CHAPTER XI
Four Photographs
"Yes. Find Anne Blake," O'Malley repeated, slowly. "But, in the meantime, son, you'd have to establish a motive, and it'd have to be some little motive, at that! And after all, you know, Miss Mary may turn up at any time. It would be easy enough for her to make a get-away and nobody see her. Suppose she slipped quietly out into the street and picked up a cab on the Avenue or somewhere? How'd we find that cab, I ask you? We don't know where she was going, and there wouldn't be anything to spot her by but a description or a photograph, if you can get hold of one."
"I can do that easy enough," said Peter. "Morris gave me a card to her manager and I can get one from him. I'm going to see him right away and find out what he knows about Mary Blake. He's the only person, so far, that can give me a straight line on her." He reached for the telephone and instructed the operator in the outer office to get Mr. Frederick Jones of the Westmoreland Theatre on the wire. While waiting for the connection, he continued his talk with his partner.
"Get out the drag-net for those two girls, O'Malley. Spread it all over the country and up into Canada. Comb the city with a fine-tooth comb. If Mary really hadn't any luggage, it's on the cards that she may not have left town. But," he shook his head thoughtfully, "I've got a hunch, O'Malley, that we won't find Mary Blake. The letter said, 'There'll be no one left but Anne....' Whatever was to happen has happened ... and I think—I can't explain it, but I feel it in my bones—that our only hope is to find Anne."
The telephone, at his elbow, buzzed sharply.
"Mr. Jones is very busy," Peter's operator informed him. "Can his secretary take a message?"
"Yes," Peter replied. "Let me have the secretary."
The connection made, Peter was informed that it would be impossible to see Mr. Jones that afternoon, and it was only by using Donald Morris's name that he was able to make an appointment for the following morning at eleven o'clock.
On Tuesday, therefore, prompt to the minute, Peter presented himself to the dragon (in the shape of a bobbed and powdered switch-board operator) who guarded the entrance to the offices of the Westmoreland Theatre Building. He had to assure her that he was not an actor out of work, and present his credentials, and it was not until his statement that he had an appointment had been verified that he was allowed to climb the three flights of stairs to the office of Frederick Jones, Manager. Even here he was subjected to a maddening delay before he could gain audience.
When he reached Mr. Jones at last, however, he found him genial and cordial enough. The few lines which Donald Morris had written on his card turned the trick, and Mr. Jones expressed himself delighted to be of service.
Peter had had plenty of time to go over carefully his line of attack. He regretted the necessity, as he would have expressed it, "of putting any one wise," but, on the other hand, he felt confident that Mr. Frederick Jones must be well aware of Donald Morris's interest in Miss Blake. He was also sure that her disappearance would come to the knowledge of her manager in short order. He, therefore, went straight to the bat.
"I want to talk to you about Miss Mary Blake," he said. Leaning his elbow on the desk, with chin in hand, he regarded the manager keenly.
"What about Mary Blake?" Jones questioned, sharply.
"She's disappeared," answered Peter, without emphasis.
"What!" The manager started to his feet.
"She's disappeared from her apartment and left no address," Peter explained, quietly.
"Good God!" cried the manager, leaning over and beating his clenched fist on the desk. "Do you know what you're saying? But, of course, it can't be! Why, she was going to be in town all summer, and we start rehearsal on a new play the middle of July! 'Dark Roads' ended its run last Saturday night. She must have gone off for the week-end somewhere. You're just trying to get a rise out of me!"
"I'm not," said Peter, gravely. "She's gone away for some time, and under peculiar conditions. So far, we haven't been able to find any trace of her. If you think I'm kidding you, you can call up Mr. Morris and ask him. He found out, accidentally, that she'd gone away, and he thought it was so serious that he called me in. I'm a detective," and Peter presented his business card.
The manager looked at it and dropped heavily into his chair.
