I was as keen as the rest of them, but there was one feature of the secret investigations4 that I detested—the dragging in of Carol Whitehall's name. It couldn't be helped. The affair had taken place in her offices, but it was hateful to me to hear her mentioned in our conferences, even though it was merely as an outside figure, a person as ignorant of the true state of the case as Troop or Mrs. Hansen.
The tapped phone message and the subsequent trip to Rochester had given me no end of a jar. Up till then I couldn't imagine her as caring for Barker. Everybody admitted that his private life had been beyond reproach—entirely free from entanglements5 with women—but even so I couldn't picture the girl I'd met in New Jersey6 in love with him. He was between fifty and sixty, more than twice her age. George said it was his money, but George has lived among the fashionable rich, women who'd marry an octogenarian for a house on Fifth Avenue and a string of pearls. I would have staked my last dollar she wasn't that kind—proud and pure as Diana, only giving herself where her heart went first.
But if it had been hard to imagine her as fond of Barker the magnate, what was it now when he was Barker the murderer? It made me sick. All I could hope for was that we'd get him and save the unfortunate girl by showing her what he was. And while we were doing this it was up to us to keep her out of it, shield her and protect her in every possible way. She was a lady, the kind of woman that every man wants to keep aloof7 from anything sordid8 and brutal9.
I was thinking this one morning, a few days after our last séance, on my way to the office. I had been detained on work uptown and was late, entering upon a conference of the chief, George and O'Mally. When I heard what they'd been evolving, I didn't show the expected enthusiasm. Miss Whitehall was to be asked to come to Whitney & Whitney's that afternoon, the hope being to trap or beguile10 her into some information about Barker's whereabouts. It was the chief's plan—a poor one, I thought, and said so—but he was as enigmatic as usual, remarking that whether it succeeded or not, he wanted to see her. It didn't add to my good humor to hear that, as I knew the girl, they'd selected me for their messenger.
Not being able to strike straight at their subject they'd framed up a story, one that would give them scope for questions and be a sufficiently11 plausible12 excuse to get her there. It seemed to me absurd, but the old man was satisfied with it. Everybody now knew that Harland had been her silent partner. Their story was that they'd heard Barker was also in the enterprise, she'd had a double backing, his visits to her office gave color to the rumor13, and so forth14 and so on. I left the office while they were conning15 it over.
As I mounted the stairs to her apartment I felt a good deal of a cad. If it had been anyone else, or any other kind of a woman—but that fine, high-spirited creature! A group of men trying to make a fool of her—beastly! Why had I said I'd do it—and why the devil had she got mixed up in such an ugly business?
A servant opened the door and showed me up a hall into the parlor16. She was there sitting at a desk littered with papers, and rose with a faint surprised smile when she saw me. As we sat down and I made my apologies for intruding17, I had a chance to observe her and was struck by the change in her. It was less than a year since we'd last met and she looked singularly different. Handsome of course—she'd always be that—but another kind of woman. At first I thought it was because she was paler and thinner—she'd been a radiant, blooming Amazon in the country—but after a few minutes I saw it was something—how can I express it?—more of the spirit than the body. The joyousness18 and gayety had gone out of her, and the spontaneity—I noticed that especially. I could feel constraint19 in her composure as if she was on her dignity.
As I explained my mission—I couldn't say much, and felt beastly uncomfortable while I was doing it—she listened with an expressionless, polite attention. When I had finished she made no comment, merely saying she would be only too happy to do anything for Mr. Whitney, then passed on to her own affairs, mentioning the failure of the Azalea Woods Estates and that she thought she and her mother would return to the country. I was on the verge20 of offering to finance her in a new deal and then remembered I was there as an emissary, not as a friend. It rattled21 me and the rattling22 wasn't helped when I met her eyes, brown and soft, but with something scrutinizing23 and watchful24 under their velvety25 darkness.
I stayed longer than I meant to—longer than I needed to. Some way or other our talk shifted round to Azalea and Longwood, to Firehill and the people we knew all through there. I forgot about the matter I'd come on, and she brightened up too and there was a gleam of the girl I'd met a year ago. But when I rose to leave the other woman was back, the reserved, poised26 woman who seemed shut in a shell of conventional politeness. She said she'd come that afternoon about five—she had work to do that would keep her till then. In the doorway27 she suddenly smiled and held out her hand. The feel of it, soft and warm, was in mine when I got out into the street.
I went back to the office feeling meaner than a yellow dog. Thank Heaven I'd not have to do that again. They'd get all they could out of her, and that would be the last time Whitney & Whitney would want to see her. Later on, in a week or two maybe, I could call on her again. The ice was broken, and anyway I didn't see but what it was my duty. Someone ought to help her to get on her feet again and as she'd no man in her own family the least I could do was to offer my services.
At five the chief, George and I were waiting for her. She was a little late and as she came in I noticed that she had more color than she'd had in the morning. She looked splendid, in a dark fur coat and some kind of a close-fitting hat with her black hair curling out below the edge. Her manner was cool and tranquil28, not a hint about her of surprise or uneasiness, only that heightened color which I set down to the hurry she'd been in getting there.
