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Jos. De Roy & Sons Only Opposite Post Office
Pittsburgh
IN accordance with the promise made to you three
days ago, at exactly twelve o'clock' to-day the tower on the
northeast corner of your office will be blown up. I have no
desire to shed innocent blood and ask you to see that the
vicinity is kept clear of workmen at that hour.
"You will realise that I am under con- siderable expense and
must insist that you reimburse me for the time lost while
waiting for you to come to my terms. You will, therefore, add
ten thousand dollars to the original sum of fifty thousand
dollars asked for, for each Week the amount demanded is un-
paid.
"Three days from today at the hour of twelve, noon, your office
will be de- molished unless you grant my demands. Later, we will
discuss the question of destroying your entire factory. Let to-
day's explosion be a warning to you that I do not indulge in
idle threats.
"THE MAN IN THE BLACK MASK"
* *
*
John Grimes, the peppery little president of the Elkhorn
Chemical Company, laid the letter on the table before him, removed his
glasses, wiped them carefully, then glared at the other members of the
board of direc- tors seated before him.
"That is the latest
sample of what I have been getting for the past two weeks, Mr. Larson,"
he said quietly.
"We have postponed action until you
ar-
rived because, in my estimation, the threats are so different from
those of the ordinary blackmailer that they war- rant a more than
superficial investiga- tion."
"Twaddle!" interrupted weather-
beaten old Slocum, the senior member of the board, with an angry
snort.
"The work of a crank," declared Innis, the company
attorney, suavely. "It is a waste of time to read his let-
ters."
Grimes ignored the interruptions. Waiting a second for
the others, none of whom seemed to care to venture an opinion: "Probably
no other company in the world has guarded the interests of its employes
as has this one," he went on. "For that reason we have never had labor
troubles of any kind. Seem- ingly, our workmen are all satisfied and I
cannot bring myself to believe that it is one of them. My fellow
directors do not agree with me, but I want your opinion."
I
chewed my cigar reflectively for a second. "I doubt if my advice will be
worth much to you until I have gone deeper into the matter, Mr. Grimes,"
I responded. "Remember, I arrived less than an hour ago and know
absolutely- nothing about conditions except what you have told me. As I
understand it, you received your first communication from this
mysterious blackmailer—-what did you say he calls himself ?"
ago, as I understand it, warning you of what to expect. Three days
ago you received a second communication de- manding the sum of fifty
thousand dol- lars, payment to be made in a manner to be designated
later. If you agreed, you were to run up a small, white flag on the flag
pole. If not, the factory was to be slightly damaged as a proof that he
is able to carry out his threats. Am I right so far?"
The
gray-haired president nodded.
"I take it that you have all
racked your brains thinking of some one who has been injured—or fancied
himself injured—in the past. That you were unsuccessful is self-evident,
for you have mentioned no such person. That practically eliminates
covering that part of the field again. Not having raised the white flag,
your mysterious enemy sends you the letter you have just read. Have
there been any other communi- cations ?"
Grimes snorted.
"Letters! Com- munications! My God! I've been bombarded with them. This
one came by mail. When I awoke this morning I found one on my dresser. I
find them in my coat pockets and pinned to the door of my room; All
along the same line, but shorter. All typewrit- ten."
I raised
my eyebrows inquiringly. "It looks like collusion on the part of some
one in your own home, if you will pardon the insinuation. Have you
questioned your servants?"
The little president motioned
towards the big man in uniform at the foot of the
table.
"Chief Backus has had them both on the carpet," he
responded.
The policeman spoke for the first
time.
"It beats me," he rumbled. "The cook's been with him
ever since Mrs. Grimes died—twelve years ago. The chauffeur and man of
all work entered
his service five years ago. I took no
chances, though, and gave 'em both the third degree. I'd gamble my life
on it that neither of them knows a thing about the thing.
"The
only other member of the household is Mrs. Casey, Mr. Grime's sister—and
she's a semi-invalid. Of course there's Miss Joan, his niece—but one
might as well suspect Grimes, him- self, as a kid like her. Crank or no
crank, Mr. Larson, the man who wrote those letters is a smooth
proposition or he couldn't have planted them as he did, right under the
noses of everybody. Take my advice and do as I do—suspect
everybo'dy."
Having thus delivered himself, he settled back in
his chair and puffed with noisy energy at his cigar.
Innis
laughed good-humoredly.
"The chief really takes the matter se-
riously, too," he declared. "He's even stationed men around the factory
en- trances to keep the crowd back at the noon hour, and he's placed a
man at the foot of the ladder leading up to the tower, to keep anyone
from getting up there and planting explosives."
"Taking no
chances," growled Backus.
"No chance of explosives being al-
ready placed in the tower, is there?" I inquired. "I mean a bomb of some
kind that could be set off by electricity?" "I've gone over it with a
fine tooth comb." .
Slocum snarled like an angry terrior. In
fact, he reminded me for all the world of a white-haired, snapping,
little spitz. "I'll tell you it's foolishness to pay any more attention
to these commu- nications! All foolishness, I say] Let's get down to
business. Grimes has allowed the thing to get on his nerves. He forgets
that he, like myself, is get- ting along towards his dotage. Ten years
ago he would have thrown them into the waste basket. I'll not vote
to
pay the expenses of getting this detec- tive here. -Not a cent!
Not a single copper! If Grimes wants him, he can have him—and pay him,
too."
There was a general nodding of heads around the table.
Decidedly the atmosphere into which I had stepped at the request of
President Grimes was inclined to be frigid, to say the least— if not
openly hostile.
Innis, diplomatic and suave, arose with an
apologetic smile to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Mr. Grimes is
probably justified in his worry, in that he feels a sense of
responsibility, as president and general manager, in pro- tecting the
company's interests. On the other hand we, as directors, should vote to
give him a clearance if anything happens—and we are all of us confi-
dent that nothing will."
President Grimes shrugged his shoul-
ders and turned to me as if to ask my advice.
"I would suggest
that you hold off yoUr decision for a few seconds," I answered to his
implied question. "If your mysterious blackmailer is as prompt as he
claims to be we will have but a short time to wait developments. In just
thirty seconds it will be twelve o'clock."
Instantly the
gathering was hushed. The smile died on Innis' lips. Slocum looked up,
his lips skinned back angrily, then thought better of it and merely
stared at Backus, who shifted his big frame uneasily in his chair.
Grimes straightened up with a jerk and gazed into vacancy. There was a
general scraping of feet and a nervous clearing of
throats.
Despite the tension, I could scarcely suppress a
smile at the appearance of one of the directors, James Burke, a young
man with a pale, sallow face and an habitually apologetic manner. He
half arose to his feet, as if almost startled out of his wits, then sat
down
again hurriedly and wiped the beads of perspiration from his
forehead. I no- ticed that his hand shook like an aspen leaf, and he
snickered hysterically. Clearly, his was the clearest case of funk I had
ever witnessed.
The factory whistle blew!
A dull,
muffled explosion! Then chaos!
CHAPTER
II
I awoke with a start. For a ,second I lay quiet,
my mind attempting to grope back over what had happened, unable to
comprehend. Outside I could hear shouts, the clanging of bells, the
sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the office.# My head ached
dully, but I was otherwise uninjured. The big table, overturned, lay
across my legs. Push- ing it off, I raised myself to a sitting position.
For an instant my brain whirled and everything grew black be- fore me.
Then the dizziness and feeling of nausea passed away and I was able to
comprehend what was happening around me.
Plaster from the
ceiling and walls covered everything; the air was filled with its thin,
white dust. The pungent .odor of explosives assailed my
nostrils.
Chairs were overturned. Books and papers lay-
scattered about the floor.
Beside me lay Grimes, breathing
heavily. Innis and Slocum were hud- dled together across the room, the
lat- ter bleeding from a small cut on the forehead. In one corner Burke,
the man I had marked as a coward, was sit- ting up sobbing crooningly to
himself,— the victim of hysteria, evidently. The other members of the
board sprawled here and there in various attitudes. Backus raised
himself to one elbow and gazed about stupidly.
The door was
burst open with a crash and the room filled with rescuers—fac- tory
workmen, their black smudgy
faces expressing their wonderment. I pulled myself clear of the
table and started mechanically, to look after Grimes and those who
seemed most in need of attention.
With the bellow of a
maddened bull, Backus drew himself to his feet and, el- bowing his way
through the throng about the door, throwing men to right and left as he
charged, rushed up the damaged stairway leading to the. tower
above.
A physician emerged from some- where. But, by the time
of his arrival, his services were in little demand. For practically all
of those who had been in the room at the time of the explosion were on
their feet assuring each other of their safety. Aside from plastering up
the cut in old man Slocum's head, there was little for him to do. Even
the officer at the foot of the stairway lead- ing to the tower had
escaped uninjured, although the tower itself was a wreck.
* *
* * * * *
A girl—even to my dirt filled eyes, a vision of
loveliness in a cool, white chif- fon—struggled through the crowd of men
in the outside hallway and threw her arms around the aged
president.
"Are you hurt? Are you injured, Uncle Grimes?" she
demanded, sob- bingly.
The little man patted the girl's shoul-
der.
"'Not by a darned sight," he chuckled. "It was worth the
bump I got to prove to Slocum that I'm not such a darned old fool as he
claims I( am. Now dry your eyes and meet Mr. Larson—Cap- tain Larson, my
niece Joan—Miss Marne, I should say."
He turned to the
assembled directors with a beatific smile on his wrinkled
face.
"Gentlemen," he said gravely, al- though there was a
twinkle in his eyes, "I hereby declare this meeting ad-
journed until ten
o'clock tomorrow morning,at which time we will continue our discussion
of our friend, 'The Man in the Black Mask.' Larson, you will be my guest
while in town, of course?"
With a few terse orders to the
super- intendent as to the repairs in and about the office, he followed
his niece and my- self to the waiting automobile below, chuckling like a
youngster at Slocum's discomfiture.
CHAPTER
III
I sat at the luncheon table and gazed across
the wide expanse of cloth at the girl. She was an enigma—a female
puzzle—a woman, as could easily be seen, unhampered by society's conven-
tions, unaffected, yet every bit a woman. She was a beauty—yes, a beauty
judged by any kind of rule. Yet there was something odd, strange,
peculiar, about her—an elusive something that I could not comprehend.
She reminded me of a person laboring under a sorrow which she was
struggling to keep hidden from the world. She ate little to speak of,
seeming preoccupied, and resisting my best efforts to carry on even a
casual conversation.
Grimes, on the other hand, was ex-
traordinarily cheerful, caring more, to all appearances, for his victory
over Slo- cum than for the property loss the com- pany had
suffered.
Mrs. Casey, the invalid, plainly a
neurotic—excitable and prone to hys- teria—said little, excusing herself
be- fore the end of the meal was reached, pleading a bad case of nerves
as a re- sult of the trouble at the factory.
Luncheon over,
Grimes, with all the chipperness of a youngster of twenty, declared that
he intended motoring back to the factory to look things over. Naturally,
I was to .accompany him.
Miss Marne aroused herself from her
lethargy and insisted on going with us.
She excused herself and, before we had completed our cigars, she
danced into the room again attired in a natty motor- ing costume, her
abstraction gone and gay as a butterfly, taking the wheel her- self. I
took the front seat with her while Grimes lolled in the
rear.
*******
Workmen had already completed the job
of cleaning away the debris in the office. A truck load of gravel and a
pile of bricks gave evidence that, despite the threats of the mysterious
blackmailer to destroy the entire plant, it was Grimes's intention to
rush repairs as rapidly as possible.
As we climbed out of the
machine, Backus, who had been standing in the background, his round, red
face wearing a puzzled expression, stepped forward and greeted
us.
"Find anything new, Chief?" Grimes demanded.
The
big man looked about him cau- tiously, then motioning us to one side,
produced from his pocket a small, thin, slightly bent piece of
metal.
He handed it to the little president without a word.
Grimes looked at it with a puzzled expression, then passed it on to
me.
"I'm danged if I know what it is," he admitted. "How about
you, Lar- son?"
I gave the bit of metal a cursory ex-
amination then handed it to Joan.
"I think that the Chief has
struck oil the first shot," I replied. "In other words, that same piece
of metal is a bit of the shell that kicked down your tower. Where did
you find it, Chief?"
"In the upper room just over the of-
fice," replied the officer. "It wasn't there this morning, for I made a
per- sonal inspection and locked the door my- self before stationing
Mitchell at the foot of the stairs."
"Shell?" jerked Grimes. "Non- sense
!"
"Nevertheless," I reiterated, "your tower was blown up with
some kind of a shell. You can't get away from the
evidence.".
Backus wagged his head sagely as he replaced the
metal in his pocket. I had already won him for a friend, I could readily
see.
"All right, we'll admit it's a shell, then, for the sake
of argument," Grimes responded. "That doesn't put us any closer to the
solution of the puzzle."
"On the contrary," I interrupted, "it
does. It stands to reason, as any one who is acquainted with explosives
will tell you, that the shell was of small cali- bre and filled with but
very little high explosive, else the damage would have been greater. It
was fired from some- where, and by somebody, and from some sort of gun.
Result: We have but to find where the shell came from and we have your
'Man in the Black Mask' by the heels."
"As well look for a
needle in a hay- stack. My opinion is that some sort of explosive was
planted in the tower in spite of the chief's precautions, and de-
tonated by electricity—possibly by wire- less. I've heard of such
things. Don't you think that more probable than the idea you and Backus
have of some won- derful gun and still more wonderful marksman
?"
"Not at all. Although my Experience at the front taught me
that, despite the high point of efficiency reached by the gunners, a
direct hit is only scored acci- dentally—unless the range is almost
point blank. I'll venture the assertion that the gun from which that
shell was fired is located not over two miles away. In fact, a mile
would be a closer guess." Backus agreed with me. For despite the fact
that he was only a small town policeman, he was no
fool.
"You'll be
telling me next that you can point out.the place," he
laughed.
"I'm almost tempted to say that I can." I looked
around me for a second, then inquired. "By the way, where does this
creek lead from?" Backus leaned forward excitedly. "By ginger!" he
ejaculated. "You've hit it. They shot down the creek. They are located
in the hills south of town. It's me to investigate."
"On the
contrary," I returned, "you'll do nothing of the sort, Chief. You're too
well known. I am a stranger here and my face is unfamiliar, probably,
even to the leader of the mysterious band. Let me look over the ground
first. I am likely to see things that might be hidden from you. It's my
business j to , search for the hidden things."
"But it's my
place—"
"Larson's right," interrupted Grimes. "A stranger is
much more likely to suc- ceed than a person so well known as
yourself."
"But—"
I clapped the big officer on the
shoul- der. "I know just how you feel, Chief. But I'll promise to make
no move until I've informed you—that is if I find any- thing suspicious.
You can make the ar- rests and get the credit."
"All right and
good luck," he answered. "Meanwhile, I'll scout around h£re and see what
else I can pick up. I suppose that you'll start right
away?"
"This very minute."
"Just a second," Grimes
exclaimed. "For all we know, there may/t>e spies lurking about. Why
not let? Joan and me drive you back to the house. From there you can
skirt the hill in a south- westerly direction and come down the creek
instead of going up. Such a move will divert suspicion."
"You're right," I
answered, while the chief nodded a grudging assent. "Let us get busy at
once—that is if you are through here, Mr. Grimes."
The little
president proved himself a man of action by calling to Joan and hastily
climbing back into the ma\:hine. Ten minutes later we were at
home.
"Do you start immediately?" in- quired Joan, who, up to
this time had taken no part in the conversation, al- though she had been
an interested listener.
"As soon as I have secured my re-
volver from my grip."
She accompanied me into the house,
Grimes preferring to wait on the ver- anda, stating that he would go
with me a short distance to show me the gen- eral lay of the
land.
As we reached the seclusion of the hallway, Joan turned
to me, a look of worry on her sweet face.
"Please don't go,"
she whispered, lowering he/voice purposely to keep her uncle from
hearing.
I was astonished both by her tone and the
words.
"I don't understand." I returned.,
She seemed
at a loss for words.
"I—I have a feeling that you will get
into trouble," she finally replied, laying her hand on my
arm.
I laughed. "I've been doing that all my life. The worst I
ever got was a dose of tear gas, overseas. Haven't you got any better
reason than that?" "Only a woman's intuition — a woman's reason," she
smiled. "In other words, I don't want you to go—be- cause. That's all I
can tell you—be- cause!"
"I'm afraid that it will have to be a
better reason than that to keep me from going," I laughed. "Your uncle
hired me to run this thing down. I'm draw- ing a salary from him and the
quicker I earn my salt the better."
as if dismissing the subject and turned aside into her own
apartment.
CHAPTER IV
To
change my attire for a garb more suited to walking over the rough ground
and to look over the service revolver, which had been packed away in my
va- lise, did not occupy five minutes.
Yet, as I stepped out
into the hallway, I saw pinned against the panel of my door a
typewritten note. It read:
"Cut
out your investigation or you will get into trouble. Too many
people are involved in this affair for us to take chances—so
keep out of it. A word to the wise is—or should be—
sufficient.
"THE MAN IN THE BLACK MASK."
Hastily
thrusting the missive into my pocket, I hurried down the stairway,
looking in every direction for possible spies.
No one was in
sight. Yet it was clear that someone inside the house had written that
warning—and that the writer was in league with the man who was
threatening the factory—or was "The Man in the Black Mask" him- self.
Only three people besides myself knew of my contemplated plan of ac-
tion—Backus, Grimes, and Joan. Backus was eliminated by the fact that he
was still at the scene of the explosion. This left but two who were in
the secret, Joan and her uncle. Was it possible that one of them was the
traitor? The idea startled me. It seemed absurd— yet one finds some
strange things when investigating crime.
From the big living
room, the door of, which was partly open, came the click of a
typewriter. I halted momentarily and looked in. Joan was at work at the
ma- chine. She looked up and smiled as she saw me. I imagined, however,
that
there was a slight flush upon her cheeks and that she did not look
me squarely in the eyes.
"Just practicing," she responded in
reply to my question. "Uncle often lets me write his letters for him
here at home."
She invited me to enter. But I ex- cused
myself, pleading haste, and joined Grimes outside.
My head was
whirling. For the mo- mentary halt had given me time enough to discover
that the ribbon on the ma- chine she was using was a peculiar shade of
green. The note of warning I had received had been written with a green
ribbon.
But that was not all: Lying on the floor beside
her—where it had evidently fallen—was half of a sheet of note paper. And
the other half, unless my eyes deceived me, was reposing in the pocket
of my coat.
Was Joan Marne the mysterious "Man in the Black
Mask ?" It seemed impossible — far-fetched—unthinkable. Yet there were
half a dozeh clews lead- ing in her direction. And her actions in
attempting to dissuade me from going into the matter any farther damned
her. I hated to believe the evi- dence. Yet it was piling up against
her.
CHAPTER V
To avoid
needless description, and at the same time give the reader a rough
outline of the general lay of the land so that he may better understand
the events which follow, a rough map of Elkhorn and vicinity is printed
on the next page.
As will be seen by this sketch, prac-
tically all of the wealthier residents of Elkhorn, most of whom were
directors and stockholders in the chemical com- pany, resided along,
this country road where the contour of the land gave them better
opportunities for spacious grounds and broad lawns than did
the
little town itself, huddled as it was be- tween the hills. Grimes'
home was at the extreme south end of the road which ran from the factory
around the hills.
Grimes, as excited as a youngster, left me
at the edge of the little forest southwest of his residence after giving
concise directions regarding the best method of skirting the hill to the
right and reaching the creek. He pleaded to be allowed to accompany me,
but his common sense led him to agree with me that he, like Backus, was
too well known. And, too, I wanted to be alone —to diagnose the affair
in my own
mind. Joan appealed to me as no
woman had ever appealed before, yet I could not drive the idea from me
that every step I took was tightening the coils about her. For the first
time in my career as a man-hunter my sympa- thies were all with the
criminal.
Under ordinary circumstances the natural thing for
me to do would have been to follow the right bank of the creek from the
base of the hill. In- stead, however, finding my view of the factory
obstructed by the small growth of trees between the base of the hill and
the creek, and imagining that I could secure a clearer view from the
opposite
bank, I tested the depth of the water and finding that it appeared
shallow, sat down and removed my shoes and stock- ings. Then, turning up
my trousers to the knees, I forded the stream and on the opposite bank
put my shoes, etc., on again, taking up my search from that
side.
It was approximately two o'clock when I left Grimes at
the edge of the forest and nearly two hours later when I found myself in
the gully between the two hills just opposite the swamp in the rear of
the little president's resi- dence.
Deciding that I had gone
far enough in a northeasterly direction and finding nothing of a
suspicious nature on the left bank of the creek, I quickly forded the
stream again and set off along the right bank, intending to skirt the
swamp, returning to the house in time to dress for
dinner.
Suddenly, I noticed a suspicious movement in a clump
of bushes near the edge of the wooded hill. I stopped short, then
dropped on hands and knees, intending to creep forward and inves-
tigate.
As I did so, a report came from the brush and a bullet
whistled past my head. Had I been a tenth of a second later, my life
would probably have paid the penalty.
I am not a coward by any
means. But neither am I inclined to be fool- hardy. I dislike to take
human life, but I was forced to defend myself. I re- plied to the attack
by pumping half a clip of shots into the clump from which the bullet had
come, at the same time dodging behind a convenient tree.
I
remained for probably ten minutes, keeping a sharp lookout for my
antago- nist. Then, hearing nothing more, I cautiously skirted the
bushes, approach- ing them from behind.
My mysterious
assailant had flown. I found the spot from where he had fired, however,
as an empty cartridge testi-
fied, while the grass was tramped
flat where he had been lying.
Close by, where it had been
dropped in his flight, was a handkerchief scented, with lavender. In
the. corner was em- broidered the letter "I."
Innis, the
diplomatic attorney, who had objected so strenuously, though
courteously, to my retention as an in- vestigator, had, I had noticed at
the morning's meeting, kept his handker- chief strongly scented with
lavender— an odor which is extremely repugnant to me—so repugnant that I
had noted it particularly.
CHAPTER
VI
Here was a puzzle. Why should Innis—for I now
felt certain that it had been the lawyer who had fired upon me—object so
strongly to my presence that he felt it necessary to murder me in order
to put me out of the way? Could he be the mysterious masked man? It did
not seem probable. And, yet, I had suspected Joan Marne-with no more
evidence against her"—in fact, not as much—as I had against the lawyer.
It pleased me to think that the trail was leading in another direction.
Anybody but Joan, I felt.
Evidently the note pinned to my door
had told the truth. There were "too many''people mixed up in the case"
to take any chances. The band led by the masked mystery would not stop
even at murder in order to carry out their ends.
Clearly, it
was up to me to move cau- tiously. There was something decidedly "rotten
in Denmark." Something was going on of which the little president was
not informed. The affair, rather than being as simple as I had at first
believed, was rapidly assuming compli- cations of gigantic proportions.
Every time I turned around I bumped into some new piece of evidence.
There was
too much of it. Was it being "planted" in order to confuse me? Or,
as I was rapidly beginning to believe, were more people—and people of
prominence—in- volved than appeared on the surface?
My brain
whirling, I started off in the direction of the house, intending to
place my suspicions squarely before Grimes and find out, before going
any farther into the case, just what he knew and what he suspected—for I
was growing of the opinion that he suspect- ed something strongly
against, some one when he took sides squarely against his directors,
even to the extent of paying all bills himself.
I had
proceeded scarcely a hundred yards when a'peculiar threshing about in a
thicket of coarse swamp grass at- tracted my
attention.
Drawing my revolver as a matter of precaution—for
my previous experience had taught me a lesson—I crept for- ward until I
could almost touch the con- fused tangle with my hand.
A
crumpled heap of blue lay face downward. I sprang forward and bent over
the man.
It was Backus.
"Chief!" I
cried.
A groan answered me. As easily as I could I turned the
big policeman over and, tearing open his coat and shirt, found a tiny,
black hole through the chest close to the heart from which the crimson
was slowly gushing. He was dying. That I could see at half a
glance.
"Who shot you ?" I demanded.
Backus opened
his eyes weakly. He attempted to raise his arm as if to point. The
effort caused a paroxysm of coughing. Yet, game to the last, he tried to
tell me his story.
"Got—idea," he muttered. "Followed
—creek—met 'Man in—Black—Mask' —it was—"
His voice ended in a
gurgle and he fell back in my arms—dead.
CHAPTER
VII
"STICK Up your hands—and do it
quick!"
I turned quickly—my hands moving heavenward—to gaze
into the muzzle of a vicious-looking automatic in the hands of a
dapper—almost dainty—little man attired in overalls, his face covered
entirely by a mask of dark gauze. Through two slits his eyes gleamed
dangerously. A large felt hat covered his head; beneath it peeped a
fringe of light-brown hair. Plainly the entire makeup was a
disguise.
Before I had time to make more than a cursory
survey, however, the masked man spoke again.
"There is a
revolver in your right hip pocket. I saw you put it there when you bent
over Backus. Turn your back to me, keep your left hand in the air and
remove the gun with your right. Move lively."
I did as
ordered.
"Now throw the gun into the creek.
Quick!"
With a light splash the weapon struck the water a
dozen paces away.
"Now turn to your left and go ahead —and
keep your hands up!"
A walk of possibly a hundred yards
brought us to the edge of the swamp. In response to my captor's curt
com- mand I again swung to the left, and, a moment later, found myself
staring into the mouth of a cave, the opening being, however, but little
larger than an ordi- nary door. I passed through the gloomy entrance
into the darkened interior, my captor following close behind. There was
a sharp click and a huge stone slid almost noiselessly across the
opening, closing it completely.
It was as neat a piece of
camouflage as I have ever gazed upon—and I viewed the work of the best
artists in the world, overseas. In fact, so cleverly was the hillside
disguised that one might
Recognizing the man in the mask, he stopped short and
allowed the weapon to slide slowly through his fingers until the butt
rested on the floor—Page 14
pass within a dozen feet of the opening and, unless he knew the
secret, never observe it. Even portholes were cut in the rock, blocked
by heavy pieces of stone cut to fit, and removable from the inside, yet
so covered as to be indistin- guishable to the passerby. I am confi-
dent that, had occasion demanded, the fortress—for a fortress was really
what it was—would have withstood any ordi- nary assault except the fire
of heavy guns.
Another click, and the cavern was a blaze of
light from a dozen or more electric bulbs suspended from the ceil- ing.
The floor was of clean, white sand, while the walls, as my later
observation showed, were of the peculiar sandstone out of which the cave
was hewed.
A dark-faced man, asleep on an army cot in a
distant corner, leaped to his feet, rubbing his eyes. From around a pro-
jection in one Of the walls stepped a rough-looking fellow armed with a
modern rifle. Recognizing the man in the mask, he stopped short and
allowed the weapon to slide slowly through his fingers until the butt
rested on the floor, gating at me quizzically.
"This the chap
who was doing the snooping around, guv'nor?" he in-
quired.
"One of them," snapped the masked man. "The other
is—lying outside in the gully."
"Did you kill
him?"
The leader snarled like an angry dog. "It's none of your
business! You ought to know by this time, Snell, that when people
interfere with me, they get into trouble. Get me ?"
" 'S'all
right. 'S'all right, guv'nor. You're boss. Only when you took us on you
said there would be no killing in the job."
With a shrug of
his shoulders, he stepped back a pace and sat down in one of the
camp-chairs which were scat- tered about the cav,ern.
The masked man
replaced his weapon in his pocket and turned to me with an almost
feminine gesture towards one of the chairs at the nearby
table.
"Captain Larson," he said easily, "sit down and let's
talk matters over. Will you have a cigar ?"
He passed a box of
perfectos from a nearby table. I selected one to my lik- ing, the masked
man declining, how- ever, as I returned the box to him.
"Hang
it, Captain!" he exclaimed. "It does me good to see you take mat- ters
so nicely. You and I are going to get along famously. It would be a
pleasure to work with a man like you— but of course, as you realize,
that is an impossibility. You are worth money to me—all kinds of it.
Grimes and his bunch ought to be willing to put up at least ten thousand
ransom for you. Meanwhile, will you give me your parole—your liberty
inside the cave with certain restrictions — or won't you?"
I
shrugged my shoulders.
"What's the alternative?" I asked.
"Your ankle chained to the wall." "But how do you know that I'll keep my
parole ?"
Another chuckle from behind the mask. "I know you by
reputation. You are a man of your word. Give it to me and I know you'll
keep it. Honestly, I hate to think of chaining you up like a wild
beast—but you understand it's necessary — under certain conditions.
What's your decision?"
"I accept. I'll-give you my word to
make no attempt to escape. I reserve the right, however, to change my
de- cision at any time by notifying you. May I ask
questions?"
"As many as you like and about what you like. I
won't promise to answer them all, though!"
"Who are you
?"
An almost silvery laugh came from behind the mask. "Who I
am cuts no
figure," he responded. "What I am is different. I am a man with a
mission. That mission is to extract money from the rich."
"I.
W. W. or Bolsheviki?"
"The Man in the Black Mask" chuckled
again. "Neither. I have gathered this little band about me to carry out
my ideals. After all neces- sary expenses are paid, the remainder of the
money which I extort from the rich will be divided among, the poor.
Later, I will move on to some new field of endeavor. There you have the
story in a nutshell. You will probably call me insane. I am not. I am an
idealist." "But this cave?"
"Merely a part of the workings of
an old stone quarry. I discovered it quite by accident. It Is large and
roomy and has been made thoroughly comfortable for my men and myself. I
light it by tapping one of the wires leading from the power plant. The
power company is rich and will never miss the electricity I use. We
depend on it for cooking, also. The smoke from a fire might be- tray us,
you know!"
"I surmise that you used some sort of silencer when
you fired upon the tower ?"
"Merely an enlargement of the
Maxim attached to a one pounder. I got the<gun here by express, in
parts, as I did all of my other equipment. We are prepared to withstand
almost any ordinary at- tack, for we have several machine guns and a
large quantity of ammunition. Food we have in plenty. There is a spring
of fresh water bubbling out of the ground at the other end of the
cave.
"My men are all experts. Although I must confess that
Pedro, my gunner —he was trained in the'Italian army and is an artist in
his line—miscalculated slightly and hit the tower a trifle too low.
Really, it was inexcusable, for he had the range down to
inches."
He arose and stretched himself. "I
must leave you now,
Captain. I trust there is no necessity for reminding you again of your
parole ?"
"May I ask one more
question?"
"Certainly."
"You spoke of holding me for
ran- som. Suppose we—that is, my friends and myself—decide to pay
immediately ? Will I then be released or held here?" "You will be kept
here, until our plans are matured whether you pay now or
later."
"And in case we refuse ?"
There was no
hesitation on the part of the man as he replied in a voice of icy
coldness: -
"Let us not talk of unpleasant things. You will be
killed—murdered in cold blood—as a warning'that it is not wise to fight
'The Man in the Black Mask I'"
He, turned upon his heel and
disap- peared around a corner of the wall.
CHAPTER VIII
As "The Man in the- Black Mask" left
me, I sat down and took an inven- tory of the affair as it stood up to
date. As a first-class detective I had proven myself a success—with a
vengeance. Speaking from the standpoint of a mili- tary strategist I had
attained my ob- jective. But the devil of it was that I couldn't let
loose of it, now that I had it.
I had succeeded in running the
mys- terious blackmailer to his lair and he had proved to be a
boomerang, for the probabilities were extremely strong that I would
remain there for considerable time after he had departed. For there was
little likelihood that the board of directors would put up any large
ransom to get me out of the hole into which I had succeeded in burying
myself. I might succeed in raising the amount my- self were I at
liberty, but in my present circumstances things looked
hopeless.
parole, and thus preventing myself from attempting to escape? Of
course, I could always retract it, but there was a cold manner about the
masked leader which led me to believe that he would not hesitate a
second in carrying out his threat to chain me to the wall the min- ute I
did so. And, chained to the wall, I would be'worse off than I now was.
On the other hand, I might break my word, of course—-but even detectives
respect their honor, and I have al- ways found that, in the long run, it
pays to be square, even with,, crim- inals.
I was aroused from
my reverie by the re-entrance of the object of my thoughts. He held
aside the curtain which covered the entrance to the rear of the cave
through which he had gone shortly before, and gazed at me for a second,
his eyes burning brightly through the holes in his mask.
"Did
I, or did I not, warn you not to come past this spot ?" he asked.
I
I shook my head in the negative.
"Then let me do
so now. This blanket marks the entrance to the exit of the cave proper.
It is what was for- merly one of the tunnels leading off from the
quarry. Scattered here and there, along its length are deep—almost
bottomless—water-filled pits into which you might stumble in the
darkness. A fall into one of them would mean your death. Aside from
that, I do not wish to have you prying about. There are things I do not
care to have you see. You understand?"
I was about to make
reply, but evi- dently taking my silence as consent, with another curt
nod, he turned on his heel and again disappeared down the pas-
sageway.
As he turned, I heard a faint tinkle, and a small
object fell to the floor of the cave, unobserved. I waited until I could
no longer hear his footfalls on
the sandy floor, then I sprang to my
feet and picked it up.
It was a hairpin!
There was
no longer any doubt in my mind as to the identity of "The Man in the
Black Mask." The hairpin was con- clusive evidence that it was Joan
Marne. I hated to believe it, but the facts were
indisputable.
I have never considered myself a woman-hater nor
a susceptible ladies' man. I have known them of all races and breeds,
but nevr had one impressed me almost as one pf their own number.' her
position—to think that she had some good reason for her strange conduct—
only to have the face of the dying Backus flash before my eyes. She had
killed him—shot him in cold blood—and gloated over it afterwards. No,
try as I would I could not find a single cir- cumstance in her
favor.
I was loath to admit it, but I was fall- ing in love.
I, a man-hunter, was in love with a murderess! Cursing my- self, the
hairpin, the infernal mixup-— yes, even Joan—I hunted up my jailors and
spent the remainder of the after- noon in their company, trying to
forget.
CHAPTER IX
Supper
was served in a little niche off from the main caVe. There were six men
in the party, not counting mysdf, one serving as cook,. "The Man in the
Black Mask" not making his appear- ance. On only one or two occasions
had he ever dined with his men, they informed me, although he insisted
that they be served with the best.
During his absence, the
members of his party were not at all reluctant in discussing him or his
affairs, treating me, almost, as one of their own number. None of them,
it appeared, had ever viewed his face. He had gathered them almost from
the ends of the earth, pick- ing one up here, another
there—always
working through a proxy-—each select- ed because of his particular
fitness for the job.
Pedro, for instance, had studied gun-
nery for years. Johnson was a ma- chine gunner. Travis and Snell were
both experts with the rifle. McGinnis was Pedro's assistant and a gunner
of extraordinary ability himself, while Jenkins, the negro chef, was
known, so he informed me, from one end of the country to the other as
the best cook in the American Expeditionary Forces.
All were
men from the lower walks of life—crooks, probably, thugs, gun- men—yet,
strange as it may seem, proud of their records as soldiers. They had
made good in the army, then, discipline relaxed, they had again fallen
into their evil ways. The pay was good, the food was excellent and, to a
certain extent, they were satisfied—-especially with the prospect of a
fight in sight—but still they grumbled.
They had arrived only
a few weeks before, coming to Elkhorn in the guise of laborers. They had
been met at the station by an unknown man, disguised, they believed, who
had directed them where to go to find the entrance to the cave. Here
they met "The Man in the Black Mask" and received their in- structions
which consisted Simply in obeying orders and remaining inside of the
cave day and night. To date they had absolutely nothing to do except eat
and sleep and take turns on guard, with the exception of firing the one
shell which had wrecked the tower.
Already, however, the work
was proving irksome and, like all active men cooped up for a
considerable period of time, they growled considerably, a fact which I
believed, when the time was ripe, I could turn to good account, for I
was far from being ready to tamely abide by the mysterious leader's man-
date that I must either buy my liberty or calmly submit to being
butchered as a
warning to others. There was nothing
in my parole which prohibited my stir- ring up an agitation; I decided
to take - the bull by the horns and create an in- ternal - strife as
soon as opportunity offered itself. By starting a mutiny I might escape
with a whole skin.
Shortly after supper, Travis, who was
better educated than the rest, and who appeared to be the natural leader
during the absence of the masked chieftain, took me on a tour of inspec-
tion of their retreat.
The cave proper was a huge affair, hewn
out of the solid sandstone, pos- sibly five hundred feet in length by
half as wide. The main cavern was bril- liantly lighted. Opening off
from it were innumerable tunnels and pockets where the light was a dim
twilight, shading off into blackest darkness— shadowy, dismal—an
altogether fitting refuge for a modern buccaneer. One of the latter was
illuminated and used as a barracks, another as a kitchen, and a third,
larger than the others, as a storehouse. Judging from the numer- ous
boxes piled in the interior, the masked leader evidently expected his
occupancy to be a long one.
Where their, mysterious chieftain
kept himself none of them knew. It was their belief, however, that he
had more men stationed in some of the other tunnels and that he was
planning a gigantic coup of some kind—possibly a revolution—sooner or
later, and, for this reason, prohibited their entering the other outlets
to avoid having the vari- ous parties meet and compare notes. He
appeared only at intervals, coming without warning and often disappear-
ing for a day or two at a time. They were paid, however, not to ask
ques- tions and asked none, although they were perfectly willing to
answer any- thing that I might ask and were willing to speculate as much
as myself as to the identity of their mysterious leader.
Our trip of inspection over, Travis and I returned to the others,
when sud- denly the curtain which marked the en- trance to the tunnel
used by the masked man parted and he appeared before us. He nodded
curtly to me and asked me to step aside for a second.
_
"Larson," he said jerkily—almost nervously I thought—"they have dis-
covered Backus' body and are raising the devil. Things are getting more
complicated all the time. What are we going to do?"
"Indeed,"
I smiled. "You hardly thought that as big a thing as the mur- der of the
chief of police would pass unnoticed, did you? You should have realized
that before you killed him!" He nodded his head grimly.
"It's
awful—awful!" he muttered. Then he stopped suddenly
"I
forgot," he murmured. "You are in no position to give advice, nor I to
ask it. I must work out my own salva- tion—mine and—"
He was
about to turn away, hesi- tated, then again addressed
me.
"Larson," he said, "you can believe me or not—probably you
won't—but I did not kill Backus, nor was I present when he met his
death. Would to God I had been, and I might have prevented
it."
His agitation;" as well as his words, puzzled me. I
noticed that his hand was shaking as he reached out meJ chanically and
selected a cigar from the box which stood on the table. Striking a
match, he applied the flame to the end. As he did so, I made a discovery
which almost brought me to my feet with a jerk.
By the light
of the match I noticed a small scar in the palm of his
hand.
That morning I had noticed a similar scar on the palm of
John Grimes, presi- dent of the Elkhorn Chemical Com-
pany!
"The Man in the Black Mask" was
not Joan Marne, but
her uncle! John Grimes, the man who had hired me, was the traitor who
had betrayed his colleagues—the murderer of Henry Backus!
But
was he?
A short time before he had declined a cigar with the
statement that he did not smoke. Now he was smoking. And what about the
hairpin I had found? The case had me baffled. It was growing more
complex every min- ute. Who was "The Man in the Black
Mask?"
CHAPTER X
I
spent an uneventful night with my guards, Travis, who, as I have said,
seemed to be in charge, taking me at my word and paying no attention to
me ex- cept to assign me to a bunk.
A guard, however, was
posted, not on my account, but, as my jailor informed me, at the orders
of "The Man in the Black Mask," who had insisted that a sentinel be
maintained at all hours of the day and night to ward against a possible
surprise. This routine had been maintained ever since they had occupied
the cave.
I slept fittle during the early part of the night,
however. There was con- stantly revolving through my mind the question
of who the mysterious leader was—if he was a man. There was enough
evidence against Innis, Grimes and Joan to have convicted any one of
them before an average jury. That was the trouble—there was too much
evi- dence.
The more I -studied over the situa- tion, the more
I was convinced that there was a flaw in my reasoning some- where. One
of the three was guilty. But which?
Finally, I dropped off
into a troubled sleep, the last thing I was conscious of being a vague
remembrance of an argu-
ment between McGinnis and Snell over the game of whist in which
they were engaged.
I awakened with a start. Travis was shaking
me. As I opened my eyes, he studied my face for a second, then turned
away.
"It's a cinch that you ain't faking," he
remarked.
"Faking? What do you mean?" I
asked.
"Sleep," he replied laconically. "Mc- Ginnis
disappeared while he was on guard and the old man's going to be raising
merry hell before long. Thought maybe you had a hand in it—might have
taken advantage of my decency to you and done for him during the
night."
"I'll swear that I haven't left my bunk since I went
to bed," I exclaimed.
I was about to continue my explana-
tions when I was interrupted by a shout from the other end of the
cavern. Travis hurried away on the run. Slip- ping into my trousers and
shoes, I fol- lowed as speedily as I could.
As I turned the
corner and entered the main cavern, I met Jenkins. The big negro's face
was ashen. He was trembling like a man with the ague.
"They
found him!" he exclaimed. "Lordy! Lordy! He's awful! The big boss am
certainly g'wine to raise the debbil jf
"Where did they find
him ?" I asked.
"In the main cavern, deader'n a her- ring—all
chopped to pieces!" And still wailing, he hurried back to the pots and
pans of his kitchen.
As I approached the little group under
the electric light, "The Man in the Black Mask" looked up at
me.
"Bad work, here, Larson, bad work!" he exclaimed. "I am
safe in presuming that you had no hand in it, am I not?"
"Do I
look or act like a murderer?" I demanded, angrily. "If you think
I'm
up to such tricks, why don't you lock me up?"
He was
about to reply when Travis leaped into the gap. I'll vouch for Larson,
governor," he answered. "He was sleeping like a baby when I woke him up
this morning."
The masked man turned upon Snell. "What's this
I hear about bad blood be- tween you and McGinnis last night?" he
snapped.
" 'S' true, gov'nor, 's'true," an- swered the gunman.
"We made it up, though, and parted good friends. God Almighty! I
wouldn't croak a pal, even if I did have a chewin' match with
him."
"Thata right," interposed Pedro. "I watcha da scrap.
They forgeta their troubles an quita friends. McGinnis, he sleepa wit'
me. Getta up and go ona guard when Travis wakea him. Travis, he cornea
t' bed. All th' while Snell, he sleepa sound."
I stooped over
and examined the dead man. It was as Jenkins had said. He had been
literally hacked to pieces. Even his hands and face had been cut and
slashed in a hundred places. His murder was not the work of an ordi-
nary man, but a fiend—a maniac.