"This is bad news for me, Mr. Clancy," he said. "Damn bad news. She's worth twenty-five to fifty thousand a year to me, I don't mind telling you, and if anything has happened to her—if she's gone off her nut—or anything—she's a strange sort of girl——"
"How, 'strange'?" interrupted Peter, his eyes narrowing.
"Well—she's the greatest emotional actress in the world to-day. You can take it from me. And I said it to Arthur Quinn, many and many a time, when he was alive. She can take the heart out of your body and wring it like a wet sponge. She's beautiful, and clever as the devil—but, like most temperamental people, she has her own peculiarities. And sometimes they were a bit hard to deal with."
"For instance?" prompted Peter.
"Well, for instance—she'd never rehearse without a full costume and make-up, and the lights just as they would be at performance. Said she couldn't feel the part unless the conditions were all the way they were going to be. It made it necessary to get her costumes ready before we started rehearsal, and sometimes it was a damn nuisance."
"But it doesn't strike me that there was anything very unreasonable about that," objected Peter. "Might be a bit unusual, but——"
"Oh, that wasn't the only thing," Jones broke in. "I couldn't get her to meet anybody, not even people who would be useful to her. She would see a few newspaper men, but only in the theatre, between the acts. She objected to being photographed, too, and I had the devil and all of a time getting the right kind of publicity for her."
"But you have some photographs," said Peter, eagerly. "Surely there are some to be had. That's what I want particularly."
"Oh, yes," grudgingly, "we've got some that were taken a year or two ago. Quinn didn't seem to have so much trouble with her. He got a lot, and they are beauties, and good enough to use. She hasn't changed any since they were taken. But people like to see new ones."
"Can you spare me some?" asked Peter. "I can't get very far without 'em, you can see that for yourself."
"Oh, sure," answered Jones, readily. "You bet I'll do anything I can to help you."
He touched a button on his desk and instructed the sleek youth who immediately appeared to bring him the photographs of Miss Blake. They were speedily produced, and Peter gazed at them with deep interest. There were four different poses, two full length, in evening dress, one of the head in profile, and one full face.
It was the latter which interested Peter the most. It was a striking portrait. The brilliant light, falling from above upon one side of the face, left the eyes in a transparent shadow, out of which they looked with a burning, compelling intensity. Haunting, magnetic eyes they were, full of dramatic possibilities. The nose was short and straight, with rather full nostrils, expressive of temperament and passion. The mouth was sensitive, not too small, and exquisite in its subtle lines and curves. The contours of the face were fine and beautifully modelled, the cheek-bones and chin delicately defined. There was a nervous sensibility in the face, a tension and unrest about the pose of the head upon the slender, gracious neck and shoulders, which suggested an intense, artistic temperament.
"Great, aren't they?" said Jones, looking at them as they lay on the desk between the two men. "Wonder what club old Quinn held over her to make her sit for 'em?"
"She and Quinn were great friends, weren't they?" asked Peter. "Do you know where he picked her up?"
Jones shook his head.
"Haven't the faintest idea. He had a way of snatching 'em out of the atmosphere, had Arthur Quinn, and he was tight as a drum about 'em all. Nobody had ever heard of her, so far as I know, and I know every possible bet, from the Keith Circuit up. My business. Quinn sprung her in the title rôle of 'Constance' the first shot out of the box. Don't know where she got her training, but she had it all right, all right, and then some. She never missed a trick, and she was a success from the drop of the hat. Of course Quinn was a wonder at putting 'em through a course of sprouts, but the girl appeared on the first night as if she'd been acting since she was a baby. Maybe they're born that way sometimes, but I never ran across one that was."
"I suppose she made a lot of money," hazarded Peter, following a train of thought of his own.
"Oh, lord, yes," agreed Jones. "I don't mind telling you in confidence, Mr. Clancy, that I paid her, on my last year's contract, a cool thousand a week."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Peter. "As much as that?"
