I
Mrs. Waddington found the authorities at Police Headquarters charming. It was some little time before they corrected their initial impression that she had come to give herself up to justice for committing a jewel-robbery: but, this done, they threw themselves heart and soul into her cause and became extraordinarily helpful. True, they were forced to admit that the description which she gave of the thief conveyed absolutely nothing to them: but if it had done, they assured her, she would have been amazed at the remorseless speed with which the machinery of the Law would have been set working.
If, for instance, the girl had been tall and thin with shingled auburn hair, they would have spread the net at once for “Chicago Kitty.” If, on the other hand, she had had a snub nose and two moles on her chin, then every precinct would have been warned by telephone to keep an eye out for “Cincinnati Sue.” While, if only she had limped slightly and spoken with a lisp, the arrest of “Indianapolis Edna” would have been a mere matter of hours. As it was, they were obliged to confess themselves completely baffled: and Mrs. Waddington came away with the feeling that, if she had not happened to possess large private means, she could have gone into the jewel-stealing business herself and cleaned up big without any fear of unpleasant consequences. It was wrong of her, of course, to call the chief detective a fat-faced goop, but by that time she had become a little annoyed.
She was still annoyed as she came out into the street, but the pleasant night air had a cooling effect. She was able now to perceive that the theft of the necklace was, after all, only a side-issue, and that there lay before her sterner work than the mere bringing to book of female criminals. The consummation to which she must devote all her faculties was the downfall of George Finch.
It was at this point that she decided that she needed an ally, a sympathetic coadjutor who would trot along by her side and do what he was told and generally supply aid and encouragement in the rather tricky operations on which she was about to embark. She went to a public telephone-office and invested five cents in a local call.
“Lord Hunstanton?”
“Hullo?”
“This is Mrs. Waddington.”
“Oh, ah? Many happy returns.”
“What are you doing just now?”
“I was thinking of popping out and having a bit to eat.”
“Meet me at the Ritz-Carlton in ten minutes.”
“Right-ho. Thanks, awfully. I will. Yes. Thanks. Right. Fine. Absolutely. Right-ho.”
So now we find Mrs. Waddington seated in the vestibule of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, watching the door like a cat at a mouse-hole and tapping the carpet impatiently with an ample shoe. Like everybody else who has ever waited five minutes for anybody in a restaurant, she had the illusion of having been there for several hours. But at last her patience was rewarded. An elegant figure shimmered through the doorway and came towards her, beaming with happy anticipation. Lord Hunstanton was a man who combined a keen appetite with a rugged distaste for paying for his own meals, and the prospect of a dinner at the Ritz at somebody else’s expense enchanted him. He did not actually lick his lips, but as he looked brightly up the stairs to where benevolent waiters were plying contented diners with food, there flitted across his face a radiant smile.
“Hope I’m not late,” said Lord Hunstanton.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Waddington. “I want to talk to you.” And proceeded to do so at some length.
Lord Hunstanton blinked pathetically.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, as his companion paused for breath. “I know it’s all frightfully interesting, but I don’t seem somehow to follow. How would it be if we slid into the dining-room and thrashed the whole thing out quietly over a thoughtful steak or something?”
Mrs. Waddington eyed him with a distaste that bordered on contempt.
“You surely do not imagine that I propose to waste time eating?”
“Eh?” His lordship’s jaw fell an inch. “Not eat?”
“Certainly not. I will repeat what I was saying, and please listen attentively this time.”
“But I say! No dinner?”
“No.”
“No soup?”
“No.”
“No fish? No nourishment of any description?”
“Certainly not. We have no time to lose. We must act promptly and swiftly.”
“How about a sand— … ?”
“You were present at that appalling scene this afternoon,” said Mrs. Waddington, “so there is no need to describe it to you. You will not have forgotten how that girl came into the room and denounced George Finch. You recall all she said.”
“I do indeed. It was the real ginger.”
“But unfortunately untrue.”
“Eh?”
“It was a ruse. She was a thief. She did it in order to steal a pearl necklace belonging to my stepdaughter, which was among the wedding-presents.”
