Kerry by Grace Livingston Hill
The cab had arrived and Dawson was just about to enter it when turning he caught sight of McNair and wheeling to the right ducked behind a big oil tank truck and was off again, the briefcase still tucked firmly under his arm.
How long McNair continued that race, how far they went, how many corners they turned he was never quite sure, but he was nearly winded and Dawson in spite of his shorter legs was a half a block ahead when at last a fire engine crossed Dawson’s path, with a hook and ladder truck, and an ambulance close behind, and for the instant he was penned in. He turned this way, and ducked that, and almost got killed trying to get between two cars, but just as he thought he had lost him, McNair still running and panting, his arms waving wildly, ran full into the arms of a burly policeman.
“Catch!” he yelled. “Catch that man quick! He’s stolen—that briefcase!”
The policeman waited not to hear more, he was off like a flash, and the next instant, Dawson, PhD, found himself confronted with the law, stalwart and grim.
Dawson stepped back in well-feigned amazement.
“I beg your pardon, sir, what is all this about?” he demanded as the policeman laid a detaining hand on his well-groomed shoulder.
And then McNair arrived.
“He has taken a lady’s briefcase,” stated McNair between gasps as he tried to steady his voice.
Dawson looked up at him amusedly, though he was white as a sheet and his little black eyes had a frightened look.
“Briefcase?” he said, “Oh, briefcase? My briefcase?” and he laughed his hard little cackle. “Why, bless my soul! It’s McNair! Why, hello, old man! Glad to see you!”
Then to the policeman: “I beg your pardon, sir, this gentleman knows me. We have just come off the same ship together. He knows who I am. This is my own briefcase, an old one, that I have carried with me on my travels abroad. I presume he has followed the wrong man, not recognizing me. Somebody lost a briefcase? Can I help in the search?”
But McNair did not smile. His eye was on the briefcase, and a glint of triumph was in it.
“Do you know this gentleman?” asked the policeman, eyeing the two men cannily.
“I know who he says he is,” said McNair, his voice now back almost to its natural tone, “but if that is your briefcase, Dawson, how does it come to have its handle slashed through with a fresh cut of a knife?”
The policeman scanned the leather handle.
“Oh!” laughed Dawson easily, “that happened in Algeria. I was—”
“Just wait a minute, Dawson,” said McNair authoritatively, “if that is your briefcase, how comes it that Miss Kavanaugh’s green silk shawl is inside of it?”
And at that same instant the policeman’s wary eye caught the gleam of a long green silk strand of fringe hanging out through the tongue of the briefcase.
Dawson’s eyes went fearfully down to the condemning thread.
“Why, the idea!” he stuttered, “that’s only a bit of a thread—off of somebody’s clothes,” —and he tried to brush it away. But the thread did not yield. Instead a second thread came greenly out to testify against him.
“Why, my dear fellow!” said Dawson, PhD. “I really don’t understand this. How could I possibly have picked up another briefcase instead of mine? I was sure I had my own. Now, what do you think of that! I must have left my own on the ship. I’ll have to hurry right back—” And he turned and made as if to slip away in the opposite direction. But the heavy hand of the law was upon him, and upon the briefcase which he carried.
“No, you don’t!” said the policeman. “I’ll just take a little hand in this myself. Suppose this other gent here tells what he knows about it all. He was the guy that was follerin’ you!”
“But my dear sir—” began Dawson.
“That’ll be about all from you at present!” said the representative of the law. “How come it, mister?” to McNair.
“I was walking with the owner of the briefcase when it happened. She had the case under her arm. We were coming off the ship that just docked, pier 12. A hand came out of the crowd and cut that handle, which was round her wrist, and another hand jerked the case from under her arm, and the thief ducked behind the crowd and disappeared. I dropped my baggage and followed, and that man has crossed and recrossed streets, and ducked under trucks and cabs and cars and turned corners and double-crossed himself all the way up here. He knew perfectly well I was after him. He’s been trying to get hold of the contents of that briefcase all the way across the Atlantic. If you don’t believe me come back to the dock with me and ask the steward of the ship, and ask the lady that owns the briefcase. She’s waiting for me down there now, right where it happened.”
