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The Voice on the Wire, by Eustace Hale Ball
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Voice on the Wire, by Eustace Hale Ball
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Voice on the Wire
Author: Eustace Hale Ball
Release Date: June 12, 2009 [EBook #5672]
Last Updated: March 14, 2018
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VOICE ON THE WIRE ***
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger
</pre>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h1>
THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
</h1>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
By Eustace Hale Ball
</h2>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="toc">
<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
</p>
<p>
<br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> WHEN THREE IS
A MYSTERY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> THE
FLEETING PROMPTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> THE
INNOCENT BYSTANDER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> A
SCIENTIFIC NOVELTY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> THE
MISBEHAVIOR OF THE 'PHONE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER
VI. </a> AN EXPERIMENT WITH THE “MOVIES” <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> ENTER A BEAUTIFUL
WOMAN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> WHEN
GREEK MEETS GREEK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> IN
THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.
</a> WHEN IT'S DARK IN THE PARK <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> A TURN IN THE TRAIL
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> THE
HAND OF THE VOICE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> THE
SPIDER'S WEB <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> A
PILGRIMAGE INTO FRIVOLITY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER
XV. </a> CONCERNING HELENE'S FINESSE <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> THE STRANGE AND
SURPRISING WARREN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> IN
WHICH SHIRLEY SURPRISES HIMSELF <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018">
CHAPTER XVIII. </a> ON THE RISING TIDE <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> AN EXPEDITION
UNDERGROUND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> A
DOUBLE ON THE TRAIL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI.
</a> A BURGLARY FOR JUSTICE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022">
CHAPTER XXII. </a> IN THE DOUBLE TRAP <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> CAPTURED
AND THEN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> CONCLUSION
<br /><br />
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER I. WHEN THREE IS A MYSTERY
</h2>
<p>
“Mr. Shirley is waiting for you in the grill-room, sir. Just step this
way, sir, and down the stairs.”
</p>
<p>
The large man awkwardly followed the servant to the cosey grill-room on
the lower floor of the club house. He felt that every man of the little
groups about the Flemish tables must be saying: “What's he doing here?”
</p>
<p>
“I wish Monty Shirley would meet me once in a while in the back room of a
ginmill, where I'd feel comfortable,” muttered the unhappy visitor. “This
joint is too classy. But that's his game to play—”
</p>
<p>
He reached the sought-for one, however, and exclaimed eagerly: “By Jiminy,
Monty. I'm glad to find you—it would have been my luck after this
day, to get here too late.”
</p>
<p>
He was greeted with a grip that made even his generous hand wince, as the
other arose to smile a welcome.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, Captain Cronin. You're a good sight for a grouchy man's eyes! Sit
down and confide the brand of your particular favorite poison to our
Japanese Dionysius!”
</p>
<p>
The Captain sighed with relief, as he obeyed.
</p>
<p>
“Bar whiskey is good enough for an old timer like me. Don't tell me you
have the blues—your face isn't built that way!”
</p>
<p>
“Gospel truth, Captain. I've been loafing around this club—nothing
to do for a month. Bridge, handball, highballs, and yarns! I'm actually a
nervous wreck because my nerves haven't had any work to do!”
</p>
<p>
“You're the healthiest invalid I've seen since the hospital days in the
Civil War. But don't worry about something to do. I've some job now. It's
dolled up with all them frills you like: millions, murders and mysteries!
If this don't keep you awake, you'll have nightmares for the next six
months. Do you want it?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm tickled to death. Spill it!”
</p>
<p>
“Monty, it's the greatest case my detective agency has had since I left
the police force eleven years ago. It's too big for me, and I've come to
you to do a stunt as is a stunt. You will plug it for me, won't you—just
as you've always done? If I get the credit, it'll mean a fortune to me in
the advertising alone.”
</p>
<p>
“Haven't I handled every case for you in confidence. I'm not a fly-cop,
Captain Cronin. I'm a consulting specialist, and there's no shingle hung
out. Perhaps you had better take it to some one else.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley pushed away his empty glass impatiently.
