Part 10

Kennedy nodded sententiously. "But why did he have Vina shadowed here to the tea-room--that is, if that is the case? Had he some inkling that Vina was merely using him? And what's the reason for that break in the report? I believe there's something more in that three-cornered meeting than appears."

These reports, I reflected, as now we awaited the arrival of Rascon himself, were giving quite another side to the characters of the people concerned in the case from that which had been exhibited hitherto. Were we getting down at last under the surface of their private life and finding it of the same sort as that of the "smart set" and the fringe that apes the smart set?

There was a commotion in the hallway and a moment later Rascon himself entered, accompanied, in answer to the summons of Kennedy through Doyle, by one of Doyle's own men.

At once Doyle took the affair in hand, and Kennedy did not interfere, deeming it best, apparently, to let Rascon gain the impression that the whole matter had originated with Doyle.

Question after question Doyle flung at Rascon without getting an answer that was truly enlightening. Finally, exasperated, as Doyle always became when his rasping third degree did not produce results, Doyle picked up the tissue-paper, typewritten reports and shook them in Rascon's face.

"Then you swear that these reports are true?" Doyle demanded. "Don't stop. The devil with how this fellow Number Six got away with them and we learned they were here. Are they true?"

Rascon was sullenly silent.

"Are they true? Come now, you'll have to answer that sometime, Rascon."

"Yes," replied the crook detective, defiantly.

Doyle turned to us with an air of triumph, as though he had gained a great admission, though I could not see, for the life of me, why he should be so elated at having merely begun.

"I've just read this one," remarked Kennedy, quietly, picking up the report we had all glanced through. "It's true--you say--but it isn't the whole truth, Rascon."

Rascon maintained his sullen silence, but there was a furtive cast in his glance that had not been present in the defiance of Doyle. Evidently in his mind was running the thought, "Just what is it that this man, Kennedy, may know, and how am I going to keep from being too clever and tripping myself up?" I knew it to be a situation in which Kennedy frankly reveled, this interplay of wits.

"There's a break here," prompted Kennedy, with a positiveness that was palpably disconcerting to Rascon.

Kennedy fixed his gaze on Rascon, who fidgeted and finally weakened.

"Well, you see," he admitted, "Mr. Wilford came in at that point--said to watch them--and left. I didn't think that it was necessary to put that in the report--to him."

"Did Mrs. Wilford see him there?" demanded Kennedy, quickly.

"No--I don't think so."

"Well--which were you following?" cut in Doyle, to the vexation of Kennedy, who, until then, had had things going pretty much his own way. "Was it Mrs. Lathrop or Shattuck--or--was it Mrs. Wilford herself?"

Doyle modulated his voice in his craftiest manner, the manner which I hated, for it was so evident that he tended toward hanging the crime ultimately on Honora.

"Why, it was Mr. Shattuck I was following," snapped Rascon, "Mr. Shattuck and Mr. Wilford's wife."

The answer was indeed an answer. I felt that Doyle had furnished Rascon with what was, to the crook detective, a neat way to let himself out of a tight position, and I could see that it had given Rascon a relief from Kennedy's more subtle grilling.

"We'll take that matter up later," was all Kennedy ventured, hiding his chagrin at the interruption of Doyle.

On his part, Doyle seemed to insist on making it evident that he had scored.

"Rascon," he added, extending his fist menacingly at the detective, who by this time seemed to have recovered some of his lost equilibrium as he realized the extent of our "find," due to the unexpected treachery of his operative--"Rascon, did you offer to sell these reports to Mrs. Wilford? I know about that Beach House report. Is that why you left Mr. Wilford's name out? Come--you might as well admit it."

"No--I didn't try to sell them to Mrs. Wilford," defied Rascon, with assurance. "Why should I? Mr. Wilford paid me a bonus for that particular report--not to me, of course, but to the operative I had assigned to the case."

Kennedy, by this time, had given up the further quizzing of Rascon at this time as hopeless, and was preparing to leave.

