CHAPTER XIV--A CHAPTER ABOUT BAD TEMPERS
Things were not going Mr. Larkin's way. What had begun with such brightpromise was declining to a twilight uncertainty. The morning after hisignominious failure with Willitts he had a letter from Suzanne,forwarded from his New York office, telling him that she would be intown on the following Monday and would like to see him. The letterdisturbed him greatly. It was not alone that he had nothing to report;it was that the tone of the missive was irritated and impatient. It wasthe angrily imperious summons of a lady who is disappointed in herhireling.
He packed up his things and left Cedar Brook--the collapse of hisendeavor there was complete--and at the hour appointed found Suzannewaiting in the shaded reception room. Her words and manner showed himhow disagreeable a fine lady can be; they gave him a cold premonitionthat his fat salary would end unless something distinct and definite wassoon forthcoming. In fact she hinted it; his assurances that interestingdevelopments were pending, that this sort of work was necessarily slow,kindled no responsive enthusiasm in the crossly accusing eye shefastened on him. His manner became almost pleading; he was on the edgeof discoveries, unquestionably he would have something to tell her bythe end of the week. At that she hung dubious, the angry eye lessdisconcerting, and said she would be in town on Friday as she was goingto take her little girl to the oculist.
Mr. Larkin hailed the announcement with a sleuth-like eagerness, but, asif anxious to quench any little flicker of his spirit, she addedblightingly that she didn't think it would be possible to see him as thechild would be with her. He grappled with the difficulty, displayingboth patience and resourcefulness, for Mrs. Price, in a bad temper, hada talent for creating obstacles.
Why, he suggested, couldn't the little girl go to the oculist with hernurse or companion and Mrs. Price be left, so to speak, free to roam?Mrs. Price's answer snapped with an angry click--that was of course whatshe would do--she always did. _But_, Mr. Larkin did not suppose she tookthe exhausting trip from Berkeley for nothing, did he? She had mattersto attend to herself, shops to go to, people to see; when they came intotown they were swamped, simply _swamped_, by what they had to do. Shedepicted with a lively irritation their harried progress, the partysplit into halves, one in a hired vehicle, one in the family motor,passing through the marts of trade in a stampede of breathless shopping.She rubbed it in, seemed to be intimating that he was attempting tofrustrate an overtaxed and weary woman in the accomplishment of gigantictasks.
Mr. Larkin met the difficulties and kept his patience. It took a gooddeal to finally reach a settlement which was obvious from the start. Thechild and her companion could go on their errands and Suzanne could goon hers, but be back before them. He could meet her at the house at anyhour she named and would leave before the return of the other half ofthe party. He forced her to an admission that the plan was feasible,though she gave it grudgingly, her manner still suggesting that if hehad conducted himself as a detective worthy of his hire she would nothave been put to so much trouble. She arranged to be at the house attwelve which she calculated might give her half an hour alone with him.Should there be any change of plans she would let him know, and she_hoped_, with an accentuated glance, he would have somethingsatisfactory to tell her.
His good temper unshaken, Mr. Larkin assured her he would and rose togo. On the doorstep he mopped his forehead though the day was not warm,also he swore softly as he descended the steps.
A day or two after this, Chapman Price went to the Whitney office. Hehad received a communication from them asking for an interview, theostensible subject of debate being Suzanne's divorce. The suit would beconducted at Reno where Mrs. Price would go in the autumn, but theWhitneys, as the Janney lawyers, wanted to talk the matter over with Mr.Price for the arranging of various financial details.
These were quickly opened up for his attention by Wilbur Whitney, who,with George, saw the young man in his private office. The ground ofdivorce--non-support--was touched on with a tactful lightness. Mrs.Price would of course ask for no alimony and so forth and so on. Fromthat the elder Whitney passed to the subject of the child; it was thedesire of its mother and grandparents that Chapman should relinquish allclaim on it. The young man listened, gloomy and scowling, now and thenmuttering in angry repudiation. But the diplomatic arguments of thelawyer bore down his opposition; he had to give in. The child ought toremain with its mother, the natural guardian of its tender years; leftentirely to the Janneys it would be the eventual heiress of their greatwealth, but if Chapman antagonized them by a fight for its possessionits prospects might suffer. It was a persuasive appeal, made toChapman's parental affections, the welfare of his daughter before hisown. It brought him to a sullen consent, and Wilbur Whitney, with asound of approval, pushed back his chair, elated as by a good work done.
