The Avalanche

I

On the following day Ruyler, who had looked upon the whirlwind of passion that had swept him into a romantic and unworldly marriage, as likely to remain the one brief drama of his prosaic business man’s life, began dimly to apprehend that he was hovering on the edge of a sinister and complicated drama whose end he could as little foresee as he could escape from the hand of Fate that was pushing him inexorably forward.  When Fate suddenly begins to take a dramatic interest in a man whose course has run like a yacht before a strong breeze, she precipitates him toward one half crisis after another in order to confuse his mental powers and render him wholly a puppet for the final act.  These little Earth histrionics are arranged no doubt for the weary gods, who hardly brook a mere mortal rising triumphantly above the malignant moods of the master playwright.

He lunched at the Pacific Union Club and caught the down-town California Street cable car as it passed, finding his favorite seat on the left side of the “dummy” unoccupied.  He was thinking of Hélène, a little disappointed, but on the whole vastly relieved, congratulating himself that, no longer haunted, he could give his mind wholly to the important question of the merger he contemplated with a rival house that had limped along since the disaster, but had at last manifested its willingness to accept the offer of Ruyler and Sons.

It was a moment before he realized that his mother-in-law occupied the front seat across the narrow space, and even before he recognized that large bulk, he had registered something rigid and tense in its muscles; strained in its attitude.  When he raised his eyes to the face he found himself looking at the right cheek instead of the left, and it was pervaded by a sickly green tint quite unlike Madame Delano’s florid color.  She was listening to a man who sat just behind her on the long seat that ran the length of the dummy.  Although the day was clear, there was still a sharp wind and no one else sat outside.

Ruyler knew the man by sight.  Before the fire he had owned some of the most disreputable houses in the district the car would pass on its way to the terminus.  The buildings were uninsured, and he had made his living since as a detective.  Even his political breed had gone out of power in the new San Francisco, but he was well equipped for a certain type of detective work.  He had a remarkable memory for faces and could pierce any disguise, he was as persistent as a ferret, and his knowledge of the underworld of San Francisco was illimitable.  But his chief assets were that he looked so little like a detective, and that, so secretive were his methods, his calling was practically unknown.  He had set up a cheap restaurant with a gambling room behind at which the police winked, although pretending to raid him now and again.  He was a large soft man with pendulous cheeks streaked with red, a predatory nose, and a black overhanging mustache.  His name was ’Gene Bisbee, and there was a tradition that in his younger days he had been handsome, and irresistible to the women who had made his fortune.

Ruyler was absently wondering what his haughty mother-in-law could have to say to such a man when to his amazement Bisbee planted his elbow in the pillow of flesh just below Madame Delano’s neck, and said easily: 

“Oh, come off, Marie.  I’d know you if you were twenty years older and fifty pounds heavier—­and that’s going some.  Bimmer and two or three others are not so sure—­won’t bet on it—­for twenty years, and, let me see—­you weighed about a hundred and thirty-five—­perfect figger—­in the old days.  Must weigh two seventy-five now.  That makes one forty-five pounds extra.  Well, that and time, and white hair, would change pretty near any woman, particularly one with small features.  You look a real old lady, and you can’t be mor’n forty-five.  How did you manage the white hair?  Bleach?”

Ruyler felt his heart turn over.  The frozen blood pounded in his brain and distended his own muscles, his mouth unclosed to let his breath escape.  Then he became aware that the woman had recovered herself and moved forward, displacing the familiar elbow.  She turned imperiously to the motorman.

“Stop at the corner,” she said.  “And if this man attempts to follow me please send back a policeman.  He is intoxicated.”

The car stopped at the corner of the street opposite the site of the old Saint Mary’s Cathedral, a street where once had been that row of small and evil cottages where French women, painted, scantily dressed in a travesty of the evening gown, called to the passer-by through the slats of old-fashioned green shutters.  That had been before Ruyler’s day, but he knew the history of the neighborhood, and this man’s interest in it.  He was not surprised to hear Bisbee laugh aloud as Madame Delano, who stepped off the car with astonishing agility, waddled down the now respectable street.  But she held her head majestically and did not look back.

