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Vicky Van

<h2 id="id00854" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER IX</h2> <h5 id="id00855">THE SOCIAL SECRETARY</h5> I stood staring at the closed door. What did it mean? Why was Vicky in there and why wouldn't she let me come in? Then, as I collected my wits, I laughed at myself. I knew why she was there—to get her mail. Doubtless there were important letters that she must have, and she had dared discovery to come at dead of night to get them. The patrolman was not in sight. She had looked out for this, of course. It was the merest chance that I had seen her, otherwise she would have escaped all observation. At three in the morning there are almost no people abroad in the quieter streets of the city, and Vicky had timed her visit well. Of course, she had her own keys, and I felt sure she had stealthily entered at the basement door, and waited her time to secure the letters from the mail-box. I looked at the mail-box, an unusual appendage to a private residence, but Vicky was away from home so much, it was doubtless necessary. I tried to look in at a window, but all shades were down and there were no lights inside. I wanted to ring the doorbell again, but a sense of delicacy forbade me. I was not a detective, and if I persisted, I might attract the attention of a passer-by or of the returning policeman, and so get Vicky into all sorts of trouble. I wasn't tracking the girl down. If she was a criminal, let the police find her, I had no desire to aid their efforts, but I did want to see Vicky Van. I wanted to offer her my help—not in escaping justice, exactly—but I wondered if I mightn't do some little errands or favors that would show my friendliness. I went slowly toward home, when I had an inspiration. Hastening into my own house, I flew to the telephone and called Vicky's number, which I knew well. I waited some time for a response, but at last I heard Vicky's voice say, "Who is it, please?" An impulse of protection for her, not for myself, led me to withhold my name. Nor did I speak hers. I said, "This is the man who just left your house. I called up to offer help, if I can render you any." "That's good of you," she returned, in a heartfelt way. "I appreciate such kindness, but you can do nothing—nothing, thank you." "At least, talk to me a few minutes. I'm so anxious about you. You are not implicated in the—in the matter, are you?" "Don't ask me," she murmured, in such a serious voice, that my heart sank. "What I did—or didn't do—must always remain a mystery. I cannot tell you—anything. Don't ask. And, if you would help me, try your best to have inquiries stopped. Can you do this?" "I fear not. But can't I see you—somewhere—and we can talk plainly?" "Do you want to?" "Indeed I do." "Then you do believe in me? Do you hold me blameless?" I hesitated at this. I couldn't lie to her, nor could I rid my mind of the conviction of her guilt I said, "I will, if you assure me that is the truth." "I—I can't do that—good-bye." "Wait a minute. Did you know the expected guest was coming under an assumed name?" "I did not." "Did you know any Somers?" "No." "Did you know—the real man?" "I had met him once, at a dance." "Did you like him?" "I neither liked nor disliked. He was an object of utter indifference to me." "Then why did you—" "Hush! You can never know. I can't tell you—" "Then don't. Please believe I want to befriend you." The agony and fear in Vicky's voice thrilled me, and I desired only to shield and protect her. She was so young and alone. "It is good to have a friendly voice speak to me. But you can only forget me." "No, let me do something definite. Some errand of trust, some matter of confidence—" "Do you mean it? Will you?" "Gladly! What is it?" "Then if you will collect my mail from the box at the door, after a few days—say, three days—and put it aside for me. You saw me get it to-night, I suppose, and it is a dangerous thing for me to do." "Where are you—I mean, where are you staying?" "Don't ask. I am safe. I see the newspapers and I know I am to be hunted down. So I must hide. I cannot face the inquiries—I fear arrest and—and punishment—" Her tones betrayed guilty fear, and I shuddered at the confirmation of my suspicions. But I would do what I could for her. "How shall I get your letters?" I asked, and I honestly tried not to disclose my sudden knowledge of her guilt. But her quick ears caught my changed inflection. "You believe me guilty!" she said, and she stifled a sob. "Yet, still, you will help me! God bless you! Listen, then, for I must stop this talking, it is too desperately dangerous. I will leave the key of the mail box—no, I will send it to you by mail, that will be the safest. Then will you get the letters and put them—where shall I say?" "I'll mail them to you." "No, that would never do. You can get into this house, can't you? The police will let you in at any time?" "Yes, I can probably manage that." "Then bring them with you, all of the three days' mail at once, you understand, and put them in that great Chinese jar, in the music room. The one with the gold dragon on the cover. No one will look there for them. I will manage to come and get them very soon. Please don't spy on me, will you, Chester?" The use of my first name was, I knew, inadvertent and unconscious. It thrilled me. There was a marvellous fascination always about Vicky Van, and now, at the end of this my mysterious