XII
Thursday afternoon I was sitting in the Exchange, feeling as if thebottom had fallen out of the world. I hadn't given up yet--I'm not thegiving-up kind--but I _couldn't_ think of anything else to do. I'dtossed on my bed all night thinking, I'd dressed thinking, I'd tried toeat thinking, I'd put in the plugs and made the connectionsthinking--and nothing would come.
Two days more--two days more--two days more--those three words keptgoing through my head as if they were strung on an endless chain.
And then--isn't it always that way in life? Just when you're ready tothrow up the sponge and say you're beaten, Bang--it comes!
It came in the shape of a New York call for Azalea.
Like a dream, for I was pretty nearly all in, I could hear theoperator's voice:
"That you, Longwood? Give me Azalea, 383."
And then me answering:
"All right. Azalea 383. Wait a minute."
I plugged in and heard that queer grating sound as if the wires wererubbing against each other:
"Hello, New York. All right for Azalea 383."
And then a woman's voice, clear and small.
"Here's your party. Just a minute. There you are--Azalea 383."
Then a man's voice far away as if it might be in Mars:
"Hello, is that Azalea 383?"
"Yep--the Azalea Garage," that was close and plain.
"This is Mr. Cokesbury's butler----" Believe _me_, I came to life."Cokesbury, Cokesbury of Cokesbury Lodge--get it?"
"Yep."
"I've a message for Miner--the manager."
"Fire away, I'm Miner."
"He wants to know if you found a raincoat in that auto he had from youlast time he was down? _Raincoat_, waterproof. Do you hear?"
"Yes sir, I hear perfect. We've got it and I'd 'a' sent it back but Ithought he'd be down again any time and it was just as well to keep ithere."
"That's all right. The coat doesn't matter--but he's lost a key thatdoes. Thinks maybe he left it in the pocket. Have you found any key?"
"I haven't looked. Hold the wire while I see?"
There was a pause while I prayed no one would come in or call up. Myprayer was answered. There was nothing to interrupt when I heard thegarage man's voice again:
"The key's there."
"Good work! Mr. Cokesbury's had the house here upside down looking forit. He wants you to do it up careful and give it to Sands the Pullmanconductor on the six-twenty to-night. I'll come across and get it offhim at Jersey City."
"All right. Will I send the raincoat along, too?"
"No, he don't want that. He's goin' to Europe Saturday and I guess he'scalculating to buy a new one. Thanks for your trouble. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
I dropped the cam, sat tight, and thought. People kept coming in and outand calls came flashing along the wires and I worked swift and steadylike an operator that's got no thought but for what's before her.
But my mind was working like a steam engine underneath. How could I gethim--how could I get him? It was as if I had two brains, one on the topthat went mechanical like a watch and one below that was doing the realbusiness.
Before the afternoon was over I'd decided on a line of action.
I called up Katie Reilly and asked her if she'd relieve me atfive-thirty instead of six--that I'd an invitation to go down to a partyat Jersey City and I was keen to get there early. She agreed and at sixI was on the platform of the station waiting for the New York train.
I took a seat in the common coach and at Azalea watched from the windowand saw a man on the platform give Sands a packet. I knew Sands well andwhen he passed back through my car nodded to him and he stopped andstood in the aisle talking.
It wasn't long before I said, careless:
"I hear Cokesbury Lodge is for rent."
"I ain't heard it," said Sands, "but I ain't surprised. Now he's senthis family away he don't want a house that size on his hands."
"Has he been down lately?"
"No--not for--lemme see--it's several weeks. Yes--the last time was theSunday before Sylvia Hesketh's murder."
I knew all that but it doesn't do to jump at what you're after tooquick.
"Lucky for him he could prove his car was on the blink that time," Isaid, looking languid out of the window.
"Sure. He and Reddy were the only ones of her fellers within strikingdistance. But no one ever'd suspicion Cokesbury. He ain't the murderin'kind, too jolly and easy. I hear he's goin' to Europe."
"Is he now? Where'd you hear that?"
"From Miner, that runs the Azalea Garage. He come down to the stationjust now and gave me a package. Something Cokesbury left in the motorthe last time he was down. I'm to hand it over to his servant at JerseyCity."
"Is it love letters that he don't want to leave behind?"
"No, I guess he's careful of them. Here it is," he drew out of hisbreast pocket an envelope with Cokesbury's name and address written onit and held it out to me. "That ain't no love letter."
I pinched it.
"It's a key. It may open the desk where the love letters are kept."
"I guess he's too fly to keep any dangerous papers like that around."
"Yes," I says, "they might set the house on fire."
