The Avalanche

I

He arrived at home on the following afternoon at six and was immediately rung up by Spaulding, who demanded an interview.  It was not worth while going down town again, as Hélène was out and would no doubt return only in time to dress for dinner.  They were to dine at half-past seven and go to the play afterward.  He told Spaulding to take a taxi and come to the house.

Nothing had occurred meanwhile to cause him anxiety.  He had taken Hélène out to the Cliff House to dinner the night before, and afterward to see the road-houses, whose dancing is so painfully proper early in the evening.  Polly Roberts had come into the most notorious of them at eleven, chaperoning a party, which included Aileen Lawton, a girl as restless and avid of excitement as herself.  Rex Roberts and several other young men had been in attendance, and Polly had begged Ruyler to stay on and let his wife see something of “real life.”

“This is one of the sights of the world, you know,” she said, puffing her cigarette smoke into his face.  “It’s too middle-class to be shocked, and not to see occasionally what you really cannot get anywhere else.  Why, there’ll even be a lot of tourists here later on, and these dancers don’t do the real Apache until about one.  At least leave Hélène with me, if you care more for bed than fun.”

But Ruyler had merely laughed and taken his wife home.  Hélène had made no protest; on the contrary had put her arm through his in the car and her head on his shoulder, vowing she was worn out, and glad to go home.  It was only afterward that it occurred to him that she had clung to him that night.

Spaulding entered the library without taking off his hat, and chewing a toothpick vigorously.  He began to talk at once, stretching himself out in a Morris chair, and accepting a cigar.  This time Price smoked with him.

“Well,” said the detective, “it’s like the game of button, button, who’s got the button?  Sometimes I think I’m getting a little warmer and then I go stone cold.  But I’ve found out a few things, anyhow.  How tall should you say Madame Delano is?  I’ve only seen her sitting on her throne there in the Palace Court lookin’ like an old Sphinx that’s havin’ a laugh all to herself.”

“About five feet ten.”

“The Mother Superior said six feet, but no doubt when she had figger instead of flesh she looked taller.  Well, I’ve discovered no less than five tall handsome brunettes that sparkled here in the late Eighties and early Nineties, but it’s the deuce and all to get an exact description out of anybody, especially when quite a few years have elapsed.  Most people don’t see details, only effects.  That’s what we detectives come up against all the time.  So, whether these ladies were five feet eight, five feet ten, or six feet, whether they had large features or small, big hands and feet or fine points, or whether they added on all the inches they yearned for by means of high heels or style, is beyond me.  But here they are.”

He took his neat little note-book from his pocket and was about to read it, when Ruyler interrupted him.

“But surely you know whether these women were French or not?”

“Aw, that’s just what you can’t always find out.  Lots of ’em pretend to be, and others—­if they come from good stock in the old country—­want you to forget it.  But the queens generally run to French names, as havin’ a better commercial value than Mary Jane or Ann Maria.  One of these was Marie Garnett, who wasn’t much on her own but spun the wheel in Jim’s joint down on Barbary Coast, which was raided just so often for form’s sake.  She always made a quick getaway, was never up in court, and died young.  Gabrielle ran an establishment down on Geary Street and was one of the swellest lookers and swellest togged dames in her profession till the drink got her.  I can’t find that she ever hooked up to a James or any one else.  Pauline-Marie was another razzle-dazzle who swooped out here from nowhere and burrowed into quite a few fortunes and put quite a few of our society leaders into mourning.  She disappeared and I can’t trace her, but she seems to have been the handsomest of the bunch, and was fond of showing herself at first nights, dressed straight from Paris, until some of our war-hardened ‘leaders’ called upon the managers in a body and threatened never to set foot inside their doors again unless she was kept out, and the managers succumbed.  Then there was the friend of a rich Englishman, whose first name I haven’t been able to get hold of.  They lived first at Santa Barbara, then loafed up and down the coast for a year or two, spending quite a time in San Francisco.  She was ’foreign looking’ and a stunner, all right.  All of these dames drifted out about the same time—­”

“What was the Englishman’s name?”

“J.  Horace Medford.  Front name may or may not have been James.  I doubt if his name could be found on any deeds, even in the south, where there was no fire.  He doesn’t seem to have bought any property or transacted any business.  Just lived on a good-sized income.  Of course, all the hotel registers here were burnt, but I wired to Santa Barbara and Monterey and got what I have given you.

“He had a yacht, and he took the woman with him everywhere.  There was always a flutter when they appeared at the theater.  Of course she went by his name, but as he never presented a letter all the time he was here and it was quite obvious he could have brought all he wanted, and as men are always ‘on’ anyhow, there was but one conclusion.”

“Where did he bank?  They might have his full name.”

“Bank of California, but his remittances were sent to order of J. Horace Medford, and, of course, he signed his cheques the same way.”

“That sounds the most likely of the lot—­and the most hopeful.”