The masked leader scratched
his cheek perplexedly. "It's a hell of a mess, Larson—a hell of a mess!
Oh, if I only dared take you into my confi- dence ! If I only
dared!"
As he made the gesture, my glance involuntarily
strayed to his hand. On the palm was the peculiar scar I had noticed the
night before. There was no longer any doubt in my mind. The masked
chieftain of the blackmailing crew was John Grimes.
Joan and
the attorney were exoner- ated.
CHAPTER
XI
In order to give the reader a more corpplete
understanding of the strange
events with which I had to deal, allow me to digress for an
instant and quote from my diary, which was written at the time, and in
which I jotted down each item as it occurred in order to re- fresh my
memory in case I ever man- aged to escape and the matter ever came to
trial:
" 'The Man in the Black Mask' be- comes a more and more
perplexing character to me every hour," I wrote. "I am certain that he
is Grimes. And I am growing of the opinion, the longer I observe him,
that the weazened presi- dent of the Elkhorn Chemical Company is a
veritable Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!
"I cannot understand him.
For in- stance, this morning when I first ob- served him standing beside
the body of McGinnis, he appeared nervous and overwrought. His walk was
that of an old man. While I was kneeling down examining the body, he
disappeared into one of the dark, gloomy tunnels, mut- tering to
himself.
"Whether he is a drug addict or not is a question. I
only know that when he reappeared some fifteen or twenty minutes later
he was a new man in ac- tions and appearance. His step was elastic and
his whole manner again that of the natural leader. His eyes sparkled
like coals of fire through the slits in his mask. And, strange to re-
late, he appeared to have forgotten the entire
incident.
"Stepping up to where we were stand- ing about the
body, he looked down at the battered remnant of what had been McGinnis
and demanded gruffly of Travis.
" 'Well, what the hell's
happened now ?'
"Travis looked at him queerly, then, with a
shrug of his broad shoulders, informed him that there had been noth- ing
of interest transpired since he left.
" 'Since I left ?' he
snarled. 'Hell's
bells! I haven't been here before I
Ex- plain yourself. Don't stand there and try to make a monkey out of
me.' "Naturally Travis, as well as the rest of us, was somewhat
perplexed. For a second he attempted to argue with his leader, but met
with another angry re- buff. Seeing that he was getting no- where, he
finally*.shut up like a clam, refusing to say another word in spite of
the other's abuse. I could see, too, that the others were growing angry
at the masked leader's churlishness to- wards their comrade, for Travis
was popular with all. Finally, however, in response to his chief's
demand, he went over the entire matter again.
"When Travis had
finished his tale, the masked man ordered the mutilated body prepared
for burial, giving his loud-voiced commands in so callous a manner that
even the case-hardened renegades under his command—thugs and dregs of
humanity though they are —were shocked.
" 'We'll "plant" him
outside after dark tonight,' he ended. 'He was no good,
anyway.'
"Then, giving a number of sharp orders to his
piratical crew, he asked me to walk a short distance down the cave with
him.
" 'Have you got any theories as to who might have killed
him ?' he de- manded. 'You're a detective and chanced to be on the
ground, as it were, at the time of the killing. Show me that you're
worth your salt. Deliver the murderer to me and I'll reduce your ransom
a thousand. I'd like to see one of you high-priced detectives at work!'
"I shook my head, and with a sneer- ing remark regarding my ability, he
turned the subject by informing me that the body of Backus had been
taken away and, 'hell was to pay.'
" 'It'll teach them that
I'm not the sort of man to be played with,' he chuckled. 'Tomorrow I'll
give them another sur-
prise when Pedro knocks a second chunk off the factory with his
one pounder. Perhaps by that time they will awake to the fact that I
mean business. If they don't kick in, I'll knock the devil out of things
the next time.
"I debated with myself for a second, then,
taking the bull by the horns, I turned upon him suddenly.
"
'Why this masquerading, Mr. Grimes ?' I asked. 'What was your idea in
getting me here on this case, only to capture me and keep me a prisoner?
I am a poor man and you know it. I can- not pay the ransom you demand.
And why are you robbing your colleagues and yourself?'
"I got
no further, for he interrupted me by bursting into laughter. 'Grimes
—Grimes!' he chortled. 'You think that I am old man Grimes! By the
Almighty! That's good.'
"And still laughing to himself, he
disappeared behind the curtain.
"But that is not all. The
affair is growing more puzzling every minute. I am more convinced than
ever that he is insane—or a drug fiend. For hardly had he disappeared
before he returned, his entire manner changed, his body shaking
nervously. Once more he was the feeble old man—or the hysterical woman.
Without a word, he strode across the cave to the bruised and muti- lated
body of McGinnis and stood for a second, looking down at it, his
shoulders hunched, his entire attitude that of great sorrow and
dejection. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
"As he
disappeared behind the cur- tain, I will swear that I heard him sob-
bing. Yes, crying like a woman. And, what is more, I am certain that I
heard him murmur as he' went down the pas- sageway :
"
'Murder! Murder! A second mur- der! First Baekus and now this poor,
misguided creature! Great God in Heaven! Will it never
end?'
"Can this be the man who, not ten minutes before, brutally jested
as he looked upon the cold, dead clay that had done his bidding? It is
beyond me."
CHAPTER
XII
Shortly after writing the above, I talked the
matter over with Travis. He concurred with me fully that some- thing was
strangely amiss with the man. He, however, did not agree with me that
the masked leader was a drug addict, being more of the opinion that he
was insane. He stated that he, as well as the others, had noticed other
eccentricities on the part of their chief, but never so marked as on the
occasion just re- ferred to.
The day passed uneventfully, my
guards whiling the time away playing cards, smoking and sleeping. There
was nothing else for them to do and, like myself, the time hung heavily
on their hands. Meanwhile, I seized upon this as a good time to spread
my seeds of discord, using the masked man's pe- culiarities as a basis
on which to work. They said little, but I could see that the seed was
not sown on unfertile ground, for never is a man so ripe for dissen-
tion and mutiny as when his mind is unoccupied. In this, the masked mys-
tery showed the one big mistake in his leadership—he did not give his
men enough work. It was his Achilles heel —my sole salvation if I was to
save my own skin—and I seized upon it.
"The Man in the Black
Mask" failed to show himself until shortly after dusk when, just as we
had completed our supper, he suddenly made his appear- ance and
brusquely ordered Johnson and Snell to dig a shallow grave on the
hillside.
They were about to comply when he turned upon
Jenkins, who was whetting a carving knife, preparatory to cutting some
bacon for breakfast.
"Jenkins," he snapped, "what did you knife 'Mac' for? No lying. .
Tell me the truth!"
The big negro dropped his work sud- denly,
his face taking on a grayish tinge. The perspiration came out on his
forehead in great beads. He shook like a leaf, the cigarette he was
smoking dropping from his thick lips.
"Fo' de Lord, sah, I
didn't do it," he responded.
The leader's eyes glistened
through the slits in his mask as he took a step closer to the colored
man. He remind- ed me of a snake about to strike. I could see the men's
faces grow tense, yet so strong was his command over them that not a
word was spoken.
"You lie, damn you!" he snarled at the negro.
"I'ye been doing a little in- vestigating. I've found the place where he
was killed—your tracks are there in the sand. I know that they are
yours, for I've compared them with measure- ments.
"Let me
tell you something, you skunk," he went on, shaking his finger under the
black's nose. "You attempted to sneak up the passageway last night in an
effort to find where I went to. You disobeyed orders in so doing. You
wanted to turn state's evidence if oc- casion ever demanded. McGinnis
saw you and followed. He was an honest man—even if he was a crook. He
over- took you and accused you of trying to spy on me. You turned on him
and, in the fight which followed, you went after him with your razor.
When you had him down you finished him with your knife. He was unarmed
and stood no show. It's all written there in the sand as plainly as if
I'd seen you do it."
Before he could continue, the big black
was upon him, knife upraised, bellowing like a maniac. The masked man's
gun was out in an instant, spit- ting lead in a stream, but not soon
enough to stop the negro's mad rush.
The knife plunged half a dozen times
despite the fact that the frenzied black was mortally wounded. We, who
had dodged out of range of the bullets, leaped forward as the two men
fell to the ground together—but too late.
Bleeding from half a
dozen wounds, the masked man dragged himself to his feet and, before we
could interfere, he placed his gun against the head of .his late
antagonist and pulled the trigger, splattering out the negro's
brains.
Then he hurled the weapon aside and, with a ghastly
attempt at raillery, mur- mured :
"He got me. Damn him! He got
me. The play's over. The curtain's about to drop. Larson, you win after
all!"
With a convulsive shudder, he fell across the body of
the man he had killed and who had, in turn, killed him.
CHAPTER XIII
Came another surprise.
For, with a shrill, piercing scream, the masked man's double appeared
from around the corner of a projecting rock and, throw- ing his arms
about the neck of the dead man, sobbed like a littl'e child. We were
petrified with astonishment.
And, at the same instant, from
the tunnel behind the curtain, emerged a similar form. He dashed into
the group. Then, as he saw his two doubles, he stepped back, too
astonished for the instant for utterance.
"My God! Is she
dead?" he whis- pered, huskily.
He jerked the mask from his
face and disclosed the wrinkled visage of— President John
Grimes.
"Quick, men!" he snapped. "For her sake—for the sake
of Joan—I'll save you. Scatter down the tunnels. Hide yourselves
somewhere — any- where! They're coming—the officers! Some one has
betrayed you. The cave is surrounded!"
Before he could continue, there came a glad scream from the masked
man who was bending over the dead leader, and Joan Marne, her mask
falling from her face, threw her arms about her uncle's neck, sobbing
with happi- ness.
"Hands up! All of you!"
From every
direction armed men poured into the cave, surrounding us, menacing us
with their guns, taking us all prisoners. And, at their head Was the man
who had given the terse com- mand—Innis, the company attorney—- the man
I had suspected of being the "Man in the Black Mask"
himself.
He stepped over to me and seized me by the
hand.
"Congratulations, Larson," he said. "Burke got your
letter, but we had already paid over the money. How- ever, we'll
probably be able to recover it, for I see that our masked mystery is
dead, and it's probably hidden about the cave somewhere. How in the
world did you smuggle the note out, and why didn't you send it to Grimes
or me instead of a white-livered calf like Burke ? The mere fact that
you sent the warning to him scared him half out of his wits. It's a
wonder he gave it to me at all—the sneaking, little
coward!"
"Burke—letter?" I muttered dazedly. "Why I sent no
letter to Burke or any- one else. I've been held a prisoner here ever
since yesterday afternoon. I've had no opportunity to send a letter to
any One."
Both Grimes and the attorney crowd- ed up to me.
"But he said you did," Grimes chattered excitedly. "Bless my soul, if it
hasn't got me puzzled." "You and me both," answered Innis. "But, at any
rate, our masked black- mailer has been laid low. Let's un- mask him and
see what he looks like."
Stepping over to the dead man, he
jerked the mask from his face and dis-
closed the features, now cold in
death —of Jimmy Burke, the coward!
CHAPTER
XIV
That night, with the assistance of Innis, who
was acting as state's at- torney during the absence of his part- ner, I
succeeded in clearing up the mys- tery. Joan and Grimes accompanied us
to Burke's residence, where, among the papers hidden away in his desk,
we found the diary which not only showed the part he had played,, but
implicated the cook at the Grimes home, as well as his various
accomplices at the cave.
That Burke was insane, there is no
doubt in my mind, although Innis dis- agrees with me. According to the
story set forth in his diary, he conceived the idea of blackmailing the
chemical com- pany, of which he was a director, fully a year before he
commenced the operations which resulted in his death.
In many
ways the man was an anomaly. With the physique of a wo- man, he
possessed the heart of a lion and the ambition of a Napoleon. Raised a
pampered and petted child of wealthy parents, never allowed to mingle
with other children of his age, he saturated himself with literature of
the blood and thunder type, enjoying in his older years that which he
was de- prived of during his youth.
While wandering through
the hills back of his residence, he chanced upon the opening to the
tunnel which led into the cave. Covered by weeds and under- brush, it
had long since been forgotten even by the older residents of the
place.
Following the tunnel, he finally emerged into the cave.
His explora- tions showed him that it had not been entered for
years.
Leading from the cavern, like the spokes of a wheel,
were unnumerable other tunnels, crossing and recrossing each other,
making a perfect labyrinth,
for the original workers in the stone quarry—some half a century
before— had followed only the peculiar vein-like formation through the
sandstone instead of blasting out the entire hole as would be done in
these modern times of . high- priced labor.
In every
particular he had, in his dis- cussion with me, told me the truth. He
did not need the money and actually, according to his diary, expected to
rob his colleagues and himself, only to turn the money over to the poor.
His prin- cipal idea, according to the story he left behind, was to
satisfy his longing for excitement. He had laid his plans care- fully,
even to the extent of bribing poor Mrs. McGrady, Grimes' motherly old
cook, into bombarding her employer with the notes he had
written.
His piratical crew of gangsters he had recruited, as
Travis had told me, through a crooked employment agency and had
assembled them just as they had said. He had secured his weapons from a
New York concern and shipped them by express as automobile parts. The
enlargement of the silencer for the one pounder was his own
idea.
He was, in every particular, an odd character, filled
with good and evil and love of romance; he was in many re-! spects a boy
who would not grow up.
Yet, what to my mind shows his mental
condition, was his betrayal of his confederates. For, following the
find- ing of Backus' body, the board of di- rectors had capitulated
despite the pro- tests of Grimes, who suddenly became panic-stricken on
Joan's account, as I will explain later, and had hoisted the white flag
and, acting under instructions telephoned from what was afterwards
discovered to have been a tapped wire near his residence, had left the
package of money on a stump close to the tunnel entrance.
The
money in his possession, he had deliberately telephoned to Innis
and
Grimes—using his own name—giving up to them the secret of the
hidden en- trance and telling them that I had writ- ten him a hasty note
with the instruc- tions.
Evidently, he had not been able to
re- sist the temptation, however, of visiting his hidden cavern for the
last time, trusting on his ability to get away be- fore the raid. That
he was an actor of extraordinary power was demonstrated by his ability
to assume the two charac- ters—the role of coward before his fel- low
board members and the gruff, sharp-toned leader in front of his
men.
The money, in the original package in which he had
received it, we found tucked away in the library safe.
That,,
following his unsuccessful at- tempt to murder me, he had deliberately
planned to implicate Innis by ''planting" the lavender-scented,
initialed handker- chief, was described in detail in the little book
which he had so faithfully kept. He had hated Innis for years, he
confessed, because of a boyish quarrel. He felt that Innis had wronged
him and, looking at the world from the warped standpoint he had assumed,
had never forgiven.
As a result of my testimony, his con-
federates were given prison terms, I being able to prove conclusively
that they were accessories both before and after the fact of both the
murder of the chief of police and the scheme to blackmail the
factory.
And thus passed into history one of the strangest
criminal characters I have ever met in my long career as a criminal
investigator — Jimmy Burke, "The Man in the Black Mask."
CHAPTER XV
Sitting in the parlor of
the Grimes home, Joan and Grimes confessed to Innis and myself the parts
they had played in the strange affair.
Grimes had accidentally discovered the entrance to the tunnel
shortly after leav- ing me on the afternoon of my capture. Entering it,
he found, a short distance from its mouth, the cache where Burke kept
his various disguises. Just as he was about to leave to announce his
dis- covery, he heard footsteps and, hiding behind a fallen rock, saw
Joan enter, and, donning one of the outfits, strike boldly towards the
cavern.
Too astonished for utterance, Grimes hastened away,
laboring under the be- lief that Joan was, herself, "The Man in the
Black Mask." She had always been a romantic young woman and the old man
feared that she had, at last, given way to her inclination. Later,
watching his opportunity, he had made several visits to the
cavern.
As for Joan's part in the affair—-it was purely
accidental. Like all wo- men, she imagined that she possessed detective
ability and, because of Grimes' odd actions, due to worry, she had
formed the conclusion that he was in financial straits and was, himself,
the mysterious blackmailer.
As a child, she had played in the
old tunnel. She remembered it now and shrewdly deduced it as the
entrance to the hiding-place of "The Man in the Black Mask," following
Backus' dis- covery of the shell fragment and my remark about the shot
being fired down the creek. She had attempted to dis- suade me from
entering into the case because of her fear that I would un- mask her
uncle. This led her, also, to imitate the notes which had by means of
the bribed cook been sent to Grimes, and to write and pin the
counterfeit on my door.
There is nothing more to write. She
and Grimes, working at cross purposes, suspecting each other, created
the mixup which puzzled me so greatly in the cave. Oddly enough, they
never chanced to meet nor to encounter Burke because of
the numerous tunnels
through which they entered, after leaving the main one.
CHAPTER XVI
My work was finished. My
fee had been paid. I was ready to go back, and yet I lingered at the
invitation of John Grimes. For something stronger than the desire for a
vacation held me in Elkhorn.
Yet, after a week had passed, I
felt that I was no closer to my heart's de- sire than I had been the
first day I met her. I felt, too, that I owed it to my- self and my work
to get back.
I announced my decision to Joan one evening as we
stood under the moon close to the vine-covered arbor. She looked up at
me, her great eyes wist-' fully pathetic, her soft hand resting on my
arm, and whispered, as she had whispered on that eventful day when first
we met:
"Don't go—please!"
T smiled as I demanded
her reason for asking me to remain. It was the same—a woman's reason,
always—the one little word:
"Because."
I felt the
indefinable warmth and fragrance from her. I saw the faint blush that
swept over her face. Then my arms were around her—and the reader must
guess the rest.
My wife swears that she forced me to
propose.
I am president and general manager1 of the Elkhorn
Chemical Company now. President Grimes resigned six months ago. His
work, he says, kept him from giving proper care and at-, tention to a
certain red-headed young- ster whom we have named Jimmy Burke
Larson.
For we owe our happiness to the man who brought us
together—"The Man in the Black Mask."
"Then how," the coroner leaned far over the desk to ask
the question, "do you account for the undeniable fact that your
finger-prints are on the handle of the dagger?"—Page
29
DURING his world tour,
under- taken at the behest and at the expense of the Chinese Govern-
ment, Song Kee found much to admire. In this country, for ex- ample, he
was impressed by a multi- tude of our ways and customs. And he frankly
admitted their superiority over the Chinese equivalent or substitute of
much that is distinctly American. In one respect, however, he contended
that America was deficient in comparison with his own country. This was
in the detection of crime.
"The Occidental detective," he
stated one night in his precise, smoothly- spoken English, "is quite
competent to deal with crime of the ordinary variety. It is when he
approaches the unusual, the delicately subtle, that he is
lost."
"And his inability," he went on, "to handle
successfully the extraordinary crime is due for the most part, I think,
to his inability to believe in the unbe- lievable."
Police
Commissioner Oglethorpe, who was one of the half dozen men lounging in
the smoking room of the Travelers, smiled.
"It would seem to
me," he said, and his voice was mildly sarcastic, "that de- tection of
crime depends less upon the detective's powers of belief than upon his
powers of observation and his abil- ity to uncover facts." Song Kee
shrugged his shoulders.
"Facts, my dear Commissioner," he
replied, "are the bane of your Western civilization. You are a very
young peo- ple. It will be several centuries before
you learn that facts
are not necessarily truths. Had I a secret, I would hide it —not under a
bushel of lies—but un- der a bushel of facts."
The
Commissioner turned away.
"Yet Judges and juries have an odd
predilection for facts," he murmured.
"Which they, too, often
mistake as sign posts towards T ruth," was Song Kee's parting
shot.
It was some weeks later that New York was startled by
the murder of Irene Grenville. She was an actress who had attained an
unusual prominence partly because of her real histrionic abil- ity and
partly because of the strange tales of her private life which circulated
throughout the city.
Always there had been stories about her.
Even in her early days, when she had played small parts in an uptown
stock company, whispers about her wild- ness and depravity had crept to
the ears, of those who knew her. As she climbed higher on the
professional ladder the whispers had become louder and reached a greater
audience. When at last she reached stardom she was known from the
Battery to the Bronx as the wicked- est woman on Broadway, that street
popularly supposed to be a cesspool of iniquity.
Now she had
been found dead in the public hall of the hotel she had called home. A
knife had been thrust into her lovely bosom. And all New York clam- ored
to know the identity of her mur- derer.
The essential facts
brought out at the coroner's inquest were as follows:
Ralston Hotel, where the deceased had lived, stated that at
seven-fifteen on the night of the murder she had been stand- ing at one
end of the public hallway on the fourth floor. She was occupied at the
time with the sorting of soiled linen pre- paratory to sending it
downstairs to the laundry. She had seen Miss Grenville leave her rooms.
Closing the door of her sitting-room, which was near the end of the hall
where the deponent was working, the actress walked rapidly down the hall
toward the elevator.
Question by the Coroner:—Except for
yourself, was the deceased alone in the hall.
Witness:—No,
sir. A man was com- ing toward her from the other end of the hall?
~
Question:—How far apart were they when you last saw them
?
Witness:—About five or six feet apart,
sir.
Question:—At that time had the man reached or passed the
deceased ?
Witness:—Neither, sir.
Question by the
Foreman of the Jury:—Did you recognize the man?
Witness :—No,
sir. Not then.
The chambermaid went on with her story. This
was to the effect that she had resumed her task of sorting the linen,
turning her back on the hall where Miss Grenville and the man were walk-
ing. But hardly had she turned and started her work before she had been
startled by a shriek of agony. Terror- stricken, she had turned back to
the hall. There she saw the deceased lying on the floor. The man was
bending over her. She had run to them and found Miss Grenville
dead—stabbed through the heart. And the man bending over the body she
had recognized as Mr. George Grover, a young man who had a suite on the
floor above.
Question :—Did Mr. Grover say any- thing to you
?
Witness:—No, sir. Not to me direct-
ly, sir. But he kept
repeating over and over, "Good God! She's dead! She's
dead!"
Sophie Mallory was excused. The next witness was
Detective Sergeant De- laney of the Branch Detective
Bureau.
Delaney spoke in the calm, unemotion- al tone of a man
to whom giving testi- mony in court is an ordinary occurrence. He stated
that he had gone to the Rals- ton Hotel on the night of the murder in
response to a telephone call from the management. He had found Irene
Grenville dead. She had been stabbed through the heart. The dagger was
still sticking in the body. Among the people gathered around the dead
wom- an he had spoken to Sophie Mallory and to George Grover. After he
had heard the chambermaid's story, he had arrested Grover on
suspicion.
"And besides," he volunteered, "the man looked like
he had done the trick. He was white and shaking like a
leaf."
Further he testified that with the per- mission of the
coroner he had removed from the body of the deceased the fatal dagger
and taken it to headquarters to be examined for
finger-prints.
Question:—Were there finger-prints on the
dagger?
Witness:—There were.
Question:—Can you state
whose?
Witness:—I can. They were the fin- ger-prints of George
Grover.
The next witness was Marie Thibault, an excitable
Frenchwoman who for many years had been maid to Miss Gren- ville. All
that she had to tell was that George Grover had been acquainted with her
mistress and that there had been some bad feeling between
them.
"I cannot say what was the matter," she said. "All I
know is that the last time Monsieur brought Mad'moiselle home from the
theatre, Mad'moiselle, she say to me, 'Marie, nevaire let me see that
crazy man some more'."
accompanied by a uniformed policeman, George Grover entered. He
was a young man of rather pleasing demeanor, care- fully but quietly
dressed. In normal circumstances he would have passed any- where without
causing remark. Now his face was pale and his eyes gleamed with a
feverish excitement. His suppressed emotion gave to his not distinctive
fea- tures an expression interesting and at the same time provocative of
sympathy. As he took the witness stand a woman in the rear of the
court-room cried out faintly.
He gave his testimony in a
quiet, sub- dued manner, speaking without emphasis or intonation like a
man talking in his sleep. After answering the usual formal questions as
to name, address and occu- pation, which last he gave as student of
Oriental languages, he said that on the night of Miss Grenville's
rnurder he had gone down the stairs from the fifth floor to the fourth
of the hotel to keep an appointment he had had in the apart- ment of Mr.
Sito Okawa, an attache of the Japanese embassy. Mr. Okawa had promised
to lend him a book on certain Japanese myths. Yes, he had seen Miss
Grenville arid had bowed to her.
"What happened then?" the
coroner asked.
"I passed her."
The coroner smiled
incredulously.
"You passed her?"
"Yes, I passed her.
I had just taken a * step or two when she cried out. Before I could turn
she had fallen to the floor. She was dead."
The coroner
hesitated a moment, re- garding Grover steadily before he asked his next
question.
"Did you touch the dagger with which she was
stabbed?"
Grover shuddered.
"I did not," he stated
in the most im- pressive tone he had used thus far.
"Then
how," the coroner leaned far over the desk to ask the question,
"do
you account for the undeniable fact that your finger-prints are on
the handle of the dagger?"
With bated breath the occupants of
the court-room awaited his reply. It came in a low, despairing
voice.
"I cannot account for it," the witness
answered.
The coroner leaned back in his chair. When he spoke
again it was almost in- differently, as though he were asking the
question as a matter of form. "Had you and the deceased quar-
reled?"
The witness shook his head.
"Quarreled, no,"
he answered. "Once I ventured to suggest to Miss Grenville that she was
ruining herself by the kind of life she was leading. She resented what
she called my interference and told me that she did not want to see me
again."
Slowly, almost languidly, he left the witness
stand.
One more witness remained to be ex- amined. This was
the Mr. Sito Okawa with whom Grover claimed to have had an appointment.
He was a short, dapper Japanese of the extremely intelligent type,
suave, polite to the verge of the ridiculous.
After bowing low
to the court and to the jury he took the witness stand. He stated that
on the night of the murder he had indeed had an appointment with Mr.
Grover. To the best of his belief, however, the time when they were to
have met in his rooms had been eight- fifteen rather than
seven-fifteen.
Then the coroner sent the jury to their
deliberations. These did not con- sume a great deal of time. In less
than five minutes the twelve men were back in their places, the foreman
ready to recite their verdict. It was what everyone had expected. Irene
Grenville had come to her death from the blow of a dagger driven into
her heart by one George Grover, whom they recommended
should
Two days later the
Grand Jury indict- ed the unfortunate young man. He was taken to the
Tombs to await trial. And after a week or so'New York forgot all about
him, being concerned with matters of newer and greater importance. The
baseball season opened—and a quite scandalous performance, the work of a
degenerate French playwright, was be- ing run at one of the largest
theatres.
II
Song Kee's participation in the Gren-
ville murder case came about in a singu- lar manner. One night as he
entered his club for dinner after an afternoon un- profitably spent in
investigating the ad- ministration of the city's poor-laws, the doorman
told him that a visitor was awaiting him in the Ladies'
Room.
"A visitor for me?" Song Kee in- quired, lifting his
eyebrows.
"Yes, sir. A lady; sir."
Song Kee turned
slowly and entered the Ladies' Room. There, standing be- fore the onyx
fireplace of which every member of the Travelers, is justly proud, stood
a woman. She was young, hand- somely gowned and beautiful. Her love-
liness was not of the gorgeous, riotous sort which startles one into
instant ad- miration, but gentle, modest like the beauty of a
wild-flower, appealing not to the many but to the appreciative few. Song
Kee bowed low before her.
"You wish to see me, madam?" he
asked with smiling courtesy.
"Are you Mr. Song Kee?" The wo-
man put her query in a voice of amazing fulness and depth.
"At
your service, madam."
Again Song Kee bowed almost to the
floor.
The woman stood silent before him. She seemed on the
verge of speech, but
hesitated as though in search of
adequate words. Then:
"Mr. Kee, I am in frightful trouble. I—I
have come to you to ask your help." "My help, madam? Why
I—"
"I know," she interrrupted, "you do not even know who I
am. Still," she paused, "I am Sylvia Granger. I was engaged," she threw
her head up proud- ly, "I still am engaged to marry Mr. George
Grover."
Song Kee's brow puckered into a puz- zled
frown.
The woman looked at him in amaze-
ment.
"Surely," she said incredulously, "you must have heard
of Mr. Grover. He is accused of the murder of Miss Gren-
ville"
A look of comprehension dawned in Song Kee's
face.
"Ah, yes," he said, "the actress in the Hotel Ralston. I
read of the case in the newspapers."
A wave of emotion swept
over the woman.
"Oh, Mr. Kee!" she cried. "He didn't do it. He
couldn't have! I don't care what they say—he couldn't have
!"
She brushed her hand across her fore- head, swaying
backward. Song Kee sprang forward and helped her into a
chair.
"Now, Miss Ganger," he said gently after a moment
during which she had regained her self-control, "please tell me as
calmly as you can why you have come to me and what it is that you wish
me to do."
The woman looked him full in the eyes.
"I
want you to help me to prove George Grover innocent," she said. And then
she hurried on as though to fore- stall any possible refusal from Song
Kee. "Do you remember some weeks ago here in this club, you and Mr.
Ogle- thorpe had a discussion about the detec- tion of crime? You stated
your belief
in
the superiority of the methods olyour own people. My brother happened to
overhear the conversation. He repeated it to me. And I am here, Mr. Kee,
to beg, to implore you to use those methods in which you believe to
investigate this frightful crime which has drawn into its net someone
whom I hold dear. You," her voice was tremulous with despair, "you are
my last hope."
For a little Song Kee remained silent, staring
contemplatively at the floor.
Then he rose and began to pace
the room.
"Miss Granger," he said at last, paus- ing before
the woman whose eyes did not falter beneath his steady gaze. "In China
men are taught to respect certain things as sacred. One of these is the
faith of a good woman. I respect your faith in your fiance's innocence.
I am inclined to do my small best to help you justify it. But tell me
what it is that makes you so sure of Mr. Grover's in- nocence. As I
recall the evidence brought out at the inquest, it was strongly against
him." .
With the Chinaman's words a gleam of hope had come to
Sylvia Granger.
She leaned forward eagerly.
"I have
no facts to justify my faith, Mr. Kee," she said, "but I have what is
worth innumerable facts—my knowl- edge of the man I love. You have said,
or implied, that I am a good woman. I believe—I hope I am. But this I
know. I know that in my heart no man, were he ever so clever, could have
reached the place George Grover holds were he ca- pable of imagining,
let alone committing, the dastardly crime of which my fiance is
accused."
Song Kee had listened carefully to her. When she had
finished he resumed his pacing to and fro, stopping from time to time
before her and gazing down at her with unseeing eyes. He paused at last
with the manner of one who has ar- rived at a decision. Sylvia
Granger
breathed — "You will help me?" It
was more a prayer than a question. Song Kee wrenched himself away from
the thoughts which had absorbed him.
"Yes," he said, "I will
help you. But do not expect too much. All that I can do is to promise
that I will look into this case as thoroughly as my poor abilities will
permit."
Sylvia Granger sprang to her feet. "Thank you! Thank
you!" she cried. "And whether you succeed or whether you fail to save
George, -please know that you will always have my gratitude and my
friendship."
"Which should be more than enough reward for any
man," Song Kee said, smiling as he bowed her out of the
room.
III
The man who left his rooms on a side
street off Madison Avenue was a far different Song Kee from the quietly
dressed, well-poised man of the world who had promised help to Sylvia
Gran- ger at the Traveler an hour or so earlier. His clothes, his linen,
his hat—a brown derby with an exceedingly curly brim— were of the
fashion of Broadway rather than of Fifth Avenue. His shoes were of a
gorgeous tan, contrasting gaily with pale lavender socks.
And
in keeping with his clothes, the man himself had changed. The dignity
which ordinarily characterized his man- ner and expression was gone. In
its place was a sort of childishly good-na- tured meekness, not
unattractive but in a way almost ridiculous.
He hurried
westward until he had crossed Eighth Avenue. Midway in the block he
paused before the doorway of the-Branch Detective Bureau. He looked up
at the lighted windows and smiled to himself. Not long ago when his
study of American customs and methods had led to an examination of the
Police System, he had been a familiar
and
not unpopular figure in and around the old brownstone building. Often
since then he had looked back with pleasure to the nights spent in "the
back room where the boys gathered and passed the time in spinning yarns
of their experi- ences.
A moment later Song Kee entered that
back room. He was greeted clamorous- ly by its occupants. Laughing and
jok- ing he crossed to the table where a big man sat, his chair tilted
back against the wall, his hat pulled forward over his
eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Delaney," Song Kee said in purring,
good-natured tones.
The big man looked up. "Well, dog-gone it,
if it ain't a Ching- a-ling! How's your soul, you yeller heathen ?
Wha'd'y' want around here ?" Song Kee took the man's rough greet- ing in
good part. "What do I want?" he laughed. "Maybe I want- to hear Mr.
Delaney tell about the Grenville murder." Delaney glanced at him
suspiciously. "Say, what's your interest in the Grenville case?" he
asked belligerently.
"Oh, nothing much. I just promised a
friend I'd look into it."
Delaney spat
disgustedly.
"Well, you'll be wastin' your time. The case is
an open and shut thing. Grover's the guy, and we got him. That's all
there is about that."
"I thought perhaps—" Song Kee be-
gan.
"Aw, fergit it." Delaney interrupted. "The Grenville dame
was croaked and Grover done it. He was caught with the goods, wasn't he
?" Didn't the cham- bermaid see him ?"
"Well, according to the
papers she didn't actually see him stab the woman." "Naw. But she seen
him near the woman just before she was stabbed and that's enough for me.
Besides, didn't we find his finger-prints on the dagger and he himself
says he never touched it
after it was in the woman. Then he
must have touched it before, mustn't he?"
Song Kee shook his
head meditatively.
"I—I suspose so," he said,
"still—"
Delaney pushed back his chair vio-
lently.
"Aw, say, you! You make me sick —always buttin' in
where you ain't wanted. You—" he paused. Then his manner
changed.
"Say," he went on, "some of the boys around here
think I'm sore on you be- cause of that little mess we had awhile ago.
Now just to show 'em the kind of guy I am I'll make you a proposition.
If you think you can get anythin' out of this here Grenville case I've
missed, go to it! Go as far as you like and I'll help
you."
Song Kee's mild eyes gleamed with
excitement.
"You mean that, Mr. Delaney?"
"I said
it, didn't I?"
Song Kee pulled up a chair and for a quarter of
an hour the two men talked in whispers, Song Kee speaking quickly and
excitedly, Delaney listening and making replies in the tolerant manner
one uses toward a child. Then they got up and left the
building.
They took the Subway downtown to Headquarters, where
on Delaney's au- thority Song Kee was permitted to ex- amine the dagger
throught the agency of which Irene Grenville had met her
death.
It was an oddly shaped weapon, with a long handle
roughly carved, tapering toward the blade. There was no guard dividing
handle and blade. The blade was of an unusual narrowness, shaped like an
enlarged bodkin, very sharp at the point, duller at the
sides.
With Delaney standing impatiently by, Song Kee favored
the deadly instru- ment with a long examination. Twice he laid it back
on the table and turned away from it. But something about it
seemed
to fascinate him and
he returned to it. At last he drew a small rule from his pocket and
measured it with great exact- ness, noting down the measurements on the
back of an envelope upon which at the same time he made a most detailed
drawing. Then he said to Delaney—
"Is there any proof that
this dagger belonged to Grover?"
"Not as I know of. We didn't
bother about that. The finger-prints were enough for
us."
"What did he say about it?"
"Aw, of course he
denied ever seein' the thing before."
"Yes, he would do that,"
Song Kee said. * He picked up the dagger again, hold- ing it by the
blade, the end of the handle thus pointed at the detective.
"I
wonder," he said, "why there should be all those little notches along
the top of the handle?"
Delaney glanced at the weapon indif-
ferently.
"Why shouldn't there be ? Ain't it carved all over
?"
"Yes, but—"
Song Kee stopped and smiled at the
detective.
"Maybe I'm just imagining things, Mr. Delaney," he
said, leading the way from the room.
Before the doorway of
Police Head- quarters Song Kee paused.
"Delaney," he said,
"did you find any motive for the killing of this Grenville woman either
by Grover—or by anyone else?"
Delaney puffed at a cigar he had
just fired.
"Well, I figure it this way. Grover was in love
with the dame. And he was what I call a 'one-woman-guy.' But the
'one-woman-one-man' stuff didn't go with Irene. Anything that wore pants
and packed a wad of bills looked good to her. Grover got sore and—woof!"
Delaney made an expressive gesture.
"But Grover said—"
"Fergit
it, kid. I know what Grover said —r- but — well—" And Delaney winked
broadly.
The next day Song Kee devoted to the curious pursuit
of reading old news- papers. f
From publication office to
publica- tion office he went, going through the files of the morning and
evening dailies. He himself could not have told exactly for what he was
searching. But he kept on looking, and toward nightfall in a journal
noted for its news of the theatri- cal , world he found an item which
in- trigued him. Surreptitiously he cut it from the paper, and
preserving it care- fully in his pocketbook, quietly hurried
away.
He journeyed uptown to his rooms. For a long time he sat
motionless by the window staring unseeingly into the street. His face
was as devoid of ex- pression as that of a -wooden Indian. Only his eyes
were alive and they shone with a lively interest and an intense con-
centration. Suddenly an exclamation broke from his lips. He jumped to
his feet and with the quickness of thought changed into a dinner jacket
and left.
He took a taxi to the Ralston Hotel and sent up his
card to Mr. Sito Okawa. After a few moments' wait, he. was asked to
ascend to the apartment of the Jap~ anese attache.
He found
the room to which he was admitted in some disorder. Open suit- cases
were on the floor. A half-packed English kit-bag stood on a chair
against which leaned a strapped bundle of um- brellas and canes. In the
centre stood Okawa in an embroidered jacket, smok- ing as he directed
his valet in the busi- ness of packing. He came forward to greet Song
Kee.
There ensued an exchange of cour- tesies in which only
two Orientals could seriously indulge. Then—
Kee
said, "is of small importance—a question about a Mr. Grover whom'I
believe you knew."
Sito Okawa made a gesture of sad-
ness.
"Ah, that poor young man," he said in tone of deepest
melancholy.
"You believe him guilty then of the killing of
this dancing woman ?"
"I ?" Okawa shrugged his shoulders. "I
believe nothing, really. How should I? All I know is what the papers
print- ed about the unfortunate affair. But your question, my dear
friend?"
"Quite so," Song Kee answered briskly. "It is about
the appointment he is said to have had with you on the night of the
murder. Are you quite sure it was for eight-fifteen rather than seven-
fifteen as he has stated?" *
Okawa contemplated the end of his
cigarette consideringly.
"Sure, Mr. Song Kee?" he said at
length. "How can we be sure of any- thing in this most remarkable world?
Still, I have the distinct impression that the hour set for our meeting
was eight- fifteen."
"When did you make this appoint- ment
?"
"That same day at luncheon."
Song Kee sighed
deeply.
"The poor fellow," he said. "I'm afraid there is
nothing one can do for him. I have tried, but—" he sighed
again.
Then he pulled himself together and extended his
hand.
"It is most good of you to. have re- ceived me so
kindly. I will relieve you now of my troublesome presence, as I can see
that you are busy." He pointed to the half-completed packing. "You are
leaving town?"
"Tomorrow or the next day," Okawa replied. "My
duties at the legation will require my presence in Washington. And I
prepare for the possibility of a sudden start."
Song Kee made his
adieux. He bowed low and still lower backing toward the door. In his
passage he stumbled against the bundle of umbrellas and canes lean- ing
against the chair and knocked them with a clatter to the
floor.
His apologies for his awkwardness were absurdly
profuse. He picked up the things he had knocked down and stood fingering
them nervously while he called himself several kinds of a clumsy,
ungainly fool.
Okawa smilingly waved the apologies aside and
relieving him of the bundle ac- companied him to the
door.
Song Kee looked out into the hall.
"It was
just here in front of this door that the tragedy occurred, was it not?"
he asked.
Okawa shook his heaid.
"No, my friend. A
few feet further toward the elevator. There—just beneath that electric
globe."
Song Kee advanced to the spot in- dicated. Slowly
Okawa followed him.
The Chinaman stood silent for a mo-
ment.
"So," he said finally, "the dancing wo- man was about
here, going in the direc- tion of the elevator?"
"And Mr.
Grover came along about here," Okawa turned around so that he faced Song
Kee.
The litle Chinaman seemed' to have forgotten Okawa's
presence. His eyes traveled slowly, as though measuring distance, down
the hall. They stopped at a point on the wall perhaps twenty feet away.
Then he smiled contentedly as one quite satisfied with the progress of
events.
A discreet cough from Okawa brought him to himself. He
turned and again thanking the Japanese for his courtesy, hurried off
down the hall.
At the desk downstairs he drew the clerk aside
and presented a card bearing Delaney's name and a request to the hotel
management to give the bearer
"Tell me," he said, "who occupied
the room four doors down the hall from Mr. Okawa on the night Miss
Grenville was killed?"
The clerk consulted the guests'
list.
"That will be room four-thirty-eight. The room was empty
that night," he an- nounced.
"And when rooms are empty are
they left unlocked?"
"As a rule, no. But the maids are
sometimes careless. We cannot watch all the time."
"And the
room opposite?" Song Kee asked,
"Let's see. That is Count
Angellotti's bedroom."
"Thank you," Song Kee said as he turned
away.
It was a smiling and somewhat excited Song Kee who stood
at the entrance of the hotel and consulted his watch.
He
hurried to a little Chinese restau- rant on Fourth Avenue where he in-
dulged in strange dishes with stranger names never printed on a Chinese-
American menu. Then he dashed into the Subway and was borne swiftly
southward.
He came to the surface of the Bridge. He journeyed
north on Park Row until it changed into the Bowery. Then he turned into
a side street leading through a ravine of ill-kept tenements toward the
East River. At a house not far from the corner he stopped. He descended
into the basement and knocked vigorously on a black, greasy
door.
A minute or so later, the door was opened ever so
slightly and from out of the darkness gleamed a pair of slanting
eyes.
Song Kee said a few words in a southern Chinese dialect
and was ad- mitted to the house.
"Take me to your most
respected mas- ter," he said in the same tongue.
His guide led
him along an evil smell-
ing hall, up a flight of rickety
stairs end- ing in a sheet metal door. With a key which dangled at his
waist the guide opened the door and drew aside for Song Kee to1
pass.
The room Song Kee entered seemed only an ante-chamber to
still another apartment. It was empty, but through a door at the rear
could be heard the sound of many voices.
"Wait here," the
guide said with great respect, "and I will call my master."
He
disappeared into the inner room, returning shortly with another China-
man. He was a man of many years whose emaciated frame was accentuated by
the long plum-colored robe which hung in loose, rich folds from his
shoul- ders. When he recognized his visitor he bowed almost to the
floor.
