III
Mr. Donalds knew that the child would suffer no bodily harm, and he was confident of his ability to snatch her away from contaminating moral influences before serious injury to her character could result. Mr. Donalds never failed. If he did not always accomplish exactly what he set out to do, at least he did something else which seemed to him just as good.
He knew that in this case he would succeed, as usual, and therefore he was able to devote his mind to being angry. His fury rose within him like steam, actually seeming to inflate him, so that he bounced rather than walked. A short, stoutish man he was, with a pale Napoleonic face and a piercing glance—a man of tremendous energy and determination.
Sometimes, however, he was a man of too little patience and deliberation. This morning, for instance, although he had thought to take his hat and his walking stick, he had forgotten to change his slippers. He was wearing red morocco slippers that came up over the ankle, and not only were they conspicuous, but they were too thin for outdoor walking.
However, it was not his way to turn back, and forward he went. He entered the park and proceeded direct to the spot where Miss Mackellar said she had last seen the child. He looked for clews. There were none.
He followed the course which the nursemaid had pointed out to Miss Mackellar, and in due time he arrived at another entrance. There was a cab stand here, in which stood one taxi, with the chauffeur standing beside it, leisurely surveying the world in which we live. Mr. Donalds approached him.
“See here!” he said. “Did you happen to see a red-haired woman and a child in a pink hat come out of the park near here?”
“Yep,” replied the man, without interest.
Mr. Donalds had not lived some fifty years for nothing. He knew how to inspire enthusiasm. He put his hand into his pocket.
“Yes, sir!” answered the driver promptly, in a brisk and earnest tone. “They came out here. I noticed ’em because she was in such a hurry. I thought there was something queer about it. Anyways, she took Wickey’s cab.”
“Where did they go?”
“Couldn’t tell you that, sir. They started up the avenoo; but they might ’a’ bin goin’ anywheres.”
“Where can I find this Wickey?” inquired Mr. Donalds.
“Well, I don’t know, sir. He’ll prob’ly come back here before long. Him and me are buddies, an’ we gen’rally eat lunch together, if we can. O’ course, lots o’ times[Pg 251] we can’t. F’r instance, I might have to go out any minute now.”
“What’s the number of his cab?”
“Don’t know, sir—didn’t notice. You see, we don’t always take out the same one. Some days the one you’re used to is laid up.”
Mr. Donalds reflected hastily.
“I suppose I could find out by telephoning to the garage,” he suggested.
“Yes, sir; but they wouldn’t know where he went. Wouldn’t do much good, unless you want to set the cops after him.”
“No,” said Mr. Donalds. “I’ll handle this myself. You’re fairly certain, then, that this Wickey will return here before going to his garage?”
“Expect to see him any minute now, sir.”
“Very well, then—I’ll wait here. I’ll engage your cab. I’ll pay you for your time until this Wickey comes,” said Mr. Donalds.
He climbed into the cab, but he was very restless in there.
“Be sure Wickey doesn’t pass by!” he called out of the window.
“Oh, he’d gimme a hail,” the driver assured him. “Don’t you worry, sir.”
But time was flying. At least, time was undoubtedly flying for the nefarious red-haired woman, but for Mr. Donalds it passed with leaden foot. The chauffeur was smoking what Mr. Donalds was wont to call a “filthy cigarette,” and though he had often declared that such things were not tobacco at all, still the aroma of this one put him painfully in mind of cigars. He had none with him. He grew more and more restless.
At last another cab came up, and its driver descended.
“Is that Wickey?” cried Mr. Donalds.
“No, sir,” answered his especial driver. “‘Nother fellow.”
“Ask him to go somewhere and buy me half a dozen cigars,” said Mr. Donalds. “Tell him to get Havana perfectos.”
This was soon done, and as he began to smoke, Mr. Donalds felt calmer; but a new and more serious craving now assailed him. He was in the habit of lunching promptly at one o’clock, and it was now half past one. The cab was hot with the sun blazing down upon it, and this, combined with the bad effects of boiling rage, sizzling impatience, and fast growing hunger, were impairing Mr. Donalds’s health. He felt positively ill. He threw away his third cigar half finished.
The driver approached the window.
“I’m going to get a bite to eat, sir,” he said. “This here fellow knows Wickey. He’ll stay till I get back.”
“Just a minute!” said Mr. Donalds. “I—er—”
This was intensely distasteful to him, but he knew that without food he could not be at his best.
“Bring me back something to eat,” he said; “something—er—small and not conspicuous, if possible.”
Thus it was that Mr. Donalds, eminent business man and mirror of respectability, might have been seen eating a “hot dog” in a taxicab on Fifth Avenue on a Sunday afternoon. He had pulled down the blinds, had taken the first bite, and was discovering that he had never tasted anything so exquisite, so zestful—when the door was opened and a policeman looked in.
“Now, what’s all this?” asked the policeman reproachfully. “This won’t do, you know!”
Mr. Donalds managed to convince the officer that his presence was perfectly legitimate; but the incident disturbed him. He felt himself an outcast from society. He no longer relished the “hot dog,” but he finished it.
Then he was assailed by a fearful thirst, and there is no knowing what might have happened next, if the elusive Wickey had not appeared.
“There he is!” cried Mr. Donalds’s driver. “Hey, Wickey! Come here!”
Wickey approached.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to Mr. Donalds’s questions. “I took ’em out to a place on the Boston Post Road—long run. I jest got back—empty to City Island; then I picked up a fare.”
“Take me to the place where you left the woman,” said Mr. Donalds.
“Sorry, sir,” said Wickey, “but I can’t afford to take the chance of comin’ back empty.”
“Oh, I’ll pay!” shouted Mr. Donalds. “Don’t waste any more time!”