"Well, ain't you the sassy kid," says he and then the train slowing upfor a station he walked on up the aisle.
In the Jersey City depot I went like a streak for the TelephoneExchange. My one chance was to catch him at dinner and I gave theoperator the number of his house. When she pointed to the booth I wastrembling like a leaf.
The voice that answered me was a woman's--Irish--the cook's, I guess.She began right off: "Yes, this is Mr. Cokesbury's residence, but youcan't see him."
"Wait," I almost screamed, scared that she was going to disconnect,"this is important. It's about a key I've just found. If Mr. Cokesbury'sthere tell him a lady wants to see him about a key she picked up a fewminutes ago on the New Jersey train."
"All right. Hold the wire."
I knew he'd come. My heart was beating so I had to hold it hard with myfree hand and I had to bite my lips to make them limber. But, honest toGod, when I heard him--clear and distinct right in my ear--I thought Iwas going to faint. For at last I'd got the Voice!
"What's this about finding a key?" he said gruff and sharp.
"Am I speaking to Mr. Cokesbury?"
"You are. Who is it?"
"No one you know, sir. I've just come in from Philadelphia and on thePullman step I found a package which seems to have a key in it. Inoticed that it was addressed to you and I looked you up in thetelephone book and am phoning now from Jersey City."
He was very cordial then. His voice was the same deep, pleasant one he'dused to Sylvia.
"That's very kind of you and very thoughtful. I can't thank you enough.The package was given to the Pullman conductor and he's evidentlydropped it."
"Then shall I give it to the Pullman conductor now?"
"If you'll be so kind. My servant's gone over there to get it. Just handit to the conductor--a tall, thin man, whose name is Sands."
"I'll do it right off. Ain't it lucky I found it?"
"Very. I'm deeply grateful. It would have put me to the greatestinconvenience if it had been lost. I'd like to know to whom I'mindebted."
"Oh, that don't need to bother you. I'm just a passenger traveling downon the train. Awful glad I could be of any service. Good-bye."
I waited a minute till I got my heart quieted down, then took a call forBabbitts' paper. Luck was with me all round that night, for he wasthere. I couldn't tell him everything--I was afraid--but I told himenough to show him I'd landed Cokesbury and he answered to come acrossto town and he'd meet me at the Ferry. I caught a boat as it pulled outof the slip and at the other side he was waiting for me.
"Come on," he said, putting his hand through my arm and walking quickfor the street, "I got a taxi here. We'll charge it up to the defense."
I got in, supposing he wa
s going to take me somewhere to dinner, but hewasn't. When I heard where we were bound I was sort of scared--it was toWilbur Whitney's house, Jack Reddy's lawyer.
"He's expecting us," Babbitts explained. "I called him up right afterI'd heard from you. You see, Kiddo, we don't want to lose a minute forwe can't stop Cokesbury going unless we got something to stop him for."
Mr. Whitney's house was a big, grand mansion just off Fifth Avenue. Abutler let us in and without waiting to hear who we were showed us intoa room with lights in bunches along the walls, small spindly gold chairsand sofas, and a floor that shone like glass between elegant soft rugs.There was some class to it and Babbitts and I looked like a pair oftramps sitting side by side on two of the gold chairs. I was nervous butBabbitts kept me up, telling me Mr. Whitney was a delightful gentlemanand was going to jump for all I had to say. Then we heard steps comingdown the stairs--two people--and I swallowed hard being dry in themouth, what with fright and having had no supper.
Mr. Whitney was the real thing. He was a big man, with a square jaw andeyes deep in under thick eyebrows. He spoke so easy and friendly thatyou forgot how awful sharp and keen those eyes were and how they watchedyou all the time you were talking. A young man came with him--a realclassy chap--that he introduced to me as his son, George.
They couldn't have acted more cordial to me and Babbitts if we'd beenthe King and Queen of Spain. When they sat down and asked me to tellthem what I knew I loosened up quite natural and told the whole story.
The young man sat sideways on the gold sofa, smoking a cigarette andlooking into the air with his eyes narrowed up as if he was spying atsomething a long ways off. Mr. Whitney was sort of slouched down in aneasy chair with his hands--white as a woman's--hanging over the arms.Now and then he'd ask me a question--always begging my pardon forinterrupting--and though they were so calm and quiet I could feel, as ifit was in the air, that they were concentrated close on every word Isaid.
When I got through Mr. Whitney said, very cheerful, as if I'd beentelling some yarn in a story book:
"That's very interesting, Miss Morganthau, and very well told. Quite anarrative gift, eh George?" and he looked at his son.