"You do my poor house great honor," he said in a thin,
quavering voice.
Song Kee drew near and spoke in low,
peremptory tones.
The aged Chinaman bowed again. Then he
turned to the servant.
"Go," he ordered, "to the barbarian
they name the 'Rat* and say to him that I would borrow the tools of his
trade for an evening."
Fifteen minutes later Song Kee left the
house carrying in his pocket a ring of strangely shaped
keys.
He returned to the Ralston Hotel. This time he did not
enter through the main doorway which faced the Avenue but through a
lesser entrance on the side street. Unconcernedly he strolled through
the corridors until he reached a stairway leading to the upper floors.
When he was quite certain that he was unnoticed by any of the hotel
employees he ran quickly up this stairway until it curved around the
elevator shaft and he was free from observation. Then he made his way
more slowly until he reached the fourth floor.
Down the
hallway in which Irene Grenville had been killed he moved
cau-
tiously until he reached a certain door- way. A great sigh of
relief came through his parted lips as, looking up, he saw that the
transom was dark. As quickly as though he were a profession- al thief he
drew the ring of oddly shaped keys from his pocket and tried them one by
one until the lock beneath his hand turned. Softly as though stealing
into a chamber of death he stole into the room.
His errand
within took him no more than five or perhaps ten minutes to com- plete.
Then as silently and as cau- tiously as he had entered, he withdrew,
relocking the door behind him.
But he did not come away empty
banded. Under his loose coat he clung firmly to something, holding it
eagerly as though it were of great value to him.
Not caring
now whether or not he were seen, he walked boldly down the hall and
waited for the elevator, which a moment later bore him to the main
corridor below.
Now his hurry and excitement were over. What
he had set out to do he had accomplished. Leisurely he turned his steps
homeward. At a corner drug store he stopped, and spent a few moments
telephoning. A half hour later he was in bed sleeping as quietly as a
tired child.
IV
The next morning at eleven o'clock
five people were gathered in Police Commissioner Oglethorpe's office at
headquarters awaiting the coming of Song Kee. The Commissioner himself
sat at his desk going through his morn- ing's mail. Detective Sergeant
Delaney stood beside the window looking down into Centre Street and
talked in subdued whispers to a representative from the District
Attorney's office. In a far cor- ner sat Sylvia Granger beside her
fiance, Grover. They did not talk, but just sat there hand in hand
waiting expec- tantly
At five minutes after the hour, Song
Kee was ushered into the room. He was immaculately garbed in morning
coat, striped trousers and patent leather boots. In one hand he carried
a silk hat in the latest mode, in the other a cane. When Delaney saw him
he gasped. In dress and manner he was so different from the little
Chinaman who used to lounge in the backroom of the-Branch De- tective
Bureau, tolerated for his good nature and his generosity in the matter
of fairly good cigars. His surprise was changed to awe when he saw the
Commissioner rise and greet the Chinaman with the respect one shows to
an equal.
Song Kee bowed low to Miss Granger and the
Commissioner. He greeted De- laney with a genial wave of the hand. Then
he hung his hat on the Commis- sioner's rack and leaned his cane care-
fully against it. These details attended to he seated himself
comfortably in the centre of the room.
"I must apologize for
keeping you all waiting," he said, "but my taxi was de- layed—a little
argument between my driver and one of your excellent traffic policemen.
But now that I am here we can proceed at once- with the matter in
hand.
"You are all here," he continued, "at my request. Be
assured, I would not have sent for you had the affair not been urgent. I
have done three things— proved the validity of certain statements I once
made to you, Mr. Oglethorpe; given Miss Granger the help she asked for,
and taken advantage of Mr. Dela- ney's offer to 'go to it' if I thought
I could discover anything he had over- looked in the Grenville murder
case."
A half suppressed snort from Delaney interrupted him.
He turned.
"Yes, Mr. Delaney," he said gently, "I have found
several little things which you overlooked—one of which is the real
murderer of Irene Grenville."
"Then—then—" she
began, but words failed her and she sank back beside Grover, her eyes
fixed doubtfully upon the Chinaman.
"Miss Granger," Song Kee
said smil- ing across the room, "Mr. Grover is as innocent as you or I
of the Grenville woman's death. In a few moments I think I shall be able
to convince these gentlemen of that fact."
"Well, you'll have
to go some, young man," the rather officious Assistant Dis- trict
Attorney put in. "The evidence we have—"
"Would be enough to
convict the Commissioner himself," Song Kee laughed, "if wrongly
applied." He paused.
"I can see that you, like Mr. Delaney,
have been taken in by facts. And as I told Mr. Oglethorpe once when we
dis- cussed these matters, facts are not al- ways sign-posts to the
truth. The clever criminal will conceal his crime beneath misleading
facts, rather than lies. In this case the criminal chose to create facts
pointing to the guilt of another. And to use a phrase of your delightful
slang, 'you fell for it'."
"Aw, fer the love of Mike, get on."
This from'Delaney, sotto voce.
Song Kee overheard him. "Very
well, Mr. Delaney, I will 'get on'." He turned to the
Commissioner.
"Mr. Oglethorpe, you will recall that my
complaint about the Occidental de- tective concerned his inability to
believe in the unbelievable. That applied in this case. Mr. Delaney
here, who, by the way, is an efficient man, was convinced beyond the
shadow of a doubt that Mr. Grover was guilty of the murder of Irene
Grenville. He was taken in by the facts presented—the 'almost'
eye-witness to the act—the finger-prints on the dag- ger. When I
suggested to him that per- haps another might have killed the
danc-
ing woman, he laughed at me. The idea was beyond belief and as
such he would not believe in it."
Delaney clenched his
unlighted cigaf more firmly between his teeth and mut- tered, "Yes, and
I'd like to see the guy that could."
"Now, I'll admit," Song
Kee contin- ued, paying no attention to the interrup- tion, "that Mr.
Delaney did not have the incentive that I had to believe in the
unbelievable. He had not had the plea- sure of meeting Miss Granger nor
had he drawn inspiration from her faith in her fiance's innocence.
So—
"But to go on. I started to work from the point of view
that the accused man was innocent. Therefore someone else must have
committed the crime. But who? To find that out was my task. And at the
outset I was very much at sea.
"I went to see my friend, Mr.
Delaney, But he could do little to help me. His opinion, you see,
was—well, prejudiced. However, through his kindness, I found out the
names and all there was to know about the occupants of the rooms on the
floor where the dancing woman had lived. Then, this information was of
little use. One and all they were beyond suspicion. Then Mr. Delaney
brought me down here and showed me the fatal dagger.
"Here was
something interesting, and, it seemed to me, important could I but see
it. It was a queer knife—very long with a straight handle running into a
needle shaped blade. And there was something else peculiar about it. The
top of the handle was carved with little notches and they were not in
keeping with the carving on the rest of the han- dle. Also they were
newly cut. Why? I could not. answer—then."
Song Kee paused.
His audience was silent, tensely, eagerly waiting for him to
continue.
"My next clue, I found iii the files of one of your
daily papers." he went on.
"I
knew of no other place to seek the identity of someone who might desire
Miss Grenville's death." But I reasoned that in some column of stage and
Broad- way gossip I might find something to put me on the track. I did.
It was only a tiny paragraph, but it gave the reason why someone—someone
I knew of— might kill the dancing woman. It merely related the return to
his own country of a young foreigner whom she had ruined —in honor as
well as in pocketbook. This young foreigner came of a family that holds
its honor very dear. And by a strange coincidence, the young man's
brother had an apartment on the same floor with the woman who had
dragged in the mud the honor of his family." "Say, you don't mean the
dago count, Angellotti ?" Delaney shouted.
Song Kee held up
his hand. "Patience," he said; "we'll come to that later."
"In
China," he resumed, "we have a saying to the effect that truth grows out
of thought and concentration. I applied it. In my rooms I gave myself
over to meditation. I had found someone who might have desired the death
of the dancing woman. If I could discover a way in which he could have
killed her, I might be making progress. And after a little, I did
discover a way. From out of the realm of my subconscious mind there
flashed an idea. What if the Gren- ville woman had not been stabbed at
all —but shot? What if the instrument were not a dagger—but an arrow ?
Then I remembered that the people from whom the foreigner was sprung had
been the world's greatest archers, since the tenth century. Also I
remembered the freshly cut notches on the handle of the knife—notches,
which might be used to catch in the string of a bow."
He
stopped and glanced around the room. The impression he had made on his
hearers was one that would have satisfied an actor most avid for
attention.
Oglethorpe and the Assistant
District Attorney were listening intently. Syl- via Granger and her
lover, whose hand she still held, were leaning forward, their eyes
glowing with excitement. Even Delaney, the skeptic, had dropped his pose
of indifference.
Song Kee continued.
"My next step
was to visit the scene of the crime to discover—well, if the thing could
have been done as I had imagined. And incidentally I paid my respects to
Mr. Sito Okawa, a most courteous gentleman. That visit was productive of
several things. One was the knowledge of exactly where the dancing woman
had been when she was killed. And standing where she had been, I saw the
place from which an arrow could have been shot. Mr. Delaney had given me
the approximate angle at which the knife had been driven into the body
and this angle correspond- ed to that which would have obtained had the
woman been killed by an arrow shot through the open transom of a room
twenty-five feet down the hall.
"I left Mr. Okawa and
questioned the clerk of the hotel. He told me that on the night of the
murder the room in question had been unoccupied. The room opposite was
the bedroom of Count Angellotti."
"Then it was the dago you
suspect- ed?" Delaney again broke out.
Song Kee smiled softly
upon the now thoroughly excited detective. He seemed about to answer
him. Then he changed his mind and said, "Will you pass me my cane, Mr.
Delaney?"
"Mr. Grover," he said when Delaney had handed him
the cane, "have you ever seen this cane before ?"
He held out
the bamboo stick.
Grover started in surprise. The seem- ing
irrelevance of the question dazed him for an instant. Then he looked
closely at the cane.
"Sh!" he said quickly. "Would you mind
writing the name of its owner on that slip of paper on the desk beside
you?"
As Grover obeyed, he went on.
"Now, gentlemen,
I must confess to a slight infraction of your laws. The next thing I did
was to provide myself with some skeleton keys. Armed with these I again
visited the fourth floor of the Ralston Hotel. In the room I un-
lawfully entered I found that for which I searched. I found the bow that
had driven the arrow into Irene Grenville's breast."
He
answered the question in their eyes.
"You are wondering what I
did with it. I brought it here. It is hjre."
He held out the
cane.
"Look!"
With a deft movement he pulled at the
handle. It came out of the bamboo stick. And the handle was the hilt of
a long, evilly shaped knife, the blade of which had been hidden in the
hollow of the bamboo.
"This," he said in explanation, "is the
arrow which brought death to the dancing woman. Through the kindness of
Mr. Delaney I was able to borrow it this morning. And this," he bent the
long stick of bamboo, "is the bow. String it with a piece of cord beyond
the joints at either end and you have a deadly and effective
weapon."
"Wait a" minute—wait a minute," De- laney shouted. "I
beg your pardon, Mr. Commissioner, but let's get this thing straight.
D'ye mean to say Mister Song Kee, that some guy who had it in for the
Grenville woman hid in the vacant room and potted her when she went down
the hall?"
"Exactly."
"Pretty fishy! But we won't
say
nothin' about that. Maybe though you won't mind tellin' me, if
this cock and bull story of yours is true, how Grover's finger-prints
come to be on the knife?"
Song Kee smiled
patiently.
"How did your own get there ?"
"Mine—they
never were there!".
Song Kee smiled again, but less pa-
tiently.
"Listen, Mr. Delaney. Just a few moments ago I asked
you to pass me my cane. You did so, giving it to me by the handle. Now,
providing someone who touched it after you, wearing gloves and touching
it only at its very end, had pulled it from its sheath and using it as
an arrow had shot it into a body— whose finger-prints would then be on
it?"
He laughed outright at the expression on Delaney's
face.
"I don't blame you," he said, "for your surprise. "We
are dealing in this case with a nr1'" who was very subtle—a man who
manufactured, not lies, but facts, to cover his crime. One must marvel
at him. Patiently he waited and studied the habits of the woman he had
come to kill. He found that she in- variably left her apartments on her
way to the theatre promptly at seven-fifteen. He arranged that someone
should be in the hall at that time on the night he in- tended to murder
her. He even ar- ranged that the finger-prints of that per- son should
be upon the weapon he was to use. This he contrived by the very simple
method which I have just now used to convince the skeptical Mr. De-
laney. Read, Mr. Grover, the name of the murderer on the slip of paper
you are holding in your hand.
In a trembling voice Grover read
the name he had written in compliance with Song Kee's request that the
identity of the owner of the cane be set down on paper rather than
spoken.
"Now
tell us when and where you last saw Mr. Okawa's cane."
"In the
restaurant at luncheon on the day of the murder. It was the occa- sion
upon, which we made the appoint- ment to meet in his rooms that night.
He was leaving without it. When he remembered it,' and as I was nearer
to it than he, he asked me to hand it to him."
"Which you
did—and left your finger- prints on the handle."
Song Kee rose
and bowed like a show- man finished with his exhibition.'
At
once everyone in the room began to talk, plying him with questions. The
jangling of the telephone brought a tardy silence. Commissioner
Oglethorpe an- swered it.
"Yes ? Good God! Go on, go on! He,
left a jfote ? Read it."
Oglethorpe hung up the receiver with
a bang.
He turned to his companions and said
gravely:
"Sito Okawa killed himself in the Ralston Hotel last night. A note
was found beside his body saying that he had killed Irene Grenville to
avenge the dishonored name of his family."
Everyone except
Song Kee and De- laney stared fixedly at the Commission- er, Delaney was
watching the China- man, who was standing unmoved and unperturbed,
looking out of the win- dow.
"Say, Mr. Song Kee," the
detective said grimly. "What did you have to do with this last
?"
Song Kee shrugged.
"Perhaps nothing—perhaps
every- thing," he answered. "I don't know. Last night when I went to his
room I left a message. It was to the effect that it would be unfitting
that the person of one of the Samurai be held in bondage and punished by
foreigners even in the enforcement of their laws. ... It may be that he
understood."
IT was seven o'clock in the morning and Marshal John McAlpin, of
Georgetown, was frenziedly ringing a wall telephone at Herman Mat-
thews' store.
"Gimme Rockland, quick!" he shout- ed into the
transmitter when he at last had the operator on the wire. "I'm in a
hurry, Lou; git a move on. I ain't got no time to be wastin' on you.
Gimme Rockland at once."
In a few seconds there was a noise in
the' distance.
"Rockland? 'At you, Rockland? This is Marshal
McAlpin at George- town. Gimme Prosecutor Thornton or the sheriff right
away. Hell's a-pop- pin' down here. They's bin a murder committed, mebbe
two. Hurry up, now."
Soon the marshal had the prosecutor on
the wire, and hastily, disjointedly chopped out the facts as he knew
them.
"I'll be right down," Thornton told him, somewhat
excited himself. "I'll bring the sheriff and the coroner with
me."
An hour and a half later a machine bearing four men came
whirling into Georgetown, a great cloud of August dust eddying behind
it. The machine stopped and Thornton alighted before the store and soft
drink parlor con- ducted by Herman Matthews.
"Where's Marshal
McAlpin ?" he in- quired of Herman.
"Over on the commons. A
block down and a block toward the right."
The prosecutor,
himself a young man; Dr. Garter, the coroner; "Bull- dog" Dorgan, a
friend of Thornton in
years gone by, now a Chicago de-
tective, who was visiting his people at Rockland, and Sheriff Perry con-
tinued on till they found a cluster of men.
Marshal McAlpin
saw them coming and with his best official decorum or- dered the crowd
back. The county au- thorities stepped into the circle and saw the body
of a man about thirty lying on the ground.
"Who is he, Marshal
?" the prose- cutor asked.
"Harley, Mr. Thornton; George Har-
ley," the marshal told him. "Clerk of the Lewis Commercial Bank."' The
marshal seemed to place emphasis upon "the Lewis Commercial Bank," as
though it was an institution of which he and all Georgetown were
proud.
"Examine him, please, Dr. Carter," the prosecutor
instructed. "Now, Mar- shal McAlpin, tell what you know about it. And
who is the other person that might have been murdered ?
The
marshal told them that Harrison J. Lewis, president of the bank, was the
other supposed victim. His body was at his home. But Marshal McAl- pin
could give them little information as to either case. All he knew was
that Harley's body had been discovered on the common at dawn, just as
they now saw it. No one had seen it placed there, and there had not been
a shot or a cry or an unusual sound during the night, so far as he could
learn. No one had thought to look for tracks, and the dust was now
disturbed. And Mr. Lewis' body had been found in his automobile at his
home.
"What do you find, doctor?" Thorn- ton turned to the
coroner.
"A slight abrasion at the base of the skull," was the
answer. "That's all ex- ternally. I think his death was caused by a
broken neck. Other than that I can discover nothing
wrong."
Thornton ordered the body taken to the village
undertaker's, and the. party was moving away when a youth came running
and announced that the Com- mercial Bank had been robbed. John Jacobsen,
the cashier, had just opened up and found five thousand dollars missing,
money which had recently been deposited by farmers who had sold their
wheat.
"Things are happening around here," whistled the
prosecutor. "Come on; we'll stop at the bank on the way to the Lewis
home."
At the bank everything was in or- der. Mr, Jacobsen
told the investiga- tors he had found the doors locked as always, the
non-time locking safe closed as it had been every morning, and papers
and books undisturbed. But on opening the safe he discovered that five
thousand dollars was missing.
A search in the bank revealed
noth- ing; a search outside revealed nothing. There were no
finger-prints to be seen on the safe, as Dorgan for one deter- mined ;
the person who opened it evi- dently had exercised the greatest pre-
caution. There was not even a track in the road that might have
indicated a machine had been near the bank during the
night.
"Did Harley have a key to the bank ?" Thornton asked
Mr. Jacobsen.
"Yes, he did; always had one. But you didn't
find the money on his body, did you?"
"No; but we will look
again."
"Did you find a pair of gloves of any kind a robber
might have worn in open- ing the safe, Mr. Jacobsen?" Dorgan wanted to
know.
"No, sir. Everything was left just as you see it when I found that
the money was gone. I can't imagine what's happened."
"Well, I
can't either," Thornton ad- mitted. He turned to leave the bank, then
stopped.
"Let me talk to you in private, Mr. Jacobsen." And
with the middle-aged cashier, a man of faultless habits, he went into
what had been Mr. Lewis' private office. They were closeted half an
hour.
"Don't believe he is guilty or knows anything about the
robbery or the deaths," Thornton confided to Dr. Carter, Sheriff Perry
and Dorgan as they walked back to the undertaker's. "However, I guess it
would be best to question him further later on."
They did not
find the money on Har- ley. Neither did they find a pair of gloves. They
found/ the bank key, but Thornton said that proved
nothing.
They went on to the Lewis home, the most pretentious
of any in the town of a thousand people* Mrs. Lewis was reclining upon a
divan, weeping and hysterical. She told them Mr. Lewis was in his
machine in front of the ga- rage. They went to the rear and there saw
the corpse of the middle-aged banker and leading business man of the
community at the steering wheel of his car, his arms clasped around the
wheel and his head resting upon them, as if he had fallen
asleep.
Dr. Carter made another examina- tion. There were no
marks to indicate the banker had been the victim of foul play. Dr.
Carter announced that he believed he died of heart
disease.
When the four men returned to the house Mrs. Lewis,
attended by an anx- ious neighbor woman, disposed them in chairs and
returned to the diyan.
"Would you tell us, Mrs. Lewis, what
you know about this unfortunate occurrence?" the prosecutor began
al-
most diffidently. "I suppose you know that the clerk of the bank
also was found dead?"
She nodded her head, lips quivering. "I
realize it is a painful situation, Mrs. Lewis, and I will Tie brief.
Where was Mr. Lewis last night in the car?" "He left—left yesterday
afternoon for Winton," she sobbed. ."He told me he had business to look
after there, and —and might be gone for the night." At this Dorgan
concentrated his steel blue eyes on Mrs. Lewis. She must have felt the
intent scrutiny, for she suddenly looked toward him. As she did he
perceived that she was a good- looking woman and could not be the age of
her husband. There was a mo- mentary alarm in her manner, which,
however, fled as quickly aS it had come. She took hold of herself and
instead of being frightened and wary soon burst into a fresh fit of
weeping. There was such an air of abject misery about her that even
Dorgan seemed to be so moved that the glint in his eyes
softened.
"He did not tell you what his busi- ness was?"
Thornton was saying.
"No. Mr. Lewis nev—never told me about
his business affairs."
"Try to be calm, Mrs. Lewis," the
prosecutor counseled. "We will not bother you long. Did you hear Mr.
Lewis return in the night or this morn- ing?"
"No. I slept
soundly all night and did not know he was-—he was dead un- til I got up
this morning."
"Tell us about the discovery." "Well, I had
arranged for a man to come today to mow the lawn," she went on more
concertedly, ; the opportunity to tell what she knew apparently easing
her mind. "Duggan—John Duggan. I had just come down to the kitchen; I do
not. have steady help and there was no one in the house but me. I was
get- ting a bite for breakfast, making toast and putting the coffee on,
when Mr.
Duggan came running and told me the
machine was standing in the drive and Mr. Lewis was leaning over the
wheel. He didn't know he was dead, but he thought there was something
strange about it. I—I went out with him and —and tried to arouse Mr.
Lewis. But —but I could not. Then I came back to the house and Mr.
Duggan went for Marshal McAlpin. I—I—oh, it's aw- ful, awful." She gave
way to her grief again.
The prosecutor waited for her to re-
gain control of herself before he pur- sued his
questioning.
"Have you any idea of what might have become of
the money, or caused Mr. Harley's death?"
"No."
"Was
Mr. Lewis afflicted with heart trouble? Did he show any symptoms —grow
weak, or faint?"
"Yes, yes, he had one or two attacks. * Once
in the bank he almost collapsed. Mr. Jacobsen knows about
that."
"We'll not bother you much longer, Mrs. Lewis. There's
just one thing more. Do you object to the body being held for a few days
before burial ? Per- haps a post-mortem may throw a little light on the
case."
"No. I have no objections."
"Thank you. I'll
do my best to clear this up. Two mysterious deaths here —it is very
unusual. Good-day."
The party tiptoed from the house.
Prosecutor Thornton said he was glad that was over.
As they
walked away he asked Dor- gan what he thought of the situation. Jim
merely replied he didn't know what to think. It was obvious he did not
wish to express an opinion so publicly.
Back at the bank,
Thornton inquired of Mr. Jacobsen concerning Harley's antecedents and
was informed by the cashier that he knew little of Harley's history. In
fact, almost nothing. Mr. Lewis had engaged him in
Cleveland,
he believed, although he could'not be certain. Harley had talked
of many places he had been, without attaching himself to any one
particularly. He had come to Georgetown a little more than a year ago,
and had always been on good terms with his employer. Mr. Jacobsen
declared he was a very lik- able -and upright young man, and re- sented
any inference from the prosecu- tor that he might have been responsible
for the disappearance of the five thou- sand dollars.
"Do you
suppose he might have had friends in another city—Cleveland, for
instance—who helped him rob the bank?" Dorgan pressed.
"Ah,
no," Mr. Jacobsen replied, dis- missing the thought. "He could not have
done it. No, certainly not." "Well, boys," Thornton said when they left
the bank the second time, "the case resolves itself into this: Was Har-
ley murdered, and who got the money? Evidently, as Dr. Carter says,'
Lewis died of heart disease in his car. He was getting well beyond
fifty, and that's very probable. But something very un- usual must have
happened to Harley to break his neck, and the money of course did not
walk away from the bank unassisted. What caused Harley's death and who
took the money?—-that's for us to find out. What's the answer, Dorgan
?"
Jim flung up his hands in meaning- less
gesture.
After visiting the house where Har- ley had roomed
and where they found the landlady in sincere mourning at Harley's death,
the party returned to Rockland.
II.
"Well, Mr.
Sphinx, what do you make of it?" Thornton wanted to know when he was
alone with Dorgan that evening in his office. "Has there
been a murder
committed ? Or two murders ? What in your opinion should be the course
of the commonwealth?" The "Bulldog" did not answer at Once, but stood
looking out over the public square of Rockland where the autos were
massed.
"We have cars nowadays where we used to have horses
and buggies and hitchracks," he said irrelevantly. "Yes," Bill
answered.
"But we have people down here as always, the same
people, with pretty much the same habits and beliefs and prejudices and
loves and longings." "Yes, I guess so."
"Human nature does not
change a great deal regardless of the advance of civilization, does
it?"
"No. But what's that got to do with Georgetown
?"
"I don't know, Bill. Perhaps noth- ing. What do you think
?"
Thornton sat staring at him and seemed to interpret his
thoughts.
"You're wrong, Jim," he declared suddenly; "you're
wrong."
"Well, perhaps I am. But that an- cient situation—an
old husband, a young wife and a young man. Why, the man who would
overlook that angle of this case would be a fool. An abso- lute fool,
Bill; an absolute fool." "How old do you say she is, Jim?" "A little
over thirty. Do I miss it far?"
"No, I guess not. I recall
that she married him five or six years ago, and she could not have been
very old then. She's just two or three years younger than you and
I."
"What were the circumstances—the reason, if I might put it
that way?" "No particular reason, to my knowl- edge. Probably because
she had no other offer of marriage, Jim. Such things do happen, you
know."
"That's probably true. Plain sort of woman, isn't
she?"
"Yes, plain. Too plain, Jim, to bear out what you're hinting at.
That's my idea. Why, I know her as I know ev- ery one else in the
county, perhaps a little better than some, and I know she has been very
dutiful. Her nature to be so. It's rather ridiculous, Dorgan, to jump at
conclusions like that. Pre- posterous! A church worker, the As- sociated
Charities of the village, the personification of kindness. No, Jim, it
could not be."
"But you do not intend to take it for granted,
do you, Bill? You're surely going to investigate her thoroughly. If I
may offer a suggestion, I'd keep the coroner's verdict open for a while,
and —and put her through a severe exami- nation."
Thornton
thrummed his desk with a letter opener. His face
flushed.
"Look here, Jim," he said, shaking the instrument at
Dorgan with the man- ner he might use in addressing a jury. "I've a
little sense of human nature as well as you. You have worked among
people where that sort of thing exists. It does not exist in this
county. It does not, I tell you!"
"Well, that's the chivalrous
way of looking at it."
"I've got some sense of human na- ture,
as I said," Thornton continued, his eyes narrowing, "and I insist that I
know an honest and decent woman when I see one. I did not indicate it
today, but I have known Helen Lewis for a great many years. We once went
to school together down in the country before I met you. That girl was
whole- some, a romping, open-souled sort of person; that woman is
wholesome, and decent, today."
"But, Bill, it is the wholesome
wo- man that often turns out to be the most unwholesome. She's forced to
it. The lack of attention drives her to seek at- tention. Haven't I seen
it proven scores of times? I wasn't born yesterday."
There was a
recalcitrant note in his voice.
"Yes, that's the fine
professional way of looking at it. But it's the brutal, cold way, too.
Why, Dorgan, I'd as soon cut off that little finger as to con- sider
such a thing seriously. What do we know to indicate such an amour as you
insinuate, getting down to brass tacks ? What evidence have we got that
such an affair ever existed? None, absolutely none. They were never seen
together, and Harley very, very seldom was at the Lewis home. Jacobsen
told me privately he knew that neither had been farther away from
Georgetown than Rockland within the year. Why, man, there's not a
scintilla of fact to back you up!"
Dorgan laughed
softly.
"Very well, my dear sir," Thornton flung at him. "But
perhaps you can ex- plain the disappearance of the money on your
hypothesis? Possibly the five thousand had an affinity."
"Oh,
I won't quarrel about it, Bill. Of course I cannot explain at this stage
how the money disappeared. But somebody who had a key to the bank and
knew the safe combination must have got it. That's almost a foregone
conclusion."
"Yes. But where did it go? Three persons had keys
to the bank—Harley, Jacobsen and Lewis. I think you will agree with me
that Jacobsen may al- most be eliminated from suspicion. However, I
intend to have accountants go over the books and affairs of the bank
generally. Just before you came in tonight I had the bank at Winton on
the phyie to see if I could find any clew to Lewis' taking the money
there. But there was none. It was some real estate business that took
him to Win- ton, I learned, and there was no money passed. That brings
us down to Har- ley. If he stole the money, what did he do with it? It
was not at the house
where he roomed, as you know our in- vestigation proved. If he
took it, would he hide it, knowing that the theft of so large an amount
would be discovered immediately? And he mail- ed nothing, nor
telegraphed. There is the possibility that he had outside help. Jacobsen
spoke of his having come from Cleveland; at least he thought so. He
might have engineered the haul and had a gang from Cleveland to aid him.
We'll get in touch with the police there and in other cities and have
them on the lookout. There are several possi- bilities—plausibilities,
Jim, you might say—but nothing definite. I think you will agree wth me,
that it is a very deep mystery to which the key is not visible. So
what's the answer, Jim?"
"The woman,
Bill."
Prosecutor Thornton threw up his hands in
disgust.
"Bah! Two bahs! You're crazy. There's nothing to
proceed on, man!" "There's what the reporters call the third
degree."
"Nothing doing, nothing doing!" Bill expostulated.
"Whenever I have to be- come a dulldozer to accomplish my ends,
particularly with a woman like Helen Lewis, why, somebody else can be
prosecutor!" -
"Then you don't intend to do
it?"
"No, I do not."
"I'm afraid I can't be of any
mOre help to you, Bill."
"Jim, it's Said that whenever a man
offers a wager to support his position, he has nothing more worthy to
offer. But I'd stake my life on Helen Lewis' fidelity, and I'm not going
to besmirch her name."
"I admire your chivalry, Bill, but not
your professional acumen. I think I'll be going."
"All right,
Jim. Time will tell. It usually does in such vital matters." "Bulldog"
Dorgan departed, cursing under his breath such
stupidity.
III.
Next morning Jacobsen sent in to the prosecutor a
letter he had found among Mr. Lewis' papers. Thornton called Dorgan at
the home of his par- ents and asked if he would like to take a trip into
the country. Dorgan ac- cepted the invitation and they drove fifteen
miles beyond George- town into the hills bordering the Ohio
River.
The letter, written in a scrawling and illiterate
style, and signed by George Morris, had been posted seven days be- fore.
It was very short and to the point, being, in fact,, a threat that if
Mr. Lewis did not restore five thousand dollars which Morris Claimed he
was entitled to, he, Morris, would take steps to get it
back.
With the letter in hand Thornton, accompanied by Dorgan,
climbed a rock strewn hillside to the Morris house, a place badly in
need of repair. It was patently not the home of a prosperous
farmer.
George, a doddering old man, was amiable enough to his
callers. He had not heard Mr. Lewis was dead, but was frank to say he
was glad of it. He calmly admitted he had written to Mr. Lewis,
explaining that some months be- fore the bank had foreclosed without
notice on an adjoining piece of land and sold it for five thousand
dollars to a neighbor. He went on to say that fol- lowing that his wife
had died and now he was alone on his almost worthless patch of twenty
acres or so. He said the foreclosure had brought on his wife's death,
and if Mr. Lewis had been lenient a little longer he would have been
able to pay out.
"He got his just deserts, Lewis did," the old
man concluded in frenzied voice. "The ol' skinflint!"
"How did
you intend to recover from Lewis—what steps had you planned
to
take, like you mentioned in your let- ter?" Thornton
questioned.
"Well, now, I don't like to say, for mebbe I will
want to do somethin' yit," Morris countered. "But I never had a mind to
kill him."
"Where were you night before last ?"
"Up
t' th' store."
"Can you prove it?"
"Yes, sir; 'deed
I can."
And he did. Thornton and Dorgan learned from the
proprietor that the old man had been there until nearly ten o'clock.
Others corroborated this, and one man said he had ridden- home with old
George, helped him put up his horse and had walked on to his awn
home.
"Bum hunch," Dorgan told Thorn- ton. "He had nothing to
do with it." "We'll see, Jim."
But on looking over the two
bony animals Morris had in his tumbledown barn, the prosecutor decided
that neith- er was capable of making thirty miles in a night. Besides,
it seemed ridicu- lous, as Dorgan told him, to assume that old George,
doddering as he was, had enough ingenuity to encompass such a
robbery.
An unavailing search of the house and the barn for
the money convinced Thornton that George Morris was
guiltless.
The third day an inquest was held and the verdict
left open. The fourth day Mr. Lewis and Harley were buried after an
analysis of the vital organs of both had been made and developed
nothing. Both were placed in the same plot in the Georgetown
cemetery.
Police of Cleveland and other cities were unable to
find anything to assist Thornton. A search among banking people at
Cleveland failed to throw any light on Harley's past. Several times
Dorgan sought to convince Thornton that Mrs. Lewis should be grilled,
but each time he met with rebuff. Thorn- ton said he would take her word
that
she knew nothing about how the two men came to their
deaths.
Finally, after ten days of useless rummaging, the
prosecutor instructed the coroner to return a verdict of death from a
broken neck, cause unknown, in the case of Harley, and from heart dis-
ease in the case of the banker. He had been unable to develop a lead
worthy of consideration. The money was gone; if Harley and Lewis had
died from un- lawful causes, those causes probably would never be
known.
Jim Dorgan returned to Chicago. But he did not forget
the Georgetown mystery. He rarely ever forgot any- thing, and never
wilfully cast a crim- inal subject from his mind. He almost took it as a
personal affront that Thorn- ton had disregarded his opinion. Re-
lations had become a little strained be- tween the prosecutor and
himself to- ward the iend of his visit, and it rankled in him that such
a mystery should go unsolved and that Thornton should adopt what to him
seemed a foolish atti- tude. It hurt his professional pride.
IV.
Chicago was in the throes of a crime wave. Murders,
robberies and petty thieving were rampant. The order went out one night
for a roundup. Ev- ery person of known criminal proclivi- ties was to be
brought in to make an accounting.
The fine-meshed seine
caught, among others, "Limping Lizzie," who had a string of aliases as
long as a thorough- bred's pedigree. Lizzie, known of old as a clever
dip, was dragged from a cozily furnished apartment in the Twenties on
the south side. The de- tectives who brought her in judged she must have
been getting in some ex- tremely profitable work recently, and they told
Chief Burke so.
furniture and rugs and curtains galore in her apartment," Mercer
reported. "Limpin' Lizzie certainly has not been loafin'. Now, have you,
E-liz-a-beth ?" He turned to the girl with mock se-
riousness.
E-liz-a-beth was indignant. Her re- spectability
was outraged.
"I have not been doing anything of the sort,"
she answered hotly. "And you know I have not. You know you haven't got a
thing on me. I've been bothering no one fop—oh, well, for a long
time."
The chief laughed. So did the two
detectives.
"Where'd you get all those swell rags you're
wearing?" Burke demand- ed.
"Why, I got an inheritance about
nine months ago," she declared.
"That's good," Mercer roared.
"You're there, Lizzie. Who was he and how did you work it
?"
"You nut!" the girl cried, in sincere anger. "You nut! Let
me go! I haven't done anything to be hauled in here for." She was
talking loudly, in righteous indignation, and not in the suave, swteet
way that had been hers when she had had dealings with the police on
previous occasions, f
Dorgan was attracted by her out- burst
and came and stood in the door- way of Burke's office. He listened to
her appeals.
"What's the matter, Lizzie ?" he finally
interrupted.
"Your friends here are trying to get me to admit
I've been picking pockets lately, and it's not so. They won't be- lieve
me when I tell them that I inher- ited some money recently. I have a
letter to prove it." She drew herself up defiantly.
"Well,
where's'the letter?" the chief wanted to know.
"I have it all
right. It's out at the flat."
"Take her out there, Dorgan, and see
if she's telling the truth. I guess you will be able to tell. Use your
discre- tion. I have another assignment for Mercer and
Kelly."
Dorgan and the girl walked out. On the way to the
elevated station Jim no- ticed that she did not limp as she had the last
time he had seen her and got her out of an affair in which he believed
she really had been falsely accused. "What's happened, anyway?" he in-
quired.
"An operation, Mr. Dorgan," she said, assuming an air
of importance. "I'm somebody now. I could afford an operation. Doctor
took a bone from my foot." ' She stopped and held back her skirt so that
he might see the result. Whereas the ankle had been enlarged and awkward
before, it was now vir- tually of regular proportions.
"It'll
hurt your business, won't it, Lizzie? You won't be able to work on their
sympathy any more." Jim spoke with an air of camaraderie which some-
times obtains between hunter and hunted.
Lizzie did not
answer.
At the flat she brought out the letter j and showed it
to Dorgan. As she did 1 so her eyes became misty.
"The money
was from my brother, | George Harley," she said throatily. "He died last
summer."
Dorgan looked at her quickly.
"Where?" he
asked crisply.
"Down in Ohio some\yhere, I guess. Here, read
it."
The letter, dated October 15, was from a Cincinnati bank
and addressed to Elizabeth Harley. It merely stated that a client bank
in Ohio had request- ed that a draft payable to her be for- warded by
registered mail, the money being the estate that had been left by her
brother, George Harley, who had died suddenly. She would be able, it
added, to cash it at any bank.
Dorgan read it and his eyes glowed. "Lizzie, you remember you told
me last summer that if you could do me a favor, you
would?"
"Yes."
"Well, can I have this letter for a
while if I agree to return it to you?" "And let me get run in without
any proof of what I tell the bulls?"
"The chief will take my
word that you're on the square."
"What do you want with
it?"
"I can't tell you that. But I'll prom- ise to return it.
You know that I usu- ally keep my promises."
"All right, if
you promise. But I want it back sure."
"You'll get it. By the
way, what is your real name, Lizzie?"
"That's it—Harley.
That's the truth, Jim."
Dorgan that night requested and was
granted three days leave without pay.
V.
Jim Dorgan
was back in the office of Prosecutor Thornton at Rockland. He presented
the letter he brought with him to the prosecutor, who read it over
slowly.
"Are you content to let the case rest now, Bill?" Jim
asked.
"No, I guess riot, Jim. Perhaps you had the right hunch
after all. I don't suppose that old Jacobsen would hardly have sent that
money without the knowledge of the owner of the bank, who now happens to
be Mrs. Lewis. We'll go out and see her at once."
The Dorgan -
car drove up to the Georgetown home of the widow. The prosecutor and
Dorgan alighted and were met at the door by Mrs. Lewis. They were
startled by her appearance —a woman aged years in months, her hair
graying. She hesitated a morrient, then opened the door to them. She
asked them to be seated.
Thornton went to his subject at
once. He produced the letter, passed it to her and asked if she
understood what it meant. Mrs. Lewis paled to her hair and seemed to be
on the point of denial. Then her manner changed suddenly and she was at
ease.
"Yes, I know what it means, Mr. Thornton," she said.
"It—it was sent at my instruction. How did you get
it?"
Thornton explained how Dorgan had come into possession of
it, and recalled that Dorgan had been present last sum-
mer.
"Will you tell us what the letter means—how it all
happened, Mrs. Lewis?" he added.
"Yes, I will be glad to. Do
you know, Will," she said, taking up his name of school days, "I am glad
that you came today. Probably you will not believe it, but I am. I have
thought very, very seriously of seeing you about it, and I would have in
time. You do not know how a terrible secret like I have harbored can
burn its way into one's soul. I have been miserable, and yet I have not
quite had the courage to make a clean breast of it. So I'm glad you're
here. At last I can tell.".
"Yes, Mrs. Lewis—Helen—I can
understand," Thornton assured her. "Tell us everything and you will feel
better."
"I had that money sent to Miss Har- ley," she went on
deliberately, "because her brother had told me she was a crip- ple ; and
he had expressed a hope that some time he might be able to supply her
with funds for an operation. He had talked to me about her, and—and I
thought I should do it. That money, Will, was stolen from the
bank."
Dorgan glanced toward Thornton victoriously. The
prosecutor's eyes showed plainly that he disliked to be- lieve
it.
"I'm going to tell you the whole truth, Will," Mrs. Lewis was
saying. "I'm going to start at the beginning and bare my soul. And if I
am to blame for anything I am rot going to ask for mercy. If I have done
anything for which I should atone, I want to atone. I did not tell the
whole truth last sum- mer, but there seemed to be no other way
out.
"You know, Will, about my marriage, and that Mr. Lewis
was so much older. I didn't think I should marry him, but my parents
urged me to. And, I'll be frank to say, Will, there did not seem to be
another prospect for me. We were not happy; it was impossible for us to
be. The difference in our ages was too great.
"Then Mr. Harley
came here to work in the bank. From Columbus, it was. Mr. Lewis had
inquired of a bank there for'a competent man when his business got so
heavy. I did not know anything much about Mr. Harley; neither did Mr.
Lewis. But he was competent'/ likable and congenial—and he was young.
There's no use of hiding any- thing now. I think it all must have had
its beginning when Mr. Lewis invited him to the house. We became good
friends. You can see how. it would be so—I had been .cooped up so long
with- out proper associates. He was only here a few times. Once at
dinner he told Mr. Lewis and myself about his sister. He was very
careful in his at- tentions to me at the house, but when I would go to
the bank I>saw in his eyes what any woman could not fail to see. I
felt sort of guilty, but—but it thrilled me, too.
"Oh, I know
it was not right, but I was so lonesome, so lonesome, Will. I was not in
love with him, I am sure, or I would not have done what I did later. But
I suppose his admiration en- thralled me. Perhaps you will under- stand
that—I can't explain it more
fully." She paused and showed Signs-
of giving away to her emotions.
Thornton and Dorgan gave her
sym- pathetic attention and she proceeded.
"One day he said to
me at the bank, 'You are very unhappy, Helen,' and because it was true
and because his voice and eyes were so tender, I began to cry. I was not
used to tenderness. I hurried from the bank.
"The next day I
had a note from him through the mail. It simply said, 'Will you forgive
me ?'
"After that I stayed away from the bank, and one evening
a week later he called me on the phone.
" 'Did you. get my
note ?' he asked.
" 'Yes,' I said.
" 'What is the
answer ?' he wanted to know.
" 'What could it be but yes,' I
told him.
" 'All right,' he said. 'Tonight.'
"That
was all. The- tenseness of his voice made me uneasy; the 'Tonight'
worried me. But I told my- self I had misunderstood it for 'Good
night.'
"Mr. Lewis had driven over to Win- ton to attend to
some business or other. He said he might not be back until the next day.
I suppose Mr. Harley knew it.
