The Whisper on the Stair/Chapter 7
The Bronx yielded no better success. It took several hours to exhaust its possibilities, but finally the seekers after Pomeroys were obliged to concede that if Jessica Pomeroy lived in the Bronx, she was not in the telephone book, anyway, nor was she known by her name to any of the Pomeroys they interviewed.
At dinner time they drew up in front of Val’s home, tired though not discouraged. Chong had dinner ready in a few minutes, and Eddie became once more the impassive servant waiting on his master at table.
Val ate in silence for a long time, thinking over the surprising events of the day and planning a course of action. The tang of the chase was keen in him; his blood was beginning to course warm with the joy of the hunt. He was looking for a woman; not a woman—the woman. What was there on earth that a man could search for more precious than the one woman? What could he find more worth the ardors of the search?
Val asked himself these questions mechanically, his mind turning, meanwhile, on the problem of locating Jessica Pomeroy. His mind, however, yielded him nothing, but a blank at the moment, and he gave vent to his irritation in a single expletive:
“Damn!” he said; low but forcibly.
He looked up and Eddie Hughes was turning away, the ghost of a smile flickering on the ends of his lips, to be lost immediately in the mask of his countenance.
“What the devil are you laughing at?” he asked.
“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself,” replied Eddie. “I was thinking about the Japanese who described billiards as a game where two large men poked at three little balls with sticks, and one man said ‘Damn!’ and the other said ‘Hard luck, old man!’” He turned away.
Val could not resist a smile. “What’s that got to do with this case?” he inquired.
“Nothing, sir,” responded Eddie. “Only, in a billiard game, a man generally has another chance to shoot.”
“You mean you have an idea?” queried Val. The other nodded.
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, if you have, spill it. Don’t pull any of your old allegories on me—I’m not a Bible student,” snapped out Val.
“Why, it’s just this, sir. You know the Planet, of course.”
“I ought to,” came back Val, “I own a couple of million dollars’ worth of stock in it.”
“Exactly.” Eddie bowed his head respectfully. “Well, if you want information about anybody in the world, a newspaper is the place where you stand the best chance of getting it. If there has ever been a Pomeroy who had a daughter by the name of Jessica—if he has ever had reason to figure in the papers at all—you’ll probably find out what you want in the ‘morgue’ of the Planet. Dessert, sir?”
Val stared at him as though he were a wraith risen from the dead. After a long moment he pounded on the table with his fist.
“Well, if I’m not the daddy of all the dumbbells in the world!” he burst out. “Of course—the Planet! Fm Vice-President of the corporation—all I have to do is walk in and pick out my information, if any. To-morrow morning, first thing, Eddie. Why⸺”
“Dessert, sir?” asked Eddie again, impassively.
•••••••
Wallace Chillingham, editor of the Planet, busily engaged on a manuscript, looked up irritably when the door of his private office opened. He had distinctly instructed his office boy that he was to be permitted to work in peace, without let or hindrance, or interruption of any kind. And now here he was bothering him again by⸺”
“Get out of here before I hit you so hard that your whole family will feel sick, you little beast⸺” he rasped at the boy, and then looked up in astonishment, because it wasn’t his office boy at all. It was Valentine Morley.
“Hello, Wally,” he smiled, seating himself on a corner of the other’s flat-topped desk and lighting a cigarette. “I see that you’re your own good-natured self, as usual.” He shook his head lugubriously in mock concern at the editor. “What a disposition! If I had a disposition like that I’d swap it for a bulldog and drown the poor mutt.”
The editor laughed, “How’d you get in?”
“I had to kill a couple of office boys and other menials—but I’m feeling full of pep this morning, so that’s all right. How’s every little darn thing with you?”
“K. O.” answered the editor. “I’m busy. You’re a nice boy, Val, and I like to see you get along—so do so. Remember, you expect dividends from this old sheet semi-annually and⸺”
“That’s so,” mused Val, as though this had but occurred to him now for the first time. “I have got a little stock here, haven’t I. I’ve been informed that I’m Vice-President, or some other fool thing in this yellow sheet—so, unless I have the wrong dope as to what I really am here, I’m an official and ought to be treated with respect. And what do I get?” He went on oratorically with a recital of his wrongs. “I get ordered out, that’s what I get. I get contumely heaped all over my bean. I—say, Wally, did you ever see any contumely?” he broke off to ask. “I mean⸺”
“Oh, shut up!” said Wally. “Bustin’ into my office like this! What the devil do you want—and make it snappy, too!” He roared this at Val. Val smiled and slipped down into a chair alongside of the editor.
“There, there,” he soothed him, patting his sleeve, “calm yourself, ole kid—I’m coming to what I want. Suppose I were to tell you the name of the mysterious lady in the Masterson case—eh? What would you do?”
The other stared at him in unbelievable astonishment. “Do—you—know—that?” he asked slowly. Val nodded.
“Then, for the lova Mike,” he entreated, leaning toward Val and gripping his knee with long, bony fingers, “tell it to me, will you? You’ll see darn quick what I can do with it? Any other paper or the police know it yet?” Val shook his head.
“Gawd, what a beat!” ejaculated the editor. “Quick, Val, give me the dope. What’s her name and where’s she live and how does she come into this thing and⸺”
“Lay off! Lay off!” roared Val, holding him off. “I’m not goin’ to tell you her name—I simply wanted to know what you would do if I did tell you, that’s all.”