"First-class story," said George, and as careless as you please flickedoff his cigarette ashes on the rug.
Mr. Whitney leaned forward clasping his big white hands between hisknees and looking into my face, half-smiling but with something terriblekeen behind the smile.
"How can you be so sure of the voice, Miss Morganthau? I don't knowwhether on the phone I could recognize the voice of my own son here."
"You get that way in my work," I answered. "Your ear gets trained forvoices."
"You're absolutely certain," said young Mr. Whitney, "that in thatmessage you overheard, the man spoke of coming to the meeting place inhis auto?"
"Yes, sir, I'm certain he said that."
He turned and looked at his father.
"And investigations have shown he had no auto, he telephoned to no othergarage for one, he kept no horses, and to get there on his own feet,would have had to walk through bad country roads a distance oftwenty-five miles."
"Um," answered old Mr. Whitney as if he wasn't interested and then hesaid to me: "In this message you heard to-day no suggestion was given ofwhat that key was the key of?"
"No, sir. The man just said it was important and Mr. Cokesbury'd had thehouse upside down looking for it."
"Um," said Mr. Whitney again. "I rather fancy, Miss Morganthau, you'vedone us a double service; in hunting for a voice, you've stumbled on akey."
Young Mr. Whitney laughed.
"It's probably the key of his front door."
"Perhaps," said his father, and looked down on the carpet as if he wasthinking.
Then Babbitts spoke up:
"Don't criminals, no matter how careful they are, often overlook somesmall clew that maybe is the very thing that gives them away?"
"Often," said Mr. Whitney. "In most crimes there's a curious lack ofattention to detail. The large matters are well conceived and skillfullycarried out. And then some minor point is neglected, sometimesforgotten, sometimes not realized for its proper value."
He got up and shook himself like a big bear and we all rose to our feet.I was feeling pretty fine, not only the relief of having delivered thegoods, but proud of myself for getting through the interview so well.Mr. Whitney added to it by saying:
"You're a pretty smart girl, Miss Morganthau. _You_ don't know and _I_don't know yet the full value of the work you've done for me and myclient. But whatever the outcome may be you've shown an energy andkeenness of mind that is as surprising as it is unusual."
I just swelled up with importance and didn't know what to say. BehindMr. Whitney I could see Babbitts' face, all beaming and grinning, and Iwas so glad he was there to hear. And then--just when I was at thetop-notch of my pride--Mr. George Whitney, who'd been silent for awhile, said suddenly:
"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Morganthau, I'd like to know whatlucky chance made you listen in to that conversation between MissHesketh and the Unknown Man."
Believe me I came down to earth with a thud. How could I tell them? SayI listened to everything in the hope of hearing Jack Reddy talking toSylvia. I looked down on the floor, feeling my cheeks getting as red asfire.
"Go ahead," said Babbitts. "Don't be afraid to say anything."
"We're as close here as the confessional," said old Mr. Whitney, smilingat me like a father.
I had to say something and took what seemed to me the most natural.
"I'd heard Miss Hesketh was a great one for jollying up the men and Iwanted to hear how she did it."
And they all--that means Babbitts, too--just burst out and _roared_.
"Good for you, Miss Morganthau," said Mr. Whitney, and he put his handon my shoulder and gave it a shake. "Only I'll bet a hat you didn't needany teaching."
He turned to his son and said something about "the car being there," andthen back to me:
"Now for a few days, Miss Morganthau, I'll expect you to be off duty ina place accessible by telephone."
"Off duty!" I exclaimed. "How can I do that?"
He smiled in his easy way and said:
"We'll attend to that, don't you worry about it. Go home and stay theretill you get a call from me. If anyone asks what's the matter say you'reill and laid off for a few days. Don't bother about reporting at theoffice; that'll be arranged. And I need hardly tell you not to speak aword of what you've discovered or of this interview here to-night."
"She won't," said Babbitts. "I'll go bail for that."
He gave Mr. George Whitney Mrs. Galway's telephone number and then weshook hands all round. I was just wondering what was the quickest way tothe Ferry when Mr. Whitney said:
"The motor's waiting for you and I'm sure Mr. Babbitts will escort youto the boat. Good night and remember--hold yourself ready for a call tocome to my office."
The car waiting outside was Mr. Whitney's own. Gee, it was swell! Afootwarmer and a fur rug and a clock and a bottle of salts for me tosniff at. I didn't tell Babbitts I'd had no dinner, for I was ashamed tohave the chauffeur stop at the kind of joints we patronize, and so Ibore the ache in my insides and tried to believe the footwarmer and thesalts made up for it.