Chapter XIV
At eight o’clock promptly McKenna presented himself at the door of Mrs. Kildair’s apartment. Kiki, with his velvet glide, ushered him into the studio. The electric chandeliers were dull; only the great standing lamp was lit, throwing a foggy luster about the room, massing enormous dark silhouettes and spaces in the corners.
“Is it a precaution?” he thought grimly, considering this serviceable obscurity.
He felt a sudden heightened sense of curiosity and defiance, a feeling that had been growing within him ever since the discovery of Slade’s connection with the ring, and the brief, disjointed details of Beecher’s interview. Every profession develops, back of its elaborate technique, a sudden quality of instinct which exists as the almost mechanical and unguided operation of the disciplined mind. McKenna had no sooner entered the room than he perceived the woman with a quick defensive “on guard” of all his faculties.
He stopped in the center of the room, like a pointer flushing his game, and in the second’s rapid inhalation he completely changed his scheme of attack. He felt at once that he had to do not alone with—what he expected—a woman of unusual physical attraction, clever, with the defensive intuition of one who has evaded the scrutiny of society; but with a woman of mental grasp and decision. He felt it everywhere: in the remarkable adjustment of the square room which broke it up into half a dozen separate groups, distinctive and sure as though so many separate selves; in the harmony of color and proportion, which he felt without analysis; in the seduction of the Récamier couch with its eastern drapery of blue and gold; in the friendly comfort of the grouped chairs by the baronial fireplace; in the correct intimacy of the reading-table at one end and the formality of the grouped chairs by the piano. All these notes were to him notes of the hand that had arranged them, as he felt in the struggling muscles of the bared marble torsos, wrestling on the mantel, and the lithe, virile body of the discus-thrower on the table, the virility and aggressiveness of the woman. This perception awoke his defiance as though one personality had been substituted for another.
“What does she want with me?” he thought. “Is she daring enough to tell me all, or is she worried at what I may know?”
While he was still in the midst of his reflections, Mrs. Kildair entered. She was in street costume: a tailor-made dress of dark blue, edged with black braid, the stiffness and sobriety relieved by a full fichu at her throat. The red flight of a feather crossed the Gainsborough hat.
“How do you do?” she said, nodding to him, a crisp, businesslike abruptness in her voice. “A little more light would be better. Thanks. The button is by the door.”
Prepared as he had been to be surprised, he had not expected this businesslike manifestation. He went to the wall, following her directions, and threw on the lights.
“Only the side lights,” she said. “That’s it. Shall we sit here?”
She took her position by the reading-table in a great high-backed upholstered arm-chair. Obeying her gesture, he drew up his chair to a position opposite. In the varied experiences of thirty years, he had come into contact with women of all walks of life. Without the psychological analysis of subtleties of the lawyer and the novelist, he had an unerring instinct for the crux of character. “Is she good or is she bad?” was the question that, in ninety cases out of a hundred, he put to himself at the turning-point of his campaigns. For the first time, despite his previous prejudice, he was in doubt for an answer, but he recognized in her at once the stamp of that superior brood which raises some men to fame and fortune where others by one trait of conscience or weakness end in a disgraceful failure.
“I have wanted to meet you for a long time, Mr. McKenna,” she said directly, but without the accompanying smile of feminine flattery. “Mr. Slade has told me much about you.”
“Slade?” he said, with a quick simulation of surprise, while admiring the abruptness, amazing in a woman, with which she had launched her attack.
“You realize, of course, Mr. McKenna,” she continued quietly, without giving him time to deny her first implication, “that Mr. Beecher, in engaging you, has, quite without his knowledge, brought on a situation that is very embarrassing to me.”
“Good!” thought the detective. “She has made up her mind to tell the whole story.” Aloud he said, without change of expression: “In what way, Mrs. Kildair?”
“A situation exists which makes it extremely difficult for me to recover my ring without disclosing to the public matters in my own private life that at present are liable to great misconstruction.”
She spoke professionally, without variation in her voice, as a doctor speaking with dispassionate directness. McKenna did not answer, resolving by his silence to force her to talk.
“A week,” she continued without pause, though her eyes remained without wavering on his, “—ten days at the most—may completely change this position. I won’t conceal from you that I am extremely sorry that you have been brought into the case.” McKenna could not control an expression of surprise. “But, now that you are in it, I shall be forced to give you a confidence against my inclination.”
“But—” began the detective.
“One moment,” she said, interrupting him. “Before I give you this confidence I wish to ask one question.”
“Mrs. Kildair, I must remind you,” said McKenna warily, “that I am engaged in the interests of Mr. Beecher, and can do nothing without his permission.”
“Are you representing any one besides Mr. Beecher?” she said, ignoring his objection.
“What do you mean?” he said carefully, to gain time.
“Are you, in this particular case, representing Mr. Slade?” she said directly.
“I have never said that I was employed by him, Mrs. Kildair,” he said slowly, comprehending now the full purpose of her opening question.
