There I was seated in a box all alone--Miss Nancy Olden,by courtesy of the management,come to listen to the leading lady sing coon-songs,that I might add her to my collection of take-offs.
She's a fat leading lady,very fair and nearly fifty,I guess.
But she's got a rollicking,husky voice in her fat throat that's sung the dollars down deep into her pockets.They say she's planted them deeper still--in the foundations of apartment houses--and that now she's the richest roly-poly on the Rialto.
Do you know,Maggie darlin',what I was saying to myself there in the box,while I watched the stage and waited for Obermuller?He said he'd drop in later,perhaps.
"Nance,"I said,"I kind of fancy that apartment sort of idea myself.They tell you,Nancy,that when you've got the artistic temperament,that that's all you'll ever have.But there's a chance--one in a hundred--for a body to get that temperament mixed with a business instinct.It doesn't often happen.But when it does the result is--dollars.It may be,Nance--I shrewdly suspect it is a fact that you've got that marvelous mixture.Your early successes,Miss Olden,in another profession that I needn't name,would encourage the idea that you're not all heart and no head.I think,Nance,I shall have you mimic the artists during working hours and the business men when you're at play.I fancy apartment houses.They appeal to me.We'll call one `The Nancy'and another `Olden Hall'and another .""What'll I call the third apartment house,Mr.O?"I asked aloud,as I heard the rings on the portiere behind me click.
He didn't answer.
Without turning my head I repeated the question.
And yet--suddenly--before he could have answered,I knew something was wrong.
I turned.And in that moment a man took the seat beside me and another stood facing me,with his back against the portieres.
"Miss Olden?"the man beside me asked.
"Yes."
"Nance Olden,the mimic,who entertains at private houses?"I nodded.
"You--you were at Mrs.Paul Gates'just a week ago,and you gave your specialties there?""Yes--yes,what is it you want?"
He was a little man,but very muscular.I could note the play of his muscles even in the slight motion he made as he turned his body so as to get between me and the audience,while he leaned toward me,watching me intently with his small,quick,blue eyes.
"We don't want to make any scene here,"he said very low."We want to do it up as quietly as we can.There might be some mistake,you know,and then you'd be sorry.So should we.I hope you'll be reasonable and it'll be all the better for you because--""What are you talk--what--"I looked from him to the other fellow behind us.
He leaned a bit farther forward then,and pulling his coat partly open,he showed me a detective's badge.And the other man quickly did the same.
I sat back in my chair.The fat star on the stage,with her big mouth and big baby-face,was doing a cake-walk up and down close to the footlights,yelling the chorus of her song.
I'll never mimic that song,Mag,although I can see her and hear it as plain as though I'd listened and watched her all my life.
But there's no fun in it for me.I hate the very bars the orchestra plays before she begins to sing.I can't bear even to think of the words.The whole of it is full of horrible things--it smells of the jail--it looks like stripes--it .
"You're not going to faint?"asked the man,moving closer to me.
"Me?I never fainted in my life.Where is he now--Tom Dorgan?""Tom Dorgan!"
"Yes.I was sure I saw him sail,but,of course,I was mistaken.
He has sent you after me,has he?I can hardly believe it of Tom--even--even yet.""I don't know anything that connects you with Dorgan.If he was in with you on this,you'd better remember,before you say anything more,that it'll all be used against you."The curtain had gone down and gone up again.I was watching the star.She has such a boyish way of nodding her head,instead of bowing,after she waddles out to the center;and every time she wipes her lips with her lace handkerchief,as though she'd just taken one of the cocktails she makes in the play with all the skill of a bartender.I found myself doing the same thing--wiping my lips with that very same gesture,as though I had a fat,bare forearm like a rolling-pin--when all at once the thought came to me:"You needn't bother,Nancy.It's all up.You won't have any use for it all.""Just what is the charge?"I asked,turning to the man beside me.
"Stealing a purse containing three hundred dollars from Mrs.
Paul Gates'house on the night of April twenty-seventh.""What!"
It was Obermuller.He had pushed the curtains aside;the crashing of the orchestra had prevented our hearing the clatter of the rings.He had pushed by the man standing there,had come in and--he had heard.
"Nance!"he cried."I don't believe a word of it.He turned in his quick way to the men."What are your orders?""To take her to her flat and search it."
Obermuller came over to me then,and took my hand for a minute.
"It's a pity they don't know about the Gray rose diamond,"he whispered,helping me on with my jacket."They'd see how silly this little three-hundred dollar business is.Brace up,Nance Olden!"Oh,Mag,Mag,to hear a man like that talk to you as though you were his kind,when you have the feel of the coarse prison stripes between your dry,shaking fingers,and the close prison smell is already poisoning your nostrils!
"I don't see--"my voice shook--"how you can believe--in me.""Don't you?"he laughed."That's easy.You've got brains,Nance,and the most imbecile thing you could do just now,when your foot is already on the ladder,would be just this--to get off in order to pick up a trinket out of the mud,when there's a fortune up at the top waiting for you.Clever people don't do asinine things.And other clever people know that they don't.
You're clever,but so am I--in my weak,small way.Come along,little girl."He pulled my hand in his arm and we walked out,followed by the two men.