night telephone conversation, I felt its thrill and I agreed to her plea. "No, dear," I said, and not till afterward did I realize the term I had used, "I will not spy. But promise me that you will call on me for any help you may need. And tell me—are you alone or is Julie with you?" "Julie is with me," she returned. "She helps protect me, and with your friendship, too, I am blessed indeed. But this is good-bye. I shall leave New York in a few days never to return. I must have that mail, or I would go at once. If you will help me get that, you will do all there is left for any one to do for me in the world." Her tone frightened me. "Vicky!" I cried, forgetting all caution. "Don't—my dear, don't—" but I could not put in words the fear that had suddenly come to me, and even as I stammered for speech, the click came that told me she had hung up the receiver. I cursed myself for my stupidity in speaking her name. Such a blunder! Why, it might have been overheard by anybody on the line. No wonder she left me. Doubtless I had driven her from her house. I flew to the window. Then I remembered I had promised not to spy, and I turned quickly away. If she were about to disappear silently and stealthily from that house, I must not know it. I went to my room, but not to sleep. Clearly, I was not to know untroubled slumber again very soon. I sat up and thought it all over. How strange that I should have "spied" on her just at the moment she was secretly getting her letters. But, I realized, I had looked at the house so often it would be stranger still if I had missed her! And she was to send me her box key, and I was to secrete her letters for her. Important indeed, those letters must be, that she should go to such lengths to get them. Well, I had constituted myself her knight errant in that particular, and I would fulfil the trust. Beneath the thrilling excitement of the night's occurrence, I felt a dull, sad foreboding. All Vicky had said or done pointed to guilt. Had she been innocent, she would have told me so, by word or by implication. She would have given me a tacit assurance of her guiltlessness, or would have cried out at the injustice of suspicion. But none of these things entered into her talk, or even into her voice or intonations. She had sounded sad, hopeless, despairing. And her last words made me fear she contemplated taking her own life. Poor little Vicky Van. Light-hearted, joy-loving Vicky. What was the mystery back of it all? What could it be? Well, at least, I would scrupulously perform the task she had set me, and I would do it well. I knew I could manage to get into the house by making up some story for the police. But I must wait for the promised key. With a glimmer of hope that the mailed parcel containing the key might give me a clue to Vicky's whereabouts, I at last went to sleep. Next morning at breakfast I said nothing of my night experiences. I told Winnie, however, that she needn't watch the Van Allen house, as I had heard that Vicky had left it permanently. "However could you hear that?" exclaimed my wideawake sister. "Have you had a wireless from the fugitive?" "Something of the sort," I said, smilingly. "And now, listen here, Win. How do you think that friend of yours, Miss Crowell, would like to be a social secretary for Mrs. Schuyler?" "She'd love it!" cried Winnie. "Does Mrs. Schuyler want one?" "Yes, and she wants her mighty quick. From what you've said of the Crowell girl, I should think she'd be just the one. Can you get her on the telephone?" "Yes, but not so early as this. I'll call her about ten." "All right, you fix it up. I expect Mrs. Schuyler will pay proper salary to the right secretary. Of course, Miss Crowell is experienced?" "Oh, yes," assured Win, "and I'm sure she'll love to go. Why, any secretary would be glad to go there." "Not just now, I should think," observed Aunt Lucy. "The amount of work there must be something fearful." "It will be heavy, for a time," I agreed, "but it is only for Mrs. Schuyler's personal correspondence and business. I mean, the other two ladies would not expect to use her services." "All right," said Winnie, "I'll fix it up with Edith Crowell, and if she can't go, I'll ask her to recommend somebody. Shall I send her there to-day?" "Yes, as soon as she will go. And let me know—telephone the office about noon." "Yep," Winnie promised, and I went away, my head in a whirl with the various and sundry matters I had to attend to. I don't think I thought of the secretary matter again, until at noon, Winnie telephoned me that it was all right. I thanked her, and promptly forgot the episode. And so it was, that when I reached home that night, I had one of the surprises of my life. Winnie came to dinner, smiling, and rather excited-looking. "What's up, Infant?" I asked. "Have you accepted a proposal from a nice college lad?" "Huh!" and Win's head tossed. "I guess you'll open your eyes when I tell you what I have accepted!" "Tell it out, Angel Child. Relieve your own impatience." "Well, if you please, I have accepted the post of social secretary to Mrs. Randolph Schuyler." "Winifred Elizabeth Calhoun! You haven't!" "I thought I'd arouse some slight interest," she said, and she calmly went on with her dinner. I looked at Aunt Lucy, who sat with a resigned expression, toying with her unused oyster-fork. "What does she mean?" I asked. "She has done just what she says," replied Aunt Lucy. "But only for a few days. Miss