Chapter XXV
McKenna was so startled at this announcement that the expression on his face brought a smile to the face of the woman.
“Let me begin at the beginning,” she said.
While he seated himself, she continued moving about, her head down, her lip closed over her under lip, carefully considering the situation. She had no fear to give her confidence. She understood the man with whom she was dealing, the more so for his open avowal of his reasons for seeking her friendship. Also she was fully alive as to the strength of such an alliance. What she considered was how much she should reveal. To-morrow she would be Mrs. John G. Slade, at the goal of her ambitions, over what perilous paths only she herself knew. The knowledge of what she had won suffocated her, for the nature of dramatic and adventurous spirits is such that they must seek relief in confidence. More, they crave the admiration that only another can bring to complete their moments of self-intoxication. At this moment, when her rôle had been played, she craved applause. McKenna was not a friend—he was a machine, a rock that would give back an echo. Beside, what had he not divined?
“McKenna,” she began quietly, though weighing her words, “to any one else I might tell my story differently. With you it is otherwise. You are no fool. I shall speak openly. On the night of my party I was virtually ruined.”
“Ruined!” exclaimed McKenna, with an involuntary glance at the luxury which surrounded them.
“When I say ruined, I mean for me,” she said, nodding. She became thoughtful, looking beyond him, seeing a distant self. “When I came here I had fifteen thousand a year. I was not satisfied. I wanted forty. I gambled. I have always gambled. I lost heavily. That night I had only five thousand a year left. That was ruin for me. I speculated on the tips of a man who deliberately and for a purpose misinformed me. Can you guess who that man was?”
“Slade,” said McKenna instantly.
“Yes, Slade,” she said. “It has been a desperate struggle between us. Tomorrow I shall become his wife. That is what I want more than I have ever wanted anything else. It is my right—you will see what I will do. Understand me, if Slade had failed I should not have married him, and yet I tell you frankly he is the only man I have known that appeals to me in every way. However,” she added, with a little abrupt movement of her closed hand, “that’s over. I have won.”
“Did he know that you had lost?” asked McKenna slowly.
“No,” she said with a smile, “he never knew. Not that he would not have made it up—in his way. It is a game he must have played many times.” She went to a writing-desk and, unlocking a drawer, brought out a note. “When I told you he gave me this ring with an offer of marriage,” she said, returning, “that was not true. He had no thought of marriage then—far from it. He offered me the ring and I refused it, knowing that he did so only to try my weakness. Also, he wanted to find out what I knew of Majendie and the Atlantic Trust. When he left he sent it back with this note. Read it.”
McKenna took the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles, and held it up.
DEAR LADY:
Apologies for my rudeness. If you won’t accept a gift, at least wear the ring for a week. I should like to know what effect it could have on your cold little soul. Oblige my curiosity. It’s only a little reparation for the disappointment I gave you.
J.G.S.
Mrs. Kildair took the note again and returning to the desk locked it in the drawer.
“This, then, was my situation the night of the party. I had lost two thirds of what I had. I was absolutely resolved to play everything I possessed on one last gamble. I need not remind you of the financial situation at that time. I knew Majendie and I knew Slade. Furthermore, I knew Mrs. Bloodgood. The problem was this—if Majendie was to be supported and the Atlantic Trust to be upheld, there would probably be no panic. If Majendie failed, I knew there would be a tremendous break in stocks—a killing for those who knew what was coming. That night everything depended on my solving Majendie’s fate. I did and I won. It was a guess, but a guess such as you understand. I have known too many men not to know how a true man acts under such circumstances. He came from the meeting that had condemned him, and the first moment he greeted Mrs. Bloodgood, I was sure that he was lost. Later, as he bowed ironically to something I had said, I saw in the gaping of his pocket something that gave me another clue—a slight thing, but which had a lot to do with what followed—just an edge of a green folder.”
“A folder?” said McKenna, perplexed.
