Mrs Peixada. Harland Henry
Josephine could not tell. Indeed, she was not even aware that the corner house had been taken. Arthur set her right on this score, and, “Now,” he continued, “I wish you would gossip with the divers and sundry servants of the neighborhood until you have found out the most you can about these new-comers, and then report to me. For this purpose, you are allowed an evening’s outing. But as you prize my good-will, be both diligent and discreet.”
As the twilight deepened into darkness, Arthur remained posted at the roof’s edge, looking wistfully over toward the third-story windows of the corner house. By and by a light flashed up behind them; but the next instant an unseen hand drew the shades; and a few moments later the light was extinguished.
“They retire early,” he grumbled.
“By the way, don’t you think it’s getting a little chilly up here?” asked Hetzel.
“Decidedly,” he assented, shivering. “Shall we go below?”
They descended into their sitting-room—a cozy, book-lined apartment, with a permanent savor of tobacco smoke upon its breath—and chatted together till a late hour. The Peixada matter and the mysterious songstress of No. 46 pretty equally divided their attention.
Next morning Hetzel—whose bed-chamber, at the front of the house, overlooked the street; whereas Arthur’s, at the rear, overlooked the river—Hetzel was awakened by a loud rap at his door.
“Eh—er—what? Who is it?” he cried, starting up in bed.
“Can I come in?” Arthur’s voice demanded.
Without waiting for a reply, Arthur entered.
Hetzel’s wits getting out of tangle, “What unheard-of event brings you abroad so early?” he inquired.
“Early? You don’t call this early? It’s halfpast seven.”
“Well, that’s a round half hour earlier than I ever knew you to rise before. ’Is any thing the matter? Are you ill?”
“Bosh! I’m always up at half-past seven,” averred Arthur, with brazen indifference to the truth.
He crossed the floor, and sent the curtains screeching aloft; having done which, he established himself in a rocking-chair, facing the window, and rocked to and fro.
“Ah, I—I understand,” said Hetzel.
“Understand what?”
“The motive that impelled you to rise with the lark.”
“You’re making much ado about nothing,” said Arthur. But he blushed and fidgeted uncomfortably. “Any body would suppose I was an inveterate sluggard. Grant that I am up a little in advance of my usual hour—is that an occasion for so much talk?”
“The question is, rather,” rejoined Hetzel, with apparent irrelevancy, “are you rewarded?”
For a moment Arthur tried to appear puzzled; but as his eyes met those of his comrade, the corners of his mouth twitched convulsively; and thereupon, with a shrug of the shoulders, he laughed outright.
“Well, I’m not ashamed, anyhow,” he said.
“I’d give a good deal for a glimpse of her; and if I can catch one before I go down-town, why shouldn’t I?”
“Of course,” replied Hetzel, sympathetically.
“But don’t be secretive. Let’s have the results of your observation.”
“Oh, as yet the results are scanty. The household seems to be asleep—blinds down, and every thing as still as a mouse.—No, there, the blinds are raised—but whoever raises them knows how to keep out of sight. Not even a hand comes in view.—Now, all’s quiet again.—Ah, speaking of mice, they have a cat. A black cat sallies forth upon the stone ledge outside the window, and performs its ablutions with tongue and paw.—Another! Two cats. This one is of the tiger sort, striped black and gray. Isn’t it odd—two cats? What on earth, do you suppose, possesses them to keep two cats?—One of them, the black one, returns indoors. Number two whets his claws upon the wood of the window frame—gazes hungrily at the sparrows flitting round about—yawns—curls himself up—prepares for a nap there on the stone in the sun.—Why doesn’t she come to the window? She ought to want a breath of the morning air. This is exasperating.”
The above monologue had been delivered piecemeal, at intervals of a minute or so in duration. At its finish, Hetzel got out of bed.
“Well,” he cried, stretching himself, “maintain your vigil, while I go for a bath. Perhaps on my return you may have something more salient to communicate.”
But when he came back, Arthur said, “Not a sign of life since you left, except that in response to a summons from within the tiger-cat has reentered the house; probably is discussing his breakfast at this moment. Hurry up—dress—and let us do likewise.”
At the breakfast table, “Well, Josephine,” said Arthur, “tell us of the night.”
Josephine replied that she had subjected all the available maid-servants of the block to a pumping process, but that the most she had been able to extract from them was—what her employers already knew. On Thursday, the 24th, some person or persons to the deponents unknown, had moved into No. 46. But two cart-loads of furniture, besides a piano, had been delivered there; and the new occupants appeared to have taken only one floor: whence it was generally assumed that they were not people of very great consequence. Arthur directed her to keep her eyes and ears open, and to inform him from time to time of any further particulars that she might glean. This she promised to do. Then he lingered about the front of the house till Hetzel began to twit him, demanding sarcastically whether he wasn’t going downtown at all that morning. “Oh, well, I suppose I must,” he sighed, and reluctantly took himself off.
Down-town he stopped at the surrogate’s office, and verified the statements Peixada had made about the administration of his brother’s estate. Mrs. Peixada had taken the oath to her accounting before the United States consul at Vienna, January 11, 1881, Short and Sondheim appearing for her here. It was decidedly against the woman—added, if any thing could add, to the blackness of her offense—the fact that she was represented by such disreputable attorneys as Short and Sondheim.
From the court house, Arthur proceeded to Peixada’s establishment in Reade Street near Broadway. He had concluded that the search for Mrs. Peixada would have to be very much such an inch by inch process as Hetzel had predicted. He could not rid his mind of a feeling that on general principles it ought to be no hard task to determine the whereabouts of a rich, handsome, and notorious widow: but when he came down to the circumstances of this particular case, he had to acknowledge that it was an undertaking fraught with difficulties and with uncertainties. He wanted to consult his client, and tell him the upshot of his own deliberations. The more he considered it, the more persuaded he became that he had better cross the ocean and follow in person the trail that Mrs. Peixada had doubtless left behind her. Probably the wish fostered the thought. As Hetzel had said, he would not run the risk of losing much by his absence. A summer in Europe had been the fondest dream of his youth. The very occupation of itself, moreover, was inviting. He would be a huntsman—his game, a beautiful woman! And then, to conduct the enterprise by letters would not merely consume an eternity of time, but ten chances to one, it would end in failure. It did not strike him that this was properly a detective’s employment, rather than a lawyer’s; and even had it done so, I don’t know that it would have dampened his ardor.—Meanwhile, he had turned into Reade Street, and reached Peixada’s place. He was surprised to find it closed, until he remembered that to-day was Saturday and that Peixada was an orthodox Jew. So he saw nothing for it but to remain inactive till Monday. He returned to his office, and spent the remainder of the day reading a small, canary-colored volume in the French language—presumably a treatise upon French jurisprudence.
He dined with a couple of professional brethren at a restaurant that evening, and did not get home till after dark. Ascending his stoop, he stopped to