CHAPTER XXI--SIGNED "CLANSMEN"
The consultation in the office resulted in Esther Maitland being takento O'Malley's flat in Stuyvesant Square, where his wife and sisteragreed to be responsible for her. This course had been decided uponafter some heated argument. Suzanne had clamored for her arrest, but theothers were still determined to keep the affair out of the public eye,which, if Esther was brought before a magistrate, would have beenimpossible. The Janneys were more than ever convinced that Price was theprime mover, and the girl's attitude had been prompted by the combinedmotives of love and gain. George, who knew his father's every phase,noticed that the old man was reserved in his comments, and wondered ifhis conviction had been shaken by Miss Maitland's desperate denials. Butif it was he said nothing, agreeing that with the girl hidden and unableto communicate with the outside world, they could concentrate theirattention on Chapman and through him locate the child.
Miss Maitland was docile to all their suggestions. She would go whereverthey wanted, place herself under the surveillance of the two women, anddo whatever was asked of her. She went off in a taxi with O'Malley, andMolly was sent back to Grasslands. There was no need of her services intown and it was probable that Chapman, believing his confederate to bethere, would call up the place.
The Janney party returned to the hotel, a silent, gloomy trio. The oldpeople were very gentle to Suzanne. On the drive up, Mrs. Janney heldher in the hollow of her arm, pressed close, yearning over her in hershame and sorrow and feebleness. To the strong woman she was a childagain, a soft, helpless thing. The mother blamed herself for having beenhard on her.
After lunch old Sam suggested a drive--the air would do them good. Theytried to persuade Suzanne to come, but the young woman, prone on thesofa, a salts bottle at hand, refused to stir. She wanted to be quiet;she wanted to rest. So, knowing the uselessness of argument, they kissedher and went.
Alone, she lay on her back staring at the wall in a trance-likeconcentration. Her expression did not suggest the state of crushed shameunder which her parents thought she languished. In fact her past actionshad no place in her mind; she had forgotten her confession in theoffice. An idea, formidable and obsessing, had taken possession of her,settled on her like a shadow. It was possible that their conclusionswere wrong.
She had had it from the start, off and on, coming at her in rushes ofdisintegrating doubt. She had said nothing about it, had tried to forceit down, and, talking to them, had been reassured by their unquestioningcertainty. Now the scene in the office had strengthened it--somethingabout Esther Maitland, she didn't know what. She had assured herselfthen--she tried to do it now--that there could be no mistake, they hadproofs, the girl hadn't been able to explain anything. But she could notargue it away; it persisted, stronger than thought, power or will,unescapable like the horror of a dream.
It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep down in the recessesof her being, "Chapman couldn't have done it." She knew him better thanthe others did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines hisweaknesses ran upon. She knew him through and through, to what lengthsanger might urge him, what he could do when aroused and what he nevercould do. And trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling thefacts against him, going over them point by point, she couldn't makeherself believe that he had stolen Bebita.
And if he hadn't, then where was she?
This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her recognition,intrusive as Banquo's ghost and as terrible. She writhed under itstorment, twisting and turning until her clothes were wound about her ina tangled coil, moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled fromgrisly possibilities.
She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad of any interruption shesat up, and, swinging her feet to the floor, called out a sharp "Comein." A bell-boy entered with a letter which he presented with theinformation that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be broughtimmediately to the rooms. The letter was for her, addressed intypewriting, and as the boy withdrew she rose, heavy-eyed andheavy-headed, and tore open the envelope. The first line brought a thin,choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless, her glancedevouring the words. Dated the day before, typewritten on a single sheetof commercial paper, it ran as follows:
"Mrs. Suzanne Price,
"_Dear Madam:_
"We have your little girl. She is safe with us and will continue to be if you act in good faith and accede to our demands. We frankly state that our object in taking her was ransom and we are now ready to enter upon negotiations with you. This, however, only upon certain conditions. All transactions between us must be conducted with absolute secrecy. If any member of your family is told, if the police are notified, be assured that we will know it, and that it will react upon your child. Let it be clearly understood--if you inform against us, if you make an attempt to trap or apprehend us, she will pay the price. We hold her as a hostage; her fate is in your hands. If, however, you know of a person in no wise involved or connected with you or your family, having no personal interest in the matter, and of whose discretion and reliability you are convinced, we are willing to deal through them. Copy the form below, fill in blank spaces with name and address and insert in _Daily Record_ personals.
"(Name)..................................
"(Address)...............................