As for myself, I cannot say that I was entirely uninfluenced by Doyle's apparent estimate of Honora Wilford, in the light of Rascon's report and his ready explanation. Though I would not have admitted it to any one else, I began to wonder whether, if the reports were true and Rascon's explanation held, I had been correct in my estimate of Honora. A word from Kennedy would have set me right. Why had he not spoken it? Moreover, had my own interpretation of his Freudian analysis of her been correct? Was she the marble woman he had made me think her? The more I thought of it, the more I felt that the "new morality" down-town was pretty much the same as the old immorality up-town. I began to wonder whether Honora, in her doubt of the lack of feeling for Wilford, had succeeded in keeping herself from being smirched by either standard. I was frankly at sea.

We left alone, leaving Doyle to handle the product of his raid, including the now intractable Rascon. Craig thanked Brooks for his help and Brooks had scarcely left us. I was about to ask Kennedy his frank opinion of the case for Honora, when he himself forestalled me briskly.

"Walter, I've an angle of this thing I want to go into immediately. Besides, I have some work I must get through at the laboratory. Suppose that, in the mean time, you trace down what truth there may be in that tea-room incident. I think you and your friend, Belle Balcom, could do that."

XII

THE "NEW MORALITY"

I was rather glad of the commission Kennedy had given me. Belle Balcom had a keen and sprightly mind. She was the typical newspaper woman, it is true, who often would sacrifice accuracy to cleverness. Yet there was not much to condemn her in that, for she was so undeniably clever. Contact with her was stimulating. Besides, it was just on such a quest as this that a girl of her type was invaluable.

Accordingly, I set out immediately down-town for _The Star_. Fortunately, I found Belle finishing her stint of society gossip for the day.

I made a quick explanation of what Kennedy wanted and was pleased to see that she was interested.

"I think it's a good idea to visit the tea-room," I explained, then added, doubtfully, "but how are you going to find out whether our people are remembered there--if they don't happen to be remembered by name?"

"Nothing simpler," Belle replied. "Some one there will surely remember faces. We'll settle that in the art department."

Thus, armed with photographs of Shattuck, Vina, Honora, and Wilford which _The Star_ already possessed in its files, Belle and I set out on our quest.

The Orange and Blue Tea-room was not easy to find by one unfamiliar with the Village and its queer twists of streets. But Belle knew it well and I had some slight recollection of it.

It was originally a low-ceilinged basement in an old house not far from Washington Square. The upper floors were now "studios." In the former basement, almost a cellar, were three rows of tables extending the length of the place and overrunning out into the little back yard where one dined in summer _al fresco_.

At the far end, on one side, was a little raised platform, and on it was a piano strummed by a blind player. Opposite was the entrance to the kitchen, which was subterranean.

Belle and I entered, and immediately the highbrow hold-up began, just as up-town, with a coat-and-hat check-boy. We made our way to one of the tables along the wall and seated ourselves. Everywhere orange and blue decorations, true to the name, smote the eye, on walls, on ceiling, on chintzes, on the floor, on everything, it seemed, but the table-cloths and the silverware.

"You know, orange stands for temperament," chatted Belle, as she saw me marveling at the color riot. "New art, I guess."

"Insanity art," I replied, with a smile. "Don't mistake me, I enjoy it, though. It's atmosphere--especially when that kitchen door is open."

Belle looked about, as a woman will, at once attentive to our conversation, taking in whatever was happening within the range of two ordinary men's vision, now and then nodding to some acquaintance, sweeping a glance at the menu and tucking in a stray wisp of black hair, all at once and each without in the least interfering with the other.

"I suppose the 'Villagers' are here in force," I suggested, noting as best I could all her simultaneous actions and probably missing the other half which I have not recorded.

Belle smiled. "Villagers don't come here much. The place is too well known. Besides, there are not so many 'Villagers' as you would think. No doubt most of them are up-town. No, most of these people are skirmishers from the highbrow and curious up-town and out-of-town. You see, there's a sort of reciprocity about it."

However that might have been, there was enough that was picturesque and one felt sure that one was really in an environment of the bobbed hair and maiden names for wives--that is, assuming that the words maiden and wives were still in the vocabulary.