“Well, haven’t handed you the fifth yet, and to my mind she’s the most likely of all.  Ever hear of James Lawton’s trouble with his wife?”

“Trouble?  I thought she died.”

“She—­did—­not.  She went East suddenly about fifteen years ago, and soon after a notice of her death appeared in the San Francisco papers.  But there was a tale of woe (for old Lawton) that I doubt if most of her own crowd had even a suspicion of.”

“Good heavens!” Ruyler recalled the apparent intimacy of his mother-in-law and the senior member of the respectable firm of Lawton and Cross.  If “Madame Delano” were the former Mrs. Lawton, how many things would be explained.

“This woman’s name was Marie all right, and she was French, although she seems to have been adopted by some people named Dubois and brought up in California.  She was quite the proper thing in high society, but the trouble was that she liked another sort better.  She was a regular fly-by-night.  It began when Norton Moore, a rotten limb of one of the grandest trees in San Francisco Society—­so respectable they didn’t know there was any side to life but their own—­sneaked Mrs. Lawton and three girls out of his mother’s house one night when she was givin’ a ball, put ’em in a hack and took ’em down to Gabrielle’s.  There they spent an hour lookin’ at Gabrielle’s swell bunch dressed up and doin’ the grand society act with some of the men-about-town.  Then they danced some and opened a bottle or two.

“I never heard that this little jaunt hurt the girls any, but it woke up something in Mrs. Lawton.  After that—­well, there are stories without end.  Won’t take up your time tellin’ them.  The upshot was that one night Lawton, who took a fling himself once in a while, met her at Gabrielle’s or some other joint, and she went East a day or two after.  I suppose he didn’t get a divorce, partly on account of the kid—­Aileen—­partly because he had no intention of trying his luck again.”

“But is there any evidence that she had another child—­that she hid away?”

“No, but it might easy have been.  This life went on for about eight years, and it was at least five that she and Lawton merely lived under the same roof for the sake of Aileen.  They never did get on.  That much, at least, was well known.  It might easy be—­”

Ruyler made a rapid calculation.  Aileen Lawton was just about three years older than Hélène.  She was fair like her father.  There was no resemblance between her and his wife, but the intimacy between them had been spontaneous and had never lapsed.  She had grown up quite unrestrained and spoilt, and broken three engagements, and was always rushing about proclaiming in one breath, that California was the greatest place on earth and in the next that she should go mad if she didn’t get out and have a change.  Another grievance was that although her father let her have her own way, or rather did not pretend to control her, he gave her a rather niggardly allowance for her personal expenses and she was supposed to be heavily in debt.  Ruyler thought he could guess where a good deal of his wife’s spare cash had gone to.  He disliked Aileen Lawton as much as he did Polly Roberts; more, if anything, because she might have been clever and she chose to be a fool.  Both of these intimate friends of his wife were the reverse of the superb outdoor type he admired.

“Good Lord!” he said.  “I don’t think there’s much choice.”

But in a moment he shook his head.  “Too many things don’t connect.  Where did she get the money to go to her relations in Rouen—­”

“He pensioned her off, of course.”

“And the child?  How did he consent to let her return here with a daughter he probably never had heard of—­”

“I figger out, either that she came into some money from a relation over in France, or else she has something on the old boy, and wanting to come back here and marry her daughter, she held him up.  He’s a pillar of the church, been one of the Presidents of the Pacific-Union Club, has argued cases before the Supreme Court that have been cabled all over the country.  When a man of that sort gets to Lawton’s time of life he don’t want any scandals.”

“All the same,” said Ruyler positively, “I don’t believe it.  I think it far more likely that he was a friend of Madame Delano’s husband—­assuming that she had one—­and that some money was left with him in trust for her or the child.”

“Well, it may be, but I incline to Lawton—­”

“There’s one person would know—­”

“’Gene Bisbee.  But I never went to that bunch yet for any information, and I don’t go this time except as a last resort.  Of course he knows, and that is one reason I believe she is Mrs. Lawton.  He was Gabrielle’s maquereau for years—­when he’d wrung enough out of her he set up for himself—­Well, I ain’t through yet, by a long sight.  Beliefs ain’t proof.”  He rose slowly from the deep chair, stretched himself, and settled his hat firmly on his head.

“What’s this I hear about a wonderful ruby your wife wore up to Gwynne’s the other night?  Gosh!  I’d like to see a sparkler like that.”

“Why, by all means.”

Ruyler swung the bookcase outward, opened the safe and handed him the ruby.  Spaulding regarded it with bulging eyes, and touched it with his finger tips much as he would a newborn babe.  “Some stone!” he said, as he handed it back, “but why in thunder don’t you keep it in a safe deposit box?  There are crooks that can crack any safe, and if they got wise to this—­oh, howdy, ma’am—­”

Hélène had come in and stood behind the two men.

