Читать книгу The Mystery Lady - Robert William Chambers - Страница 12

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The girl who disturbed the archæological reflections of Scott Whelan had caught sight of the object of her impulsive pursuit as she emerged from the entrance to the Museum.

Mr. Welper was in the act of entering a taxicab in front of the porte cochère; and the next moment the taxi and Mr. Welper started for parts unknown to her.

Outside the Museum grounds on the street curb stood several taxicabs. Miss Dirck ran along the paved way past beds of winter-blighted flowers, hailed the chauffeur of the foremost vehicle, and pointed at the distant taxi containing Mr. Welper.

“It’s absolutely necessary that I keep that taxi in sight!” she said breathlessly. “Please follow it wherever it goes!”

“I getcha, Lady!” said the chauffeur briskly. And the chase began.

Central Park, West, is a southbound avenue. Welper’s taxi swung south and the taxi containing Maddaleen Dirck did the same.

“Don’t get too near, but don’t lose that taxi!” she called to her driver.

“Getcha, Miss,” he nodded.

Half way to Columbus Circle the girl missed her reticule. In a panic she rummaged her fur coat and the seat and floor of the cab, then seemed to recollect that she had left it in Mr. Whelan’s office. A desperate expression came into her pallid face; she leaned close to the window and gazed at the taxi ahead. Her purse was in her reticule and she hadn’t a penny.

At Columbus Circle the traffic police stopped both vehicles; beyond, Mr. Welper’s cab swung into Broadway, and hers followed.

Now her driver drew closer to the pursued taxi, because there were chances that some traffic policeman might arbitrarily separate goat from sheep.

However, Mr. Welper never turned around to peer back through the oval window behind his head. Probably he would not have remembered her or recognised her if he did. It was quite evident, also, that he had no fear of pursuit by anybody.

She could see the sleek, grey back of his head under a grey felt hat, and his plump shoulders.

Down town they drove close together, swerved into Seventh Avenue, continuing south, were halted at Forty-Second Street, again at Thirty-Fourth Street; turned east on that thoroughfare.

Welper’s cab stopped at the Waldorf; Miss Dirck’s halted behind. She said quietly to her driver; “Wait here, please.”

No suspicions concerning her insolvency occurred to her driver. Her appearance, manner, voice placed her beyond any doubt.

Mr. Welper was just entering the Waldorf. Miss Dirck followed without a cent in her possession.

On the Thirty-Third Street side, near the news stand, a maid gave Welper a check for hat and coat.

He dropped the check in the side pocket of his coat and turned to enter the breakfast room. As he passed close to Miss Dirck in the crowd she slipped her left hand into his side pocket and drew out the coat check.

It was done in a flash. She never before had done such a thing—wouldn’t have known how, had she hesitated. Scarcely realising what she had done, she passed on through the little throng gathering before the maid, who was rapidly exchanging checks for hats and coats.

Had anybody seen her? She halted near the news stand, suddenly terrified. Not even daring to look around, she stood motionless, enduring all the agony of reaction, listening, trembling lest a hand fall upon her shoulder from behind.

With an effort she mastered her fright, strove to reflect, to consider.

Calm again. Somehow or other she must present that check to the maid, invent an excuse for claiming a man’s overcoat, face the crisis coolly, plausibly. Because she had to have that paper if it were in his overcoat.... And, if he carried it on his person, then she must continue to follow him and, somehow, to rob him.... God only knew how she was to accomplish this—how the affair might end....

And suddenly the end came, like a stroke of lightning, as a man stepped to her side, looked into her eyes, stood so in utter silence, looking at her.

She seemed paralysed with fear; she could not stir, could not command her quivering mouth or the scarlet flush that scorched her dreadful pallor.

“I saw what you did,” he said in a low tone.

She stared at the man until his features blurred a little and she felt faint.

Her evident distress under the sudden shock seemed to disconcert the man beside her.