"I went to bed early. At eleven
o'clock the doorbell rang. I slipped into my dressing gown and went down
to answer it. It was—was him!
"Well, he wanted to know why I
was not ready as I had promised, and kept saying over and over the train
went at twelve and we would miss it if we did not hurry. I was so
amazed, so terror- stricken, that I made no remonstrance when he came in
and closed the door. I told him I did not understand what he meant by
such action, when I finally gathered my senses.
" 'Aren't you
going with me, Helen ?' he demanded.
" 'I guess so, Helen,' he
said. 'Mad with love of you. Hurry, Helen, for we are going away to
happiness.' That is just the way he put it."
Again she paused,
and her eyes fell to the floor. She presented a sad pic- ture, as she
struggled to repress her emotion.
"I finally got the straight
of it. Af- ter the first note he had s, sent me an- other, proposing
that we go away to- gether. It did not come until the next day—he had
taken the precaution to mail it in another town. He pleaded I should go
anyway because of his love for me, and—and would not leave. He tried to
take me in his arms. I ran up- stairs to escape him, and he started to
follow.
"Then I heard a car in the drive and —and I knew Mr.
Lewis had come home. It was a terrible moment. I stopped on the stairs
and begged Mr. Harley to go. Finally he seemed to comprehend the
situation and turned to go down the stairs.
"But it was too
late. The car stopped outside the garage and it seemed only a second
before I heard Mr. Lewis on the rear porch. Mr. Harley had taken only
two or three steps when Mr. Lewis opened the kitchen door. He came in
quickly, wondering, I suppose, why there was a light in the hall. Maybe
he heard us.
"Mr. Harley started to run for the front door. A
rug slipped under him and he fell, striking his head on the floor. His
neck must have been broken that way. I darted on upstairs. I did not
dare stop. I hurried into my room and lay down. Then in a minute I heard
a gasp from Mr. Lewis and— and a dull sound. I waited for perhaps thirty
minutes, not know- ing what to do. At last I crept down-
stairs.
"The hall light had been jostled out.
I stumbled over
something. I found the light and turned it on. Mr. Lewis' body lay over
Mr. Harley's. I sup- pose Mr. Lewis had died from the shock, an act of
providence." The tears welled in her eyes.
"That's about all
of the story," she sobbed. "Except, that after I had stared at them in
dumb agony for what seemed an age, I came to realize they must not be
found here. Frantically I paced up and down the hall, not know- ing what
to do. Then a heaven-sent idea came to me.
"I carried Mr.
Lewis out and placed him in his car, just as he was found next morning.
Then I half carried, half dragged Mr. Harley to the com- mon, dodging in
and out of the shad- ows. It was a moonlight night, and it seemed to me
a thousand pairs of eyes were watching from each window. He was heavy,
but I did not seem to notice that. My muscles were deadened with fear.
Then I stole home to my misery like a hunted animal."
She lay
back against the divan, ut- terly weary and almost limp from her
recital.
"But what of the money?" Dorgan managed to
ask.
"That's another miserable part of it," she faltered. "Of
course he took it— to go away on. I noticed it in his pock- et, it made
such a bulge. Something told me it was not his, and I felt I owed it to
him to protect his name, when it was partly my fault that he did such a
wild thing. So I took it. I remembered what he had told me about his
sis- ter. He had given me her address so that I might get in touch with
her should anything happen to him. So I sent it to her. I went to
Cincinnati per- sonally and told the bank there to send it on, saying
that it came from a bank in Ohio.
"That is all, Will. What is
to become of me ? Am I damned forever ?" The
"No, Helen, no. It
has been cleared up to my satisfaction, and the state will not
prosecute," Thornton freely as- sured her. "In fact, there is nothing to
prosecute on, since it is a private bank, and no one has lost anything
but you. And what a terrible story! Perhaps you did not do right in
concealing it so long, Helen. But I can understand, and I want to extend
my sympathy. And we will go at once, for I do not want to intrude longer
upon your sor- row."
He rose, walked over and took her hand. A
silent clasp, a homage to a sorrowing woman whom he had
known
as a romping schoolgirl—and he walked to the door.
Jim
Dorgan's face was a puzzle to see as he shook hands with Helen Lew- is.
There was an admixture of victory and defeat.
Outside, when
they were seated and the machine was moving-off, Bill turned to his
friend. He could not help gloating a little.
"Didn't I tell
you/Jim? Didn't I tell you that Helen Lewis would not wittingly be a
party to such a thing?" "We both w}n—and we both lose,"' Dorgan the
"Bulldog" answered eva- sively. "But Pm satisfied. She's a good woman,
Bill, a good woman."
THE neighbors on Christopher Square called him Old Man Johnson. He
had a little base- ment shop where he dealt in sec- ond hand automobile
parts. He lived in the rear of the store and the Square knew him as an
inventor. It did not know what he invented, but it was ac- customed to
seeing a light in the store at all hours. If one looked down into the
black areaway they could see the old man at work among his tools, his
ragged gray beard drooping over his bench.
One day Christopher
Square hummed with news concerning Old Man Johnson.
Big Harry
Westley, the King of Con Men, discussed the news with Lefty Blumfeld,
alias Morrison Tay- lor, over a table in the front room of the West Side
Social Club, located at the end of the Square. Westley was large, florid
and impressive. Crook- dom respected his genius. It was said that
Westley could cut Central Park up into building lots and sell them for
cash. He had served two jail terms, but had lost none of his nerve or
pom- pous exterior.
Lefty Blumfeld, alias Morrison Taylor, was
undersized. He was built along the lines of a gorilla. He had a low,
bulging forehead and beady black eyes. His bull neck was short and
thick. His hands were covered with coarse black hair. They were gnarled
and pitted from laboratory work. He made nitro-glycerine for petermen
and blasters when he was not out on a job himself. He had done a stretch
of six years in the State penitentiary and was
as rapacious and
merciless as a coiled cobra.
"Did you hear the news about Old
Man Johnson?" Westley inquired, lighting a fat cigar with a
flourish.
Blumfeld tossed off three fingers of underground rye
whiskey. He dried his lips on the back of his hand.
"No. What
about him?"
The big con man tilted back his chair and
chuckled.
"Everyone is talking about Old Man Johnson. He sold
an invention to some big company up the state. He's been paid ten
thousand dollars in ad- vance royalties. Charlie Hill saw the check and
so it's not air. The old geezer has cleaned up. Ten grands— I guess
that's rotten."
Blumfeld ran his finger around the inside rim
of his whiskey glass.
"What's the invention?" he asked after a
pause.
Westley shook his head and shrugged.
"Search
me. Nobody seems to know. Charlie Hill asked him, but Johnson said it
was a secret. It must be some- thing good or he Wouldn't have got such
dough."
Blumfeld nodded moodily.
"Yes, it must be,"
he said.
Westley flicked the ash from the end of his cigar and
chuckled again.
"Ten thousand dollars," he ob- served
reflectively, "is a lot of dough. I'll have to wander up to Moy Ling's
after awhile and smoke a couple of pipes of scamish. Poppy makes me
dream clever schemes. I was full of hop the time I took that Florida
lawyer for his currency kick. Old Man John-
son
isn't used to sudden wealth. I'll dream out a way to separate him from
his cush. When I get it I'll buy you the best dinner in town,
Lefty."
"Like hell!" Blumfeld grunted.
Westley
smiled and looked at his watch. He stood up and pulled down his
waistcoat. He placed seventy-five cents on the table to pay for the
liquor he had consumed and fingered his closely shaven
chin.
"Well, I've got to be moving. Be good to yourself and be
leary of the red-necks. I've just got about six min- utes to grab a
short."
He nodded affably and moved away. Through the front
windows of the club Blumfeld saw him stride briskly across the square.
The nitro-glycerine expert sat stiffly still. Ten thousand dolars! He
hardly knew there was so much money in the world. And it was in the
possession of a doddering inventor who lived in a mean
cellar!
Blumfeld's beady eyes glittered. When he considered
the magnitude of the sum he felt dazed. For a long in- terval he sat
with expressionless face and staring eyes. After a time he got up. He
took a few steps toward the door, returned and picked up the sev-
enty-five cents Big Harry Westley had laid on the table. He shoved it
into his pocket, deciding he needed it more than the
waiter.
Slouching out of the club, he de- scended the front
steps and stepped on- to the cracked pavement of Christo- pher Square.
The late September afternoon was dying in a conflagration of sunset
fire. The sky was brazen with raw scarlet, amethyst and silver-
and-purple. Lights were winking in the waterfront rigging, a block
distant. The river was boisterous with the voice of sirens and the
shrill of whistles. The wraith of evening shook out her black draperies
that were pinned with stars.
Blumfeld turned east. He walked two
blocks. He came in sight of the building in the cellar of which Old Man
Johnson maintained his shop. He saw the inventor's ancient sign hang-
ing from its metal stanchion like a one- legged acrobat. Drawing close
to the areaway, Blumfeld leaned over and peered down. Somewhere in the
shop below an oil lamp burned. In its un- certain radiance Blumfeld
observed the stooped figure of the proprietor.
Turning to the
iron stairway that led steeply down into the basement, Blumfeld drew his
lips back over his teeth and smiled. He descended the steps and opened
the front door. He entered and closed it after him. The shop was warm
and stuffy with the odor of paint and grease. Blumfeld hardly noticed
it. His quick gaze dart- ed to the work-bench over which Old ? Man
Johnson hung. He saw the in- ventor was old and feeble. The eyes of the
man were blue and faded. His skin was wrinkled like yellow parch- ment.
He wore a disreputable old pair of oil-stained trousers, a collarless
flannel shirt that exposed his turkey! neck and a pencil-stuffed vest
held to- gether by one button.
"You got a second hand drive
shaft for a Brown and Blue taxi ?" Blumfeld said, as the inventor looked
up.
Old Man Johnson shook his head.
"No, I haven't,"
he said in a thin husky voice.
Blumfeld allowed his gaze to
wander about the place.
"Got any gears or transmission
parts?"
The inventor shook his white head
again.
"No, I don't think I have. All the parts. are piled up
in the. corner over there. I'm going out of business, so if you find
anything you can use you can have it at your own price."
up in one
comer. Blumfeld shuffled across to it. He pawed idly over it. While he
did this he plumbed the room with his beady eyes. He made a men- tal
photograph of the way the shop was arranged, of a single window that
opened on to an alley running past it, and of a door that went into what
was presumably the living quarters of the inventor.
When he
had observed all that inter- ested him, Blumfeld straightened up and
turned his back on the heap of metal.
"Find anything?" Old Man
Johnson asked.
Blumfeld shook his head.
"No. I'll
come around next week. Maybe you'll have a shaft picked up by
then."
The inventor smiled faintly.
"I won't be here
next week. I'm selling out. I'm going out of business. I'm leaving for
Rochester on Monday. I'm an inventor and I only kept this little place
here until I struck oil."
Blumfeld allowed himself to look
impressed.
"Is that right? So you struck oil. I guess that
means you sold an inven- tion. You must have knocked out large kale if
you're going to Rochester."
The interest of his caller
appeared to please the old. man. He wiped his hands on a piece of cotton
waste and put some tobacco in the bowl of his black pipe.
"It
took me twenty years to perfect my invention," he explained, with a
touch of pride. "Many times I thought I had made it, only to discover
some hidden flaw. People I told about it said it couldn't be done and
thought I was crazy to even try it. Three months ago I knew I had
triumphed. I put the invention to every possible test and it made good.
I applied for a patent and sent my work to a big manufactur- ing concern
in Rochester. They tested
it for two months and then agreed to
purchase the right to manufacture it. They sent me ten thousand dollars
and a contract. I'm going to Rochester, as I said, to take charge of the
making of them."
Blumfeld, receiving verification of Big
Harry's statement, felt satisfaction tingling keenly within him. He had
almost believed that it was opium that put the words in the mouth of the
big con man.
"So you got ten thousand dollars," he murmured.
"That's a lot of money. You want to hold on to it tight. I guess you
know the Square is a pretty tough place. Don't let no one bunk the jack
away from you, or stick you up for it."
Old Man Johnson looked
serious.
"Never fear, I won't. I have it hid- den where no one
can find it. It's safe."
Blumfeld smiled.
"That's
the eye! Hang onto it. I'm sorry you ain't got what I'm after. Good luck
to you when you get to Rochester.
At the door Blumfeld
stopped, seized by a sudden thought.
"By the way," he said,
''what was it you invented?"
The inventor picked up a file
from the bench.
"It's a secret," he replied slowly. "It's a
secret until it's put on the mar- ket—"
II
At eleven
o'clock Blumfeld emerged from the east side stuss house where he had run
his purloined seventy-five cents up to six dollars. A pleasant sense of
success swam in his blood. His good fortune was an omen that fickle Luck
smiled upon him. On such a night as this he might conquer in any deed in
which he figured or any en- deavor he applied his hand
to.
At the
comer of the street he trav- ersed he boarded a surface car. He rode
twelve blocks and transferred to a cross-town car. The second car took
him as far as Harrigan Avenue, where he alighted. He continued east,
tread- ing a labyrinth of side streets that emptied like sewers along
the water- front. Where the river's breath was damp, foul and cold,
Blumfeld turned south. A few minutes later he en- tered Christopher
Square by its west termination.
He passed the social club
where he had sat and talked with Big Harry. The strains of jazz crept
out through lighted windows. Evidently a dance was in progress. He
wondered if it was all right to stop off for a hooker of illicit
whiskey. He decided not to and quickened his step as if to outpace
temptation. When the ten thousand dollars of Old Man Johnson's was his
he could buy a hundred cases of hootch. He could fill a tub full of rye
and bathe in it if he so desired.
The pleasant stream of
imagination he floated down emptied him into the bayou of Broken Dreams.
He shook himself, as he sighted his destination. The hanging sign of the
inventor loomed before him—the black area- way of the basement shop
which was as dark as the inside of a pocket. Blumfeld made sure his
movements were not being observed and squatted down. He looked into the
shop as far as he could but saw no trace of any
light.
Arising, he surveyed the Square. Music still seeped
out. from the club. No loiterer shuffled through the shad- ows. He
descended the areaway stairs. The door he had opened earlier in the
evening confronted him. Quick inspec- tion told Blumfeld it was locked
and bolted on the inside in such a way as to make forcing it impossible.
He mut- tered a curse and crept down the area-
way. He climbed a
fence and dropped down into an alley that fringed the building. He came
upon the single window of the shop and drew a breath of satisfaction
when he found the top pane was lowered an inch or two. It was the work
of a minute to draw the lower sash up, swing quietly across the sill and
step down onto the floor of the store.
So much accomplished
without mis- hap, Blumfeld grew cautious. Old Man Johnson was an
inventor. It was likely he had rigged up some device that would make
known the presence of an intruder. Blumfeld knew he would have to be
wary or he would stumble into a snare. He opened the blade of a large,
heavy knife and felt his way to the door that opened into the living
rooms beyond. Twice he stubbed his foot on some bit of metal lying
about. He reached the door with- out accident otherwise and felt about
the frame. At first he discovered noth- ing, then as he dug his nails
into the plaster he found the presence of a number of fine, silk-covered
wires. He cut them one at a time and dropped a hand to the knob of the
door.
It opened at his touch with scarce a
creak.
Blumfeld passed into stark blackness perfumed with the
reek of a kerosene lamp. Its odor took him carefully across the room. He
discovered the location of the lamp and felt its chim- ney. Its warmth
told him it had been extinguished only a short time.
Blumfeld
turned slowly. He must learn if this room was the bedchamber of the
inventor or not. He longed to kindle a match, but knew its glare would
betray him if Johnson was awake. He began to step forward, lay- ing his
hand against the furniture it encountered. He touched a chair and a
small table, but they told him noth- ing. He had no way of knowing
where
he was
until his knees suddenly came in contact with something cold and hard
and investigation caused him to expel a breath of relief. His exploring
hands felt a mattress and a blanket.
While he considered the
next move, Blumfeld stiffened cautiously. The bed creaked with the
weight of some one turning over in it. After what seemed an eternity, a
thin, husky voice came out of the staring murk.
"I have a
fully loaded revolver cov- ering you! I will—"
Blumfeld did
not Wait to hear the rest of it. With a snarl he flung him- self
forward. He crashed against a figure that fell back with a soft cry, a
cry that was abruptly shut off by the grip of his fingers. Something
hard clattered to the floor with a dull, metal- lic ring. Wisps of beard
scratched Blumfeld's face. With his free hand he ripped a piece from the
blanket, wadded it together and stuffed it into the man's mouth, forcing
his jaws open and digging a knee into his stomach so that no scream
might awake discordant echoes. When he had neatly gagged his victim he
ended weak struggles with a vicious blow and using other strips of the
blanket bound Johnson's wrists and ankles tightly
together.
Stepping away from the bed Blum- feld struck a
match.
He turned up the wick pf the oil lamp and lighted it.
The room boasted two windows and both displayed drawn shades. It was
sparsely furnished as a bedroom, containing a bureau with a mirror,
table, chair and trunk. Blum- feld dropped down on the top of the trunk.
He dug out the stub of a ciga- rette from his pocket and after kin-
dling it looked casually at the trussed up man on the bed. He grinned
when the faded blue eyes met his bravely' and steadily.
"I
came back," Blumfeld said. "I came back to get them ten
thousand
smackers you were bragging about. If you come clean with me you
won't get hurt. If you try any funny stuff you'll never go to Rochester.
You'll go to a place where money ain't no use. Nod your head if you
understand."'
The inventor nodded. Blumfeld picked up the
revolver from the floor and pocketed it.
"Are you ready to
tell me where the money is at? Nod yes or nq."
The old man
inclined his head. Blumfeld crossed to him and leaned
over.
"I'm going to slip the gag out of your peep. If you open
your trap to yell I'll cave in your conk!"
He removed the
makeshift gag and the inventor licked his lips.
"C'mon, spit
out the dope!" Blumr feld ordered impatiently.
"I will tell
you nothing!" the old man said huskily. "Wrhat it took me twenty years
to earn I will share with no one ! No matter what you do to me no
information will pass my lips! I will meet my fate unafraid! And I will
know that you cannot escape ,the consequences of your crime! The work of
my hand and the child of my brain will reach out, even from the grave,
and overtake you!"
With a snarl Blumfeld jammed the gag back
into the inventor's mouth. He pushed the old man savagely back among the
pillows and struck him again with his fist. For a few minutes he sat
silent, his face dark with thought. At length he stood ' up, slapped his
thigh with a exclamation and walked to the lamp. He opened the blade of
his heavy knife and laid it across the mouth of the chimney, look- ing
back at the cot with a wide grin.
"Maybe a little burning on
the soles of your feet will make you loosen up! I'll torture you before
I croak you, and even if you don't tell me what I want to know I'll find
out! I'll
He lifted the knife from the chimney
and saw that its blade had turned white-hot. He wrapped his handker-
chief around the handle and with a sin- gle move drew the sheets and
blankets off the bed. . . .
III
Three days later as
Blumfeld slouched out of the east side lodging- house where he roomed, a
man stepped across the pavement and laid a hand on his arm.
Synchronously another man stepped out of the passing crowd and caught
hold of his left arm, moving it up and out.
Before Blumfeld
could draw a breath, something cold encircled each wrist—a sharp click
sounded.
"You are wanted, Lefty!" the first man said briefly.
"Charge of bumping off Old Man Johnson, the inventor, down on
Christopher Square last week !"
Blumfeld lifted his face, his lips
drawn back over his yellow teeth.
"You're crazy with the
heat!" he snarled. "I haven't been on Christo- pher Square in two weeks.
I've been away. I've been in Chi—"
The second man
smiled.
"There is no use of lying, Lefty. .We have Old Man
Johnson's invention down at headquarters. It showed us who croaked him
and told us who to look for. We've got the man—you are
he!"
Blumfeld licked his lips.
"What invention are
you talking about ?"
His first captor exchanged a look with
his companion.
"Something that's going to stand this country
on its ear when it hears about it," he answered. "The old man in- vented
a mirror. He had one in the bureau in his bedroom- It's a mirror that
retains the reflection of the last person who passes before it." . .
.
THE street was squalid, dirty. On either side a row of
rickety frame houses, leaning like drunken sailors one upon the other,
warned idle trespassers of the character of the neighborhood. The few
people who traversed it now in the autumn twilight walked quickly and
with many a furtive, sidewise glance, as though in some ancient land of
gnomes and ogres, where, behind every wall, lurked an unknown
horror.
That is, all but young Fleming Met- calf Knibbs. It is
doubtful that Knibbs could achieve the furtive if his life de- pended on
it. Hie was one of those straightforward chaps who insist that black is
black, and, even though a siz- able check be the inducement, refuse to
call it gray. Of course, in reality,, no check could possibly prove an
induce- ment to young Knibbs, as his private fortune was known to flirt
with seven figures; but the comparison is none the less illuminating on
that account.
Nor was he without a sense of hu- mor, or of
balance: humor enough to enjoy all phases of life, balance enough to
realize that not in money alone does one find happiness.
But
his humor bordered on the ro- mantic and adventurous, almost indis-
creetly so. He was given to prowling in little-frequented quarters, arid
every now and again he would get himself in trouble, which he enjoyed
hugely.
Moving along the sordid thorough- fare, his
ever-curious eyes taking in its details, young Knibbs came at length to
a house more rickety, if possible,
than the rest, whose door was at
that moment slowly opening. In the shadow he glimpsed white-stockinged
ankles and slippers below a dark skirt.
Knibbs was passing as
the girl de- scended the steps. Her movements were so softly gliding as
to be almost ethereal, and, visualizing her as emerg- ing from a haze,
he recalled a famous picture of a wood nymph shrouded in twilight mist.
At first her face was in- distinct, then suddenly he caught it, like a
ray of light, and stood transfixed by its strange charm.
And
now he saw her quite unroman- tically catch the heel of one slipper on
the edge of a step and reach wildly for support. This impulsive movement
sent the other slipper flying through the air. It described a graceful
arc and landed on the sidewalk. The girl sat down
heavily.
Fleming Knibbs congratulated him- self on this
heaven-sent opportunity to acquaint himself with her, as he stooped and
retrieved the itinerant slipper. He turned, smiling
pleasantly.
"Allow me," he said, and fitted it to her unshod
foot.
"Thank you." Her voice was drowsy, as though it were
early morning and she had just arisen.
He looked at her
sharply. "You're not hurt?"
"Not at all," she replied in the
same monotone, getting to her feet. She was an extremely pretty girl,
Knibbs noted again, and wondered at finding her in this contrasting
environment. He fell in step beside her, inquiring meanwhile if he might
escort her to her destina- tion.
She was obviously tired,
physically or mentally or both. Fleming's inter- est was
intrigued.
And now they found themselves in a more populated
section. The street grew crooked. Situated in the tender- loin's heart,
it turned and twisted con- vulsively, a veritable aorta of floating
human derelicts writhing toward the river and a cheap amusement park on
its banks. But the girl avoided the park, turning in an opposite
direction. The crowd began to thin out. At the last comer, across from
innumerable shadowy wharves, and reveling in an unaccountable river
stench, stood a wabbly fruit stand illuminated by a sin- gle flaring gas
jet. Dirty, flimsy wooden baskets containing all manner of fruits and
vegetables tipped their rims partly toward the curb and partly toward
the dark heavens, while here and there a shadowy head of cabbage peeped
out upon this dreary vista. On a soap box by the stand, and directly
under the un- certain light, sat a mere boy, thin of limb and vicious of
feature, hunched intently over a Yiddish newspaper.
They
passed this last outpost of the underworld, Fleming's curiosity grow-
ing apace. On the left stretched acres of slimy marshes, and beyond,
only faintly discernible in the growing dark- ness, the river. It was
too much for young Knibbs. He stopped in his tracks.
"What— ?"
he began, and then his mouth opened in surprise and astonish- ment, and
he concluded "—the devil!"
For a blunt automatic had been
thrust against his ribs, and the girl in the dark skirt and white
slippers was talking to him in her soft, sleepy drawl: "Be still, or I
shall have to shoot you."
Then deliberately she set about
"frisking" him. Her slender fingers plucked his scarfpin, his watch and
at
length found the inner pocket of his coat and his
wallet.
She was talking again. "Now, then, stand as you are."
She began backing away. "I am watching you. If you move an
inch—"
The rest was left to be inferred. The click of her high
heels on the sidewalk grew less and less distinct until it be- came
inaudible.
Whirling, Fleming Knibbs dashed toward the corner.
No one was in sight. The young Jew, as before, was hunched over his
paper.
"A girl—" panted Knibbs. She came in this direction.
Have you seen her?"
"I see no vun," replied the boy, sour- ly;
then, observing for the first time the well-groomed man before him, his
trade instincts arose to the surface and he became suddenly
ingratiating, "ex- cept" he emphasized, rubbing his skinny hands in
anticipation, "my cus- tomers."
Fleming's wallet was gone, but
he still had some change. One hand went readily to his pocket, emerging
with a bright half-dollar.
"Here's the price of a dozen
apples, my boy," he said. "Eat them yourself. Now which way did she
go?"
The youth pocketed his reward, pointing meanwhile to one
of the nu- merous small streets opening on the waterfront. Before he
could speak Knibbs was off.
Doing a hundred yards in eleven
flat, he came to a thoroughfare with car tracks. The girl was nowhere in
sight. In the distance the vanishing lights of a trolley winked at him
derisively.
"Gone!" he exclaimed in disgust. Then,
brightening: "But wasn't she a peach?"
He caught the next car,
intending to return home. When seated, he men- tally inventoried his
losses. There were several hundred dollars in the wallet. The pin was
worth five hundred and
the watch another hundred. All told, she had netted close to a
thousand dol- lars. "Not bad, for a half-asleep girl," he commented to
himself.
The thought occurred to him that the whole matter
should be reported at po- lice headquarters, but in the instance he had
strange scruples which he him- self could not explain. He tried to
console his conscience by emphasizing the fact that the loss meant
nothing to him. Then he happily remembered his friend, Simeon Dreer, of
the murder squad, who was occasionally willing, if qaught in the mood,
to aid his friends ; in working out their little problems. He promptly
left the car and took another one cross-town.
Half an hour
later he found himself in Dreer's apartment. The little, weaz- ened man
in huge green spectacles like twin railroad signals was talking on the
telephone when Knibbs entered.
"Very well. I shall go there
imme- * diately," Fleming heard him say, and his disappointment was
keen, for he knew the old fellow was being called out on a departmental
case.
Simeon Dreer replaced the receiver on its hook and came
toward Knibbs, peering intently with his near-sighted
eyes.
"Ah, it's young Fleming Knibbs," he said at length in
the tone of a discov- erer. "Hello, Knibbs. Hello. Sorry I can't
entertain you; I'm called out. Drop in tomorrow, eh? I've a couple of
new records. A serenade from Les Millions d'Arlequin,
and—"
Dreer was a musical enthusiast with a pronounced leaning
toward the clas- sical.-
"I've been robbed," announced
Fleming, "and I thought perhaps—" "Robbed?"
"Held
up."
"No! When ?"
"Not an hour ago."
"This
is interesting. I should like
to hear the details. As I said, I'm
called out on a case: supposed suicide which may be a murder; but if you
care to go along, we'll talk about it on the way over."
"Good.
Let's go."
They were on the street in a jiffy. Knibbs hailed a
taxi and leaped in while wrinkled old Simeon Dreer confided his
destination to the chauffeur. Shortly they were bowling along at a good
speed, with Dreer sitting quietly listen- ing to his guest's story. When
it had been concluded, the murder squad man chuckled. By the weak light
of the street lamps Fleming saw his green glasses bobbing up and
down.
"Very, very interesting, young Knibbs," he commented,
when his mirth had subsided. "I shall look into it at the first
opportunity. And on what street, by the way, did you meet this fair
highwaywoman ?"
The moneyed youjng man slapped his knee
sharply. "By Jove, I'm an unob- servant idiot. I can't tell you the name
of that street. I was too busy soaking up its
atmosphere."
"You would know it if you saw it?" "From a
million-.- There's nothing like it in the Western world."
"I
believe I know the one you mean. In fact—"
At that moment the
taxi stopped jolt- ingly.
Dreer threw open the door and clam-
bered out.
"In fact, young Knibbs," he called over his
shoulder, "if you will look around, I think you will find that you are
on it now."
II
Knibbs emerged hurriedly. The old
fellow was right. They were on the very street in which his adventures
had originated. They were facing the self-same rickety
frame
dwelling from which the half-asleep girl had come not two hours
before!
Simeon Dreer observed the fixity of his companion's
gaze, and inferred the truth. "So -this is her home, eh ?" he said
softly. "Well—now we have com- plications; for here, also, this evening,
a suicide was committed."
Fleming gripped the other's arm con-
vulsively.
"Not—not—the girl?" he whispered. "Calm yourself,"
replied Dreer. "It was a man—an elderly man—"
Fleming sighed
his relief, then laughed at the absurdity of his interest in
her.
"I'm a romantic, susceptible, bred-in- the-bone fool," he
told himself as he followed Dreer up -the steps.
In the
flarrow, low-ceilinged entry— illuminated by a single gas jet, flaring
weirdly—they found a policeman on guard: a Swede, one Hjalmar Yensen,
with whom even Knibbs was ac- quainted.
"Good evening,
Yensen," said the murder squad man. "What's been go- ing on
here?"
"Ay don' know. Somebody kill him- self, Ay
gasS."
"You were sent from headquarters merely to see that no
one left the house, eh?"
"Yeh. Ay ask skal Ay pinch some-
body, an' dey say, 'Hal, no; leave dat to Master Dreer.'
"
"Very good," nodded the weazened little fellow, his green
spectacles bob- bing eagerly, for he was always eager when approaching a
case that promised difficulties. "Who's upstairs ?"
"Yust a
cop a doctor."
"And the residents—the people of the house
?"
"Yeh. Ay forgot dem."
Dreer waited for no more,
but clat- tered up the uncarpeted stairs with Fleming Metcalf Knibbs at
his heels.
A light in the front room drew
them.
They hurried past a bluecoat at the door and stood for a moment on
the thresh- old, taking in the scene.
The body, covered by a
sheet, lay near a small table in a corner of the room. In addition to
the table were only two other articles of furniture: one a bedstead on
which reposed the gaunt figure of a man of perhaps fifty, the other a
chair; and seated on the chair, her eyes partially closed, was Fleming's
half-asleep girl!
Knibbs drew in his. breath sharply. The girl
did not look up. She was ap- parently unaware of their
entrance.
The physician approached.
"I am Doctor
Collier," he said. "You are from headquarters, I take it?" Simeon bobbed
his green glasses again, peering up at the tall M. D. with his little,
near-sighted eyes. "Dreer's my name," he remarked. "There's a suicide
here, I understand, doctor. What do you know of it?"
"Merely
this: that the officer on the beat heard a cry and ran in here to find
this man—" he indicated the white- sheathed form on the floor—"with a
knife in his heart. I was summoned, pronounced the fellow dead, and now
your men are detaining me, in spite of the fact that I have a practice
waiting." "One more question. About the man on the bed: what's his
affliction?" "Paralysis."
"Can't move
about?"
"Impossible. Only his neck and arms are
free."
"May I have your card?" "Certainly." The physician
extracted one from his vest pocket, extending it under the old fellow's
nose.
"Thank you. Haggerty, show the doctor out." Dreer swung
on'his heel, went to the bed and sat on its edge. "Tell me," he
requested of the para- lytic, "what happened here."
The
invalid passed a hand over his deeply set, black eyes, as though
to
clear his vision. Then he removed it and waved it weakly toward
the corner.
"This man, John Ulrich," he began, "is my cousin.
Like my daughter and myself, he has seen much misfortune. He came in
tonight brokenspirited and stood at the foot of my bed and told me he
was going to end it all. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't
listen. On the table lay a knife—one John had brought with him from the
East Indies when he stoked on a British steamer. He walked over and
picked it up. Fright- ened, I cried out at the top of my lungs, but that
merely frenzied him, and he drove the blade to its hilt in his breast.
You know the rest."
"And your daughter?"
"She was
here at the time. Weren't you, Lola?"
The girl nodded. It was
no more than a tired little inclination of her pretty head. Knibbs could
not help pitying her.
The questions continued. "What is your
name ?"
"Bastian De Brunner."
"How long have you
lived here ?"
"Less than a month."
"And
previously?"
"Australia."
"M-mm," mumbled Dreer.
Then he arose quickly, went to the corner and threw the sheet
aside.
The body of John Ulrich was fully six feet tall and
solidly constructed. His face, though somewhat distorted, re- vealed
plain, rather commonplace fea- tures under a shaggy beard. His shirt was
darkly stained where the knife had penetrated. The weapon itself, how-
ever, had been removed, and lay on the table.
It was, from all
the evidence, a plain case of suicide, motive poverty. Yet doubt might
be readily cast on the mo- tive. For had not this girl, Lola, re- turned
earlier in the evening with up-
ward of a thousand dollars in loot
taken forcibly from Fleming Metcalf Knibbs? Was it likely, with this
wealth in her possession, that she would allow a member of the family to
kill himself because of dire need? No, it wasn't likely.
Still—-
Simeon Dreer went to Knibbs and whispered: "Talk to
her while I engage her father. Ask her if she remembers you. Hint about
the robbery and watch her face."
Fleming approached the girl,
took her hand and drew her to one of the small windows overlooking the
street. By the light of a corner arc lamp they could see, directly
below, the half-rotted wooden steps on which she had
slipped.
Knibbs pressed her hand gently. She looked at him.
"Do you remember me ?" he murmured.
"What ?" Her tone was as
listless as before.
"Do you remember having met me
before?"
She gave a little negative shake of her sepia-crowned
head. And then, trailing after, a long-drawn "No-o-o." Knibbs waxed a
bit impatient. This feminine Jesse James was either con- summately
clever or genuinely half- asleep. Her features hadn't yielded the
slightest sign of recognition. He de- cided to be more
explicit.
"You know," he said, "I was robbed this evening
by—of all persons—a pretty young lady—-robbed of a watch and scarf pin
and three hundred dollars in currency."
"Were you?" she
sighed.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you
really?"
"Yes."
"Then, perhaps—" he lowered his
voice still more—"perhaps you can tell me where they are."
She
smiled very much as a child smiles in its sleep.
"How absurd," she said. "I am not a clairvoyant."
'
Fleming figuratively threw up his hands at the hopelessness
of learning anything from her. She was madden- ing. Without further
questioning he strode to the door. The detective, ob* serving this, met
him in the hall.
"Well, young Knibbs?" he queried,
hopefully.
"She's the image of original inno- cence—or
original sin—God knows which. Doesn't know a blasted thing about my
hold-up; never met me; and all that. Oh, What's the use ?"
"A
phrase not in my vocabulary," re- plied Dreer. "Do you want me to ar-
rest her?"
"Heavens, no! Send a girl—particu- larly as pretty
a girl as she—to jail? I'd rather lose a few thousand more than do
that."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Get my trinkets
back."
Dreer became speculative.
"She may have
carried this thing out on her bwn initiative, without the knowledge or
consent of her parent, in which instance it's hardly likely she would
bring the loot home with her," he muttered. "She's been to a 'fence,' no
doubt. Howpver, I'll have Yensen search the house and report to me to-
morrow. There's nothing we can do now, except perhaps make undertaking
arrangements. This other affair is plainly suicide."
They
filed down the stairway, paus- ing at its foot for another chat with
Hjalmar Yensen.
"My boy," said Simeon Dreer to the big,
raw-boned Swede, "I know you are a careful, conscientious officer. I
know you are thorough. And I have a little job here that requires
thoroughness more than anything else. It's only a side-light on the
suicide, but it may suc- ceed in recovering some stolen personal
property, and there's always a reward
attached to that sort of thing, you
know. Now, Yensen, I want you to search this shack from cellar to garret
for a diamond scarf pin shaped in a question mark, a Gruen watch, and an
alligator wallet containing three hun- dred dollars in bills and a
motor-car license made out to Fleming Metcalf Knibbs. Do your best to
uncover these or anything else of interest, Inciden- tally, you might
call in the matron from the Twenty-second District Station and have the
girl searched, preferably with- out the knowledge of her father. When
you are quite through, you and Hag- gerty may leave. Tell De Brunner we
hold his household blameless; that the evidence of suicide is
satisfactory to the department, and he will not be intruded upon again,
though, of course, the final judgment is in the coroner's hands.
Meanwhile, we shall summon an under- taker. Good-bye."
And
they went out.
III
Knibbs was awakened about nine
o'clock the following morning by the ringing of the telephone bell. He
arose, grumbling between yawns, and wended his barefooted way to the
instrument. "Hello !" he said briefly.
"That you, young
Knibbs?" asked Dreer's voice at the other end.
Fleming's
sleepiness vanished. Per- haps the old fellow had some interest- ing
information about his half-asleep girl, of whom he had dreamed the whole
night through.
"Yes, Mr. Dreer," he replied. "What is it? A
new development in our case?" "No; it's about the suicide, but I knew
you'd be interested—thought you'd like to follow it up, you know,
because—well, because the little girl is tied up in it,
and—"
"A meagre clue. It may and may not be of importance." Dreer was
always modest. "If you care to come over, we'll examine its
possibilities together." "But I thought the incident of the suicide was
closed. I thought the de- partment was satisfied."
"The
department is never satisfied so long as a shadow of suspicion remains
undispelled. To be brutally frank, young Knibbs, there is a possibility
that Lola De Brunner murdered the man Ul- rich
!"
"No!"
"Yes—a possibility. I do not say it with
assurance, and I hope, if only be- cause of your interest in her, that
it proves untrue. But it is there and can- not be avoided. As I said, if
you care to come over—"
"Wait for me. I'll be over in a
jiffy," cried Fleming.
He slammed the receiver on its hook,
and a moment later was getting into his clothes with reckless haste. The
girl Lola had taken a peculiar hold on him. Though the unusual
circumstances of their meeting, not to mention the de- pressing
incidents which followed, were certainly not—on their face, at least— of
a nature to awaken the finer in- stincts, these instincts were awakened,
nevertheless, in Fleming Knibbs, and, coming to analyze it that
beautiful Sep- tember morning, he concluded that it was so because there
was something real about this girl that rose above the most damning
facts, refuting them.
In brief, anything bad she had done
wasn't true. He-clung to this assertion because it was the only ground
on which he could satisfactorily explain his attraction to her. He knew
he wouldn't be drawn to a girl essentially bad; ergo folks had merely
gotten the wrong angle on her acts and misunderstood
them.
True, he had a difficult mental battle maintaining this
stand. Inevitable logic
came forward again and again, argu-
ing : "If a man approached you on the street, thrust a gun in your face,
and re- lieved you of your valuables, he would be a thief, wouldn't he—a
common high- wayman? If a gifl—no matter how pretty—does the same thing,
is she not a thief also?" That was a stumper. Knibbs had to find a way
to answer No so that he would believe it. And he did. But how he did is
beyond the compre- hension of any save those who, too, are under the
spell of some lovely young woman.
Fleming Knibbs sacrificed
breakfast that morning in his eagerness to see Dreer. Just forty-five
minutes elapsed between the ringing of his 'phone and the instant he
walked, unannounced, into the detective's strangely cluttered
library.
Simeon Dreer was seated with his ear close to the
phonograph, listening dreamily to the strains of Les Millions
d'Arlequin. As his visitor entered, he raised his hand, without turning,
in a request for silence.
Knibbs sat do%n and waited impa-
tiently for the music to cease.
When it did, finally, Dreer,
mutter- ing "beautiful, beautiful," put the rec- ord away with great
care and deliber- ation before joining his guest.
Then,
fumbling in his pocket, he brought forth an envelope.
"This,"
he said, "was found by my good friend Yensen, and earned him a
five-dollar bill."
"And this was all he found ?" queried
Knibbs. "No sign of the watch or scarf pin?" '
"None. The girl
asked him, you see, to help move her father to a back room, which he
did. Afterward he discov- ered this missive under the pillow. Tact-
fully maintaining silence, he brought it to me. Of your trinkets,
however, young Knibbs, there was not a sign."
Fleming looked at the envelope. v It was addressed in a rangy
scrawl to Bastian De Brunner and bore an Aus- tralian postmark dated six
weeks ear- lier. Within was a sheet of linen letter paper. He drew it
out and read:
Dear Bastian,
By the time this arrives
you should be/snugly fixed in your new quarters, m have no difficulty
picturing you there; silent, of course; perhaps even broodingbut fust as
active in thought as ever.
How is Lola? Ask her, for me, if
the trans-Pacific trip succeeded in les- sening the intensity of her
hatred for our mutual friend John Ulrich?
I am still with the
old Smith & Townsend outfit, though I'll admit the routine is
getting to be drudgery. Some day I may' clear out for the States myself.
In which event, you may be sure I'll look you up.
Trusting
your health is improving, I remain
Your friend and
admirer,
Cassius Wynn.
Knibbs glanced at Simeon
Dreer, frowning. dSo you think, because, she entertained a dislike for
the man Ul- rich, that she killed him, and that her father is protecting
her with his suicide story ?"
"A natural assumption, isn't
it?" Fleming, being reluctant to admit it, remained
silent.
"Young Knibbs," continued Simeon, '!at what hour did
this girl hold you up-?"
"About nine, I should
judge."
"And how long do you think it would take her to return
home from that spot, provided she went directly by trolley?" "No more
than fifteen minutes." "Then she could have been home at nine-fifteen ?"
"Easily."
"You've considered, I suppose, that
the stabbing occurred at nine-twenty ?"
Fleming avoided the
detective's gaze. He felt that by defending the girl he was putting
himself in an awkward position, yet in his heart he knew he would go on
defending her to the end. And the- end? What would it be? Finally,
seeking an argument on which to pin his dwindling hope, he asked: "How
can you be so sure of your time ?"
"Easily. There's a small
grocery !store on the corner, and in its window hangs a. clock which
Officer Haggerty is in the habit of consulting as he swings around his
beat. It was exactly nine-twenty by that clock when, as he passed the
Window, he heard De Brun- ner's cry. Lola, it would appear, had been
home five minutes."
Knibbs winced; then suddenly struck by an
idea he leaped to his feet. "But if she returned directly home after
leav- ing me, the stolen property must have been in her possession," he
cried. "And as it 'wasn't in her possession, she couldn't have returned
directly home, and must have arrived after the deed was done. That
clears her of all sus- picion."
He sat down in an exultant
glow.
Dreer lay back in his chair and laughed heartily. His'
green glasses flashed in the morning sunlight pouring through the open
window.
