The Bandbox, Louis Joseph Vance [little red riding hood ebook free .TXT] 📗

“We were cut off,” the girl’s voice responded. He noted, subconsciously, that she was speaking slowly and carefully, as if with effort.... “Cut off,” she repeated as by rote, “and I had trouble getting you again.”

“Then you’re—you’re all right?”

“Quite, thank you. I had an unpleasant experience trying to get to you by taxicab. The motor broke down coming through Central Park, and I had to walk home and lost my way. But I am all right now—just tired out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “It’s too bad; I was quite ready to call for the—you understand—and save you the trouble of the trip down here. But I’m glad you’ve had no more unpleasant adventure.”

“The necklace is safe,” the girl’s voice told him with the same deadly precision of utterance.

“Oh, yes; I assumed that. And I may call for it?”

“If you please—today at noon. I am so tired I am afraid I shan’t get up before noon.”

“That’ll be quite convenient to me, thank you,” he assured her. “But where are you stopping?”

There fell a brief pause. Then she said something indistinguishable.

“Yes?” he said. “Beg pardon—I didn’t get that. A little louder please, Miss Searle.”

“The St. Regis.”

“Where?” he repeated in surprise.

“The St. Regis. I am here with Mrs. Ilkington—her guest. Good night, Mr. Staff.”

“Good morning,” he laughed; and at once the connection was severed.

“And that’s all right!” he announced cheerfully, swinging round to face Iff. “She was in a taxicab accident and got lost in Central Park—just got home, I infer. The necklace is safe and I’m to call and get it at twelve o’clock.”

“Where’s she stopping?” demanded Iff, shaking his little head as though impatient. Staff named the hotel, and Iff fairly jumped. “Why that’s impossible!” he cried. “She can’t afford it.”

“How do you happen to know she can’t?” enquired Staff, perplexed.

Momentarily Iff showed a face of confusion. “I know a lot of things,” he grumbled, evasively.

Staff waited a moment, then finding that the little man didn’t purpose making any more adequate or satisfactory explanation, observed: “It happens that she’s Mrs. Ilkington’s guest, and I fancy Mrs. Ilkington can afford it—unless you know more about her, too, than I do.”

Iff shook his head, dissatisfied. “All right,” he said wearily. “Now what’re you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t, now, with nothing to do before noon.”

“Pleasant dreams,” said Iff sourly, as Staff marched off to his bedroom.

Then he sat down on the edge of the divan, hugging the dressing-gown round him, scowled vindictively at nothing and began thoughtfully to gnaw a bony knuckle.

In the other room, his host was undressing with surprising speed. In spite of his nap, he was still tremendously tired; perhaps the reaction caused by Eleanor’s reassurance capping the climax of his excitement had something to do with the sense of complete mental and physical fatigue that swept over him the instant his back rested upon the bed. Within two minutes he was fast asleep.

But in the study Mr. Iff kept vigil, biting his knuckles what time he was not depleting his host’s stock of cigarettes.

Daylight broadened over the city. The sun rose. Not to be outdone, so did Mr. Iff—moving quietly round the room, swearing beneath his breath as his conscience dictated, gradually accumulating more and more of the articles of clothing which he had so disdainfully discarded some hours earlier.

The telephone interrupted him somewhat after six o’clock. He answered it, assuming Staff’s identity for the moment. When the conversation had closed, he sat in reverie for some minutes, then consulted the telephone book and called two numbers in quick succession. Immediately thereafter he tiptoed into the bedroom, assured himself that Staff was fast asleep and proceeded calmly to rifle that gentleman’s pockets, carefully placing what he found in an orderly array upon the bureau. In the end, bringing to light a plump bill-fold, he concluded his investigations.

The pigskin envelope contained a little less than four-hundred dollars, mostly in gold Treasury certificates. Mr. Iff helped himself generously and replaced the bill-fold. Then he returned to the study, found paper and pens and wrote Staff a little note, which he propped against the mirror on the bedroom dresser. Finally, filling one of his pockets with cigarettes, he smiled blandly and let himself out of the apartment and, subsequently, of the house.

Staff slept on, sublimely unconscious, until the sun, slipping round to the south, splashed his face with moulten gold: when he woke, fretful and sweatful. He glanced at his watch and got up promptly: the hour approached eleven. Diving into a bathrobe, he turned the water on for his bath, trotted to the front room and discovered the evasion of Mr. Iff. This, however, failed to surprise him. Iff was, after all, not bound to sit tight until Staff gave him leave to stir.

He rang for Mrs. Shultz and ordered breakfast. Then he bathed and began to dress. It was during this latter ceremony that he found his pockets turned inside out and their contents displayed upon his bureau.

This was a shock, especially when he failed to find his bill-fold at the first sweep. The bottom dropped out of the market for confidence in the integrity of Mr. Iff and conceit in the perspicacity of Mr. Staff. He saw instantly how flimsy had been the tissue of falsehood wherewith the soi-disant Mr. Iff had sought to cloak his duplicity, how egregiously stupid had been his readiness to swallow that extraordinary yarn. The more he considered, the more he marvelled. It surpassed belief—his asininity did; at least he wouldn’t have believed he could be so easily fooled. He felt like kicking himself—and longed unutterably for a chance to kick his erstwhile guest.