“You seem to be a novice in this work,” he said. “I don’t wish to frighten you. But I have a word or two to say to you. Perhaps we had better find a seat—”

He turned, waited; she found strength to move forward beside him. Down the corridor they moved until he found two gilded chairs together at some distance from any group. She sank down on one of them; he seated himself beside her.

“Why did you pick that man’s pocket?” he asked pleasantly.

The girl remained mute.

“What did you take?”

Her black-gloved hand lay in her lap. She opened it, showing him the coat-check.

“That,” remarked the man beside her, “is a new one on me. Do you think you can get away with it?”

“I—” She could not utter another sound.

“I suppose you meant to pass as his wife—say he’d gone to his room and wanted you to bring his coat?”

It was what Miss Dirck had thought of attempting and her terrified eyes filled with tears.

“What is it you want out of that man’s overcoat?” demanded her inquisitor.

“A—a paper.”

“Oh. You’re not a dip?”

“A—a what?”

There was a silence during which the man beside her studied her intently.

“You’re no crook,” he said, slowly.

“N-no.”

“What is the paper you wish to find? Don’t be afraid of me. Maybe I might help you.”

“Are you the—the hotel detective?”

“Come,” he said, “don’t ask questions. Answer me. ... And give me that coat check.”

She handed it to him.

“What paper do you want out of that coat?—or shall I bring you everything in it?”

“D-do you mean—”

“Yes, I do. I can get away with it; you couldn’t. Now describe the paper you are after.”

“It—has figures—not numbers—but strange signs on it—I think—”

“You don’t mean hieroglyphics, do you?”

“Yes.... Central American hieroglyphs.”

“Oh.... All right. Wait here for me—”

He rose, sauntered down the corridor to the distant cloak-room; presented his check.

“I want to get something out of my overcoat,” he said to the maid.

She glanced at the number, brought the coat, and the young man ransacked it thoroughly but found only a pair of grey suede gloves and a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Thank you,” he said, returning the coat; and he walked back to where Miss Dirck was seated.

“Nothing in the coat,” he said. “Now what are you going to do?”

The girl made no reply but her eyes now met his with less fear than perplexity in their dark depths.

He smiled at her in friendly fashion: “You’re in trouble of some kind.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who that man is whose pocket you picked so neatly?”

“No,” she said, flushing painfully, “—that is, I know his name only.”

“So do I,” smiled the man beside her. “What do you suppose his name to be?”

“Mr. Welper.”

“That’s it. And what do you want of Mr. Welper?”

“That—paper.”

“Oh, the Central American hieroglyphs! Well—how do you mean to get that paper?”

The girl’s mouth quivered: “If you will—will let me go—if you don’t mind—I must try to follow him—”

“Why?”

“I have got to know where he lives.”

“I can tell you where he lives.”

“Where?”

“He lives at his club.”

“What club, please—”

The young man beside her laughed:

“It’s called The Forty Thieves.”

Miss Dirck stared.

“If you were a crook,” said the young man, “you’d know the name of that club.”

“What—what kind of club is it?”

“I’ll tell you. It’s a very quiet club. There are forty members, never more. Only when a member gets bumped can another be elected—”

“B-bumped?” she repeated in perplexity.

“Well—when a member—dies.... That man, Welper, is President. A Mr. Potter is Secretary. There are no other officers. The dues are five thousand dollars a year and five thousand dollars initiation fee.... When any member becomes worth a million dollars he must resign.... It’s an odd sort of club, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes.”

“Unique. Only forty members. And every member a crook.... How do you expect to follow Mr. Welper into the Forty Club and pick his pockets?”

“I—don’t know—”

“You don’t mean you contemplate trying such a thing?”

“I—I must.”

“But it can’t be done.”

“Somehow—”

“Utterly impossible.”

“I must have that paper—”

The man beside her looked at her intently, then spoke to a passing page:

“Here, boy, take this check to the coat-room. Somebody has lost it.” And he handed the check to the boy, who went smartly on his way.

To Miss Dirck the man said: “Welper might as well have his coat. No use to us, that check.”

He had said “to us,” with a smile, and he saw that the girl noticed it.

