The Black Bag, Louis Joseph Vance [some good books to read .txt] 📗

“Mr. Kirkwood!” she called tempestuously.

 

“Didn’t you find it?” he countered blandly.

 

She stopped jerkily at the bottom, and, after a moment of confusion. “Find

what, sir?” she asked.

 

“What you sought, Mrs. Hallam.”

 

Smiling, he bore unflinching the prolonged inspection of her eyes, at once

somber with doubt of him and flashing with indignation because of his

impudence.

 

“You knew I wouldn’t find it, then!… Didn’t you?”

 

“I may have suspected you wouldn’t.”

 

Now he was sure that she had been searching for the gladstone bag. That,

evidently, was the bone of contention. Calendar had sent his daughter for

it, Mrs. Hallam her son; Dorothy had been successful … But, on the other

hand, Calendar and Mrs. Hallam were unquestionably allies. Why, then—?

 

“Where is it, Mr. Kirkwood?”

 

“Madam, have you the right to know?”

 

Through another lengthening pause, while they faced each other, he marked

again the curious contraction of her under lip.

 

“I have the right,” she declared steadily. “Where is it?”

 

“How can I be sure?”

 

“Then you don’t know—!”

 

“Indeed,” he interrupted, “I would be glad to feel that I ought to tell you

what I know.”

 

“What you know!”

 

The exclamation, low-spoken, more an echo of her thoughts than intended

for Kirkwood, was accompanied by a little shake of the woman’s head, mute

evidence to the fact that she was bewildered by his finesse. And this

delighted the young man beyond measure, making him feel himself master of

a difficult situation. Mysteries had been woven before his eyes so

persistently, of late, that it was a real pleasure to be able to do a

little mystifying on his own account. By adopting this reticent and

non-committal attitude, he was forcing the hand of a woman old enough to be

his mother and most evidently a past-mistress in the art of misleading. All

of which seemed very fascinating to the amateur in adventure.

 

The woman would have led again, but young Hallam cut in, none too

courteously.

 

“I say, Mamma, it’s no good standing here, palaverin’ like a lot of flats.

Besides, I’m awf’ly knocked up. Let’s get home and have it out there.”

 

Instantly his mother softened. “My poor boy!… Of course we’ll go.”

 

Without further demur she swept past and down the stairway before

them—slowly, for their progress was of necessity slow, and the light most

needed. Once they were in the main hall, however, she extinguished the

candle, placed it on a side table, and passed out through the door.

 

It had been left open, as before; and Kirkwood was not at all surprised to

see a man waiting on the threshold,—the versatile Eccles, if he erred not.

He had little chance to identify him, as it happened, for at a word from

Mrs. Hallam the man bowed and, following her across the sidewalk, opened

the door of a four-wheeler which, with lamps alight and liveried driver on

the box, had been waiting at the carriage-block.

 

As they passed out, Kirkwood shut the door; and at the same moment the

little party was brought up standing by a gruff and authoritative summons.

 

“Just a minute, please, you there!”

 

“Aha!” said Kirkwood to himself. “I thought so.” And he halted, in

unfeigned respect for the burly and impressive figure, garbed in blue and

brass, helmeted and truncheoned, bull’s-eye shining on breast like the

Law’s unblinking and sleepless eye, barring the way to the carriage.

 

Mrs. Hallam showed less deference for the obstructionist. The assumed

hauteur and impatience of her pose was artfully reflected in her voice as

she rounded upon the bobby, with an indignant demand: “What is the meaning

of this, officer?”

 

“Precisely what I wants to know, ma’am,” returned the man, unyielding

beneath his respectful attitude. “I’m obliged to ask you to tell me what

you were doing in that ‘ouse…. And what’s the matter with this ‘ere

gentleman?” he added, with a dubious stare at young Hallam’s bandaged head

and rumpled clothing.

 

“Perhaps you don’t understand,” admitted Mrs. Hallam sweetly. “Of course—I

see—it’s perfectly natural. The house has been shut up for some time

and—”

 

“Thank you, ma’am; that’s just it. There was something wrong going on early

in the evening, and I was told to keep an eye on the premises. It’s duty,

ma’am; I’ve got my report to make.”

 

“The house,” said Mrs. Hallam, with the long-suffering patience of one

elucidating a perfectly plain proposition to a being of a lower order of

intelligence, “is the property of my son, Arthur Frederick Burgoyne Hallam,

of Cornwall. This is—”

 

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I was told Colonel George Burgoyne, of Cornwall—”

 

“Colonel Burgoyne died some time ago. My son is his heir. This is my son.

He came to the house this evening to get some property he desired, and—it

seems—tripped on the stairs and fell unconscious. I became worried about

him and drove over, accompanied by my friend, Mr. Kirkwood.”

 

The policeman looked his troubled state of mind, and wagged a doubtful head

over the case. There was his duty, and there was, opposed to it, the fact

that all three were garbed in the livery of the well-to-do.

 

At length, turning to the driver, he demanded, received, and noted in his

memorandum-book, the license number of the equipage.

 

“It’s a very unusual case, ma’am,” he apologized; “I hopes you won’t ‘old

it against me. I’m only trying to do my duty—”

 

“And safeguard our property. You are perfectly justified, officer.”

 

“Thank you, ma’am. And would you mind giving me your cards, please, all of

you?”

 

“Certainly not.” Without hesitation the woman took a little hand-bag from

the seat of the carriage and produced a card; her son likewise found his

case and handed the officer an oblong slip.

