Читать книгу A Matter Of Millions - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 9

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His success was but partial. The rooms above were occupied, but only by lodgers, who knew nothing more of the signorina’s departure than that it had taken place early in the morning. They had been told she was ill, and from her appearance had thought she was dying or dead, but when the time came, as they supposed, for a funeral, behold! a storage wagon drove up and took away her furniture, and afterward, to their unbounded surprise, there came a carriage from the livery-stable, into which not only the strange Portuguese woman stepped, but the signorina herself, alive and well and seemingly in excellent health, if not spirits. They could not understand it and could get no explanation from any one, as the house was without a landlady and none of the other lodgers were any better informed than themselves.

Mr. Degraw suggested that perhaps the girl who attended the front door might be able to tell something, but they assured him to the contrary, explaining that she was not only stone deaf but dumb, and that she only went to the door when sent by some one. It was therefore evident that he was but wasting time in lingering about the house, and once convinced of this, he made haste to depart.

But when in the street, a sense of his helplessness came over him. An artist unaccustomed to the practical side of life, he knew nothing of the expedients which would have suggested themselves to other men, and after a few more fruitless inquiries among the neighbors, he turned back to the studio, a disappointed and disconsolate man. The adorable young singer was gone, and with her had fled the first real dream of love that had ever disturbed the even tenor of his hitherto careless existence.

He was brooding upon his adventure and comforting himself with the thought that the signorina had at least gone away of her own free will and without the companionship of Montelli, when a friend came in. It was not a welcome interruption, but before many minutes had passed, he determined to make use of it by submitting his case to this man of the world, and learning from him how he could hope to renew an acquaintance which had been broken off in this sudden and unceremonious fashion. Not that he meant to mention names or give any of the particulars so dear to his heart, for whether she was the persecuted being he thought her, in the toils and subject to the dominion of the traitorous Portuguese and the abominable Montelli, or whether she was a simple and capricious child, only anxious for change and thinking nothing of him and his feelings, he felt that she was equally sacred to him and not to be discussed except with one who knew her and esteemed her as much as he did himself.

It was, therefore, with most aggravating vagueness that he spoke; a vagueness which, indeed, told its own tale and caused the friend he had chosen to consult to take on a bantering tone, indescribably offensive to the sensitive Degraw. But he did not choose to reveal his feelings and expressed himself as duly gratified when his friend suggested first, an advertisement in the Herald, and secondly, an appeal to the police; an advertisement was, in this instance, so likely to receive a response, and it was invariably so agreeable to consult the police on a personal matter. But when, after more bantering and one or more sarcastic remarks, his friend left, he asked himself what other advice he could have expected and wondered he had not thought of the police himself. For if, as he most feared, the young girl had been lured away by false representations, where else could he look for more effective help both in finding her and in securing for her the safety her defenseless and friendless position demanded. Yet he recoiled, as most sensitive natures would, from carrying her name into quarters associated so intimately with crime, and might, indeed, have abandoned the whole matter rather than run the risk of doing her further harm, if he had not remembered that an old friend of his, by the name of Byrd, had, by force of circumstances, unnecessary to mention here, been drawn into the service of the police and numbered among its most useful detectives.

To him he did not fear to go, for honesty and delicacy were both traits of the man and could not have left him in the new employment in which he was then engaged. So, with the first opportunity that presented itself, Mr. Degraw went to the police headquarters, and, asking for Mr. Byrd, was shown into an office, where he was requested to wait till that person should be at liberty.

This was new occupation for this man of ideals, and he began to wish that he had remained at home with his finished “Dream” and his yet-to-be-painted “Reality.” But as the moments flew, he began to be interested in the surroundings, in spite of himself, and by the time Byrd finally made his appearance, had already captured upon the leaves of the small sketch-book he invariably carried with him the outlines of one or two heads to match the voices which had floated to him from the adjoining rooms.

“Degraw, is that you?”

There was surprise in the genial tones; an artist and a detective do not often meet.

“So you have not forgotten me?”

“Forgotten you, and you the most famous of the rising school of artists! Well, no, I have not forgotten you; but I certainly thought, and with but little surprise, I own, that you had forgotten me.”

Young Degraw blushed, for in a certain sense he had done this. Byrd saw it, but took no offense.

He knew his position, and did not expect much sympathy out of his own circle. Smiling, he hastened to relieve the other’s embarrassment.