"The profession lost a genius when you took to
clipping coupons for a life work," he chuckled. "My boy, consider these
facts: all 'fences' do not live miles away from their co-workers. They
may even live conveniently near. In which event the girl could have
dropped in without losing more than a minute or two. Besides, it would
be foolish for either of us to try to prove her ab- sence at the time of
the tragedy, for in addition to her father, averring her presence,
Haggerty found her in the
room when he entered. My chief rea- son for. questioning you
concerning the hour of the hold-up was to establish a limited area in
which her 'fence' might be located. For I believe she employed a
'fence.' He may, really, be more guilty than she. And if we find him it
may lead to a clearing of the whole mys- tery. I am beginning to sense a
link between the robbery and the stabbing; and I'm glad, after all, that
you didn't allow me to arrest her last night. Now she can be watched.
You know, young Knibbs, the musty old saying: murder will
out."
Fleming was decidedly pale.
"I think you do
her an injustice," he muttered.
"That's just-what I'm trying
not to do. If she isn't guilty of wrongdoing she deserves to be cleared
in our sight. And if she is—"
He left the rest to be inferred,
and on the whole it carried a sinister meaning with the shadow of the
dreaded "chair" looming in the background. IV
Knibbs left his
friend Dreer's apart- ment in a depressed frame of mind. He felt that if
his half-asleep girl proved as black as circumstances had painted her he
could no longer entertain faith in humankind. Also, in this indigo mood,
he nursed a slight resentfulness toward Dreer for casting additional
suspicion upon her, and reflecting deprecatingly upon his deductive
ability.
He would show the old fellow. This affair wasn't over
yet. The truth was still hidden from them. Thus steeped in his musings,
and not fully realizing what he was doing, he signaled a pass- ing
taxi.
Within, he sat chewing the cud of his thoughts as the
constricted city land- scape flashed by. Twenty minutes passed. At
length he felt the machine
stop, and heard the chauffeur's
voice, "Here you are, sir."
He looked up. The taxi was stand-
ing before the little grocery store which Dreer had described. Then
Fleming Knibbs remembered that, with some vague idea of accumulating
additional facts, he had ordered to be driven into Lola's
neighborhood.
He paid the man and stood idly watching him
drive away. He didn't quite know what to do, where to begin. Uncertain
as he was; he started to walk around the block, hoping a course would
suggest itself. He passed the shabby De Brunner residence slowly. There
was crepe on the door, and the worn green shades in the front room were
drawn to a level with the slightly opened windows. At the next corner he
swung to the right. Shortly he came to an alley lined with drunken
fences and battered slop cans. On the impulse he entered it. He knew he
would find the De Brunner backyard somewhere along-here. As to what he
would do when he reached it he hadn't the faint- est
idea.
There were two stout Women in faded gingham. house
dresses and aprons standing at a gate directly be- hind De Brunner's. As
Knibbs neared them he caught snatches of their con- versation. They were
talking of the tragedy.
Fleming took his nerve in
hand.
"Pardon, ladies," he interrupted. "I understand there
was a suicide in the neighborhood—"
"You're right there was,"
responded the more garrulous of the pair, appar- ently glad for the
opportunity to air what she knew. "In that house there —right in front
of you. They just moved in the other day, an' now one of 'em's gone
a-ready. Stabbed his- self. I heard the paralytic yell when he did it.
An' then two men came run- nin' .out the back gate.
'Somethin's
wrong,' I told meself; an' sure enough I was right' They was goin'
for the doctor, I guess, an'—"
"Well, well—too bad," commented
the young man, restraining his excite- ment with difficulty as the last
fact made itself known. "Did they return quickly ?"
"I dunno.
But they're back now. I saw 'em in the yard this mornin'." "Too bad,"
repeated Knibbs, simu- lating the idle sympathy of the curi- osity
seeker. "However, such things are happening continually, aren't
they?"
And nodding and tipping his hat he moved on, picking
his way between cans until he again reached the end of the alley. But he
looked cautiously back within a few minutes, and, finding the women
£one, retraced his steps.
At the De Brunner gate he found,
luckily, no bolts to hinder his progress, and entered quickly. All he
wanted wis a surreptitious look at the two men who had projected
themselves into the drama, so that, should the occasion arise, he might
identify them. He walked softly to the kitchen window and peered within.
The room was empty.
Then, suddenly, he felt his ankles seized,
and he fell, and was jerked through a narrow window into the dark,
evil-smelling cellar. And before his senses had regained their equi-
librium, his arms were trussed behind him with a strip of
clothes-line.
He heard a coarse laugh. "Well, fella, that time
yuh got fresh once too often, didn't yuh?"
At this moment the
cellar door opened and a voice muttered:
"What's wrong down
there, Belden? Why the racket ?"
"Caught a snooper, Jim,"
retorted Fleming's assailant,
triumphantly.
"No!"
"Uh-huh."
"Bring him
up."
Knibbs's arm was seized in a rough grasp and he was
thrust through the darkness. With the other man behind him, prodding, he
marched up the stairs into the kitchen.
Mow he could see the
two men clearly. His captor was a short, stocky fellow with a bull neck,
pugnacious jaw, and jclose-cropped red hair. A typical prize fighter.
The other—a tall, lean chap—affected a little mus- tache above a pair of
hard lips, and a stock around his neck.
The lean one faced
him. "What's the big idea?" he demanded. "Come on, now—talk. What
business have you here?"
This was another poser for Knibbs. He
knew he had exceeded his rights by prowling around the place. Of course,
he was doing it for the girl's sake, but he couldn't tell them that.
What could he tell them?
"It seems I struck the wrong place—"
he began.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! I guess it does seem that way now,
doesn't it ? Pretty weak; pretty weak. You'll have to do better than
that."
"What will you do if I don't try— turn me over to the
police?"
"Not a chance. That would be an easy way out for you,
wouldn't it ?" He winked, slyly. "No, fella, unless you can explain, I
imagine old De Brunner will keep you here awhile. He likes company, and
he has a way with him that may win a confession from you. Suppose you
come with me and see him now."
With the lean man leading and
"red head" bringing up in the rear, they trailed upstairs to a back
bedroom. Bastian De Brunner, the paralytic, lay with several pillows
propped under his head reading a newspaper. He looked up as they
entered.
one, as though he had had a hand in it, "prowling in the
yard."
With his deeply set, dark eyes De Brunner studied
Fleming Knibbs. "You were here last night, weren't you?" he
asked.
Knibbs refused to answer, though he knew the sick man
was not de- ceived.
"What do you want?" De Brunner
continued.
Still Knibbs maintained his
silence.
"Bring him here." The command came in a hard,
inflexible tone from among the pillows. The lean spokes- man and his
companion leaped to obey. They half carried Knibbs to a chair be- side
the bed. Fleming found himself looking squarely into De Brunner's
eyes.
"Go," said the paralytic to the two men lingering in the
background. They went.
Knibbs felt the other's eyes boring
into him, and he glared back defiantly. No words were spoken. It was a
bat- tle of minds. De Brunner's pupils seemed to glow like coals and his
whole attitude was of striving for domination.
It came to
Fleming at that dramatic moment, as he fought back, that Bas- tian De
Brunner possessed _hypnotic power, and a thrill of fear coursed through
him. He suppressed it quickly, concentrating every force into his star-
ing eyes. He must hold his own. He must not allow himself to fall under
the spell.
Absolute silence prevailed in- the
room.
Slowly Knibbs became conscious of a numbness in the
legs. It grew upon him an inch at a time, crawling like a snake past the
knee and upward. He became desperate, frantic. He tried to shout for
help, but no sound issued from his lips. He tried to tear himself from
the chair and dash from the room, but his muscles were immovable,
re-
fusing to obey the mental impulse. Vaguely Knibbs marveled at
this. It always had been his impression that hypnotic control of an
unwilling sub- ject was impossible. Obviously De Brunner possessed an
extraordinary power.
Then a sudden calmness swept over him as
he realized that fear would only undermine his resistance, thus adding
to the other's strength. Though this was his first experience with
hypnosis —and he Was accordingly handicapped by a natural awe of
mysterious, un- known forces—he now coolly rallied all his faculties to
defense, and once again clearly met De Brunner's gaze.
And
then the door opened and Lola entered bearing a tray.
It was
this interruption plus Flem- ing's rally that spelled defeat for the
paralytic's initial stupendous attempt at controlling his captive's
mind. With- out a word he removed his. gaze and sank deeper among the
pillows. "Send Jim up," he said in a normal voice.
Lola set
the tray on a bureau and, going to the door, called softly
below.
Shortly the tall, thin-lipped fellow sauntered
in.
"Make this man secure in the next room," ordered de
Brunner. "I want to see him later. Needn't gag him un- less he gets
noisy."
The chap called Jim yanked Knibbs to his feet; and
then they were in a small, bare room furnished only with a cot. Silently
Jim pushed his helpless charge on the cot, stretched him out at full
length and made him fast to the frame with stout ropes ably knotted.
I
"Guess that'll hold you awhile," he grinned as he
departed.
V.
Knibbs lay there the balance of the
morning and far into the afternoon. Occasional footsteps passed the
door,
going to or coming from the back room. Then there was a prolonged
silence and Knibbs thought he detected snoring.
Fleming's
position had1 now become not only irksome but decidedly uncom- fortable.
He was stiff from lying so long in one position and his legs and arms
ached where the ropes had chafed them; for he had done 'considerable
twisting and straining in spasmodic en- deavors to free himself. Quiet
having descended upon the mysterious house- hold, he determined to make
one last great attempt toward this end. Gather- ing all his reserve
force in the effort, he drew his arms together and his knees up. The
ropes held. He increased the tension gradually . . . and felt a thrill
of exultation. His right arm was loose; his freedom remained but a
matter of minutes.
Fleming Knibbs was casting off the last of
his shackles when his anxious, roving eye observed the door opening
silently. Transfixed with horror, he waited;
A figure slipped
in and approached the coti It was Lola. Knibbs breathed easier. He arose
and held her arms. "Why are you here ?ri he whispered. "What do you
want?" For a moment, in his highly excited state, he doubted her. The
next moment he was ashamed of himself.
"I've come to help
you," she replied softly. "De Brunner is asleep. Jim and Belden have
gone to hire an auto. They intend removing you to a place where there
will be less likelihood of the police finding you. By your atti- tude
and appearance, De Brunner be- lieves you a Wealthy man-about-town who
finds sport in traveling around with detectives. And he has designs bn
you—just what I do not know. He may hold you for ransom. Or it may be
that he intends gaining mental con- trol of you—as he has me. He's—he's
the devil incarnate!" she concluded ve-
hemently. "You must escape
him."
"But—isn't he—your father?"
"Thank God, no! I
was once, at least, of a good Belgian family—the family of Langlois. But
I lost every- one and everything I held dear early in the war.
Distracted, I fled to Aus- tralia, where I obtained employment as
secretary to the manager of the Smith & Townsend circus. It was
before the full seriousness of the war had been realized and many men,
particularly the older ones, had no thought of entering service. De
Brunner was one of these. He was a versatile performer—a dare- devil who
provided half a dozen acts, But one day he took a chance too many, and
dropped from a trapeze, injuring his spine. It was then he fell back
upon and developed a latent hypnotic power, and I became his slave,
doing his bidding, no matter what. Oh, I hate it! I hate it! If j§ too,
could only escape! But I cannot. He controls my body and my soul, and I
am fearful of him."
Deeply interested and excited by this
personal narrative from the girl whose sweet face he had learned to
adore, Knibbs forgot his surroundings, forgot his desire to escape and
the need of haste, and probed for more. "When, you are under the spell,
are you fully aware of what you are doing, Lola?" He used her name
reverently.
"Yes; but faintly, as in a dream. Oh, I knQw I
robbed you. I recall the de- tails—hazily. But I could not tell you last
night—with De Brunner there, and the officers."
"Being unable
to do so himself, he intends using you to carry out his crim- inal
designs, making you his unwilling automaton, and hiding from the law
behind your skirts. Isn't that it?"
She shrank back as though
struck; then, strangling a sob, braced herself. "Of course. It is plain.
Yet no mat- ter how much I fear the consequences
of my acts, I fear him more. Oh—I— I wish I
were—dead!"
"Please don't say that. Things will come out
right. They must. Tell me, .Lola, have you—committed many—ah —crimes at
his bidding?"
She sighed with relief. "No; yours was the
first. It seems the idea did not occur to him until he decided to come
to America. I think perhaps Jim put it in his head. Jim and 'Red' Belden
were canvasmen—rough as they come. And when De Brunner's savings were
exhausted—"
"I see. But who was the other man —this John
Ulrich, who—who died last night?"
"He, too, was a ..student of
hypnosis —a complacent hypocrite I have always detested. De Brunner
became ac- quainted with him in Melbourne. An- other circus man, Cassius
Wynn, in- troduced them. It may be, tOo, that the idea of crime through
hypnotic con- trol originated in him, or in Wynn. I cannot say. But De
Brunner was mas- ter of them all, despite his infirmity. And somehow he
found in me his most pliant subject."
"Tell me one more thing,
Lola. Did John Ulrich commit suicide, or was he murdered?"
"I
do not know," she said, looking at him with frank eyes, and he knew she
spoke the truth, but he was no less un- easy, for he believed he knew
now what had transpired the night before. "I had just returned and in a
sort of stupor was mounting the steps when someone screamed. I went in
and lay the loot on the bed. Jim and Belden were standing staring down
at Ulrich. De Brunner said something in a sharp tone; then Jim took the
loot and both of them went out quickly. I saw no more of them until this
morning."
Knibbs welcomed the projection of other suspects on
the scene. It relieved
him to think that, if Ulrich was
knifed, either of the ex-circus men might have had a hand in it. But he
had recurrent thrills of fear. For it may- have been that Lola's
remembrance of that wak- ing dream was incorrect—and that, after all,
she had committed— No, no! Heaven forbid!
He took a short step
toward her. "I think I hear someone at the front door," he hissed.
"Let's get out of here. No ; I'll not go alone. You must come, too,
Lola. I'll care for you. I'll—"
"No. It is impossible. ... You
were right. There is someone below.
Hurry!"
"You—"
"Oh, if I only might! But I cannot. I
feel those invisible ties and they're— too strong—for me. Go now,
please." The closing of the vestibule door reached them distinctly.
There was need of haste. Knibbs cast one last pleading look at the girl,
saw the use- lessness of petitioning her further, and, determining to
return later with the police department at his back, stooped and kissed
her full upon the lips. Then he threw open the door and stepped into the
hall.
He had delayed a bit too long. He stepped squarely in
the path of the two canvasmen.
VI.
And then Knibbs
had his hands full. He met Jim—the lean fellow affecting the Chaplin
mustache—with a crashing blow in the face that sent him reeling back
against his companion. And he followed this Up, launching himself like a
tiger at the other's throat. He made the silk stock his target, hoping,
inci- dentally, that the force of his attack would carry them both to
the floor. But unfortunately Belden had braced him- self against the
balustrade, which caused the whole tide of battle to
turn.
Jim met his leap squarely, and shortly both were on
him.
There was a crash, a great tangle of flashing arms and
legs on the floor, the sound of blows, and at intervals above it all the
awakened paralytic's voice calling to Lola. .
Knibbs was
putting up the fight of his life. And the fact that, glorified his
efforts was that he Was not fighting for himself alone. It wasn't only
that he defended himself against kidnapping or resisted being-trussed
again on that cot. It was something bigger and finer. Substantially, he
was fighting for the woman he loved.
But it was a losing
fight. Belden, being a bred-in-the-bone pug, and lean Jim having been
thoroughly educated in toughness—an education incomplete without a
working knowledge of the fistic art—Knibbs' chances were on the short
end. Already his nose was bleed- ing and his chin gashed.
Then
they piled upon him as in a football game, crushing out his breath; and
he felt his surroundings slipping away, when the unexpected
happened.
To Fleming Metcalf Knibbs, prone on the hall floor
with the two ex-circus men belaboring him, the events which transpired
now appeared more than ever dream-like. The rickety front door was
thrust inward and an ava- lanche of rushing footsteps came to his ears.
The pressure on his throat and chest was suddenly relieved, and as he
moved his head weakly he saw Simeon Dreer, of the murder squad, looking
down at him through his ridiculously large green spectacles, while all
around swarmed blue-coated and brass-but- toned
forms.
"Hoo-ray!" cheered Knibbs weakly, staring back at Dreer
with a silly smile. He felt that he ought to get up and welcome his
rescuers, but for the life of him he couldn't move a
muscle.
At an order from Dreer, an officer
got him under the
arms; and then he found himself standing on shaking, un- certain legs,
one hand on the balustrade post, the other moving across his fore- head.
Slowly his faculties revived.
Out of the little room came
Officer Yensen, holding Lola tightly by the arm.
Knibbs saw
red.
"Release that lady," he bellowed, or tried to bellow, for
he was still too weak to achieve the real thing. Yensen looked
uncertainly first at Knibbs then at Simeon Dreer.
Simeon
smiled tolerantly. "Do as the gentleman requests, Yensen," he
said.
It was done; whereat those remain- ing in the hall
proceeded to the rear room where the discomfited ruffians and their
leader were under guard.
"A charming gathering," commented
Dreer. "At what hour is tea served?" "Sir, your sarcasm is anything but
appropriate," said the paralytic from among his pillows, pretending
righteous indignation, though his face was livid with wrath. "By what
right do you force your way into my home-—at this very moment a house of
death?"
Dreer maintained his nonchalance. "If it were not a
house of death I should not be here," he replied, "though it appears
fortunate for Mr. Knibbs that I happened along when I did. How- ever,
his rescue was incidental and sec- ondary. I have come after the mur-
derer of John Ulrich!"
"The murderer of Ulrich! What do you
mean ?"
"My English is clear, I believe. I'm sure you
understand me, De Brunner. If not, I shall be more harshly explicit.
There's an ambulance waiting outside to take you away. There's a police
pa- trol, too; and I might add, if I may be so indelicate, that were you
not bed- ridden, you'd ride in the latter."
"Ridiculous." De
Brunner's eyes narrowed to pin points.
"Not altogether,"
continued Simeon, calmly. "You won't deny, I take it, that you were once
a circus performer —a versatile person, as clever on the trapeze as at
knife throwing!—"
He paused impressively.
The
paralytic's face blanched..
"I see you're on," he snarled.
"How you did it I don't know and don't care. You're a clever devil
yourself. But neither you nor the commonwealth shall have the
satisfaction of adminis- tering—my—punishment—"
It was over in
a trice. They saw his hand move quickly, convulsively, under the sheet.
A spasm of pain crossed his face. His head jerked up. The mus- cles of
his neck and shoulders tensed. For a moment great physical strain was
apparent there. Then he relaxed and his head rolled to one
side.
Dreer leaped forward and threw back the covers. Evidence
of Bastian De Brunner's act was sickeningly ap- parent. A dagger—the
very one Ulr rich was reputed to have brought from India—was plunged to
the hilt in his side. Quickly removing it, he drew the sheet up over the
still form.
"The state is satisfied," he said.
* *
*
"But how—?" began Fleming Met- calf Knibbs for the hundredth
time.
They were in Dreer's cluttered apart- ment. Lola
Langlois was seated in one of the spacious chairs/ with Fleming draped
over its arm, gazing longingly down upon her. He had looked up just long
enough to put his question to Dreer.
The little man tinkered
with his green spectacles a moment before replying.
"I hardly
know whether to tell you or not," he said. "The truth is I shall
probably sacrifice my professional rep-
utation in your eyes by doing so.
For the whole thing was so absurdly sim- ple. You see, young Knibbs,
after you left this morning I made a second care- ful examination of De
Brunner's letter from Cassius Wynn and found the en- velope not torn
open but carefully cut. That implied one thing, didn't it—that De
Brunner opened his mail with a knife? Of course, to do that, he has had
at times a knife in bed with him. Suggestive, eh? But not complete.
Doctor Collier's statement now re- turned to me: that although paralyzed
De Brunner's arms were free. Fur- ther illumination came when I learned
upon inquiry that Smith & Townsend was not the name of a mercantile
house but of a traveling circus. Some show- men in town supplied me with
final de- tails. They remembered Bastian De Brunner and his
knife-throwing act. What more would the densest sleuth require?
Immediately a picture of John Ulrich disputing De Brunner's power
suggested itself. Perhaps Ul- rich threatened to expose him to the
police. At any rate a lost temper and a hurtling knife terminated the
incident in tragedy. It was Ulrich's death cry, not a call for help from
De Brunner, that brought the police. And there you have it. You, young
Knibbs, supplied equally as important information as I, however, in
learning of this strange fellow's criminal intentions."
Dreer
arose abruptly and. went to the phonograph and shortly the strains of
Les Millions D'Arlequin filled the room. Sitting raptly by the
instrument he drank in every note.
After a moment he appeared
to have been struck by a thought. Unexpect- edly, he cut the record off
in its prime, and, stealing a side glance at the youth and maid, now
busily engaged in whis- pered conversation, he left the
room.
Exactly twenty minutes later his apartment bell rang. Of
which, also,
Fleming Knibbs and Lola were bliss- fully unaware.
Then
Dreer's green spectacles poked their way through the door. Fleming had
his half-asleep girl in his arms— no longer half asleep, however, for
her lips were pressed to his in passionate surrender. The little man
said later he never saw, and never expected to see again, so beautiful,
so colorful a pic- ture.
He coughed.
"Come in," said
Knibbs, without looking up.
"It's Hjalmar Yensen below," ex-
plained Simeon. "He says 'Red' Bel- den and the man called Jim confessed
to making off with your personal prop-
erty and named the 'fence' they had
employed. He has recovered every- thing, young Knibbs, and wants to see
you."
"Can't," replied Fleming, briefly, giving the chair a
hitch so that its back was now to the door. "I'm busy. Tell him to leave
the Ingersoll and scarf pin in your care. As for the wallet—let him keep
it."
"And its contents?"
"Of
course."
"Whew!"
"And
Dreer—"
"Yes?"
"Invite him to the wedding. We can
have him watch the gifts, you know."
CHICKEN-FOOT Darragh, with a skinful
of cheap Italian red wine, lurched, stiff-armed, against the basement
grille. The warped treads of the ancient staircase creaked under the
pressure of a careful footfall—then, at what he saw, outlined in the red
circle of the single gas-jet, Darragh's loose lips sagged open—stark,
elemental fear strangled the outcry in his throat—his blunt finger-nails
met like talons, hooked into the basement gate.
A moment he.
stood thus, while above him, like a face without a body, there floated
against a black pool of darkness, the dreadful head, like, in its
semblance, to nothing animal or human save in the broad, porcine
snout.
For a moment it held against the red glimmer of the gas
which, in a debased aureole, seemed to pale to a flat, tone- less
shading of unholy fire. Then it passed, like the brief smoke of a wind-
blown torch.
Darragh knew nothing' of hippogrifs, of
leprechauns; he might have called it a gargoyle, a djinn, had he known
them by their names. Nor was he familiar with Anubis, the dog-faced
deity of the Egyptians—but the head which he had beheld was kin to none
of these....
Now, spread-eagled against the grat- ing, he fell
suddenly sick, the fumes of the cheap liquor he had drunk mounting in a
swift, dizzying surge against hie brain. Stumbling, reeling, clawing
des- perately outward, behind him the mem- ory of the Thing which he had
seen, he gained the street, and, after a headlong flight of several
blocks, a park bench.
But his last conscious impression,
ere he sank into the stupor which would last until well into the,next
day's noari, was of a face which seemed to float, head-high, at the
height of a tall man, like a face without a body—a. face un- speakable,
inhuman, and yet—real—in its terrifying semblance, half-dog, half-
pig—whole horror. And with it, too, ere he sank like a stone into the
sea- green silence of oblivion, there persisted in his nostrils a savor,
a stench, an acrid, faint tang, as though the very air itself had been
tainted by. the passage of that nameless
terror.
II
Detective Sergeant Sjnsabaugh, off duty
at two A. M., went up the steps of the Varick Street tenement wherein he
kept bachelor quarters. No. 32 was a malodorous building in a neighbor-
hood grim and chancy enough of its kind. On one side there loomed the
squat bulk of a stable; on the other the towering outline of a chemical
plant.
Sinsabaugh, however, was thinking that it was his last
night as a bachelor, and, consequently, his last night in No. 32. For
tomorrow he would be mar- ried . . . his last night. . . .
But
tonight, despite the joyance of his mood, there was something in the
air—he felt it as a heaviness, a dead- ness, a breathless, weighty hush
like the tension before storm. But the August evening was close and
sultry.
And yet, as he mounted the worn steps, into his mind's
eye, unbidden, there came a face: writhen,
snarling,
bestial, vengeful—the face of Duster
Joe Masterman, gang leader and all- round crook, as he had last seen it
on the day that Masterman had gone "up the river" to begin his ten-year
term for loft burglary.
It had been Sinsabaugh's testimony
which had convicted the gangster, and Masterman had sworn to "get" him.
"You damn double-crossing dick," Mas- terman had promised, "I'll get
you—and it'll take me just ten years and a day— and then-"
But
others had threatened Sinsa- baugh—there was nothing novel in it— it was
just a part of the day's work— the vicious hatred of an underworld for
all that typified the Law—an hereditary and accustomed hatred accepted
and understood.
Today, however, Duster Joe was out; no doubt
he was even now showing himself in the haunts he had aforetime favored;
Gaspipe Looie's, doubtless, for one. It may have been habit that caused
the policeman to feel for his service pistol as he paused in the en-
trance of the hallway. But as he reached behind him his groping fingers
suddenly became rigid—a faint, hissing breath sounded from his lips as
he felt his arm caught and held abruptly from be-
hind.
Sinsabaugh pivoted as a boxer ducks under his
adversary's lead, whirling sidewise to face—the empty street. Then he
grinned foolishly, clucked with his tongue, and released his coat-sleeve
Where it had caught in the ornamental ironwork of the
banister.
But he hesitated on the threshold, glancing upward
where, above the black well of the stairway, there hung a faint pinpoint
of gas.
Sinsabaugh was not imaginative, but —it was his last
night as a bachelor— almost it seemed as if that touch upon his
coat-sleeve had been' a warning, a message, a summons laid upon him
by
the urgence of invisible fingers . . . nonsense!
But the
murky air continued heavy, lifeless—the unwinking eye of the gas- light
somehow sinister, malevolent. As has been said, Sinsabaugh was not
imaginative, but now, like a swimmer breasting a tide of impenetrable
and soundless flood, he mounted with slow steps the narrow stair. And
about him as he went forward the darkness closed in like a wall,
sinister, threatening, above and beyond him that pinpoint of gas, like
an evil star now curiously bluish, flat, unreal as a flickering, painted
flame.
Sinsabaugh loosened his pistol in its arm-holster,
searching the thick-piled shadows massed beyond the fell circle of that
brooding beacon. He! drew his Colt. If Masterman awaited him some- where
upon that stair or upon the land- ing above, he would be ready for him.
Hugging the wall, for the more silent footing there afforded, the
policeman, one hand before him, feeling along the plaster, the other
holding his gun, went upward steadily in the whispering gloom, eyes
strained against the black- ness, ears attuned to the throb- bing
silence, like the beating of a heart.
The gas offered no
illumination be- yond its flat nimbus of pale flame, but it seemed to
Sinsabaugh that if he could see nothing, there yet lingered in that
atmosphere an aura, a something felt yet unperceived. Something or some-
one had been before him on that stair- way, if he or It had passed like
the passing of a candle's breath in the mal- odorous dark.
At
the stairhead he crouched, swung up his arm, and the bright lance of his
pocket flash clove the darkness in a dazzling arc to right and left. But
there was nothing.
He halted at the door of his cham-
bers—shrugged—inserted the key in the
lock. The heavy, sound-proof door
swung wide—r-then, following his en- trance, slammed shut behind him
with a muffled clang.
There came a blow at the base of his
brain like the impact of a mighty hand —he staggered, stumbled, fell
prone into a struggling, choking hell which took him by the throat, a
rising tide en- gulfing him with an acrid and intoler- able stench. His
gun barked, once, at the convulsive pressure of his finger. But it was a
dead man who fired the shot.
III
Officer Williamson,
passing on his beat through Varick Street, halted a moment before No.
32, a puzzled look on his broad, good-humored counte- nance, For a brief
instant, head in air, he sniffed upward, like a pointer—then, his face
gray, he reeled abruptly against an area gate, his hand at his throat,
coughing like a man in a fit.
His side-partner, turning the
corner, as it chanced, at the sight of Williamson doubled over the
area-gate, came on at a run, unslinging his pistol.
"What's
up, Jack?" he called; then he, too, halted in mid-career, falling to a
stiff-legged walk, as an acrid stench smote him in the face in a
blinding, overpowering flood. With his last re- maining glimmer of sense
his fist crashed into the glass of a fire-box— then he slumped into
oblivion. After a moment cries echoed down the street, followed by
the'clang and rattle of the patrol. Men came up at a run, halted, turned
back—then, out of the confusion there arose the cry of
"Gas!"
But it was not until the arrival of the Rescue Squad
that some order was ob- tained out of the chaos, when, follow- ing the
arrival of the police and fire companies, the sufferers were treated
with a vaporized solution of milk of
magnesia,* and Williamson and his
partner removed to the nearest hospital.
But as for Detective
Sergeant Sinsa- baugh—he was beyond their ministra- tions.
* *
*
Gunson, Sinsabough's partner and friend,- was stubborn in
his belief that it was not altogether an accident which had been
responsible for the death of Sinsabaugh.
"It was an accident,
all right—but it was planned, I tell you, Chief," he was insisting to
Inspector Murchison, his immediate superior.
"If you're
thinking of Masterman; Dave, you're all wrong, boy," replied Old Dan.
"He's not in pn this?—how could he be? Anyway, you know what it was—th'
gas-tank exploded in Thompson's warehouse next door,
and—"
"Well—that's vall right, - Chief; but how do you account
for the fact—"
"—That it got into Sinsabaugh's rooms first ?
Why—-that it smashed through the party wall—it is only, a few inches
thick there, you know—and Sin- sabaugh's rooms were right up against
it."
"Sure, Inspector—but this is what I believe—" Gunson
leaned forward earnestly, tapping his knee with a blunt forefinger. "I
believe that someone— Masterman, for a good guess—made that hole in the
wall, pushed the tank through, and then smashed it open in Sinsabaugh's
rooms, just a little while before poor Jim came home—to die." He paused.
"Masterman knew all about tanks and gas—he was an expert—be- fore he
turned yegg—an oxy-acetylene blowpipe would have done it—easy— for
him."
The inspector grunted. "That's all very well, Dave," he
made
answer, "but there's one little
thing you've overlooked—there's one flaw in your argument: we'll suppose
Master- man, or whoever it was got into the warehouse—breached the
wall—rolled in the tank—and let out the gas with a blowpipe. Well and
good. Then, how do you account for the fact that the murderer—if- there
was a murderer— was not himself gassed? You know what chlorine is,
Dave—-no—it was just an accident—that's all there is to it." Gunson's
jaw set stubbornly. "I can't answer that, Inspector," he said— "I'm not
going to try—just now—but as sure as—as Duster Joe Masterman came out of
stir when his time was up —Jim Sinsabaugh was murdered—and you can't
make me believe anything else."
He rose, his face grim with
purpose. "You'll give me a week—working alone?" he questioned. "That's
all I'll ask-—a week—no more."
By way of answer the grizzled
inspec- tor bowed his head. Sinsabaugh had been one of his best men. He
liked Gunson.
"Go to it, my boy," he said heavily, "and—good
luck."
* * * *
Gunson took his leave. But there was
one thing he had neglected to men- tion to Inspector Murchison; a small
thing, if you will—but a clue which had furnished him with an idea—a
some- thing he had observed at the house on Varick.Street on the day of
the explo- sion as the firemen had issued from that house of death. This
he had kept to himself, but time was precious. A day might be too
little—or too much.
IV
Chicken-Foot Darragh reclined
against the bar at Gaspipe Looie's. At
Looie's you can still purchase a
pretty fair quality of hooch for four bits even now, and the snowbird
brigade makes it a headquarters, too.
Darragh, his head
wagging foolishly, his loose lips mouthing his words, re- tailed a story
for the twentieth time, half to himself, half to a saturnine in-
dividual with a predatory nose and a straight gash for a mouth who had
for some reason, bought Darragh a drink.
"Here's luck," said
Darragh. "Well —as I was sayin' ... I seen this ghost, or whatever it
was, as I was goin' in th' basement door. It looked like-—it looked
like—"
He paused—shivered—drained his glass.
"Yes?"
prompted his new friend. "Like what, bo ?"
He spoke in a
friendly tone, yet like velvet over steel, but if Darragh could have
seen his face—the look in the deep-set, implacable eyes—his whistling
breath might have ended in a sudden gasp.
But he did
not.
"Why—why—like a dog—a pig, Mister," he replied. "I seen
it—sure—- but—I dunno."
His head wagged, his eyes glassy with
his potations. He fumbled again with his loose lips, muttering inarticu-
lately. The stranger cleared his throat —then he spoke in a carrying
voice!
"You had 'em sure, bo," he asserted. "Th' jimmies—
you'll be seeing pink monkeys and green elephants next if you don't keep
your feet down—I'll say so."
He glanced about the room. "Guess
you're right, mister," mumbled the derelict, without offence. "I had 'em
bad, sure enough." And then, with an abrupt, drunken stubbornness: "
'Twuz Dago red wine—I ain't never seen things with Dago red wine,
Mister—it was there ... I seen' it—it moved—
right under th' gas-—it moved . . .
sure . . . well—g'night—g'night."
He turned, swayed, lurched
out into the night, a grotesque, shambling figure, misshapen, formless
as the long, wav- ering shadow which fled ahead, cast by the sputtering
arc at the corner. And behind him, behind, he did not see that other
Shadow, quick, stealthy, furtive, for all of its bulk—a shadow with
pred- atory eyes and a traplike mouth, moving like a great, grim cat in
the dark- ness. . . .
The shadow was nearer now, and a little
wind, pattering in the dust like the feet of an invisible army of the
dead, stole forward on the wings of the night, whispering, ending with a
quick shriek and a sudden hush. A storm was brew- ing in the west
...
Like figures in a dream, pursuer and pursued entered a
broad belt of dark- ness like a deep well of night. The clump-clump of
the derelict's heavy brogans echoed for a moment across the cobbles at
the intersection of an alley, beyond it the revealing radiance of a
street lamp.
He saw it—and that was all. For, while the
brooding blackness held there came the snick of steel—a choked gur-
gle—a muffled cry, like the quick squeak of a mouse in the wainscot—a
thud . . . silence.
Chicken-Foot Darragh had passed on —into
the dark.
V
Gunson, earlier in the evening, had
paused a moment in his search for Mas- terman before the window of a
store which had caused him to suck in his breath in the sheer surprise
of a discov- ery which he was certain dovetailed with the other clue
which he had turned up at No. 32. He had heard the story of Darragh at
second-hand, and now, as he stared through the dingy pane
of
the old curiosity shop a sudden inspira- tion took him by the
throat.
Why—why—of course—that was it —it had to be—for Gunson
was confi- dent that he had seen Darragh's "ghost," or, at any rate, his
counterfeit presentment, leering at him through the dirt-encrusted pane.
But a hurried questioning of the proprietor, a Spanish Jew with a
fondness for gesticulation in inverse ratio to his almost unintelligible
speech, gave him pause—but only for a moment. Gunson, however, made a
rather peculiar purchase, which he be- stowed carefully in an inner
pocket.
Masterman, after all, need not have entered that shop;
in the second place he was far too shrewd a malefactor for that. But the
suggestion remained, fantastic, incredible as he owned it to himself to
be, and Gunson, at the cor- ner of the street had had it corrobo- rated,
so to speak, when a wizened non- descript rose up almost at his
elbow.
"Darragh — Chicken-Foot—-he's at Gaspipe's—he said t'
tell youse he'd wait."
And Gunson, without more ado had sought
the derelict and the saloon of Gaspipe Looie, perhaps five minutes after
the departure of the vagrant, and B-his shadow.
Looie knew
nothing—of course. That was to be expected. Gunson could spare no time
to tighten the thumbscrews of his inquisition. It was going on for
eleven. He hurried.
"That — rumhound — Darragh been here
lately, Looie?" he had asked.
For a moment as he faced the
swart Syracusan behind his stained and bat- tered bar Gunson was
conscious of a movement at his back: a ripple, an eddy, a swift, sudden
current of electric tension. In the stained and spotted mirror he could
see but little, but at Looie's reply of "Naw—theesa bum— he
go—eight-nine o'clock," and a look which he fancied that he saw in
the
sullen, furtive eyes of the
saloonkeeper, Gunson whirled on his heel in a light- ning
pivot.
They came at him in a headlong rush, silent, no
guns—knives out, life-pre- servers—an evil ring of dark faces and
clutching hands. .. Something hissed in a thin-drawn whine at the level
of his cheek—the knife clanged, quivering, in the mahogany. Voices rose,
bestial, snarling: "Croak him . . . croak th' bull!" A slungshot at the
end of a swart, hairy arm, drove over his shoul- der.
Gunson
had been trained up from the streets, the alleys. To a habit of light-
ning decision was added the perfect co- ordination of muscles steel-hard
and willow-withed. Now he multiplied him- self—the fighting flame of his
Norse forebears rising to a Baresark fury at the thought that these were
the paid hirelings, doubtless, of the man who, he was now convinced, had
murdered Sinsabaugh. His fist, behind it the weight of two hundred
pounds of iron- hard muscle, crashed into a grinning face. The face was
blotted out.
Hemmed in as he was, there was no time for
gunplay—it was fist and elbow against knife and club in a ferocious
free-for-all of which the issue could not be long in doubt.
He
went to one knee under the glanc- ing impact of a sandbag, heaved up-
ward, shook his head as a pugilist ral- lies his whirling wits—and then,
muscle and mind and body, hurled himself in one furious, headlong dive
into and through that vicious ring of steel. The spank of a clean-cut
blow was followed by a groaning curse, and for the first time the crash
of an automatic, and the dull tsung of splintered glass.
A
red-hot needle seared through his cheek as, ducking under the out-
stretched arm of the last of his attack- ers, his swinging uppercut was
followed by a grunt and a slumping fall. Then
he was through the
swinging doors— and away.
They would not follow him—of that he
was reasonably certain—but never- theless he went forward at a lunging
run, jerking his service pistol from its holster as he approached the
black maw of the alley.
Then—he stumbled—went to his hands and
knees—fumbled a moment iri the darkness, produced his pocket flash. And
in the radius of that clear beam he saw, staring up at him from the
cobbles, the dead face, with its staring eyes and brief, twisted grin,
of Chicken-Foot Darragh. * * * *
Masterman, secure in the
knowledge that his decoy had by this time accom- plished his purpose (he
had had Gun- son trailed for the best part of'the eve- ning) went
swiftly to a room which he kept in a slightly more respectable
neighborhood.
This he had used often enough in the past—Gunson
was aware of it, of course. Now, with that healthy fatigue which is the
prerogative of thieves and murderers as well as of honest men, Masterman
flung himself on the bed. He was dog-tired, so much so that he had
removed his coat and hat, merely, before he was breathing easily, like a
man whose conscience had never been burdened with anything heavier than
a hearty dinner.
As a matter of fact, he had bent over to
unlace his shoes, but in the very act sleep had overtaken him. If he had
done so, this story might never have been written—but he did not. And he
had had them on since the night of Sinsabaugh's death, just twenty-four
hours previous.
It had required no very special keen- ness on
the part of Gunson to deduce that Masterman would do the very thing that
he had done—seek his room.
The detective knew the address, and,
anyway, the obvious had its importance —he would try here first, at any
rate.
Slipping in quietly by the side door (the room was over
a saloon on a quiet street) Gunson, unseen, mounted the narrow
stair—listened a moment at a door on the second landing—turned the knob
noiselessly—unlocked the door by turning the key from the outside with a
long, thin wire made for this purpose— and entered.
And
so—Masterman awoke at a daz- zle of light which struck him full in the
eyes. He blinked owlishly—then sat upright with a jerk, his hand
reaching for his gun and then falling at his side at the crisp voice of
the detective: "I've got you covered, Masterman." The yegg cursed,
stared a moment wildly' then his pig eyes snapped evilly as Gunson's
other hand, reaching up- ward behind him, turned up the light. Gunson,
putting away his flashlight, bent a hard eye on his
prisoner.
"I want you, Masterman," he said evenly, "you rotten
killer—step lively, now—you hear?"
But Masterman, his
composure re- turning after that first, amazed glance which had assured
him that Gunson was unarmed, spoke, sneeringly con- fident
:
"You've got nothing on me, Gunson," he said, his heavy face,
with its blue- shaven jowls, assuming a satiric mask. "You can't prove
nothing."
"I have-—or rather you have," re- plied Gunson
cryptically, "and I can prove everything," he .was beginning. "Shake a
leg now—" when abruptly there came a startling reversal.
Not
for nothing had Masterman abode aforetime in that haven of the dwellers
by night—Paris, of the thou- sand eyes. And among other accom-
plishments of that grim underworld of the Apache, most ruthless of his
kind, had he acquired a more than average
efficiency in the art of La Savate.
Now, at Gunson's crisp command, he came suddenly into
action.
His right foot, shod with its pointed boot, swung
upward in a bone-smash- ing kick, almost too deadly swift for the eye to
follow, aimed at the detective's face. The impact of that bruising kick
would mean unconsciousness, a broken jaw—or worse.
But if
Masterman was consummate in the attack, in the lightning upthrust of
that deadly lunge, like the swift swing of a javelin, Gunson was not un-
prepared. There is but one parry for that abrupt passa.de: a single,
deft movement, an estoppel as swift and cer- tain as the delivery of the
kick it- self.
Gunson moved his head a scant half inch to the
right, as a boxer evades the whiplash of a straight left, his hand at
the same instant curving in a short arc. His fingers closed like iron
about the yegg's ankle—there came a quick heave, an abrupt explosion of
movement, and Masterman crashed downward to the floor.
He
glared defiance and implacable hate, merged, however, with a certain
respect. But still he rasped out, be- tween panting
breaths:
"You've got nothing—on me—Gun- son—you think—you're
wise, don't you ?"
"You've—got it—on yourself," re- peated
Gunson. Then he leaned over the fallen man, his words, slow, bitter,
dripping with the still acid of a corro- sive
vengeance:
"You're slick, Masterman—but—you overlooked one
thing . . . one little thing . . . you're in, bo—up to your neck— heels
over head, I'll say." He barked a short, grim laugh. "I had the motive
:—all I needed was a clue—and I got it —at No. 32, while I was watching
the firemen coming out. You croaked Darragh because he'd
seen—this—"
With his free hand he jerked from
his pocket the purchase he had made at Spanish Joe's, thrusting it
before Mas- terman—a sinister exhibit indeed—the "ghost" of Darragh's
perfervid dreams —a gas mask of the French type, long- snouted like a
boar, terrifying, indeed, as an accessory to silent halls, dim night,
and alcoholic imaginations.
