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Vicky Van

<h2 id="id01487" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h5 id="id01488">A FUTILE CHASE</h5> It was Sunday afternoon, and we were in conclave in the Schuyler library. Fleming Stone was summing up his results of the past few days and, though it was evident he had done all that mortal man could do, yet he had no hint or clue as to where Vicky Van might be. And, he held, that nothing else was of consequence compared to this knowledge. She must be found, and whether that could be done quickly, by search or by chance, or whether it would take a long time of waiting, he could not say. He felt sure, that she must disclose herself, sooner or later, but if not, and if their search continued unavailing, then he held out no hope for success. "It's a unique case," he said, "in my experience. All depends on finding that woman. If she is innocent, herself, she knows who did it. And, if she is the guilty one, she is clever enough to remain hidden. It may be she is miles away, out of the country, perhaps. She has had ample time to make arrangements to go abroad, or to any distant place. Her guilt seems to me probable, because she has literally abandoned her house and her belongings. An innocent woman would scarcely leave all those modern and valuable furnishings unless for some very strong reason. But as to finding her—a needle in a haystack presents an easy problem by contrast!" "Doubtless she is hiding in the house of some friend," suggested Ruth, thoughtfully. "It seems to me she must have been taken in and cared for by some one who loved her, that night she disappeared." "I think so, too," agreed Stone. "But I've been to see all her friends that I can find out about. I've called on a score of them, finding their addresses in her address book that Mr. Lowney gave me. Of course, they may have been deceiving me, but I feel safe in asserting that she is not under the protection of any one I interviewed. She returned to her house last Monday night, the police believe, for the purpose of getting her mail. This shows a daring almost unbelievable! That mail must have been of desperate importance to her. She has not been to the house since, they feel sure, and since I have been on the case she could not have entered, for I have kept it under strict surveillance. I think she will never return to it. Presumably she got the letters she was so anxious for. Her mail, that has arrived the last few days, I have not opened, but the envelopes show mostly tradesmen's cards, or are indubitably social correspondence. There seem to be no letters from lawyers or financial firms. However, if nothing develops, I shall open the letters. This case, being unprecedented, necessitates unusual proceedings." "I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Stone," said Rhoda Schuyler, testily; "I didn't suppose you were superhuman, but I did think, with your reputation and all, you would be able to find that woman. I've heard say that nobody could absolutely vanish in New York City, and not be traced." "You don't regret my so-far failure a bit more than I do, Miss Schuyler, but I feel no shame or embarrassment over it. Nor am I ready to admit myself beaten. I have a theory, or, rather a conviction that there is one and only one explanation of this strange affair. I am not quite ready to expound this, but in a day or two I shall find if it is the true solution, and if so I shall soon find Miss Van Allen." "I knew you would," and Sarah Schuyler nodded her head, in satisfaction. "I told Rhoda to give you more time and you would not disappoint us. All right, Mr. Stone, use all the time you need. But no Schuyler must remain unavenged. I want to see that woman killed—yes, killed, for her murder of my brother." Sarah Schuyler looked like a figure of Justice herself, as, with flashing eyes she declared her wrath. And it was her right. Her brother's blood called out for vengeance. But the more gentle-souled Ruth shuddered and shrank from this stern arraignment. "Oh, Sarah," she murmured, "not killed! Don't condemn a woman to that!" "Why not, Ruth? If a woman can kill, a woman should be killed. But she won't be," she added, bitterly. "No jury ever convicts a woman, no matter how clearly her guilt is proven." Just then Fibsy appeared. He was a strange little figure, and showed a shy awkwardness at the grandeur of his surroundings. He bobbed a funny little curtsy to Ruth, whom he already adored, and with an embarrassed nod, included the rest of us in a general greeting. Then to Fleming Stone he said, in an eager, triumphant tone, "I got 'em!" "Got what?" asked Ruth, smiling at him. "Got pictures of Miss Van Allen, and Julie, too." "What!" cried Ruth, interested at once; "let me see them." Fibsy glanced at her and then at Stone, and handed a parcel to the latter. "He's my boss," the boy said, as if by way of apology for slighting her request. Fleming Stone opened the parcel and showed two sketches. "Miss Gale made them," he explained. "I sent Fibsy over there to induce her to give us at least a hint of Miss Van Allen's personal appearance. The boy could wheedle it from her, when I couldn't. See?" He handed the pictures to Miss Rhoda, for he, too, respected authority, but we all gathered round to look. They were the merest sketches. A wash of water-color, but they showed merit. As the only one present who knew Vicky Van, I was asked of the truth of their portraiture. "Fairly good," I said, "yes, more than that. This of Vicky shows the coloring of her face and hair and the general effect of her costume, more than her actual physiognomy. But it is certainly