“No, really? I say! Fancy that!”
“Unfortunately there seems to be no doubt of it. And so, instead of being appalled at George Finch’s moral turpitude, my stepdaughter looks upon him as a much-injured man and wishes the marriage to take place as arranged. Are you listening?”
Lord Hunstanton started. There had come frolicking towards him from the dining-room a lively young smell composed principally of tournedos and gravy, and his attention had wandered.
“Sorry,” he said. “Thinking of something else for the moment. You were saying that Miss Waddington was appalled at George Finch’s moral turpitude.”
“I was saying precisely the reverse. She is not appalled.”
“No? Very broad-minded, these modern girls,” said Lord Hunstanton, turning away and trying not to inhale.
“But,” proceeded Mrs. Waddington, “I am convinced that, although in this particular matter this Finch may be blameless, his morals, if we only knew it, are as degraded as those of all other artists. I feel as certain as I am that I am sitting here that George Finch is a loose fish.”
“Fish!” moaned Lord Hunstanton.
“And I have made up my mind that there is only one thing to do if I am to expose the man in his true colours, and that is to go to the den which he maintains near Washington Square and question his manservant as to his private life. We will start at once.”
“But, I say, you don’t need me?”
“Certainly I need you. Do you imagine that I propose to call at this man’s lair alone?”
Across the landing at the top of the stairs there passed a waiter bearing a tray with a smoking dish upon it. Lord Hunstanton followed him with haggard eyes: and, having watched him enter the restaurant, wished he had not done so, for there by one of the tables stood another waiter carving for a party of four what looked like the roast chicken of a lifetime—one of those roast chickens you tell your grandchildren about. His lordship uttered a faint, whinnying sound and clenched his hands.
“Come!” said Mrs. Waddington. “Let us go.”
The thought of defying this overpowering woman did not enter Lord Hunstanton’s mind. Nobody ever defied Mrs. Waddington. And so, some little time later, a cab drew up outside the Sheridan Apartment House and two figures proceeded to climb the stairs—for it was one of the pleasing features of the Sheridan that the elevator was practically always out of order.
Arrived at the top floor, Lord Hunstanton rang the bell. The sound echoed faintly within.
“Seems to be out,” said his lordship, having tried again.
“We will wait.”
“What, here?”
“On the roof.”
“How long?”
“Until this Finch’s manservant returns.”
“But he may be hours.”
“Then we will wait hours.”
Lord Hunstanton’s aching interior urged him to protest. “Be brave!” it gurgled. And, whilst still not sufficiently courageous to defy, he nerved himself to make a suggestion.
“How would it be,” he said, “if I just pushed round the corner somewhere and snatched a bite? I mean to say, you never know whether this manservant fellow won’t turn nasty. Sticking up for the young master, I mean to say. In which case, I should be twice the man with a bit of food inside me. With a dish of beans or something nicely poised within, I could do my bit.”
Mrs. Waddington regarded him scornfully.
“Very well. But kindly return as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I will, by Jove! Just want to pack away a hasty prune. I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.”
“You will find me on the roof.”
“On the roof. Right! Well, tinkety-tonk, then, for the moment,” said his lordship, and pattered off down the stairs.
Mrs. Waddington mounted another flight, and came out under the broad canopy of heaven. She found herself with a choice of views, the glittering city that stretched away below and the dark windows of the Finch lair. She chose the windows and watched them narrowly.
She had been watching them for some considerable time, when suddenly the middle ones, the French windows, lit up. And, as she stepped forward, her rosiest dreams were realised. Across the yellow blind there passed a shadow which was plainly that of a young female person, no doubt of a grade of morality so low that in any other place but Washington Square it would have provoked the raised eyebrow and the sharp intake of the breath. Mrs. Waddington advanced to the window and tapped upon it imperiously.
There was a startled exclamation from within. The blind shot up, revealing a stoutish man in sober black. The next moment the window was opened, and the stoutish man popped his head out.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“I am,” said Mrs. Waddington.
“Jiminy Christmas!” said the stoutish man.