Price rose, his face flushed and frowning. That he was resentful wasplain to be seen, but he had himself in hand, inquiring with a sardonicpoliteness if that was all they wanted of him. The elder Whitney with ahospitable gesture toward the empty chair, said no, there were somequestions he'd like to ask, nothing of any especial moment and on anentirely different matter.
"Mrs. Janney," he explained, "has suggested that we make a separate,private investigation of the robbery. She's lost faith in Kissam, whohasn't done anything but draw his pay envelope and wants us to see whatwe can do. So we've been clearing up a lot of dead wood, looking intothe movements of the people in the house and the neighborhood thatnight."
Price, who had remained standing, turned his eyes on the speaker in agaze that had a quality of sudden fixed attention.
"Oh," he said, in a tone containing a note of hostile comprehension, "so_you're_ in it, are you?"
"Yes; we're in it--only a little way so far. We've been rounding upevery one that has, or has had, any dealings with the family and we'vetaken you in in the sweep."
"_Me?_" Price's voice showed an intense surprise. "What have I got to dowith it?"
"Nothing, my dear boy, except that you _were_ a member of the household,and as I said, we're clearing up every one in sight. It's only aformality, a tagging and disposing of all unnecessary elements. You wentfor a motor ride that night--a long ride. You wouldn't mind telling uswhere, would you? It's just for the purpose of eliminating you alongwith the rest of the dead wood."
The young man's gaze dropped from Whitney's face to his own hat lying onthe table. He looked at it with an absent stare.
"A motor ride?" he murmured.
"Yes, from eight-thirty till nearly two."
"Um," Price appeared to be considering. "Let me see--what was the date,I don't remember?"
George assisted his memory:
"July the seventh--a moonlight night."
"Ah," he had it now, nodding his head several times in restoredrecollection. "Of course, I remember perfectly. There was a heavy rainearly in the evening and then a full moon." He turned to the elder man."I'm rather fond of ranging about at night, and couldn't quite placewhat especial ride you referred to. I took a long spin up the Island."
"Up?" said Whitney, "not being a Long Islander I don't know yourdirections. Would 'up' mean toward the city?"
"No, the other way, out along the Sound roads and on toward Peconic."
"Kept to the country, eh? Too fine a night to waste in town."
Price's face darkened. George watching him noticed a slight dilation ofhis nostrils, a slight squaring of the line of his jaw. His answer camein a tone hard and combative:
"Exactly. I get enough of town in the day. I rode, as I told you, out tothe east, a long way--I can't give you the exact route if that's whatyou want." He suddenly leaned forward and snatched his hat from thetable. Holding it against his side he made an ironical bow to hisquestioner said, "Does _that_ eliminate me as a suspect?"
Whitney laughed, a sound of lazy good humor rich with the tolerance of avast experience:
"My dear Chapman, why use such sensational terms? Suspect is a word wehaven't reached yet. Take this as it's m
eant--a form, merely a form."
"The form might have included a questioning of me before you took thetrouble to look up what I did. Evidently my word wasn't thoughtsufficient."
His glance, darkly threatening, moved from one man to the other. Georgestarted to protest, but he cut in, his words directed at old Whitney:
"It's all I have to offer you now. It's what I say against what you'vebeen told to believe. I can prove no alibi, for I was with no one, sawno one, started alone and stayed alone. That's all you'll get out of me,and you can take it or leave it as you d----n please."
He turned and walked toward the door, the elder Whitney's conciliatoryphrases delivered to his back. The door knob in his hand he wheeledround, the anger he had been struggling to subdue fierce in his face:
"Don't think for a moment you've fooled me. I was ignorant when I camein here, but I'm on to the whole dirty business now. I see through thispussy-footing round the divorce. It's the Janneys--the blow in the backI might have known was coming. They've got my child, set you on towheedle her out of me. But that wasn't enough--they're going to try andfinish the good work--put me out of business so there's no more troublecoming from me. Brand me as a thief--that's their game, is it?Well--they've gone too far. I've held my hand up to this but now I'lllet loose. They'll see! By God, they'll see that I can hit back blow forblow."