Читать книгу The Mystery Of The Second Shot - Rufus Gillmore - Страница 8

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“Why, I thought the police had taken that,” Ashley exclaimed, pointing at the green cloth bag.

She tightened her hold on it, turned and looked at him with alarm. “N-o-o,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation, “it has never left my hands.”

Then there were two of these green cloth bags. “You were fortunate,” Ashley pursued. “If the police had noticed it, they would probably either have taken it or examined it.”

“That officer made me show him everything in it while you were gone,” she answered; “but he said I could take it away with me.”

If either of the green cloth bags contained anything of significance, it was evidently not this one.

“Did you know that another bag like that was found in the sewing-room upstairs?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t.” The answer was curt, impatient. As though desirous of avoiding further conversation on the subject, she lifted the bag from her lap and placed it out of sight between the further side of the cab and herself. Ashley noted, however, that she still kept one hand tightly clasped upon it.

They reached Arlington Street and the chauffeur turned toward Beacon Hill. “Where shall I tell him to take you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes—I forgot,” she started nervously from the heedless, absent reverie into which she had fallen. “To 24 Beacon Street, please.”

Ashley leaned out the window and told the chauffeur. They were already in the neighborhood. In a few moments the taxi drew up to the curb before an old-fashioned brick and brownstone residence. He jumped out and helped the girl down, stood waiting for her to say good-night. Instead, without a word, she pushed quickly by him and ran up the stone steps. Astonished, he stood looking after her.

“Good-night, Miss Newhall,” he called.

“Oh!” she took her hand from the bell, came running back down the steps to him. She was plainly much agitated, more nervous, it seemed to Ashley, than at almost any moment since he had met her. She stood before him, her hands fluttering and her lips trembling. “I don’t want to—I can’t stay here,” she stammered. “I thought—would you wait?—only a minute?” Without waiting for a reply she pressed Ashley back into the cab and closed the door. “I won’t be long—I—” she did not finish, but ran back up the steps and rang the bell.

Ashley looked at his watch. It was nearly one o’clock. An early morning Boston stillness hung, heavy as coma, over the streets and houses. The muted rumble of the taxi engine beat like a drum against the investing silence. Whom could she be rousing from sleep at this hour? A chaperone? Then why this sudden nervousness and why this secrecy? Why had she pushed him back into the cab and closed the door?

Involuntarily he changed his seat and watched the girl at the top of the steps ringing the bell again and again. After a long time, the door opened. Miss Newhall bent eagerly forward and asked a question. Her voice was lowered; she was evidently determined that Ashley should not hear.

But the sleepy maid who had answered the ring felt no such call for caution. “He hasn’t been here this night,” Ashley heard her declare clearly.

So it was a man whom she was seeking at this hour! Ashley felt the tingle of a thousand bristling suspicions.

“Where is he? Where can I find him? I must see him at once—to-night,” he heard Miss Newhall cry, petulantly. In her agitation she pressed forward, put one hand upon the knob.

The maid drew back, alarmed, closed the door a little. “I—I don’t know, ma’am,” she stammered. “We—we haven’t seen him ourselves since morning.”

Never had Ashley seen a human being more completely transformed than the girl he handed back into the taxi. She had left him tremulous with excitement; she returned crushed, dazed. She fell into the further corner of the seat, unconscious apparently of his very existence. Twice he had to ask her where she now wished to go. And the bag, which hitherto had never left her hand, dropped unheeded to the floor and lay at Ashley’s feet.

He picked it up and placed it on the seat between them. For the first time he had a chance to study her. She was a little older than he had thought—in the early twenties, probably—small and dark and piquant. She had the winsome prettiness of a kitten which insists upon attention, purrs when it is given. Her brown eyes were so big that they made her face seem small. “Spellbinders,” thought Ashley, “and probably nothing but toy emotions behind them.” And yet, she seemed to be suffering from some deep feeling just at present. Was it only because the man she had attempted to find was absent? Was she anything more than the spoiled child which she seemed to him? Was she capable for instance of —

She stirred, caught the conjecture in his eyes, and sat up. There was something quick and uneasy in her action. She studied Ashley furtively for a moment before she spoke.

“I was trying to find my father’s attorney. I wanted to ask him some questions,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

Ashley made no comments, did not look at her.

“He wasn’t there,” she went on, fencing against his silence with explanation. “It was very silly of me—to take it so seriously, only—”

Her laugh was out of place after the events of the evening; it was forced, unpleasant, led away too obviously from something kept secret. All sorts of suspicions floated into Ashley’s mind. Why should she care what he thought?

“Perhaps I could find him for you—afterwards—if you would give me his name?” he suggested, without looking at her.

“No, I don’t want him now,” she said a little too sharply.

Again his silence seemed to disturb her. “I shall see him to-morrow—soon enough. Aren’t we nearly there?” she veered from the subject. Then, without waiting for an answer, she nervously changed it once more. “My bag!” she cried.

“Did it contain anything valuable?” asked Ashley, casually.

“All my jewelry.”

“You must be more careful of it.” Ashley put it in her hand. “Was there anything valuable in the one at the house? If there was, it ought not to be left there.”

“I don’t know. No, I think not,” she responded indifferently.

“If you will give me your keys, I should be glad to go and make sure,” he pursued.

“You are very good,” she said, “but father wouldn’t leave anything of value in an empty house.”

“I should be very glad of an excuse to get back in the house,” Ashley pressed. “You see, I had to leave it sooner than I intended in order to bring you here.”

“Oh—you are a reporter—I had forgotten—” She considered. “Come to me to-morrow and I will let you have the keys, if you still want them. You have been so kind. I suppose I ought to do that.”

His interest in the bag she carried ceased when he saw her give it up to the clerk at the Touraine for deposit in the hotel safe. And the bag at the house, he was beginning to believe from her indifference, could have contained nothing of importance. Assuredly, he had done well to follow her instead of lingering on at the Newhall house. She had given him much to think about, and one or two clews that he was eager to get free to run down.

The hotel elevator had hardly taken her from sight, when he flew to the Touraine library. Nervously he ran through the pages of the Boston Blue Book until he came upon the following entry:

Beacon Street

24, Mrs. Jonathan Thorpe, Wednesdays.

Mr. Walter Thorpe.

Miss Alice Thorpe.

“Thorpe! Thorpe!” muttered Ashley. The name rang a bell in his mind. What had he heard about a man named Thorpe? After a vain attempt to remember, Ashley rushed out into the hotel foyer. The city directory informed him that Walter Thorpe was a member of the firm of Thorpe & Adams, wool commission dealers.

“Wool dealer!” he exclaimed. “Then he is no friend of Newhall’s. What could she want of him to-night?”

While he still strove to decide, he recalled his other clew. Was it possible that both clews connected, led to the same person? He leaped eagerly to the telephone book. Walter Thorpe’s home telephone number was Back Bay 43210. Yes, this was the number Miss Newhall had secretly attempted to get while he was absent upstairs.