The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 10

Perhaps it was because Monsieur and Madame Arnold were so tremendously happy, and Willy Gaines was so immeasurely [sic] joyful, that Rose O'Hara's evening was so great a success—that is, up to a certain point, for, like most pleasant occasions, it had its marring moment; but that did not occur until quite late in the evening.

Rose bloomed like the flower whose namesake she was, and Madame Arnold had gained in radiance what she had lost in the pensiveness that had added a touch of mystery to her beauty. Miss MacKenzie, for her part, seemed a little pale and quiet; while Vivien Mayhew was more vivacious even than usual. She was the most striking figure present, with her white shoulders in contrast to her deeply tanned face, and her beautiful and unusual costume, far the handsomest that any one had seen her wear, with the name of a great French dressmaker written large over its daring color combinations, its wonderful embroideries, and odd, eccentric cut.

“Mother was called to town this afternoon,” she explained to Rose; “she wished me to tell you how sorry she was, but it was a matter of business—one of those unavoidable things that come up at inconvenient times, you know.”

Rose murmured perfunctory regrets, but on the whole was rather glad that the depressed and quiet Mrs. Mayhew was not to be present.

The tables had been set out for bridge, but none of the guests seemed particularly anxious for that special form of diversion, and when Willy Gaines suggested that Rose sing for them he was enthusiastically seconded.

She immediately and graciously consented, on condition that Miss MacKenzie would play. That young woman civilly agreed to do so, and immediately began to draw off her gloves in order to play Rose's accompaniments.

And Rose sang deliciously—sang to Willy Gaines, although no one suspected it; sang as her adoring audiences at the Metropolitan had rarely heard her; and Miss MacKenzie played enchantingly; and whenever they tried to stop, the listeners clamored so hungrily for more that the concert continued until supper was served.

It was during this feast that Rose made the announcement regarding Monsieur and Madame Arnold, feeling quite rewarded for the wonderful self-control she had practiced in not earlier confiding in Willy Gaines by the look of almost stunned surprise upon his face. Of course there was a tremendous clamor, a babel of congratulations, and a fusillade of questions, and the toast—or, rather, toasts were all drunk standing.

“It's a beautiful 'gloat,' Willy,” murmured Rose to Gaines, in so low a voice that no one could overhear her. “You will never dare deride my feminine intuitions again.”

“I don't want to,” he said mendaciously. “Hereafter they shall be the rule and guide of our lives.”

But any further asides between them were prevented by Miss MacKenzie, who had risen to her feet, and was looking thoughtfully—one might say carefully—about her. She was, if anything, paler than ever, but there was an unwonted sparkle in her eyes that lent a vivid life and expression to her usually quiet and impassive face.

“This is an evening of surprises—delightful ones,” she said. “And now I have to propose another, and one that I hope will not be unwelcome. The idea struck me yesterday, after receiving Miss O'Hara's invitation, and I found just the coadjutor I needed in Mr. Gaines; so he and I arranged to secure for each or us a souvenir of this charming occasion. He has brought his camera and the proper paraphernalia with him—they are outside, because we did not want to spoil our surprise—and now he is going to take a flash-light picture of us all together.”

Rose gave a happy little sigh of relief. So this was what Willy and Sonia MacKenzie had been conspiring about the evening before. She rejoiced that she had not given him a hint of that absurd, even if momentary, jealousy she had suffered.

There was a burst of laughing approval from the others as Sonia sat down; but as it ended Vivien Mayhew leaned toward Rose with her habitual shrug of the shoulders.

“It is a lovely idea,” she said, “and I hate to be a spoilsport, but I am afraid that I can't be in it. I am superstitious about being in a group picture.” She bit her lip, and looked down. “Once—long ago—I” She broke off abruptly. She was very pale. One might have said that there were tears in her eyes.

“Of course,” said Rose sympathetically. “One does have those superstitions. The picture will lack something for all of us, but you must consult your own feelings.”

During this little speech Sonia MacKenzie had been leaning across the table, her eyes fixed steadily upon Vivien, and now she broke in, her voice as clear and cold as ice water.

“No,” she cried; “no excuses of that kind will avail you, Miss Mayhew”

But here Phil Wodeburn drew near to Vivien; his face was white with indignation, and his eyes blazed. “Vivien,” he cried, “what is this? Why do you permit this woman to talk to you in this way?”