"S. O. S.
"_Clansmen._"
Suzanne's hand holding the paper dropped to her side and she lookedabout the room with eyes vacant and unseeing. All her outward forceswere shocked into temporary suspension; for a moment she had norealization of where or who she was. The letter was the only fact sherecognized and sentences from it chased through her consciousness: "Wehold her as a hostage, her fate is in your hands. She is safe with us ifyou accede to our demands." She saw them written on the walls, theyboomed in her ears like notes of doom. It was confirmation of thatinstinct she had tried to smother; like the wand of a baleful genii ithad transformed her nightmare fancies into sinister reality.
She felt a shriek rising to her lips and pressed her hand against them.Secrecy, silence, her stunned brain had grasped that and directed herrestraining hand. Then the one deep feeling of her shallow nature calledher shattered faculties into order. Love lent her power, steadied her,gave her the will to act.
She sat down on the sofa and read the letter again, slowly, getting itsfull significance. For the first time in her life responsibility wascast upon her; she could throw the burden on no one else. By her ownefforts, by her own courage and initiative, she must get Bebita back.She whispered it over, "I must do it. I must do it myself," then fellsilent, her face stony in its tension of thought. Suddenly its rigiditybroke; in an illuminating flash she saw the first step clear, and risingran to the telephone. The person she called up was Larkin. He answeredhimself and she told him she wanted to see him on a matter of greatimportance and would come at once to his office.
Fifteen minutes later, her face hidden by a chiffon veil, her rumpledsmartness covered with a silk motor coat, she was knocking at his door.
Mr. Larkin's office was cool and shady, the blinds half lowered to keepout the glare of the afternoon sun. In the midst of its airy neatness,surrounded by an imposing array of desks, card cabinets, typewriters andfiles, Mr. Larkin was waiting alone for his important client.
She dropped into the chair he set for her, and, pushing up her veil,revealed a countenance so bereft of the petulant prettiness he knew,that he started and stood gazing in open concern. The sight of hisastonishment caused the tears to well into Suzanne's eyes, drowned andsunken by past floods, and her story to break without prelude from herlips.
Larkin's surprise at her appearance gave place to a tight-grippedinterest when he grasped the main fact of her narrative. He let her runthrough it without interruption nodding now and then, a frowningsidelong glance on her face.
When she had finished he drew a deep breath and said:
"The moment I
saw you, I knew something was wrong. But this--" he raisedhis hands and let them drop on the desk--"Good Lord! I hadn't an idea itwas anything so serious."
But she hadn't finished--the worst, the thing that had brought her--shehad yet to tell. And she began about the letter received an hour ago. Atthat Larkin forgot his sympathies, was the detective again, hardlyconcealing his impatience as he watched her fumbling at the cords of herpurse. Finally extracted and given to him he read it, once and thenagain, Suzanne eyeing him like a hungry dog.
"Last evening," he muttered after a scrutiny of the postmark, "GrandCentral Station." Then he rose, went to the window and, jerking up theblind, held the paper against the light, sniffed at it, and felt itstexture between his thumb and finger. Suzanne saw him shake his head,her avid glance following him as he came back to the desk and studiedthe sheet through a magnifying glass.
"Nothing to be got that way," he said. "Typepaper--impossible to trace.No amateur business about this."
Suzanne's voice was husky:
"Do you mean it's professional people--a gang?"
"I can't say exactly. But from what you tell me--the way it wasaccomplished, the plan of action--I should be inclined to think it wasthe work of more than one person--possibly a group--who had ability andexperience."
Suzanne, clutching at the corner of the desk with a trembling hand,cried in her misery:
"Oh, Mr. Larkin, you don't think they'll hurt her. They wouldn't _dare_to hurt her?"
The detective's glance was kindly but grave:
"Mrs. Price, I'll speak frankly. I think your child is in the hands of apretty desperate person or persons. But I have no apprehension thatthey'll do her any harm. They don't want to do that--it's too dangerous.What they might do if their plans fail is a thing we'll notconsider--it'll only weaken your nerve. And that's what you've got tokeep hold of. You'll get her back all right, but you must be cool andbrave."
"I'll be anything; I'll be like another person. I'll _do_ anything. Noone need be afraid I'll be weak or silly _now_."
"Good--that's the way to talk. Now let me know a little about the waythe situation stands. It's odd I've seen nothing about this in thepapers--heard nothing. Your family must be active in some direction.What are they doing?"
A sudden color burnt in her wasted cheeks.