“I don’t know why you want that paper,” he said, “but I suppose Barney Welper has done you some crooked trick.... Why don’t you call in the police?”

“I can’t!”

“Oh.” The young man’s brown eyes fairly bored into hers.

“You don’t care to ask for a warrant?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you prove your charge?”

“Even if I could—”

“All right. I’m not inquisitive. Every family has its skeleton.”

The girl turned crimson and gazed at him out of distressed eyes.

“You’re not a good actress,” he said bluntly.

She was silent.

“If you were,” he said, “I’d take you to the Forty Club. I’m a member,” he added blandly.

He saw pain turn to incredulity in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “you mistook me for a dick, didn’t you? Well, I’m a crook! You ain’t. But if you’re after Barney Welper I wouldn’t stop you. Not me.”

From a cultivated vocabulary he was steadily slipping into vulgarisms, yet still spoke with the accent and manner of a man well born.

“Do you understand?” he went on with his pleasant smile; “I could get you into the Forty Club if you were a crooked little girl with that face and shape—and if you had the jack to stake yourself. But—you’re good.”

He sat very still, watching her; and she was stiller yet, listening, her eyes bent on the floor at her feet; and, in her brain, lightning!—flash after flash of wild and desperate intuition.... Only she must control the crisis, dominate it, take swift, instant command of her fate—

“That’s the trouble,” he repeated; “you’re good. You look it. And—” he shrugged, “you’re no actress.”

She looked up, laughing.

“That’s where you get off, old dear,” she said with the devil glimmering in her blue eyes.

His astonishment was so genuine that the girl laughed again.

“Did it get over?” she inquired merrily.

“It—did,” he said. She could scarcely sustain his intent gaze.

“See here,” he said, “you’re good, aren’t you?”

“Not very.”

“Oh.... What’s your line?”

“Oh, I—don’t know—”

“All right.... You made a monk of me, didn’t you? ... Is that straight—your being a professional?”

“Professional?”

He was completely taken aback and puzzled.

“I admit you’re an actress,” he said. “You’ve done two turns. Which is you?”

She looked at him for a little while, her cheeks flushed with the terrific excitement of it all, her eyes lovely and brilliant.

“Are you really a—crook?” she asked gaily.

“I told you.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ve come a thousand miles to get that paper. I want to know what’s written on it. An hour ago I thought I was going to find out. I didn’t.” She turned and looked toward the breakfast-room: “The man’s in there,” she said. “That paper is in his pocket. I want it. Will you help me get it?”

He smiled: “How?”

“You’ve just told me. Take me to that club.”

“I told you only forty could belong.”

“But you said you’d take me if I were an actress.”

“Yes. I said so. I can. Because the bulls bumped a member last night. There are only thirty-nine.... Have you ten thousand dollars, little lady?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean to do; stick up your man? Vamp and creep? Dope and frisk? ... What are you staging?”

She regarded him with contemplative eyes, almost absently. Under her waist her heart was racing, almost suffocating her.

“I don’t know how it’s to be done,” she said. “But it’s got to be done.”

He remained silent.

“You’ll want to be paid, of course,” she added.

He nodded.

“How much?” she asked.

“Do we work together, little lady?”

“Yes, I’d be very glad.”

“Pals?”

“Yes.... You mean like sister and brother?”

“All right: that way—if you don’t fall for my map. ... I flop for yours.”

“M-map?”

“Face,” he said coolly, watching her vivid blush deepen from hair to throat.

After a moment: “I asked you,” he said, “which is you—a troubled young girl in mourning, who seemed scared out of her wits, or the cleverest actress I’ve ever met?”

“Which do you think?”

“If you’re an actress you’re new to the crooked game.”

“Why?”

“You don’t talk the patter. You don’t seem to understand it.... You’ve got me guessing anyway. I admit it. What are you? Which? You can tell me; I’ll work with you anyway.”

“Keep guessing,” she said with a little smile, tremulous from the strain of excitement.

His thoughtful eyes never left hers. He nodded after a moment.

“You promise to take me to the Forty Club?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Whenever you are ready.”

