italian.”

“I only saw him for an instant, but in that instant I got the impression of a tall, slim man, of decided dark complexion, and lowering glance. He wore a black mustache, and had a sinister and uncanny expression, that made a most disagreeable impression upon the beholder. Yet his form was not bad, and by some people he might even be called a gentleman, though I should never describe him as such. But then, I hate him, and with reason, for I believe him to be the cause of the signorina’s abrupt departure.”

“I wish your description had been a little different. I wish it had tallied more with that given of the gentleman haunting the other three girls. Sinister, eh? and dark? That is not what is said of the urbane stranger who visited Miss Hadden’s school, and lay in wait to view Mr. Rogers’ young daughter.”

“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Degraw, getting excited. “Is there—”

But Byrd with a gesture stopped all questioning.

“I let my thoughts out somewhat carelessly,” he acknowledged. “Montelli is, undoubtedly, what the Portuguese describes him to be. I only wished to make sure. Do you think you could, by a few strokes, give me an idea of his face?”

Degraw shook his head.

“I fear my impressions are too vague,” said he. “But let me have that paper.” And taking the note which he had previously given to Byrd, he attempted, by a few lines on its back, to give some idea of the Italian’s features. He succeeded imperfectly, while Byrd, who was no mean artist himself, employed his time of waiting by roughly, but not inaccurately, copying into his note-book the face of the signorina.

“For my own use,” he explained, showing it to the wondering Degraw. And taking the other sketch, he buttoned them both up in his pocket, with a look that forbade further questioning. “And now, good-bye,” said he. “As soon as I get hold of anything definite I will let you know. Till then be easy. Remember that twenty detectives besides myself are on the track of the unknown man who seems to be making all this mischief.”

“Wait! don’t go, Byrd, till you have made one thing clear to me. You have hinted to me that you thought that Montelli and he might be one and the same. If so, the signorina would be but one of the several involved in a plot, of which, I dare say, even you do not know either the motive or workings.”

“You are not far wrong.”

“But two of the victims of this plot have died?”

“Natural deaths, Degraw.”

“Natural deaths? Are you sure?”

“Sure of one and as sure of the other as I can be, till after the autopsy that will be made to-day.”

“But—”

“Go to the inquest, Degraw, It will take up your mind and keep you from too great impatience. I will write you, in two days, whether I have news or not.”

But the artist was not yet ready to see the other go.

“I want to give my opinion,” said he, “before I say good-bye. I do not think that Montelli is interested in any one but the signorina, and as for the unknown, I do not think he is near as much to be feared as the deceiving Portuguese.”

“We will see, we will see. Meantime, every minute that I linger here puts off by so much time the hour of her discovery.”

“Then go; I would not detain you another minute.” And as eager now to see the detective depart as he had hitherto been to detain him, he fairly pushed him toward the door.

But now Byrd chose to halt a moment.

“Why, whom have we here?” he asked, pointing to the picture which Degraw had denominated “The Poet’s Dream.” “It looks as if you had been trying to paint Miss Aspinwall.”

“Miss Aspinwall?”

“Old Lemuel Aspinwall’s daughter, the beauty of upper Fifth Avenue.”

“Well, perhaps I have. Do you recognize the face?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then I am much obliged to you. I have always wished to know my model’s name. I saw her in a crowd, and this is the result. But I never found any one before who could tell me who she is. Not that I have made any strenuous efforts to find out, for, as you see, the picture is not yet off my easel.”

“Well, I congratulate you, it is a beautiful painting, but—”

Degraw stopped him just at the door.

“Your knowledge of the original of this picture has given another interest to it. Miss Aspinwall—since you say that it is her name—is the lady whom I saw strewing flowers over the signorina, when I first went into the room.”

“You don’t say so. Well, I must hear about that.”

“There is not much to hear. We interchanged no words, for I was too much astonished at her presence to be master of my usual self-possession, while she was only too glad to escape from the room and what must have seemed to her my somewhat importunate gaze.”

“But she is a friend of Signorina Valdi; must be, or she would not have been showing her such an attention.”

“I do not think she is a friend. The signorina, whom I questioned on the subject, said she did not know who she was, but thought she must be a pupil of her old master, who had formerly shown a secret interest in her.”

“Well, I am glad to have located this person. Something may come of it. Who can tell? It is often the most unlikely clews that lead to the desired knowledge.”

And, with a bow and good-day, Byrd finally disappeared.

Early in the afternoon, Hamilton Degraw went out to buy a paper. Turning at once to the local news column, he found that the autopsy in which he was interested had taken place, with the result prophesied by Byrd. It was a great relief, for had the girl been found to be the victim of violence, he would not have had a minute’s rest in regard to the signorina, notwithstanding his opinion in regard to Montelli. Of the plot or conspiracy of which he had heard while at Police Headquarters, there was no mention, the authorities, for once, having succeeded in baffling the reporters in regard to a matter which it was desirable for the present to keep secret. But of the Signorina Valdi, he found this trace in one corner of the great paper:

“The report which was current this morning concerning the death of Signorina Valdi, whose disastrous attempt to sing the role of Margherita will be remembered by many of our readers, has been proven false. She is not dead, but absent, having left her late apartments at 391 East street for other quarters at present unknown.”

Calmed in a measure, the artist went back to his studio. There were yet hours and days to wait before he could hope to get any decided news.