II
Frederick Mullett had been in a nervous frame of mind all the afternoon, more nervous even than that of the ordinary bridegroom on his wedding-day. For he had been deeply exercised for many hours past by the problem of what his bride had been up to that afternoon.
Any bridegroom would be upset if his newly-made wife left him immediately after the ceremony on the plea that she had important business to attend to and would see him later. Frederick Mullett was particularly upset. It was not so much the fact that he had planned a golden afternoon of revelry including a visit to Coney Island and had had to forgo it that disturbed him. That the delightful programme should have been cancelled was, of course, a disappointment: but what really caused him mental anguish was the speculation as to what from the viewpoint of a girl like Fanny constituted important business. Her reticence on this vital question had spoiled his whole day.
He was, in short, in exactly the frame of mind when a man who has married a pickpocket and has watched her go off on important business does not want to hear people tapping sharply on windows. If a mouse had crossed the floor at that moment, Frederick Mullett would have suspected it of being a detective in disguise. He peered at Mrs. Waddington with cold horror.
“What do you want?”
“I wish to see and question the young woman who is in this apartment.”
Mullett’s mouth felt dry. A shiver ran down his spine.
“What young woman?”
“Come, come!”
“There isn’t any young woman here.”
“Tut, tut!”
“There isn’t, I tell you.”
Mrs. Waddington’s direct mind was impatient of this attempt to deceive.
“I will make it worth your while to tell the truth,” she said.
Mullett recoiled. The thought that he was being asked to sell his bride on the very day of their wedding revolted him. Not that he would have sold her at any time, of course, but being asked to do so on this day of all days made the thing seem, as Officer Garroway would have said, so peculiarly stark and poignant.
With a frenzied gesture of abhorrence he slammed the window. He switched off the light and with agonised bounds reached the kitchen, where Mrs. Frederick Mullett was standing at the range stirring a Welsh rarebit.
“Hello, sweetie!” cooed his bride, looking up. “I’m just fixing the rabbit. The soup’s ready.”
“And we’re in it,” said Mullett hollowly.
“Why, whatever do you mean?”
“Fanny, where did you go this afternoon?”
“Just down into the country, dearie. I told you.”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me what you did there.”
“It’s a secret for the present, darling. I want to keep it as a surprise. It’s something to do with some money that’s coming to us.”
Mullett eyed her wanly.
“Fanny, were you doing a job this afternoon down there in the country?”
“Why, Freddy Mullett! What an idea!”
“Then what are the bulls here for?”
“The bulls!”
“There’s a female dick out on the roof right now. And she’s asking for you.”
Fanny stared, round-eyed.
“Asking for me? You’re crazy.”
“She said ‘I wish to see and question the young woman who is in this apartment.’ Those were her very words.”
“I’ll take a peek at her.”
“Don’t let her see you,” begged Mullett, alarmed.
“Is it likely!”
Fanny walked composedly to the sitting-room. She felt no concern. The most comforting possession in the world is, of course, a quiet conscience: but almost as good is the knowledge that you have left no tracks behind you. Fanny was positive that, on taking her departure from the Waddington home at Hempstead that afternoon, she had made a nice clean getaway and could not possibly have been followed to this place by even the most astute of female dicks. Mullett, she was convinced, must have misunderstood this woman, whoever she might be.
She drew the blind aside an inch and looked cautiously out. The intruder was standing so close to the window that it was possible even in the uncertain light to get an adequate view of her: and what she saw reassured Fanny. She returned to her anxious husband with words of cheer.
“That’s no dick,” she said. “I can tell ’em a mile off.”
“Then who is she?”
“You’d better ask her. Listen, you go and kid her along and I’ll sneak out. Then we can meet somewhere when you’re through. It’s a shame having to waste this nice supper, but we’ll go to a restaurant. Listen, I’ll be waiting for you at the Astor.”
“But if she’s not a dick, why not stay where we are?”
“You don’t want people knowing that I’m here, do you? Suppose your boss heard of it, what would he say?”
“That’s true. All right, then. Wait for me at the Astor. Though it’s kind of a swell place, isn’t it?”
“Well, don’t you want a swell place to dine at on your wedding-night?”
“You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” said Fanny, giving her husband’s cheek a loving pinch. “That’s the first thing you’ve got to get into your head, now you’re a married man.”
Mullett returned to the sitting-room and switched on the light again. He felt fortified. He opened the window with something of an air.
“You were saying, ma’am?”
Mrs. Waddington was annoyed.
“What do you mean by going away and slamming the window in my face?”
“Had to see to something in the kitchen, ma’am. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“There is. I wish to know who the young woman is who is in the apartment.”
“No young woman in this apartment, ma’am.”
Mrs. Waddington began to feel that she was approaching this matter from the wrong angle. She dipped in her bag.
“Here is a ten-dollar bill.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“And I shall be obliged if you will answer them truthfully. How long have you been in Mr. Finch’s employment?”
“About a couple of months, ma’am.”
“And what is your opinion of Mr. Finch’s morals?”
“They’re swell.”
“Nonsense. Don’t attempt to deceive me. Is it not a fact that during your term of employment you have frequently admitted female visitors to this apartment?”
“Only models, ma’am.”
“Models!”
“Mr. Finch is an artist.”
“I am aware of it,” said Mrs. Waddington with a shiver. “So you persist in your statement that Mr. Finch’s mode of life is not irregular?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Waddington, twitching the ten-dollar bill neatly from his grasp, “It may interest you to know that I do not believe you.”
“Here, hey!” cried Mullett, deeply moved. “You gave me that!”
“And I have taken it back,” said Mrs. Waddington, replacing the bill in her bag. “You do not deserve it.”
Mullett slammed the window, outraged in his finest feelings. For some moments he stood, fermenting. Then, seething with justifiable indignation, he switched off the light once more and went out.
He had reached the foot of the stairs, when he heard his name spoken, and, turning, was aware of a long policeman regarding him with a mild friendliness.
“Surely it is Mr. Mullett?” said the policeman.
“Hullo?” said Mullett, somewhat embarrassed. Habit is not easily overcome, and there had been a time when the mere sight of a policeman had made him tremble like a leaf.
“You remember me? My name is Garroway. We met some weeks ago.”
“Why, sure,” said Mullett, relieved. “You’re the poet.”
“It is very nice of you to say so,” said Officer Garroway, simpering a little. “I am about to call at Mr. Beamish’s apartment now with my latest effort. And how has the world been using you, Mr. Mullett?”
“All right. Everything hunky-dory with you?”
“Completely. Well, I must not detain you. No doubt you are on your way to some important appointment.”
“That’s right. Say!” said Mullett, suddenly inspired. “Are you on duty?”
“Not for the moment.”
“But you wouldn’t object to making a cop?”
“By no means. I am always willing—and, indeed, anxious—to make a cop.”
“Well, there was a suspicious character on our roof just now. A woman. I didn’t like the look of her.”
“Indeed? This is extremely interesting.”
“She was snooping around, looking in at our windows, and I don’t think she’s up to any good. You might go and ask her what she wants.”
“I will attend to the matter immediately.”
“If I was you, I’d pinch her on suspicion. So long.”
“Good night, Mr. Mullett.”
Mullett, with the elation which comes from a good deed done, moved buoyantly off to his tryst. Officer Garroway, swinging his nightstick, climbed thoughtfully up the stairs.