"But that isn't all, Masterman,"
con- tinued the detective. "It's not a circum- stance to this—thing
you've fastened on —yourself."
He stooped, his voice rising to
a note of triumph:
"You're in, Masterman — ankle- deep!" he
cried, bending swiftly, and
jerking the half-laced shoe from the
foot of the murderer.
"Yellow!" he exulted, "and that's your
brand, you shillaber."
For, as acid acts on litmus, so chlo-
rine impregnates with its revealing color change the substances which it
touches.
Across and across, where the blue sock of the
murderer came above the protection of the shoe, there shone the stigma
of an ineffaceable guilt: the in- eradicable, inescapable, indelible
proof, even as Gunson had seen it on the stockings of the firemen—-the
revealed and all-revealing stain: a broad band of staring
yellow!
STRANGE things take place in the north country,
m'sieu, but I have known none more strange, or ter- rible, than what
happened that night in the lonely cabin on Lost Creek, —the night the
wind wolves danced. Ah, m'sieu, even now I can see the way that man lay
there, the knife blade gleaming—what of it was not buried in his heart,
and feel the cold fear that crept down my back. Ugh! But I should not
dare tell this story to even you, m'sieu, was I not very sure you could
never find the place.
It was a bitter night, m'sieu, that I
was caught in a storm up in the Height- of-Land country. Even the oldest
woodsman is fooled sometimes, and the storm came up even quicker than I
had expected, catching me many miles from my cabin.
I thought
I knew my trap line well, but after dark, when the snow devils build
strange shapes out of the drifts, then tear them down again like
children knock over play houses to Inake some- thing else, familiar
landmarks look queer and unnatural.
I had no compass and the
stars were smothered by the clouds that shook loose the snow that
floated down, swirling, steady, suffocating, filling up trails and
leavening valleys until the northland was one great white plain with no
end and no beginning.
Ah, m'sieu, for long hours I floundered
helplessly in that night of terriblie white- ness, utterly bewildered.
The soft snow underfoot, clinging ih the manner of
new fallen flakes,
seemed to be tugging at my boots, striving to pull me down. And the hard
sleet pellets that flew through the air in a straight line stung my eyes
till I was almost blinded and cut my face till the blood came. Then the
frost crept in and seamed my, skin with great, aching
cracks.
It is a terrible thing to be lost in the north country
in a storm such as raced in a mad dance that night. The cold was a
cruel, searching thing, that crept into one's bones and sucked at the
mar- row.
I stumbled along blindly, hour after hour, and
always that terrible cold clawed at my vitals and always I could hear
the wind devils howling like hun- gry wolves, eager for their prey. My
throat burned from/thirst, and each.time I thrust a handful of snow in
my mouth it was dry like chalk dust and I blew it out still unmoistened.
K
I knew I was far off my trap line, wandering somewhere far
into the lonely north, but I was even farther than I thought. Many times
I fell, and each time it was longer before I got up. As I lay in the
snow a strange warmth would creep over me and I grew drowsy —why not
sleeps I thought; after all, what did it matter? And I knew that soon I
should fall and not rise again. Then, with the sleep imps tugging at my
eyelids until I felt I could no longer resist them, I saw a
light.
I tried to cry out for joy, but my throat was so
parched I could utter no sound.
I could see that the light was
in a lit- tle creek, some trapper's cabin, I
thought, and stumbled toward it madly, rubbing my eyes with my
fists to keep them open. Twice the light vanished, and each time tears
came to my eyes, while I sobbed likea child. Then, each time, a lull in
the whirling world of whiteness showed it again. I thought I should
never reach it, and was sobbing from despair when suddenly I saw a
shadow loom before me and I fell against a door.
The next
moment there was a sudden blaze of light that blinded me and a blast of
warm air against my face.
I was conscious of falling forward
on a hard floor, and of a woman's fright- ened cry. Then all was
black.
II
When I regained consciousness my first
feeling was of pain, white-hot, sear- ing pain that darted across my
face like little streaks of fire. I moved and my whole body responded
with a great swell of torture. I could not help but cry out from it, and
jj heard a quick stir at the other side of the room where I lay in a
bunk.
I turned my eyes, and saw a cabin typical of the
trapper's shacks scattered throughout the north country, with a rifle
over the fireplace where pine sticks blazed, and great bunches of furs
hang- ing on the walls; rich, glossy pelts of marten and fox. Then the
girl bent over me.
M'sieu, she was beautiful. She was young,
not more than twenty, I thought, and her skin was''white like new milk
shaded as by rich cream from wind and sun. Her lips I should have sworn
were painted had not the cut of her belted, dress and the way her black
hair was piled loose on her head told me here was a girl who knew little
of civilization. She was a wild thing of the woods, sweet and beautiful
like the flowers. The hand she laid on my head was soft and cool, and,
m'sieu, I swear it, under that touch
the pain left as snow melts before
the breath of the Chinook in the spring.
"Where am I ?" I
asked.
"You are safe," she half whispered the words, and threw
a nervous glance over her shoulder toward the door. |
Then
,she smiled, but still I saw fear in her eyes.
She brought me
hot broth then, and scalding tea, that loosened a little the grip of the
frost devils in my body and set the blood flowing more freely. But still
I could not get up, for my legs were swollen and aching with the
rheumatism in them. The cold of the north does not easily let go its
grip.
That day I lay and watched the girl move about the cabin
working, cooking over thd small stove in one corner, sew- ing, or
turning drying pelts that hung on the walls. But always she seemed lis-
tening, and at each sound at the door she started
nervously.
Often she would press her face to the window glass,
striving to pierce the ter- rible murky whiteness outside. For the storm
still tore on in its mad dance, and made the day almost dark as night so
that the lamp had to be kept burning. And as I lay there watching the
girl, who every now and then threw a half- fearful glance at nfe, or
staring at the smoked rafters of the roof, I had a feel- ing that here
in this cabin I had stumbled on some mystery of the north—which hides so
much that is terrible and tragic.
The wind screeched
mournfully over the chimney and I got to fancying that at times it
laughed, yes, m'sieu, actually laughed, like some fiend that watches and
waits for the enacting of tragedy to satisfy its bloodthirsty humor. And
! wondered what it was out in that white storm that the girl
feared.
The day wore on, and again the great darkness stole
over the north country and blotted out the dim light that filtered
through the falling snow. And with the night the girl's nervousness and
fears
seemed to increase. The frost in my body was so loosened now that
I could turn and watch her- better. Several times I tried to draw her
into conversa- tion, then, after awhile, she came and sat by my
bed.
"M'sieu," she said, watching me with her great dark eyes,
"how—how did you come here?"
There was that same fear in her
voice, and something else I did not know, whether hope or merely
wonder.
Then I told her how I had got caught in the storm and
became lost, stumbling upon the cabin by accident.
"Ah," she
sighed, when I had fin- ished. "You are the first, m'sieu, to find it.
Yes" she went on at my look of wonder, "there is but one person in the
world besides myself who knows this cabin is here. Even I do not know
the way out of this hidden country—Lost Creek, I call it."
The
door rattled then and her face wentsuddenly white as the floating flakes
outside and she threw a quick look of fear over her
shoulder.
She turned to me again with a little shiver of
relief.
"It was only the wind," she faltered, smiling
feebly.
I raised myself on my elbow then, and seized her hand
that lay on my bunk, like the hand of a child that seeks com- pany in
the dark.
"Listen, mamfselle!" I cried, "tell me what is it
you fear?"
"Oh, no, no, please, monsieu, I can-
not!"
She drew away with fear alive in her eyes.
But
I was persistent, and, woman-like, in her heart she did want to confide
in someone, and then—rshe told me.
She. was an orphan, left
when she was very small in the care of an uncle, who had always been
what people call queer. She told how she had known him to sit for a
whole day at a time, silent and
moody, taking no note of what went
on about him. In the winters he trapped, but he made no friends and, in
fact, so much as was possible, avoided con- tact with other
people.
She loved him, for he was her only relative, and cared
for him tenderly. And though there were other people who were inclined
to be frightened of him, he was like a child in her hands. A great
affection for her grew in his heart as the years went on, and he came to
be restless and uneasy-whenever she was out of his sight, as though he
was afraid He should lose her.
They lived, the two of them,
far up in the Height-of-Land country a many days' journey from any post.
But I have said she was beautiful. M'sieu, do you know there is about a
beautiful woman something that draws men, even from great distances,
like gold? Ah, m'sieu, nature can not long hide her two greatest
treasures.
So it was that a lover came. He was : a trapper,
who stopped at the cabin one spring as he was on his way south with his
winter's catch of furs, and there he saw the girl-r—her name? Ah,
m'sieu, that I never knew. After all, names matter so little in this
world. Those two loved each other from the first, and therefore that
summer the young trap- per came often to the cabin.
The uncle
saw all this, and there awoke in his mind that latent fear that the only
thing that had ever awakened a bit of affection in his heart was to be
taken away from/him. He threatened the trapper, but the young men of the
north are brave. The lover laughed at him. Then the devil that had been
brooding in the uncle these years awoke and stirred to life. The man
became a maniac, with but one idea In his dis- torted mind, that to keep
the girl from being taken away from him.
In his young days the
uncle had once trapped in a country far to the
north,
where few men ever go, ana in that sad and lonely country there
was known to him a hidden creek where one might live for long years and
never see so much as a wandering Indian. And it was that one night the
girl was awakened from her sleep to find the mad uncle com- manding her
to rise and come with him.
He had a canOe packed with their
be- longings, ready in the river near their cabin. She looked but Once
into his eyes and saw there the devil light that told her it was useless
to resist. She knew he loved her, in his savage, selfish way, and would
not harm' a hair of her head so long as she obeyed him. But if she did
not, she knew he was mad.
When morning came they were far up
the river, and there were none behind who knew whence they had gone. The
girl had tried to leave some message in hope that her lover would find
it and follow, but the madman suspected she would try such a ruse, and
watched, making it useless1.
For three days they paddled up
the river, and the fourth day the uncle transferred all the duffle to
the bank and sunk the canoe.
Then for three more days they
trav- eled far up into the north, twisting and turning in strange
regions where the girl lost all sense of direction and knew she should
never find her way out.
The fourth day they came to the little
cabin on the hidden creek where the uncle had trapped one winter and
where no man had been since. He repaired the house and there they lived,
the girl desperately hoping that some day her lover, who she knew was
scouring the northland searching for her, would find the
place.
"Ah, m'sieu," she said to me, and her dark eyes glowed
with the light of faith, "some day he will come, I know!"
The
madman, too, knew the lover would search until he found his sweet-
heart, or died, and always he watched
the rims of the surrounding hills,
his hand' caressing his gun and the devil light gleaming in his eyes.
And gradu- ally there grew up in his heart a hatred of all mankind
because one man had dared to covet the only thing he loved. And now, in
his perverted mind, he came to fancy all men were leagued to- gether,
aiding the lover in his designs. And in his sleep he would mutter ter-
rible threats that boded of evil to what- ever man should set foot in
the valley.
So that, m'sieu, was what the girl feared. For the
uncle was out running his trap line when the storm broke and now she
feared.he might return at any time. And if he should come back, and find
me?
I tell you as I lay there in that cabin I cursed the frost
demons that held me helpless. Sometimes, as I listened to the terrible
whine of the storm and felt the cabin shake in its grasp, I thought that
perhaps he should not return, that the howling wind wolves would have
their prey. But then, in my heart I knew it could not be. so, for evil
in a man makes him hard to kill.
"If he finds you here,
m'sieu" sobbed the girl, "he will kill you!"
I- tried to quiet
her fears, but there were too many in my own heart for my words to be
convincing.
That night I came to know fear. With the girl I
started at each sound at the door, and terrible imaginings crept into my
mind. The girl sat by the fire and sobbed softly, while I lay awake,
watch- ing, listening. And always I could hear those wind devils,
laughing, actually laughing. They were waiting.
Then, after a
long while, I fell into a fitful sleep and had bad dreams.
It
was with a start that I awoke sud- denly, conscious of a man's voice.
Ah, that voice was born of the wind devils that howled outside in mad
glee. Deep and rolling, it was savage like a mad- dened bull moose's.
But rising above it,
high-pitched and stabbing like a dagger, I heard a woman's
frightened scream. I opened my eyes and for an instant I saw the girl,
back to me, struggling fiercely beside my bed, and heard her crying
desperately.
"No, no, uncle, you shall not harm him, you shall
not— !"
"Found us, eh," I heard the rumbling bellow of the
bull-like voice, "think he's going to steal you for that damned young
upstart, eh? A-h-h, we'll see!"
Then he laughed, laughed like
the bloodthirsty wind devils outside.
Suddenly cthe girl was
flung aside and I saw a towering hulk of a man looming over me, huge,
foreboding, like a great pine tree towers over one in the
dusk.
His face was close to mine, and, after these many years,
-I can see that face even now . . . and shudder as I did then! It was a
round, evil face, with a black beard that fell almost to the great
chest, and with long, shaggy eyebrows. But it was the eyes that Were so
terrible, gleaming with the light of the devil. They were the eyes of a
madman.
He laughed again, then, and I felt his rank,
tobacco-laden breath on my fac£.
"So!" he cried, "you came at
last, eh? But youshall not go, see!" And as he raised his hand I caught
the gleam of the knife.
Then I forgot I was weak with rheu-
matism, forgot the frost demons that held me down, and with a mighty
effort tried to rise. The devils that still lurked in my bones growled,
and sank their claws afresh in my vitals. I gave a cry, and fainted even
as I saw the reflection of the firelight running up and down the knife
blade in glittering streaks. But before I went I heard a strange thing,
heard it dimly as in a dream.
It was the girl's Voice,
high-strung and poignant, and there was no fear in it, but a gripping
something that came from the heart. She was crying out a name, madly,
hysterically.
"Jean, Jean!"
That,
m'sieu, was all I heard.
III
When I again came to, I
was lying on the bunk, as before, and for a mo- ment I thought I must
have been dream- ing.
Then I saw the pine fire blazing, and
noticed the hearth was piled high with sticks, in the manner of a fire
stocked to last a long while, and at the side of my bed a small table
held food enough for several meals. I also, felt that my face had been
freshly treated with grease and bandaged.
I moved cautiously
and found that the frost devils had loosened their hold on me and I
could use my muscles freely. Soon, I knew, I should be well as
ever.
Then, I missed something. It was the howling of the wind
wolves outside, and I knew the storm had finished its mad dance and
blown its life away.
Then, with a start, I thought of the
girl, and the madman, and the glittering knife. I called, but no one
answered. Yet I felt there was some presence be- sides myself in that
room.
I raised myself on my elbow and, ah, I shall-never
forget what I saw, or the cold fear that ran down my back like an icy
finger as I looked.
He lay there on the floor in the center of
the cabin, the madman, and his lips were parted, showing his teeth in a
hide- ous snarl. And his eyes, ah, m'sieu, the devil had left them, now
they were cold and colorless, like the ice on the frozen, rivers. But
what fascinated me was the knife that gleamed—what of it was not buried
in his heart, and the blood that was thickened in a little pool at his
side.
I got one leg out of the bunk, then the other, and
staggered to my feet. For a long while I stared at the horrible thing
lying there on the floor, with the hideous
snarl frozen on the lips, then again I thought of the girl. I
stumbled to the door and threw it open. For a moment I saw only the
great snow field that stretched off to the horizon, dazzling white in
the sunlight. Then I saw some- thing else.
M'sieuwhat I am
going to tell you may sound strange, but I swear by the saints it is
true.
You may say that providence does not bring about such
coincidences as to lead a heart-broken lover, wandering over the
northland, to a hidden cabin on a stormy night just in time to—ah, say
what you will, m'sieu, I swear it is true, that there, streaking off
across the white plain, like twin threads, I saw two trails, a man's and
a woman's, that spun away toward the south, where they merged with the
horizon haze in the distance.
There is little else to tell. My
strength came back quickly, as it does to us who live outdoors, and so
soon as I was
strong enough I dug a grave back of
the cabin, and there I buried the mad- man, with the hideous snarl
frozen on his lips.
The second day I packed provisions and
followed the two trails that spun away toward the south. And so treach-
erous was the country that I had gone but a few miles until, looking
back, I was sure I should not be able to again find the hidden creek,
were the trails obliterated. Lost Creek, the girl called it, and it was
well named. Nevertheless, I carried with me the knife I had drawn from
the madman's heart, and which I had seen was not his Own. Three days
later I threw it through an airhole into the racing Asthasbasca, where
the two trails I had followed ended on the clear ice of the wind-swept
river. Then, with my Sense of direction restored, I turned toward my own
country.
HIS name was Joe Cragen. His family were poor but
respect- able. Old man Cragen was a law-abiding citizen and Mother
Cragen a benevolent, white-haired wom- an whose fondest recollections
were of the County Mayo.
Environment played a large role in
the drama of Joe Cragen. His family lived on Tenth Avenue and before he
was in long trousers he was running with a gang of pickpockets. Before
he was nineteen Cragen was Shorty McCabe's first lieutenant. When a cop
cut short the career of the McCabe with a half inch of lead, leadership
of the dreaded Power House gang was Cragen's by right of inheritance. It
was then that he became a Guerilla.
Under his aggressive
guidance the Power House band flourished and grew opulent. The strip of
territory they commanded adjoined the waterfront of the Hudson River and
existed in a state of terror. Timid citizens shunned it with a shudder;
the policeman that patroled it walked in the center of the streets,
directing cautious glances at the housetops. When gang fights were, in
progress the quarter huddled in cellars, but battles were few. The Power
House gang was seldom attacked.
So long as Joe Cragen kept to
his own district all went well. For a year he sat on the throne of the
Power House band and ruled with a mailed fist. But there fell an evil
day when in a bandit taxi he ventured into lower Manhattan. He had made
plans to stick-up the paying teller of an east side bank. The
plot
worked easily, but the nerve of the bank employee had not been
considered. In the pistol duel that resulted, Cragen feinted the teller
out into the opent braved the man's fusillade, shot him four times from
the doorway, leaped back into the pirate taxi and
vanished.
The same night Cragen crept through the meshes of
far-flung police nets arid "rode the cushions" to Chicago, leaving the
Power House gang to be broken up by the
police.
II
On an August night four years after the
bank stick-up, and the flight of Cragen, a lean, gray-haired individual
in a rusty blue serge suit, cracked shoes and greasy.cap entered
Wolger's West Street hotel, crossed the ypcarpeted lobby floor and moved
to the desk that Abraham Wolger presided over, where he spoke
briefly.
"How much for a flop?"
Wolger pulled the
glasses up on his curved nose, rubbed a hairy ear and af- ter plumbing
his inquisitor with a long stare frowned thoughtfully.
"A
quarter for the night," he replied slowly.
The stranger
produced two dimes and a nickel, wrote the name Andrew Hardy in a grimy
register and was led off to one of the small, cot-adorned coops the
hotel was honeycombed with, Wolger staring after him.
In the
room he had rented for the night, the man who called himself An- drew
Hardy closed the door and sat down on the bed. For a time he stared at
the floor with narrowed eyes. Finally
he took
an envelope from a pocket of his shabby jacket, unfolded it and with
painstaking care spilled out a quantity of something that resembled
talcum powder.
He dropped it on the crease in his hand made by
thumb and forefinger and sniffed it up his nose in the manner of one
taking snuff.
Replacing the envelope in his pocket the man
flexed his arms and sighed con- tentedly. He reached in a hip pocket and
lifted out a small blackjack with a thong about the neck of it for the
wrist. He examined it with obvious satisfac- tion, wet his finger and
rubbed away some dark stains and small pieces of hair from its blunt,
leather-covered nose. He dropped it back into his hip pocket and stared
at the floor again.
Several minutes later he closed the door
of the cubicle and went down into the lobby, making his way to Wolger's
desk.
"Where can I get a snifter of kick?" he inquired
shortly.
As he spoke he made a peculiar sign with the thumb
and little finger that was significant to the proprietor of the hotel,
versed in the mute language of crook- dom.
"Downstairs,"
Wolger directed, frankly searching the man's face with a puzzled
expression. "First door to the left at the end of the
hall."
The one he addressed nodded and slouched away. He
traversed a short hall, opened a door and descended into a basement
where illicit drinks were be- ing served to furtive faced clients by a
lantern jawed waiter who wore a filthy apron.
The man seated
himself at an empty table and rummaged through his pockets until he
found a few pieces of silver. He laid them down on the table and waited
until he attracted the attention of the waiter.
"Rye, Bill. Back me
up a wash of it and never mind the water."
A half pint of
fiery moonshine was set before him. The man consumed a third of it,
pulled his greasy cap well over his eyes, folded his arms and slouched
back in his chair.
For ten minutes or more he sat stir- less.
After a while he became aware of the sound of chair legs being drawn
along the cement floor; garments brushed him and presently the words of
a whispered conversation drifted back to his ears.
"There's
nothing to it," the voice of a man said. "Tip Regan looked it over and
said it's as safe'as a church. The old woman locks the store up and
crawls into the feathers at ten bells."
A second voice
containing a note of warning sounded.
"Soft pedal—there's a
gin hound back of you."
Andrew Hardy, as he called him- self,
felt he was being intently scrutinized.
"Stewed to the scalp,"
the first speak- er said after a pause. "As I was saying, Tip's got a
freight as job in the Pennsy yards and is pulling silk. He passed the
word to me. It looks good."
"What's the dope?" the other asked
in guarded accents. "Where's the store at? What time do we take a shot
at it?"
There came the clink of glasses and a
cough.
"It's called the Empire Fish Market," the first speaker
resumed. "It's up on Eleventh Avenue, corner of Forty-ninth Street. The
old moll that runs it is a widow woman. She knows a pollie and a couple
of big restaurants have been taking all of her fish. Tip says she's got
about two grands salted away in a drawer under the counter in the store.
The old girl is foxy and has an electric bell on the drawer. She thinks
that will keep it safe."
"Sounds mighty good," the
second speaker muttered. "I'm with you. When do we start
up?"
The man who called himseilf Andrew Hardy strained his
ears.
"Not. before one o'clock," the first voice answered.
"Here's the way we go in—"
His words were drowned out by a
gusty rumble of conversation from across the room; almost at once a
party of men entered the basement and took chairs noisily at the table
to the left of the listener.
The self-styled Andrew Hardy
wait- ed no longer. He climbed to his feet and in imitation of one very
drunk lurched to the door. He threw it open with a maudlin backward
glance that mentally photographed the faces of the two con- spirators,
closed it and hurried up and out into West Street where a young moon
sailed, low, in a day-long heat haze.
A pulse of excitement
began to beat within him. The hour was not quite midnight and more than
sixty minutes still remained before the two men of the basement would
put their plans into effect.
He fumbled in his pockets until
he found a five-cent piece, turned east to the first avenue beyond and
arrived in time to leap to the running board of a north bound surface
car.
III
At the corner of Forty-ninth street the man
alighted and turned toward the river.
The street he passed
through was squalid with drab tenements marching cheek to cheek in dingy
array. The gut- ters were filled with refuse awaiting the prowling
garbage remover; the iron fire escape landings were heaped
with
disordered bedding upon which heat- wilted children
tossed.
The street was tawdry and pallid with no single
redeeming feature. Yet the man who passed along it darted eager glances
to the right and left. His atti- tude was almost that of one returning
to a beloved spot after a long absence.
On the corner of
Eleventh Avenue he slowed his pace, halted altogether, and took stock of
his surroundings. The junction of street and avenue was de- serted save
for a nocturnal stationer closing his shop; no brass buttons glint- ed
in the lamplight—the section was wrapped in the heavy stillness of an
August midnight.
With footsteps that displayed no in-
certitude, the man approached a fish store directly opposite from where
he stood. It was one of three shops in a red brick tenement; a narrow,
lightless entrance and hallway separated the fish market from the other
two shops. The man walked past the building, brows drawn together,
turned and after a quick glance about entered the tenement's hall-
way.
Some knowledge of the construction of stores seemed to be
at his command. To the left of the building's narrow, wooden stairway
was a single door—a door that opened into the back room or rooms of the
fish market. The man tested its china knob, found it did not respond to
his touch and lighted a match, cupping it in the palm of his hands. He
held the light aloft, per- ceived the glass transom over the door,
smiled faintly and plunged his light out.
In the murk he
fumbled for his fold- ed envelope. He dropped some more of its powder on
his hand and inhaled it.
He listened for a minute before
mounting a few steps of the stairway.
When he was opposite the
transom he leaned over the rail of the stairway and pushed it in with
the palms of both
hands. To
his infinite relief it swung in, squeaking rustily.
He
listened again and made his way down the steps.
He wound a
dirty handkerchief about the china knob of the door, removed his shoes,
placed his left foot on the knob and caught the ledge of the
transom.
With sinuous agility he drew himself up and over the
sill, wriggling through the small space made by the open tran- som and
dropping with scarce a sound to the floor on the inner side of the
door.
It was too dark to ascertain what his surroundings were,
so he stood motion- less, straining his ears. Suddenly, so close that he
recoiled, he heard a sibi- lant sigh and the creak of bed springs. He
drew his brows together again and fingered his lips. It *was impossible
that he had erred; in all probability this room was a chamber adjoining
the fish store— the bedroom of the old woman the two conspirators had
spoken of. He de- cided there must be a door near at hand that opened
into the store itself and de- termined to locate it
forthwith.
With the deep, even breathing of the , sleeper in
his ears, the man followed his sense of direction and groped a careful
way forward. With each step his blood warmed within him. Two grands in
crook parlance meant two thousand dol- lars. It was a sum worth striving
for. With that amount of money in his pos- session he could fulfill long
cherished ambitions. He could buy enough dope to lead him into a Castle
of Dreams; put the city he had entered so recently from him and journey
to the coast. The key to all wishes was before him—in a hidden drawer
under the counter in a fish store.
The outstretched hand of
the man slid over another door. They touched a knob and turned it. The
second door did not yield and was keyless. He stood still for a minute,
thinking. The woman who owned the shop was canny. She
evident-
ly understood the difficulty of breaking in from the outside, and
by locking the connecting door and secreting the key made doubly
difficult the felon's prog- ress.
The man turned his head in
the direc- tion of the bed. He must possess the key that opened the door
or the expedi- - tion would be fruitless. He drew the leather covered
billy from his pocket and slipped the thong about his wrist. , He
debated briefly whether it was ad- visable to wake the sleeper and
demand the key or to use the blackjack imme- diately and search for it
at his leisure. His ruminations were abruptly terminat- ed by a sharp
inquiry that cut the gloom like a knife:
"Who is
there?"
The man stiffened, his fingers wind- ing about the
neck of the blackjack. The bed creaked again and two soft foot- falls
sounded one after the other. He strove to pierce the curtain of
blackness with his eyes, but failed. In some way the sleeper had become
aware of his presertce; he heard hurried, rattling breathing that was an
indication of fear.
His fingers about the blackjack grew still
tighter.
The dull patter of feet moving pre- ceded the rasp of
a key being turned warily in the door that opened into the hall of the
tenement. Even though frightened, the woman was not losing her head. She
intended preparing an exit if escape became necessary and a vantage
point from which she could both survey the bedchamber and raise a quick
alarm if her suspicions proved, to be correct.
A dozen rapid
steps carried the man across the darkened expanse of room. He brought
hitjiself up short as he. col- lided with an unseen figure, clutching a
withered throat with his left hand and effectually preventing a scream
from surging to lips opened to receive it. At the same moment he thrust
the weight
of his
body forward in such fashion as to put himself next to the door and
forced the woman away from it. Where's the key to the other door?" He
released the pressure of his hand on the throat sufficiently to permit a
weak voice trembling with terror to croak a panted
answer:
"Under—the—mattress—"
Savage elation brought
the teeth of the man together with a grinding click. He began to force
the woman across the room, laughing at the puny, feeble blows she struck
wildly at him. He dug his fingers deeper into the thin throat, an old
lust to kill swimming in his blood. He strove to see how far he might
choke her before insensibility came, laughing louder at the faint moans
and series of agonized gasps that came just before the mad, futile blows
ceased and she stag- gered in his clutch.
Then wearying of the
sport and mind- ful that time was flying, he used his blackjack twice,
flung his victim across the bed and delved under the mat- tress .
..
IV
The following morning, Abraham Wolger, at the
desk in his West Street hotel, looked up from the third
morn-
ing edition of his favorite paper and addressed a burly youth who
was sweep- ing out the uncarpeted lobby with a worn
broom.
"Look it, Jake," he said, stabbing the newspaper with
his stubby finger. "Last night was a murder in a fish store up on
Eleventh Avenue. Two thousand dollars was stole and the old woman what
owned it got murdered. Ain't it funny?' It says right here she was Mrs.
Cragen, the mother of that Guerilla what croaked that guy in a bank four
years ago this month—the same guy I was telling you looked just like a
man who registered here last night and never showed up
again."
The youth with the broom fingered a twisted
ear.
"Was there any pinches made?" he asked
succinctly
The proprietor of the hotel looked back at his
paper.
"Yes—the cops grabbed the two guys as they were coming
out—a coupla friends of Tip Regan they were. They didn't find the two
grands on them, the paper says, but what difference does it make? The
chair for both of them sure! Honest, Jake, guys like that who would
croak a widow woman ought to get burned in the chair ...
"
It was
no swift decision. On the night the Libertine lifted anchor at
Melbourne—and Black Mi- chael flogged him with a rawhide lash— the
desire to slay had been impregnated in him, a terrible sore whose
putrify- ing poison daily seeped into his blood and
brain.
Quite suddenly, standing there in the shadow of the
long-boat, he perceived the death of his soul. Black Michael was
responsible. He had inoculated him with a dreadful serum of evil that
wiped out the germs of his strength; had proceeded, while he was in this
weakened condition, to loot his being of all finer instincts. For that
Black Mi- chael must die.
The avenger. That was his role. To-
night he would become the champion of his slain self and write in
crimson the final chapter of a bitter story.
As he stood there
on the deck, sway- ing with the drunken pitch of the two- masted,
square-rigged vessel, it all came back to him—came back for the
millionth time, with a burning sharp- ness that made him visualize, as
though etched with steel upon his brain, the lamp-lit Australian
water-front, the slinking shadows along the quay; made him feel, as if
experiencing again, the sickening emotions following the blow and the
return to consciousness in the hold of the trading brig bound for eleven
degrees south of the equator.
"I'll break you yet, boy—I'll
grind you under my feet—"
That was Black Michael's threat when
he sought to resist the big-fisted, rum-loving skipper. Then followed
the first flogging, stripped and lashed to the beam. . . .
The
recollection of it was gall in his mouth.
After that life for
him consisted chiefly of two things: the lash and rum —the whip to break
his body, the liquor to break his brain. These were linked by labors so
offensive, so repellent that he welcomed the hours of drunken sleep when
for a brief while his senses were drowned in oblivion. - In all this
darkness there were two candles: the friendly attitude of the first mate
and the queer companionship of the brig's mascot, Kerachi, a Rajpu- tana
parrakeet.
Before the vessel reached the white coral walls of
Papeite, Black Michael demonstrated that he could keep a threat; The Boy
was broken; the slen- der thread between strength and weak- ness snapped
... like the string of a fine instrument struck by brutal hands; and
when the Libertine cast moorings in the blue lagoon of the Tahitian
capi- tal he was still aboard, with a bruised body and a bruised mind,
knowing in his tortured heart that some day, when the courage was given
him, he would kill the master of the brig.
From Tahiti the
ship passed through the coral traps of Les Isles Dangereux, sailed
around the low archipelago into the phosphorescent waters of the Mar-
quesas . . .to Hiva-oa; and there, in Atuona Valley, he received the
gift of courage—from The White Lotus.
Three days
ago—the one time he had gone ashore—he had seen her clinging to the
door-frame of a thatched bamboo dwelling. "Old Babache's kid . . . a
leper," he heard someone say.
And she had smiled at
him.
An hour after that, when the long- boat was putting away
from the beach, and the tawny maidens of Hiva-oa ran out waist-deep in
the green bay to wave farewell, she was there, her gold hair falling
like glinting fire about her pale, spfay-dashed face.
"Ia ora
na i te Atua. ..."
With the Marquesan girls she sang that
farewell—this White Lotus that he had found dying in the mulch of the
South Seas. , . .
The sight of her was to him a light that
pierced his poisoned, vapor-clung brain. And because he had seen her,
this pallid leper-child, he knew that the hour had arrived when the
master of the Libertine must pay the penalty for having murdered his
soul.
Yet what would she think if she knew ? But she woxild
never know. Hiva- oa, dreaming its eternal dreams beneath the brooding
thunders of Temetiu, had already slipped into the past—and in its dreams
she lay, a part of them.
He shuddered again. Yes, he would
kill Black Michael. He was below in his bunk now—drunk, as usual. With
the skipper gone, the first mate, Cardi- gan, would come into
command—and then . . .
He crept across the wet deck and down
the companionway.
A door in the rear of the lazarette, which
was just off the main cabin, ad- mitted him to a passage amidships, be-
neath the deck, leading forward to a space in the fo'castle where he and
five others of the crew bunked.
In the bulkhead door he
paused. A sooty slush-lamp, swung from the blackened beam, cast sluggish
light
upon six bunks arranged in double tiers along the bulkhead. It was
a foul place, reeking of vile sea odors.
Two of the bunks were
Occupied. The lower tier of one supported the hulk- ing body of a
bullet-headed mulatto, clad only in short breeches, while above him lay
the boatswain, a Creole from New Orleans. They were both asleep and
breathing heavily.
Thrusting the weapon under his belt, he
retraced his steps along the passage amidships and in the gloom of the
main cabin groped toward Black Michael's quarters.
A terrible
fear laid frigid fingers upon his heart as he reached the door. For a
full minute he stood transfixed to the spot, his breath caught in his
throat; then he grasped the knob, turned it and the door swung
open.
Within,, the closed porthole—a pale eye of dread—stared
at him. The air was close—tainted with rum . and human flesh. He
listened for the sound of breathing, but only the mo- notonous murmur of
the bilge water and the creak of straining timbers could be
heard.
He drew the knife from beneath his belt—
The
leper child came to him then . . . a blinding flash of spiritual pal-
lor, the shining recoil of his-dead self that sprang through the
darkness of his soul and smote him paralyzed for the
moment.
But Black Michael must die.
He reached the
bunk; looked down upon the indistinct, sprawling figure. A wave of
hysteria swept him, swamping his cottrage. He wanted to run, to throw
himself upon his mattress and weep out the sorrows that twisted his
heart. But—
. . . A swing of the blade, a Sick- ening sound .
. . and it was finished. He never released his grip on the
hilt;
held it as
though it were a member of his own body; withdrew it and fell against
the door.
For some time he lay with his shoul- ders pressed to
the panels, at bay, fac- ing the specter of himself; but when at length
the fear-paralysis released him, he burst out of the door, closed it,
raced through the main cabin and up the com- panionway.
The
air on deck seemed to lift from his brain the mantle of a loathsome
vapor. Here in the tropic moisture of the night, where the wind swelled
amongst the waving spars, his reason returned, swept over him like a
cold and shuddersome flood.
He glanced fore and aft. The decks
were deserted but- for a lone figure on the poop deck. The watch—he
could recognize him—a form planted as a piece of statuary upon the
wheel-grat- ing.
He slunk past the forward hatch and climbed
the ladder to the fore-poop. A stinging spray, flung over the bowsprit
by a long gust of wind, struck his face sharply. It seemed to awaken him
to the fact that he still gripped the knife, and with a shudder of
repulsion he let it fall to the deck planks. For an in- stant he stood
above it, looking as one fascinated upon the glinting thing; then he
touched "it with his bare foot . . . shivered . . . and pushed it across
the deck until it disappeared over the bow. . . .
A sobbing
breath was drawn from his throat. He turned and fled down- deck—as one
pursued by the horrors of the nethermost hell.
Upon reaching
his quarters he found the mulatto and the Creole still asleep; the
slush-lamp hung from the blackened beam, swaying with the heave of the
brig.
A chill started him to trembling and he knelt beside his
bunk, removing a flask from beneath the mattress. As he
lifted it to his
lips a sound behind him made him pause with it in
mid-air.
He turned his head sharply. Neither the mulatto nor the
Creole had altered his position—but perched upon the beam was a feathery
green body. His rigid muscles relaxed as he recognized Kerachi, his
friend, the Rajputana par- rakeet.
He raised the flask to his
mouth. The vile Tahitian rum was like vitriol, sear- ing a path from his
throat to the pit of his stomach. It choked him, but when he ceased
coughing he took another gulp—another. . . .
Two bells.
Those words startled him. That was just before he—
He
shuddered; swallowed quantities of the liquid fire; drained the bottle
and fell with his face buried in the reek of the mattress. The flask
slipped from his nerveless hand—struck the floor with a distant
thud.
"O, God—" he moaned. Hot tears burned his cheeks as he
lay there sob- bing in the awful abandonment of drunken
grief.
"All hands aft!'1 shrieked the parra- keet, then began
to swear in Hindus- tani and Mandarin. That was the last thing he heard,
the grotesque profan- ity of the little bird. Like a barque severed from
its mooring-lines, his brain was carried downstream on the current of
slumber ....
His' labored breathing had hardly joined that of
the other occupants of the foul place when the big mulatto sat up
cautiously, a stealthy, anticipatory smile spreading over his negroid
fea- tures.
He rose, the movement bringing into visible play
the thick, heavy-corded muscles beneath the bared brown skin; stood an
instant looking up at the
sleeping
boatswain; crept across to The Boy's bunk and slipped one hand under the
mattress . . .
II.
The sharp cutwater of the
Libertine broke the phosphorus into javelins of green brilliancy, her
yards, slightly checked, ran with easy motions beneath bellied topsail,
while the deck-timbers creaked and groaned as the vessel wal- lowed in
the heavy sea.
To Cardigan, the first mate, stand- ing alone
at the wheel, firmly gripping the spokes at right angles, these sounds
blended into a fierce, savage tune that vibrated responsive chords in
his sea- man's being.
Since six bells he had been on watch,
listening to the lawless song of the sea, and except on two occasions,
when the cabin boy emerged from the main com- panion, the decks had been
deserted during this time.
At thought of The Boy the first
mate felt a tinge of sympathy. Poor chap. Only seventeen. And
shanghaied— But, after all, life was a rather grim affair; it had been
none too kind to him. He—
Four bells jangled out. A moment
afterward he saw the big body of Bjorasen, the second mate, emerge from
the rear companion.
"Where's the captain?" inquired Cardigan,
as the Norwegian, a great hulk of sunburnt physical manhood, reached his
side and took /the wheel.
A faint smile traced itself on the
big blonde's face. "Below in his quarters, I suppose, sir—with a belly
full of rum . .
Cardigan did not smile, merely nod- ded,
saying, "Stearns will relieve you" ;—and moved down the ladder to the
main companion.
Upon reaching Black Michael's door he entered
without knocking. In the vague half-light supplied by the
port-
hole he could make out the skipper's huge body sprawled full
length in the berth. The odor of rum was heavy on the
air.
"Captain!" he called, gripping one shoulder and shaking
it. "Captain, wake up! . . . Hullo!"
The latter exclamation
was brought forth as his hand accidentally brushed the cheek of the
recumbent man] It was cold, clammy. He quickly felt the heart. An oath
left his tongue.
He fumbled in the pocket of his pea- jacket
and withdrew a box of matches. Igniting one he lit the slush-lamp and in
the better light examined the body.
"Dead," he muttered to
himself with a semi-professional air. "Two inci- sions—one just below
the heart, the other above. . . ."
Though Cardigan was not yet
thirty- five, 'there were times when he seemed at least forty. This was
such an occa- sion.' About his lips was a grim tight- ness, a truculence
that suggested inflex- ible metal beneath the bronzed
exterior.
"Struck in the dark, I'll wager," he said to
himself, running his fingers through his gray-shot hair whilst he
continued his investigation. "Dead about an hour or I'm . . . And two
distinctly different instruments, one a straight blade, the other
curved."
At one time he had studied surgery —in the days
before the gray appeared in his hair. He . . . But that was an ancient
story, a sheaf torn out of his life and laid away in a crevice of his
memory.
After the first surprise caused by the discovery, he
experienced a feel- ing that bordered on satisfaction. No love had ever
existed between him and the master of the brig, and after The Boy was
shanghaied at Melbourne there was open antagonism, a hostility that
resulted in Cardigan's decision to leave the Libertine at the end of the
re- turn voyage.
At this juncture his
eyes, involun- tarily lowered, were captured by a bright object on the
floor. He stooped, picked it up and perceived that it was a small,
curved blade—a murderous Malay knife that bore ugly stains. As he
recognized it he felt a shock like nothing short of a volt of
electricity— for the weapon was his own, a relic of the days before the
gray appeared among his dark hairs.
There was a slim,
dark-eyed Malay girl, down on the drowsy shores of the Archipelago where
the restless surf drums to the tune of lawless love, and . . . But that,
too, was an ancient tale, laid away in lavender with the other poignant
recollections. She had given him the knife, this brown maid- en, as she
lay dying in his arms, and it was the only tangible remembrance of a
still smouldering passion. . . . -
His face settled into
sterner lines. This was undoubtedly the blade with which the incision
was made. But how had it been obtained from his cabin and why was it
used ? The most logical answer for both was: treachery.
His
first impulse was to wipe the soiled blade upon his handkerchief, but he
refrained, for Cardigan and dis- cretion were synonymous. Blood-stains
often proved incriminating.
No, innocent though he was, he de-
cided, he dared leave no evidence where it might be discovered and used
against him. This weapon was sufficient proof that he had an enemy
aboard.
He first considered throwing the knife into the sea,
but this proposed means of disposal he immediately dis- missed; he would
sooner separate him- self from an arm than the weapon. He would hide it;
there were many places on the ship where so small an object would never
be found—and the place
that appealed to him as one less
fre- quented was the paint-locker.
After covering the body
with a sheet, he quitted the cabin, locked the door and made his way to
the paint-locker. A moment later the Malay knife lay hidden behind a
pile of cans and Car- digan went up on deck.
An impalpable
mist was drifting in from the dark waste of waters, smooth- ing out the
sharp lines of the Libertine and giving to her the look of a phan- tom
craft as she rode the steadily in- creasing swell, her lights burning
haz- ily, like nebula-belted planets in the fog.