“You want something from me. Affairs have gone amiss with you, or you are in difficulty of some kind. Well, I am your man. I have had experience lately, and it is all at your service.”

Mr. Degraw felt relieved of a weight. There was in the detective’s regard such an evidence of kindly instincts and straightforward purpose. He at once felt that here was his best counselor, and, if necessary, assistant. To him he could reveal the whole truth, and from him receive just the aid which the circumstances demanded.

Giving him a look full of recognition, Mr. Degraw immediately unburdened his heart,

“You say I want something,” he cried. “I do, I want to learn the fate of a young girl—why do you start at that?”

The detective, who certainly had started, recovered himself instantly.

“Did I start?” he asked, with an assumption of carelessness. “Go on, Degraw. You wish to learn the fate of a young girl, you say—”

“Yes,” assented the artist; “a young girl whom I have seen but once, but who, in that one interview, awakened in me so lively an interest that I can never rest till I have gathered some knowledge of her present whereabouts. Her name may not be unknown to you. It is Selina Valdi, or, rather,” he corrected himself almost in the same way in which she had done, “that is the name by which she is known at present, Her real name I am not acquainted with. She began to tell me and got as far as saying ‘Jenny’ and there she stopped.”

Mr. Byrd, whose interest seemed to have fallen off with the first explanation, recovered his eagerness at the last.

“Jenny,” he repeated, “Jenny. What a pity you did not hear the last name! And she has disappeared! Tell me the whole story; I am anxious to hear it.”

Whereupon Mr. Degraw related his late adventure, while Byrd listened eagerly, and when all was finished, looked the more serious of the two.

“I wish she had told you her whole name,” he repeated. “What a remarkable adventure!”

“But the signorina! What do you suppose has become of her?”

“That we must find out. Not that I should consider it in our province to do so, if—”

“If what, Byrd?”

But the detective did not answer; he was looking at Degraw very thoughtfully.

“You seem to be more interested,” said he, “in this young girl than men usually are after a single interview.”

“Single interviews are not often of such a nature,” returned Degraw. “Besides, there was something about her so touching that it would have taken a harder heart than mine to resist so much innocence and beauty.”

“I can believe it,” assented the other. Then, with a sort of precipitancy, he exclaimed: “Dark eyes, you say, dark hair inclined to curl and a beautiful figure. Mr. Degraw, I am sorry to inform you that we have just received notice that a person answering to this description has been found,”

“Where, where?”

“In a distant alley-way, lying on the ground—”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“It is not she; I know it is not she. I cannot, will not have it the signorina.”

“I hope you are right; I sincerely hope you are right; but she had a packet by her side, and in that packet was a handkerchief, and on that handkerchief a name was written, and that name is—”

“Jenny?”

“Jenny Rogers.”

“But she calls herself Valdi, Selina Valdi; has been known as Selina Valdi for years. Whatever her original name might be, she would have ‘Valdi’ and only ‘Valdi’ on her kerchief.”

“I do not think it good reasoning; but no matter about that. It is a question easily settled. All you have got to do is to accompany me to a neighboring station. One glance at her face—”

“I had rather not do it. I have had enough of such excitement lately. Yet I would never forgive myself if it were really she, and I shirked the responsibility of the recognition. Let us go, Byrd, let us go.”

The detective expressed himself as ready, and they started. One glimpse, and Degraw became a new man. It was not she.

“Singular,” muttered Byrd, “that they should both be named Jenny.”

But, on their return, he was tempted to mutter something more emphatic, for just as they stepped into the building, they heard a voice, speaking out in loud and shrill tones:

“A girl missing from your school? And what is her name, please?”

“It is Jenny—Jenny Rogers.”

“Ah! And how does she look? What is her complexion and the color of her hair?”

“Fair, sir; very fair. Her eyes are blue, and her hair a bright yellow.”

At this unexpected response, Byrd, who had been turning to speak to Degraw, stared, and exclaimed, in his astonishment:

“Fair? The woman cannot know what she is talking about.” And, pushing forward, he dragged Degraw to the place where this colloquy was taking place.

“She is an orphan,” the good woman was now saying, “or I should not feel so badly about her disappearance; and she is so pretty, too, and so—”

“But fair?” Byrd here put in, with a deprecatory glance at the inspector to whom the other was speaking.