"All parlor socialists?" I inquired, looking about.

"Have your little joke," frowned Belle. "We all have to, I suppose. But really, down here, after all, there are people who think, who _do_ things."

I had been waiting for that expression, "do things." They all "do things" down in Greenwich Village, even if it is only to compose music for the zither or publish one's own amateur magazine on butcher paper from hand-set type. Evidently Belle took the Village more or less seriously, after all.

"Besides," she faltered, "there are no parlor socialists, any more, anyhow. That belongs to the old muck-raking magazine days."

"I see--limousine liberals now--or boudoir Bolsheviki."

"Maybe you'd better eat," suggested Belle, sarcastically.

"It's a tea-room," I parried, glancing down at the menu. "I suppose it's orange pekoe--although they don't seem to be drinking it. Perhaps they're all smoking it. Now that we're all supposed to be so good, I hear that tobacco will be replaced by dried powdered tea leaves and coffee grounds. They say a caffein jag or a thein jag has merits. Passing by the paraldehyde cocktail, what's good?"

Belle's good humor was restored, and with her help I managed to order everything from soup to nuts--and I am sure that there were a good many fugitives from the squirrels in the room, whether from up or down town.

I was really enjoying myself, so much so that for the moment I almost forgot the purpose of our visit, when it was recalled to me by Belle, who spoke in French to the waiter, rather gross and greasy but answering to the compensating name of Hyacinthe.

"_Où est Ma'm'selle Zona?_" she asked.

The waiter actually understood, and, though it would have been so much easier in English, Belle conveyed the idea that she would like to talk to Miss Dare and the waiter agreed to get her, though I felt he restrained himself with difficulty from replying in good Manhattanite, "Sure, miss, I'll dig her up"--meaning from the olfactory Hades beneath us.

Zona Dare proved to be a slender youngish lady, with the conventional shock of dark bobbed hair--with a dilettante exterior but a very practical secret self, I am sure. Even a mere introduction to her told me she was a member of that curious "third sex" that evolution is giving us. I can't exactly describe it. It is not "she" or "he" exactly, neither he-woman nor she-man. Certainly it is not neuter. Maybe when nature, or whatever it is that is operating, gets through we may be able to classify it.

Belle knew her, of course. Belle knew everybody. In fact she knew her so well that Zona, on urging, consented to sit down with us awhile and actually ordered tea--in a pot, too, though whether Russian, English or Scotch or Rye I am not sure. At any rate, it seemed to promote conversation and confidence and I covered my raillery with protective coloring.

What I enjoyed was the utter freedom of the conversation. We had soon progressed to bolshevism and the government ownership and operation of women. Finally the conversation put into the ultimate port of the "new morality."

"One must live one's life," seemed to be the burden of the philosophy, and I did not quarrel with the 1919 model of hedonism, for by this time I began to see a ray of hope that finally I might learn something about those whom Kennedy and I had been studying. I recalled Vina's remark to us over her contemplated divorce, "I believe every woman should live her own life as she sees fit." Doubtless she had absorbed it here.

It was evident, however, that there could only be so many triangles a week--and besides, "the eternal triangle" was in itself condemned by its mere ancient origin. What next? I guessed right--bolshevism, of course.

I found I had dropped right into the intelligenzia--the very sovietment of society, where _The Nation_ and _The New Republic_ were considered hide-bound conservatives. I did not quarrel even at the addition of red to the orange-and-blue color scheme, though I adopted the attitude of one mildly seeking the truth.

"Perhaps Freud can explain," I suggested, after one passage at arms with Zona, ably seconded by Belle, "why it is that a prosperous aristocratic feminist should enjoy contemplating casting her rope of pearls before the proletariat. What do these comfortable nibblers at anarchy expect to get out of it?"

There was an answer. I have forgotten it, but it was clever and convincing. It always is, just as glib sophistry and specious phrases are. The gist was that all psychology, science, the history of the human race, had been superseded by some quite indefinite idea originated in a land with problems about as much related to us as the dredging of Martian canals would relate to Suez and Panama.