“Yes, a folder that I thought might be a railroad time-table,” she said, nodding. “I knew, of course, of Mrs. Bloodgood’s infatuation. I had her confidence. I knew that she had started to procure a divorce. I likewise knew how often she had begged Majendie to elope with her. Furthermore, almost every one there that night was watching Majendie for the same purpose—all who were speculating; Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, Bloodgood, Garraboy, Maud Lille, Slade—who came in late, quite unexpected—were there on the same errand.”
“Yes, that I understood,” said McKenna.
“Now, I come to the actual theft of the ring. The moment I found it had been taken, I realized all the difficulties of my position, how dangerous any inquiry would be to my reputation, which would necessarily establish the fact of its being a gift of Slade’s. I resolved on desperate measures. That is why I came back, had the doors locked, extinguished the lights, and announced that I would call in detectives to have every one searched, unless the ring was restored during the period in the dark, while I counted one hundred.”
“Did you suspect who had taken it?” asked McKenna.
“There were several I could suspect—that was the trouble,” she said. “As you know, when I had counted sixty-one, there was a sound on the table. Every one exclaimed! The ring had been restored! When the lights were lit the table was bare. Evidently a second thief had taken what the first had restored. That’s what I thought—every one thought. I was wrong. There were not two thieves, there was only one.”
“The same person had put it down as a blind and taken it again,” said McKenna slowly, as she waited for his comment.
“No,” she replied, smiling. “It was all cleverly planned, and only an accident prevented its being successful. My ring was never on the table.”
“The ring that was thrown down, then,” said McKenna, suddenly enlightened, “was another ring—a blind—to cover what any one might have seen? I see!”
“And also to make it appear that the ring was in the studio.”
“Yes, I understand it now,” said McKenna, nodding, with a sudden snap of his fingers.
“I immediately went out, locking the door, and telephoned for my detectives. To this point this was my only thought. When I had done that, I began to think over what had happened. It seemed incredible to me that any one should have dared take such a risk—particularly as a search was inevitable. When I returned to the studio and awaited the arrival of my detectives, this was my only thought. I studied each and I became convinced that the ring would not be found on any one. If that were true, where was it? In the studio, hidden somewhere—but even there it would be sure to be found—so why should any one have even risked that?” She stopped a moment and then said quietly, with again that same far-seeing look beyond him: “McKenna, in my life I have seen many strange scenes. I have known of many more. One such came back to me and I guessed this much—that the real ring had not been heard. But that was all. When the detectives arrived, I went quietly into the hall, still trying to work it out. Quite by accident, I brushed against one of the coats that was hanging over the railing and knocked it down. Absolutely mechanically, without knowing why I did it, when I picked it up I ran my hands in the pockets. In the second was the ring.”
“And the coat, you say, was Beecher’s?” said McKenna, amazed.
“Wait. I replaced it hurriedly, noticing how similar it was to another that still lay on the rail. Then I opened the door and ushered the detectives into the dining-room. I had the ring, but I did not know the thief. Then all at once it came over me to what use I might put what had occurred. I had the ring which had been offered me, but which I could not accept openly. I could now use it to raise money for the speculation I had resolved upon, without Slade’s knowing of the obligation. Second, I wanted to make sure that I had really seen a time-table in the pocket of Majendie. I gave my order to that effect to the detectives and started the search.”
“Was it a time-table?”
“Nothing was found. Majendie, profiting either by the first period of darkness, or the second, had thrown it away. I found it in the waste-basket a little later. It was a time-table and his very action made my guess a certainty.”
“But the thief?”
“When the turn of Garraboy arrived,” said Mrs. Kildair, “he left, as all did, without returning to the studio. I was watching him particularly. Five minutes after he left, he returned. He had taken Mr. Beecher’s coat by mistake.”
An exclamation of annoyance escaped McKenna. He sprang up angrily.
“Mrs. Kildair,” he said, not attempting to restrain his annoyance, “that is the one thing Mr. Beecher neglected to tell me—see how we are handicapped—”
“I’m not blaming you, McKenna,” said Mrs. Kildair with a smile. “On the contrary, you discovered entirely too much.”
