CHAPTER II
MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
The Black Eagle Building is part-way downtown--not one of theskyscrapers that crowd together on the tip of the Island's tongue andnot one of the advance guard squeezing in among the mansions of therich, darkening their windows and spoiling their chimney draughts--poor,suffering dears!
As I came up the subway stairs I could see it bulking up above theroofs, a long narrow shape, with its windows shining in the sun. Itstood on a corner presenting a great slab of wall to the side street andits front to Broadway. There were two entrances, the main one--with aneagle in a niche over the door--on Broadway, and a smaller one on theside street. There is only one other very high building near there--theMassasoit--facing on Fifth Avenue, its back soaring above the smallhouses that look like a line of children's toys.
My way was along the side street, chilled by the shadow of the building,and as I passed the small entrance I stopped and looked up. The wallrose like a rampart, story over story, the windows as similar and evenas cells in a honeycomb. Way up, the cornice cut the blue with its darkline. It was from that height the suicide had jumped. I thought of himthere, standing on the window ledge, making ready to leap. Ugh! it wastoo horrible! I shuddered and walked on, pressing my chin into my furand putting the picture out of my mind.
When I turned the corner into Broadway it was brighter. The sun wasshining on the outspread wings of the eagle in his niche and turning theicicles that hung from the window ledges into golden fringes. Near theentrance a man in a checked jumper and peaked cap was breaking away thebits of ice that stuck to the sidewalk with a long-handled thing like aspade. And all about were people, queer, mangy-looking men and somewomen, standing staring at the pavement and then craning their necks andsquinting up through the sunlight at the top of the building.
I sized up the man in the jumper as a janitor, and for all he seemed sobusy, you could see he was really hanging round for an excuse to talk.He'd pick at a tiny piece of ice and skate it over careful into thegutter when in ordinary times he'd have let it lie there, a menace tothe public's bones. Every now and then one of the people standing roundwould ask him a question and he'd stop in his scraping and try to lookweary while he was just bursting to go all over it again.
"Where did he fall?" asked a chap in a reach-me-down overcoat, fringy atthe cuffs, "there?" and pointed into the middle of the street. Thejanitor gave him a scornful glance, let go his hoe and spat on his hand.He spoke with a brogue:
"No, not there. Nor there neither," he pointed some distance downBroadway. "But there," and that time he struck on the edge of the curbwith his hoe.
A girl who was passing slowed up, her face all puckered with horror:
"Did he come down with a crash?"
The janitor drew himself up, raised his eyebrows and looked at her fromunder his eyelids like she was a worm:
"Is fallin' from the top of the buildin' like steppin' from a limousineon to a feather bed?" He turned wearily to his hoe and spoke to it as ifit was the only thing in sight that had any sense. "Crash! What'll theybe after askin' next?" Then he suddenly got quite excited, raised hisvoice and stuck out his chin at the girl. "Why, the glasses off his nosewas nearly to the next corner. Didn't I meself find the mounts of themsix feet from his body? And not a bit of glass left. There's where I gotthem--in the mud," he pointed out into the street and everyone lookedfixedly at the place. "Crash--and the pore corpse no more than a sack ofbones."
An old man with a white beard who'd been standing on the curb examiningthe street as if he expected to find a treasure there said:
"Struck on his head, eh?"
"He did," said the janitor in a loud voice. "An' if you'd listen to meyou'd have known it without me tellin' yer."
The girl, who was sort of peeved at the way he answered her, spoke up:
"You never told it at all! You only spoke about the glasses."
The janitor gave her a look sort of enduring and patient as if, shebeing a woman, he'd got to treat her gentle even if she _was_ a fool.
"Say, young lady," says he, "I'm not goin' to bandy words with you. Haveit any way you like. _I_ was here, _I_ seen it, I seen the corpse lyin'all bunched up, I seen the crowd, I seen the amberlanch, and I seen Mr.Harland's clerk come down and identify the body--but maybe I don't know.Take it or leave it--any way you choose."
