The sinister mark
him. Jones, it seems, has social ambitions, and whether it was that, or
what it was, my sister induced him to let her go behind the scenes one
night and meet Miss Blake. Helena has a way with her, I must say, and
somehow she prevailed on Mary to give a reading at the house, a thing
she'd never done before, and has never done since. I don't know," he
broke off, "why I'm telling you all these details, Clancy, only you
said----"
"Go on, don't skip anything," said Peter, encouragingly. "So the first
time you met Miss Blake was at the reading at your sister's house?"
"Yes, and, oh, it was wonderful, marvellous!" He spoke slowly, with
the air of one who lives again one of the greatest moments of his
life. "They used the big model platform at one end of my studio for a
stage. The room, of course, was dark, and when the curtains were drawn
aside, she stood there in the dim blue light, her face a pale oval,
shining faintly, like a star." He had forgotten Peter. All his mind
was filled with a poignant remembrance. "She spoke--and it was as if
the stars sang together.... It didn't matter what she said.... The
sheer magnetism of her personality, the beauty of the soul which looked
out of her eyes--so near, so near--drew like cords of steel.... Her
strange, sad face seemed, somehow, oddly familiar ... as if I'd seen it
before ... in a dream, perhaps. It----"
The cab came to a sudden stop at a point of congested traffic. The
change from the detachment and quiet of its smooth forward motion to
the confusion and roar of the busy crossing brought Donald, with a
jerk, back to himself. He glanced at Clancy a trifle confusedly, and as
the cab went on, took up his story in a more normal tone.
"Everybody wanted to be presented to her after the performance was
over, but she would meet no one except the family, Francis Atterbury
and myself. She received us, for a few moments, on the stage, after the
curtains had been drawn. She was gracious and charming, but insisted on
leaving at once. She had told Helena that it would be necessary for her
to do this, that she was very tired. She allowed me to take her down to
her cab, and I said 'Good-night' to her in the dark street.... The next
night I went to the theatre and sent my card to her, between the acts.
She let me come behind the scenes, and I talked to her a few minutes
in the wings.... After that I saw her with increasing frequency. We
dined together rather often, in some quiet place. The thought of
attracting any attention to herself, when she was off-stage, was most
distasteful to her--amounting almost to an obsession. That's a strong
word, perhaps, but it almost seemed like that. She lived very quietly,
and never introduced me to any of her friends. I don't even know who
her friends are. I know absolutely nothing of her past life, except
that it was a very unhappy one. I could not force her confidence and
she volunteered nothing, not even when she must have known--must have
seen----"
He hesitated, and Peter met his look with a slight, comprehending nod.
"I understand, Mr. Morris," he said, gravely. "But didn't you think it
was strange, don't you think it was strange now?"
"Yes," Donald admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I don't care how
strange it all is. I don't care who she is, or who her people were,
or what sad or even terrible thing she is keeping from me. She is
beautiful to me--in body, mind, and soul--a wonder-woman! There is no
one like her in all the world, and I ask nothing of God but to give her
back to me. I can trust her. I can be content to know nothing.... Only
find her for me, Clancy! Find her for me!" He clenched his hands and
his eyes burned deep.
Peter turned away his face.
"I'll do my best, Mr. Morris," he said with grave sincerity. "What's
possible to do, I pledge my word shall be done. By the way," he added,
in a changed tone, "do you know Miss Blake's manager personally?"
"Frederick Jones? Yes," answered Morris, quickly. "I've met him often."
"He'd be willing to do you a favour, perhaps?"
"Yes--yes, I think he would."
"I may want to have a little talk with him," said Peter, reflectively.
"Think you could fix it?"
"I'll give you a card," said Donald, at once, and drawing a case from
his pocket, he wrote a few lines and handed the card to Peter.
"That ought to do it," said Peter, glancing at it. "Thanks. I may not
use it, but it's best to be prepared."
They had turned into Gramercy Park. The cab drew up before the broad
entrance of Mrs. Atterbury's house, and Donald Morris stepped out.
"I'm trusting you, Clancy," he said, as he held out his hand, "with
something that is more important than life to me."
"I know," Peter nodded as he grasped the outstretched hand with a firm
pressure. "I'll do my best," he repeated, reassuringly.
He sighed, however, as the cab rolled swiftly through the busy streets.
"Nobody's best is any too good in a case like this," he thought to
himself. "He's a fine chap, all right, is Morris. I hope she's what he
thinks her, and then some.... Wonder what kind of a woman she really
is. He looks as if he might be a judge, but you never can tell....
What is it she's been hiding from him--from everybody ... except one
person.... A woman as successful as she is wouldn't live the way she's
been living, unless there was something.... And the sister? Dammit all,
I can't see----"
He was still cogitating thus when he reached his office. He was
thankful to find that his partner and old friend, Captain O'Malley, was
in and at liberty. It was always a help, a clearance of his mind, to
talk over a case with the astute, experienced old man who had trained
him when he was a cub in the police detective service, and with whom he
had been associated ever since.
The old man listened attentively while Peter detailed the facts as they
had been presented to his notice.