“It was cleverly worked out,” said McKenna grimly, “and no risk. He had his wits about him. Sounding another ring on the table to limit the search to the studio was quick thinking. Planting it in Beecher’s coat was better. Even if he were caught with it on, he could pretend amazement, a natural mistake. And if not, it was a clean getaway,” he added ruefully. “All the same, I wish I’d known that detail.”
“For the rest you were right. Mapleson loaned me the money. He is an old acquaintance, and I have once or twice,” she said carelessly, “rendered him important services. He did telephone me ten minutes before you came. I staked everything I had in the market. I doubled my losses. Is there any other point?”
“Your having the detectives stay was, of course, a blind?”
“Of course. I called Miss Charters and Garraboy on purpose. To this day I wonder who he thinks got the ring from him.”
“He suspects,” said McKenna.
“Probably,” she said carelessly. Then she turned on him. “Now, McKenna, answer me a question.”
“Which one?”
“It’s a thing I want to know,” she said, with a sudden shade of dread creeping over her face. “It is one of those fatalities in life that are so terrible. Majendie killed himself because he thought the detectives on his track had a warrant for his arrest. Weren’t they, in fact, your men, simply placed there to record his movements for Slade?”
“Mrs. Slade,” said McKenna, not noticing the slip, “you have just given me a profound confidence. Would you trust in my power to keep it, if, supposing I knew anything, I should tell you? Ask your husband himself and tell me yourself. I am curious also.”
Mrs. Kildair, who saw in the politic evasion a feminine answer, nodded and drew back with a shudder.
At this moment Kiki entering announced that Mr. Beecher was below.
“Tell him the truth,” said McKenna quickly. “That is, three quarters of the truth. Leave it to me.”
When Beecher entered, expectation and long-restrained curiosity on his face, McKenna, with a look of crestfallen defeat which completely deceived him, said immediately:
“Mr. Beecher, have you that envelope I gave you?”
“Am I to open it?” said Beecher eagerly, bringing it out.
“On the contrary,” said McKenna, taking it quickly. He took it and could not resist examining the edges to see if it had been tampered with. “This is one of my failures, Mr. Beecher,” he said, tearing it into small pieces. “I’ve got too much vanity to let you see what an ass I’ve been.”
“What does this mean?” said Beecher, standing open-mouthed.
“It means, Teddy,” said Mrs. Kildair severely, “that it is entirely your fault.”
“My fault!”
“Yes, your fault. You neglected to tell Mr. McKenna the one thing that was important.”
“What thing—what do you mean?”
“That Mr. Garraboy went off with your coat by mistake.”
“Yes, Mr. Beecher,” said McKenna, shaking his head, “by not telling me that one detail, you’ve made a fool out of me.”
“Then, Garraboy took it!” said Beecher, his face lighting up with a smile of triumph.
“Garraboy took it, planted it in your pocket and then faked the ring at the table. The ring was returned through a woman who guessed it and had it restored. Her name is a secret, but you are at liberty to guess.”
“Miss Lille,” said Beecher to himself. This dénouement, which coincided so closely with his own divination, completely convinced him.
“If you’ve no further use for me,” said McKenna, with the same hang-dog look, “I’ll be going. Another time I hope to serve you better.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Kildair, who contrived to add to the words a little smile, comprehensible only to the detective.
“Permit me to give you my profound congratulations,” said McKenna, taking her hand with a bow that made Beecher open his eyes in wonder. “I wish you every success.”
“Au revoir, McKenna,” said Mrs. Kildair, still smiling.
“Good-night, McKenna,” said Beecher in turn.
“Oh, you,” said the detective, going off grumbling; “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Beecher laughed guiltily when the door had closed.
“By Jove,” he said, “McKenna certainly is in bad humor. I’m sorry. But he was off on a tangent, wasn’t he?”