Crowell—" "Let me tell!" interrupted Winnie. "It's my party! You see, Chet, Edith Crowell is wild to have the place, and is going to take it, but she can't go until the first of next week. And she doesn't want to lose the chance, so I went over and told Mrs. Schuyler about it. And then as she was simply swamped with letters and telegrams and telephones and callers, and goodness knows what all, I offered to help her out till Edith can get there. And she was so grateful—oh, I think she is a darling. I never saw anyone I liked and admired so much at first sight." "She is charming," I conceded, "but what a crazy scheme, Win! How did you persuade Aunt Lucy to agree?" "I managed her," and Winnie bobbed her wise young head, cannily. It came to me in a moment. Though not exactly a tuft hunter, Aunt Lucy was deeply impressed by real grandeur and elegance. And it came to me at once, that Winnie's tales of the great house and the aristocratic people, had a strong influence on our aunt's views and had brought about her permission for Win to go there for a few days. And it was no harm. It wasn't as if Winnie were a regular secretary, but just to hold the place for Miss Crowell, was simply a kindly deed. And so, after dinner, I settled myself in our cosy library for a comfortable smoke, and bade Winnie tell me every single thing that had happened through the day. "Oh, it was thrilling!" Winnie exclaimed. "Part of the time I was at the desk in the library, and part of the time upstairs in Mrs. Schuyler's very own room. She was so kind to me, but she is nearly distracted and I don't wonder! The undertakers' men were in and out, and those two old maids—his sisters, you know—were everlastingly appearing and disappearing. And they don't like Mrs. Schuyler an awful lot, nor she them. Oh, they're polite and all that, but you can see they're of totally different types. I like Mrs. Schuyler heaps better, but still, there's something about the old girls that's the real thing. They're Schuylers and also they're Salton-stalls, and farther back, I believe they're Cabots or something." "And Mrs. Schuyler, what is she?" I asked, as Win paused for breath. "I don't know. Nothing particular, I guess. Oh, yes, I learned her name was Ellison before she was married, but the sisters don't consult her about family matters at all. They do about clothes, though. And she knows a lot. Why, Chess, she's having the loveliest things made, if they are mourning, and the sisters, they ask her about everything they order—to wear, I mean. And, just think! Mrs. Schuyler never wears any jewels but pearls! It's a whim, you know, or it was her husband's whim, or something, but anyway, she has oceans of pearls, and no other gems at all." "Did she tell you so?" "Yes; but it came in the conversation, you know. She is no boaster. No sir-ee! She's the modestest, gentlest, sweetest little lady I ever saw. I just love her! Well, I answered a lot of letters for her, and she liked the way I did it, and she liked me, I guess, for she said she only hoped Miss Crowell would suit her as well." "She knows you're my sister?" "Of course. But that isn't why she likes me, old bunch of conceit! Though, I must admit, she likes you, Chet. She said you were not only kind, but you have a fair amount of intelligence—no, she didn't use those words, exactly, but I gathered that was what she meant. The funeral is to be tomorrow evening, you know. I had to write and telephone quite a good deal about that, though the sisters tended to it mostly." "Was there much said about—about the actual case—Winnie?" "You mean about the murder?" Win's clear eyes didn't blink at the word; "no, not much in my hearing. But Mrs. Schuyler wasn't in the room all the time. And I know Mr. Lowney—isn't he the detective?—was there once, and I think, twice." "Did you see anyone else?" "Only some of the servants. Mrs. Schuyler's own maid, her name is Tibbetts, is the sort you read about in English novels. A nice, motherly woman, with gray hair and a black silk apron. I liked her, but the maid who looks after the old sisters, I didn't like so well." "Never mind the maids, tell me more about Mrs. Schuyler. Does she think Vicky Van killed Mr. Schuyler? Since you're in this thing so deep Win, there's no use mincing matters." "I should say not! Yes, of course, she thinks the Vicky person did the killing. How could she think anything else? And the two sisters are madly revengeful. As soon as the funeral is over, they're going to work to find that girl and bring her to justice! They say the inquest will help a lot. When will that be, Chess? Can I go to it?" "No, of course not, Winnie?" This from Aunt Lucy. "It's one thing for you to help Mrs. Schuyler out in an emergency, but you're not to get mixed up in a murder trial!" "An inquest isn't a trial, Auntie," and Win looked like a wise owl, as she aired her new and suddenly acquired knowledge. "Can't I go, Chess?" "We'll see, Infant. Perhaps, if Mrs. Schuyler needs your services she may want you there with her." "Oh, in that case—" began Aunt Lucy, but Winnie was off again on one of her enthusiastic descriptions of the grand ways of the Schuyler household, and Aunt Lucy was quite willing to listen. As for me, I wanted the benefit of every possible sidelight on the whole business, and I, too, took in all Winnie's detailed narrations. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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