Ainslee's Magazine/The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
Perhaps in the hope of discovering just why all of this group had important business in town upon the same day, Willy Gaines asked Mrs. Darrell and Miss MacKenzie to accompany Rose and himself and drive in in his motor the following morning. Gladly would he have included Vivien Mayhew, but she had already accepted an invitation from young Wodeburn to risk her neck in his car.
“Now, remember,” said Willy, as they all stood about, ready to start, the next morning, “we are all to meet at exactly half past one, and that does not mean any time from two to three.”
“Isn't he cross?” laughed Vivien Mayhew. “Well, I at least shall be there upon the stroke of one-thirty.”
“That is,” observed Willy, with a glance at Wodeburn, “if that speed-mad young idiot gets you into town all in one piece.”
But there was no time for more repartee; Wodeburn was beckoning her impatiently. She waved her hand, and called back, “Au revoir!” and then, in a roar of unleashed horse power, a cloud of dust, Wodeburn's car disappeared, leaving Willy's machine to follow soberly and sedately in its wake.
It was the gladdest of spring mornings, all green and white and gold, and they enjoyed the ride immensely, protesting that they arrived in town much too soon for pleasure, if not for business. Then, all promising to be as punctual as Miss Mayhew had sworn that she would be, they separated, and went their various ways.
But, greatly to her annoyance, Rose's plan of spending the morning at her tailor's, after the aggravating manner of prearranged plans, went agley. Owing to some misunderstanding in regard to the appointment, the gowns were not ready for her to look at; and, to her dismay, she found a whole unoccupied morning on her hands.
However, New York was displaying all the brilliant gayety of an early spring. The motors and carriages were flashing up and down the avenue; the women were out in their fresh spring frocks and bright, flower-bedecked hats; the young leaves were fluttering on the trees, and the shop windows were alluring enough to wile the money out of the stingiest pocket. So, to her surprise, Rose found herself enjoying the town hugely, although she had professed herself so weary of it only a short time ago.
Neither was she insensible of the attention she attracted as she strolled up Fifth Avenue—an old story to her, but nevertheless a pleasant one. Those who had not an idea that she was one of New York's pet celebrities admired her frankly for her beauty and distinction; and those who recognized her as the great singer paid unabashed and staring tribute to her as she passed.
All very delightful, but, after a bit, cloying. She decided that she must do something definite. But what? When a woman asks herself that question, there is but one answer—shop. But before embarking on that fascinating pursuit she began to turn over in her mind just what kind of shopping would amuse one who had not a need or a wish ungratified. But the lure of the great shops was too much for her. One, so she assured herself, can always drift about and pick up gloves and handkerchiefs and veils and a bit of lace or so.
For a time she applied herself to this diversion with diligence, and yet with discretion. She—a bird of frequent passage—had her trunks to consider somewhat, and could not burden herself with bargains as inconsequently as the average woman. Therefore, with no more worlds to conquer, she yawned, looked at her watch, and discovered that she still had an hour to put in.
After due reflection, she came to the conclusion that the best way to invest it was to run into Madame Orville's for a consultation about one or two afternoon and evening gowns she was having made. Consequently she swung through the doors of a great shop with decision, took her way briskly up the avenue, and turned into the aristocratic side street where Orville dwelt and wrought her miracles.
It was a handsome, quiet residence, displaying not a hint of a sign—the usual brownstone house, with the usual green vine climbing over it. The man in livery who threw open the door greeted Rose with a smile wherein deference, welcome, and admiration were discreetly blended, and she passed on into the reception room.
But this was distinctly not the lucky day of Rose, for the man returned almost immediately, and said that Madame Orville begged to know if Miss O'Hara would be good enough to wait a few minutes. Madame expressed the deepest regret at keeping Miss O'Hara waiting, but it was quite unavoidable, as she was detained upon a most important business matter.
