The Bandbox - Louis Joseph Vance (read along books .TXT) 📗

Or did he?... Through the wraith-like mists of fading illusions he caught disturbing glimpses—dark shapes of lurking doubts.

Disquieted, he found distasteful the thought of returning to the lower deck, and so strolled idly aft with a half-formed notion of looking up Iff.

From a deck-chair a woman’s voice hailed him: “Oh, Mr. Staff....”

“Miss Searle?” He turned in to her side, experiencing an odd sensation of pleasure in the encounter; which, wisely or not, he didn’t attempt to analyse—at least further than the thought that he had seen little of the young woman during the last two days and that she was rather likeable.

“You’re not dancing?” he asked in surprise; for she, too, had dressed for this celebration of the last night of the voyage.

Smiling, she shook her head slightly. “Neither are you, apparently. Won’t you sit down?”

He wasn’t at all reluctant to take the chair by her side. “Why not?” he asked.

“Oh, I did dance once or twice and then I began to feel a bit tired and bored and stole away to think.”

“Long, long thoughts?” he asked lightly.

“Rather,” said she with becoming gravity. “You see, it seems pretty serious to one, this coming home to face new and unknown conditions after three years’ absence.... And then, after six days at sea, out of touch with the world, practically, there’s always the feeling of suspense about what will happen when you get solid earth under your feet. You know what I mean.”

“I do. You live in New York?”

“I mean to try to,” she said quietly. “I haven’t any home, really—no parents and only distant family connections. In fact, all I do possess is a little income and an immense desire to work.”

“You’re meaning to look for an engagement, then?”

“I must.”

“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “I might help you a bit; I know some of the managers pretty well ...”

“Thank you. I meant to ask you, but hoped you’d offer.” She laughed a trifle shyly. “I presume that’s a bold, forward confession to make, but I’ve been so long abroad I don’t know my way round at home, anymore.”

“That’s all right,” said Staff, liking her candour. “Where shall you be? Where can I find you?”

“I hardly know—for a day or two at some hotel, and as soon as possible in a small studio, if I can find one to sublet.”

“Tell you what you do,” he suggested: “drop me a line at the Players, letting me know when and where you settle.”

“Thank you,” she said, “I shall.”

He was silent for a little, musing, his gaze wandering far over the placid reaches of the night-wrapped ocean. “Funny little world, this,” he said, rousing: “I mean, the ship. Here we are today, some several hundreds of us, all knit together by an intricate network of interests, aims, ambitions and affections that seem as strong and inescapable as the warp and woof of Life itself; and yet tomorrow—we land, we separate on our various ways, and the network vanishes like a dew-gemmed spider’s web before the sun.”

“Only the dew vanishes,” she reminded him; “the web remains, if almost invisible.... Still, I know what you mean.... Wasn’t that Miss Landis you were with, just now?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me”—she stirred, half turning to him—“has anything new transpired—about the collar?”

“You know about that!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Of course; the ship has been humming with it ever since dinner.”

“But how—?”

“Mrs. Ilkington told me, of course. I presume Miss Landis told her.”

“Doubtless,” he agreed reluctantly, little relishing the thought. Still, it seemed quite plausible, Alison’s views on advertising values considered. “No,” he added presently; “I’ve heard nothing new.”

“Then the Secret Service man hasn’t accomplished anything?”

“So you know about him, too?... Can’t say—haven’t seen him since morning. Presumably he’s somewhere about, sniffing for clues.”

“Miss Landis,” said the girl in a hesitant manner—“doesn’t seem to worry very much ...?”

“No,” admitted Staff.

“Either that, or she’s as wonderful an actress off the boards as on.”

“They mostly are,” Staff observed. He was hardly ready to criticise his beloved to a comparative stranger. The subject languished and died of inanition.

“By the way—did you ever solve the mystery of your bandbox?”

Staff started. “What made you think of that?”

“Oh—I don’t know.”

“No—haven’t had any chance. I rather expect to find out something by the time I get home, though. It isn’t likely that so beautiful a hat will be permitted to blush unseen.” His interest quickened. “Won’t you tell me, please?” he begged, bending forward.

But the girl laughed softly and shook her head.

“Please!”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I’ve no right to spoil a good joke.”

“Then you think it’s a joke?” he enquired gloomily.

“What else could it be?”

“I only wish I knew!”

The exclamation was so fervent that Miss Searle laughed again.

Six bells sounded in the pause that followed and the girl sat up suddenly with a little cry of mock dismay.

“Eleven o’clock! Good Heavens, I mustn’t loaf another minute! I’ve all my packing to do.”

She was up and standing before Staff could offer to assist her. But she paused long enough to slip a hand into his.

“Good night, Mr. Staff; and thank you for volunteering to help me.”

“I shan’t forget,” he promised. “Good night.”

He remained momentarily where she left him, following with his gaze her tall and slender yet well-proportioned figure as it moved along the moonlit deck, swaying gracefully to the long, smooth, almost imperceptible motion of the ship.

He wore just then a curious expression: his eyes wondering, his brows puckered, his thin lips shaping into their queer, twisted smile.... Funny (he found it) that a fellow could feel so comfortable and content in the company of a woman he didn’t care a rap about, so ill at ease and out of sorts when with the mistress of his dreams! It didn’t, somehow, seem just right....

With a dubious grimace, he went aft. Iff, however, wasn’t in the smoking-room. Neither was he anywhere else that Staff could discover in his somewhat aimless wanderings. And he found his stateroom unoccupied when at length he decided to turn in.