Near the
forward hatch Cardigan encountered Stearns, the midshipman, a sallow
youth of twenty-one or less.
"Go below and send the hands aft,
Mr. Stearns," the mate ordered, "every man Jack of them. ..." Then he
moved to the poop-deck where Bjorn- sen stood as one petrified at the
wheel.
"Bjornsen," he began, "the captain has been murdered,
stabbed twice. I have sent for the crew to notify them. I'm in command
now and I want your hearty support."
The Norwegian nodded, his
stolid face unaltered.
Five minutes later the crew was as-
sembled below the poop, a nervous, shuffling crowd, looking up with un-
easy eyes at the first mate. Scum of the East and West they were, washed
together on the tides of the Seven Seas.
"Are they all here,
Mr. Stearns?" inquired Cardigan of the midshipman, who was climbing to
the poop-deck.
"All but the cabin boy, sir; he's down in the
fo'c's'le drunk as—"
"I'll see him later," interposed the
first mate. Then he cupped his hands about his mouth to make himself
heard about the wind and sea.' "Men, I'll be brief. A crime has been
committed aboard this brig. Just before six bells I was in the skipper's
quarters—and
when I
returned a few minutes ago I found him dead—murdered."
He
paused to observe the effect of this announcement upon the men. Rows of
sullen eyes looked up at him—eyes in which there was mingled fear and
questioning. What a ghastly lot they looked, huddled there in the mist,
thought Cardigan!
"One of you"—he made a sweeping gesture with
his bronzed hand—"one of you killed him. And I've called you here to ask
if the guilty man is willing to confess and thus lighten his punish-
ment, or, in the event a confession isn't forthcoming, if anyone knows
anything that might be instrumental in locating the
murderer."
After a long silence England Charlie, third mate, a
big, gaunt cockney, with a red face and red hands, spoke up: "You said
one o' us wus th* murderer, sir, but 'ow d' we know you didn't croak
'im?"
At this there was a murmur from the men. Encouraged, the
cockney contin- ued. "You'd be th' one to benefit by 'is snuffin' it—an
Hi arsks, 'ow d' we know you didn't send Jim orf ?"
Cardigan
met his gaze coolly and smiled.
"You're justified in saying
that," he admitted. "But I was at the wheel from six bells to four
bells—and if any man aboard understands post mortem conditions he can
examine the body and see that the skipper has been dead just about an
hour-"
"But you could 'ave lashed th' wheel," persisted
English Charlie.
Cardigan's jaw shot forward at an ugly angle.
"Are you trying to accuse me, Charlie?" he demanded. There came no reply
and he went on, "More than ever I'm determined to leave noth- ing undone
to find the man who killed the captain—and as a first step every one
shall submit to a search for evi- dence—now. I'm in command
here
and I intend to assert my authority. Sykes, you and Stearns help
me. Mean- while, no one will leave the deck."
As Cardigan
started to descend the ladder he heard a savage oath, and, pausing,
fastened his eyes upon the men.
"Did someone speak?" he
rapped.
Ladd, a seaman, answered—"Jim Hickey here said he'd be
damned if he was searched-"
"That's a lie, sir!" broke in the
bul- let-headed mulatto, the great muscles in his arms standing out like
whip- cords.
Cardigan moved down and confront- ed the mulatto.
"Did you say that?" The boatswain, a Creole, stepped for- ward. "Eet ees
so, m'sieur; I, 'Poleon Moncrief, hear' heem. W'a't ees more" —he cast a
malicious glance at the mulatto, who stood with clinched fists, glaring
at him—"I know w'y zat nigger he not want to be search'. I was een my
bunk trying to go to sleep w'en ze cabanne boy he come below an' drink a
dam' lot of rum. An' w'en ze boy he fall asleep zat nigger he sink I not
'wake an' get up an' go to ze bunk of ze cabanne boy an'—"
A
blasphemous oath left the mulat- to's thick lips. He made a move to
spring at the Creole, but Cardigan placed himself between
them.
"—He steal ze cabanne boy's pay. I saw heem take eet
from under ze mattress. An' zat w'y he not want to be search',
m'sieur—because he know you fin' too much money on heem." Cardigan
turned upon the huge, brown-skinned figure.
"Is that the
truth, Hickey? Aren't you willing to be searched?" The mulatto glared at
'Poleon Mon- crief, spitting out a stream of vile oaths. "It's a lie,
sir; a damned, stinkin' lie— made up by that-!"
With a quick,
stealthy movement the Creole leaped around Cardigan
and
flung
himself at the mulatto's throat. Together they went tO the deck, rolling
upon the moist timbers.
As Cardigan stooped to separate them
the mulatto freed himself by a sudden wrench and gained his feet,
dashing along the deck toward the forward companion.
The first
mate started in pursuit, but halted as his eyes fell upon a belaying pin
that lay upon the deck not many feet away. Hastily arming himself with
this formidable missile, he sent it spinning through the air after the
flee- ing figure. It caUght the negro in the back of the skull; knocked
him flat up- on the deck planks.
Cardigan, followed by several
of the crew, reached his side.
"He's out for some time,"
reported the first mate, bending over him. "Two of you lads carry him
below and lock him up— But wait!"
He ran one hand into the
rear pocket of the mulatto's trousers, producing a black leather wallet.
Opening it he withdrew a wad of bills, which he swiftly counted and
returned to the wallet.
He smiled grimly. "All right, men;
below with him."
III.
In the very midst of a dream
The Boy was shot into consciousness. For a moment he could not remember
where he was. He seemed to be caught in the teeth of a monster that
shook him horribly, mercilessly. Half-remember- ed objects separated
themselves from the chaos and he heard a distant voice pronouncing his
name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he was unable to
reply.
Gradually he extracted himself from the teeth of the
monster; gradually ob- jects settled into their regular places. Above
him was. a familiar face. As he
recognized it sleep dropped from
him as though severed by a blade.
"Get up," he heard Cardigan
say, while he shook him vigorously.
The Boy lurched to-his
feet. As he brushed one hand across his lips he in- haled his breath, an
odor that sickened him. Invisible hands seemed to jerk aside a drowsy
fabric, revealing in their biting sharpness the incidents before his
drunken sleep.
His soul shrank, dwindled with fear. Black
Michael's body had been found and the mate had come to accuse him— But
how did he find out ? The only incriminating evidence, the knife, had
been thrown into the sea. . . .
"I thought you promised me
never to do this again," reproved Cardigan. "But we'll discuss that
later. Come with me."
The Boy was dreadfully afraid. The blood
pounded in his temples, beat so loudly that it seemed to boom out his
guilt. God! How could he meet Car- digan's honest gaze-—knowing in his
heart that he had wielded the knife that finished Black
Michael?
In some manner—he knew not how 'r-he forced himself
to follow the mate along the passage amidships and when they reached the
cabin his fear in- creased to a panic as he perceived that Cardigan was
making directly for Black Michael's quarters.
He stood with a
rapidly pounding heart behind the mate while he inserted a key in the
lock and turned it.
Within, the slush-lamp, turned low, threw
quivering shadows upon the walls. The air was warm and unpleas- antly
heavy with the smell of stale rum.
And there in the bunk it
lay, covered
with a sheet—The Thing.
Cardigan closed
the door and turned the lamp higher. Mercy of God, thought The Boy, was
he going to draw aside that sheet and . . .
beside the
bunk. "I brought you here to show you this." And he turned back the
sheet.
Something worse than horror reach- ed up and clutched
at The Boy's throat. He half closed his eyes; dared not shut them
entirely, for The Thing fasci- nated him.
"The captain has
been murdered," Cardigan continued. "A few minutes ago I happened on the
fore-poop. I dropped a wallet and it fell overside— but fortunately
caught in the project- ing space under the bowsprit. And when I picked
it up I found this with it—"
He withdrew an object from the
pocket of his pea-jacket. A cry leaped to The Boy's
lips—died.
There before him, sharp and ugly in the flickering
glow of the slush-lamp, was the knife with which he killed Black
Michael!
"Now come here," commanded the mate.
He
obeyed, the cabin reeling dizzily about him. What use was there of try-
ing to hide the truth now? Cardigan knew and-
"Look," was the
sharp injunction.
And he looked ... at The Thing on the bunk.
As he saw the exposed chest a shriek of sheer terror was wrung from his
throat.
"No, no!" he cried. "I didn't stab him twice—I didn't!
Only once, in the dark . . . and then I ran—" He shuddered. "O, God,
what have I said ?"
With a broken sob he sank to his knees,
burying his face in his hands. An instant later fingers closed over his
shoulders and lifted him to his feet— fingers that were not rough but
firm and determined.
"You said what I wanted to hear,"
announced Cardigan. "Look at me, boy..... There . . . Now, I'm go- ing
to question you and I want the
truth, the truth—before the God
that you just called on. . . . When did you stab Black
Michael?"
"A little after two bells, sir-"
"Why?
Because he had mistreated you? . . . How did you do it?"
"I .
. . " And there followed a stumbling, detached account of his movements
from the time he left the deck until he surrendered to sleep in his bunk
in the fo'castle.
"It's fortunate for you that I found the
knife," remarked Cardigan when he had finished, "for it has your
initials upon the hilt. I saw you come on deck twice while I was at the
wheel; one time you went near the bowsprit but not until after I found
the knife did I attach any importance to it." He paused, re- suming
after a moment. "It's quite evident that two people stabbed the
captain—you and an unknown person. But who stabbed him first ? Who is
the real murderer? These are skeins that must be untangled. All I
require of you is a close mouth and an open eye-"
"Then—then
you're not going to lock me in the brig?"
"You are free; only
remember my instructions—and regard them."
The Boy stared' at
him. He was dazed, stunned. Instead of a blow he had received kindness.
Kindness. New and loftier emotions stirred within him; he tried to
speak, to utter words that ; would convey his gratitude to the mate; he
could only stand and stare mutely. Nor was that dumb look, mirroring his
deepest and most profound emotions, unobserved by Cardigan; it came to
him as an illuminating signal-flash from The Boy's soul.
"Now
run along," he said, not un- kindly, opening the door.
In
silence The Boy passed out.
As he moved through the cabin,
which was faintly lit by a hanging lamp, his brain groped in a
labyrinth.
Some one
else had sought to end Black Michael. Who was the owner of ihis other
hand that had driven a blade into the skipper's breast ? And which of
the two had accomplished his purpose, he or the unknown person
?
In his agony he prayed that it was the other, for though a
short while ago The White Lotus had seemed a lamp that lighted the way
to this ghastly ac- tion, he now saw, with the cold clear- ness of
returned sanity, that with blood upon his soul he was severed from even
spiritual companionship with this pal- lid leper-child who had impressed
her- sdlf so deeply upon his memory.
But how cduld he ever
find out? It all seemed very hopeless.
As he neared the
fo'castle he saw a vertical stifip of yellow light cleaving the dark
passage from the bulkhead door. Voices within were murmuring in hushed
conversation.
He was almost in the opening when a sentence,
flung against his ears with the sting of a whip, cemented him to the
spot: "I only struck once, I tell you, once—yet there are two wounds.
..."
Those words, spoken in a voice that was lowered to a tone
just above a whisper, yet strangely familiar, brought forth his breath
in a gasp.
He crept nearer the source of light; peered
within.
The slush-lamp was turned low, cast- ing flickering
shadows as it swung with the motion of the brig. Five of the bunks were
vacant; the sixth, near an- other bulkhead-door, opposite The Boy, was
occoupied.
Moncrief, the Creole, sat on the edge of the bunk,
a cigarette between his thin, moist lips, and at his side, face arid
shoulders hidden by the boatswain's slender body, was another man. That
bunk was used by the Chinese cook, The Boy knew, yet the one who lay
there was not the Oriental.
They were talking
again.
"By gar, eet ees ghastly, m'sieur," commented
Moncrief.
"Yes—a ghastly failure," spat out the other.
"'Poleon"—a note of in- tensity came into the voice—"I see but one thing
to do now. By four in the morning we shpuld be near the coral
reefs—they're just a mile off course. Wajo, the Polynesian, will be at
the wheel; we can overpower him-"
"Sacre dam, m'sieur!" broke
in the boatswain. "Do zat—zat?"
"Why not? To reach Tahiti
means investigation by the authorities. If the brig goes down she
carries all evidence with her. We can escape in the long- boat; islands
are numerous along here-"
"But, m'sieur, ze knife of ze firs'
mate zat you lef' in ze-"
"God knows what became of it! When
he found the body he must have hidden the damned thirig—-and if I knew
where . . . But no; I'm afraid to try it now. The Second wound is what
has scared me off; it's a sign to warn Us." Then he swore a volley of
oaths so vile that they burned The Boy's ears.
"With the
captain killed," went on the voice, after a moment7 "and the first mate
disposed of by the incrimi- nating evidence, we could have easily bought
the crew over to us. With me in command we could have gone straight to
Melbourne for the cargo of rum. McAllister would have paid well when we
delivered it to him at Hiva-oa, for when his cursed natives have plenty
of rum they do more work—and since the French government has restricted
the— Oh, well, what's the use to talk of it? You got the best of the
deal; I had the dirty work of killing the swine. It was too big an
undertaking for two men to try——"
"No,
'Poleon; the only thing to do now is save ourselves. . . ."
-
A pregnant dread was spreading through The Boy's body, a
sensation of abysmal emptiness. The coral reefs; the Polynesian. Then
they intended to-
Now he could learn who stabbed Black Michael
first! But did he want to know? Yes, the truth was far bet- ter than
horrible uncertainty. Yet he dared not enter the fo'castle alone; he
must go and bring Cardigan.
As he turned to creep away a sud-
den plunge of the vessel sent him flat upon the deck of the passage with
a sound that seemed loud enough to be heard from stem to
stern.
He was almost on his feet when a lean figure appeared
in the bulkhead door. Instantly he recognized Mon- crief. He made a dive
toward the laz- arette, but the boatswain was too quick for him; he
flung his lithe body upon him and bore him to the floor.
The
Boy opened his lips to cry out and the Creole's fist descended upon his
mouth. The pain stung him to action. With a desperate wrench he freed
him- self and fell against the bulkhead, but before he could move a
second figure was momentarily silhouetted upon the light in the oblong
aperture—a figure that hurled itself upon him, pinning him to the
wall.
Again he tried to scream—again a fist bruised his lips
horribly. He felt blood dripping from his chin.
"No, don't—"
he cried, his mouth throbbing with. pain. Something crashed down upon
his skull and as he fell, plunging into what seemed a depth- less abyss,
a picture was photographed upon his brain—that of a dark, sinister
figure silhouetted upon the glow in the bulkhead door.
Then
the world reeled, a drunken universe-
IV.
A knock on the door
of his quar- ters brought Cardigan out of a light sleep. Sitting up on
the edge of his bunk he called, "Come in!"
The opening of the
door admitted a wavering blade of light and in the frame, outlined upon
the pale illumina- tion from the main cabin, was a form.
"It's
Stearns, sir," announced the man. "I'm sorry to wake you up,, but I have
something queer to report."
Cardigan rose. "Wait a second till
I make a light." Then a moment later when the slush-lamp cast its ill
light upon his nearly-clad form he added, "All right, Stearns, what is
it?"
The midshipman's sallow face seemed paler than ever; he
shifted un- easily from one foot to the other.
"I've seen
something that I don't quite understand, sir," he began. "I had just
been relieved by Wajo and was going toward the fo'castle when I happened
to glance athwart the brig. I saw what looked like two shadows; then I
realized they weren't shadows but men—two of them, moving along the port
deck. They disappeared be- hind the after-cabin as soon as I saw them,
but I got the impression that they were carrying something—or—or some-
one. A minute later I could have sworn I heard a cry. It scared me a
little, sir, after all that's happened on this brig, so I hurried down
in the fo'c's'le. I didn't know what to do— and after about an hour I
deeided to tell you."
"And you did right," commended
Cardigan—for while the midshipman was telling his story something insid-
ious had taken root in his brain, an alarming possibility that caused
him no little apprehension.
"I'm going on deck," he announced,
removing his pea-jacket and cap from
a peg on
the wall. "Return to your quarters and say nothing to the men of what
you've seen. ..."
He followed Stearns into the poorly- lighted
main cabin, and as the midship- man reached the top of the companion-
way, gripping the brass rail to keep from being hurled back by the
danger- ous roll of the vessel, the mate moved through the
lazarette.
Midway in the dark passage leading into the
fo'castle he collided with some- thing that sprang away from him and
swore lurid oaths.
"The first mate. Is the
cabin boy in the fo'c's'le ?"
"No, sir; Hi ayn't seen 'im this
evenin'."
"Well, help me look for him. You start at the bow
and I'll go aft."
Together they passed through the main cabin
and at the top of the com- panionway staggered out upon the deck,
gripping the wet lee rail. Here they separated.
A blanket of
fog had been dropped from the dark sky and the peak-gutters snarled and
roared as the heavy sea, dashed inboard, was sucked back again to the
surface.
Clinging to the drenched rail the mate moved aft.
Near the long-boat amidships, a human form darted sud- denly around the
corner of the after- cabin and ran into him.
Cardigan was
thrown roughly against the rail, and as he gained his balance the
figure' head down, lurched past him toward the main
companion.
"Who's that?" he bellowed, hollow- ing his
hands.
For answer the figure plunged on; gained the companion;
vanished.
Cardigan swore savagely. Moving across the slippery
timbers, he reached the companionway and descended. Be-
low, in the main
cabin, the door of the lazarette gaped at him.
With quick
strides he made his way toward the fo'castle. The passage was not dark
this time, for during the in- terval that he was on deck a light had
been made in the crew's quarters and it sent a pale, trembling shaft
through the bulkhead door.
In the entrance to the fo'castle
Car- digan halted, an exclamation on his lips—for he stood face to face
with English Charlie.
"How the devil did you get here ?" he
demanded suspiciously.
The cockney indicated the entrance
opposite the bulkhead door, through which opening the bottom of a flight
of stairs was visible. "I came down the steps, sir. I just stopped a
minute to make a light 'ere."
"I thought I sent you to find
the cabin boy."
"You did, sir—but Hi ayn't found 'im
yet."
Cardigan whirled about and at that moment a voice behind
him shrieked: "Two bells, mate—two bells. . .
The sound
brought him around again and the,cockney, grinning, pointed to a
feathery green body perched on the up- per tier of one of the
bunks.
Cardigan swore as he made his way alone to the main
.cabin. Damn him, who was this fellow who had slunk past him on
deck?
In the lazarette door he paused to consult his watch.
Ten minutes to four. From the timepiece his eyes rose to the compass in
the deck-beam over- head. He could distinguish the tiny figures on the
white disc.
"Good God!" sprang from his lips. Who was on
watch? Wajo—and the fool was headed off the course . . . toward where
the coral traps lav:-
He took a step to cross the main cab- in
and at that very instant—so exact is the time-table of' Fate—a
sudden
titanic
shock hurled him flat upon his back. The fall partially stunned him,,
and as he lay there trying to marshal his scattered faculties the bow of
the vessel seemed to leap up, rolling him against the cabin bulkhead.
Following that loose objects tumbled down; glass
shattered.
After a moment of struggle, Cardi- gan succeeded in
getting to his feet. Finding himself in darkness, he real- ized that the
lamp had been broken.
A splotch of misty light showed him the
companionway, and, slipping and stumbling across the slanting floor, he
groped his way to the foot of the stairs, where his outstretched hands
found the brass rail.. . : .
He ascended. On deck charging
billows broke in white foam over the gunwale, sweeping angrily against
the cabins and masthead.
It seemed a deathless period to Car-
digan before he reached the break of the poop; here he gripped the
ladder and looked over his shoulder at the wreckage.
The bow '
was thrust up into the throat of the fog, the stern so deeply sunk that
the main-chains dipped, while a list to the port permitted the sea free
entrance through a tear in the bulwarks. She had evidently struck with
tremen- dous force; the forward mast was down and the deck, below the
fore-poop, in splinters where broken spars had crashed
through.
He grasped the situation instantly, realizing the
urgency of keeping a cool head. The bows were jammed between the rocks
and at any moment the wounded .ship might slide back off the
reefs—-
His teeth snapped shut and he climbed the ladder. As
he stood up- right on the poop-deck, peering into the mist that masked
the remote end of the vessel, a vague shape slid across the timbels at
him. Instantly he saw that
it was a man and tried to steady
him- self for the encounter that he knew was
unavoidable.
Instead of the jar that he expected, a smashing
blow was delivered full in his face, and with mingled surprise and pain
he realized that it was an attack rather than a collision. The moment he
hit the deck he was up again, send- ing his fist into a yielding paunch.
The figure went down without a cry, doubled in a knot.
For a
moment Cardigan stood above his antagonist, waiting for him to rise;
then, believing him rendered breathless by the blow, he bent over to
ascertain the identity. He had no sooner aban- doned his guard than he
regretted it, for the knotted form straightened out and sprang at
him—but not too swiftly for him to see the swarthy face of 'Pol- eon
Moncrief.
"So you're the traitor aboard!" bel- lowed Cardigan.
"You killed-"
Once more they came together* This time they
clinched; went to the slant- ing deck, rolling over and over until they
struck the rail, where the force of the impact, separated
them.
Leaping to his feet, Cardigan stood ready, and when the
boatswain rose a well-aimed blow between the eyes sent him reeling
against the gunwale. He crumpled up. The first mate bent swiftly and
gripped him about the waist; lifted him and hurled him, claw- ing and
kicking, overboard.
As the body of Moncrief was swal- lowed by
the fog Cardigan staggered back against the wheel. His heel en-
countered an object, and looking down he saw the Polynesian, Wajo,
stretched out beside the wheel grating.
He dropped on his
knees to examine the body, and at this juncture someone scrambled over
the break of the poop, looming tall and sinister in the
mist.
"Mr. Cardigan?" The voice be- longed to Stearns. "The
whole bow's
smashed—clear to the main hatch! Who in the name of—" He stopped
as a roll of the vessel sent him sliding across the wet deck. -
/
"Grip yourself, man!" cried Cardi- gan, rising and moving to
his side. "Remember, you're midshipman on this brig! . . . Let's make
for the long- boat. ..."
The mate led the way from the poop to
the long-boat, where a group of men, smears of dark animation in the
fog, were struggling at the davits. English Charlie's voice rose above
the clamor as he sang out orders.
"Did you find the cabin-boy,
Char- lie?" asked Cardigan, reaching the cockney, who stood with a
dripping tar- paulin thrown over his shoulders.
"No, sir—an'
Hi looked from bow to stern!"
Poor beggar, thought Cardigan.
His fears were confirmed. The two figures Stearns had seen in the mist
loomed as sinister elements in the fate of the cabin-boy; the cry seemed
conclusive evidence that evil had befallen him.
He gripped
himself and ordered: "Charlie, send two men below to fetch provisions
and blankets—and have them step lively!"
As two of the crew
disappeared in the fog, headed for the companion, English Charlie drew
himself into the lif e-boat.
"Everything in shape?" queried
Car- digan.
"Aye, aye, sir! Oars, mast, canvas and
water!"
"Is the rudder shipped properly? . . . Here come the
provisions. In with them, men. . . . Get the lines clear and the boat
ready to swing! One of you tail on the falls! . . . Lower slowly—slowly
or you'll swamp her! Stand by, lads! Now, ease off—-ease
off!"
Leaning over the slanting rail Cardi- gan saw the dark
shape of the boat
plunge downward, saw it strike the
sea and ride free of the hull, borne on a white surge. How small, how
helpless it looked, down there in the mist, thought
Cardigan.
"Are all hands there ?" he called, as the last man
shot down the line.
"All but the men for'ard, 'sir," an-
swered a voice from the misty smudge below. "They didn't have a chance
when she struck. . . ."
Cardigan, preparing to swing down the
line, felt a peculiar reluctance to abandon the brig. Suppose, after
all, the cabin-boy was somewhere—
A thought sped like steel
through his brain. The Malay knife. He was leaving that behind. Queer
that one should suddenly remember a fragment of sentiment amid such
chaos—
"Lay her nose close in, lads !" he or- dered over the
rail. "I'm going to have a look below. If I'm not back in four minutes
don't wait. . .
He made his way to the companion, climbing
down the almost inverted stairs into the main cabin, where the w,ater
reached his waist.
Trusting more to his sense of direc- tion
than his outstretched hands,, he groped his way aft, beneath the decks,
to the paint-locker. In the misty ghost- light that spilled through the
nearly de- molished deck above he found the nail- riven iron door and
drew back the bolt.
With a shriek of hinges it swung out
—spitting a large object in the waist- deep flood. Cardigan swore aloud
as he perceived it to be a human body; bent over; lifted it; cursed
again.
It was the cabin-boy—bound and gagged!
In the
half-light he could see the mutely imploring eyes—dark pools of pain.
With haste he secured the Malay knife and severed ,the bonds, afterward
removing the gag from the bruised, swollen mouth.
Boy, "they
knocked me in the head, 'Poleon Moncrief and another . . . I couldn't
see his face, but he said—"
"Tell me later," cut in Cardigan.
"We haven't time now; the ship's sink- ing. . V . Can you walk? . . .
I'll help you. . .
The mate half-dragged The Boy along the
passage and into the main cabin; here he set him on his feet and thrust
him toward the vague gray light in the companionway.
As The
Boy began the ascent, cling- ing to the rail, he heard a crash behind
him, a ripping and splintering of broken timbers, and, looking back, he
saw something long and dark, the shape of a spar, plunge from aloft and
smite Cardigan on the head. With a splash the first mate sank beneath
the ugly water in the cabin.
The Boy shrieked. For an instant
he stood motionless, paralyzed, then stumbling down the stairs he groped
in the flood for the body. Almost instant- ly he was rewarded. With
trembling fingers he sought the heart. It was beating. He laughed
hysterically and began to drag the limp form after him.
Midway
up the companion-stairs he was brought to a standstill by a sound below,
a half croak and half shriek: "On deck, you lubbers! . . . Sahib hai!
.
He understood. Kerachi, the parra- keet, was down there in
that black hole —but he could not go back until he had carried Cardigan
to safety.
A form suddenly blotted out the square of foggy
gray light that defined the companion. Following that Eng- lish
Charlie's voice called, "Mr. Cardi- gan !"
"Here!" answered
The Boy. "For God's sake take him! He was hit by a spar! . . . I've got
to go back—after the parrakeet!"
As he turned to descend the
cockney gripped his shoulder.
"Come back, yeh blarsted little
fool! You'll be drowned—" But The Boy broke away and plunged down into
the cabin.
A hush that seemed intensified rather than ruptured
by the dull, ominous pounding of the waves against the sod- den hull
brooded in the bowels of the vessel—as if the very timbers of the
stricken brig were smitten dumb with dreadful expectancy.
It
corrupted The Boy with terror, this hush, but he forced himself1 to
stagger through the water into the flooded passage amidships. Ahead, the
bulkhead door hiccoughed yellow light. It gave warmth to his chilled
soul, and in another instant he reached the en- trance to the
fo'castle.
The slush-lamp lay against the beam, spluttering
feebly with every heave of the vessel. The foul hole was half-in-
undated and a great wound in the port bulwarks bled a steady stream of
sea water.
"Kerachi!" called The Boy, search- ing in the flood
for the little bird.
As if answering him, the parrakeet,
perched upon the top of the furthest bunk, croaked: "Chota hazri sahibs.
. . ."
Then a thing occurred that drew The Boy's heart into
his throat: a human hand rose suddenly from behind an overturned table
that floated near the second bulkhead door . . . clawed at the air . . .
sank.
"Help . . pleaded a faint voice. "A spar . . . pinned me
here . . . in the passage door. . . . I'm killed unless. .
.
The blood in The Boy's veins seemed for the moment sucked
up. The voice! Pain had weakened it to scarce- ly above a whisper, but
he recognized it, this voice that he would remember until Death wiped
free his brain.
"I'm coming!" he answered, suffused with
fright and joy.
As he
moved forward a sudden lurch of the brig sent the lamp crashing against
the bulkhead. He stumbled; clutched at something tangible; .clung. With
a sense of aching despair he re- alized that he was denied the sight'
of— Darkness had hardly shut its jaws upon the foul hole when the
parrakeet shrieked: "Two bells, mate, two bells. . . ."
An
instant of frightful silence came on the heels of the bird's speech,
then: "God, how did you know?" shrilled the voice. "That was when I
stabbed him. . . . As I pulled the knife out two bells struck. . .
."
The Boy felt a sudden quiver of the planks beneath his
feet, heard a rip- ping sound forward . . . and a sud- den convulsion of
the water flung him backward. Terrified, he regained his balance and
groped until he found and pulled himself through the bulkhead-
door.
How he made the main cabin he never knew. After a period
of breath- less struggle, bruised and hurt, almost strangled by the
deepening flood, he reached the foot of the now inverted
companion-stairs and began to climb.
He was almost at the top
when a great wave, hurled through the com- panion above, descended upon
him and bore him, gasping and choking, into the liquid blackness
below.
The world swung around in giddy chaos. He experienced a
terrible plunging sensation; torrents of delir- ious water passed over
him ; pitiless night swirled its black currents about his struggling
body.
Buoying himself upward, battling against the legions of
water, he strove to attain the surface. His thrashing arms struck
something hard. At the contact his body went rigid with horror. The
ceiling of the cabin. Trapped.
A fierce exultation possessed
him— the glory of struggle. He tried to fight,
but the liquid death
crushed him. He screamed—was choked. He knew the torture of suffocation,
a seemingly end- less period of terror and pain such as he had never
known, even when the lash of Black Michael curled about his bare skin;
and a vivid, blinding flash of the concentrated events of many years
leaped like hundred-hued lightnings athwart his drowning
eyes.
In the midst of this glow, sur- rounded by tiny reeling
stars, he saw The White Lotus . . . . burning with the fire of palest
moons—a figure that faded, became as destroyed moonlight, a vanishing
glory that perished the very instant that it flashed to light his
way.
"la, ora na i te Atua. . .
Dark sluice-gates
closed upon him.
V
" 'Ere she goes,
mateys—look!"
That was the first thing that Cardi- gan heard,
a sentence that clove the fabric of unconsciousness and left him lying,
pained to the soul, in what seemed a vast, misty cavern.
He
felt intermittent sprays upon his face and tried to struggle to a
sitting position, but an intense burning in his skull made him fall
back. He opened his lips.
"Charlie . : . where are you
?"
An instant afterward a huge face, seeming wraithlike in the
fog, materi- alized in the dusky vacancy above him.
"She's
just gone down, sir!" the third mate said in a husky voice. "Gawd, it
was orful . . . with the little fool aboard—"
"You
mean—?"
"Yerss. 'E dragged you up the com- panionway and Hi
'elped lower you into the long-boat. . . . We'd 'ardly got away, sir,
when she went back orf the rocks . . . straight down." He paused, then:
"Shall Hi call the roll, sir?"
EUGENE BERTAL INGINEUR
D'CHIMIQUE COURS BELSUNCE, MARSEILLES
He was lying
in a first class compart- ment of the Paris-Marseilles express, his
throat cut from ear to ear. The only other occupants of the. carriage
were a blind man and a gentle old lady of eighty, who was hysterical
from shock.
II
The Rue Cannabiere is at once the
Broadway and the Boulevard des Italiens of Marseilles, and it is more
cosmopoli- tan than pither. Between the big stores, the glittering
cafes, restaurants and theaters that flank its width, walk yellow men
from China, brown from India, black men from Bermuda or the Sou- dan,
Arabs, Portuguese, Italians and Yankees. Turban and fez are as com- mon
on the Cannabiere as silk stockings and painted lips.
William
F. Bailey, special agent for the Department of Justice, sat in a cor-
ner of the Restaurant Haxo, absorbed in a magnificent omelette and a cup
of chocolate. The warm June sun sprayed through the windows, lacing
floor and furniture with thongs of gold. From the window he could see
the Vieux Port, with its bristle of masts. His unopened
copy of the Matin
was propped against a cruet on the center of the table.
Bailey
had been in France a year, seeking "Beau" Nash, who was wanted in the
United States on a dozen charges. Nash was of the highest type of crim-
inal, but a man who had made enemies gratuitously. He kicked out of his
path men who had enabled him to make a suc- cess of his nefarious
calling. But even with information from a number of these Bailey had
been unable to trace the old fox. "Railroad" Cartwright had failed to
"get" the Beau in his day- failed, with a great incentive to urge him
on; and so had a dozen others.
"It ain't no use,'' Eddie had said; "things have got
so with the wireless an' cables an' international police that there
ain't nowhere in the world a man can go where a red-faced Irishman with
a badge won't tap him on the shoulder an' say, 'Hello, Eddie, the old
man wants to see you.' Only one bird's got you dicks stopped, an' that's
Beau Nash.
Bill recalled, with a grin of disgust, his answer,
"Oh, we'll get him all right. It's only a matter of time."
He
hadiiad a year, and from all indi- cations was no closer to his quarry
than when he started. Well, if Denise Girard, whom he loved, married
him, Bailey could hardly call his European trip a failure, even though
it might seem so in the eyes of his superiors.
The chatter of two men, drinking
wine at a nearby table, annoyed him. One was tall and gaunt; the other
stoop shouldered, slack chinned, pinched. Bailey, subconsciously, had
heard the entire conversation. Apparently the big man was berating the
other rather too harshly for that gentleman's taste. He wound up with a
gust, "Name of a dog, but you are a fine one to call yourself a railway
man. Not all the way did I see you—lazy lizard—"
The little
man sprang up, with a snarl at the edge of his lips. Then he glanced
around, hesitated, and after a moment slouched out.
Bill
yawned, and picked up his paper. In a flash his bored air dropped from
him, and he stiffened with amazement. It was not the headlines telling
of the death of Monsieur Bertal, but the. fact that the dead chemist's
photograph was that of Beau Nash!
It required just two minutes
for the agent to pay his bill and leave the Res- taurant Haxo. The
Prefecture of Police was only a short distance away, but fifty Frenchmen
shrugged their shoulders and exclaimed anent the mad hurry of Americans
as Bailey dashed by.
The prefect greeted him politely. Of a
certainty the body was in the mortu- ary, and if Monsieur Bailey desired
to view it there could be no possible objec- tion. It also happened that
the two oc- cupants of the compartment at the time of the murder were in
the prefecture, and it would be possible to speak with them. It was
hoped that the distin- guished American secret agent might aid them in
this ease.
Bailey followed a glum gendarme down a corridor .to
the room where the unfortunate flotsam of the city so often paid their
final visits. There was some- thing on one of the slabs—a rigid some-
thing covered with a white cloth. The agent turned down one corner of
the sheet, and then replaced it. His search
was ended. The lean
face and drooping mustache, the graying yellow hair—It was Beau Nash
beyond a doubt!
"You recognize him, monsieur?" asked the
prefect, who had followed Bailey into the mortuary.
The
American told him.
"It is not surprising to me. There is a
chemical engineer named Bertal, who resides in Marseilles, but we
learned that he is at home, having returned from Paris last night. And
now, monsieur, if you will come with me to the office we will speak with
Madame Berthier, who was in the compartment -at the time of this man's
death."
Madame Berthier, a delicate little lady of eighty,
told Bailey, in a frightened voice, all she knew of the affair. No one
in their senses could have suspected her; but the frightful experience
had shaken her to the soul.
"We had passed Lyons, monsieur,"
she explained. "It was late, nearly two in the morning. I was dozing.
Monsieur Bertal was asleep in the corner directly opposite me; the blind
man, Monsieur Robert, was beside him. The door of the compartment had
been locked after we left Lyons. There was a young woman wearing a heavy
veil in the next compartment when we left Paris. The police found no one
else in the car but us when they investigated."
She stopped,
and covered her face with her quivering hands.
Bailey patted
the old lady's shoulder reassuringly, and after a moment she
continued:
"I don't know what time it was when I woke up. The
lights cast only a dim blue haze over the compartment. I was a little
dazed at first. I rubbed my eyes, and saw—saw Monsieur Bertal. He was
sitting up very straight, his head tilted back against the cushion, his
eyes star- ing at the ceiling. Then I saw the slash across his throat,
and the b-blood soak- ing his shirt and vest, I
screamed—and
screamed. Monsieur Robert woke up,
and asked me what was the matter. But I fainted—
"A peculiar
case," said the prefect; "we have absolutely no clue. If mon- sieur
would help—"
Bailey nodded. "I'll be glad to. It is necessary
for me to cable the chief at once, but I will return and do all I can.
Though I hope we can catch the mur- derer of Beau Nash, he has certainly
done the world no harm in ridding it of that gentleman."
Once
more on the Rue Cannabiere, the American paused. He would prob- ably be
ordered home very shortly, and in the short time left him he would have
to persuade Denise to marry him and accompany him to America. . Though
he had known the girl for almost a year, he knew little or nothing of
her family and antecedents. She was very beautiful, apparently had
sufficient money for all her needs, was well edu- cated and well bred.
Also, she found it necessary to make trips to Paris every two weeks.
That completed Denise Gi- rard's dossier so far as William Bailey was
concerned.
It was sufficient that he loved her.
He
walked as far as the Cours Saint Louis. There he swung aboard a tram-
car, and after fifteen minutes' ride dropped off opposite the marble
gran- deur of the Palais Longchamp. Denise's apartment was very
near.
Pondering there in the June sunshine as to the best
course he should pursue, Bill Bailey received the greatest shock of his
eventful life.
Denise came down the steps of her house, arm in
arm with Beau Nash!
The drooping mustache, the graying yellow
hair was that of the corpse who lay on the slab in the mortuary of the
prefecture of police. And who could doubt from the stately and dangerous
walk, from his eyes—so ice-cold, so fire- hot—from his deadly air of a
bravo of
fortune, that Nash was very sure of
himself.
Apparently the pair did not see him. They walked down
the street, talking earnestly. Bailey shook off his numbed surprise, and
followed them. A question kept hammering in his brain. What was Denise
doing with the Beau ? What pos- sible connection could his little sweet-
heart have with the most notorious criminal in Europe?
Ill
Bailey could have arrested Nash then and there, but the
human instinct to find out what Denise was doing with this man overrode
his first impulse to take the fellow into custody. They were in no
hurry, made no effort at concealment, and Bailey, sheltered by the
flowing stream of pedestrians, kept within easy reach of
them.
At length they turned into the Place Moreau. It was
market day, and even though late in the afternoon, the square was
crowded. Sabots clattered on the cobble-stones; hogs squealed, ducks
squawked; red-faced peasant women shouted prices for their fish and fowl
and vegetables. Here wandered a steel helmeted poilu or a brown Tommy,
there a pigeon-chested gendarme, flecks of color in the dull
mass.
As Bailey started to cross the square three men stepped
in his path. They were Parisians, of Montmartre or the outer boulevards.
The cut of their clothes, a swagger from the hips and an unhealthy color
proved that. They stopped him effectively without appa- rently
attempting such a thing.
"Hello, American," whined one. "We
desire only the small courtesy of a match."
"I'm in a hurry,"
Bailey snapped, thrusting the spokesman to one side. "Get out of the
way."
apache's face; his lips tightened
into a white gash, and there was such malig- nant hatred in his eyes
that Bailey's hand involuntarily reached toward his hip. If ever murder
was written in? a human expression it was there in the Frenchman's. Then
the agent laughed, reached over and grasped the fellow's wrist and
twisted it until he howled with pain. The others, being cowards at
heart, surged back. Bailey hurried across the square. But in the moment
the Parisians had engaged his attention, Nash and Denise had
disappeared.
Bailey was not a man to cry over spilt milk, but
he was thoroughly dis- gusted at the turn affairs had taken. Much as he
wanted to allow Nash fur- ther liberty so that he could discover the
relationship between him and Denise it had become imperative to get the
man under lock and key.
He telephoned to Captain Goulet, the
prefect. It was Bailey's plan to have a drag-net thrown around the city
in the event of Nash's attempting to slip out, and also to have the
Place Moreau quar- ter thoroughly searched at once.
"Yes?"
came Captain Goulet's voice over the wire. '
"This is
Bailey."
"Oh, Monsieur Bailey, I have the
most—"
"Just a moment, Captain. You re- member that I
identified the man who was murdered on the Marseilles express as Beau
Nash. Shortly after leaving your office I saw Nash on the street, but he
gave me the slip—"
"You—you saw Nash on the street?" asked the
captain thickly. "Oh, mon Dieu! This matter is getting beyond our mortal
bonds."
"What do you mean?"
"The body of the man you
identified as Nash has disappeared from the table in the
mortuary!"
Bailey sucked in his breath In a gasp of
surprise.
"Disappeared ?"
"Of a
certainty."
"And I saw Nash in the street five minutes
afterward. I wonder—"
"Did you—did you notice his throat,
monsieur ?"
"He wore a muffler," said Bailey im- patiently,
"wrapped in two or three folds around his neck."
"Then it was
him," wailed the prefect. "I fear nothing human, monsieur, but this has
gotten beyond our realm. The man who lay on this table was as dead as
Pontius Pilate—to that I'll swear. Yet he disappears from my mortuary,
and you meet him on the street. What can one do against a cadaver,
monsieur ?" "Nonsense. Have all the stations and wharves watched, and
send a dozen men down here to search the neighborhood, Dead or alive,
we're going to get Beau Nash. And I think that he will be able to tell
us a few things to clear up the mystery of the Marseilles express. Will
you do as I ask ?"
"At once, monsieur."
Bailey
thoughtfully hung up the re- ceiver, and walked again into the Place
Moreau.
The shadows had lengthened. The hucksters in the
square were packing up their stands and wares. In ten minutes more the
place would be deserted, and then the police would come down like the
historic Assyrian wolves—probably with as small
success.
Looking up from his musings, Bailey saw Denise step
out of a taverne on the farther side of the square. She looked around
cautiously. Then, having recon- noitered the ground to her evident
satis- faction, she went back into the house. Bailey ran across the
street, shifting his revolver from his hip pocket to the side one of his
coat.
The entrance from which Denise had looked did not lead
through the cafe, but directly up a flight of stairs to the second
floor. Its door was unlocked,
With his hand on the butt of
his wea- pon, Bailey went up. Under his cautious step the ratty old
stairway squeaked like an unoiled hinge. The place was dark as a well,
and rank with the thousand odors of a cheap restaurant. Some- where
above lay the key to the most puz- zling mystery that Bailey had ever
inves- tigated.
At the head of the second flight a gas jet
burned blue in the foul air. Within the arc of its sickly radiance the
portal of a room swung slightly ajar. He tip- toed forward, and urged
the door open an inch or more. Every muscle in his body was tensed for
the possible strug- gle.