“Come on with me!” said the man of the law, grasping the sleeve of the would-be scientist.
“Why, certainly!” said Dawson, PhD, affably. “Of course I’ll go with you. I certainly am sorry to have caused Miss Kavanaugh all this trouble. You see I must have picked up that briefcase on deck when it was laid down, instead of my own and Miss Kavanaugh probably has mine. I shall be glad indeed if it was mine that was stolen instead of hers, for mine had very unimportant matters in it, a few photographs and some notes of articles I meant to write, nothing but what I could easily duplicate.”
The policeman said nothing but hailed a cab, and put Dawson in it, motioned McNair to follow, and gave an order to the driver. On the way down he hailed a fellow officer and added him to the party.
Dawson, after the first block, managed a superior smile, and attempted a feeble conversation with McNair, but the police interrupted.
“Got a knife in yer clothes?”
“Knife?” said Dawson innocently.
“Never mind, don’t bother. I’ll find it.” And a burly hand went investigating in Dawson’s pockets.
“Oh, yes, knife. Why of course, I always carry a knife.”
The knife came to light. A wicked blade, delicately sharp. The policeman snapped it open and played a tough finger over its edge. He lifted a knowing eye and winked toward McNair, who was watching him. Then he snapped the blade shut and stowed it away in his judicial pockets.
Dawson settled back with a pleased smile as though he were enjoying the ride.
“Where did you leave Miss Kavanaugh, McNair?” he asked after another two blocks.
McNair affected not to hear him. He was wondering whether Kerry would be where he had left her, or whether after all this time she might not have somehow managed to park the baggage and start after him herself. Women did strange things sometimes, when they were frantic, and Kerry had reason to be frantic. It must be a full hour since he had left her. And would the steward still be on the boat, or gone out into the city on leave?
Five minutes later the taxi had threaded its way though the congested traffic and left its party at the wharf.
McNair hastened ahead, and so it happened that as Kerry searched the wharf where now the crowds were beginning to thin out she caught sight at last of McNair, with Dawson coming on behind escorted by two burly policemen, walking with measured tread one on each side of him.
As soon as he caught sight of her McNair lifted the briefcase like a banner and waved it above his head, and she got the effect of his smile even while he was some paces off.
Kerry was standing where he had left her in a little oasis from which the crowd was cleared, her bags at her feet, and when she saw McNair she waved her hand. Oh, it was good to see him again after the long wait, to know that he had not been run down in the New York traffic, to know he was coming back again. Whatever came, whether the lost were found or not, it was good to see him.
And could it be that he had really found it, the precious book, or was it only the empty briefcase from which the contents had been taken?
Then she saw Dawson and began to hope. If they had Dawson, he hadn’t been able to get away with the papers yet. Still, he was cunning. There was no telling but he had thrown it away somewhere. And perhaps McNair didn’t know she had the manuscript there
As soon as Dawson saw her he made a show of haste, donned an apologetic air, and came smiling up.
“I have a great apology to make,” he smirked, rubbing his hands in a way that reminded Kerry of Uriah Heep. “I must—have—somehow—in the confusion on deck at the last minute picked up your briefcase instead of my own. It was most careless of me, but they are exactly alike, and I don’t wonder at my mistake.”
Kerry looked at him levelly. Was it possible this man expected her to believe that?
“That couldn’t have been possible, Mr. Dawson,” said Kerry, going straight to the point. “I haven’t had my briefcase out of my hands since I left my stateroom this morning until it was snatched from me a little over an hour ago right here in this spot.”
