Part 15

"My wife's up-stairs," he said. "No need of screaming so she'll be butting in again. Shut that door."

Clancy leaped back. She gained the stairs in a bound. She crouched down upon them, hoping that the banisters would shield her. But no prying eyes sought her out. One of the two men in the room closed the dining-room door.

For a minute after it was shut, Clancy remained crouching. She had to _think_. A dozen impulses raced through her mind. To telephone Vandervent, the judge? To run out upon the street and call for a policeman? As swiftly as they came to her, she discarded them. She had begun to glean in recent days something of what was meant by the word "evidence." And she had none against Carey. Not yet!

But she could get it! She _must_ get it! Sitting on the stairs, trembling--with excitement now, not fear--Clancy fought for clarity of thought. What to do? There must be some one correct thing, some action demanded by the situation that later on would cause her to marvel because it had been overlooked. But what was it?

She could not think of the correct thing to do. The elevator-man knew something. He was the same man who had identified her to Spofford, the plain-clothes man. The man assuredly knew the motive that lay behind the request for identification. And now, having told a detective things that made Clancy Deane an object of grave suspicion, the man was blandly--he was mentally bland, if not orally so--blackmailing Don Carey.

Yet Clancy did not disbelieve her ears merely because what she heard sounded incredible. Nor did she, because she believed that the elevator-man had proof of another's guilt, delude herself with the idea that her own innocence was thereby indisputably shown. Her first impulse--to telephone Vandervent--returned to her now. But she dismissed it at once, this time finally.

For a man who brazenly pointed out one person to the police while endeavoring to blackmail another was not the sort of person tamely to blurt out confession when accused of his double-dealing. She had nothing on which to base her accusation of Carey save an overheard threat. The man who had uttered it had only to deny the utterance. Up-stairs was Sophie Carey, torn with anguish, beaten by life and its injustices. The hardness left her eyes again. If she could only be sure that she herself would escape, she would be willing, for Sophie's sake, to forget what she had overheard.

She heard Sophie's voice whispering hoarsely to her from the landing above.

"Miss Deane, Miss Deane!" Then she saw Clancy. Her voice rose, in alarm, above a whisper. "Has he--did he--dare----"

Clancy rose; she ran up the stairs.

"No, no; of course not!" she answered. "I--I twisted my ankle." It was a kindly lie.

It was, Clancy thought, characteristic of Sophie Carey that she forgot her own unhappiness in sympathy for Clancy. The older woman threw an arm about the girl.

"Oh, my dear! You poor thing----"

"It's all right," said Clancy. She withdrew, almost hastily, from the embrace. Postpone it though she might, she was going to bring disgrace upon the name of Carey. She _had_ to--to save herself. She could not endure the other's caress now.

"Who was it?" asked Mrs. Carey.

Clancy averted her eyes.

"I don't know," she said. "I---- The door was closed."

"It doesn't matter," said the older woman. "I--I--I'm nervous. Don is so----" Her speech trailed away into a long sigh. The deep respiration seemed to give her strength. She straightened up. "I'm getting old, I'm afraid. I can't bear my troubles as easily as I used to. I want to force some one to share them with me. You are very kind, Miss Deane. Now----"

She had preceded Clancy into her bedroom. From a desk, she took a slip of paper and a ring from which dangled several keys.

"We're all ready to go," she said. "It only remains to check up my inventory. But I'm quite sure that we can trust you and Sally Henderson"--her smile was apparently quite unforced--"not to cheat us. If there are any errors in my list, Sally can notify me."

She handed Clancy the paper and key-ring. As she did so, the door-bell rang.

Almost simultaneously the door to the dining-room could be heard opening. A moment later, Carey called.

"Ragan's here," he shouted. His voice was surly, like that of a petulant child forced to do something undesirable. Clancy thought that there was more than that in it, that there was the quaver that indicates panic. But Mrs. Carey, who should have been sensitive to any vocal discords in her husband's voice, showed no signs of such sensitiveness.

"Ready in a moment. Send him up," she called.

Ragan was a burly, good-natured Irishman. He grinned at Mrs. Carey's greeting. Here was a servant who adored his mistress, Clancy felt.

"Ready to go to the country, Ragan?" asked Mrs. Carey.

The big man's grin was sufficient answer.