The people snickered and looked at the girl, who got red and walked offmuttering. The janitor went back to picking at a piece of ice as big asa half dollar, watching out for the next one to come along.
I hadn't phoned to Iola this time and it being an unusual occasion Idecided to go up. There were men in the entrance hall talking togetherin groups and from every group I could hear the name of Harland comingin low tones. In the elevator when the other passengers had got out, theboy looked at me and said:
"Tough what happened here last night, ain't it?"
I agreed with him and as we shot up with the floors flashing between theiron grills, _he_ had _his_ little say about it. One of the things thatseemed to trouble him most was that he hadn't been there, as the expresselevator which he ran was broken early in the afternoon and he'd gonehome before the event.
The corridor of the seventeenth floor was a bare, clean place, allshining stone, not a bit of wood about it but the doors. At one end wasa window looking out on the Broadway side and near it the stairs wentdown, concrete with a metal balustrade. I'd asked for Miss Whitehall'soffice and as I got out of the car the boy had said, "First door to yourleft, Azalea Woods Estates." There were two doors on each side, theupper halves ground glass with gold lettering. Those to the right had"The Hudson Electrical Company" on them and those to the left "AzaleaWoods Estates" with under that "Anthony Ford, Manager."
As I walked toward the first of these I could see out of the window thegreat back of the Massasoit Building, tan color against the bright blueof the sky. Pausing before I rang the bell, I leaned against the windowledge and spied down. The street looked like a small, narrow gully,dotted with tiny black figures, and the houses that fronted on it,extending back to the Massasoit, no bigger than match boxes.
I pressed the bell and as I waited turned and looked down the corridor,stretching away in its shiny scoured cleanness between the shut doors ofoffices. Just beyond the elevator shafts there was a branch hall andalong the polished floor I could see the white, glassy reflection ofanother window. That was on the side street, one of those I had lookedup at, and as I was thinking that, the door opened slowly and Iolapeered out, with her eyes big and scared and a sandwich in her hand.
"Good gracious, Molly!" she cried. "I'm so glad to see you. Come in."
I hesitated, almost whispering:
"Will Miss Whitehall mind?"
"She's not here. I had a phone this morning to say she was sick andwouldn't be down, and Mr. Ford's gone out to lunch." She took me by thehand and pulled me in, shutting the door. "Jerusalem, but it's good tosee you. I'm that lonesome sitting here I'm ready to cry."
She didn't look very chipper. Usually she's a pretty girl, the slim,baby-eyed, delicate kind, with a dash of powder on the nose and a touchof red on the lips to help out. But today she looked sort of peaked andshriveled up, the way those frail little wisps of girls do at the leastjar.
"Isn't it awful?" she said as soon as she'd got me in--"Just the floorabove us!"
I didn't want her to talk about it, but she was like the janitor--only agag would stop her. So I let her run on while I looked round and took inthe place.
It was a fine, large room, two windows in the front and two more on thesides. The furniture was massive and rich-looking and the rugs on thefloor as soft to your foot as the turf in the Park. On the walls wereblue and white maps, criss-crossed with lines, and pictures of houses,in different styles. But the thing that got me was a little model of acottage on a table by the window. It was the cutest thing you eversaw--all complete even to the blinds in the windows and the awning overthe piazza. I was looking at it when Iola, ha
ving got away with thesandwich, said:
"Come on in to Mr. Ford's office while I finish my lunch. I got to getthrough with it before he comes back."
I followed her into the next room, nearly as large as the one we'd beenin, with a wide window and in the center a big roll-top desk. On theedge of this stood a pasteboard box, with some crumpled wax paper in itand an orange. Iola sat down in the swivel chair and picking up theorange began to peel it.
"I hardly ever do this," she explained, "but I thought Miss Whitehallwouldn't mind today as I felt so mean I couldn't face going out tolunch. And then it was all right as she won't be down and I'll have itall cleared off before Mr. Ford comes back."
"Would he be mad?"