The chief was as gracious as if he'd been welcoming her as a guest in his house—full of apologies, waving her to an armchair, suggesting she take off her coat as the room was warm. No outsider would ever have guessed what was going on in that astute29 and subtle mind. A feeling of indignant pity rose in me—she seemed so unsuspecting. But—No; it's better for me to describe the scene as it occurred, to try and make you see it as I did.
When the necessary politenesses were disposed of, the old man, very delicately, with all his tact30 and finesse31, started on the frame-up. He did it admirably, finishing on a sort of confidential32 note. As the attorney for the Copper33 Pool group, it would facilitate matters if he knew of all Barker's activities; any information, the slightest, would be helpful.
She answered readily, without surprise, almost as if she might have heard the story before.
"You've been misinformed, Mr. Whitney. Mr. Barker had no interest in the Azalea Woods Estates. He had nothing to do with it."
The old man pursed out his lips and raised his brows:
"I see, one of those groundless rumors34 that gather about a sensational event. It probably started from the fact, mentioned in the papers, that Barker was in your office that afternoon."
"Probably. He came to see me about a house he was going to build in the tract35. Of course that's all ended in nothing now."
He looked at her from under his bushy brows, a kind, fatherly glance:
"I was very sorry to hear, Miss Whitehall, that you were one of the sufferers in this double disaster we are trying to settle."
"Oh, I!" she gave a slight shrug36 of her shoulders. "I'm wiped out."
"Tch!" he shook his head frowning and resentful. "These men can knife each other—pirates in a buccaneer warfare—but when it comes to dragging down women I'd like to see them all strung up."
Her eyes gave a flash. It was like a spark struck from a flint, there and then gone. As if it had surprised her, and she was determined37 to guard against its return, the calm of her face intensified38 into an almost mask-like quiet. She answered softly:
"I can't go so far as that, Mr. Whitney. I'm sure there's some explanation—as to Mr. Barker, I mean."
"I hope so," said the chief, "for your sake if for no other. I hope he'll come back and make the restitution39 he owes his associates and discharge that obligation about the house and lot."
He looked at her smiling, a rallying smile that said as plain as words, he knew such hopes to be groundless. She did not smile back, simply raised her eyebrows40 and gave a slight nod. George, who was facing her, leaned forward and said as if he had just met her at a pink tea and was being gallantly41 sympathetic:
"It was rather hard on you, Miss Whitehall, having those two men in your place that day. The press must have made your life a burden."
"It wasn't so bad. Some reporters called me up but when they found how little I knew they left me alone. I hadn't anything exciting to say. Both interviews were nothing but business."
"But let me ask you a question—not for publication this time, just as a thing I'm curious about. It was only a few hours after you saw him that Harland killed himself. Wasn't there anything unusual in his manner, anything to suggest that he was not himself?"
She looked down at the purse she was holding in her lap, and said slowly, clasping and unclasping the catch:
"I didn't notice anything—unless perhaps he was a little irritable42 and nervous. I certainly never would have thought he was in the state of a man contemplating43 suicide."
"And you would have known," said the chief. He turned to George in explanation. "As Harland's partner, Miss Whitehall would have known him well enough to notice any marked change in him."
I was watching her closely and as the glances of the two men met I saw uneasiness well up through the quietude of her face. Then for the first time I suspected that she was not as composed as she seemed. Her words confirmed the suspicion, they came quickly in hurried denial:
"No—I didn't know him well. I saw him very seldom. We were not in the least—what—what you'd call friends or even close acquaintances. It was all purely44 business."
The chief nodded, a slight, Mandarin-like teetering of his head, which gave the impression of a polite agreement in a matter that didn't interest him.
"Purely business," he murmured, then again turned to George. "What Miss Whitehall says would bear out the general idea that it was that last interview which drove Harland to desperation."
As they spoke45 she looked from one to the other, a glance that passed over both faces as quick as a lightning flash. Before they could turn, it was gone and her eyes had a dense46, dead look as if she had dropped some inner veil over them. Then I knew that the brain behind that smooth white forehead was something more than alert, it was on its guard, wary47 and watchful.
The knowledge made me suddenly speak. I wanted to see, I had to see, if that careful control would hold under a direct question about her lover.
"How about Barker? How did he act when you saw him that afternoon?"
She shifted slightly to see me better.
"Oh, perfectly48 naturally. There was nothing in the least unusual about him."
"Barker was a man of iron," said the chief. "His mental disturbances49 didn't show on the outside. Besides," he gave a wave of his hand toward her—"this young lady knew him only slightly." He turned quickly to her, "I'm right, am I not?"
"Perfectly," she fixed50 her eyes on him and kept them there, black and unfathomable. "My acquaintance with him was simply that of an agent with a customer."
For a moment I couldn't look at her; I got up and going to the window
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