However, the purpose was accomplished, and Belle, with her human point of view, which one gets from seeing this corrupt old world from a newspaper office, saw it. Gradually, the conversation had drifted about to Freud.

I was glad that I had learned so much about him from Kennedy, for I was surprised at the knowledge that Zona really had of him. Was it superficial--as so much of that little world into which Kennedy had plunged me? I am not sure. At least, Zona posed as a Freudian interpreter. I was sorry Kennedy was not present, for I was inclined to accept her as such. The fact was that it set me thinking that perhaps she had educated in the theory many to whom a little knowledge is dynamite.

Belle's keen mind seemed to read my thoughts, even to leap ahead of me. She reached into her bag and drew forth some photographs.

"Oh, Zona, by the way," she rattled on, "that reminds me. Did you ever see this man here--or this woman?"

Zona took the photographs of Shattuck and Vina, and with just a glance answered, "Indeed I have!"

"Do you recall a night when there was a scene here--another woman?" went on Belle, producing the photograph of Honora.

"Yes--I remember her. I know them all. They're in this case that's in the papers now. The lawyer who was killed was that woman's husband," she added, pointing to Honora. "Why? Are you writing them into your column?"

"Yes," confessed Belle. "That is, if I can get a good enough story out of the incident here."

At once Zona's keen, practical mind leaped to the bait of publicity held out by Belle. What could be better advertising than for the celebrated case in the news to be connected with the tea-room? It would crowd the place.

"What is it you want to know?"

"Just what happened."

"I didn't see it all. As nearly as I can recall that man--Mr. Shattuck, his name is--was at a table with Mrs. Lathrop when Mrs. Wilford approached. You see, I knew them all slightly. I know so many people who come here from up-town. It flatters them--and I have a good memory for names. I had seen Mrs. Wilford here several times before with Mr. Shattuck--and once I think with Mr. Wilford--I'm not sure. Anyhow, I knew her--I think I sold her a box for our Freud play last year--I'm not sure. I'd have to look that up. Well, there was quite a scene when Mrs. Wilford stopped and faced Mrs. Lathrop at her table. But here's the strange part of it. I don't know whether you know it or not. But just before that, while Mrs. Wilford was sitting at the table just back of us--the two were down there near the piano--Mr. Wilford himself came in. He was about to give his hat and stick to the check-boy when he caught sight of the back of his wife's head. She was alone--right there--then. He spoke a few words to a man near the street door. I don't know _him_. He never came here before and I haven't seen him since. But, at any rate, Mr. Wilford spoke to him, then turned and left in a great hurry. I wasn't here through it all. Just a moment, Pedro!" she called to a waiter who was passing at the moment.

Pedro completed his service at another table, then came over to Zona.

"Did you ever see these people here?" asked Zona, turning over the photographs of Vina and Shattuck.

Pedro was at first suspicious, and, in fact, I do not believe that he would have told us a thing had it not been Zona herself who questioned him.

"Yes," he admitted, finally, "I remember one night they were here."

"Did you serve them?" asked Zona.

"Yes," he replied, apparently reluctant to be drawn into anything.

"Do you remember anything that happened?"

"I was very busy," he evaded. "The woman came in first alone, I remember, and said she was waiting for a friend. Then the man came in. I thought she was surprised to see him--but I thought it was all right. She had said she was going to meet a friend."

I shot a quick glance at Belle, who nodded. It was evident that Vina had not expected to meet this friend.

"Do you remember anything that was said?" I ventured.

Pedro looked at me suspiciously. "I was too busy serving," he replied. "It was the busy time."

"What seems to be the trouble?" I asked, not cross-questioningly, but more as if merely for information. "You don't seem to want to answer. Are you afraid of something?"

Pedro regarded me a moment, then looked at Zona.

"It's all right," she reassured.

"Well--you see--once I was in a divorce suit--in court--I lose t'ree, four days' pay--the boss he fire me. Are you detective?"

I smiled and evaded the question, under cover of Zona's presence, and again reassured him.

"There was another woman came in, wasn't there?" I asked, as Belle produced the photograph of Honora.

"Yes--that's her."

"She didn't sit with them," I prompted.