“Well then, my dear lady,” began Dawson eagerly, “they must have got exchanged last night somehow. It must have been my briefcase that you had and they snatched it from you. But it’s of no importance, I’m glad to tell you, only photographs and notes of my trip. I’d be glad to have them back of course, but nothing that really mattered.”
“Mr. Dawson, that is not possible,” said Kerry again, looking him straight in his frightened eyes. “I arranged my things in my briefcase this very morning before I left my stateroom. I know exactly what is in there. A package of manuscript wrapped in white paper and fastened with rubber bands, two manila envelopes containing other papers, a map of New York that I got on shipboard, and my green silk shawl.”
Dawson’s shifty eyes looked furtively toward the policeman, but his smile grew even more fixed.
“Well, there’s some mistake somewhere of course,” he said, rubbing his hands anxiously, “perhaps my own case is still on shipboard. I’ll just run back and see, if you’ll excuse me.”
He turned and would have left them, but a big hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Just a minute, sir, till the lady sees if all her property is in the case. Then if youse wants to go back on the boat we’ll go with you. Will you open the case, miss?”
Kerry, with hands that trembled from sudden new anxiety unstrapped her briefcase and examined it, pulling out the green silk shawl and slinging it over her shoulder, where it blew around her gallantly and showed in contrast the delicate features, and the red-gold hair.
“You’re looking awfully well this morning, Miss Kavanaugh,” observed Dawson in a wild attempt to keep up his role of intimacy. The rest of the party stood like stone images watching Kerry as she took out one by one the things she had named and began to count the pages of the manuscript.
“I don’t imagine he had any time to disturb the pages yet,” said McNair quietly. “He had all he could do to get away with it.”
When she was sure it was all there, Kerry looked up and smiled brightly at McNair.
“Oh, I can’t be thankful enough to you,” she said, ignoring the rest, and speaking just to him. “It—was—so terrible, when I thought it was gone!”
The policemen stood stolidly, pretending to look away, but they did not miss a glint of the sun on her bright gold hair, nor a turn of an eyelash. They could have pictured to a fraction the light in McNair’s eyes as he smiled back at her.
“Well, then I’ll just run back to the ship and see if my briefcase is still where I know I had it this morning,” agreed Dawson cheerfully. “It isn’t of much consequence of course, but I might as well get it while I’m down here. Good morning. I’ll look you up again!” And he tipped his hat as airily as if he had just rescued her from trouble and was glad to be able to do it.
“Can you beat it?” said McNair, looking after the dapper little scientist. “If you could see the chase he led me, scuttling around corners exactly like a rat, you would scarcely believe he was the same person!”
“Oh, but to think you caught him! How did you know it was he? Did you see him take it?”
“Well, not exactly, but I knew about what to look for, and when I caught up with him your shawl did the rest of the trick hanging out some fringe for identification. But come. Let’s get out of here before the poor little rat comes back and tries to track us elsewhere. What luck! Here comes a porter. I thought they were all dead! Now, may I have the honor of carrying that briefcase the rest of the way, or have you reached the point that you can’t trust any human being except yourself ?”
“I can’t trust myself, certainly,” said Kerry. “I wouldn’t have believed that anyone could get that case out of my grasp. It seems incredible even now.”
He put her into a taxi and got in beside her.
“Now, where to?” he asked her. “Hadn’t we better park these bags at the Pennsylvania station and get you right to the publisher’s before the place closes for the afternoon?”
“Oh, yes, if that’s possible. But I must not detain you any longer. I have given you trouble enough already.”
“You don’t mean to say you are going to try to shake me now after all this. No, lady, no, I’m bound to see this manuscript safe in the hands of the publisher, and you with a properly signed receipt for it before I leave you again.”
“You are very good to me, and you must be awfully tired,” sighed Kerry, leaning back and drawing a long sigh of relief.
“Well, I guess you are pretty tired yourself.” He smiled. “But you can’t be any gladder than I am that this incident has ended so well.”
