The sinister mark
"Not a bit," responded the cashier, rising.
He passed again behind the network of grilles, and presently returned
with the usual signature card in his hand. Seating himself, he laid it
before the detective.
Peter examined the signatures carefully. Mary Blake's was, so far as
he could judge, precisely like those he had seen at Frederick Jones's
office, the writing rather large, and slanting in the ordinary way.
Anne's signature was small and cramped and written "backhand," very
different from her sister's generous, spirited writing. And yet, in
some ways, they were similar, Peter noted; a fact probably due to long
association. The e's, for instance, were formed in both cases, not in a
loop, but like a written capital e, and they were separate, not joined
to the letter k which preceded in the word "Blake."
Peter remarked these points in passing, but their full significance did
not dawn upon him for many, many anxious days.
CHAPTER XIII
THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA HOTEL
"Here he is," said Captain O'Malley, as Peter, having made a quick
trip from the Scoville Bank, entered the door of his partner's private
office. "You're just in time, Pete. Fox thinks he's found the lady!"
"What, already?" said Peter, glancing sharply at the round, smooth face
of the detective who stood beside O'Malley's desk. "And which one?"
"I think I've found Miss Mary Blake. But, of course, I can't be
perfectly sure yet," answered Fox, thrusting forward his chin, eagerly.
"I've been rounding up the hotels to see what ladies, travelling alone,
registered on Sunday night. Been doing it ever since we got our orders,
and I haven't had any luck till just about an hour ago. I'd gone all
through the smaller hotels, thinking she'd sure pick a quiet one, and
then it suddenly occurred to me that maybe she'd think she'd attract
less attention at one of the big ones, and after running through
several, I hit the Pennsylvania. Happens I know the clerk there, so he
took some pains to help me. He was off duty Sunday, and there wasn't
anybody registered that day that could possibly have been either of
the Miss Blakes. But, as you know, Clancy, they're pretty particular
about taking any ladies without luggage, and Watson (that's the clerk)
thought she might possibly have tried to get in and they wouldn't take
her. So he got hold of the man that was on duty Sunday, and I gave him
my spiel. This lad (Franklin, his name is) said there was a lady, very
beautiful and young, that came into the hotel on Sunday evening, about
seven, and wanted a room. She didn't have nothing but a small handbag,
and she was so pretty Franklin was leary of her and said they were
full up. So then I asked him if he had any idea where she'd gone, and
he said that she seemed so kind of timid and upset about not getting
a room, and she didn't look exactly like a rounder (though you can't
always tell, at that), so he suggested that she might go over to the
station and talk to the Travellers' Aid officer that's always in the
women's waiting room; that she could find out there some respectable
boarding house she could get into."
"Yes?" said Peter, eagerly, as Fox paused for breath.
"Well, that sounded good to me, so I beat it over to the station,
and sure enough, the Travellers' Aid woman there did remember that a
pretty young woman come in Sunday evening and that she'd recommended
a boarding house on Twenty-sixth Street, where they take nothing but
women. Then I chased over to the boarding house, and sure enough,
she was there, all right. I saw the landlady. She's a respectable
woman, enough, but it's a big house that caters to a transient trade
and I guess they can't be too particular. Anyhow, she said the girl
looked all right and paid for a week in advance, so she should worry.
I described Miss Blake to her, and she thinks it's her, all right. I
couldn't do nothing more without a photo, so I beat it over to see if
we'd got one yet; and that's as far as I've gone."
"Sounds good so far," remarked O'Malley. "What do you think, Pete?"
"Well, it fits what we know, as far as it goes," said Clancy. "But the
acid test'll be matching this girl up to the photograph. Have you got
the duplicates yet, O'Malley?"
"Just come in, not five minutes ago," answered the old man, reaching
for a large envelope which lay upon his desk. "Pretty good service
we're getting from the Swift Camera Company. They're swift in something
more than the name. Here, Fox, here you are." He held out four
unmounted photographs. "You can't make a mistake with all those for
comparison, but see her yourself, and make sure."
Fox scratched his head.
"But how'm I going to get a chance to compare 'em?" he asked,
doubtfully. "The landlady says that the young woman, who gave her name
as Mrs. Florence Smith, keeps in her room the whole time. She don't go
out at all. Has her meals sent up. Says she's nervous about meeting
strangers, but it looks to me as if she was hiding."
Peter and O'Malley exchanged glances.
"Find out anything else?" asked Peter, with increasing interest.
"Only that she hasn't had any more luggage sent in. Just had nothing
but the handbag she come with. And that she'd written and sent out one
letter since she come, and last night, the only time she's been out at
all, she asked where was the nearest place she could send a telegram."
"Wonder when she sent that letter, and if it was by messenger," said
Peter, reflectively. "You didn't happen to ask, did you, Fox?"
"No, I didn't, Clancy. Does it matter?"
"Well----I don't know----Might----But that'll be easy enough to find
out from the landlady, I guess," said Peter. "Anyhow, the whole bag of
tricks sounds pretty interesting, Fox. We're bound to follow it up.
Somebody's got to get a peek at her by hook or by crook."
"But how?" asked Fox, irritably. "How am I going to get at her? I can't
go and bust into her room. And if she never leaves it----"
"She'll have to leave it sometime, son," said O'Malley, soothingly.