a close enough likeness to make her recognizable if you find her." And this was true. Ariadne had caught the sidelong glance of Vicky Van's dark-lashed eyes, and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicky's vivid tints, and the dark hair, looped over her ears, was as she always wore it. Ariadne had drawn her in the gown she had worn that fatal evening, and the women eagerly scrutinized the gorgeous costume. "No wonder those long strands of fringe caught in that scraggly mirror frame!" exclaimed Winnie, who never missed a point. "Right," said Stone. "If she whirled around as you did, Miss Calhoun, it's a wonder she didn't spoil her whole gown." The pose and the figure were not exactly Vicky's. Ariadne wasn't much on catching a likeness or a physical effect. But the color and atmosphere were fine, and I told this to Stone, who agreed that it was a decided help in the search. Julie's portrait was the same. Not a real likeness of the woman, but an impressionist transcript of her salient points. The gray gown and white apron, the thick-rimmed glasses, the parted lips, showing slightly protruding teeth, the plainly parted brown hair, all were the real Julie; and yet, except for these accessories I'm not sure I could have recognized the subject of the sketch. However, as I told Stone, it certainly was a helpful indication of the sort of woman he was to look for, and even in disguise, the physical characteristics must show. The detective was positive that wherever Vicky Van and Julie were, or whatever they were doing, they were in all probability disguised, and thoroughly so, or they must have been discovered ere this. To my amusement, Fibsy and Ruth were holding a tete-a-tete conversation. The kind-hearted woman had, doubtless, felt sorry for the boy's shyness, and had drawn him into chat to put him at his ease. She had succeeded, too, for he was animated, and had lost his self-consciousness under the charm of her smile. "And I'll bet your birthday comes in the spring," he was saying, as I caught the tenor of their talk. "It does," said Ruth, looking surprised. "How did you guess?" "'Cause you're just like a little spring flower—a white crocus or a bit of arbutus." And then, noting my attention, the boy was covered with confusion and blushed to the tips of his ears. He rose from where he sat, and shuffled awkwardly around the great room, devoting exaggerated attention to some books in the glassed cases, and twirling his fingers in acute embarrassment. "You scared him away," chided Ruth, under her breath, as our glances met. "He and I were getting positively chummy." "Why was he talking of your birthday? I asked. "I don't know, I'm sure. He said I was born in the spring, because I'm like a flower! Really, that child will grow up a poet, if he doesn't look out!" "You are like a flower," I murmured back. "And I'm glad your birthday is in spring. I mean to celebrate it!" And then I thought of poor Vicky Van's birthday, so tragically ended, and I quickly changed the subject. Armed with the pictures, Fleming Stone and his young assistant spent the next day on a still hunt. And in the evening Stone came over to see me. "A little quiet confab," he said, as we secluded ourselves in my sitting-room and closed the door, "I've been to a score of places, and invariably they recognize Miss Van Allen and her maid, but all say they've not seen her since the tragedy. I went to shops, offices, the bank and places where she would be likely to need to go. Also, her friends' houses. But nothing doing. The shops have heard from her, in the way of paid bills, checks and such matters, but I learned absolutely nothing that throws any light on her whereabouts. Now, Mr. Calhoun, the very thoroughness of her disappearance, the very inviolable secrecy of her hiding-place proves to me that she isn't hiding." "Now, Mr. Stone," I said, smiling, "you talk like a real story-book detective. Cryptic utterances of that sort are impressive to the layman, you know." "Pshaw!" and he looked annoyed, "if you knew anything about detective work, you'd know that the most seemingly impossible conditions are often the easiest to explain." "Well, then, explain. I'll be glad to hear." "I will. And, in return, Mr. Calhoun, I'm going to ask you if you don't think, that all things considered, you ought to tell me what you are keeping back? You won't mind, will you, if I say that I have deduced, from evidence," he smiled, "that your interests are largely coincident with those of Mrs. Schuyler?" "You're on," I said, shortly, but not annoyed at his perspicacity. "Well, then, I assure you that Mrs. Schuyler is most desirous of locating Miss Van Allen. She is not so revengeful or vituperative as the sisters of her husband, but she feels it is due to her husband's memory to find his slayer, if possible. Now suppose you tell me what you know, and I promise to keep it an inviolate confidence except so far as it actually helps the progress of the wheels of justice." "I do want to do what is best for Mrs. Schuyler's interests," I said, after I had thought a moment. "But, I must confess, I have a certain sympathy and pity for Victoria Van Allen. I cannot believe her guilty—" "Then tell me frankly the truth. If you are right, and she is not the murderer, the truth can't harm her. And if she is the guilty person, you are compounding a felony, in the eyes of the law, to withhold your information." Stone spoke a little sternly, and I realized he was right. If Vicky were untraceably hidden, all I could tell wouldn't hurt her. And, too, I couldn't see that it would, anyway. Moreover, as Stone said, I was making myself amenable to the