You ought to have seen the look she gave me.
"Mad--Tony Ford? It's easy seen you don't know him. She wouldn't sayanything either. She's awful considerate. But she's so sort of grand anddignified you don't like to ask favors off her."
"Was she here when it happened last night?"
"I don't know, but I guess not. She generally leaves a little beforesix. Thanks be to goodness, she told me I could go home early yesterday.I was out of the building by half-past five." She broke the orange apartand held out a piece. "Have a quarter?" I shook my head and she went on."We're all out of here soon after six. Tony Ford generally stays lastand shuts up. Did you see all the papers this morning?"
"Most of them. Why?"
"I was wondering if any of them knew that Mr. Harland and Mr. Barkerwere both in here yesterday afternoon."
"It wasn't in any of the papers I saw."
"Well, they were--the two of them. And I didn't know but what thereporters, nosing round for anything the way they do, mightn't haveheard it. Not that there was anything out of the ordinary about it. Sheknew them both. Mr. Harland's been in here a few times and Mr. Barkeroften."
"Why did _he_ come?" I said, surprised, for Iola had never told methey'd the magnate for a customer.
"Business," she looked at me over the orange that she was sucking, hereyes sort of intent and curious. "Didn't I tell you that? He was goingto buy a piece of land in the Azalea Woods Estates and build a house forhis niece."
"Seems to me," I said, "that the press'll be interested to know aboutthose two visits."
"Well, if any reporters come snooping round here Tony Ford told me torefer them to him or Miss Whitehall, and that's what I'm going to do."
"What time was Mr. Harland here?"
"A little after four. He and Miss Whitehall went into the private officeand had a talk. And I'll bet a new hat that he hadn't no more idea ofsuicide then than you have now, sitting there before me. When he cameout he was all smiles, just as natural and happy as if he was going hometo a chicken dinner and a show afterward."
"All the papers think it was what Mr. Barker said that drove him to it."
"And they're right for a change--not that I'm saying anything againstthe press with your husband in it. But it does make more mistakes thanany printed matter _I_ ever read, except the cooking receipts on theoutside of patent foods. It was Barker that put the crimp in _him_."
"Then Barker came in afterward?"
"Yes, just before I left. And he and she went into the private office."
I turned in my chair and looked through the open doorway into the thirdroom of the suite.
"Is that the private office?" I asked.
"Yes," says Iola with a giggle, "that's its society name, but Mr. Fordcalls it the Surgery."
Before I could ask her why Mr. Ford called it that, the bell rang andshe jumped up, squashing the orange peel and bits of paper back in thebox.
"Here, you go and answer it," I said, "I'll hide this." She went intothe front office and as I pushed the box out of sight on a shelf I couldhear her talking to a man at the door. The conversation made me standstill listening.
The man's voice asked for Miss Whitehall, Iola answering that she wasn'tthere.
"Where is she?" said the man, gruff and abrupt it seemed to me.
"In her own home--she hasn't come down today at all."
"Is she coming later?"
"No, she's sick in bed."
There was a slight pause and then he said:
"Well, I got to see her. I've notes here that are overdue and theendorsee's dead."
"Endorsee?" came Iola's little pipe, full of troubled surprise, "who'she?"
"Hollings Harland who killed himself last night. What's her address?"
I could hear Iola giving it and the man muttering it over. Then therewas a gruff "Good morning" and the door snapped shut.
Iola came back, her eyes big, her expression wondering.
"What do you suppose that means?" she said.
I didn't know exactly myself but--notes, endorsee dead!--it had a badsound. As Iola reached down her lunch box and tied it up, talkinguneasily about the man and what he'd wanted, I remembered the gossip inNew Jersey when Miss Whitehall started her land scheme. There'd beenrumors then that maybe she was backed, and if Hollings Harland had beenbehind it--My goodness! you couldn't tell what might happen. But Iwasn't going to say anything discouraging to Iola, so to change thesubject I moved to the door of the private office and looked in.