Ruyler squared his back lest the man, glancing over, recognize him.  That would be more than he could bear.  As the car reached Front Street he sprang from the dummy and walked rapidly north to Ruyler and Sons.  He locked himself in his private office, dismissing his stenographer with the excuse that he had important business to think out and must not be disturbed.

II

But business was forgotten.  He was as nearly in a state of panic as was possible for a man of his inheritance and ordered life.  He belonged to that class of New Yorker that looked with cold disgust upon the women of commerce.  So far as he knew he had never exchanged a word with one of them, and had often listened with impatience to the reminiscences of his San Francisco friends, now married and at least intermittently decent, of the famous ladies who once had reigned in the gay night life of San Francisco.

And his mother-in-law!  The mother of his wife!

Her name was Marie.  In that chaos of flesh an interested eye might discover the ruins of beauty.  Her hair, he knew, had been black.  He recalled the terror expressed in every line of that mountainous figure—­which may well have been perfect twenty years ago.  The green pallor of her cheek!  And he had long felt, rather than knew, that she possessed magnificent powers of bluff.  Her dignified exit had been no more convincing to him than to Bisbee.

He went back over the past and recalled all he knew of the woman whose daughter he had married.  She had visited the United States about twenty-one years ago, met and married Delano, and remained in San Francisco two or three months on their way to Japan.  Delano had died on the voyage across the Pacific, been buried at sea, and his widow had returned to her family in Rouen and settled down in her brother’s household.

This was practically all he knew, for it was all that Hélène knew, and Madame Delano never wasted words.  It had not occurred to him to question her.  Their status in Rouen was established, and if not distinguished it was indubitably respectable and not remotely suggestive of mystery.

Price, convinced that Hélène’s father must have been a gentleman, recalled that he had asked her one day to tell him something of the Delanos, but his wife had replied vaguely that she believed her mother had been too sad to talk about him for a long while, and then probably had got out of the habit.  She knew nothing more than she already had told him.

It came back to him, however, that several times his wife’s casual references to the past, and particularly regarding her parents, had not dove-tailed, but that he had dismissed the impression; attributing it to some lapse in his own attention.  He had a bad habit of listening and thinking out a knotty business problem at the same time.  And there is a curious inhibition in loyal minds which forbids them to put two and two together until suspicion is inescapably aroused.

He had a very well ordered mind, furnished with innumerable little pigeon holes, which flew open at the proper vibration from his admirable memory.  He concentrated this memory upon a little bureau of purely personal receptacles and before long certain careless phrases of his wife stood in a neat row.

She had mentioned upon one occasion that she thought she must have been about five when she arrived in Rouen, and remembered her first impression of the Cathedral as well as the boats on the Seine at night.  And Cousin Pierre had taken her up the river one Sunday to the church on the height which had been built for a statue of the Virgin that had been excavated there, and bade her kneel and pray at this station for what she wished most.  She had prayed for a large wax doll that said papa and mama, and behold, it had arrived the next day.

Madame Delano had told him unequivocally that she had gone directly to Rouen after her husband’s death … but again, although Hélène remembered arriving in Rouen with her mother, she must have been left for a time elsewhere, for Hélène had another memory—­of a convent, where she had tarried for what seemed a very long time to her childish mind.  Could she have been sent to a convent from the house in Rouen when she was so little that her memories of that first sojourn were confused?  And why?  The family had apparently been fond of “la petite Americaine,” and even if her devoted mother had been obliged to leave her for several years it is doubtful if they would have sent so young a child to a convent.  Rack his memory as he would he could recall no allusion to such a journey, to any separation between mother and child after they were established in Rouen.

But he did remember one of Madame Delano’s few references to the past, which might suggest that she had left the child somewhere while she went home to make peace with her family to get her bearings.  Her brother had not approved of her marrying an American.  “But,” she had added graciously, “you see I had no such prejudice.  Neither now nor then.  James was the best of husbands.”

“James!” “Jim.”

