If the Shoe Fits—/Chapter 5
V
FOR a little he sat staring dizzily and stupidly into nothingness. And then he sprang to his feet and rushed away in search of a telephone. He called up the Yonkers morgue and asked for particulars. They were as the papers had given them. He swallowed hard and then asked:
“Was there anything in the pockets?” There was not. “Was there ... was there in the overcoat the name of the tailor who had made it?” Yes. The coat was made by fashionable New York tailors, by Cartwright and Hammonds. Did he know— But John Rand clicked up the receiver, and went out into the streets again, his face white. The clothes he had on had been made by Cartwright and Hammonds.
He wandered long up and down, seeking the thing which he must do, and finding no light glimmering through the fog about him. With the real Jasper Ruud dead, what was left for John Rand to do? Had Ruud lived, sooner or later he would have come back, and then when the two men stood up, side by side, people would know, Audrey would know. But now? They were ready to believe him insane. And if he continued to deny that he was the great millionaire, and the millionaire was never to come back, they would go on from suspicion to certainty. He even thought with a shudder of the mad house!
And if he went away, if he disappeared from the world of Jasper Ruud, what then? Audrey would be broken-hearted ... He went no further on that tack. And if he went back to Ruud's home and allowed them to make him continue to play the part of Ruud, what then? Then Audrey would go on thinking him her brother, would go on calling him Cootsie—and John Rand doubled both fists and swore, aloud and fluently. And in the end, having decided nothing, he knew that he had promised to return for lunch, called a passing taxicab, and drove moodily back to the home of the man who had made all of these complications for him.
They were just sitting down to the table, Audrey and a little old lady with silvery gray hair and eyes like Audrey's, only naturally not so pretty. The gray-haired old lady looked him over with cold censure in her eye, and lifted a cheek coldly for him to kiss. He stooped and kissed it. Audrey, a big bunch of violets at her breast, held up a pair of red, warm lips for him to kiss. And he kissed them. And he saw that as he sat down the color was running hotly up into Miss Audrey's cheeks.
“You are late, Jasper,” remarked Mrs. Ruud with unmistakable iciness in her tone.
“I am sorry, Mrs.—Mother,” he hastened to say, busying himself with his napkin.
“And,” she went on, without a change of tone or of expression, as she looked steadily and frowningly at him, “I am very much displeased with you.”
“Mama,” began Audrey.
“Hush, child. You must not interrupt when I am talking to your brother about serious matters.” She tasted her consommé critically and went on. “Very much displeased. To hit a gambler on the head with a billiard cue was enough to disgrace the name your father left you. And then to run away and try to disguise yourself in old, dirty clothes was worse. I shall not again refer to the matter. But I want you to remember that I am very much disappointed in you.”
“Accidents,” began Rand, feeling that it was up to him to say something—but Mrs. Ruud's voice again cut in bleakly:
“We will drop the subject, Jasper. I am sure that it is not one we would care to discuss in the presence of servants. Talcott, you need not serve Mr. Ruud any wine for his luncheon. He does not need it.”
Rand ate little in the uncomfortable silence. He felt that Mrs. Ruud's eyes were waiting for him to lift his that she might look some more of the things which she was not going to say in Talcott's presence; he knew that Audrey was watching him curiously. And he was eager to get to his feet when the old lady laid aside her napkin and folded her hands in her lap as a sign to Talcott's watchful eyes that she had finished. When she had carried her stately self in stately manner from the dining-room, he sank back into his chair and lighted a cigarette and glanced at Audrey.
“A little wine now, Mr. Ruud, sir?” whispered Talcott at his elbow.
“No, thank you, Talcott. A glass of brandy, I think.”
Rand had his brandy and went with Audrey to the darkened coolness of the library. About him everywhere was the quiet magnificence of a home that was a mansion. There were rare paintings, exquisite bits of furniture scarcely less the masterpieces of great artists. And he had but to put out his hand and say, “It is mine,” and it would be his in sober earnest. And with it would come to him the countless millions of money, money in gold and bank-notes, in holdings in vast enterprises. He had but to say, “I am Jasper Ruud,” and he would be to all intents and purposes Jasper Ruud. And then his eyes turned to the slip of a girl standing with her back to him, gazing out upon the wide lawns—and he frowned. Here was the most wonderfully exquisite masterpiece of the greatest Artist of all—and she would not be his, could in no way become his. For now, infinitely less than when the thought had first come to him, did he want her for a sister.
