Читать книгу The Casual Murderer and other stories - Footner Hulbert - Страница 5

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When every possible detail had been elicited from young Swanley, and he had been sent away in a little less desperate frame of mind, with strict injunctions from Mme. Storey to take food and rest, she said to me with a glint in her eye:

“Bella, I fancy we’re going to have a call from the gentleman with the Roman nose.”

“What makes you think so?” I asked.

“A certain look in his eye the last time he glanced up at our windows.”

“Well, if he’s a crook he’d be venturing into the lioness’ den,” I said.

“Thanks,” she drawled.

“What possible excuse could he give for coming here?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see. He had an original eye.”

“I think it was pretty clumsy work,” I said. “His exhibiting himself openly before our windows like that.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t care whether we’re on to him or not,” she dryly suggested. “... An extraordinary quality in his glance!” she mused. “I think this case is going to be interesting.”

You will observe that the question of Mme. Storey’s taking this case had never been raised. The honesty and the despair of the young man had won her, and she went ahead with it as a matter of course.

On the telephone she got in touch with Sampson, a man who has done good work for us. “Sampson,” she said, “I am asked to find a young woman who has disappeared. Her name is Aline Elder, of Ancaster, New York. At noon last Wednesday she boarded a train for New York at Ancaster, and she has not been seen by her friends since. That train arrives at Grand Central about three. I wish you’d get in touch with the conductor of it, and find out if he remembers her. She may have asked the conductor a question; or he may have seen her in talk with somebody on the train.

“Take down her description: an unusually pretty girl, twenty-two years old; height, five feet four; weight about 125; a soft round face with a healthy pallor; large brown eyes with unusually long lashes; chestnut brown hair. She wore a dress of blue Georgette, and a brown coat of three-quarters length, trimmed with a collar of nutria fur; a block felt hat formed of several pieces drawn up to a little felt bow on the crown. She is a girl of especial sweetness and gentleness of character, and this is evident in her expression. Her face customarily wears a half-smile.”

Mme. Storey also telephoned to an agency that makes a speciality of tracing missing persons. She took other measures to find the girl which I need not go into, since nothing resulted from them.

A while later I was working in my own room when the door from the hall was softly opened, and upon looking up, I seemed to receive a little current of electricity up and down my spine. It was the man with the Roman nose. A very elegant figure indeed; more Continental in effect than American. I have already described his physical characteristics; how can I convey to you the extraordinary glance of his piercing black eyes—eyes set just a little too close to the imposing bridge of his nose; insolent, quizzical and cruel. I can only say that every time he looked at me a shudder seized my vitals.

His voice was all suavity. “Madame Storey,” he said; “I wonder if she will be good enough to see me?”

“What name, please?”

“George Rawlings.”

I went in to my mistress. Before I had time to open my mouth she said with a delightful smile:

“So he’s come!”

I repeated the name he had given.

“Well, we mustn’t appear to be too anxious to see him,” said Mme. Storey. “Say this to him: ‘Mme. Storey is very busy. Since she has not the pleasure of Mr. Rawlings’ acquaintance, she begs that he will outline the nature of his business to her secretary.’”

I went out and delivered my message.

“Might I beg a scrap of paper?” he asked, with that over-courteous air of his, in which there was something subtly insulting.

I handed him a pad and he wrote upon it with a gold pencil:

“Could you use $100,000 in your business?”

When I showed this to Mme. Storey a note of astonished laughter escaped her. “Well, he has a cheek!” she said. “Still, we may let him assume that he has aroused our curiosity. Show him in, Bella.”

Within the door of Mme. Storey’s room Rawlings bowed with his heels together; wholly at his ease; pre-eminently the man of the world.

Mme. Storey had put on a slightly affronted air. She glanced with distaste at the pad on her desk. “I don’t know what this means,” she said, “but I am curious enough to ask. If it is just a trick, I must warn you that I am a busy woman, and have no time to spend in mere talk.”

“It means exactly what it says,” said Rawlings; suave, deferential, but not servile.

“Why should I need $100,000 in my business?” asked Mme. Storey. “My plant and fixtures are all in my head.”

“Do not cases sometimes come to your attention,” he said, “interesting cases, that you are nevertheless obliged to refuse because there is no one to pay you for your work?”

“Yes, occasionally,” said Mme. Storey. “I have to make my living.”