He had heard the name Jim as he boarded the dummy, uttered in extremely familiar accents; by Bisbee, of course.  Yes, and something else.  “We all felt bad when he croaked.”

His feverishly alert memory darted to another pigeon hole and exhumed another treasure.  Some ten or twelve months ago he had been obliged to go to a northern county on business that involved buying up smaller concerns, and would keep him away for a fortnight or more.  He had taken Hélène, and as they were motoring through one of the old towns she had leaned forward with a little gasp exclaiming: 

“How exactly like!  If I didn’t know that I had never been in California before except merely to be born here I could vow that is where I lived with the dear nuns.”

He had asked idly:  “Where was your convent?” and she had shaken her head.  “Maman says I never was in a convent, that I dreamed it.”  She had lifted to Ruyler a puzzled face.  “I remember she punished me once, when I was about seven and persisted in talking about the convent—­I suppose I had forgotten it for a time in the new life, and something brought it back to me.  But it is the most vivid memory of my childhood.  Do you think I could have been one of those uncanny children that live in a dream world?  I hope not.  I like to think I am quite normal and full to the brim of common sense.”  He had laughed and told her not to worry.  He had lived in a dream world himself when he was little.

The conviction grew upon him as he sat there that Hélène had spent the first five years of her life at the Ursuline Convent in St. Peter.  What had her mother—­young and beautiful—­been doing during those years, the years of a mother’s most anxious devotion and pleasurable interest?  He searched his memory for Club reminiscences of a Marie Delano of twenty years earlier, or less.  No such name rewarded his mental explorations, and Marie Delano was not a name likely to escape.

He exclaimed aloud at his stupidity.  The astute French woman was hardly likely to return to the scene of her former triumphs with an innocent young daughter and an infamous name.  Nor, apparently, had she carried it to Rouen after she had manifestly foresworn vice for the sake of her child, even to the length of resigning herself to the dullness of a provincial town.

But “Jim”?  Her husband?  Could Bisbee have referred to some other Jim who had “croaked” recently?  Such women have more than one Jim in their voluminous lives.

Ruyler had that order of mental temperament to which dubiety is the one unendurable condition; he had none of that cowardice which postpones an unpleasant solution until the inevitable moment.  Whatever this hideous mystery he would solve it as quickly as possible and then put it out of his life.  Beyond question poor Hélène was the victim of blackmail; that was the logical explanation of her ill-concealed anxiety—­misery, no doubt!

He wished she had had the courage to come directly to him, but it was idle to expect the resolution of a woman of thirty in a child of twenty.  It was apparent that she had even tried to shield her mother, for that Madame Delano had been caught unaware to-day was indisputable.

What incredible impudence—­or courage?—­to return here!  There were other resorts in the South and on the Eastern Coast where a pretty girl might reap the harvest of innocent and lovely youth.

Once more his mind abruptly focused itself.

Shortly after his marriage Madame Delano had asked him casually if he could inform her as to the reliability of a certain firm of lawyers, Lawton, Cross and Co.  She “thought of buying a ranch,” and the firm had been suggested to her by some one or other of these rich people.  She also wished to make a will.

He had replied as casually that it was a leading firm, and forgotten the incident promptly.  He recalled now that several times he had seen his mother-in-law coming out of the Monadnock Building, where this firm had its offices.  He had upon one occasion met her in the lift and she had explained with unaccustomed volubility that she was still thinking of buying a ranch, possibly in Napa County.  She understood that quite a fortune might be made in fruit, and it would be a diverting interest for her old age.  Possibly she might encourage a favorite nephew to come out and help her run it.

Ruyler, who had been absorbed in his own affairs and hated the sight of any woman during business hours, had felt like telling her that if she wanted to sink her money in a ranch, that was as good a way to get rid of it as any, but had merely nodded and left the elevator.  He was not the man to give any one unasked advice and be snubbed for his pains.

If “Jim” was her husband and had “croaked” some two years since, what more natural than that she had been obliged to come to California and settle his estate?  Lawton and Cross would keep her secret, as California lawyers, with or without blackmail, had kept many others; perhaps she was an old friend of Lawton’s.  He had been a “bird” in his time.