In the midst of this transport he found himself staring incredulously at the envelope on the dresser. He snatched it up, tore it open and removed three pieces of white paper. Two of them were crisp and tough and engraved on one side with jet-black ink. The third bore this communication:

“My dear Mr. Staff:—Your bill-fold’s in your waistcoat pocket, where you left it last night. It contained $385 when I found it. It now contains $200. I leave you by way of security Bank of England notes to the extent of £40. There’ll be a bit of change, one way or the other—I’m too hurried to calculate which.

“The exchange manager has just called up. The interrupted call has been traced back to the Hotel St. Simon in 79th Street, W. I have called the St. Regis; neither Miss Searle nor Mrs. Ilkington has registered there. I have also called the St. Simon; both ladies are there. Your hearing must be defective—or else Miss S. didn’t know where she was at.

“I’m off to line my inwards with food and decorate my outwards with purple and fine underlinen. After which I purpose minding my own business for a few hours or days, as the circumstances may demand. But do not grieve—I shall return eftsoons or thereabouts.

“Yours in the interests of pure crime—
“Whiff.

“P. S.—And of course neither of us had the sense to ask: If Miss S. was bound here from the St. Regis, how did her taxi manage to break down in Central Park?”

Prompt investigation revealed the truth of Mr. Iff’s assertion: the bill-fold with its remaining two-hundred dollars was safely tucked away in the waistcoat pocket. Furthermore, the two twenty-pound notes were unquestionably genuine. The tide of Staff’s faith in human nature began again to flood; the flower of his self-conceit flourished amazingly. He surmised that he wasn’t such a bad little judge of mankind, after all.

He breakfasted with a famous appetite, untroubled by Iff’s aspersion on his sense of hearing, which was excellent; and he had certainly heard Miss Searle aright: she had named the St. Regis not once, but twice, and each time with the clearest enunciation. He could only attribute the mistake to her excitement and fatigue; people frequently make such mistakes under unusual conditions; if Miss Searle had wished to deceive him as to her whereabouts, she needed only to refrain from communicating with him at all. And anyway, he knew now where to find her and within the hour would have found her; and then everything would be cleared up.

He was mildly surprised at the sense of pleasant satisfaction with which he looked forward to meeting the girl again. He reminded himself not to forget to interview a manager or two in her interests.

Just to make assurance doubly sure, he telephoned the St. Simon while waiting for Shultz to fetch a taxicab. The switchboard operator at that establishment replied in the affirmative to his enquiry as to whether or not Mrs. Ilkington and Miss Searle were registered there.

On the top of this he was called up by Alison.

“I’m just starting out—cab waiting,” he told her at once—“to go to Miss Searle and get your—property.”

“Oh, you are?” she returned in what he thought a singular tone.

“Yes; she called me up last night—said she’d discovered the mistake and the—ah—property—asked me to call today at noon.”

There was no necessity that he could see of detailing the whole long story over a telephone wire.

“Well,” said Alison after a little pause, “I don’t want to interfere with your amusements, but ... I’ve something very particular to say to you. I wish you’d stop here on your way uptown.”

“Why, certainly,” he agreed without hesitation or apprehension.

The actress had put up, in accordance with her custom, at a handsome, expensive and world-famous hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of Staff’s rooms. Consequently he found himself in her presence within fifteen minutes from the end of their talk by telephone.

Dressed for the street and looking uncommonly handsome, she was waiting for him in the sitting-room of her suite. As he entered, she came forward and gave him a cool little hand and a greeting as cool. He received both with an imperturbability founded (he discovered to his great surprise) on solid indifference. It was hard to realise that he no longer cared for her, or whether she were pleased or displeased with him. But he didn’t. He concluded, not without profound amazement, that his passion for her which had burned so long and brightly had been no more than sentimental incandescence. And he began to think himself a very devil of a fellow, who could toy with the love of women with such complete insouciance, who could off with the old love before he had found a new and care not a rap!...

Throughout this self-analysis he was mouthing commonplaces—assuring her that the day was fine, that he had never felt better, that she was looking her charming best. Of a sudden his vision comprehended an article which adorned the centre-table; and words forsook him and his jaw dropped.

It was the bandbox: not that which he had left, with its cargo of trash, in his rooms.

Alison followed his glance, elevated her brows, and indicated the box with a wave of her arm.

“And what d’ you know about that?” she enquired bluntly.

“Where did it come from?” he counter-questioned, all agape.

“I’m asking you.”

“But—I know nothing about it. Did Miss Searle send it—?”

“I can’t say,” replied the actress drily. “Your name on the tag has been scratched out and mine, with this address, written above it.”

Staff moved over to the table and while he was intently scrutinising the tag, Alison continued:

“It came by messenger about eight this morning; Jane brought it to me when I got up a little while ago.”

“The hat was in it?” he asked.

She nodded impatiently: “Oh, of course—with the lining half ripped out and the necklace missing.”

“Curious!” he murmured.

“Rather,” she agreed. “What do you make of it?”

“This address isn’t her writing,” he said, deep in thought.

“Oh, so