I
Detective-Officer Mary Rorke had left Apartment 365 near the top of
the Savoy Babylon Hotel, locking the door behind her. She had gone to
dinner.
Viola, seated in her favourite chair by the window, reading, waited
for ten minutes. Then, closing her book, she went into the bedroom and
came out carrying a beautifully fitted manicure case adorned with
silver and enamel and the name of a Bond Street firm. She opened it,
and adjusted a nail file between two harmless-looking studs attached to
the lid. Next, she inserted a different kind of key in the silver lock
and turned it gently.
A spot of red light appeared inside what looked like a bottle of nail
varnish.
Then, taking a small torch from her purse, she switched off all the
lamps, went to the window, glanced at her luminous wrist-watch, and
seeming to take a sight on some distant spot visible in the darkness,
stepped back, pace by pace.
She flashed the light—three times, a pause—twice; then waited,
watching.
Whatever she watched for didn't appear.
She repeated the signal.
And, this time, an answer came. From the top of a distant building,
high up just under the cupola which crowned it, came three flashes, a
pause, then two flashes.
Viola moved over to where the manicure set stood on a table. She
spoke softly:
“Sister Viola reporting. Is Our Lady ready?”
“She has been informed,” came the high sing-song of Caspar, clearly
as though he had stood in the room. “Kindly wait, Sister Viola.”
There followed an interval, silent, and then:
“Yes, child?”—in the golden tones of Sumuru. “Have you seduced him
yet?”
“Almost, Madonna.”
“You sound sad, Viola. You have not given too much too soon?”
“You know I could never do that, Madonna. I am sad because I have to
do what you ordered me to do.”
“Unless you mean that he has become distasteful to you I fail to
understand. I believed—and I am rarely wrong—that you were happy to
be with him. I should approve. That was why I threw you into his arms.
There must be some unions of affinity, if we are to produce a perfect
race.”
“I love him, Madonna.”
“That is good news, Viola. If you can win him to the truth this will
be even better news. In the position he occupies (which I can improve)
he will be invaluable to us. Why are you sad?”
Viola hesitated. She was biting her lip.
“I asked a question, child.”
“Yes, dear Madonna! I should hate to think that Tony was weak enough
to accept a creed in which he truly didn't believe—for my
sake.”
“You are troubled by strange scruples! How many men, now usefully
enrolled in our Order, have been won to it by hunger for a woman?
Re-study Chapter Ten of Tears, Viola. You will find—if you have
forgotten—that it deals with desire as the force which rules the
world. You should be proud to wield so great a power—the power of
Helen of Troy—a power which belongs to women, alone.”
“Yes, Madonna.”
“Tell me—have you induced him to speak to Drake Roscoe?”
“I believe he has done so—to-day.”
“If he is successful, I can deal with the rest. Sister Blanche is
expecting you. Silvestre will be standing by. If he fails, you must
resume seduction. Or—you can give him up. I should be disappointed.”
“I won't—give him up, Madonna.”
“I know that, Viola. You have proved your mettle too often to falter,
now, in winning a man you want for yourself, as well as for the Order.
Good night, child. Give Caspar the signal. I am always with you.”
Viola turned the key in the silver lock and withdrew it. She replaced
the nail file. Then, picking up the little flashlight, she stepped back
three paces, and flashed the signal.
An answering signal came from under the distant cupola, and—
“Hullo, Miss Stayton,” said a crisp voice. “All in the dark?”
Drake Roscoe stood just behind her in the lobby.
II
Viola's training served her well. She recovered poise almost at once.
“The light failed, Mr. Roscoe. I was looking for the phone. I'm
afraid I didn't hear you come in.”
“I shouldn't have crept in like a mouse, Miss Stayton. But apparently
your doorbell had failed, as well! Let's see if they've put things
right again.” He flicked some switches. “Ah! all's well!”
As the room was flooded with sudden light:
“Hullo!” he went on, looking around, “I must have been mistaken. I
could have sworn I heard you talking to somebody!”
Viola smiled, dropped back in the chair near the window.
“Perhaps you heard me cursing! I was just about to work on my nails,
Mr. Roscoe, when the light failed.”
She opened the manicure case, then glanced up and closed it again.
“Don't let me interrupt you.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Roscoe. If you care to talk to me I'm quite
ready to listen.”
Drake Roscoe sat down, watching her. He was smiling. Viola was
distractingly pretty, from her wavy hair down to her slim, dainty feet.
Impossible to condemn Tony McKeigh for falling for a girl like this.
Viola stood up and offered an open cigarette case, nearly full; a
feminine thing inlaid with mother-o'-pearl.
He was about to take one. Then he changed his mind, shot a swift look
at Viola's face.
“Thank you, Miss Stayton. But mostly I stick to cigars!”
Viola sat down again and lighted one of her own cigarettes
composedly.
“It occurred to you they might be doped?” she said it as casually as
though doped cigarettes were a commonplace “Well, they're not. I have
pleaded guilty to all that I have done, and I admit that I drugged Mr.