"All you'll have to do is to stick around, and sooner or later she's
bound to come into the open."
This suggestion of "watchful waiting" made no appeal to Peter, however.
He thought a minute, and then said to Fox:
"There's a way of getting to her and I'll bet I find it. Your feet get
cold too easy, Fox, and you've got no imagination. I'll take this thing
on, here and now. Come on and lead me to that landlady, and I'll show
you how the thing can be done."
Fox, grumbling inwardly, did as he was bid, and the two men proceeded
as fast as possible to Twenty-sixth Street. There he introduced Clancy
to the landlady, a lean, middle-aged woman, of respectable appearance,
with a cold, calculating blue eye.
"I don't know why I should help you to see Mrs. Smith," she said,
in answer to Peter's request. "She's paid her board and lodging in
advance, and she's quieter'n any lady in the house. I don't know you,
and----"
Peter interrupted her.
"Mrs. Comfort," (for, inappropriate as it seemed, this was the
landlady's name) "Mrs. Comfort," he said, "we don't know whether or not
Mrs. Smith is the lady we're looking for. And, in any case, there's
nothing against her and we mean her no harm. The lady we're looking
for"--he fixed her with his eye and touched his forehead significantly,
shaking his head in apparent commiseration--"has left her friends, and
has left no address."
"You mean she's crazy?" asked the landlady, in a horrified whisper.
"I thought she acted kind of queer. I can't bear crazy people," she
shivered.
Peter was quick to follow up his advantage.
"But this may not be the lady we're looking for, Mrs. Comfort. We only
want to make sure. It would be too bad to worry you if we're mistaken.
One thing: She sent a letter out since she's been here. Do you happen
to know when it was she sent it?"
"Yes, I do know that, positive," said Mrs. Comfort, uncomfortably. "She
asked Lily, the waitress, to take it out when she went home Sunday
night."
"Was it to go by messenger?" asked Peter, quickly.
"I don't know."
"Would Lily, do you think? And whom the letter was addressed to? Do you
imagine she'd remember? Could you ask her for me, Mrs. Comfort? If I
knew the address on the letter, I might not have to see Mrs. Smith to
make sure."
"No," irritably, "I can't ask Lily, for the simple reason that she
hasn't showed up so far this week at all."
"Too bad," said Peter. "Well, never mind, Mrs. Comfort. It won't matter
to me, anyway, if you'll fix it so we can find out whether this Mrs.
Smith is the lady we want. You will fix it, won't you?" His tone was
very persuasive.
"Well," hesitated the landlady, rubbing her long nose with a bony
forefinger, "it'd ease my mind to have you see her since what you've
told me. But how can I? I've got no right to let you go up to her room.
This is a respectable house, and----"
"I know it is," Peter agreed, cordially. "It's got a fine reputation,
Mrs. Comfort. But even if you don't have men boarders, surely you must
have men in to make repairs, or something. How about the telephone? I
could go in to inspect the telephone. You could come along with me if
you like."
"But there's no telephones in the rooms," objected the landlady. "What
d'you think this is? The Ritz?"
Peter was checked for the moment. He glanced around the lace-curtained
parlour for inspiration. The house was an old one, and lighted by gas.
The fact, immediately noted, gave him an idea, and he was about to
suggest that he go up and pretend to do something to the burners in
Mrs. Smith's room, when a sharp ring at the front door bell interrupted
him.
"Them girls downstairs is so slow." With an annoyed gesture Mrs.
Comfort turned quickly, passed through the open double doors of the
parlour, and herself opened the street door.
Peter heard but one sentence--and he was out in the hall in the
twinkling of an eye. Without a word of explanation he snatched a yellow
envelope from the outstretched hand of an elderly "messenger boy"
who stood upon the threshold, dropped his own hat on the hall table,
unceremoniously appropriated the cap of the astounded messenger, and
turned swiftly to Mrs. Comfort.
"Which room?" he whispered. "Quick!"
"Third floor back," gasped the landlady. "But you can't----"
Peter did not wait to hear her expostulations. He dashed up the stairs
and was out of sight before she could finish the sentence.
He stopped for an instant before the door of the third floor back, to
get his breath. Then he knocked softly.
"Who's there?" The voice had a startled, anxious ring.
"Western Union Telegraph," Peter answered, in a quiet, assured tone.
The door opened the least crack, and then was flung wide, the envelope
snatched from his hand and torn open, the contents devoured. Peter
stood stock still, with wide-open eyes.
"Oh, thank God! Thank God! He'll take me home. He'll take me back! Oh,
father, dear father!" She was sobbing, beside herself. She turned,
blindly, to Peter. "How do I get this? This money?--I want to go home.
To go home to California. He'll save me from Roger. He'll protect
me. I won't have to bear anything more. I'll be free, at last!" The
words tumbled wildly over each other, and again, almost without taking
breath, she asked, "How do I get this money?"
Peter saw it all in a flash. The woman, hiding from a husband who had
ill-treated her, the father who had sent the money, faster than on the
wings of the wind, to bring his daughter home.... It was an old story,
with, Peter hoped, a happy ending, for the girl was beautiful and
appealing--though not in the least, except in generalities, like the
portrait which he carried inside the breast of his coat.
CHAPTER XIV