Rose nodded a bored acquiescence, and, seating herself in the window seat, looked out upon the passers-by; but they were comparatively few, and without exception uninteresting, so she walked over to the center of the room, and, taking a new magazine from a table, began to read
The story at which she had opened the book, however, failed to absorb her, and again her attention wandered. Presently she realized that ever since she had been there she had been conscious of a murmur of voices in an adjoining room, cut off from the one in which she sat by a large screen; and suddenly, for no particular reason that she could divine, she found herself listening acutely.
Had she heard her own name mentioned, or had she merely imagined it? Bending her ear more closely, she was able to recognize Madame Orville's voice; but the person to whom the dressmaker was talking spoke so low that it was impossible to distinguish the tones.
Then she heard Orville say quite plainly: “Oh, yes, she is there, but you need have no fear. She cannot hear us, and even if she did she would not know what we are talking about.”
Why, they really were talking about her! Rose leaned forward, stifling an exclamation just in time. She had been scolding herself for the vulgarity of attempting to overhear a conversation not meant for her ears, but now she cast aside her scruples, easing her conscience with the reflection that she was not an actual eavesdropper, because whoever occupied her seat could hardly have failed to overhear the words spoken behind that flimsy screen.
The person whom madame addressed must still have urged discretion, for the next few sentences were lost to Rose; but presently madame forgot her temporary caution, and again raised her voice in slightly impatient protest.
“Really I cannot return them to you this morning,” she said. “My copyist has been ill; and, anyhow, considering the price I am paying you for the designs, it seems only fair to give me a reasonable time over them.”
“Designs!” Rose's heart leaped. She felt as if the mystery were to be at once unraveled, for she never doubted that it was of the stolen French designs they were speaking.
The other person—that anonymous, whispering conspirator—was evidently talking now, although, as usual, the words were quite inaudible; and then madame broke in sharply:
“Well, since you insist upon it, I suppose I can have the necessary changes made, and give you back the sketches by this afternoon. And the check in a plain envelope”—this in answer to some request from the other—“certainly. You shall have it the early part of the week. You will be staying on that long at the Annesley?”
Her suspicions thus confirmed, Rose was upon her feet almost before she realized what she was doing, and had started toward the room where this conversation was taking place; but before she had taken more than a step or two there was a rustle behind the screen, and Madame Orville, a trifle flushed, but with a very fair counterfeit of her usual manner, swept composedly forward.
She was a dark, suave, elegant creature, with her hair arranged with the utmost care, and after the latest Parisian mode. In dress she always affected the utmost simplicity, but it was that costly simplicity which deceives only the uninitiated. Her manner was that of a great lady. She was quite inaccessible to the ordinary purchaser; only the wives of millionaires and noted artists were welcomed by her personally.
She came forward now without a trace of embarassment, greeting Rose effusively. If she noticed anything unusual in either Miss O'Hara's manner or expression, she ignored it, and, without giving that young woman the chance to ask embarrassing questions, she plunged at once into a discussion of gowns.
She had, she explained, some delicious new models, things to make one dream, odd and lovely combinations of color, and some quite new effects in draping. Still talking, she drew Rose to another room, where she had her assistants bring out materials, still discoursing fascinatingly upon them and the new modes.
Although Rose had not for a moment abandoned her intention of discovering who the person was behind the screen, she was nevertheless beguiled into lending half an ear at least to madame's authoritative word upon the fashions, and further led into adding half a dozen new frocks to her original order.
“And where will you be until the end of the month?” asked madame, as the interview drew to a close.
Rose saw her opportunity, and took it. “Principally at the Annesley.” With assumed carelessness, she went on: “And, by the way, you were just talking to some one who is stopping there, were you not? I heard you mention the name of the inn.”
Rose could not be sure, but she fancied that madame's eyes narrowed ever so little.
“Talking to some one at the Annesley?” she repeated; and then her politely puzzled expression gave way to a smile of recollection: “Oh, no, I was merely giving directions to my forewoman. I told her, I remember now, that there would be no difficulty about your fittings, since you were so near the city.”