"Ragan," said Mrs. Carey to Clancy, "is the most remarkable man in the world. He can drive a car along Riverside Drive at forty-five miles an hour without being arrested, and he can wait on table like no one else in the world. How's Maria?" she asked him.

"Sure, she's fine," said Ragan. "She's at the station now."

"Where we'll be in ten minutes," said his mistress. She indicated several bags, already packed. Ragan shouldered them. He started down-stairs. Mrs. Carey turned to Clancy. "Hope an empty house doesn't make you nervous," she smiled.

Clancy shook her head. "I'll not be here long, anyway. And isn't your maid here?"

"I think she's gone by now," said Mrs. Carey. "But she'll sleep each night here--until you've found me a tenant. For that matter, she'll be back early this afternoon--to wash dishes and such matters." She was not a person to linger over departures. Her husband had sulkily donned hat and coat and was standing in the hall down-stairs, waiting for her.

So Mrs. Carey held out her hand to Clancy.

"Wish I could ask you to week-end with us sometime, but I don't suppose that the country, in winter-time, means anything in your young life." She seemed to put the statement as a question, almost pleadingly. Impulsively, Clancy answered her.

"Ask me sometime, and find out if it does."

"I'll do that," said Mrs. Carey. "Coming, Don," she called. Her hand clasped Clancy's a moment, and then she trotted down the stairs. The door banged behind them.

A thought came to Clancy. She raised her voice and called. But the door was thick. The Careys could not hear. Frightened, she raced down-stairs. As she passed the dining-room door, she glanced through the opening. Then fear died from her. She had been afraid that the elevator-man from the Heberworth Building still remained in the house. But, when she had seen him talking to Don Carey, his hat and coat were lying on a chair. They were gone now.

Still---- Sudden anger swept over her. This lying, blackmailing thing to frighten Clancy Deane? Anger made her brave to rashness. From the fireplace in the dining-room she picked up a short heavy poker. If he were lurking anywhere in this house, if Don Carey, fearful lest his wife note the sort of person who paid him morning visits, had hidden the man away, she, Clancy Deane, would rout him out. She'd make him tell the _truth_!

Through the dining-room, into the butler's pantry beyond, through the kitchen, to the head of the cellar stairs she marched, holding the poker before her. Her fingers found a switch: the cellar was flooded with light. Without the least timidity, Clancy descended.

But the elevator-man was not there. And as in this tiny house there was but one flight of stairs leading to the upper stories, Clancy knew that the man was not in the house. She suffered reaction. What might have been her fate had she found the man hiding here?

Like all women, Clancy feared the past more than the future. She feared it more than the present. She sank down upon the stairs outside the dining-room. Why, the man might have _shot_ her! What good would her poker have been, pitted against a revolver? And, with the Careys up in the country somewhere, she might have lain here, weltering in her gore--she'd read that somewhere, and grinned as she mentally said it.

Well, she might as well begin the inventory of Mrs. Carey's household effects. But she was not to begin it yet. Some one rang the door-bell.

No weakness assailed Clancy's knees now. Indeed, it never occurred to her that the caller might be any other than the post-man. And so she opened the front door and met the lowering gaze of Spofford, Vandervent's plain-clothes man.

XXVII

Clancy felt no impulse to slam the door in Spofford's face. Instead, she opened it wider.

"Come in," she said.

He stepped across the threshold. Just beyond, he paused uncertainly. And now his lips, which had been sullen, Clancy thought, shaped themselves into a smile that was deprecatory, apologetic.

"I hope I ain't disturbin' you, Miss Deane," he said.

Clancy stared at him. She had never felt so completely in command of a situation.

"That depends," she said curtly. "If you are to annoy me further----"

Spofford's grin was extremely conciliating.

"Aw, don't hit a man when he's down, Miss Deane. Every one has to be a sucker once in a while. It ain't every guy that's willin' to admit it, apologize, and ask for a new deal. Now, if I go that far, don't you think you ought to come a little way and meet me?"

Clancy's eyes widened.

"Suppose," she said, "we sit down."

"Thank you, Miss Deane." Spofford's tone was as properly humble as Clancy could possibly have wished. "A nice little friendly talk, me tryin' to show you I'm a regular guy, and you, maybe, bein, a little helpful. That's it--helpful."