"Why does Mr. Ford call this the surgery?"
At the mention of the managing clerk Iola brightened up and said with asmirk:
"Because it's where Miss Whitehall chloroforms her clients with herbeauty and performs the operation of separating them from their money.He's always saying cute things like that."
We stood in the doorway and looked in. It was a smaller room than theothers, but furnished just as richly, with a mahogany center table, bigleather-covered armchairs and photographs of foreign views on the walls.In one corner was an elegant, gold-embossed screen, that, when I spiedbehind it, I saw hid a washstand. It was the last room of the suite andhad only one door that led into the office we'd been sitting in. In theoutside wall was a window from which you could see way over the city--awonderful view.
I walked to it and looked out. Over the roofs and chimneys I caught aglimpse of the Hudson, a silvery gleam, and the Hoboken hills beyond.Pressing my forehead against the glass I glimpsed down the sheer drop ofthe walls to the roof of a church--a flat, black oblong with a squattydome at one end--squeezed as close as it could get against the lowerstories. Back of that were old houses, dwellings that would soon beswept away, the yards behind them narrow strips with the separatingfences as small as lines made by a pencil.
I was so interested that for a moment I forgot Iola, but she brought meback with a jerk.
"It was in the room above this that Mr. Harland was sitting with Mr.Barker, before it happened."
"You don't say," I answered. "Is it like this?"
"Exactly the same. I've seen it--one day when the boss was away and Iwent up with Della Franks. They were in there just as we are in here andthen he went out this way--"
The door had been partly pushed to and she started to illustrate how hehad left the room, brushing round its edge. Something caught her, therewas a sound of ripping and she stopped, clapping her hand on her back:
"There go my pleats--Ding it!" she craned round over her shoulder tryingto see the back of her skirt. "What's got me? Oh, the key. Well what doyou make of that--caught me like a hook."
She drew her dress off the key, which fell out of the lock on to thefloor.
"It's only ripped," I said consolingly. "I can pin it for you."
"Well, there's always something to be thankful for," she said, as Ipinned her up. "But it's an unlucky day, I can feel _that_. That key'snever before been on the inside of the door." She bent and picked it up."I'd like to know what smart Aleck changed it."
"Probably the scrubwoman."
"I guess so," she grumbled, "put it on the wrong side where it waitedpatiently and then got its revenge on me. Such is life among the lowly."
That night Babbitts was late for dinner. I expected it but Isabella, whosays she never lived out except in families whe
re the husband comes homeat six like a Christian, was getting restive about the chops, when hefinally showed up, tired as a dog.
"My Lord!" he said, as I helped him off with his coat. "What a day!"
"Because of the suicide?"
"Outcome of the suicide and all the rest of it. The wildest panic on theStreet. The Copper Pool's gone smash. Let's have something to eat. I'vehad no lunch and I'm famished."
When we were at table and the edge off his hunger he told me more:
"It began this morning, and this afternoon when there was still no traceof Barker--Gee whizz! it was an avalanche."
"You mean he's _gone_? Disappeared?"
"That's the way it looks. They had their suspicions when they couldn'tfind him last night. And today--nobody knows a thing about him at hishouse or his office, can't account for it, don't understand. Then weturned up something that looked like a clincher. One of his motors, alimousine, and his chauffeur, fellow called Heney, have disappearedtoo."
"What do they say about that at the house?"
"Same thing--know nothing. Nobody was in the garage from six tohalf-past eight. When the other men who sleep there came back Heney andthe limousine were gone."
"Did anyone see Barker at the Black Eagle Building?"
"No--that's the strongest proof that he's decamped. You'd suppose withsuch a scene as that going on he'd have shown up. But not a soul's beenfound who saw him there. If he wanted to slip out quietly he couldeasily have done it. Jerome and the Franks girl say they were soparalyzed they never gave him another thought and he could have passedbehind them, as they stood in the corridor, and gone down by the sidestairs. There's another flight round the corner on the branch hall. Thestreet on that side was deserted--the boys say every human being in theneighborhood was round on the Broadway front."