“I might be tempted,” he mused. “God knows I might be tempted but for that. No, I've got to find the way out.”
She turned suddenly and came back to him from the window.
“You haven't congratulated me,” she said gently, reproachfully, he thought a bit strangely.
“On what particular thing? I know you are always to be congratulated on just being you. But—”
“On my birthday,” she told him quickly. “Had you forgotten that, too? Don't you remember that I am eighteen to-day?”
“I—I didn't know—or I had forgotten. I am sorry. And I do congratulate you and wish you—”
“And,” she went on, “I didn't forget. I remembered that you told me to buy my own present. And I did!”
“May I ask what you chose worthy of so wonderful a day?”
She looked at him strangely. “Don't you remember? You told me to have the bill sent to you—” She broke off and ran to the library table where a number of unopened letters were scattered. One of them she tore open and from it took a yellow sheet of paper which she handed to him, not glancing at it. It was a bill from an automobile firm, and was for three thousand, seven hundred dollars!
“It's the most beautiful car you ever saw!” she assured him.
“I—I don't doubt it,” he laughed at her. “I ... I'll attend to it.” And he thrust the bill into his pocket.
“But I promised them the money this morning. Will you write the check now? And—and I've gone and gotten into debt again, for dresses and things. Will you write me a check, too, for ... for another thousand dollars?”
“I say,” he expostulated. “You're taking my breath away. To be sure one is eighteen only once in a life-time—but four thousand, seven hundred dollars—”
“Stingy!” she taunted him. “And when you had told me to go as far as I liked!”
He took the roll of bills from his pocket.
“There's pretty nearly a thousand here—”
“But I don't want it in money. I'd lose it before I got downtown.” She crossed to a little desk in the corner and brought him a check book. “Now. Will you make it payable—”
“I can't do it,” he told her positively. “I'm sorry. I'd like to, and I don't want to spoil your birthday. But it's impossible.”
“Why?” she challenged him. “Why? Why? Why?”
Why? Because if he signed Jasper Ruud's name to a check it would be plain forgery. And Rand, who had barely escaped going before a New York jury for murder had no desire to appear upon a charge of forgery.
“I can't do it.” His voice was regretful but stubbornly determined.
“Why?” And when he did not answer she flung another question at him. “Why don't you read your mail? There are yesterday's letters and this morning's. Why don't you read them?”
Another penitentiary offense, tampering with other people's mail!
“Because—” he began, but her swift torrent of accusation cut him short.
“Because you're afraid to! Because if you write a check it will be forgery and if you open Jasper Ruud's letters it will be another crime. Because—” she slipped quickly behind the table, away from him, and while she accused boldly he saw that her eye was upon the open door. “Because you are an impostor! You are not Jasper Ruud! And where is my brother? What have you done with him?”
“Not Jasper Ruud? When did you—”
“You look like him—a little bit—not so very much!” she flung at him. “You are not half so good looking! And you are b-bad looking, wicked looking. I guessed it this morning when the violets came. Cootsie never sent me a flower in his life! I was sure of it when you came in to lunch. I was more than sure when—when you k-kissed me—that way!”
“Why then did you put up your lips that way? If you thought I was not your brother?”
“Just to see,” very loftily, “if you had any principles left. And I found that you had none.”
“I warned you that if you went on tempting me—”
“That is no excuse at all. And besides it doesn't matter, as I have forgotten all about it. What does matter is, What did you do with Jasper Ruud?”
“I didn't do anything with him. And I'm not an impostor. You will remember that I didn't come here because I wanted to, but because you brought me!”
“That was because I thought that you were Cootsie—”
“I told you all the time that I wasn't—”
“That was because you knew I wouldn't believe you. Just so that if you were caught, as you are now, you could have a hole to crawl out of! You just took a mean advantage.”
“If you will pause to think, Miss Ruud,” he tried to say with stiff dignity, “you will remember that none of this was because I willed it. I was arrested and—”
“But,” she flashed at him, “didn't you go right straight to the police station so that you could be arrested?”
“It's likely,” he jerked out angrily, “that I'd do a thing like that, isn't it? Go get myself arrested, pretending to be a man whom the police were seeking, to be tried for murder!”
“Jasper didn't commit murder, if you please! And it's cowardly of you to even suggest that poor old Cootsie would do a thing like that.“
“Well,” he responded as quietly as he could, “I haven't been wearing Cootsie's shoes all this time because I've wanted to. And I'm perfectly willing to go—”
“But you can't. Not until you've told me what you did to him. If you try to, 'll—I'll have you arrested.”
