CHAPTER III
Late in the afternoon of that same Saturday that saw Armstrong's departure for Indianapolis, the same Saturday that saw Findlater placed completely in the power of Lawrence Macgowan, Jimmy Wren called to see Mrs. Bird Fowler. The call was unheralded and purely on impulse, for Wren was harassed and at his wits' end to serve Armstrong; the latter had not confided in him about Todrank's warning, but Jimmy Wren had guessed the purport from what Armstrong had said. He was worried and nervous.
Wren was sent up to the apartment and was received by the maid, who knew that he was a favored visitor.
"Mrs. Fowler is out, sir," she told him, "but I'm expecting her back at any minute now. I know she'd not want to miss you. If you'd care to wait—"
"Why, thanks, I will," said Jimmy Wren gratefully.
"Would you care for a fire, or tea—"
"No, nothing, until Mrs. Fowler comes," he rejoined, handing over his things. "I'll just sit around and smoke."
"Make yourself at home, sir. If you want anything, I'll be in the kitchen."
Jimmy Wren made his way to the cushioned window-seat, and with a sigh of relaxation settled down with a cigar. Mrs. Fowler's apartment was on the second floor, the windows overlooking the flashing street below, and the cool green distances of Central Park across the way were just emerging into the virginal glow of springtime.
The restful quiet of the room soothed Jimmy Wren's nerves; the silence, the sense of being at home, were grateful in the extreme. He watched the slithering motors in the street below, the glint of water and the thronging people in the park opposite, and felt himself gradually return to normal. Presently Mrs. Fowler would come, and a bit of music, a little sympathetic talk, would clear the blues from his mind.
After a bit he rose, abandoned his occupation, and began to walk about the room, seeking something to divert his thoughts. In one corner stood Mrs. Fowler's desk. It was open, and the noon edition of a paper lay upon it, an inkwell weighting down the newspaper. Pausing idly beside the desk, never thinking that the newspaper might have been so placed designedly, Jimmy Wren removed it and opened it out, glancing through the columns and scanning the headlines with careless gaze.
Then he turned and put down the paper—and as he did so, observed two objects over which it had originally been laid. One of these objects was a check; the other was an unsigned note.
Jimmy Wren stared down, absolutely petrified by the thing he saw, his eyes widening in fearful and terrible comprehension. For a long moment the written words did not penetrate to his consciousness. It was only the handwriting that he saw, the handwriting that smote into him with an actual physical shock, blinding him to everything but the staggering realization of its presence here on Mrs. Fowler's desk.
No one who had ever seen it could forget that bold, angular, masterful handwriting of Lawrence Macgowan.
Wren wet his lips, swallowed hard, stunned beyond any swift recovery. Mrs. Fowler did not know Macgowan, except very slightly indeed, and certainly had no use whatever for the man; indeed, Wren had very often discussed Macgowan's acts and schemes with her, feeling a sympathy and comprehension on her part which was very grateful. Her detestation of Macgowan's type of man was intense.
Then, why this letter—this communication with Macgowan?
Startled, angered, a flood of horrible suspicion searing into his soul, Jimmy Wren reached down and picked up that sheet of notepaper bearing the few lines of writing. Not until then did the words achieve impact upon his brain, but now that impact came with astounding and terrific force:
"Dear Viola: Herewith a check in the usual form, on account. During the next few days I want the fullest possible information. Then we'll hold that party of celebration."
Wren replaced the note, and let his eyes drop to the check. It did not bear Macgowan's name, and the signature was wholly strange to Wren.
After a moment he drew a quick breath, looked down at the desk, replaced the newspaper and weight as they had been originally, then turned and walked to the window-seat. There he sank down, staring out at the street and park beyond.
His brain was at work now, dreadfully at work. Viola! So Macgowan knew her by that other name, the same name Dorothy Armstrong had used. Viola Bland! And what information did Macgowan want—how long had Mrs. Fowler been collecting information for Macgowan? A little shiver passed through Wren's body. He remembered now about his flight to Tampa, and putting two and two together, began to form an unescapable certainty.
Presently he took off his black-rimmed glasses and polished them methodically. Fiery and impulsive as Jimmy Wren was, in a moment of crisis he was anything but emotional. The blow was sudden and severe, staggering him and sending all his scheme of things into reeling chaos; yet it was not in him to take it with any hysterical whirlwind of outward display. Instead, as he came to cold realization of the truth, all the acute perception of his character was wakened and rallied to face the situation.
The hurt was there, and it was deep, but not so deep as Jimmy Wren thought with the first blaze of pain. His quick, sharp wakening was proof sufficient of this. In Macgowan's handwriting he was given a broadly comprehensive vision of Mrs. Fowler to which he could not blind himself. Nor did he doubt or quibble for an instant. The feeling which he had taken for love was wrenched out of him with fearful abruptness, but no vacuum remained.
Fright deadened the force and the pain of it; a horrified fright, as the man comprehended what had been going on during these weeks and months of the campaign against Macgowan. All this while, Armstrong's right-hand man had been confiding everything in his heart, hopes and fears and plans, to the ear of a hired spy. That was the cold fact of it.
"By golly, but I've been a fool!" murmured Wren abjectly. "To think that she'd do me that way—why, she's lied like a Trojan to me!"