“Sleuthing,” was the word with which he accounted for the little man’s invisibility, as he dropped off to sleep.

If he were right, Iff was early on the job. When the bath-steward’s knock brought Staff out of his berth the next morning, his companion of the voyage was already up and about; his empty berth showed that it had been slept in, but its occupant had disappeared with his clothing; and even his luggage (he travelled light, with a kit-bag and a suit-case for all impedimenta) had been packed and strapped, ready to go ashore.

“Conscientious,” commented the playwright privately. “Wonder if he’s really on the track of anything?”

Idle speculation, however, was suddenly drowned in delight when, his sleep-numb faculties clearing, he realised that the Autocratic was resting without way, and a glance out of the stateroom port showed him the steep green slopes of Fort Tompkins glistening in new sunlight.

Home! He choked back a yell of joy, and raced to his bath. Within twenty minutes, bathed, clothed and sane, he was on deck.

By now, having taken on the health officers, the great vessel was in motion again, standing majestically up through the Narrows. To starboard, Bay Ridge basked in golden light. Forward, over the starboard bow, beyond leagues of stained water quick with the life of two-score types of harbour and seagoing craft, New York reared its ragged battlements against a sky whose blue had been faded pale by summer heat. Soft airs and warm breathed down the Bay, bearing to his nostrils that well-kenned, unforgettable odour, like none other on earth, of the sun-scorched city.

Staff filled his lungs and was glad. It is good to be an American able to go roaming for to admire and for to see; but it is best of all to be an American coming home.

Joy in his heart, Staff dodged below, made his customs declaration, bolted his breakfast (with the greater expedition since he had for company only Mrs. Thataker, a plump, pale envelope for a soul of pink pining for sympathy) and hurried back to the deck.

Governor’s Island lay abeam. Beyond it the East River was opening up—spanned by its gossamer webs of steel. Ahead, and near at hand, New York bulked magnificently, purple canyons yawning between its pastel-tinted cliffs of steel and glass and stone: the heat haze, dimming all, lent soft enchantment....

Ranks of staring passengers hid the rail, each a bundle of unsuspected hopes and fears, longings and apprehensions, keen for the hour of landing that would bring confirmation, denial, disappointment, fulfillment.

Amidships Staff descried Mrs. Ilkington’s head and shoulders next to Miss Searle’s profile. Arkroyd was with them and Bangs. Alison he did not see, nor Iff. As he hesitated whether or not to approach them, a steward touched his arm apologetically.

“Beg pardon—Mr. Staff?”

“Yes ...?”

“Mr. Manvers—the purser, sir—awsked me to request you to be so kind as to step down to Miss Landis’ stiteroom.”

“Certainly.”

The door to Alison’s sitting-room was ajar. He knocked and heard her voice bid him enter. As he complied it was the purser who shut the door tight behind him.

He found himself in the presence of Alison, Jane, Manvers and three men whom he did not know. Alison alone was seated, leaning back in an armchair, her expression of bored annoyance illustrated by the quick, steady tapping of the toe of her polished boot. She met his questioning look with a ready if artificial and meaningless smile.

“Oh, you weren’t far away, were you, Staff?” she said lightly. “These gentlemen want to ask you some questions about that wretched necklace. I wish to goodness I’d never bought the thing!”

Her expression had changed to petulance. Ceasing to speak, she resumed the nervous drumming of her foot upon the carpet.

Manvers took the initiative: “Mr. Staff, this is Mr. Siddons of the customs service; this is Mr. Arnold of the United States Secret Service; and this, Mr. Cramp of Pinkerton’s. They came aboard at Quarantine.”

Staff nodded to each man in turn, and reviewed their faces, finding them one and all more or less commonplace and uninteresting.

“How-d’-you-do?” he said civilly; and to Manvers: “Well ...?”

“We were wondering if you’d seen anything of Mr. Iff this morning?”

“No—nothing. He came to bed after I’d gone to sleep last night, and was up and out before I woke. Why?”

“He—” the purser began; but the man he had called Mr. Arnold interrupted.

“He claimed to be a Secret Service man, didn’t he?”

“He did,” returned Staff. “Captain Cobb saw his credentials, I believe.”

“But that didn’t satisfy him,” Manvers put in eagerly. “I managed to make him understand that credentials could be forged, so he wirelessed for information. And,” the purser added triumphantly after a distinct dramatic pause, “he got it.”

“You mean Iff isn’t what he claimed—?” exclaimed Staff.

Arnold nodded brusquely. “There’s no such person in the service,” he affirmed.

“Then he is Ismay!”

The Pinkerton man answered him: “If he is and I lay eyes on him, I can tell in two shakes.”

“By George!” cried Staff in admiration—“the clever little scamp!”

“You may well say so,” said Manvers bitterly. “If you’d listened to me—if the captain had—this wouldn’t have happened.”

“What—the theft?”

“Yes, that primarily; but now, you know—because he was given so much rope—he’s vanished.”

“What!”

“Vanished—disappeared—gone!” said the purser, waving his hands graphically.

“But he can’t have left the ship!”

“Doesn’t seem so, does it?” said the Pinkerton man morosely. “All the same, we’ve made a pretty thorough search, and he can’t be found.”

“You see,” resumed Manvers, “when the captain got word yesterday afternoon that Iff or Ismay wasn’t what he pretended to be, he simply wirelessed back for a detective, and didn’t arrest Iff, because—he said—he couldn’t get away. I told him he was wrong—and he was!”

VIII THE WRONG BOX

When the janitor and the taxicab operator between them had worried all his luggage upstairs,