The Black Eagle Mystery. Bonner Geraldine
was jollying along – they do that too – I paid no attention to him, humming a tune and looking languid at my finger nails. He wasn't phazed a little bit, but making himself comfortable against the doorpost, said:
"Going to stay on here?"
"The central'll give you all the information you want," I answered and wheeling round in my chair looked at the clock. "Ten minutes past six. How slow the time goes when you're dull."
He burst out laughing and he did have a jolly, infectious kind of laugh.
"Say," he said, "you're a live one, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't be long, if I had to listen to all the guys that ain't got anything better to do than block up doorways and try to be fresh."
He laughed louder and lolled up against the woodwork.
"I like you fine," said he. "Are you a permanency or just a fleeting vision?"
"Talking of fleeting visions, ain't it about your dinner hour?"
"You act to me as if this was your first job," was his answer, sort of thoughtful.
Wouldn't it make you smile! It did me – a small quiet smile all to myself. He saw it, dropped his head to one side and said, as smooth and sweet as molasses:
"What do they call you, little one?"
It was all I could do to keep from laughing, but I crumpled up my forehead into a scowl and looked cross at him:
"What my name is you'll never know and what yours is you needn't tell me for I've guessed. I've met members of your tribe before – it's large and prominent – the ancient and honorable order of jackasses."
He made me a low bow.
"So flattered at this speedy recognition," he says, airy and smiling. "You may know the tribe, but not the individual. Permit me to introduce myself – Anthony Ford."
I gave a start and turned it into a stretch. So this was the wonderful Tony Ford – a slick customer all right.
"That don't convey anything to my mind," I answered. "A rose by any other name still has its thorns."
"For more data – I'm the managing clerk of the Azalea Woods Estates, see seventeenth floor, first door to your left."
"Ain't I heard you were closed up there?"
"We are. This may be the last time you'll ever see me, so look well at me. Er – what did you say your name was?"
"One of the unemployed!" I said, falling back in my chair and rolling my eyes up at the ceiling. "Hangs round my switchboard and hasn't the price of a dinner in his jeans."
"I was too hasty," said he; "this isn't your first job."
"If your place is shut what are you doing here – not at this present moment, the actions of fools are an old story to me – but in the building?"
"Closing up the business. Did you think I was nosing round for an unlocked door or an open safe? Does this fresh, innocent countenance look like the mug of a burglar?" He grinned and thrusting a hand into his pocket rattled the loose silver there. "Hear that? Has a sound like a dinner, hasn't it?"
That made me mad – the vain fool thinking he could flirt with me as he had with Iola. I slanted a side look at him and his broad shining face with the eyes that didn't match it gave me a feeling like I longed to slap it good and hard. Gee, I'd have loved to feel my hand come whangup against one of those fat cheeks! But it's the curse of being a perfect lady that you can't hit when you feel like it – except with your tongue.
"I ain't known many burglars," I answered, "but now that I look at you it does come over me that you've a family resemblance to those few I've met. Seeing which I'll decline the honor of your invitation. Safety first."
That riled him. He flushed up and a surly look passed over his face making it ugly. Then he shrugged up his shoulders and leaned off the doorpost, giving a hitch to the front of his coat.
"I generally like a dash of tabasco in mine," says he, "but when it comes to the whole bottle spilled in the dish, it's too hot. Just make a note of that against our next meeting. I don't like being disappointed twice. Good evening."
And off he went, swaggering down the hall.
On the way home I wondered what Soapy'd say when I told him, but when he came in Tony Ford went straight out of my head for at last there was exciting news – Barker had been located in Philadelphia.
Two people had seen him there, one a man who knew him well, and saw him the night before in a taxi, the other an Italian who kept a newsstand. That same evening between eight and nine Barker had stopped at the stand and bought several New York papers. The Italian, who was quick-witted, recognized him from his pictures in the papers, and reported to the police.
"He's evidently only going out after dark," said Babbitts. "But a man can't hide for long whose picture's spread broadcast over the country."
"And who's got a face like the American Eagle after it's grown a white mustache," I answered.
That was Thursday night. Friday morning I toddled down to my job, feeling there wasn't much in it and that when I came home I'd hear Barker was landed and it would be domestic life again for little Molly.
The day went by quiet and uneventful as the others had been. I read a novel and sewed at a tray cloth, and now and then jacked in for a call. It was getting on for evening and I was thinking about home and dinner when – Bang! came two calls, one right after the other, that made me feel I was earning my money.
The first was at a quarter to five. Our central came sharp and clear:
"Hello, Gramercy 3503 – Long Distance – Philadelphia's calling you."
Philadelphia! Can you see me stiffening up, with my hand ready to raise the cam?
"All right – Gramercy 3503."
I could hear the girls in our central, the wait of hum and broken sounds – how well I knew it! – and then a distant voice, brisk and business-like, "Hello, Philadelphia – Waiting." Then a pause and presently the whispering jar of the wires, "Here's your party. Gramercy 3503, all right for Philadelphia."
Running over those miles and miles the voice – a man's – came clear as a bell.
"I want to speak to the Azalea Woods Estates."
I made the connection, softly lifted the cam, and listened in.
"Is this the office of the Azalea Woods Estates?"
A woman's voice answered, as close as if she was in the next room:
"Yes – who is it?"
"Is Mr. Anthony Ford there?"
"No, Mr. Ford has left my employment. I am Miss Whitehall, my business is closed."
There was a pause. My heart which had hit up a lively gait began to ease down. Only Tony Ford – Pshaw!
"Are you there?" said the woman.
"Yes," came the answer. "Could you give me his address?"
"Certainly. Hold the wire for a moment."
After a wait of a minute or two she was back with the address which she gave him. He repeated it carefully, thanked her and hung up.
Talk of false alarms! I was so disappointed thinking I'd got something for Mr. Whitney, that I sat crumpled up in my chair sulking, and right in the middle of my sulks came the second call.
It was Long Distance again – Toronto.
"I wonder what Toronto wants with her," I thought as I jacked in, and then, leaning my elbow on the desk listened, not much interested. Three sentences hadn't passed before I was as still as a graven image, all my life gone into my ears.
"Is that you, Carol?" I could just hear it, a fine little thread of sound as if it came from a ghost in the other world.
"Yes – who's speaking?"
"It's I – J. W. B."
Barker's initials! My heart