Spaulding snatched off his hat and she acknowledged her husband’s introduction graciously.  She was dressed for the evening in white.  Her eyes looked abnormally large, and she kept dropping her lids as if to keep them from setting in a stare.  Her lovely mouth with its soft curves was faded and set.  The whole face was almost as stiff as a mask, and even her graceful body was rigid.  Ruyler saw Spaulding give her a sharp “sizing-up” look, as he murmured,

“Well, so long, Guv.  See you to-morrow.  Hope the man’ll turn out all right after all.”

“I hope so.  He’s a good chap otherwise.”

“Good night, ma’am.  Tell your husband to put that ruby in a safe deposit box.”

“Oh, nobody knows the safe is there except Mr. Ruyler and myself—­”

“There have been safes hidden behind bookcases before,” said Spaulding dryly.  “And crooks, like all the other pests of the earth, just drift naturally to this coast.  If I were you I’d have a detective on hand whenever you wear that bit o’ glass—­not at a friendly affair like the Gwynnes’ dinner, of course, but—­”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Ruyler.  “My wife will wear the ruby to the Thornton fête on the fourteenth.  Will you be on hand to guard it?”

“Won’t I?  About half our force is engaged for that blow-out, but no one but yours truly shall be guardian angel for the ruby.  Well, good night once more, and good luck.”

* * * * *

As soon as the detective had gone Ruyler drew his wife to him anxiously, “What is it, Hélène?  You look—­well, you don’t look yourself!”

“I have a headache,” she said irritably.  “Perhaps I’m developing nerves.  I do wish you would take me to New York.  Other women get away from this town once in a while.”

“But you told me on Sunday that you adored California, that it was like fairy land—­”

“Oh, all the women out here bluff themselves and everybody else just so long and then suddenly go to pieces.  It’s a wonderful state, but what a life!  What a life!  Surely I was made for something better.  I don’t wonder—­”

“What?” he asked sharply.

“Oh, nothing.  I feel ungrateful, of course.  I really should be quite happy.  Think if I had to go back to Rouen to live—­after this taste of freedom, and beauty—­for California has all the beauties of youth as well as its idiocies and vices—­”

“There is not the remotest danger of your ever being obliged to live in Rouen again—­”

“Oh, I don’t know.  You might get tired of me.  We might fight like cat and dog for want of common interests, of something to talk about.  You would never take to drink like so many of the men, but I might—­well, I’m glad dinner is ready at last.”

But she played with her food.  That she was repressing an intense and mounting excitement Ruyler did not doubt, and he also suspected that she wished to broach some particular subject from which she turned in panic.  They were alone after coffee had been served, and he said abruptly: 

“What is it, Hélène?  Do you want money?  I have an idea that Polly Roberts and Aileen Lawton borrow heavily from you, and that they may have cleaned you out completely on the first—­”

“How dear of you to guess—­or rather to get so close.  It’s worse than that.  I—­that is—­well—­poor Polly went quite mad over a pearl necklace at Shreve’s and they told her to take it and wear it for a few days, thinking, I suppose, she would never give it up and would get the money somehow.  She—­oh, it’s too dreadful—­she lost it—­and she dares not tell Rex—­he’s lost quite a lot of money lately—­and she’s mad with fright—­and I told her—­”

“Where did she lose it?  It’s not easy to lose a necklace, especially when the clasp is new.”

“She thinks it was stolen from her neck at the theater—­you heard what that man said.”

“Ah!  What was the price of the necklace?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.  The pearls weren’t so very large, of course, but Polly never had had a pearl necklace—­”

“I’ll let her have the money to pay for it on one condition—­that it is a transaction, between Roberts and myself—­”

“No!  No!  Not for anything!”

“I’ve lent him money before—­”

“But he’d never forgive Polly.  He—­he’s one of those men who make an awful fuss on the first of every month when his wife’s bills come in.”

“There must be a bass chorus on the first of every month in San Francisco—­”

“Oh, please don’t jest.  She must have this money.”

“She may have it—­on those terms.  I’ll have no business dealings with women of the Polly Roberts sort.  That would be the last I’d ever see of the twenty thousand—­”

“I never thought you were stingy!”

Ruyler, in spite of his tearing anxiety, laughed outright.  “Is that your idea of how the indulgent American husband becomes rich?”

“Oh—­of course I wouldn’t have you lose such a sum.  I really have learned the value of money in the abstract, although I can’t care for it as much as men do.”

“I have no great love of money, but there is a certain difference between a miser and a levelheaded business man—­”

“Price, I must have that money.  Polly—­oh, I am afraid she will kill herself!”

“Not she.  A more selfish little beast never breathed.  She’ll squeeze the money out of some one, never fear!  But I think I’ll lock up your jewels in case you are tempted to raise money on them for her—­Darling!”

Hélène, without a sound, had fainted.