“Oh, yes, sir, white as a lily. There was not a bluer-eyed girl in the school.”

“And her name?”

“Is Jenny Rogers.”

Byrd was silent and presently drew back.

“The dead girl is no blonde!” he cried. “Her Jenny Rogers is not our Jenny Rogers; yet how curious! Two Jenny Rogerses on our books to-day and—”

Here he was tapped on the shoulder by an elderly man whose countenance at once attracted the artist by its keenness and good-nature.

“You’re wanted,” was his word to the young detective. “Something odd has turned up.”

Byrd nodded and glanced at his companion.

“May I bring this gentleman? He is secrecy itself.”

The other, who did not seem to think it necessary to look at the person thus commended, smiled in an indulgent sort of way, and remarked:

“If he knows of any one by the name of Jenny Rogers, he will be only too welcome. But I hardly think—”

“I know a Jenny,” interposed Degraw, with a hasty look at Byrd. “And though her name may or may not be Rogers, she has left her lodgings under circumstances so mysterious that I have come here for the express purpose of gaining information in regard to her.”

“Humph! and her last name is not Rogers!”

“That I cannot say. It is not the name she is generally known by, which is—”

Byrd pinched his arm. “We won’t detain Mr. Gryce,” said he. Then turning to the other: “May I bring him along? We have already been together to Station —, to see one Jenny Rogers, and he has just heard this woman, who has just come in, tell of the disappearance of another, and, consequently, we are both profoundly interested in anything which touches upon this especial subject. I can vouch for his discretion, and—”

“Come along,” interposed the other. “We have a clue to the mystery, and a remarkable one it is, too.” And without further parley, he led them into a private apartment where several men were already congregated around a slim young fellow of a good countenance and frank manner, and, as they soon found, of a mellow and confidence-inspiring voice.

Pausing in the background, Mr. Gryce laid his finger on his mouth. They at once stood still and listened.

“It is a short story,” the young man was saying, “and of course I don’t mind repeating it. About a month ago, I was lying in my bed with my window up, I live in Sixteenth street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues, and my room is a front one overlooking the street. I was awake, although it was nearly one o’clock, and was thinking, as we all do, of innumerable matters of no pressing importance, when suddenly I heard steps coming down the street, and in another moment caught the sound of two voices, that of a man and that of a woman, which, as the couple passed under my window, resolved themselves into words, and I heard the woman say: ‘But if some other Jenny Rogers should get the start of me, what then?’ At which the man spoke up harshly and with great energy: ‘Don’t let that trouble you. In a month from now, there will not be another young girl by the name of Jenny Rogers remaining in town. I will see to them, do you see to—’ That is all, gentlemen; they had passed and I heard no more. But what they had said troubled me, and when I saw by last night’s paper that Mr. Rogers, of Fifty-sixth street, had lost his charming child Jenny by a sudden illness, I was so overwhelmed that I determined to acquaint the authorities of the mysterious threat which I had overheard, in the hopes that, if a conspiracy was really in progress against the girls of this name, you would be able to fathom it and cut it short.”

“Merciful powers!”

The exclamation had come from Degraw, As for the detectives surrounding him, they looked as if they had struck a gold mine. A conspiracy, and three victims, and possibly four, already known to them! What a day lay before them! No drones in the hive to-day. Each and every one would have his task.

So much repressed excitement agitated Degraw. Seizing Byrd by the arm, he drew him to one side and asked him what he thought he might reasonably expect. Byrd replied that he did not know what to say just yet, but that if the signorina’s name was Jenny Rogers and she should thus be included in the category of the young girls doomed by the two unknown conspirators, it would soon become manifest in the extensive inquiries that were about to be made. He could do no better, then, than to return home, trust the authorities, and await the result in secrecy and patience.

It was a hard task for one of the artist’s ardent temperament, but it seemed to be the only one before him, so trusting his friend whose interest was now thoroughly aroused, he left the building and took his way back to his studio. As he went, he seemed to hear nothing but those two words ringing in his ears: “Jenny Rogers,” “Jenny Rogers,” and when a friend passed him, as more than once occurred, it seemed as if the first words trembling from that friend’s lips ought to be;

“Have you heard of the conspiracy against girls of the name of Jenny Rogers? Two already have died and another one is missing. They say the Signorina Valdi is an American, and that her name is Jenny Rogers. If so, she will soon be found missing also, and if not missing, then dead.”