The sinister mark
any one wise," but, on the other hand, he felt confident that Mr.
Frederick Jones must be well aware of Donald Morris's interest in
Miss Blake. He was also sure that her disappearance would come to the
knowledge of her manager in short order. He, therefore, went straight
to the bat.
"I want to talk to you about Miss Mary Blake," he said. Leaning his
elbow on the desk, with chin in hand, he regarded the manager keenly.
"What about Mary Blake?" Jones questioned, sharply.
"She's disappeared," answered Peter, without emphasis.
"What!" The manager started to his feet.
"She's disappeared from her apartment and left no address," Peter
explained, quietly.
"Good God!" cried the manager, leaning over and beating his clenched
fist on the desk. "Do you know what you're saying? But, of course, it
can't be! Why, she was going to be in town all summer, and we start
rehearsal on a new play the middle of July! 'Dark Roads' ended its run
last Saturday night. She must have gone off for the week-end somewhere.
You're just trying to get a rise out of me!"
"I'm not," said Peter, gravely. "She's gone away for some time, and
under peculiar conditions. So far, we haven't been able to find any
trace of her. If you think I'm kidding you, you can call up Mr. Morris
and ask him. He found out, accidentally, that she'd gone away, and he
thought it was so serious that he called me in. I'm a detective," and
Peter presented his business card.
The manager looked at it and dropped heavily into his chair.
"This is bad news for me, Mr. Clancy," he said. "Damn bad news. She's
worth twenty-five to fifty thousand a year to me, I don't mind telling
you, and if anything has happened to her--if she's gone off her nut--or
anything--she's a strange sort of girl----"
"How, 'strange'?" interrupted Peter, his eyes narrowing.
"Well--she's the greatest emotional actress in the world to-day.
You can take it from me. And I said it to Arthur Quinn, many and
many a time, when he was alive. She can take the heart out of your
body and wring it like a wet sponge. She's beautiful, and clever
as the devil--but, like most temperamental people, she has her own
peculiarities. And sometimes they were a bit hard to deal with."
"For instance?" prompted Peter.
"Well, for instance--she'd never rehearse without a full costume and
make-up, and the lights just as they would be at performance. Said she
couldn't feel the part unless the conditions were all the way they were
going to be. It made it necessary to get her costumes ready before we
started rehearsal, and sometimes it was a damn nuisance."
"But it doesn't strike me that there was anything very unreasonable
about that," objected Peter. "Might be a bit unusual, but----"
"Oh, that wasn't the only thing," Jones broke in. "I couldn't get her
to meet anybody, not even people who would be useful to her. She would
see a few newspaper men, but only in the theatre, between the acts. She
objected to being photographed, too, and I had the devil and all of a
time getting the right kind of publicity for her."
"But you have some photographs," said Peter, eagerly. "Surely there are
some to be had. That's what I want particularly."
"Oh, yes," grudgingly, "we've got some that were taken a year or two
ago. Quinn didn't seem to have so much trouble with her. He got a lot,
and they are beauties, and good enough to use. She hasn't changed any
since they were taken. But people like to see new ones."
"Can you spare me some?" asked Peter. "I can't get very far without
'em, you can see that for yourself."
"Oh, sure," answered Jones, readily. "You bet I'll do anything I can to
help you."
He touched a button on his desk and instructed the sleek youth who
immediately appeared to bring him the photographs of Miss Blake. They
were speedily produced, and Peter gazed at them with deep interest.
There were four different poses, two full length, in evening dress, one
of the head in profile, and one full face.
It was the latter which interested Peter the most. It was a striking
portrait. The brilliant light, falling from above upon one side of the
face, left the eyes in a transparent shadow, out of which they looked
with a burning, compelling intensity. Haunting, magnetic eyes they
were, full of dramatic possibilities. The nose was short and straight,
with rather full nostrils, expressive of temperament and passion.
The mouth was sensitive, not too small, and exquisite in its subtle
lines and curves. The contours of the face were fine and beautifully
modelled, the cheek-bones and chin delicately defined. There was a
nervous sensibility in the face, a tension and unrest about the pose of
the head upon the slender, gracious neck and shoulders, which suggested
an intense, artistic temperament.
"Great, aren't they?" said Jones, looking at them as they lay on the
desk between the two men. "Wonder what club old Quinn held over her to
make her sit for 'em?"
"She and Quinn were great friends, weren't they?" asked Peter. "Do you
know where he picked her up?"
Jones shook his head.
"Haven't the faintest idea. He had a way of snatching 'em out of the
atmosphere, had Arthur Quinn, and he was tight as a drum about 'em
all. Nobody had ever heard of her, so far as I know, and I know every
possible bet, from the Keith Circuit up. My business. Quinn sprung her
in the title rôle of 'Constance' the first shot out of the box. Don't
know where she got her training, but she had it all right, all right,
and then some. She never missed a trick, and she was a success from the
drop of the hat. Of course Quinn was a wonder at putting 'em through
a course of sprouts, but the girl appeared on the first night as if
she'd been acting since she was a baby. Maybe they're born that way
sometimes, but I never ran across one that was."
"I suppose she made a lot of money," hazarded Peter, following a train
of thought of his own.