law, by a refusal to tell all I knew, and since I was so aware of my own devotion to Ruth Schuyler, I felt I had no right to do anything that she would disapprove. And, I knew that a touch of feminine pique in her disposition would resent any consideration of Vicky over her own claims! Therefore, I told Fleming Stone all I knew of Victoria Van Allen, both before, during and after the occasion of her birthday party. He listened, with his deep eyes fixed on my face. "Most extraordinary!" he said, at last, after I had finished. "I never heard of such daring! To enter her own house when it was watched by the police—" "Only the post patrol, then," I reminded him. "She could easily manage between his rounds." "Yes, yes, I know. But you've put the whole thing in different focus. Tell me more." There was no more to tell, but I went over my story again, amplifying and remembering further details, until we had spent the whole evening. He egged me on by questions and his burning, eager eyes seemed to drink in my words as if they were so much priceless wisdom. And I told him, too, that I had promised to put Vicky's address book in the Chinese jar for her that very evening. "We'll do it!" he exclaimed, promptly. "She meant to meet you there, I'm sure, but I'm also sure she changed her mind about that, when she learned of my advent. However, we'll keep your promise." Acting at his instructions, I went with him over to Vicky Van's. It was about midnight, and as he had the address book with him, he kept possession of it. We went in the house, and in the dark, felt our way up to the music room. Stone put the book in the jar, and motioned for me to hide behind a sofa. He himself took up his vigil behind a window-curtain, of heavy brocade. He had planned all this, before we left my house, and no word was spoken as we took our places. His hope was that Vicky would come into the house late and go straight for her book and quickly out again. He had directed me to wait until she had really abstracted the book from the jar and then, as she was leaving the room, spring after her and stop her. I obeyed orders implicitly, and, as Stone had warned me, we had a bit of a wait. I grew cramped and tired, and at last I gave up all hope of Vicky's appearance. And then, she came! Silently, absolutely without sound, she glided in from the hall. My eyes, now accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room, could discern her figure as it approached the great vase. Softly, she raised the cover, she abstracted the book, and with noiseless touch was replacing the cover, when she threw back her head, as if she sensed our presence. I had made no move, nor had I heard a breath of sound from Stone, but Vicky knew some one was present. I knew that by her startled movement. She gave a stifled scream, and pushing the great jar off on the floor, where it crashed to pieces, she rushed out of the room and down stairs. "After her, Calhoun! Fly!" shouted Stone, and as he flung back the heavy curtains the street lights illuminated the scene. But as we avoided the broken fragments we bumped together and lost a few seconds in our recovery from the impact. This gave Vicky a start, and we heard the street door slam as we raced down the stairs. Here, too, we lost a second or two, for I stepped back to give Stone space just as he did the same for me, and when we had reached the foot of the stairs, leaped through the hall, wrenched open the door and dashed down the steps to the pavement, we saw the flying figure of Vicky Van round the Fifth Avenue corner, and turn South. After her we ran, as fast as mortal man can run, I verily believe, and when we reached the Avenue there was no one in sight! Stone stood stock-still, looking down the street. The Avenue was lighted, as usual, and we could see a block and more in both directions, but no sign of Vicky. Nor was there a pedestrian abroad, or a motor. The Avenue was absolutely uninhabited, as far as our eyes could reach. "Where'd she go?" I panted. "Into some house, or, maybe, hiding in an area. We must search them all, but very warily. She's a witch, a wonder-woman, but all the same, the earth didn't open and swallow her!" We searched every area way on the block. One of us would go in and explore while the other stood guard. The third house was the Schuyler residence, but Stone also searched thoroughly in its basement entrance. "All dark and locked up," he reported, as he came out from there. "And, of course, she wouldn't seek sanctuary there! But I've wondered if she isn't concealed in one of these nearby houses, as she has such ready access to her own home." But it was impossible. Every basement entrance was locked and bolted for the night and all the windows were dark. "She's given us the slip," said Stone, in deep chagrin. "But perhaps she crossed the street. Maybe she didn't run down this side very far. Let's go over." We crossed and looked over the stone wall of the park. Surely Vicky Van had not had time to scramble over that wall before we reached the corner. It had been not more than a few seconds after we saw her flying form turn down the Avenue, and she couldn't have crossed the street and scaled the wall in that time! Where was she? What had become of her? "Ring up the houses and inquire," I suggested. "You're justified in doing that." "No use," he responded. "If she was expected they won't give her away, and if she isn't there, they'd be pretty angry at our intrusion. I'll admit, Calhoun, I've never been so mystified in my life!" "Nor I!" I emphatically agreed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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