"It looked like robbery," Peter said, in conclusion, "but, I ask you,
wasn't it intended that it should look like robbery, maybe? At least,
isn't that on the cards? That broken window on the fire-escape was a
blind. I'm sure of that much. I didn't mention it to Morris--thought
he had enough on his mind as it was--but not only was the broken glass
all on the outside window-sill, but the catch hadn't even been turned.
Whoever broke the glass wasn't very fly, or else they got scared, for
they didn't unlock the window."
"Or else the thief stopped and locked it after he got outside," said
O'Malley, with a little chuckle.
"Rats!" exclaimed Peter, feelingly. "Quit your kiddin', O'Malley. Don't
joke. This is serious. Both these women are missing, and there's blood
in the apartment and on Miss Blake's scarf. We only know how one of 'em
left the place. She left alone ... with a big trunk.... It was a big
trunk, O'Malley. I could tell by the marks it had made on the wall of
the storeroom, and by the place where there wasn't any dust at all on
the floor. It was all pretty clean, but you just could see where the
trunk had stood.... And then, here's another funny thing--the closets
in the bedroom were all full of beautiful clothes, the sort you'd
expect Mary Blake to wear, and the bureau was, or had been, full of
fine, expensive lingerie, before somebody chucked 'em around the place.
Now, I figure Anne kept her clothes in the storeroom--and there wasn't
a rag there--nothing but a few almost worn-out things in an otherwise
empty chiffonier."
"And you argue from that----" said O'Malley.
"I'm not arguing," said Peter. "I'm only thinking. It looked to me as
if Anne had taken all her clothes (though there probably weren't so
many, judging by the number of hangers and the size of the chiffonier)
and that Mary hadn't taken anything.... Of course it's only a guess.
I can't be sure. But that's the way it looked.... And how would
Mary get along without clothes--unless she might have been going to
use Anne's?... But they didn't go away together.... Morris has the
idea--and I got it myself from the letter he showed me--that there was
a sort of--a kind of antipathy between them. Oh, hell, O'Malley! You
see what I'm driving at--I've been mixed up with so much crime and
stuff that I can't help wondering----"
"Yes," said O'Malley, slowly. "Yes, I see.... The bloody scarf that the
cabby pulled through the door ... the blood on the floor of the hall
just by the trunk-room ... the big trunk.... H'm'm----"
The two detectives looked at each other long and seriously. Then Clancy
brought his closed fist down on the desk.
"It's Anne--it's Anne I want to find, O'Malley! We'll look for Mary for
all we're worth. We won't leave a stone unturned, as I promised. But if
you ask me what we must do to get to the bottom of this proposition, I
say--find Anne Blake!"
CHAPTER XI
FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS
"Yes. Find Anne Blake," O'Malley repeated, slowly. "But, in the
meantime, son, you'd have to establish a motive, and it'd have to be
some little motive, at that! And after all, you know, Miss Mary may
turn up at any time. It would be easy enough for her to make a get-away
and nobody see her. Suppose she slipped quietly out into the street and
picked up a cab on the Avenue or somewhere? How'd we find that cab,
I ask you? We don't know where she was going, and there wouldn't be
anything to spot her by but a description or a photograph, if you can
get hold of one."
"I can do that easy enough," said Peter. "Morris gave me a card to her
manager and I can get one from him. I'm going to see him right away and
find out what he knows about Mary Blake. He's the only person, so far,
that can give me a straight line on her." He reached for the telephone
and instructed the operator in the outer office to get Mr. Frederick
Jones of the Westmoreland Theatre on the wire. While waiting for the
connection, he continued his talk with his partner.
"Get out the drag-net for those two girls, O'Malley. Spread it all
over the country and up into Canada. Comb the city with a fine-tooth
comb. If Mary really hadn't any luggage, it's on the cards that she
may not have left town. But," he shook his head thoughtfully, "I've
got a hunch, O'Malley, that we won't find Mary Blake. The letter
said, 'There'll be no one left but Anne....' Whatever was to happen
has happened ... and I think--I can't explain it, but I feel it in my
bones--that our only hope is to find Anne."
The telephone, at his elbow, buzzed sharply.
"Mr. Jones is very busy," Peter's operator informed him. "Can his
secretary take a message?"
"Yes," Peter replied. "Let me have the secretary."
The connection made, Peter was informed that it would be impossible to
see Mr. Jones that afternoon, and it was only by using Donald Morris's
name that he was able to make an appointment for the following morning
at eleven o'clock.
On Tuesday, therefore, prompt to the minute, Peter presented himself
to the dragon (in the shape of a bobbed and powdered switch-board
operator) who guarded the entrance to the offices of the Westmoreland
Theatre Building. He had to assure her that he was not an actor out of
work, and present his credentials, and it was not until his statement
that he had an appointment had been verified that he was allowed to
climb the three flights of stairs to the office of Frederick Jones,
Manager. Even here he was subjected to a maddening delay before he
could gain audience.
When he reached Mr. Jones at last, however, he found him genial and
cordial enough. The few lines which Donald Morris had written on his
card turned the trick, and Mr. Jones expressed himself delighted to be
of service.
Peter had had plenty of time to go over carefully his line of attack.
He regretted the necessity, as he would have expressed it, "of putting