While they waited at the publisher’s for Kerry’s letter of introduction to be sent up to the great man with whom Shannon Kavanaugh had corresponded, Kerry told him about her own feelings when she had been left alone with the knowledge that the manuscript was gone; and how it suddenly came to her in her despair that her heavenly Father was looking after her, and she need not worry.
“And He did!” she said with a gleam of exultation in her eyes.
“He always does,” said McNair gravely. “I have a friend over in London who sent me a little card last Christmas bearing these verses: ‘Cast all your care upon Him for He careth for you.’ ‘And the Peace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.’ And underneath he has put it this way: ‘Put your care into His heart and He will put His peace into yours.’”
Then McNair told her of his race.
“If I were you,” he said, “I would tell your publisher all about it, let him know that someone else is trying to get a line on the book and use it. You can’t tell what that little rat may do even yet. He seems quite determined to get something out of this for himself. I wouldn’t put it past him even now to write that article. You had better leave the stolen pages and Dawson’s paraphrase of them with the publisher. It will be safer than with you.”
“I will,” said Kerry, “thank you.” Just then the boy came to say that the publisher awaited her, and Kerry took her precious manuscript and went to audience at last, thinking on the way how wonderful it was that she had found him in and could see him right away. It was going to be so good to get that manuscript out of her keeping. Was this, too, a part of God’s keeping? But of course it was. She felt like shouting her gratitude.
Chapter 12
Ripley Holbrook received Kerry most cordially. He showed at once his deep respect for Shannon Kavanaugh, and he looked at Kerry as kindly as if she had been his own daughter.
He was an oldish man with gray hair and keen eyes. He received the manuscript as something long awaited and much desired. Kerry found herself warmed and comforted by his manner. She had perhaps entertained just the least little bit of doubt whether after all the publishers would be so eager for the book now that her father was gone. But there was no doubt about that anymore. The book was greatly welcomed.
After Mr. Holbrook had asked in detail of her father’s last days, and expressed his sympathy in her loneliness, he went over carefully every item mentioned in Shannon Kavanaugh’s letter that Kerry had brought, agreeing gladly to it all, as in substance he had agreed by letter six months ago.
He c
“Are you in a hurry to go, Miss Kavanaugh, or could you wait and attend to the signing now? Of course it will do tomorrow as well, or any time in the near future that is convenient, but I like to get these preliminaries over.”
“I would rather wait, Mr. Holbrook,” said Kerry, “I’ve had a good deal of trouble getting this manuscript safely into your hands, and I would like to feel that the responsibility is entirely over.”
“Trouble?” asked Holbrook, turning over the pages and glancing interestedly at a diagram that caught his eye.
Then Kerry told him of her experiences with Dawson, both on sea and land.
He listened, watching her keenly as she talked, drawing his brows in a frown as the story proceeded, studying carefully the stolen page, and Dawson’s caricature of it which she handed him, making occasional notes on a pad that lay on his desk.
“Dawson? Dawson? Henry Dawson did you say was his name? Seems to me I remember that name!” he said when Kerry’s story drew to a close with the incident on the dock that morning.
Then turning to his secretary he said, “Miss Reeves, look up my file on Henry Dawson, PhD, did you say, Miss Kavanaugh?”
The secretary ran through her filing case and brought out papers.
“There was a Henry Dawson connected with that trouble we had on the Graves-Ransom copyright,” said the secretary after a moment’s perusal of the papers.
“Ah! Yes, I thought that name was familiar! That was a very peculiar case. We never were quite sure—Well, I’m glad you mentioned it. We’ll look out for the current scientific publications. These papers will be helpful in case there is any trouble. But of course, now we know it we can easily forestall any such trouble as we had before. I’ll get in touch with the lawyer in our office and get more data on this man. Be assured we will protect your rights fully. Miss Reeves, see that Miss Kavanaugh has a duly signed receipt for this manuscript, and have it put in our safe at once!” he ordered.