Evidently no satisfaction to be gained there. Rose had met her match, and recognized the fact. There was nothing for her to do but accept the statement at its face value, and leave for the Ritz-Carlton. She was quite sure that madame was deceiving her, yet on the strength of those few overheard fragments of conversation she could hardly accuse that capable person of a crime, or insist upon a search of the establishment. In fact, she did not know what to do, and she wished with all her heart that Willy Gaines were present that she might have the benefit of his advice.
She hastened, therefore, toward the Ritz-Carlton, hoping that she might reach there in time to get a word with Willy before the others arrived.
But upon reaching the hotel she did not get the moment alone with him that she had so eagerly anticipated. Miss Mayhew was already there, and she and Willy were sitting at one of the little tables in the white-and-green smoking room just outside the restaurant, enjoying cigarettes and something refreshing in glasses.
“Late!” they both exclaimed at the sight of Rose. “In spite of all your promises.”
“Not at all,” she protested. “The others are not even here.”
“Nor will be,” remarked Willy cynically. “Mrs. Darrell has just sent a note, explaining that she will be unable to be present, and that the business matter that prevents her from joining us may detain her in town for the greater part of the afternoon; and please tell Miss O'Hara that she cannot return with her in her car, but will, instead, take the last afternoon train out.
“And Miss MacKenzie”—the cynical note was not quite so apparent in his voice now—"just telephoned, saying that her eyes will require a longer and more thorough examination than she had imagined, and that she will have to be at the oculist's the greater part of the afternoon; and that she also will take one of the afternoon trains.”
Rose threw him a quick glance, but before she could make any comment Vivien Mayhew looked up interestedly. “Ah, then I shall have company,” she exclaimed, “for I find that I, too, shall have to wait over for the five-thirty train.”
“And Mr. Wodeburn?” Rose inquired,
“He sends his apologies by me,” Miss Mayhew explained. “He stopped at his club for mail, and found a note reminding him of a luncheon engagement that he had completely forgotten.”
Rose got up rather wearily. The puzzled frown still showed on her brow. “Well, 'all that is left of them, left of six hundred,' might as well have luncheon,” she said, and led the way to the octagonal gold-and-green dining room, so French in its effect.
During the progress of the meal, Vivien continued to entertain them with a description of the various amusing had had that morning in her search for employment. “No luck so far,” she announced breezily, but she still had a number of letters of introduction, and she meant to put in the afternoon at a further trial.
It happened, therefore, that Willy and Rose journeyed back to the Annesley alone in Rose's limousine; and it is needless to say that that young woman lost no time in informing him of the conversation she had overheard at Madame Orville's.
And Gaines was duly interested. “Ah,” he commented regretfully, “it is unfortunate that you didn't get an opportunity for just one peep behind that screen. Still,” after a moment or two of reflection, “there is something gained even if it is only a corroboration of our suspicions.”
“A corroboration of our suspicions!” Rose was plainly perplexed.
“Exactly. Don't you see that the woman at Madame Orville's must undoubtedly have been either Mrs. Darrell or Miss MacKenzie?”
“Because they both stayed away from luncheon?”
“Partly that, and partly because, according to the arrangement you overheard between Madame Orville and that unknown person, whoever was selling those designs had to remain in town until late this afternoon in order to get them back. Now, both Mrs. Darrell and Miss Mackenzie have changed their plans since coming to town this morning, and neither of them has offered a very convincing reason for doing so. To say the least, it is rather a suspicious circumstance. I had not thought before of their being in collusion, but such a thing is quite probable.”
“I do not believe anything of the kind,” returned Miss O'Hara, with spirit. “The more I see of her the more I am convinced that Mrs, Darrell is not the sort of a person who could possibly be connected with such an affair; but,” emphatically, “take my word for it, and keep a very keen eye on Miss MacKenzie.”
“You may be right,” agreed. Willy mildly, but without conviction in his tone. “And in the meantime there is nothing to be done apparently but watch and wait. Let us hope that it will not be long.”
It was not. His wish was gratified with greater promptness than he had reason to expect.