“I am sure I do not know,” with an attempt at her usual nonchalance. “I think she is probably mad.”

“Oh, no, you do not,” again that cool, decisive voice. “Your cleverness and resource are well known. Consequently in this matter everything has been done to inspire you with confidence, to make you believe that all investigation as to your identity had been stopped, and to encourage you in a false sense of security. This plan—my own, I am proud to say—has been quite successful.”

“But, Miss MacKenzie,” and it was Rose who spoke now, her voice ringing with anger, “why should this matter, whatever it is, between you and Miss Mayhew be obtruded upon my guests to-night? It seems to me that your time and place are very badly chosen.”

“I realize that, Miss O'Hara,” returned Sonia MacKenzie, “and I am more sorry for it than I can say; but, believe me, it was quite unavoidable. This woman,” with a slight wave of the hand toward Vivien, “has been making all her preparations to depart. She has dismissed her hired mother and”

“What!” The surprised exclamation came as in one voice.

“Her hired mother, I said,” imperturbably. “She dismissed her this afternoon, and every indication seems to point to the fact that she herself meant to leave the hotel late to-night.”

“But this is impossible!” cried Rose. “Miss Mayhew”

“Impossible! It is more than impossible!” cried Phil Wodeburn stridently. “It is outrageous, and those who make such accusations will have to pay for them.”

He stood with his hand protectingly on the back of Vivien's chair.

As for her, although she was still deadly white, she had regained to a great degree her self-control, and now sat with her eyes fixed on Sonia MacKenzie, and a scornful smile playing about her lips.

“I perfectly agree with Mr. Wodeburn that this is outrageous,” she said to Rose. “I do not know why I have been selected as this woman's victim. She has no proof of what she says. There is not a scintilla of evidence against me.”

She spoke composedly enough, although there was an undeniable tremble in her voice.

Monsieur and Madame Arnold sat with an expression of puzzled incomprehension and alarm upon their faces, looking from one person to another, as if hoping to read in their eyes that this was a thrilling vaudeville sketch arranged for their entertainment, and yet fearing that it was in truth a slice of real life. But Rose was in a state of bewildered despair. It was such a horrible thing to happen upon this happy evening.

“Oh, Willy,” she besought, “can't you—won't you—end this? It is unbelievable that such a scene should take place here in my rooms upon such an occasion.”

But Sonia MacKenzie was quite unmoved. “I am sorry, Miss O'Hara,” she said patiently. “I have told you how sorry; but it can't be helped. It is too late. As for you, Miss Mayhew, no excuses will help you now. Unfortunately for you, that gown your vanity and sense of insolent security have prompted you to wear is copied in every detail from one of the designs you stole, and which, as you know, the designers have studiously refrained from duplicating. What is it, Mr. Gaines?”

She had turned quick as a flash toward Willy Gaines, who had moved toward one of the French windows opening on the porch, moved so noiselessly that no one had noticed him but herself.

“I was just about to get the flashlight paraphernalia and set it up. I thought you might wish me to do so.”

Rose looked daggers at him. At that moment Willy Gaines' chances of leading Miss O'Hara to the altar were exceedingly slim, but Willy did not even see her. He was looking admiringly at little Sonia, who had enlisted his interest from the first, and who now appeared in a new light.

“A good idea,” she returned briefly. “Please set it up.” Again she turned her attention to Vivien. “Do not sit there attempting to sneer,” she cried sharply, and for the first time there was an accent in her voice.

“Russian!” whispered Monsieur Arnold to his wife. “I thought so from the first.”

“There!” Sonia tossed out from a little bag at her side a handful of silk pieces on the table. “These were collected from Madame Orville alone—sold to her, as she must attest, and can be forced to attest, by you. In your trunk is the traveling skirt that I had investigated during your absence from the hotel yesterday, finding in its lining the marks of the stitching whereby you were able to pass successfully through the customs with the designs you stole from Grabsky, from Levarre, and from Meurice, in Paris, and copied on silk from the original water colors. Furthermore, as you know, there still remains, neatly stitched into the hem, one unpopular design which you have failed so far to dispose of.

“Do not attempt to communicate with Mr. Wodeburn,” she broke off sharply, her eyes upon Vivien. “It is useless. I have my assistants—men in plain clothes—stationed in excellent and adjacent positions. A day or two ago,” she continued, “you were much alarmed over the loss of one of your precious silk pieces, which was carried off from your rooms, as it turned out, by Miss O'Hara's cat, and which I was fortunate enough to see in the hands of Miss O'Hara's secretary.