"But, but," I stammered, for I couldn't understand it all, "what's hedone? What's the reason for his going?"
"Reason!" said Babbitts with a snort. "Believe me, there's reasonenough. Somebody's welched on the Copper Pool and they think it's he andthat he's disappeared with twenty million."
"Twenty million! How could he?"
"By selling out on the rest of the crowd. They think he's been sellingcopper to the Pool itself of which he was the head."
"Was that what he and Mr. Harland were supposed to be quarreling aboutyesterday afternoon?"
"Yes. The idea now is that Harland, who was one of the Copper crowd,suspected and accused him, that there was a fierce interview in thecourse of which the lawyer realized he was beaten and ruined."
"Good gracious!" I said. "What are they going to do with him?"
"If he doesn't show up, go after him. A group of ruined financiersdoesn't kneel down and pray for their money to come back. And they'vegot a man looking after their interests who's a lightning striker. Afriend of yours. Guess who?"
"Wilbur Whitney!" I crowed.
"The same," said Babbitts.
"Then," I cried, "they'll have him and the twenty millions served up ona salver before the week's out."
If you don't know the story of the Hesketh Mystery you don't know whoWilbur Whitney is, so I'll tell you here. He's one of the biggestlawyers in New York and one of the biggest men anywhere. You'd as soonsuspect that an insignificant atom like me would know a man like him asthat the palace ashman would know the Czar of Russia, but I do, well--Iguess I'm not stretching things if I say we're friends. The Babbitts andthe Whitneys don't exchange calls, but they think a lot of each otherjust the same. And it's my doing, little Molly's--yes, sir, theex-telephone girl. In the Hesketh case I did a job for Mr. Whitney thatbrought us together, and ever since it's been kindnesses from the bighouse off Fifth Avenue, to the little flat on Ninety-fifth Street. Hedoesn't forget--the real eighteen-carat people never do--and he'll sendme tickets for the opera one night and tip off Soapy to a bit of news sohe'll get a scoop the week after. Oh, he's just _grand_!
And right in his office--Mr. Whitney's assistant this year--is one ofour realest, truest, dearest pals, Jack Reddy. If this is your firstacquaintance with me you don't know much about him and I'll have to giveyou a little sketch of him for he's got a lot to do with this story.
To look at he's just all right, brown with light-colored hair and grayeyes, over six feet and not an ounce of fat on him. It's not becausehe's my friend that I'm saying all this, everybody agrees on it. He'sthirty years old now and not married. That's because of a tragedy in hislife: the girl he loved was killed nearly three years ago. It's a longstory--I can't stop to tell it to you--but it broke him up somethingdreadful, though I and Babbitts and all of us know it was better that heshouldn't have married her. Ever since I've been hoping he'd meet upwith his real affinity, someone who'd be the right woman for him. But hehasn't so far. Babbitts says the girl isn't born I'd think goodenough--but I don't know. I guess in the ninety millions of people we'vegot scattered round this vast republic there's a lady that'll fill thebill.
Once I had a crush on him--Babbitts teases me about it now--but it allfaded away when Himself came along with his curly blond hair and hisdear, rosy, innocent face. But Jack Reddy's still a sort of hero to me.He showed up so fine in those old dark days and he's showed up fine eversince--don't drop off his pedestal and have to be boosted back. I've putseveral people on pedestals and seen them so unsteady it made menervous, but he's riveted on.
He's got a country place out in New Jersey--Firehill--where he used tolive. But since he's been with Mr. Whitney he stays in town, only goingout there in summer. His apartment's down near Gramercy Park--an elegantplace--where his two old servants, David and Joanna Gilsey, keep housefor him and treat him like he was their only son. Babbitts and I gothere often, and Gee, we do have some eats!
"Well," I said, wagging my head proud and confident at Babbitts, "ifWilbur Whitney and Jack Reddy are out to find that Barker man, they'lldo it if he burrows through to China."