"No," he replied, "over there," pointing to the table Zona had already indicated.

"Did you wait on her?"

"No--Louis."

"But you saw her?"

"But yes--every one did--one could not help. She came in as though she was looking for some one."

"And then what?"

"I was serving the fish. This woman, she get up quickly and come down to the table. Oh--but she was angry--at the man--at the woman."

"Did she make a scene--I mean did every one see it?"

"I should say! I had just left the table--but every one see it--yes--and hear, too, I think."

"What did you hear?"

"I? Nothing. I was by that time at the door to the kitchen. But she was angry--the color in her cheeks--the voice. I think she must be the wife of the man--she seem so angry at him, also."

Discreet Pedro, I reflected. He was making everything as indefinite as possible to render himself less liable to be called to court in case of trouble. However, he was telling me just what I wanted to know. It was already sufficiently evident that Vina had actually had the appointment first with Wilford himself, that she had got there early, that he had been late, perhaps purposely, due to some suspicion, or perhaps to make sure of covering himself, for he must have provided for Rascon's operative in case of trouble.

Piecing the thing together, I was convinced that, in some way, Honora had learned of the appointment and that Shattuck had learned of it, too--though it must have been independent, else why their encounter?

Shattuck had come--perhaps to face Wilford. At any rate, he had been sitting with Honora when Wilford's wife, of all persons, came in and saw him with Vina.

There my deductions broke down. What were her emotions? Was she jealous of Shattuck paying attentions to the woman who had so fascinated her own husband? How far was she piqued at the thought of not having hold enough over Shattuck, also, to keep him from Vina? As for Shattuck, was he really fascinated by Vina, after all? I did not try to pursue that line of analysis farther, yet.

At any rate, Honora had seen them and in turn had herself been seen by her own husband, who had stopped only just long enough to give his detective instructions, then had departed unobserved by the other three as he entered. Whatever Shattuck's attempt at explanation, when faced by Honora, it had not been convincing, at least to her. They had left together, parted at the door. But I knew that the misunderstanding must have been patched up later, for they had been together since that time.

A few more questions showed that Pedro had nothing to add, and I let him go. Zona told me what little she had observed. From the other waiter, Louis, I learned one thing, however, about Honora and her actions before she rose and made the little scene at the other table. She had come in rather pale and agitated. As she sat there, having ordered, but with her food untouched, she had seemed to get much calmer, though her face became more and more flushed and her eyes animated as she missed no movement of the other couple. It was that very absorption that probably had been the cause of her missing the very man she sought, her husband. But it meant more than that. It told me something of her nature, that this woman was of the sort that, when a crisis approached, instead of going to pieces, like many others, was able to keep such a grip on herself that she swept ahead through the crisis coolly and clearly, in spite of the suppressed excitement. That spoke volumes. No doubt when the relaxation came she was on the verge of collapse. But as long as the need lasted she had complete control. Did that mean that at the present moment, as she faced Kennedy, she was repeating the same performance?

Louis had gone, and Zona turned to Belle and myself as if to ask whether there was anything else she might do for us, at the same time looking at her watch and fingering her cup as a hint that she was a busy woman and must get away.

"Why did Shattuck meet her here?" I thought aloud, wondering if, perhaps, Zona herself might not know them and betray something.

She shrugged, and I was morally certain that she did know them both, and well. But evidently, as to bringing herself personally or her theories directly into the case, there was a barrier.

"Mr. Shattuck seemed to be interested--but--you can never tell. He is one of those men who have the faculty of making every woman think she is the only woman."

"Did he ever discuss things with you--I mean Freud--current topics of conversation?" I ventured, covering my interest as best I could.

"Oh yes, in a general way. Almost everybody who comes here does. They all know my hobbies. That's why they come here, I guess. Isn't it, Belle?"

"To see you, dear--yes. I know _I_ do. Without Zona--there are a dozen places one might go. They lack something."

"He seemed interested in Freud?" I pursued.

"Y-yes--but so are we all down here, just now."

Evidently Zona was hedging. I gathered that Shattuck's interest had been rather more than ordinary.