He followed her as she led the way into the drawing-room and he seated himself carefully upon the edge of a chair whose slim legs justified his caution.

Clancy sat down opposite him. She leaned the poker against the wall. Spofford laughed.

"I'll just bet you'd 'a' beaned me one with that as soon as not, eh, Miss Deane?"

Clancy suddenly grew cautious. Perhaps this was an attempt to make her admit that she would not shrink from violence. Detectives were uncanny creatures.

"I should hate to do anything like that," she said.

Spofford guffawed heartily.

"I'd sure hate to have you, Miss Deane. But you don't need to be afraid of me."

"I'm not," said Clancy.

Spofford's nod was the acme of appreciation of a remark that held no particular humor, so far as Clancy could see. He slipped a trifle further back in the chair. He crossed his legs, assisting one fat knee with his hands. He leaned back. From his upper waistcoat pocket he took a cigar.

"You wouldn't mind, would you, Miss Deane? I can talk easier."

The downward and inward jerk of Clancy's chin gave him consent. From his lower waistcoat pocket, attached to the same heavy chain that Clancy assumed secured his watch, Spofford produced a cigar-clipper. Deliberately he clipped the end from the cigar, lighted it, tilted it upward from one corner of his mouth, and leaned toward Clancy.

"Miss Deane, you gotta right to point the door to me; I know it. But--you'd like to know who killed this Beiner guy, wouldn't you? Bein' sort of mixed up in it--bein' involved, so to speak----" His voice died away questioningly.

Despite herself, Clancy sighed with relief. Spofford was really the only man she had to fear. And if he believed in her innocence----

"How do you know I didn't do it?" she demanded.

"Well, it's this way, Miss Deane: When you come into Mr. Vandervent's office and fainted away after announcin' yourself as Florine Ladue, I couldn't quite swallow what you said about playin' a joke. You don't look like the sort of lady that would play that kind of a joke. Anyway, I have a hunch, and I play it. I get this elevator-man from the Heberworth Building to come down to your living-place----"

"How did you know where I lived?" demanded Clancy.

Spofford grinned.

"Same way I found out that you were down here to-day, Miss Deane. I had a guy follow you. You can't blame me, now, can you?" he asked apologetically.

Clancy hid a grin at her own magnanimous wave of her hand.

"Well, this elevator-man tells me that he took you up to the fourth floor of the Heberworth Building on Tuesday afternoon. I think I have something. But, then, Judge Walbrough butts in. Well, I begin to figure that I'm _goin'_ a trifle fast. Judge Walbrough ain't the sort of man to monkey with the law. And nobody ain't goin' to fool him, either. So, if Walbrough strings along with you, maybe I'm a sucker to think you got anything to do with this Beiner affair.

"And when the guy I have watching the house tells me that you've gone up to Walbrough's, and when I learn that Mr. Vandervent is down at Walbrough's house--well, I do some more figurin'. There's lots of influence in this town; but a pull that will make a man like Walbrough and a man like Vandervent hide a murderess--there ain't that pull here. 'Course, I figure that Walbrough is sendin' for Vandervent to help you out, not to pinch you.

"Anyway, what I'm guessin' is that maybe I'd better examine my take-off before I do too much leapin'. And my take-off is that the elevator-man says he saw you in the Heberworth Building. That ain't a hangin' matter, exactly, I tells myself. Suppose I get a little more.

"What sort of a lady is this Florine Ladue, I asks myself. An actress, or somebody that wants to be an actress; well, where would she be livin'? Somewhere in the Tenderloin, most likely. So, last evenin', I get busy. And I find at the Napoli that Miss Florine Ladue registered there last Monday and beat it away after breakfast Wednesday mornin'. And that's proof to me that Florine Ladue didn't do the killing.

"Now, I'm pretty sure that you're Florine Ladue all right. Madame Napoli described you pretty thoroughly. Even told me that you was readin' a paper, at breakfast, what paper it was, how you got a telegram supposed to be from your mother that called you away. Now, I figure it out to myself: If Miss Ladue's mother wired her, and the wire made Miss Ladue pack her stuff and beat it, why didn't she go home? Because the wire's a fake, most likely. Then why, the next question is, did Miss Ladue put over that fake? The answer's easy. Because she'd just read in the mornin' paper about Beiner's murder. She's read about a young woman climbin' down the fire-escape, thinks she'll be pinched as that young woman, and--beats it. Pretty good?"