“I ask to be allowed to pay you for such cases,” he said bowing; “when the cause is worthy, and the client has no money.”

“Well!” said Mme. Storey. “This is an astonishing offer. You must let me catch my breath.... Sit down.”

He sat in the chair that Edward Swanley had occupied earlier. I had gone inconspicuously to my desk in the corner. He glanced at me, and Mme. Storey observing it, said carelessly:

“Miss Brickley is present at all interviews.”

He bowed.

“What conditions do you attach to your offer?” asked Mme. Storey.

“None, Madame—or, I should say, only one minor condition.”

“And that is?”

“That I be kept informed of the progress of any case I may be paying for. In other words allowed to share in the interest of the work.”

“What sum do you propose devoting to it?” asked Mme. Storey dryly. “You say $100,000. Do you mean the interest on that sum annually?”

“No! No!” he said, waving his hands. “I put that down because I had to put something. If I had named a larger sum you might have thought I was crazy, and sent for the doorman. No, I place no limits on the expenditures, except of course, the limits of my income, which fluctuates at present between $500,000 and $600,000 a year.”

There was a silence. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette, and regarded him quizzically through the smoke.

“You may be mad, you know,” she said.

He shrugged in the Continental style. “They say money talks. Try it. You have only to mention a sum, and it will be delivered here within an hour in cash.”

“Why in cash?” asked Mme. Storey raising her eyebrows. “Why not through the regular channels?”

“Because I do not want anybody to know about it,” he said smoothly; “not my bankers; not my attorneys. I am no philanthropist. I detest the word. I am merely a man without any family, without any definite interest, and with a great deal more money than I can spend. My dear lady, you do not know it, but I have followed your career almost from the beginning with the keenest interest. I know all about the Ashcomb Poor case, the strange case of Teresa de Guion, and the tragic Starr murder. I suspect that there are still stranger cases going on, that do not get into the newspapers.”

“There are,” said Mme. Storey.

“Well, I will be quite frank with you—how foolish for me to seek to be otherwise with a woman like you! I am trying to buy my way into your confidence to a limited extent. It would give me the greatest pleasure if I might be in on some interesting and extraordinary case from its very inception, and follow it step by step through the medium of your extraordinary insight, to its triumphant conclusion. Then too, I am only human, I suppose; I might be doing a little good with my money, if we came to the assistance of some poor soul who was up against a devilish combination of circumstances, and lacked the wherewithal to extricate himself. You see it is very simple.”

“Oh, very!” said Mme. Storey.

“But it would spoil all my pleasure if anybody on my side knew what I was doing.”

“Then you decline to identify yourself to me to furnish references.”

“I must, my dear lady.”

“Your name may not be George Rawlings at all.”

“It may not be,” he said smiling.

“You may not have come by this money honestly.”

“I may not,” he said without turning a hair. “What do you care?”

“I don’t care particularly,” said Mme. Storey. “But I must have time to think it over, you understand.”

He immediately arose. “I quite understand. May I come to see you again?”

“Any time,” said Mme. Storey carelessly. “Such a munificent offer deserves consideration.”

“Thank you,” he said bowing. “You will find that I shall not trespass on your good nature. Should any occasion arise, my telephone number is Plaza 5771. Good-morning, Madame Storey. Good-morning, Miss Brickley.”

I saw him through the outer door. When I returned, Mme. Storey, helping herself to a fresh cigarette, said airily:

“Grand flow of language, Bella!”

“The cheek of it!” I said with some heat; “trying to buy us!”

“Oh, he didn’t seriously expect to buy us,” said Mme. Storey. “His object in coming here was more subtle. He wanted to find out if I had interested myself in Aline Elder, and confound him! he did find out. Observe his cleverness. With his damned offer he put me in a position where there was no line I could take that might put him off.”

“Unless you had taken his money,” I suggested.

“I ought to have taken his money,” she said ruefully, “but I couldn’t quite bring myself to it.... On the other hand, Bella, the offer might have been bona fide.”

“Never!” I said. “Not with that face!”

“Well, I don’t think so myself,” said Mme. Storey, “but one must keep an open mind.”

“At any rate,” I said, “he’ll never trouble us again.”

“Oh, but he will!” said Mme. Storey. “He enjoyed hearing himself talk. He’ll give us more of it.”

“What do you suppose his real game is?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mme. Storey. “But before I’m through with him, I will know!”