Undoubtedly this was the solution.  Otherwise she never would have risked the return to San Francisco, even with her changed appearance.

III

It was time to dismiss speculation and proceed to action.  He rang up detective headquarters and asked Jake Spaulding to come to him at once.

Spaulding began:  “But the matter ain’t ripe yet, boss.  Nothin’ doin’ last night—­”

But Ruyler cut him short.  “Please come immediately—­no, not here.  Meet me at Long’s.”

He left the building and walked rapidly to a well-known bar where estimable citizens, even when impervious to the seductions of cocktail and highball, often met in private soundproof rooms to discuss momentous deals, or invoke the aid of detectives whose appearance in home or office might cause the wary bird to fly away.

The detective did not drink, so Ruyler ordered cigars, and a few moments later Spaulding strolled in.  His physical movements always belied his nervous keen face.  He was the antithesis of ’Gene Bisbee.  All honest men compelled to have dealings with him liked and trusted him.  A rich man could confide a disgraceful predicament to his keeping without fear of blackmail, and a poor man, if his cause were interesting, might command his services with a nominal fee.  He loved the work and regarded himself as an artist, inasmuch as he was exercising a highly cultivated gift, not merely pursuing a lucrative profession.  He sometimes longed, it is true, for worthier objects upon which to lavish this gift, and he found them a few years later when the world went to war.  He was one of the most valuable men in the Federal Secret Service before the end of 1915.

“What’s up?” he asked, as he took possession of the most comfortable chair in the little room and lit a cigar.  “You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week, and you were lookin’ fine yesterday.”

“Do you mind if I only half confide in you?  It’s a delicate matter.  I’d like to ask you a few questions and may possibly ask you to find the answer to several others.”

“Fire away.  Curiosity is not my vice.  I’ll only call for a clean breast if I find I can’t work in the dark.”

“Thanks.  Do—­do you remember any woman of the town named—­Marie Delano?” He swallowed hard but brought it out.  “Who may have flourished here fifteen or twenty years ago?”

Spaulding knew that Ruyler’s wife had been named Delano, but he refrained from whistling and fixed his sharp honest blue eyes on the opposite wall.

“Nope.  Sounds fancy enough, but she was no Queen of the Red Light District in S.F.”

“I was convinced she could not have been known under that name.  Do you know of any woman of that sort who was married—­possibly—­to a man whose first name was James—­Jim—­and who left abruptly, while she was still young and handsome, just about fifteen years ago?”

“Lord, that’s a poser!  Do you mean to say she married and retired—­landed some simp?  They do once in a while.  Could tell you queer things about certain ancestries in this old town.”

“No—­I don’t think that was it.  I have reason to think she had been married for at least six years before she left.  Can’t you think of any Marie who was married to a Jim—­in—­in that class of life?”

“I was pretty much of a kid fifteen years ago, but I can recall quite a few Maries and even more Jims.  But the Jims were much too wary to marry the Maries.  Try it again, partner.  Let us approach from another angle.  What did your Marie look like?”

“She must have been tall—­uncommonly tall—­with black hair and small features; black eyes that must have been large at that time.  I—­I—­believe she had a very fine figure.”

“What nationality?”

“French.”

The detective recrossed his legs.  “French.  Oh, Lord!  The town was fairly overrun with them.  Made you think there was nothing in all this talk about gay Paree.  All the ladybirds seemed to have taken refuge here.  You have no idea of her last name!”

“It might have been Perrin.”

“Never.  Not after she got here and set up in business.  More likely Lestrange or Delacourt—­”

“Was there a Delacourt?”

“Not that I remember.  I don’t see light anywhere.  Of course it won’t take me twenty-four hours to get hold of the history and appearance of every queen who was named Marie fifteen years ago, and your description helps a lot.  Records were burned, but some of the older men on the force are walking archives.  For the matter of that you might draw out some old codger in your club and get as much as I can give you—­”

“Rather not!  I think I’ll have to give you my confidence.”