“Again? And for what this time, pray?”
“For being an impostor! For trying to steal Jasper Ruud's fortune.”
“But haven't I said all the time that I wasn't Jasper Ruud? How can they arrest me? And you know they won't anyway. If you accuse me of such a thing—well, they'll just think that insanity runs in the family!”
“I know it.” She sank weakly into her chair, staring helplessly at him. “They all think you are Jasper. Even Mama thinks so.”
“Don't cry,” he pleaded. “I'm sorry. I'll do whatever I can. I'll go away and...”
“But that won't do any good. What I want to know is where poor old Cootsie is?”
He opened his mouth to blurt out what he had seen in the morning paper. And then he snapped it shut with a click of the teeth. Could he tell her the truth now, that her brother had been killed, terribly mangled, but a few hours ago?
“You are hiding something!” She had seen his expression and knew that he had been on the point of telling her something. “What is it? Where is he?”
“I—I don't know,” he replied, lamely enough.
“You—you haven't hurt him?” she asked fearfully. “You,” and her voice trembled a little, “haven't killed him!”
“No! I swear to you, Miss Ruud, I haven't laid my hands on him. I haven't harmed him the least bit in the world.”
There was a great deal of fervor in his tones, and they rang with sincerity. She sighed as though from suddenly relieved nerves.
“Then he'll come back—some time? Won't he? And—but what am I going to do in the meantime?”
“You mean?”
“I mean that Jasper promised me the most glorious birthday in the world. He said I could go and spend every cent I wanted to and he'd pay the bills. And—and I've bought that car and a whole lot of dresses and— I've promised them all that they would have their money to-day—and it's more than just four thousand and seven hundred dollars! What will I do?”
“If I could help! But all I have is just one thousand dollars.” He offered it and she shook her head.
“You've just got to go on pretending to be Cootsie a little longer. Until he comes back,” she insisted. “And you've got to write some checks, and sign them. And I'll promise to keep him from charging you with forgery.”
“You're not serious! You know that I can't—”
“But you can. Oh, and you must! Listen, listen!” Her hands were a flutter of excitement. “I've gone and bought all those things! I've had the most expensive gown of all altered! I've already used the car. And they won't take any of those things back. When you refuse to pay, what will they say, what will they think of me? It would be as if I was a thief!” She shuddered, and looked at him appealingly.
“I'll put them off,” he suggested. “I'll tell them that in a few days I'll pay them.”
“But they will want to know why Jasper Ruud can't pay his bills when they're due. And they'll begin to say things and they'll come after me— Why, Marshall & Forster hesitated about letting me have the things without an order from you. And it was that day you were in the country, and I told them you would pay them this morning, and—oh, if you don't they'll just know I was trying to cheat them! And they'll tell Mama, and you know—that is, Jasper knows—that she'll scold me and— You've just got to do it.”
“It's forgery,” began Jasper.
But he didn't finish, She came quickly from behind the table, forgetting to feel—or simulate—fear of him—and stood very near him, her eyes turned imploringly to his, her finger-tips brushing his coat sleeve.
“Please,” she coaxed. “It won't be wrong, because Jasper meant me to have the money anyway. And he won't care when he comes back, and I'll tell him you did it to keep me from getting into trouble. And I'll make him let you go without prosecuting you for—for kidnapping him.”
John Rand was after all a man of impulse. And already he had fought long enough against the first impulse to do something for her. If Ruud were dead, this would mean simply one more complication, and the answer to it must come with the answers to the other problems.
All of this was stirring vaguely somewhere in John Rand's subconsciousness. The one thing which he realized fully, keenly, was that Audrey Ruud's bright young face was looking up into his, and that a little shadow of anxiety was creeping across it.
“Give me the check book,” he said abruptly. “And give me a bit of cloth to bandage my hand. We'll play it's been hurt, and that will excuse a poor imitation of Ruud's signature. And I'll go to the bank, cash my own check, and go with you to pay your people!”
“Thank you, John Rand, dear!” She was all dimpling smiles again. “And I believe you did tell the truth, and that you didn't hurt old Cootsie, and that he's just hiding still because he's scared stiff!”
And John Rand drove away to the bank, with his right hand bandaged for him, feeling decidedly light-hearted for a man plotting a forgery.