Suddenly he reacted; it was characteristic of him. Another man might have pondered his folly, mourned the consequences of his blindness. Jimmy Wren was abruptly stirred to sanity, to a cold anger, to a keen lust of fight. His one thought now was how best he could strike back, repay this blow, use this bitter knowledge to repair the damage he must have unwillingly caused Armstrong.
Face Mrs. Fowler down? No. To let the enemy know they were discovered, would effect nothing. Outwardly cool, inwardly a seething mass of activity, Jimmy Wren decided upon that keynote of caution—and then leaned forward, his attention drawn by a taxicab which had just pulled up at the curb below his window. A man alighted and assisted his companion out; his companion was Mrs. Fowler.
But the man—the man himself! Jimmy Wren's eyes blazed as he craned forward, unable to recognize the figure, as the two below him stood a moment in talk. Then the man doffed his hat, and a low whistle broke from Wren. He had not seen that face in long months, yet he knew it again at sight, knew it and thought of Armstrong's deadly trouble. Pete Slosson!
"What the devil have I stumbled upon, anyhow?" muttered Wren, as he hastily drew back from the window. "Here's a connection between Slosson, the lady, and Macgowan—but what's the connection? Damned if I can see any. A fine fool, I am! If I'd trusted Mrs. Armstrong enough to—"
He started, and a slow smile came to his lips. Dorothy Armstrong! Somehow, Slosson was connected with the private trouble of the Armstrongs; just how, he did not know. But Dorothy would know. Here was the weapon laid ready to his hand, could he but use it!
"By the gods, I'll use it, too!" he exclaimed to himself, flaming at the thought. "Reese has gone West. I'll beat it to Evansville and make a clean breast of the whole thing to Dorothy; got to do that, now. Whatever the reason she left Reese, this business will throw some light on it, I'll bet. How did Slosson come to know Mrs. Fowler, anyhow? Why, Macgowan put him next, that's all. And it was Lorenz, Mac's friend, who introduced me—well, I'm getting a line on this thing, right enough!"
The apartment door opened and closed again.
When Mrs. Fowler stepped into the room, Jimmy Wren was puffing away at a fresh cigar and making some notes in a memorandum book, too absorbed to hear her entry. She shot one swift glance at the desk, then came forward. Wren was on his feet instantly, his face beaming with surprise and delight.
"Hello—I didn't hear you come in! May I stop and talk to you for a moment?"
"My dear boy, I'm delighted!" she greeted him warmly. "Why didn't you call up and I'd have been here?"
"I came in a rush, as usual," and Jimmy grinned as he helped Mrs. Fowler doff her wraps, and handed them to the maid. "You see, I'm leaving town to-night for a day or so, and I wanted to get a last glimpse of you before going."
"Mercy! You're not starting for the North Pole?" Smiling, the lady seated herself among the pillows of the window-seat, and accepted the cigarette which Jimmy procured for her. "Thank you. What's this sudden trip about? More business?"
"Nope," responded Jimmy Wren. "An aunt of mine is dying in Chicago, and I'll have to run out there and do the decent thing. Haven't seen the old lady for uncounted years, but that doesn't matter. Too bad I didn't get the wire a few hours earlier. I might have gone with Reese. He's off this afternoon—gone to Chicago to look into some bond issue they want him to take over."
Wren rattled all this off in a breath. Mrs. Fowler smiled.
"My, Jimmy, but I wish I had your eager vitality! You seem to have more pep to-day than you've had in a month! Does the passing of an elderly relative always affect you this way?"
Wren grinned, but took warning. He shook his head.
"No, but the prospect of a change of scene probably is responsible. Things are in bad shape at the office, you know. Macgowan has completely won his fight, and Armstrong has given up the battle entirely. I'm glad to get away from the gloom."
The lady's eyes gleamed, and the gleam was swiftly hidden.
"Poor boy!" she commiserated softly. "And you're so devoted to Armstrong, too! I do hope that things will take a turn for the better from now on."
"They will," said Jimmy devoutly. "Now that the fight's over, even if we've been well beaten, we'll try to take out the smart by going ahead with other things and forgetting the defeat."
He knew better than to try and extract any information, and contented himself with supplying as mendacious an account as possible to be taken to Macgowan's ears. Presently he glanced at his watch and rose, giving an exclamation of dismay.
"I didn't dream how the time has gone—I'll have to rush for it! A thousand things to do yet! If I'm back Tuesday, may I see you?"
"The first minute you can, my dear Jimmy!" Mrs. Fowler rose and held out both hands to him warmly. "Will the aunt leave you a fortune?"
"No chance," and Wren laughed with an amusement that was unaffected. "Nothing like that in our family, I'm afraid!"
Mrs. Fowler accompanied him to the door, and Jimmy Wren congratulated himself upon a very graceful exit. When the door had closed behind him and he was in the elevator, he uttered a long sigh of relief.
"There's an extra fare train on the Pennsylvania to-night," he reflected. "I can make it, connect at Terre Haute, and get into Evansville to-morrow morning—good! And I sure hope Mrs. Armstrong can make some sense out of this affair—more, at least, than I can! But Slosson's the nigger in the woodpile, and maybe she can pull him out. Whew! I've got some confessing to do and no mistake!"
His smile was rueful at the thought.