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Man Who Fell Through the Earth

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<h2 id="c10">CHAPTER X Penny Wise and Zizi</h2> And so it was at this stage of affairs that Pennington Wise got into the game. He willingly agreed to take up the case, for the mystery of it appealed to him strongly, and by a stroke of good luck he was not otherwise engaged. He had promised to call at Miss Raynor’s, and as she had asked me to be present also, I went up there, reaching the house before Wise did. “What’s he like?” Olive inquired of me. “Good-looking sort of chap, without being handsome,” I told her. “You’ll like his personality, I’m sure, whether he helps us out of our troubles or not.” “I don’t care a fig for his personality,” she returned, “but I do want him to solve our two mysteries. I suppose you’ll think I’m dreadful,—but I’d rather Mr. Wise would find Amory Manning for me, than to discover Uncle Amos’ murderer.” “I don’t blame you at all for that. Of course, we want to find the criminal, but even more, I too, want to find Mr. Manning for you.” “And, anyway, I suppose the police think now that Mr. Rodman did it.” <div class="pb" id="Page_154">[154]</div> “They don’t go so far as to say that, but they’re hunting up evidence, and they’ve got hold of some pretty damaging information. It seems Rodman was mixed up in some wrongdoing, and it begins to look as if Mr. Gately was in some way connected with it,—at least, to a degree.” “If he was, then he didn’t know it was wrong.” Olive spoke with deep conviction, and I didn’t try to disabuse her mind. And then Pennington Wise was announced. As he entered the room his manner showed no trace of self-consciousness, and as I had anticipated, Olive was greatly pleased with her first glimpse of him. But to her surprise, and mine also, he was accompanied, or rather followed, by a young woman, a mere slip of a girl, who paused and stood quietly by. As Olive smiled at her inquiringly, Wise said: “That’s Zizi. She’s part of my working paraphernalia, and will just sit and listen while we talk.” The girl was fascinating to look at. Slight of build, she had a lithe suppleness that made her every motion a gesture of grace, and her pretty smile was appreciative and responsive. She had black hair and very black eyes, which sparkled and danced as she took in her surroundings. But she said no word, acknowledging her brief introduction only by a slight bow, and accepting the chair that Olive offered, she sat quietly, her small gloved hands resting in her lap. <div class="pb" id="Page_155">[155]</div> She wore a black suit with a fine set of black fox furs. Unfastening the fur collar, she disclosed a black blouse of soft, thin material which fell away from her slender white throat in becoming fashion. Her manner was correct in every particular, and she sat in an unembarrassed silence as Wise proceeded to talk. “I know all that has been in the papers,” he said, somewhat abruptly, “now, I’d like you to tell me the rest. I can’t help feeling there must be more in the way of evidence or clews than has been made public. First of all, do you think Mr. Rodman the guilty man?” He addressed himself mainly to Olive, though including me in his inquiring glance. “I’m sure I don’t know,” Olive returned; “I won’t believe, however, that Amos Gately was involved in any sort of wrong. His honor and integrity were of the highest type,—I knew him intimately enough to certify to that.” “What sort of wrongdoing is this Rodman accused of?” asked Wise. “Nobody seems willing to tell that,” I answered, as Olive shook her head. “I’ve inquired of the police, and they decline to reveal just what they do suspect him of. But I think it’s something pretty serious, and they’re tracking it down as fast as they can.” <div class="pb" id="Page_156">[156]</div> “You see,” Olive put in, “if Mr. Rodman is such a bad man, he may have hoodwinked Mr. Gately and made him believe something was all right when it was all wrong.” “Of course he might,” said Wise, sympathetically. “Did people come here to the house to see Mr. Gately on business?” “No; never. Uncle had few visitors, but they were always just his friends, not business callers.” “Then most of our search must be in his offices. You noticed nothing there, Mr. Brice, that seemed indicative?” Then I told him about the hatpin and the carriage check; and I also related how Norah had found and kept the “powder-paper” that she picked out of the waste basket. Zizi’s eyes flashed at this, and she said, “Has she traced it?” It was the first time the girl had spoken, and I was charmed with her voice. Low and soft, it had also a bell-like quality, and seemed to leave a ringing echo in the air after she ceased speaking. “Yes; to the shop where it was bought,” I replied. “As Norah guessed, it came from a very high-class perfumer’s on Fifth Avenue. But of course he could not tell us to whom he had sold that particular paper.” “I’d like to