"Oh, lord, yes," agreed Jones. "I don't mind telling you in confidence,
Mr. Clancy, that I paid her, on my last year's contract, a cool
thousand a week."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Peter. "As much as that?"
"I sure did," said the manager. "Why, look here. I guess I can show
you."
He drew toward him a bank book, stuffed with vouchers, which lay upon
the desk. Running rapidly through the cancelled checks, he selected
several and slid them across the polished mahogany to Peter.
"Just came in from the bank. End of the month," he explained. "Run your
eye over those if you don't believe me."
Peter did run his eye over them and very carefully. They were all
made out to the order of Mary Blake and for one thousand dollars. He
turned them over and studied the endorsements. They were all alike. At
the top, in a clear, slanting, characteristic hand was written "Pay
to the order of the Scoville Bank--Mary Blake," and at the bottom,
rubber-stamped, were the words, "Pay to the order of the Federal
Reserve Bank of New York," the date, and "The Scoville Bank of New
York, William Dunne, Cashier."
"I think I'll make a call on Mr. William Dunne, Cashier," thought
Peter, still following an insistent undercurrent of suggestion, as he
made a mental note of the name of the bank. "It might be of interest
to know how much of this corking good salary she's saved--and whether
she--or any one else--has drawn heavily against it lately." Aloud he
said--
"That's a lot of money, Mr. Jones! I didn't know they got anything
like that. I can see I made the mistake of my life when I picked my
profession. Think you could get me a job?"
A slight grin made its way through the trouble and concern on the
manager's face.
"Better stick to your own job, Mr. Clancy," he said. "There aren't so
many who make what Miss Blake does, believe _me_!"
Peter had gathered up the photographs and risen to his feet. Jones,
following his example, caught his arm as he approached the door.
"For God's sake, keep me posted, Mr. Clancy," he said, anxiously. "I
can't think she's thrown me down. Why, only about a month ago she had
a pippin of an offer from a movie concern; far and away over anything
I could afford to give her, though she does net me a lot. And do you
think she'd consider it? Not on your life. She turned it down cold."
"What reason did she give?" asked Peter, curiously.
"Didn't give any, to me at least. I didn't know anything about it
until Wolf, the producer, who's an old friend of mine, congratulated
me on her sticking to me so tight. So, you see, I can't believe she's
double-crossed me, and it's a pretty safe bet that I'll hear from her
soon. If I do, I'll let you or Mr. Morris know."
"Yes, do, by all means," said Peter. "I'll keep in touch with you, and
for the love of Mike, don't let the story leak out. I'm sure I can
trust to your discretion, Mr. Jones."
"Oh, sure. Sure you can," promised the manager, easily. "It certainly
wouldn't be to my interest to have it known--at least for the present."
Peter did not like that last phrase very much, but he did not dare to
place in jeopardy his present friendly relation with Jones by taking
it up. He contented himself, therefore, with a smiling injunction to
"keep it under his hat," and added:
"By the way, Mr. Jones, is there anybody else--anybody you know of that
Miss Blake might be likely to write to?"
"I don't think there is a soul," answered the manager, frowning. "She
had nothing to do with any member of the company; pretty up-stage with
all of 'em, though not offensive about it exactly. Just kept 'em all at
a distance--same as she did me, to tell you the truth. As I told you,
she'd never meet anybody I asked her to--except Mrs. Atterbury, and I
nearly dropped dead when she asked me if it would be O. K. for her to
give a reading there. I was tickled to death, of course. Great ad. for
her; but she never followed it up. Just like her," he grumbled. "Other
than letting Morris take her around a little she let the whole thing
slide."
"Had no social ambitions, evidently," Peter remarked. "And you never
met any friends of hers?"
"Not a soul."
"Strange," Peter said. And again, to himself, as he hurried from the
manager's office, he repeated, "Strange--so beautiful, so successful,
and so alone. Why?... There was her sister, and there was Donald Morris
and the manager.... And besides them, nobody--nobody but Angelo, and
he'd only just seen her, as he couldn't help seeing her.... And an old
lady, a stout old lady, who called there.... And the voice over the
wire.... It was an odd voice--unusual--I'm sure I'd know it again,
anywhere.... And, by gad, I'd give a hundred dollars to know who was
the owner of that voice over the wire."
CHAPTER XII
A SIGNATURE CARD
Peter looked at his watch as he ran down the stairs of the Westmoreland
Theatre Building. It was nearly one o'clock, and he decided that he
would have time enough to snatch a bit of lunch before he made the
attempt to see Mr. Walter Dunne, of the Scoville Bank. He stopped in at
a public telephone booth in a cigar store, and called Donald Morris and
O'Malley. To the one he reported what slight progress he had made, and
from the other he received the information that he, O'Malley, had been
down to the apartment and seen the janitor and that there was nothing
new there. No one had called to see either of the sisters and no word
of any kind had been received from them.
"Get the photographs down here as quick as you can," O'Malley urged.
"I've wired our correspondents all over the country, but you know,
Pete, they can't do such a hell of a lot without the pictures, and
neither can the boys here."
"Send Maggie over to the Fifth Avenue Bank," said Peter, quickly. "I've
got to go there, anyway. Have her meet me in half an hour and I'll give