She reflected and decided not to leave him even for an instant.

“I’ve got to go up town. I left my money. You must come,” she said.

He rose; they went out by the Thirty-Fourth Street side.

Her taxi-driver, who had become anxious, welcomed her; she directed him to drive to the Museum.

And even there she insisted that the young man accompany her to the outer office of Mr. Whelan.

That young gentleman had just returned from luncheon and she was admitted.

“I expected you’d return,” he said. “And, by the way, when I put your handkerchief into your reticule, a rather large pistol fell out.”

“Thanks so much,” she said, reddening. “Please forgive my abrupt behaviour. I didn’t mean to be rude. But something so very important happened so very suddenly.”

Whelan looked at her: “Aren’t you coming back?” he inquired naïvely.

“I hope so.... Tell me, Mr. Whelan, did you read those hieroglyphics for the gentleman who came in while I was here?”

“I did. It was utter nonsense.”

“Would it be impertinent of me to ask you what was written on that paper?”

“No; but, as the matter was confidential, it would be unethical of me to tell you, even if I could recollect.”

“Please try to recollect the inscription!”

“The inscription was not Maya; it was a fraud perpetrated by somebody who—”

“That doesn’t matter. Can’t you remember it?”

“No; it was sheer nonsense; and I told Mr. what’s-his-name so. I can’t remember nonsense. I never could!—”

The girl came close to his desk where he was standing:

“Try to recollect,” she said in a low voice. “It may be a matter of life or death.”

“Good heavens!” he said. “All I recollect of it was something about a ship—a shipwreck—and an island—” He stood staring at her, both hands pressing his temples:

“A shipwreck near some island.... And some measurements.... That’s all I recall of that ridiculous trash—”

She gazed at him in tragic silence. Then her lips moved a silent “Thank you;” she turned and walked to the outer office, where the young man from the Waldorf awaited her.

They went together into the body of the great Museum, down the iron stairs, slowly, from floor to floor.

“Will a cheque be all right to pay for my initiation, and dues, at the Forty Club?” she asked in a low voice.

He smiled incredulously: “You’re too clever to do that, or to think Welper would cash it.”

She saw she mustn’t offer a cheque.

“Very well,” she said, “we’ll drive to my bank.”

On the way down town every few moments he looked at her, partly in admiration, partly in perplexity, and in swift moments of suspicion, too.

What was this girl? He hadn’t decided. All he understood was that, as an actress, she was matchless in his experience.

Never before had he seen any professional so exquisitely interpret unsullied youth—that delicate and virginal allure which to him had seemed inimitable, and never to be mistaken.

But, that suddenly lifted head; that laughter, charming, defiant, subtly sophisticated: and, to his query if she were not “good,” her demure “not very.” Well, that was art.... Yet, somehow, he seemed unable to divorce her art and herself.

They stopped at the Imperial Loan & Trust Company; he descended and offered his arm.

She remained in the bank about ten minutes. He paced the sidewalk by the taxi, smoking a cigarette.

When she reappeared she came to him and drew him a little aside.

“I want to be honest with you,” she said. “I don’t know that there will be anything to divide between us when I secure that paper from Mr. Welper. Suppose I pay you now what you think you should have for helping me?”

“No; I’ll take a chance.”

“Don’t you need some money?”

The young man reddened, and it seemed to annoy him.

“I’ll look out for myself,” he said bluntly. “Where do you want to go now?”

“I’ve had no lunch.”

“You can lunch at the Forty Club.”

The girl trembled slightly, then mastered herself and nodded with composure.

“Very well,” she said. “Please tell the driver where to go.”

They returned to the taxi; he aided her in, spoke to the driver, and followed her.

“Will I be in any—danger?” she asked calmly.

“None.... Unless you ever squeal.”

“I understand ... They’ll take me for—for granted.”

“The Forty Club is like any other Club, except that wine and cards are forbidden. We don’t risk a row. There’s no betting, no drinking allowed. No quarrelling either. Any infraction of rules means expulsion.... And if you’re expelled you usually are found dead in a day or two.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, somewhere or other—in the river, in the Park, in a taxi—” he shrugged.