Clancy nodded. She looked at the man with narrowed eyes.

"Still," she said, "I don't understand why you're sure that Miss Ladue didn't kill him."

Spofford's smile was complacent.

"I'll tell you why, Miss Deane. This Ladue lady is no fool. The way she beat it from the Napoli proves that she was clever. But a clever woman, if she'd murdered Beiner, would have beat it Tuesday afternoon! Miss Deane, if you'd left the Napoli on Tuesday, I'd stake my life that you killed Beiner. No woman, leastwise a young girl like you, would have had the nerve to sit tight like you did on Tuesday night. I may be all wrong, but you gotta show me if I am," he went on emphatically. "Suppose you had killed Beiner, but didn't know that any one had seen you on the fire-escape! Even then, you'd have moved away from the Napoli. I tell you I been twenty-seven years on the force. I know what regular criminals do, and amachures, too. And even if you'd killed Beiner, I'd put you in the amachure class, Miss Deane."

"Let's go a little farther," suggested Clancy. "Why did I announce myself to Mr. Vandervent as Florine Ladue and then deny it?"

"You was scared," said Spofford. "Then, after you'd sent in that name, you read a paper sayin' Fanchon DeLisle was dead. You knew no one could identify you as Florine. You see, I picked up the paper on the bench where you'd been sittin'."

"Mr. Spofford," said Clancy slowly, "I think that you are a very able detective."

"'Able?'" Spofford grinned ingenuously. "I'm a _great_ detective, Miss Deane. I got ideas, I have. Now, listen: I've put my cards on the table, I'm goin' to tell the chief that I've been barkin' up the wrong tree. Now, you be helpful."

"Just how?" Clancy inquired.

"Tell me all that happened that afternoon in Beiner's office," said Spofford. "You see, I _got_ to land the guy that killed Beiner. It'll make me. Miss Deane, I want an agency of my own. I want some jack. If I land this guy, I can get clients enough to make my fortune in ten years. Will you come through?"

Clancy "came through." Calmly, conscious of the flattering attention of Spofford, she told of her adventures in Beiner's office; and when he put it in a pertinent question, she hesitated only momentarily before telling him of the part that Ike Weber and Fay Marston had played in her brief career in New York.

Spofford stared at her a full minute after she had finished. She brought her story down to her presence in the Carey house and the reason thereof. Then he puffed at his cigar.

"Be helpful, Miss Deane, be helpful y' know; somebody else is liable to tumble onto what I tumbled to; he's liable to have his own suspicions. 'S long as you live, you'll have a queer feelin' every time you spot a bull unless the _guy that killed Beiner is caught_. Finish your spiel, eh?" He raised his pudgy hand quickly. "Now, wait a minute. I wouldn't for the world have you say anything that you'd have to take back a minute later. What's the use of stallin'? Tell me, what did Garland say to you?"

"'Garland?'" Clancy echoed the name.

"Sure, the elevator-man from Beiner's building. Listen, Miss Deane: I get the tip from one of the boys that you've left this Miss Henderson's place and come down here. I beat it down to have a little talk with you, same as we been havin'. And whiles I'm hangin' around, out comes Garland. Why'd you send for him?"

"I didn't," said Clancy.

Spofford shot a glance at her.

"You didn't?" His lips pursed over the end of his cigar. "Then who did send for him? Say, isn't this the Carey house? Mrs. Sophie Carey, the artist? Wife of Don Carey? Wasn't it them that just left the house?"

"Yes," said Clancy.

"Well, I'm a boob. Don Carey, eh? And him bein' the gossip of Times Square because of the agency he run. Hm; that _might_ be it."

"What might be it?" asked Clancy.

"A li'l bit of jack to Garland for keepin' his face closed about what went on in Carey's fake office," explained Spofford. "Still---- I dunno. Say, look here, Miss Deane: Loosen up, won'tcha? I been a square guy with you. I come right down and put my cards on the table. I admit I got my reasons; I don't want a bad stand-in with Mr. Vandervent. But still I could 'a' been nasty, and I ain't tried to. Are you tellin' me all you know? Y' know, coppin' off the murderer would put--put a lot of pennies in my pocket."