“You’re not!” The editor stared at him. “Why, you insane, simple minded millionaire, you won’t get out of this office alive if you don’t—why, I’ll tear it out of you with these hands, you crazy oilcan, you!” He had risen in his excitement. Val calmly shoved him down in his chair again with a bang that augured ill for the cane seat. The editor’s teeth shook with the shock. He leaned forward again.
“But listen, Val—we gotta have that name. It’s a beat—the beat of the century!” he implored. “This is your paper, Val—your paper! Why, there’s nothing we couldn’t⸺”
“Cut it out, Wally!” snapped Val. “No chance, get me? No chance⸺”
“But why, Foolish?” persisted the editor. “This is too damn important too⸺”
“It’s more important to me. Listen and I will a tale unfold, Wally, that will cause the red red gore to course quicker even through those anemic, desiccated veins of yours. Listen and I will spin you a yarn in strict confidence—and if you print a word of it, you pirate. I’ll come down here and hit you so hard that you’ll bust a hole in your shadow.” He looked at him significantly, taking hold of the editor’s wrist and squeezing until the tears came to Wally’s eyes.
“Quit, you crazy murderer, you! Whatcha tryin’ to do, anyway—collect my insurance? I won’t say a word.” Val let go.
“Ah,” he said blandly, “since you agree with me so absolutely in the need for secrecy, I feel I can unburden this bosom to you as to an understanding, friendly soul. Know then, oh, Wally, that this poor heart of mine burns with love for⸺”
He told him all details of the case, leaving out only mention of the name of the girl. He was willing to trust Chillingham, who would rather cut out his tongue than betray a friend—newspaper ethics to the contrary notwithstanding—but yet, it was just as well not to put too great a strain on a man’s will power. And this would certainly have been a beat!
Val told of his unavailing search for the girl the day before.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” queried Wally.
“Why, it occurred to me—to Eddie Hughes, that is—that you might have some information about her or her family in your files—the ‘morgue,’ don’t you know?” said Val.
“That’s so,” answered the editor. “Probably we have. Just tell me the name and I’ll go right out and get the dope⸺”
“Good idea!” snapped Val. “Just tell you the name, eh! Well, I guess I can look up an alphabetical file as well as you can—or anybody else in this godless joint. Just show me the place and I’ll do all the dope getting necessary, see.”
“We don’t allow people not connected with this office to look in our files,” responded the editor coldly. “We don’t⸺”
“Say, listen, my boy,” said Val softly. “I’m connected with this office just enough to be able to vote you out of a job—get me? My forty per cent of stock says I go into that ‘morgue’—show me where it is if you want to keep in good health and see the beautiful sunshine yet awhile.”
Chillingham capitulated. He knew he had no ground to stand on, and that when Val spoke in that tone something was very apt to drop. The Vice-President had a right in the files—a child would have admitted that.
Half an hour later, dusty from his delving into the files, Val had gathered what he thought would be valuable. It was a stroke of good luck, nothing more nor less, he said to himself—the fact that he happened to be a stockholder in an influential newspaper.
More than a year before, he found, old Peter J. Pomeroy, a breeder and racer of thoroughbred horses, had died, leaving as his only issue a daughter named Jessica. The obituary notice informed him that the funeral was to be from the deceased’s late residence, 999 West 86th Street, New York.
He found that the address given was a family hotel, overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson. The elevator man, who was new to the job, had never heard of anybody of the name of Pomeroy. Certainly they were not living there now. Val went to the office of the hotel and inquired of the manager.
Yes, Peter Pomeroy had lived there with his daughter. She had stayed on for a while after his death, but a few months ago she had moved. He knew her new address, it being occasionally necessary for him to forward mail to her.
“Fine,” remarked Val. “What is it?”
The manager looked him over calmly. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “whether I ought to give you her address.”
“Why not?” demanded Val.
“Well—how do I know she wants you to have it? I think a great deal of Miss Pomeroy—have known her for years—and I wouldn’t want to give her address to a man she did not want to see. I was very sorry when financial reverses made it impossible for her to stay here, where I could keep an eye on her—but she refused to stay under the circumstances. If her finances had⸺”
“Well, that’s what I want to see her about,” put in Val. “I have information of great financial value to her and⸺”
“Well, why don’t you write it?” queried the hotel man. “I’ll see that she gets the letter.”
Val shook his head. “This is not that kind of information—it’s got to be given personally. In fact, I don’t mind telling you that I have a large sum of money with me that belongs to Miss Pomeroy—money which I wish to give her personally.”
The hotel man considered for a few moments. He was an elderly, slow man, calm and sedate in his movements and in his habits of thought, and not to be rushed off his feet by every nice looking stranger who happened into his hotel.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” he said at length. “Give me your name and I’ll call her up and ask her whether she wants to see you.”
“Fair enough,” said Val. “My name is Valentine Morley.” The older man looked at him with new interest. Everybody in New York knew Valentine Morley, possessor of the Morley millions, to say nothing of the Congressional medal of honor. The hotel man reconsidered once more.
“Well, that being the case, I guess it will be all right. I won’t bother to telephone. I recognize you now,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t some cheap trifler who wanted to annoy her, that’s all. Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” smiled Val. “You were perfectly right—if I were you I wouldn’t give her address to anybody else, though, for a while. I’ll get her to call you up and confirm that.”
Twenty minutes later Valentine Morley was calling upon Jessica Pomeroy.