“One glance at it told me all I needed; the marks of the stitching on it solved the puzzle as to how you had smuggled your spoils into this country. With such a clew, I of course lost no time in ransacking your belongings and securing the skirt, which clinched the proof of your guilt.

“I still had to wait, however,” she proceeded, “for the necessary authorization to place you under arrest, and might have lost you—cunning as you are—had you not been reassured by the discovery that your lost piece of silk was in Miss O'Hara's hands, and that she innocently thought it a pincushion cover, or at least led you to believe that she thought so. The gods and Mr. Gaines were good to me in giving me that piece of information.”

Rose bit her lip at the glance Sonia gave him, and the smile with which Willy received it.

“Nor, although my papers had at last arrived, would I have forced matters to an issue to-night,” the Russian agent again turned apologetically to her hostess, “had I not learned by mere chance that this woman had somehow become alarmed once more—possibly through sheer intuition—and was making preparations for an immediate and secret departure from the hotel. Under the circumstances, I have no other recourse than to perform my unpleasant duty.”

“Your duty?” Phil Wodeburn thrust himself forward, with a sneer. “What's all this melodramatic fuss about, anyhow? As nearly as I can gather, you accuse Miss Mayhew of taking some patterns or something of the kind from a bunch of Paris dressmakers. Well, suppose she did? That's no such heinous offense in my eyes, merely giving a lot of robbers a taste of their own medicine. At any rate, she can be bailed out, or the matter can certainly be arranged in some way. Have no fear, my dear.” He turned protectingly to the woman at his side. “I'm going to see you through this all right. It's nothing but what a little money can square up.”

“You are wrong, Mr. Wodeburn.” The secret-service agent faced him, tense and unrelenting. “This is something that money will not square. I would have spared you all this revelation if I could, but you force me to it. This woman you have known as Vivien Mayhew is one of the most dangerous criminals in Europe, wanted at present in Berlin, Vienna, Rome—indeed, in almost every capital on the Continent. The specific charge I make against her is that of murder and conspiracy against the government of France.”

She drew an official-looking document from her bosom. “Anna Klaus,” she cried, “in the name of the republic, I arrest you as an accomplice to Biron and Cirofici in the murder of Jean LeGrau, messenger to the minister of justice, and call on you to surrender!”

“Vivien!” The cry seemed to burst involuntarily from Phil Wodeburn's lips as he turned, thunderstruck, toward her. But the woman to whom he appealed made no sign, but sat staring, pale as death, at the little Russian detective.

With a rapidity of movement that seemed almost incredible to those watching her, that small person glided nearer the door, and, opening it slightly, always with her eyes upon the woman she had accused, blew a shrill whistle.

But at that moment there suddenly came a crackle and a blinding flash of light, followed by a dense cloud of smoke. Immediately the electric lights were turned off. The room seemed full of movement, confused exclamations, even cries. The men Miss MacKenzie had summoned with her whistle groped for the electric-light switch, swearing freely; but even when it had been turned on again the acrid, biting smoke was still so thick that it was impossible at first to distinguish the identity of those huddled, frightened figures.

“In my excitement,” stammered Willy Gaines, “I inadvertently touched off the magnesium powder.”

Rose caught his hand, and pressed her lips gratefully to it.

The door leading into Rose's bedroom was open. It had three doors opening into other chambers of the suite she occupied. The French windows opening onto the second-story porch were also open, as they had been all evening.

Following Miss MacKenzie's directions, two men dashed through the open door into the bedroom, prepared to search the suite, while two others swung themselves over the railing of the porch.

But before they could slip down the pillars and reach the ground there came the puff of a motor to those who breathlessly waited. Crowding on the porch, they saw Wodeburn's racing machine whiz out of the garage and past the inn. Wodeburn was leaning forward, driving, while Vivien Mayhew crouched low in the seat beside him. There was a spatter of shots, but the motor had already disappeared into the darkness.

Just as it shot past the inn Sonia MacKenzie ran down the steps of the broad piazza. She stood a moment, peering into the black, moonless night that had swallowed the flying car; then, seeing the futility of her chase, she shrugged her shoulders, and turned toward the telegraph office of the hotel.