"They suspect my husband. They think he did it--to--to--get square. We'dquarreled--separated--and he'd made threats."
"Ah, yes, yes, I see--kidnaped his own child, and they're keeping itquiet. I understand perfectly. But _you_ didn't believe this?"
She shook her head and bit on her underlip to control its trembling.
"No--I couldn't, though I tried to. I knew he wouldn't have doneit--it's not--it's not--like him. And then while I was thinking theletter came, and I knew, no matter what they thought, no matter what thefacts were, that _that_ was true."
"Um," Larkin, his mouth compressed, nodded in understanding. "You wouldknow better than any one else. In these matters instinct is one of themost important factors." He was silent for a moment, then looked at her,a glance of piercing question. "Do I understand that you are willing toenter into these negotiations?"
"Willing!" she cried. "Why should I be here if I wasn't willing?"
"Yes, yes, exactly, but let us understand one another. What I mean isare you willing--realizing what they are--to deal with them on their ownterms? In short, pay them what they ask and let them go?"
"Of course." She almost cried it out in her effort to make himcomprehend her position. "_That's_ what I want to do; that's why Ihaven't told any of my own people and won't. I'd have gone straight tomy mother with this but I knew she wouldn't agree to it, she'd get thepolice, want to fight them and bring them to justice."
"Could you be relied on to maintain the secrecy necessary?"
"I can be relied on for anything. Oh, Mr. Larkin, if you knew what Ifeel you wouldn't waste time asking these questions."
He answered very gently:
"Mrs. Price, I appreciate your feelings to the full, but this is ahazardous undertaking. You don't want to rush into it without realizingwhat it means. There is the question of money for example--the ransom.Your family is known for its wealth. You can be pretty certain that theparties you're dealing with will hold the child for a large sum."
Suzanne clasped her hands on her breast and the tears, brimming in hereyes, spilled over, falling in a trickle down her cheeks.
"Oh, what's money!" she wailed. "I'd give all the money I have, I'veever had, I ever thought of having, to get my baby back."
Larkin was moved. He looked away from that pitiful, quivering face andhis voice showed a slight huskiness as he answered:
"Well, that's all right, Mrs. Price--and don't take it so hard, don'tlet your fears get the upper hand. There's no harm can come to her; it'sto their interest to take care of her. If we do our part cleverly,follow their instructions and keep our heads, you'll have her back in notime." He stopped, arrested by a sudden thought. "I say 'we,' but maybeI'm presupposing too much. Was it your intention to ask for myassistance?"
She dashed her tears away and leaned forward in eager urgence:
"Of course--that's why I came. And you will give it--you will? Theletter says it has to be some one having no ties or interests with thefamily--some one I could trust. I couldn't think of any one at first,and then when I remembered you it was like an inspiration. Oh, you mustdo it--I'll pay you anything if you will."
Larkin's face satisfied her; she dropped back with a moan of relief.
"I'll undertake it willingly--not only to give you any help I can, butbecause it will be a good thing for me. Don't be shocked at my plainspeaking, but I want to be frank and straight with you. I'm notreferring to pay--we can arrange about that later--it's work done forthe Janney family, successful work. And with your cooeperation, Mrs.Price, this is going to be successful. Now let's get to business." Hepicked up the letter and glanced over it. "Headed 'Clansmen' and signed'S. O. S.' I'll copy it, insert my name and address, and have it into-morrow's _Daily Record_. Then we'll see what happens."
He smiled at her, reassuring and kindly. There was no response in hertragic face.
"It may be days before they answer," she murmured.
But he was determined to uphold her fainting spirit.
"I think not. They want to end this thing as quickly as they can--gettheir loot and go. You've got to remember that their position isterribly dangerous and at the first sign from us they'll get busy."
She rose, took the letter and put it in her purse:
"I hope to Heaven you're right. It's so awful to wait."
"I don't think you'll have to. They'll see our answer to-morrow morningand I'll expect a move from them by that evening or the next day. Ifthey communicate with me, I'll let you know at once, and if you hear, dothe same by me. It's going to be all right. Keep up your courage andremember--not a word or a sign to any one."
"Oh, I know," she said, drawing down her veil with limp hands, "youneedn't be afraid I'll spoil it. You thought me a fool, perhaps, when Ifirst consulted you, and I _was_, bothering about things that didn'tmatter--jewels! There isn't one of us that hasn't forgotten all aboutthem now. Good-by. No, don't come out with me. I have a taxi waiting."