see it,” said Zizi, simply, and again relapsed into silence. <div class="pb" id="Page_157">[157]</div> “Norah must be a bright girl,” observed Wise, “and she has made a good start by finding the shop. Perhaps we can carry the trail further. It wasn’t yours, Miss Raynor?” “No; I use a paler tint. This one, I have seen it, is quite a deep pink.” “Indicating a brunette possibly. Now, it’s not likely it belonged to that old Mrs. Driggs, so we must assume another woman in the office that day. And we must discover who she is.” “There is the hatpin, you know,” said Olive. “I have it here, if you care to see it. But the police decided it meant nothing.” “Nothing means nothing,” said Zizi, with a funny little smile. “Please let us see the hatpin.” Olive took it from a desk drawer and handed it to the girl, who immediately passed it over to Penny Wise. He looked at it with interest, for a silent minute. “There couldn’t be a better portrait parlé!” he exclaimed. “This pin belongs to a lady with dark, straight hair,—coarse, and lots of it. She has good teeth, and she is proud of them. Her tastes incline to the flashy, and she is fond of strong perfumes. She is of somewhat untidy habits and given to sentiment. She is intellectual and efficient and, if not wealthy, she has at least a competence.” “For gracious goodness sake!” gasped Olive; “and I’ve studied that hatpin for hours and never could deduce a thing!” <div class="pb" id="Page_158">[158]</div> “What I have read from it may be of no use to us,” said Wise, indifferently; “I think it will be a sufficient indication of which way to look to find the lady in question, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the finding of her will do any good.” “But she may know something to tell us that will do good,” Olive suggested; “at any rate, let’s find her. How will you go about it?” “Why, I think it will be a good plan to ask the stenographer, Jenny Boyd, if she ever saw anyone there who fits our description.” “She’s the lady of the powder-paper, maybe,” murmured Zizi, and Penny Wise said, “Of course,” in a preoccupied way, and went on: “That Jenny person must be further grilled. She hasn’t told all she knows. She was in Mr. Gately’s employ but a short time and yet she picked up a lot of information. But she hasn’t divulged it all, not by a long shot!” “How do you know all this?” asked Olive, wonderingly. “I’ve read the papers. I have an unbreakable habit of reading between the lines, and I think Miss Jenny has been persuaded by somebody to suppress certain interesting bits of evidence that would fit right into our picture puzzle.” “May I come in?” said a gentle voice, and Mrs. Vail appeared in the doorway. As we rose to greet her, Olive presented Mr. Wise, and then Mrs. Vail permitted herself the luxury of a stare of genuine curiosity. <div class="pb" id="Page_159">[159]</div> His whimsical smile charmed her, and she was most cordial of speech and manner. Indeed, so absorbed was she in this new acquaintance that she didn’t even see Zizi, who sat, as always, back and in the shadow. “Don’t let me interrupt,” said Mrs. Vail, fluttering into a chair. “Just go on as if I were not here. I’m so interested, just let me listen! I won’t say a word. Oh, Olive dear, did you show Mr. Wise the letter?” “No; it’s unimportant,” replied the girl. “But I don’t think it is, my dear,” Mrs. Vail persisted. “You know it might be a—what do they call it?—a clew. Why, I knew a lady once——” “A letter is always important,” said Zizi from her corner, and Mrs. Vail jumped and gave a startled exclamation. “Who’s that?” she cried, peering through her lorgnon in the direction of the voice. “Show yourself, Zizi,” directed Wise. “This is my assistant, Mrs. Vail. She is in our council but not of it. I can’t explain her exactly, but you’ll come to understand her.” Zizi leaned forward and gave Mrs. Vail a pleasant if indifferent smile, then sank back to her usual obscurity. The girl was, Wise had said, a negligible personality, and yet whenever she spoke she said something! <div class="pb" id="Page_160">[160]</div> Mrs. Vail looked bewildered, but apparently she was prepared to accept anything, however strange, in connection with detective work. “Well,” she observed, “as that pretty little thing says, a letter is always important, and I think you ought to show it, Olive. I had a letter once that changed the whole current of my life!” “What is this letter, Miss Raynor?” asked Wise, in a matter-of-fact way. “One I received in this morning’s mail,” Olive replied; “I paid no attention to it, because it was anonymous. Uncle Amos told me once never to notice an anonymous letter,—always to burn and forget it.” “Good enough advice, in general,” said Wise; “but in such serious matters as we have before us any letter is of interest.” “Is the letter written by a woman, and signed ‘A Friend’?” asked Zizi in her soft voice. “Did you write it?” cried Olive, turning to the wraith-like girl who sat so quietly behind her. “Oh, no, no, no! I didn’t write it,” and the demure little face showed a fleeting smile. “Then how did you know? For it is signed ‘A Friend,’ but I don’t know whether it was a woman who wrote it or not.” <div class="pb" id="Page_161">[161]</div> “It was,” and Zizi nodded her sleek little black head. She had removed her hat and placed it on a nearby chair, and as she nestled into her furs which formed a dark background, her small white face looked more eerie than ever. “Ninety per cent. of all anonymous letters are written by women, and ninety per cent. of these are signed ‘A Friend.’ Though usually that is a misstatement.” “May I see the letter?” asked Wise. “Sure; I’ll get it.” It was Zizi who spoke! And rising, she went swiftly across the room, to a desk, and from a pigeonhole took an opened letter, which she carried to Wise, and then dropped back into her seat again. Mrs. Vail gave a surprised gasp, and Olive looked her amazement. “How did you know where to find that?” she exclaimed, her great brown eyes wide with wonder. “Dead easy,” said Zizi, nonchalantly; “you’ve scarcely taken your eyes off that spot, Miss Raynor, since the letter was mentioned!” “But even though I looked at the desk, how could you pick out the very letter, at once?” “Oh, I looked at the desk, too. And I saw your morning’s mail, pretty well sorted out. There’s a pile of bills, a pile of what are unmistakably social notes, and, up above in a pigeonhole, all by itself, was this letter. You glanced at it a dozen times or more, so I couldn’t help knowing.” Olive laughed. One couldn’t help liking the strange girl whose expression was so earnest, even while her black eyes were dancing. Meanwhile, Penny Wise examined the missive. “I’ll read it aloud?” and he glanced at Olive, who acquiesced by a nod. <div class="pb" id="Page_162">[162]</div> “Miss Raynor: “Quit looking for slayer of A.G. or you’ll be railroaded in yourself. This is straight goods. Call off all Tecs, or beware consequences. Will not warn twice! “A Friend.” “A woman,” Pennington Wise said in a musing voice, after he read it. “A business woman,” added Zizi from her corner. “A stenographer maybe,” Wise went on, and Olive cried: “Do you mean Jenny?” “Oh, no; this is written by a woman with more brains than Jenny ever dreamed of. A very clever woman in fact.” “Who?” breathed Olive, her eager face flushing in her interest and anxious to know more. “I don’t know that, Miss Raynor, but——” “Oh, Mr. Wise,” broke in Mrs. Vail; “you are so wonderful! Won’t you explain how you do it, as you go along?” She spoke as if he were a conjurer. <div class="pb" id="Page_163">[163]</div> “Anything to oblige,” Wise assented. “Well, here’s how it looks to me. The writer of this letter is a business woman, not only because she uses this large, single sheet of bond paper, but because she knows how to use it. She is a stenographer,—by that I do not necessarily mean that is her business,—she may have a knowledge of stenography, and be in some much more important line of work. But she is an accomplished typist and a rapid one. This, I know, of course, from the neat and uniform typing. She is clever, because she has used this non-committal paper, which is in no way especial or individual. She is a business woman, again, because she uses such expressions as ‘quit,’ railroaded,’ ‘Tecs,’ ‘straight goods,’——” “Which she might do by way of being misleading——” murmured Zizi. “Too many of ’em, and too casually used, Ziz. A society girl trying to pose as a business woman never would have rolled those words in so easily. I should have said a newspaper woman but for a certain peculiarity of style which indicates,—what, Zizi?” “You’ve got it; a telegraph operator.” “Exactly. Do you know any telegrapher, Miss Raynor?” “No, indeed!” and Olive looked astounded at the suggestion that she should number such among her acquaintances. “Are you sure?” “Looks mighty like it. The short sentences and the elimination of personal pronouns seem to me to denote a telegraph girl’s diction. And she is very clever! She has sent the carbon copy of the letter and not the outside typing.” “Why?” I asked. <div class="pb" id="Page_164">[164]</div> “To make it less traceable. You know, typewriting is very nearly as individual as pen-writing. The differentiations of the machine as well as of the user’s technique, are almost invariably so pronounced as to make the writing recognizable. Now these peculiarities, while often clear on the first paper, are blurred more or less on the carbon copy. So ‘A Friend,’ thinking to be very canny, has sent the carbon. This is a new trick, though I’ve seen it done several times of late. But it isn’t so misleading as it is thought to be. For all the individual peculiarities of the typewriter,—I mean, the machine, are almost as visible on this as on the other. I’ve noticed them in this case, easily. And moreover, this would-be clever writer has overreached herself! For a carbon copy smudges so easily that it is almost