The Case of Jennie Brice | Page 9

in the water."

"Very likely. But he didn't throw it here."
But in spite of that, he went over all the lower hall with his boat,
feeling every foot of the floor with an oar, and finally, at the back end,
he looked up at me as I stood on the stairs.
"There's something here," he said.
I went cold all over, and had to clutch the railing. But when Terry had
come, and the two of them brought the thing to the surface, it was only
the dining-room rug, which I had rolled up and forgotten to carry
up-stairs!
At half past one Mr. Holcombe wrote a note, and sent it off with Terry,
and borrowing my boots, which had been Mr. Pitman's, investigated the
dining-room and kitchen from a floating plank; the doors were too
narrow to admit the boat. But he found nothing more important than a
rolling-pin. He was not at all depressed by his failure. He came back,
drenched to the skin, about three, and asked permission to search the
Ladleys' bedroom.
"I have a friend coming pretty soon, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "a young
newspaper man, named Howell. He's a nice boy, and if there is
anything to this, I'd like him to have it for his paper. He and I have been
having some arguments about circumstantial evidence, too, and I know
he'd like to work on this."
I gave him a pair of Mr. Pitman's socks, for his own were saturated, and
while he was changing them the telephone rang. It was the theater again,
asking for Jennie Brice.
"You are certain she is out of the city?" some one asked, the same voice
as in the morning.
"Her husband says so."
"Ask him to come to the phone."

"He is not here."
"When do you expect him back?"
"I'm not sure he is coming back."
"Look here," said the voice angrily, "can't you give me any satisfaction?
Or don't you care to?"
"I've told you all I know."
"You don't know where she is?"
"No, sir."
"She didn't say she was coming back to rehearse for next week's
piece?"
"Her husband said she went away for a few days' rest. He went away
about noon and hasn't come back. That's all I know, except that they
owe me three weeks' rent that I'd like to get hold of."
The owner of the voice hung up the receiver with a snap, and left me
pondering. It seemed to me that Mr. Ladley had been very reckless. Did
he expect any one to believe that Jennie Brice had gone for a vacation
without notifying the theater? Especially when she was to rehearse that
week? I thought it curious, to say the least. I went back and told Mr.
Holcombe, who put it down in his note-book, and together we went to
the Ladleys' room.
The room was in better order than usual, as I have said. The bed was
made--which was out of the ordinary, for Jennie Brice never made a
bed--but made the way a man makes one, with the blankets wrinkled
and crooked beneath, and the white counterpane pulled smoothly over
the top, showing every lump beneath. I showed Mr. Holcombe the
splasher, dotted with ink as usual.
"I'll take it off and soak it in milk," I said. "It's his fountain pen; when
the ink doesn't run, he shakes it, and--"

"Where's the clock?" said Mr. Holcombe, stopping in front of the
mantel with his note-book in his hand.
"The clock?"
I turned and looked. My onyx clock was gone from the mantel-shelf.
Perhaps it seems strange, but from the moment I missed that clock my
rage at Mr. Ladley increased to a fury. It was all I had had left of my
former gentility. When times were hard and I got behind with the rent,
as happened now and then, more than once I'd been tempted to sell the
clock, or to pawn it. But I had never done it. Its ticking had kept me
company on many a lonely night, and its elegance had helped me to
keep my pride and to retain the respect of my neighbors. For in the
flood district onyx clocks are not plentiful. Mrs. Bryan, the
saloon-keeper's wife, had one, and I had another. That is, I had had.
I stood staring at the mark in the dust of the mantel-shelf, which Mr.
Holcombe was measuring with a pocket tape-measure.
"You are sure you didn't take it away yourself, Mrs. Pitman?" he asked.
"Sure? Why, I could hardly lift it," I said.
He was looking carefully at the oblong of dust where the clock had
stood. "The key is gone, too," he said, busily making entries in his
note-book. "What was the maker's name?"
"Why, I