McKeigh's tobacco But it was a harmless drug.”
“How did you know it was harmless?”
“Our Lady told me so. Our Lady never lies. I destroyed her photograph
because she ordered me to destroy it—”
“Yes. That brings me to an interesting point,” Roscoe interrupted.
“What was there about that photograph which made her so anxious to
suppress it?”
“I don't know,” Viola answered quietly.
“Could it have been—I'm merely guessing—that it clearly showed one
of her ears?”
Drake Roscoe, watching, saw that he had scored a hit. Viola flinched.
In spite of her excellent self-control, he saw her start. Tony McKeigh
was right. The lovely Sumuru had no lobes to her ears. It was a defect
which would in no way detract from her beauty, a curious formation
which only a physiognomist would be likely to notice.
And it hadn't been visible in the destroyed photograph; for it was
not mentioned in the physiognomy chart appended by Scotland Yard.
Viola recovered herself in a flash.
“Why do you say one of her ears, Mr. Roscoe? Whatever can Our Lady's
ears have to do with it?”
“Just an idea that occurred to me. Ears are a sure means of
identification, you know. No doubt modern surgery can alter their
shape, as it alters the shapes of noses, but ears are less easy to
treat surgically.”
“Is that so?” Viola forced a smile. “As you are here, Mr. Roscoe,
perhaps you will allow me to ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How long am I to stay confined in this apartment? You have no real
evidence against me, so far as I know, to justify it. Except for the
liberty I took in destroying a compromising photograph, there is only
his own word to support a charge of drugging Mr. McKeigh. There was no
robbery committed. The incident might be explained, if I cared to
explain it, in an entirely different way.”
Drake Roscoe watched her admiringly. His heart was warming to Viola
Stayton. She was a game little fighter.
“I had come to a similar conclusion,” he told her. “McKeigh has
helped me, I must add. You have helped me, too ... I propose to set you
free, Miss Stayton.”
Viola stood up.
“Truly? You mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it. I'm asking McKeigh to take care of you, wherever you
want to go. You can leave some time tomorrow....”
III
Drake Roscoe, having locked the door of 365, didn't return at once to
his own, adjoining, apartment. He took the elevator down to the main
floor. A police car, although in no way identified as one, always stood
by outside. Roscoe got in, and was driven off.
It was late when he came back to the Savoy Babylon.
Tony McKeigh stood staring out of the window, apparently fascinated
by the panorama of glittering Manhattan. He turned as Roscoe opened the
door.
“Hullo, there! I began to think you had been making a tour of the
night spots. In accordance with your esteemed instructions, I have
stuck to my homework. You will find all data neatly filed and indexed
on your desk.”
“Good for you,” Roscoe smiled grimly. “I have certainly toured some
night spots, but not those you may have in mind. Sumuru hasn't been
running quite true to form, and I'm taking a leaf out of her own book.
The reporters were allowed to gorge themselves on Anna's one court
appearance, so that all the United States is now familiar with Anna's
charming face. Mrs. Esterhazy will be shadowed from the moment she
steps ashore at Cherbourg.”
“I wondered why you didn't bring Mrs. E. ashore here, right away.”
Drake Roscoe lighted a cigar.
“That would have been running true to form—as I did by having Anna
arrested.”
“But what about the kid!”
“We could have got hold of the child and still let Anna slip away.”
Tony McKeigh relighted his pipe, which had just gone out.
“It's quite possible,” he remarked, “that without knowing it, I have
become slightly nutty. Because the point of your last observation
entirely escapes me. Why let Anna go?”
“For the same reason that a decoy duck is let go—to snare bigger
ducks. But, at the time, I wasn't ready. To-morrow I shall be. You
remember that bail was refused. But an attorney, who will say he is
acting for Anna's parents, is making another application in the
morning—and the court will grant it. A perfect convoy of detectives
will surround Anna wherever she goes.”
“You believe that, sooner or later, she'll go to Sumuru?”
“Or communicate with her—yes.”
“And I believe she'll slip through your fingers—like Sally Obershaw
and the Duchesse de Severac.”
“She may. But she's more possible use at large than she is locked up.
I have come to the same conclusion about Viola—”
“What! Really?”
“Really. Viola will be your pidgin, Mac. I have a hunch she won't run
away from you! You must cling to her like a lion-hearted limpet!
A flock of agents will be covering both of you. Make your own plans for
keeping her in sight. Marry her, if you like.”
“You seem to be inspired by a sense of urgency.”
“I am!” Roscoe snapped. “The net's closing in on Sumuru. She made a
mistake when she came here! I don't underestimate her—and I figure she
knows and will run for it any day, now—Hullo!”
The phone buzzed. Roscoe took the call.
“Yes—Drake Roscoe here.... Oh—Dr. Richborough!... What's that? Your
consultant arrived ahead of time. Yes, I have it all. Good God! Yes,
you were right to notify me, Doctor.”
When he hung up, Drake Roscoe turned a haggard look on Tony McKeigh.
“Steve Mason has just committed suicide. He threw himself out of the
window soon after midnight—”