Peering into the room, he caught the
darker hulk of a bed in the gloom. From the arrangement of the
bed-clothing it looked as though someone were sprawled on it. But,
strain his ears as he might, Bailey could not hear that per- son
breathing.
Moving with the greatest caution, the agent slipped
through the door. A gas light, turned very low, was burning. His pistol
clutched in his right hand, Bailey stretched out his left, and turned on
the gas full blast.
There on the, bed, its head slewed around
until the throat-gash yawned like some horrid mouth, lay the body of the
man who had been killed on the Mar- seilles
express!
IV
Bailey went cold to the tips of his
fingers at the horror of it. He was used to ghastly scenes, but none.had
ever affected him as did the lonely fig- ure on the disordered bed. If
it wasn't . Nash, who was it, and why had he been brought from his slab
in the mortuary to this place?
The agent stepped toward the bed,
and then a strong hand reached over his shoulder and tore away the
pistol. An- other was clapped over his mouth. So quickly was the attack
made that before Bailey could shout or struggle he was on his back, his
own handcuffs on his wrists, and a gag between his teeth.
The
apache who had accosted him in the square grinned down at
him.
"Ah, vieux cochon," he snorted, "you are the trapped and
not the trapper now. Of course, you understand that we are going to kill
you. But first, by order of Monsieur Nash, I am to explain some things
to you. He thought it a shame that you should die without first touch-
ing the edges of this mystery. Look."
He walked to the bed,
and Bailey's sidelong glance followed him.
"This man's name is
not unfamiliar to you, monsieur," said the apache. "It is John Sheppard,
known as a cousin to Monsieur the Beau. The resemblance between the two
is strong, but you will grant that the make-up is yet the work of a
master-hand. The nose, see, it has been filled out with paraffin. The
hair and mustache are dyed. This bluish scar at the angle of the jaw has
been made with an electric needle."
Of course, Bailey knew of
Johnny Sheppard, who had been almost a% no- torious in his sphere as the
Beau was in his. It . was more than probable that Sheppard had consented
to this disguise to throw the police off his cousin's track. It
accounted, anyway, for the widely varying reports of Nash's whereabouts
that had come to the agent's ears.
The apache continued.
"Monsieur Nash intended dispatching you, of course, who is the. chief
thorn in his side. He was afraid, however, that a more complete
examination be made of Sheppard, with the consequent working back of
your death to him. We were in- structed to get the body. It was ab-
surdly simple. We drew the gendarmes
to the front of the prefecture by a
false alarm. The mortuary faces on an alley, where we had a covered
wagon. You see, it was so easy that even you might have done
it."
Bailey lay very still, hoping that the Frenchman, in his
streak of garrulous boasting, might say still more. But the fellow had
apparently fulfilled his in- structions. He drew his revolver, and
looked curiously down at the agent.
"They say Americans know
how to die," he observed casually. "We will see."
Bill
stiffened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other's yellow orbs. It was
hard to die there, with so much of life before him, but the least he
could do was to keep up a bold front. They want- ed to see him wince,
and he did not in- tend giving them that satisfaction.
The
thug lifted his weapon, and his comrades crowded up, their rat faces
glistening. Bailey's fingers tightened, and his lips drew down in a hard
line as he tensed himself for the shock—
A revolver exploded;
another fol- lowed. Two of the Parisians fell. Their leader plunged for
the open, and a huge, gray-haired gendarme deliberately shot him in the
back. The apache spun around, and rocketed down the steps, to lie, an
unkempt heap, at the bottom.
When Bailey was liberated he
dashed downstairs and propped the dying man on his knee. There was much
that the fellow could tell him if he would.
"Nom d'un nom!"
the apache groaned. "I'm going ... To think that a rotten gendarme
should get me at last ..." "Who killed Sheppard?" Bailey de-
manded.
"He paid us . . . five hundred francs . . . Zut! Five
hundred fraiics, and I haven't spent a damned sou ..." "Who killed
Sheppard?"
The Parisian rolled his pale eyes up- ward.
"Parbleau! I'll tell.- Why not? I got five hundred francs to finish
you,
and I haven't spent a centime . . . " He sat up suddenly. "Be
watchful of Ber- tal," he gasped; "they are going to kill him." Then his
head sagged back, and he died very Quietly in Bailey's
arms.
"They are going to kill Bertal!" The dead man's warning
rang in Bailey's ears. What had the man Bertal, whose card had been
found in the corpse's pocket, to do with this affair? Just where did he
fit into the distorted mosaic ? The agent had known that the presence of
Bertal's card in Sheppard's pocket could hardly have been due to chance.
But he had had no time to in- vestigate any of the little clues he had
caught out of the tangled skein. Now his time would be further occupied
in preventing some one from exterminat- ing the unhappy Monsieur
Bertal.
Bailey rose from his knees to find the gray mustached
gendarme regarding him quizzically.
"I have under arrest,"
said Sergeant Meaux, "a woman named Denise Gi- rard. We found her on the
third floor."
Bailey's voice was normal when he asked, "On
what charge are you hold- ing her?"
"She has confessed to the
murder of the man who was found on the Paris- Marseilles
express."
"Nonsense!" said Bailey
violently.
"Perhaps not, monsieur. She is quite positive in
expressing herself. And, after all, it would not be the first wom- an
who resorted to murder. It was a wise man who first said, "Cherchez la
femme."
Bailey stood silent, eyes on the ground. It was absurd
to believe that his sweet girl had committed so shock- ing a crime. She
had confessed. Bah! What the devil was a confession? Many an innocent
person had confessed before this. But ugly doubt reared its head. Why
was she so apparently friendly with Beau Nash? Why—
to see Denise just then. He wanted
time to get a clearer vision of the affair; to make a few
investigations. So in com- pany with a gendarme, he hurried into the
street, and caught a tram-car in the direction of the Cours
Belsunce.
A fog had settled down in earnest, wiping out the
tops of the buildings, and making the street lights mere gray smudges
iri the darkness. He found Monsieur Bertal's house with difficulty,
posted his gendarme outside, and rang the bell.
The Bertal
apartment was on the ground floor, as the neat brass plate un- der the
window testified. Monsieur him- self opened the door a crack, and looked
rather suspiciously at his visitor. Then he bowed, and
said:
"Come in, Monsieur Bailey."
Bailey had not the
faintest idea of how Eugene Bertal knew him, but he kept his wonder
hidden and he and the gendarme walked in.
Old Bertal might
just have stepped from a painting, with his high collar, white shirt
front and neck cloth with its pleats and counterpleats. He made Bailey
think of English inns, with roar- ing fire-places and guests thumping in
from the lumbering coaches—of fat tur- keys, egg nogg, toddy and the
rest. In appearance he was a man after Dickens' own heart—not the pursy
French chemi- cal engineer he was supposed to be. The room itself
furthered that impression.
There was a huge four-poster bed,
with chintz curtains; there was an an- cient mahogany bureau, quaint
brass candelabra, fine old engravings on the walls, rows of leather
bound books. There were also big, helpless looking wadded chairs. The
host waved his guest toward one of them.
Bailey sat down. "You
know me ap- parently, monsieur, or else you are an extraordinarily good
guesser. If that is the case, possibly you can guess why I am
here."
A bleak look came into the old
man's face. He nodded.
Bailey heard the creak of cautious
footsteps in the next room. He knew that old Bertal lived alone, and
that in all probability the newcomer was the messenger of
death.
It was pitch dark beyond the por- tieres, but Bill
seemed to sense a black- er shape flattened against the opposite wall.
Without an instant's hesitation, he flung himself, muscular hands out-
stretched at the intruder, while he shouted to Monsieur Bertal to turn
on the light.
He crashed against an athletic body, and
received a vicious blow in the "face. They clenched, and in the struggle
tore a handkerchief from his opponent's face, but it was too dark for
recognition. Ber- tal was taking an exasperatingly long time in reaching
the electric switch.
Then someone struck Bailey from be- hind.
He reeled back, loosening his hold. The intruder tore himself free,
flung open the door, and clattered out through the hallway. Bertal
turned on the lights. There was no one in the room save these
two.
In the street the gendarme raised an enormous pother as
he ran after the fellow, but Bailey did not aid him. He simply stood and
looked at Bertal.
"An explanation would not be. out of place,"
he said coldly. "I risked my neck for you, and then you try to break
it."
"That is my affair," said Bertal sul- lenly. "And now, we
will get the prin- cipal business of your visit over and done with. I
know why you—a detec- tive—are here, and I confess freely. I killed John
Sheppard on the Paris-Mar- seilles express!"
He opened a
drawer in the table, and took out a knife, with a clotted
blade.
"This is what I did it with," he said.
When
the gendarme returned, pant- ing, and with nothing to show for
his
chase, Bailey left him in charge of
the apartment, and took Bertal to the pre- fecture of police. He had not
commented on Denise's confession. He said, noth- ing concerning this
one.
Captain Goulet smiled grimly when the American explained
that Bertal had shouldered responsibility for the mur- der. He shook his
finger reprovingly, as though the old chemical engineer were a bad, bad
boy.
"It is strange, very strange, Monsieur Bailey," he said,
"and, as you Yankees say, brisk business, eh. First Mademoi- selle
Girard confesses, then Monsieur Bertal, and just five minutes ago Mon-
sieur Robert, the blind man, sent for us, and said that he alone was
responsible for Sheppard's death. Now, who is really telling the truth
?"
V
"Take Monsieur Bertal to a cell," the prefect
directed a gendarme. "I would like to know, Monsieur Bailey, just where
we stand in this matter.
The Department of Justice man
grunted. "So would I. As S. Holmes used to say, 'It is a capital mistake
to theorize before we have all the data.' I am_ going out to get that
data. Did you instruct the Chef de Gare to hold the murder car for my
investigation, and also keep the entire train crew so I can interview
them ?"
"Yes."
"All right. Now, we'll have the three
confessors come out here one at a time, and tell us in detail just how
they com- mitted the crime. After that I'll ex- amine the car and the
crew, and if that doesn't get us some real infor- mation, I'll go back
to kindergarten."
Goulet nodded his
approbation.
"Bring in Mademoiselle Girard," he
directed.
Bailey promptly effaced himself from the scene by
retiring behind a conve-
nient screen, where he could see
and hear without being observed himself.
Denise came in
presently, her beauti- ful face white and tear stained. There were blue
circles beneath her eyes, and her slender shoulders drooped. Bailey's
heart went out to her in a warm surge of love and pity. She was so
young, and so much in need of help.
"Now, Mademoiselle
Girard," said the prefect in a normal conversational tone, "I want you
to give me a straightfor- ward description of what happened on the
Paris-Marseilles express last night." "I—-I told you
once."
"It is necessary that it be repeated." He tapped his
teeth with a pen- holder and looked at her quite
calmly.
"Before we started from Paris," she said hurriedly,
"Sheppard, whom I knew, spoke to me insultingly. After we passed Lyons I
thought I heard an exclamation of pain from the next com- partment. I
rose and went into the cor- ridor. The door to the compartment was open;
Sheppard seized me and drew me in. I—I knew what sort of a man he was,
and, having a knife in my girdle, I pulled it out and struck blindly. He
fell back on the seat, and I ran into my own
compartment."
"How is it that Madame Berthier and Monsieur
Robert heard nothing of this?"
"There were no words
passed—little noise. They were both sleeping."
"You assume
full responsibility for this man's death ?"
"I—I do," she
whispered.
"That is all," said Goulet, motioning the gendarme
to take her away. "Bring in Monsieur Robert," he added.
"He
has nothing to do with it—truly, truly he hasn't," the girl cried
desper- ately over her shoulder.
When the blind man was led in
the prefect addressed the same questions to him.
answered Robert. "It is not
necessary to explain motives—my confession ob- viates that. Sheppard
felt safe with me because I am blind. I could tell by his breathing when
he was asleep. When I was sure of it I felt for his throat—oh, so
cautiously—and then used my knife." "What were your relative positions?"
asked Bailey, coming from behind the screen.
"He was sitting
next the window, I beside him."
Bailey nodded
gravely.
After the blind man was taken away Bertal was brought
back again. He was visibly nervous.
"We want a detailed
explanation from you," Bailey explained.
"It will be brief.
Long ago I had— for reasons that need no explanation- determined on the
death of John Shep- pard. He deseryed it if ever a man did, but it was
out of the question for me to kill him openly. I knew that he intended
leaving Paris when he did. I knew exactly how the train ran; the track
it used, its schedule, how it al- ways came to a brief stop in the
freight yards beyond Lyons. I learned what compartment Sheppard would
occupy. Then I hid myself in a freight car be- side the track used by
the express. Fortune was kind to me—kinder than I expected. The train
halted. I looked, and there, directly opposite me, I saw Sheppard
asleep. I leaned across, rest- ing my arm on the side of the express,
and drove my knife into his throat. Then I walked back to Lyons, and two
hours later caught another train to Marseilles."
When Bertal
had been escorted back to his cell, Captain Goulet looked quiz- zically
at Bailey.
"The further we go the more tangled we get," he
observed. "Mon Dieu! What a fright I had when the body dis" appeared
from the mortuary. I thought surely we had a ghost to deal with.
But
these are most palpably human folks, and each of their confessions
are logi- cal when taken alone. Together—" He shrrugged his
shoulders.
"We'll straighten them out," Bailey reassured him.
"I'm off now, and I won't be back until I've laid my hands on something
definite."
It was not until nine o'clock next morning that
Bill returned, but he was as fresh and clear eyed as though he had been
sleeping all night. Captain Goulet greeted him
hopefully.
"I've made some progress," the agent admitted in
answer to the prefect's question. "In fact, most of the mys- tery has
disappeared. If you will have the three prisoners brought in again I
think we can get the other phases cleared up."
Bill flashed
Denise a look that brought the color to her cheeks, and a faint smile in
answer to his.
"The three of you," he said,. "have confessed
to the murder of John Shep- pard. There are some angles to this case
that I dont' know, but I know that none of you had a hand in Sheppard's
death. In the first place, Mademoiselle Girard had absolutely nothing to
do with it. She was on the train, but she left it at Dijon. I wired her
descrip- tion to the police at every stop the ex- press made, and found
that she regis- tered at Dijon under the name of Ma- dame Claire St.
Pol. Isn't that true, Denise ?"
"Y-yes," she
admitted.
"Now, as to Monsieur Robert. His story was
plausible. I carefully ex- amined the spot where Sheppard had been
sitting. There was a slash in the cushion, and spots of blood. But the
nature of the cut, which was deep on the side toward Robert, and edged
thin- ly toward the window, indicated that it had been made by someone
outside the train. There were also drops of blood on the steps which
conclusively proved
that point. So, of the three
confession- aires, it seemed most likely that Mon- sieur Bertal was the
guilty party."
The chemist' nodded dully.
"As a
matter of fact," Bailey con- tinued, "he had no more to do with
Sheppard's death than the other two. He declared that he had committed
the crime while the Marseilles express halted in the freight yard beyond
Lyons. As a matter of fact, the train did not stop. There was a clear
track, and the express maintained a speed of thirty miles an hour
through the yards. Hence, it was impossible for Bertal to have done as
he claimed. Besides, Monsieur Bertal did not leave his hotel in Lyons
until after the express had passed. I learned from his housekeep- er the
hotel he usually stayed at in that city, and found that he was aroused
at five o'clock in the morning, had break- fast, and left at six. That,
I think, eliminates him."
"Then who in the name of heaven,"
burst out the puzzled Goulet, "killed John Sheppard?"
"That
will come out presently," said Bailey. "Just now I have a surprise for
you."
He flung open the door, and Beau Nash, his eyes wide and
staring, not a fleck of color in his face, came in!
"There's
no use stalling," he panted. "She didn't kill him. I— I—why, I killed
Johnny Sheppard myself !"
Bill Bailey laughed.
"That
confession is the finest thing you ever did, Beau—the only clean, honest
thing in your whole black rec- ord. But it won't wash. You didn't kill
Johnny Sheppard any more than I did myself!"
VI
The
Beau's thin lips twitched like a snarling dog's. "Damn you !" he shout-
ed. "I tell you I did. You're not go-
ing to railroad her to the
guillotine."
"Of course not," soothed Bailey. "I'm not in the
habit of railroading people. I know you fairly well, Nash, and I thought
that telegram would do the trick.-You see, folks, I sent a wire, signed
by one of the Beau's apache friends, telling him that his sweetheart,
Mazie Lee, had been arrested for this murder, and that she would be
rail- roaded. As a matter of fact, Miss Lee is already on her way to
England."
Nash grated his teeth. "You devil." "It won't do any
good to indulge In personalities. I know who the mur- derer is, and I'll
produce him very shortly. Before I do, I want to clear up all the
threads. I suppose everyone knows that the Beau is a member of a most
respected family in Sussex, Eng- land. He organized the London Bank
Gang, and later operated extensively in the United States. Sheppard, his
cousin, was also a member of that gang. Now I want you, Denise, to tell
me why yoU helped him, and why you confessed to Sheppard's
murder."
The girl looked at Nash, paled, and then said
bravely, "I was afraid that my father had killed him, as he had often
threatened to do, and I wanted to protect him."
"Your father?"
said Bailey question- ingly.
Denise made a gesture toward Mon-
sieur Robert, the blind man.
"Nash and Sheppard had my father
in their power. I aided them whenever they demanded it to save him. They
treated me brutally at times, but I nev- er dared resent it. When
Sheppard was killed I believed that father did it. The thought was
natural, for he was on his way to Marseilles with Nash's cousin, and it
could have been done while Sheppard slept. But father be- lieved that I
had slipped in, and killed the fellow1; So he confessed to save
me."
Bailey pressed her cold fingers
reas- suringly. "It was very noble—very self-sacrificing of you both.
But why did you assume the blame, Monsieur Bertal?"
"I," said
the chemist, "his ascetic lips tightening, "was once a member of the
London Bank Gang. I am an Eng- lishman, though I have lived so long in
France that I have almost forgotten the fact. Nash, with Sheppard's
conniv- ance, did me a great wrong—never mind what. I pretended to have
for- gotten, and aided him while he was in Marseilles. But I had not
forgotten— the old scars were still open. Through him I came to know
Denise, and love her as a father. I writhed impotently at his treatment
of her, which, to a girl of her spirit, was intolerable. When Sheppard
was killed I had reasons to believe that she had done it, though there
were others just as eager. When I learned of her arrest I decided to
sacrifice myself for her. I am old and of little use—while she— Well, it
doesn't matter.
"Sheppard, I suppose, had infended carrying
nothing on his person that would identify him if anything hap- pened.
But he overlooked one of my cards. It was probably due to that that Nash
believed I had killed his cousin, and in revenge sent his apaches to
erase me from the scheme of things. I apolo- gize for striking you,
Bailey, but I wanted them to succeed, for I am very tired of
life."
"Have you anything to say, Nash?" asked the
agent.
"Everything they've said is true," Beau growled. "But
I'd like to know who killed Johnny—damn his mur- derer!"
"The
man who killed Sheppard thought he was you."
Nash looked at
Bailey with narrow- ing eyes.
"Who was it? You've got me
just
as you caught Eddie Lenoir, and the rest of the old gang, but I'm
satisfied so long as Mazie is safe. If those apaches of mine had been
just a bit quicker they would have killed you, and my plan would have
worked out perfectly. But they didn't. Now, the least you can do is to
tell me who killed Johnny Sheppard."
Bill touched a bell on
the prefect's desk. Two burly gendarmes came in with a stoop-shouldered,
slack-chinned man of middle age between them—the man who had annoyed
Bailey with his' chatter in the Restaurant Haxo the day
before.
"Harry Garstairs, by God!" cried Nash, taking an
involuntary step back- ward.
"The murderer of John Sheppard,
Beau," said Bailey quietly, "and the man whose wife and fortune you
stole—"
"I—I—why, I thought he was dead. How—how did you find
him, Bai- ley—"
"I'll admit that it was as much a matter of
good luck as judgment," the agent admitted. "Every indication pointed to
Sheppard having been mur- dered in mistake for Nash. In his day the Beau
made many enemies, but the man who had most cause to hate him was Harry
Garstairs, The case is no-, torious even yet in the criminal circles of
London. But Garstairs had disap- peared—dropped out of sight entirely.
He was reported to have died in Ant- werp years ago."
Sheppard
had been killed by someone on the train—someone in his particular car. I
eliminated the three passengers —Mademoiselle Girard, Madame Ber- thier
and Monsieur Robert. That should leave only a member of the train crew.
I examined the roof of the car. By the scratches of hobnailed shoes, it
was apparent that someone had laid there, then swung down to the steps.
I
knew that in his earlier days
Carstairs had been a railroader on the Midland and Sussex. Then, like a
flash, I re- called a conversation I had heard in the Restaurant Haxo
yesterday afternoon —a railway man berating an inferior for having kept
out of sight all the way from Paris to Marseilles.
"So I lined
up the crew, and picked out the man who had been in the res- taurant. He
denied any knowledge of the crime, of course. When I
called
him Carstairs, and outlined what I be- lieved to have happened, he
broke down, and confessed that he actually committed the
crime.
"In the words of the song, that's all there is, there
isn't any more." He took Denise's hand, "except for one thing. Will you
come to America with me?"
She bowed her splendid
head.
"Yes," she whispered, "I'll go any- where in the
world—with you!"
In this
department THE BLACK MASK will present every month brief reviews of the
best new books of detective and mystery stories, stories of the occult
and stories of adventure. Needless to say, the department will be
conducted without fear or favor. Only good books will be noticed. There
will be absolutely no boosting in the interest of publishers. Every book
mentioned may be bought at any bookstore. THE BLACK MASK will NOT
receive orders.
I
The Unlatched Door, by
Lee Thayer.—This is the rather conven- tional murder mystery story. The
problem of "who killed Cock Robin" in this plot involves a New York
patrician, Richard Van Loo Schuyler (get the name!), who stumbles into
the wrong house one night in those old days before prohibition made such
mistakes impos- sible, and finds upon the floor a beauti- ful woman who
has been murdered. Of course he leaves in a hurry, but— the secret is
disclosed in next to the last chapter.
* *
*
II
Trailin', by Max Brand.—When you grow weary of
mysteries, detectives, stolen jewels, and falsely accused hero- ines,
and want a story of action, cow- boys, gun play and lariat throwing,
here is a story that you will like. The scene is laid in the lonely
hills of Nebraska.
* * *
III
The
Preventive Man, By G. V. McFadden.—Do you care for smug- glers? And do
you like the romance of a dark and stormy night, silent ships that bring
in stolen goods, and a mys- terious house that is locked and barred
?
If so, here is a thrill or two, and a good story for the idle
hours. However, I should warn you that the story takes place in the year
1830, which may or may not lead you to expect too much of those good old
days.
* * *
IV
Uneasy Street, by Arthur
Somers Roche.—If you live in the Middle West you will be thrilled at
this story of the night life of New York City. If you live in New York,
you will be interested in reading about those things which you never
see—provided, of course, that you go to bed at ten o'clock like all good
New Yorkers. But there is mystery, romance, adventure, love, business,
thrills, and so forth in this well-written story.
* *
*
V
The Killer, by Stewart Edward White.—This is a
book of short stories and- sketches, the scenes of which are for the
most part laid in Arizona and the old West. If you want to know what
life in Arizona really used to be like, read the last three essays in
the book that tell of hunting goats in the mountains, crossing the
deserts and the
ranches in the old days. The short
stories are also very interesting.
* *
*
VI
The Duke of Chimney Butte, by G. W. Ogden.—Our
hero goes west to the Bad Lands and the Little Missouri. At first the
ranchers believe him to be a tenderfoot and he is given the nick- name
of the "Duke." But he proves that he has good stuff in him and makes his
fortune, besides winning the girl he loved, who is at first his sworn
enemy. But then who wouldn't take a dare and race a horse alongside of a
train and snatch a handkerchief from the hands of a good-looking
woman?
* * *
VII
The Mel wood Mystery, by
James Hay.—A beautiful woman, a German spy, is both stabbed and shot.
This fur- nishes the mystery that keeps this story at a gallop, until
the crime—if you could call it a crime in this case-—is solved. Unlike
most stories of this nature, there is more than one detective at work on
the case. And the man who finally dis- covers the truth seems at first
the big- gest hayseed of the lot. This is a thrill- ing story well
told.
* * *
VIII
Sailor Girl,
by Frederick F. Moore. —A story of the Philippines, the
sea,
and some stolen pearls. As the title suggests, this tale has a
heroine instead of a hero. There is something doing all the time, plenty
of fights, escapes and exciting adventures. You'd better read this story
before the movies get hold of it.
* *
*
IX
The Golden Scorpion, by Sax Roh- mer.—There are
illustrations in this book, but they aren't necessary. For the story is
so full of splendid descrip- tions that your imagination is always
stimulated. The plot concerns an Ori- ental mystery that revolves about
a small ornament—the tail of a scorpion in gold, emblem of a group of
arch criminals. Sax Rohmer knows how to write a sensational yarn that
keeps the reader thrilled and breathless until the last
page.
* * *
X
An Unconscious Crusader, by
Sid- ney Williams.—This is an unconven- tional story of a newspaper
reporter, and is heartily recommended if you like the sort of yarn that
tells how the struggling, ambitious young man be- comes famous, wealthy
and married despite many handicaps. Politics- honest and involved—also
play a part in this typically American story.
"Better Than The
Electric Needle or Depilatories." So writes a physician about NU-ART
and besides being a permanent cure for super-fluous hair, it removes
all the hair with one applica-tion, kills the root, is ab-solutely
harmless and painless, easy to use, fragrant and cannot mar the
skin. A large package for $1.00 at your dealer or direct by mail in
plain wrapper. A marvelous discovery—guaranteed.
NU-ART
LABORATORIES
Dept. T South Orange, N. J.
Reduce Your Fat
Quickly by Using
COSI
OBESITY CREAM
Used externally; harmless for both men and
women. No starv-ing, no dieting, no exercises, no massage, no drugs;
spend fif-teen minutes daily in your own home and you will be
surprised with the results obtained. (Six weeks' treatment) pound
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CURRIE 2803 Ave. G, Brooklyn, N. Y.
FREE
Gold
Signet Ring
Birthstone
Ring
All this jewelry is yours for selling only 8 Boxes
Mentho Nova Salve at 25 cts. Wonderful for catarrh, cuts, burns,
etc. Order today. When sold return $1.50 and all 5 pieces are
yours.
U.S. Supply Company, Dept. Box 314, Greenville,
PA
FREE
Military finish air rifle. Sell 8 Boxes
Mentho Nova Salve at 25 cts.
U.S. Supply Company, Dept.
Box 95, Greenville, PA
Free
This Nova-Tone
Talking Machine
Case Mahogany finish, enameled parts, no
motor to get out of order, excellent reproducer, enjoyment for all.
Sell 12 boxes Mentho-Nova Salve great for cuts, burns, Influenza,
etc. Return $3 and the machine is yours. Guaranteed. Records free.
Order today. Address.
U. S. Co., Box 542 Greenville,
Pa
New Way Improves Your
English!
Wonderful new way. No rules to learn. No hard
study. Gram-mar, Spelling, Punctuation, Conversation, Letter
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Good English helps you In business and social life. Poor English
causes you untold harm. Write today for Free Book "How to Speak and
Write Masterly English." Address
SHERWIN CODY SCHOOL OF
ENGLISH
4110 News Building Rochester, New
York
Another $50
Raise!
"Why, that's the third increase I've had in a year!
It just shows what special training will do for a
man."
Every mail brings letters from some of the two
million students of the International Correspondence Schools,
telling of advancements and increased salaries won through spare
time study.
How much longer are you going to wait before
taking the step that is bound to bring you more money? Isn't it
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One hour after supper each night spent
with the I. C. S. in the quiet of your own home will prepare you for
the position you want in the work you like best. Yes, it will! Put
it up to us to prove it. Without cost, without obligation, just mark
and mail this coupon.
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE
SCHOOLS
BOX 4422, SCRANTON, PA.
Explain,
without obligating me, how I can qualify for the position or
in the subject, before which I mark X.
□ ELECTRICAL ENGINEER □ Electric Lighting and
Railways □ Electric Wiring □ Telegraph Engineer □
Telephone Work □ MECHANICAL ENGINEER □ Mechanical
Draftsman □ Machine Shop Practice □ Toolmaker □ Gas
Engine Operating □ CIVIL ENGINEER □ Surveying and
Mapping □ MINE FOREMAN OR ENGINEER □ STATIONARY ENGINEER
□ Marine Engineer □ Ship Draftsman □ ARCHITECT □
Contractor and Builder □ Architectural Draftsman □
Concrete Builder □ Structural Engineer □ PLUMBING AND
HEATING □ Sheet Metal Worker □ Textile Overseer or Supt.
□ CHEMIST □ Navigation
□ SALESMANSHIP □ ADVERTISING □ Window Trimmer □
Show Card Writer □ Sign Painter □ Railroad Trainman □
ILLUSTRATING □ Cartooning □ BUSINESS MANAGEMENT □
Private Secretary □ BOOKKEEPER □ Stenographer and Typist
□ Cert. Public Accountant □ TRAFFIC MANAGER □ Railway
Accountant □ Commercial Law □ GOOD ENGLISH □ Teacher □
Common School Subjects □ Mathematics □ CIVIL SERVICE □
Railway Mail Clerk □ AUTOMOBILE OPERATING
□ Auto Repairing □ AGRICULTURE □ Poultry
Raising
□ Spanish □ French □
Italian
Name _____
Present Occupation _____
Street and No. _____
City _____
State _____
In answering advertisements, please
mention THE PARISIENNE TRIO
Superfluous Hair
Vanishes Like Magic. Eyelashes Beautified
Pimples and
Blackheads Removed Forever
Let this woman send you free,
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She made herself the woman she is today and brought
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It is simply
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Mrs. M. L. B. Albin, Miss., writes: "I have
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The
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All
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ow our readers:
How to remove wrinkles in 8
hours;
How to develop the figure;
How to make
long, thick eyelashes and eyebrows;
How to remove
superfluous hair;
How to remove blackheads, pimples and
freckles;
How to remove dark circles under the
eyes;
How to quickly remove double chin;
How to
build up sunken cheeks and add flesh to the body;
How to
darken gray hair and stop hair falling;
How to stop
forever perspiration odor.
Simply address your letter to
Helen Clare, Suite A458, 3311 Michigan Ave., Chicago, 111., and
don't send any money, because particulars are free, as this charming
woman is doing her utmost to benefit girls or women in need of
secret information which will add to their beauty and make life
sweeter and lovelier in every way.
WRITE THE WORDS FOR A SONG
Select your own
subject—Love, Patriotism—write what the heart dictates, then submit
your poem to us. We write the music and guarantee publishers'
acceptance. Don't delay. Send your poem today.
CHESTER
MUSIC CO.
920 So. Michigan Avenue, Dept. 267
CHICAGO
Buy Your Xmas Gifts
Now
Write Today for Xmas Catalog
Send your name
and address now. No obligation. Beautiful Xmas catalog: comes free
by return mail. Explains all about the Lyon Charge Account Plan. See
this great collec-tion of jewelry bargains now.
Send your
name today to Dept. 103-1
Submit your Song-Poems on
any subject for our advice. WE REVISE POEMS, COMPOSE MUSIC OF ANY
DESCRIPTION, SECURE COPYRIGHT AND EMPLOY ORIGINAL METHODS FOR
FACILITATING FREE PUBLICA-TION OR OUTRIGHT SALE OF SONGS UNDER THIS
SUCCESSFUL CONCERN GUARANTEE OF SATISFACTION
SONGWRITER'S
"MANUAL & GUIDE" SENT FREE
IT CONTAINS VALUABLE
INSTRUCTIONS TO BEGINNERS AND TELLS THE TRUTH CONCERNING EVERT
BRANCH OF THIS ESSENTIAL AND FASCINATlNG PROFESSION. THE GREAT WORK
ACCOMPLISHED BY THE POPULAR S0NG IN WINNING THE WAR IS ONLY AN INDEX
TO THE MUCH WIDER SCOPE AND GREATER OPPORTUNITIES AFFORDED BY
PEACE.
KNICKERBOCKER STUDIOS 210 GAIETY BLDG N.Y. CITY
ADVERTISING
A man will try to marry
the girl he loves—a girl will try to love the man she
marries.
* * *
Women never know when the curtain
has fallen upon a love affair. They al-ways want a sixth
act.
* * *
It is better for a woman to be
beautiful than good, but it is better for her to be good than to be
ugly.
* * *
Wicked women bother one and good
women bore one. That is about the only difference between
them.
In answering advertisements, please mention
THE PARISIENNE TRIO
Science has discov-ered the way for re-storing gray
hair to its natural color. It is offered to women in Mary T.
Goldman's Scientific Hair Color Restorer. And wo-men use this
scientific hair color restorer with the same free-dom they do
powder. Simply comb Mary T. Goldman's through the hair. In from 4 to
8 days every gray hair will be gone.
Mary T.
Goldman's
Scientific Hair Restorer
This Test
Convinces
Send the coupon for a trial bottle and our
special comb. Be sure and give the exact color of your hair. Try it
on a lock of hair. Compare the results and the pleasure of using
with the old way. Send In the coupon now.
MARY T.
GOLDMAN
1889 Goldman Bldg., St. Paul,
Minn.
Accept no Imitations—Sold by Druggists
Everywhere
Mary T. Goldman. 1889 Goldman
Bldg., St. Paul. Minn.
Please send me your free
trial bottle of Mary T. Goldman's Hair Color Restorer with
special comb. I am not obligated in any way by accepting
this free offer. The natural color of my hair
is
black ____ jet black ____ dark brown
____
medium brown ____ light brown
____
Name ..................
Street
..... Town .....
Co. ...... State
......
A Complexion Like a
Rose
That Very Charm that Wakens Love
The charm
the poet sang about was the lure of a dainty beauty. Who could
imagine a heroine with a sallow, blotchy skin? A soft, fair, velvety
com-plexion may be naturally attained by the use
of
Fould's Standard Arsenic Complexion
Wafers
Made from the formula of an eminent blood
specialist, these famous wafers have stood the test of fifty
years.
FOULD'S FAMOUS FRENCH BEAUTIFIERS
Fould's Standard Ar-senic Complexion Wafers ...
$1.00
Fould's Imported "Hol-land Dame" Face Brush ...
$1.50
Fould's Famous Arsenic Complexion Soap ... 50c
Fould's "Holland Dame" Obesity Soap (Acts by absorption)
... $1.00
Fould's Arsenalene Com-plexion Cream ... 50c
Fould's Wonder Tar Soap ... 50c
"French Beauty Secrets"
Folder—Free on request
H. B. FOULD CO., Dept. E, 27 William St., N. Y.
City
Go to School at
Home!
High School Course in Two Years!
You Want
to Earn Big Money!
And you will not be satisfied unless
you earn steady pro- motion. But are you prepared for the job ahead
of you? Do you measure up to the standard that insures success? For
a more responsible position a fairly good education is necessary. To
write a sensible business letter, to prepare estimates, to figure
cost and to compute interest, you must have a certain amount of
preparation. All this you must be able to do before you will earn
promotion, Many business houses hire no men whose general know-ledge
is not equal to a high school course. Why? Because big business
refuses to burden itself with men who are barred from promotion by
the lack of elementary education.
Can You Qualify for a
Better Position
We have a plan whereby you can. We can
give you a com-plete but simplified high school course in two years,
giving you all the essentials that form the foundation of practical
business. It will prepare you to hold your own where competition is
keen and exacting. Do not doubt your abili-ty, but make up your mind
to it and you will soon have the requirements that will bring you
success and big money. YOU CAN DO IT.
Let us show you how
to get on the road to success. It will not cost you a single working
hour. We are so sure of be-ing able to help you that we will
cheerfully return to you, at the end of ten lessons,every cent you
sent us if you are not ab-solutely satisfied. What fairer offer can
we make you? Write today. It costs you nothing but a
stamp.
American School of Correspondence
Dept.
H-8169 Chicago, U. S. A.
American School of Correspondence,
Dept.
H-8169 Chicago, Ill.
Explain how I can qualify
for positions checked.
Architect. $5,000 to $15,000
Building
Contractor. $5,000 to $10,000
Automobile
Engineer. $4,000 to $10,000
Automobile
Repairman. $2,500 to $4,000
Civil Engineer.
$5,000 to $15,000
Structural Engineer. $4,000
to $10,000
Business Manager. $5,000 to
$15,000
Certified Public Accountant. $7,000 to
$15,000
Accountant and Auditor. $2,500 to
$7,000
Draftsman and Designer. $2,500 to
$4,000
Electrical Engineer. $4,000 to
$10,000
General Education. In one
year.
Lawyer. $5,000 to $15,000
Mechanical
Engineers. $4,000 to $15,000
Shop
Superintendent. $3,000 to $7,000
Employment
Manager. $4,000 to $10,000
Steam Engineer.
$2,000 to $4,000
Foreman's Course, $2,000 to
$4,000
Photoplay Writer. $2,000 to
$10,000
Sanitary Engineer. $2,000 to
$5,000
Telephone Engineer. $2,600 to
$5,000
Telegraph Engineer. $2,500 to
$5,000
High School Graduate. In two
years.
Fire Insurance Expert. $3,000 to
$10,000
Name ......
Address ...
In answering advertisements,
please mention THE PARISIENNE TRIO
You know how hard it is to get sugar, even when you
pay the big price de- manded by grocers, and what it means to be able to
buy it direct from us at only 4 1/2 cents a pound. Yet sugar is only one
of a long list of groceries on which we can save you money. Just in
order to prove what a big advantage you have in dealing with us, we list
below a trial order which saves you $1.20. Regular value of these
articles is $3.19—our price only $1.99. And we guaran- tee that every
item is absolutely pure, fresh, standard high grade—just what you have
been paying about twice our wholesale price for. You wouldn't think of
going back to the costly old way of buying groceries after you have
proved the economy of buying from the Big 4 Grocery Bargain Catalog.
Send only $1.99 with the Trial Order Coupon below, and begin saving
money right away.
Catalog Bargains
Remember that
with your first order you get a free copy of our big wholesale catalog
which saves you money on allyour grocery purchases. Here are just a few
catalog specials. Sold in wonderful money-saving
combinations.
FLOUR, Per Barrel $7.98
SUGAR 100 Lbs.
$4.50
Uneeda Biscuits 12 Packages for 35c
Quaker
Oats Large Package 4c
Rush your trial order at once and get
our wholesale grocery catalog in which you will find many of the most
startling gro-cery bargains ever offered.
References We are
one of the leading Wholesale Grocers in Chicago. Our bank, Foreman Bros.
Banking Co., or any mercantile insti-tution in Chicago, can tell you
about us.
We Guarantee you absolute satisfaction or your money
back. In every instance you get pure, fresh goods of the very highest
quality. Send coupon for trial order today.
BIG 4
COMPANY
112-118 N. May St. Dept. 1196 Chicago
Mail
Coupon Now!
Trial Order No. 14
Big 4 Wholesale
Prices
2 pounds Granulated Sugar $0.09
1 bar Fels
Naptha Soap .02
1 bar Ivory Soap .04
1 package Big 4
Brand Best Tea .35
1/4 pound pure Cocoa .13
1 pound
pure Baking Powder .45
1 4-oz. bottle Vanilla Flavor Extract
.52
1 box Powdered Bluing (equal to about 1 gallon average
best bluing) .29
1 Box Majic Dye Soap Flakes
.10
Total (You Save $1.20) $1.99
Our low prices
merely indicate what you can now save on all your groceries, a full line
of which is listed in our Wholesale Catalog—The Big Money Saver. This
catalog sent to cus- tomers only. A free copy will be sent with your
first order. Send coupon NOW—TODAY.
Trial Order Coupon
Big 4
Company Dept. 1196
112-118 N. May St., Chicago,
Ill.
Gentlemen:—Enclosed find $1.99 for which send me
at once your Trial Order No. 14, and a copy of your wholesale
Grocery Catalog, free. It is understood that if I am not
satisfied, I may return the goods at your expense and you will
return my money at once.
Name ..........
Address .........
Express Office ....
In answering advertisements, please mention
THE PARISIENNE TRIO
They'll give you new notions about how delightful a
cigarette can be
YOU get to smoking Camels because you
appreciate their fine, refreshing flavor! And, you like them better all
the time because they never tire your taste!
Camels quality
makes Camels so appetizing, so continuously delightful. And, Camels ex-
pert blend of choice Turkish and choice Domestic tobaccos gives them
that wonderful mildness, and mellow body.
You have only to
compare Camels with any cigarette in the world at any price to know
personally that Camels are a revelation!
And, Camels never
leave any unpleasant cigaretty aftertaste or unpleasant cigaretty
odor!
Camels are sold everywhere in scientifically sealed
packages of 20 cigarettes for 20 cents.
SEND NO MONEY. Just send us
your name and address and we will send you, prepaid, on approval, a
genuine Lachnite Gem, mounted in a solid gold ring. Wear it ten full
days. These sparkling gems have the eternal fire of diamonds. Their
brilliance and hardness are guaranteed forever. We wish you to select a
ring from this advertisement and wear it ten full days at our expense.
Then, if you can tell it from a diamond, send it back. One hundred
thousand people are now wearing brilliant Lachnite Gems. These people
have proved they could not tell Lachnites from diamonds.
Pay
As You Wish
When the ring comes just make the first small
deposit ($4.75) with the postman. This is only a deposit. It is not a
payment. The money is still yours. Put the ring on your finger and wear
it everywhere for ten full days. Then, if you decide to keep it, pay the
balance at the rate of $2.50 a month until $18.75 has been paid. But if,
during the trial, you decide to send the Lachnite back, your deposit
will be refunded instantly. You run no risk. The total price is only
$18.75 for either ring.
Harold Lachman Co.
Dept.
1698
12 North Michigan Avenue Chicago, Ill.
Send me
prepaid ring on 10 days' free trial. When it comes I will de-posit $4.75
with the postman. After 10 days I will either return the ring or send
you $2.50 a month until the balance has been paid. Total cost to me,
$18.75. If I return the ring you will refund my $4.75 immediately. I
enclose my finger size. Name ... Address ...
Send
Coupon!
Don't send us a penny. Just put your name and address
in the coupon. Be sure to send us your finger size. Cut a strip of paper
that will just meet around the middle knuckle of your ring finger. Be
sure to send this strip. Send the coupon now for a Lachnite on 10 days'
free trial. Act at once!
Harold Lachman Co. 12 No. Michigan
Avenue Dept. 1698 Chicago