“Much the shortest and straightest route.  Just fancy you’re takin’ a nasty dose of medicine for the good of your health.  I guess this is a case where I can’t work in the dark.”

“Have you ever noticed an elderly woman, seated in the court of the Palace Hotel—­immensely stout?”

“I should say I had.  One of the sights of S.F.  Why—­of course—­she’s your mother-in-law!”

“Has there been any talk about her!”

“Some comment on her size.  And her childlike delight in watchin’ the show.”

“Nothing else?  No one has claimed to recognize her?”

Spaulding sat up straight, his nose pointing.  “Recognize her?  What d’you mean?”

“I mean that I overheard a conversation—­one-sided—­to-day on the California Street dummy, in which Bisbee accused Madame Delano practically of what I have told you.  At least that is the way I interpreted it.  He called her Marie, alluded in an unmistakable manner to a disgraceful past in which he had known her intimately, and was confident that he recognized her in spite of her flesh and white hair.  I am positive that she recognized him, although she was clever enough not to reply.”

“Jimminy!  The plot thickens.  That scoundrel never forgot a face in his life.  I don’t train with him—­not by a long sight—­so if there’s been any talk in his bunch, I naturally wouldn’t have heard it.  You say her name is Marie now?”

“Yes.”

“And Perrin is her real name?”

“She comes of a well-known family of Rouen of that name.  She lived there with her child for at least thirteen years before her return to California.  Of that I am certain.  Her daughter is now twenty.  I wish to know where she kept that child during the first five years of its life.  I have reason to think it was in the Ursuline Convent at St. Peter.”

“That’s easy settled.  And you think the father’s first name was Jim?”

“She told me that his name was James Delano.  Also that he died within the first year of their marriage, when the child was two months old, during the voyage to Japan.  That may be, but I can see no reason for her returning here unless he died more recently and the settlement of his estate demanded her presence.”

“Pretty good reasoning, particularly if you are sure she stayed here until the child was five.  Some of them have pretty decent instincts.  She may have made up her mind to give the kid a chance, and returned to her relations.  Of course we must assume that they knew nothing of her life.”

“I am positive they did not.  But there had been some sort of estrangement.  I have been given to understand that it was because she married an American.  Of course she may not have written to them at all for six or seven years.  Her story is that she was visiting other relatives in a place called Holbrook Centre, Vermont, and met this man and married him.  Then that he was detained by business in San Francisco for several months, and the child born here.”

“Good commonplace story.  Just the sort that is never questioned.  Of course if she did not correspond with her family during all that time she could adopt any name for her return to respectability that she chose.  Delano wasn’t it?  That’s certain.  What line do you intend to take?  After I’ve delivered the facts?”

“My object is to have the child’s legitimacy established, if possible, then see that Madame Delano leaves California forever.  I think that she could be terrified by a threat of blackmail.  I can’t imagine the mere chance of recognition worrying her, for I should say she had as much courage as presence of mind.  But her passion is money.  If she thought there was any danger of being forced to hand over what she has I fancy she would get out as quickly as possible.  She is an intelligent woman and I imagine she has taken a sardonic pleasure in sitting out in full view of San Francisco, and getting away with it.”

“And marrying her girl to the greatest catch in California,” thought the detective, but he said: 

“I believe you’re dead right, although, of course, there may be nothing in it.  Even ‘Gene Bisbee might be mistaken, pryin’ a gazelle out of an elephant like that.  Now, tell me all you know.”

When Ruyler had covered every point Spaulding nodded.  “It’s possible this Jim was the maquereau and she made him marry her for the sake of the child.  Doubt if the date can be proved except through the lawyers, and it will be hard to make them talk.  Of course if there is a Holbrook Centre and she was married there—­but I have my doubts.  The point is that he evidently married her if she is settlin’ up his estate.  I’ll find out what Jims have died within the last three years or so.  That’s easy.  The direct route to the one we want is through St. Peter.  I’ll go up to-night.”

“And you’ll report to-morrow?”

“Yep.  Meet me here at six P.M.  Lucky the man seems to have died after the fire.  I’ll set some one on the job of searching death records right away.”