impossible to touch it, even to fold the sheet, without leaving a telltale thumb or finger print! And this correspondent has most obligingly done so!” “Really!” breathed Zizi, with a note of satisfaction in her low voice. “And the peculiarities,—what are they?” asked Olive. “The one that jumps out and hits me first is the elevated s. Look,—and you have to look closely, Miss Raynor,—in every instance the letter s is a tiny speck higher than the other letters.” “Why, so it is,” and Olive examined the letter with deep interest; “but how can you find a machine with an elevated s?” <div class="pb" id="Page_165">[165]</div> “It isn’t a sign-board, it’s a proof. When we think we have the right machine, the s will prove it,—not lead us to it.” “Let me see,” begged Mrs. Vail, reaching for the paper. “A friend of mine is a stenographer; maybe she——” “Excuse me,” and Penny Wise folded the letter most carefully. “We can’t get any more finger prints on this paper, or we shall render it useless. Now, Miss Raynor, I’m going. I’ll take the letter, and I’ve little doubt it will be a great help to me in my work. I will report to you from time to time, but it may be a few days before I learn anything of importance. Zizi?” “Yes; I’ll stay here,” and the girl sat quietly in her chair. “That means she’ll take up her abode with you for the present, Miss Raynor,” and Wise smiled at Olive. “Live here?” “Yes, please. It is necessary, or she wouldn’t do it.” “Oh, let her stay!” cried Mrs. Vail; “she’s so interesting—and queer!” The object of her comment gave her an engaging smile, but said nothing, and beckoning me to go with him, Wise rose to take leave. But I wanted to have a little further talk with Olive on several matters and I told Wise I’d join him a little later. <div class="pb" id="Page_166">[166]</div> “Be goody-girl, Zizi,” he adjured as he went off, and she nodded her head, but with a saucy grimace at the detective. “My room?” she said, inquiringly, with a pretty, shy glance at Olive. “I’m no trouble,—not a bit. Any little old room, you know.” “You shall have it in a few moments,” and Olive went away to see the housemaids about it. Mrs. Vail snatched at a chance to talk uninterruptedly to the strange girl. “What is your work?” she inquired; “do you help Mr. Wise? Isn’t he wonderful! How you must admire him. I knew a detective once,—or, at least, a man who was going to be a detective, but—— Oh, do tell me what your part of the work is!” “I sit by,” returned Zizi, with a dear little grin that took off all edge of curtness. “Sit by! Is that some technical term? I don’t quite understand.” “I don’t always understand myself,” and the girl shook her head slowly; “but I just remain silent until Mr. Wise wants me to speak,—to tell him something, you know. Then I tell him.” “But how do you know it?” I put in, fascinated by this strange child, for she looked little more than a child. <div class="pb" id="Page_167">[167]</div> “Ooh!” Zizi shuddered, and drew her small self together, her black eyes round and uncanny-looking; “ooh! I donno how I know! I guess the bogie man tells me!” Mrs. Vail shuddered too, and gave a little shriek. “You’re a witch,” she cried; “own up, now, aren’t you a witch?” “Yes, lady, lady! I am a witch,—a poor little witch girl!” and Zizi laughed outright at her own little joke. If her smile had been charming, her laugh was more so. It was not only of a silvery trill, but it was infectious, and Mrs. Vail and I laughed in sympathy. “What are you all laughing at?” said Olive, reappearing. “At me,” and Zizi spoke humbly now; “I made ’em laugh. Sorry!” “Come along with me, you funny child,” and Olive led her away, leaving me to be the victim of Mrs. Vail’s incessant stream of chatter. The good lady volubly discussed the detective and his assistant and detailed many accounts of people she had known. Her acquaintance was seemingly a wide one! At last Olive returned, smiling. <div class="pb" id="Page_168">[168]</div> “I never saw anything like her!” she exclaimed; “I gave her a pretty little room, not far from mine. I don’t know, I’m sure, why she’s staying here, but I like to have her. Well, in about two minutes she had the furniture all changed about. Not the heavy pieces, of course, but she moved a small table and all the chairs, and finally unscrewed an electric light bulb from one place and put it on another, and then, after looking all about, she said, ‘Just one thing more!’ and if she didn’t spring up on to a table with one jump and take down quite a large picture! ‘There,’ she said, and she set it out in the hall; ‘I can’t bear that thing! Now this is a lovely room, and I thank you, Miss Raynor. The pink one we passed is yours, isn’t it?’ “‘Yes; how did you know?’ I asked her. And she said, ‘I saw a photograph of Mr. Manning on your bureau.’ Little rascal! I can’t help liking her!” <div class="pb" id="Page_169">[169]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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