"I sure did," said the manager. "Why, look here. I guess I can show you."
He drew toward him a bank book, stuffed with vouchers, which lay upon the desk. Running rapidly through the cancelled checks, he selected several and slid them across the polished mahogany to Peter.
"Just came in from the bank. End of the month," he explained. "Run your eye over those if you don't believe me."
Peter did run his eye over them and very carefully. They were all made out to the order of Mary Blake and for one thousand dollars. He turned them over and studied the endorsements. They were all alike. At the top, in a clear, slanting, characteristic hand was written "Pay to the order of the Scoville Bank—Mary Blake," and at the bottom, rubber-stamped, were the words, "Pay to the order of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York," the date, and "The Scoville Bank of New York, William Dunne, Cashier."
"I think I'll make a call on Mr. William Dunne, Cashier," thought Peter, still following an insistent undercurrent of suggestion, as he made a mental note of the name of the bank. "It might be of interest to know how much of this corking good salary she's saved—and whether she—or any one else—has drawn heavily against it lately." Aloud he said—
"That's a lot of money, Mr. Jones! I didn't know they got anything like that. I can see I made the mistake of my life when I picked my profession. Think you could get me a job?"
A slight grin made its way through the trouble and concern on the manager's face.
"Better stick to your own job, Mr. Clancy," he said. "There aren't so many who make what Miss Blake does, believe me!"
Peter had gathered up the photographs and risen to his feet. Jones, following his example, caught his arm as he approached the door.
"For God's sake, keep me posted, Mr. Clancy," he said, anxiously. "I can't think she's thrown me down. Why, only about a month ago she had a pippin of an offer from a movie concern; far and away over anything I could afford to give her, though she does net me a lot. And do you think she'd consider it? Not on your life. She turned it down cold."
"What reason did she give?" asked Peter, curiously.
"Didn't give any, to me at least. I didn't know anything about it until Wolf, the producer, who's an old friend of mine, congratulated me on her sticking to me so tight. So, you see, I can't believe she's double-crossed me, and it's a pretty safe bet that I'll hear from her soon. If I do, I'll let you or Mr. Morris know."
"Yes, do, by all means," said Peter. "I'll keep in touch with you, and for the love of Mike, don't let the story leak out. I'm sure I can trust to your discretion, Mr. Jones."
"Oh, sure. Sure you can," promised the manager, easily. "It certainly wouldn't be to my interest to have it known—at least for the present."
Peter did not like that last phrase very much, but he did not dare to place in jeopardy his present friendly relation with Jones by taking it up. He contented himself, therefore, with a smiling injunction to "keep it under his hat," and added:
"By the way, Mr. Jones, is there anybody else—anybody you know of that Miss Blake might be likely to write to?"
"I don't think there is a soul," answered the manager, frowning. "She had nothing to do with any member of the company; pretty up-stage with all of 'em, though not offensive about it exactly. Just kept 'em all at a distance—same as she did me, to tell you the truth. As I told you, she'd never meet anybody I asked her to—except Mrs. Atterbury, and I nearly dropped dead when she asked me if it would be O. K. for her to give a reading there. I was tickled to death, of course. Great ad. for her; but she never followed it up. Just like her," he grumbled. "Other than letting Morris take her around a little she let the whole thing slide."
"Had no social ambitions, evidently," Peter remarked. "And you never met any friends of hers?"
"Not a soul."
"Strange," Peter said. And again, to himself, as he hurried from the manager's office, he repeated, "Strange—so beautiful, so successful, and so alone. Why?... There was her sister, and there was Donald Morris and the manager.... And besides them, nobody—nobody but Angelo, and he'd only just seen her, as he couldn't help seeing her.... And an old lady, a stout old lady, who called there.... And the voice over the wire.... It was an odd voice—unusual—I'm sure I'd know it again, anywhere.... And, by gad, I'd give a hundred dollars to know who was the owner of that voice over the wire."