She sat silent, gazing out at the crowded traffic on Fifth Avenue.

He went on in his low, agreeable voice: “Only a genius in her or his own line ever cares, or dares, to join the Forty Club. The members are there for one purpose only—to make a million as quickly as possible, and resign.”

“What is the use of the club to them?”

“Its uses are infinite. Every facility is there to help you. Through the secret influences of the Forty Club you can go anywhere, meet anybody whom you need in your—ah—operations.

“All your operations are covered, too. It’s your own fault if you’re caught with the goods on or if you’re bumped.

“If you get into trouble there’s a bail, counsel, money for defence, influence for judge, jury, and pressure in legislative circles—pressure even in the Executive Mansion. You get the best of opportunities; you ought to make your million and get away with it in five years. Many do it in three, some in two, some in a year.”

She turned her pale face: “And you?”

“You are inquisitive,” he said, smiling.

She coloured: “I’m sorry.... You don’t look like—like—”

“A crook?”

“No.”

“You don’t either. And that’s the kind that does the business. It’s our kind you’ll find at the Forty Club. Not a mouth that would melt butter.”

He was laughing:

“Take Welper. He’s a sanctimonious guy to look at.... But—when you frisk him, for God’s sake make your getaway. He’s bad.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

“You take it coolly.”

“I have to.”

He smiled: “You are a sport, Miss—Miss—”

“Miss Dirck—Maddaleen.”

“That’s a good name,” he said gaily, “—Dirck or Dagger—a perfectly good name for the Forty Club. Some wear their hearts on their sleeves; some carry their names in their garters.... Maddaleen Dirck! That’s a first-rate name.”

“And yours?”

“Oh, nothing suggestive or subtle. My name is John Lanier.”

“John Lanier,” she repeated aloud to herself.

“You see,” he said, “what goes in the Underworld doesn’t go with us in the Forty Club. We look all right; we seem all right; we know how to behave, and we do it. None of us care to live in the Underworld. We’re merely out for a million and don’t care how we get it.

“And, when we get it, back to the fold for us—inside the law, Miss Dirck—that’s our aim and ambition,—the legit!”

She nodded.

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You expect to make your million?” he asked, smiling.

“All I want is that paper.”

“Sorry,” he said, flushing, “—none of my business, of course. Your line is your secret unless you care to mention it.”

“I have no other line, Mr. Lanier.”

“You are an actress, aren’t you?”

“I hope so.”

After a moment: “Suppose,” he said, “Barney Welper catches you at your little game.... Do you know he is quite certain to kill you?”

After a slight hesitation, Maddaleen Dirck leaned a little toward him and opened the reticule on her lap.

Her pistol lay there beside her handkerchief, purse, and vanity case.

“So—that’s your answer, Miss Dirck?” he asked, placing one finger on the pistol.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice, “that is my answer.”

She closed the reticule. The taxi stopped at the same moment.

Lanier said coolly: “You’ve lived in Paris?”

“Yes. Why?”

“So have I. Don’t blush when I tell them that we’ve lived there together.”

“Need you say that?”

“Yes. We lived very quietly in the rue d’Alencon, numero neuf. Y’êtes vous, mademoiselle?”

“Parfaitment, monsieur, si vous le trouvez necessaire—”

“Listen! We operated in the Opera quarter and sometimes in the Observatory and Luxembourg quarters. You know them?”

“I did—as a schoolgirl—”

“Then that’s all right.” He got out of the taxi, aided her.

She had her purse ready, but he insisted.

“You don’t realise how much I owe our driver,” she said with a nervous smile.

He looked at the metre, laughed, paid the fare. The taxi drove off.

“Now,” he said, “here’s the Forty Thieves. The moment I take you inside that door you’re on your own.”

She nodded.

“Have you ten thousand dollars in that reticule?”

“Yes, ten one thousand dollar bills.”

“Very well,” he said calmly, “come in.”