Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 291

STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We mustn't be seen leaving town together.

BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?

STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad in the "Tribune."

BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?

STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from me one way or the other. You understand?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?

BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.

STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want?

BENSON. Five or six hundred.

STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that much in my bureau drawer.

[_He goes toward the door._]

BENSON. Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND. Yes?

BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?

STRICKLAND. Yes.

[_He goes into the next room._]

BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and speaks very quietly_]. h.e.l.lo. Murray Hill 3500.... h.e.l.lo. This Finley?

This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago.

Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_, will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand.

That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago.

[_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as Strickland enters._]

STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.

BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now?

STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] h.e.l.lo, Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, midnight train. Yes, to-night.

BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.

STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson, go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does.

Wait for me at the train gate.

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.

BENSON. Very well, sir.

[_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._]

STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire.

Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to the door, opens it._] Who's there?

A GIRL. I, sir.

[_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out with startling distinctness from beneath a ma.s.s of l.u.s.trous brown hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little s.h.i.+ver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders have been s.h.i.+elded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He greets her with a volley of questions._]

STRICKLAND. Who are you?

THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?

STRICKLAND. No.

THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.

STRICKLAND. The office?

THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.

STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat.

What do you want?

THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time.

Good night.

THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.

THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?

STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean?

THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.

STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your head?

THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.