“Mr. Slade has told me himself of your work in connection with the Gray Fox Mines, the Farmers’ and Travelers’ Bank, and the more personal affair of your recovery of his letters from a Miss Minna Weston. You see, I am informed.”
“I have worked for Mr. Slade,” said McKenna.
“And are you doing so now?” she asked sharply.
“I never refer to my clients, Mrs. Kildair,” he said stiffly.
“I desire to put this matter entirely in your hands—without reserve,” she said quickly. “All I ask from you is a promise that, notwithstanding your relations with him past or present, nothing I say to you shall be repeated to Mr. Slade, or to any one else.”
“Mrs. Kildair,” said McKenna, every faculty joyfully grateful for the contest of wits he felt impending, “I must remind you that my employer is Mr. Beecher, and that I can promise nothing that will keep him from doing anything he desires.
“Mr. Beecher is acting for me,” she said calmly. “Very well; your position is correct. I will put it this way. Subject to Mr. Beecher’s approval, will you give me your word that you will repeat nothing of what I may tell you?”
“If Mr. Beecher is willing, I am,” said McKenna obstinately. “That’s my word.”
“Now I can speak to you freely,” said Mrs. Kildair.
“I have not promised yet,” broke in McKenna.
“I will take the risk,” she said, brushing aside the obstacle with an impatient gesture.
“I remain entirely free to communicate anything to Mr. Beecher,” interposed the detective instantly.
“You do not understand,” she said, without irritation. “Mr. Beecher, in retaining you, did so to assist me, and only after he had secured my permission. Now I desire, in order to arrive at quicker results and to be free to give you my full confidence, to transfer that authority direct to me. In other words, Mr. McKenna, I wish to retain you myself and for myself only.”
“That, Mrs. Kildair, depends entirely on Mr. Beecher,” repeated the detective.
“But if he acquiesces, will you act in my interests only?”
McKenna was about to interpose another evasion, when he reflected that he would have time to acquaint Beecher with what had happened and to advise him either to accept or to refuse.
“Very well,” he replied cautiously, feeling instinctively that some trap was being prepared without yet perceiving what it could be. “I will leave it that way.”
“Good,” she said, with a little nod of her head. “Now, what have you done?”
“I can not answer that, Mrs. Kildair,” he said, smiling; “not under my present arrangement.”
“You have, of course, discovered that the ring belongs to Mr. Slade?”
Quite unconsciously, she had adopted his own tactics, the tactics of the inquisitor, who hurls the vital question at the suspect, and then seeks the answer in the almost imperceptible response in the eyes.
“Yes, I know that,” said McKenna, who felt that the surprise he had experienced at having the tables thus turned on him had revealed the truth to the questioner. “That is, I know the ring did belong to Mr. Slade.”
“Have you informed Mr. Beecher of the fact?”
“It has just come to my knowledge,” said McKenna; “I shall, naturally, inform him.”
Mrs. Kildair looked at him a moment with an appearance of reflection.
“The question was quite unnecessary,” she said. “Of course, you have told him, and you have every right to deny it.” Then she continued with more decision: “This is exactly my danger—you see, I won’t mince words. It is a situation which constantly occurs, and which is inexplicable except by one construction in the eyes of society. Now—”
“I warn you,” again objected the detective.
“I do not propose to explain my relations with Mr. Slade,” continued Mrs. Kildair coldly. “They are such that a great deal depends on the events of the next few days. At present it is enough that I can not explain my possession of the ring in any way that can satisfy publicity.”
“Mr. Slade did not give you the ring?” said McKenna, in slow progression.
She carefully considered the question.
“Mr. Slade sent me the ring with an offer of marriage,” said Mrs. Kildair evenly, with an appearance of great frankness. “The ring arrived on the night of the party, and I committed the imprudence of wearing it. If its source now becomes known, I must appear before the world either as Mr. Slade’s mistress or as his fiancée; and at present I have not made up my mind whether I shall marry him.”
The directness of this avowal left McKenna immersed in thought. He looked at her, unaware of the fixity of his stare; and, inclined as always to skepticism, he asked himself if back of all the outer gilt of this proud, determined woman, there were not a stalking shadow of insistent poverty, whether the game she was playing with Slade were not a greater drama than that in which he was engaged; whether, in fact, it lay not on a turn of the balance whether the world should know her as the wife or that very alternative which she had dreaded in the exposure of the ownership of the ring?
“What does she really want of Slade?” he said to himself, staring so profoundly beyond the set gaze of the woman that, for the first time, she moved with a little annoyance.
“Mr. McKenna!” she said sharply.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffening abruptly.
“You perceive now the delicacy of my position,” she said; “and why I desire to have you completely in my interests.”
“I do,” he answered, but still clinging to the saving rope of defiance. “I only regret that you told me this before Mr. Beecher’s—”
“Now ask me any questions you wish,” she said, interrupting him impatiently.
“I don’t feel at liberty to do so, Mrs. Kildair,” he said warily, convinced that her whole motive was to find out the extent of his knowledge. “I prefer to know first where I stand.”