 

“I’ve no cards with me,” the American told the policeman; “my name,

however, is Philip Kirkwood, and I’m staying at the Pless.”

 

“Very good, sir; thank you.” The man penciled the information in his little

book. “Thank you, ma’am, and Mr. Hallam, sir. Sorry to have detained you.

Good morning.”

 

Kirkwood helped young Hallam into the carriage, gave Mrs. Hallam his hand,

and followed her. The man Eccles shut the door, mounting the box beside the

driver. Immediately they were in motion.

 

The American got a final glimpse of the bobby, standing in front of Number

9, Frognall Street, and watching them with an air of profound uncertainty.

He had Kirkwood’s sympathy, therein; but he had little time to feel with

him, for Mrs. Hallam turned upon him very suddenly.

 

“Mr. Kirkwood, will you be good enough to tell me who and what you are?”

 

The young man smiled his homely, candid smile. “I’ll be only too glad, Mrs.

Hallam, when I feel sure you’ll do as much for yourself.”

 

She gave him no answer; it, was as if she were choosing words. Kirkwood

braced himself to meet the storm; but none ensued. There was rather a lull,

which strung itself out indefinitely, to the monotonous music of hoofs and

rubber tires.

 

Young Hallam was resting his empty blond head against the cushions, and had

closed his eyes. He seemed to doze; but, as the carriage rolled past the

frequent street-lights, Kirkwood could see that the eyes of Mrs. Hallam

were steadily directed to his face.

 

His outward composure was tempered by some amusement, by more admiration;

the woman’s eyes were very handsome, even when hardest and most cold. It

was not easy to conceive of her as being the mother of a son so immaturely

mature. Why, she must have been at least thirty-eight or -nine! One

wondered; she did not look it….

 

The carriage stopped before a house with lighted windows. Eccles jumped

down from the box and scurried to open the front door. The radiance of

a hall-lamp was streaming out into the misty night when he returned to

release his employers.

 

They were returned to Craven Street! “One more lap round the track!” mused

Kirkwood. “Wonder will the next take me back to Bermondsey Old Stairs.”

 

At Mrs. Hallam’s direction, Eccles ushered him into the smoking-room, on

the ground floor in the rear of the dwelling, there to wait while she

helped her son up-stairs and to bed. He sighed with pleasure at first

glimpse of its luxurious but informal comforts, and threw himself

carelessly into a heavily padded lounging-chair, dropping one knee over the

other and lighting the last of his expensive cigars, with a sensation of

undiluted gratitude; as one coming to rest in the shadow of a great rock in

a weary land.

 

Over his shoulder a home-like illumination was cast by an electric

reading-lamp shaded with red silk. At his feet brass fire-dogs winked

sleepily in the fluttering blaze of a well-tended stove. The walls were

hung with deep red, the doors and divans upholstered in the same restful

shade. In one corner an old clock ticked soberly. The atmosphere would

have proved a potent invitation to reverie, if not to sleep—he was very

sleepy—but for the confusion in the house.

 

In its chambers, through the halls, on the stairs, there were hurryings and

scurryings of feet and skirts, confused with murmuring voices. Presently,

in an adjoining room, Philip Kirkwood heard a maid-servant wrestling

hopefully with that most exasperating of modern time-saving devices,

the telephone as countenanced by our English cousins. Her patience and

determination won his approval, but availed nothing for her purpose; in the

outcome the telephone triumphed and the maid gave up the unequal contest.

 

Later, a butler entered the room; a short and sturdy fellow, extremely ill

at ease. Drawing a small taboret to the side of Kirkwood’s chair, he placed

thereon a tray, deferentially imparting the information that “Missis ‘Allam

‘ad thought ‘ow as Mister Kirkwood might care for a bit of supper.”

 

“Please thank Mrs. Hallam for me.” Kirkwood’s gratified eyes ranged the

laden tray. There were sandwiches, biscuit, cheese, and a pot of black

coffee, with sugar and cream. “It was very kindly thought of,” he added.

 

“Very good, sir, thank you, sir.”

 

The man turned to go, shuffling soundlessly. Kirkwood was suddenly

impressed with his evasiveness; ever since he had entered the room, his

countenance had seemed turned from the guest.

 

“Eccles!” he called sharply, at a venture.

 

The butler halted, thunderstruck. “Ye-es, s-sir?”

 

[Illustration: Eccles]

 

“Turn round, Eccles; I want a look at you.”

 

Eccles faced him unwillingly, with a stolid front but shifty eyes. Kirkwood

glanced him up and down, grinning.

 

“Thank you, Eccles; I’ll remember you now. You’ll remember me, too, won’t

you? You’re a bad actor, aren’t you, Eccles?”

 

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” mumbled the man unhappily; and took instant

advantage of the implied permission to go.

 

Intensely diverted by the recollection of Eccles’ abortive attempt to stop

him at the door of Number 9, and wondering—now that he came to think of

it—why, precisely, young Hallam had deemed it necessary to travel with

a body-guard and adopt such furtive methods to enter into as well as to

obtain what was asserted to be his own property, Kirkwood turned active

attention to the lunch.

 

Thoughtfully he poured himself a cup of coffee, swallowing it hot and black

as it came from the silver pot; then munched the sandwiches.

 

It was kindly thought of, this early morning repast; Mrs. Hallam seemed

more and more a remarkable woman with each phase of her character that she

chose to disclose. At odds with him, she yet took time to think of his

creature needs!

 

What could be her motive,—not in feeding him, but