For a moment, Clancy hesitated. Then she seemed to see Sophie Carey's pleading face. Her smile was apparently genuinely bewildered as she replied,

"Why, I'd like to help you, Mr. Spofford, but I really don't know any more than I've told you."

It was another falsehood. It was the sort of falsehood that might interfere with the execution of justice, and so be frowned upon by good citizens. But it is hard to believe that the recording angel frowned.

XXVIII

Clancy was prepared to hear Spofford plead, argue, even threaten. Such action would have been quite consistent with his character as she understood it. But to her relief he accepted the situation. He rose stiffly from the chair.

"Well, I'll be moseyin' along. I'm gonna look into a coupla leads that may not mean anything. But y' never can tell in this business. Much obliged to you, Miss Deane. No hard feelings?"

"None at all," said Clancy. "I think--why I think it's _wonderful_ of you, Mr. Spofford, to be so--so friendly!"

Spofford blushed. It was probably the first time that a woman had brought the color to his cheeks--in anything save anger--for many years.

"Aw, now--why, Miss Deane--you know I--glad to meetcha," stammered Spofford. He made a stumbling, confused, and extremely light-hearted departure from the house. Somehow, he felt deeply obligated to Clancy Deane.

The door closed behind him, and Clancy sat down once again upon the stairs. She felt safe at last. Now that the danger was past, she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Was it past? Before yielding to either emotional impulse, why not analyze the situation? What had Spofford said? That until the murderer was captured, she would always be apprehensive. Until the murderer was caught----

She tapped her foot upon the lower stair. There was no questioning Spofford's sincerity. He did not believe her guilty. But---- The telephone-bell rang. It was Sally Henderson.

"Miss Deane?... Oh, is this you? This is Miss Henderson. Man named Randall telephoned a few minutes ago. Very urgent, he said. I don't like giving out telephone-numbers. Thought I'd call you. Want to talk with him?"

Like a flash Clancy replied,

"No."

No pique inspired her reply. Randall had not measured up. That the standard of measurement she applied was tremendously high made no difference to Clancy, abated no whit her judgment.

A week ago, she had met Randall. She had thought him kind. She had liked him. She had even debated within herself the advisability, the possibility of yielding to his evident regard. More than that, she had practically offered to marry him. And he had been cautious, had not leaped at the opportunity that, for one golden moment, had been his. Clancy did not phrase it exactly this way, but her failure to do so was not due to modesty. For never a woman walked to the altar but believed, in her heart of hearts, that she was giving infinitely more than she received.

"Probably," said Clancy, half aloud, "he's found out that the Walbroughs are still with me, and that Philip Vandervent isn't afraid of me----"

She thought of Vandervent's flowers, and the card that had accompanied them.

"What did you say?" demanded Sally Henderson. Clancy blushed furiously. She realized that she'd been holding on to the receiver. "I thought that you said something about Judge Walbrough."

"Lines must have been crossed," suggested Clancy.

"Rotten telephone service," said Miss Henderson. "Oh, and another man!"

Clancy felt pleasurably excited. Philip Vandervent----

"I didn't see him. Guernsey told him where you were. Guernsey is an ass! As if you'd have a brother almost fifty."

"What? I haven't any brother," cried Clancy.

"Lucky girl. When they weren't borrowing your money, they'd be getting you to help them out of scrapes or mind your sister-in-law's babies. Sorry. If you're frightened----"

"'Frightened?' Why?" demanded Clancy.

"Well, Guernsey told him where you were, and the man left here apparently headed for you."

Clancy's forehead wrinkled.

"What did he look like?" she asked.

"Oh, Guernsey couldn't describe him very well. Said he wore a mustache that looked dyed, and was short and stocky. That's all."

"Some mistake," said Clancy.

"Perhaps," said Miss Henderson dryly. "Anyway, you needn't let him in. Might be somebody from Zenith who wanted to borrow money."

"Probably," said Clancy.

"Getting ahead with the work?"

"Checking up the inventory now," said Clancy.

"All right; take your time."

And Miss Henderson hung up.

Once again, Clancy sat upon the stairs. Spofford had distinctly said that one of his men had followed Clancy down to this house. The description that Guernsey had given fitted Spofford exactly.