“Very well,” she said. “Let us talk of other things, then.” Her manner changed to one of a lighter, inconsequential curiosity. “There is one point in the frightful happenings of the day I should like to know.”
“What, madam?” said McKenna, whose instinct warned him to adopt a tone of artless attention.
“Majendie was followed by detectives, was he not?”
“That is the report.”
“And he was on the point of leaving when he perceived that he would be followed?”
“That is what I have been told.”
“And, believing that he was about to be arrested, he returned to the house and shot himself.”
“That’s the story.”
“As a matter of fact, wasn’t he mistaken?”
“In what way?” said McKenna, steeling himself under an appearance of surprise.
“Were not the detectives your own men—placed by you at Mr. Slade’s orders to acquaint him with every move of Mr. Majendie?” persisted Mrs. Kildair.
“That would make a good Sunday thriller,” said McKenna, laughing boisterously.
“That is my guess,” she said, drawing back as though satisfied. “I am certain that Majendie committed suicide through the blunder of believing he was threatened with arrest.”
“My dear Mrs. Kildair,” said the detective, rising, “I see that what you want to know is, am I for or against Mr. Slade. If I’m not in his employ you think I’m retained by his enemies. Well, I don’t intend to give you any information.”
She made no answer, but, rising in turn, glanced at the clock.
“Since you are here,” she said carelessly, “you may as well look over the ground.” And, without waiting, she went to the door. “This is my bedroom. The ring was placed here.”
He had hardly made his quick professional scrutiny when there came a ring at the door, and at a sign from Mrs. Kildair they returned to the studio.
“What now?” thought McKenna, who remembered her glance at the clock. “Slade or who?”
To his surprise, it was Beecher who entered. Mrs. Kildair went directly to him, a smile of confidence and welcome on her face, holding out an eager hand, and by the elation of her movements, the detective comprehended how she had played him.
“Teddy,” she said directly, “I have a favor to ask you, and I trust you so completely that I know I need not explain it further. Mr. McKenna and I have had a very complete understanding. I wish him to represent me entirely. I do not mean that you should not continue to work on the case,” she added quickly, as she felt instinctively the gesture of warning McKenna made behind her back. “All I wish you to tell him is that anything I may have told him or will tell him shall be considered confidential until the time I am able to tell you myself. I must throw myself on your chivalry and protection as the fine gentleman I have seen you to be,” she added, looking at him with a moistening of the eyes in which there was respect and a more tender emotion.
McKenna, though perceiving how completely she had prepared the isolation of the confidence he had just heard, did not again signal his objection, perhaps divining the futility of opposing such an appeal.
Beecher bowed in assent.
“Certainly, Rita,” he said, with a pride that brought a smile of amusement to McKenna’s lips. “I wish McKenna to do everything he can for you and in exactly the way you wish.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a little pressure of his hand. Then turning, she added: “This I will say to you both. I have my reasons for believing that the ring will be returned within ten days; if it isn’t then I shall have more to disclose.”
“Returned?” said Beecher, struck by the similarity of her prophecy and that of Nan Charters.
“Exactly. Until then, I believe all that is necessary is to wait for developments.” She turned toward the detective, who waited like a statue. “Mr. McKenna, I know you are a busy man. I won’t keep you. Mr. Beecher has come to assist me on a very painful errand, one on which I would trust no other man that I know in New York.” She held out her hand. “I do not often make mistakes in men, or I should not have told you what I did. Good-night; I shall call you soon.”
McKenna bowed, experiencing, despite his resentment at her mastery of the evening, a feeling of respect and deference.
“Beecher is a kitten in her hands,” he said to himself as he entered the street. “She played me as she wanted to. One thing’s certain. She wants to employ me to keep me from doing anything. Evidently her own game is more important than the ring—or is there blackmail mixed up in this? I have it! Mrs. Kildair knows the thief, but is afraid to act until—until certain things straighten out between her and Mr. John G. Slade.”
“And now, Teddy,” said Mrs. Kildair, as soon as the door had closed behind the detective, “you know what I want of you. I have arranged everything. My carriage is waiting.”
Half an hour later, Mrs. Bloodgood joined them, heavily veiled. They drove to the house next to that of Majendie, and, at a word from Mrs. Kildair, Beecher remained below on guard in the flickering obscurity of the street. The two women went hurriedly up the steps of Majendie’s home, where the door was opened for them by some one who had been awaiting their arrival.
For a full half-hour Beecher, prey to a profound melancholy, continued his aimless, mechanical pacing, his head raised, glancing past the jagged black silhouettes of the house-tops at the reddened clouds of the unreal night, which brought him not a clear vision of immense and purifying spaces but the heavy reflection of the illuminated, surging streets.
“What will my life be?” he thought, conjuring up the future. “Calm and commonplace? Or shall I ever be linked to some such tragedy—torn to pieces, all in a day—wrecked!”
The door opened and two shadows passed down the steps. He returned hastily, saw them into the carriage, and stood with uncovered head, a lump in his throat, as they drove on. Then he went directly to his rooms, and, exhausted by the emotions of the day, fell heavily into a sleep that was almost a stupor.