DETECTIVE EBENEZER GRYCE - Complete Murder-Mysteries Collection: 11 Novels in One Volume
but he was sure that he had not sat as still as this, and when, after an interval during which he had turned to see what kind of man it was who had spoken so vigorously, he wheeled back into place and glanced out again through his window, she was there yet, hat, shoulders and all, immovable as an image and almost as rigid.
Well, and what of it? There was surely nothing very remarkable in so commonplace a fact; yet during the ensuing half-hour, during which he gave, or tried to give, the greater part of his attention to the political talk which followed the statements he had heard made in regard to the needs of a certain factory, his eye would turn riverward from time to time and always with a view to see if this woman had moved. And not once did he detect the least change in her attitude.
“She will sit there all night,” he muttered to himself; and after a while his curiosity mounted to such a pitch that he got up and went out on the piazza for one of his short strolls.
Chapter XXII.
He Remembers
Just an ordinary woman, lost in a dream of some kind while awaiting her departure on an out-going train!—or such was Detective Gryce’s conclusion as he hobbled slowly past her.
Why should he give her a moment’s thought? Yet he did. He noticed her dress and the way she held her hands, and the fact, not suspected before, that she was not looking out at the landscape outspread before her eyes, but down into her lap at her own hands clasped together in an unnaturally tight grip. Then he straightway forgot her in the thought of that other woman whose track he was following with such poor promise of success. Madame Duclos’ image was in his mind as plainly as if she sat before him in place of this chance passenger. He knew the sort of hat she would wear (or thought he did). He also knew the color of her dress. Had he not been shown the piece of goods from which it had been taken? And had he not understood her choice, bizarre as it was, and for this very reason, that it was bizarre? Being a woman of subtle mind, she would reason that since the police were seeking one of plain exterior and simple dress, a gaudy frock would throw them off their guard and insure her immunity from any close inspection. Therefore this striped material rather than the plain black she so much preferred. Then her eyes! She would try to hide the defect which particularized them, by the use of glasses or, at least, by a very heavy veil. While her walk—well! she might successfully conceal her halting step if she were not hurried. But he promised himself that he would be very careful to see that any woman rousing his suspicion should be given some reason for hurrying.
While thus musing, he had reached the farther end of the piazza. In wheeling about to come back, the woman whose profile he now faced attracted his eye again, in spite of himself, and he gave her another idle thought. How absorbing was the subject upon which she was brooding, and how deeply it affected her!
It struck him as he quietly repassed her that he had never seen a sadder face. Then that impression passed from his mind, for he saw Perry coming toward him with a pencil and telegram-blank in hand. He had decided to let Sweetwater know where he could be reached that night, and Perry had come for the message.
It must have been fully two hours later that Mr. Gryce, sitting down in his former chair, looked up and found his view unobstructed to the river. The woman had gone.
Just for the sake of saying something to Perry, who had drawn up beside him, he remarked upon the fact, adding in explanation of his interest in so small a matter:
“It’s the thoughts and feelings of people which take hold of my curiosity now. Human nature is a big book, a great book. I have only begun to thumb it, and I’m an old man. Some people betray their emotions in one way, some in another. Some are loudest when most troubled, and some are so quiet one would think them dead. The woman I was watching there was one of the quiet ones; her trouble was deep; that was apparent from her outline—an outline which never varied.”
“Yes, she’s a queer duck. I saw her: I even did an errand for her—that was before you sat down here.”
“You did an errand for her?”
“Yes; she wanted a newspaper. Of course I was glad to get it for her, as she said she was lame.”
“Lame?”
“Yes; I suppose she spoke the truth. I didn’t think of her being in any special trouble, but I did think her an odd one. She seemed to be wearing two dresses.”
Mr. Gryce started and turned sharply toward him.
“What’s that you say? What do you mean by that?”
“Why, this: when she stopped to get her money out of some hidden pocket, she pulled up the skirt of her dress, and I saw another one under it. Perhaps she thought that was the easiest way of carrying it. I noticed that her suit-case was a small one.”
“Describe that under-frock to me.” Mr. Gryce’s air and tone were unaccountably earnest. “What was its color?”
“Why, reddish, I think. No, it had stripes in it and something like spots. Do you suppose it was her petticoat?”
Mr. Gryce brought his hand down on his lame knee and did not seem to feel it. “Find out where she’s gone!” he cried. “No, I will do it myself.” And before the other could recover from his astonishment, he had started for the piazza where he had just seen the proprietor of the hotel take his seat.
“This comes from an old man’s folly in thinking he could manage an affair of this kind without help,” he mumbled to himself as he went stumping along. “Had I told Perry whom we were after and how he was to recognize her, I should have spent my time talking with this woman instead of staring at her. Two dresses! with the bright one under! Well, she’s even more subtle than I thought.”
And by this time, having reached the man he sought, he put his question:
“Can you tell me anything about the woman who was sitting here? Who she is and where she has gone?”
“The woman who was sitting here? Why, I should say she was a factory hand and has gone to her work on the other side of the river.”
“Her name? Do you know her name? I’m a detective from New York—one of the regular police force. I’m in search of a woman not unlike the one I saw here, though not, I am bound to state, a factory worker except on compulsion.”
“You are! A police detective, eh, and at your age! It must be a healthy employment. But about this woman! I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything except that she came on the same train you did and wanted a boat right away to take her across the river. You see, we’ve no ferry here, and I told her so, and the only way she could get across was to wait for Phil Jenkins, who was going over at five. She said she would wait, and sat down here, refusing dinner, or even to enter the house. Perhaps she wasn’t hungry, and perhaps she didn’t wish to register, eh?”
“Had her speech an accent? Did you take her for a foreign woman?”
“Yes, I did and I didn’t. She spoke very well. She’s not young, you know?”
“I’m not looking for a young woman.”
“Well, she’s gone and you can’t reach her to-night. There they are now, see! about a quarter of the way across. That small boat just slipping across the wake of the big one.”
Mr. Gryce looked and saw that she was in the way of escape for to-night.
“When can I get over?” he asked.
“Not till Phil crosses again to-morrow noon.”
“Meanwhile, she may go anywhere. I shall certainly lose her.”
“Hardly. She’s bound for the factory; you can just see the roof of it above the trees a little to the right. She asked me all sorts of questions about the work over there, and whether there were decent places to live in within