</p>
<p>
“There, Monty, I didn't mean to offend you. But there's such swells in
this and such a foxey bunch of blacklegs, that I'm as nervous as a rookie
cop on his first arrest. Don't hold a grudge against me.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley lit a cigarette and resumed his good nature: “Go on, Captain. I'm
so stale with dolce far niente, after the Black Pearl affair last month,
that I act like an amateur myself. Make it short, though, for I'm going to
the opera.”
</p>
<p>
The Captain leaned over the table, his face tense with suppressed emotion.
He was a grizzled veteran of the New York police force: a man who sought
his quarry with the ferocity of a bull-dog, when the line of search was
definitely assured. Lacking imagination and the subtler senses of
criminology, Captain Cronin had built up a reputation for success and
honesty in every assignment by bravery, persistence, and as in this case,
the ability to cover his own deductive weakness by employing the brains of
others.
</p>
<p>
Montague Shirley was as antithetical from the veteran detective as a man
could well be. A noted athlete in his university, he possessed a society
rating in New York, at Newport and Tuxedo, and on the Continent which was
the envy of many a gilded youth born to the purple.
</p>
<p>
On leaving college, despite an ample patrimony, he had curiously enough
entered the lists as a newspaper man. From the sporting page he was
graduated to police news, then the city desk, at last closing his career
as the genius who invented the weekly Sunday thriller, in many colors of
illustration and vivacious Gallic style which interpreted into heart
throbs and goose-flesh the real life romances and tragedies of the
preceding six days! He had conquered the paper-and-ink world—then
deep within there stirred the call for participation in the game itself.
</p>
<p>
So, dropping quietly into the apparently indolent routine of club
existence, he had devoted his experience and genius to analytical
criminology—a line of endeavor known only to five men in the world.
</p>
<p>
He maintained no offices. He wore no glittering badges: a police card, a
fire badge, and a revolver license, renewed year after year, were the only
instruments of his trade ever in evidence. Shirley took assignments only
from the heads of certain agencies, by personal arrangement as informal as
this from Captain Cronin. His real clients never knew of his
participation, and his prey never understood that he had been the real
head-hunter!
</p>
<p>
His fees—Montague Shirley, as a master craftsman deemed his artistry
worthy of the hire. His every case meant a modest fortune to the detective
agency and Shirley's bills were never rendered, but always paid!
</p>
<p>
So, here, the hero of the gridiron and the class re-union, the gallant of
a hundred pre-matrimonial and non-maturing engagements, the veteran of a
thousand drolleries and merry jousts in clubdom—unspoiled by birth,
breeding and wealth, untrammeled by the juggernaut of pot-boiling and the
salary-grind, had drifted into the curious profession of confidential,
consulting criminal chaser.
</p>
<p>
Shirley unostentatiously signaled for an encore on the refreshments.
</p>
<p>
“You're nervous to-night, Captain. You've been doing things before you
consulted me—which is against our Rule Number One, isn't it?”
</p>
<p>
The Captain gulped down his whiskey, and rubbed his forehead.
</p>
<p>
“Couldn't help it, Monty. It got too busy for me, before I realized
anything unusual in the case. See what I got from a gangster before I
landed here.”
</p>
<p>
He turned his close-cropped head, as Montague Shirley leaned forward to
observe an abrasion at the base of his skull. It was dressed with a
coating of collodion.
</p>
<p>
“Brass knuckled—I see the mark of the rings. Tried for the
pneumogastric nerves, to quiet you.”
</p>
<p>
“Whatever he tried for he nearly got. Kelly's nightstick got his pneumonia
gas jet, or whatever you call it. He's still quiet, in the station house—You
know old man Van Cleft, who owns sky-scrapers down town, don't you?—Well,
he's the center of this flying wedge of excitement. His family are fine
people, I understand. His daughter was to be married next week. Monty,
that wedding'll be postponed, and old Van Cleft won't worry over
dispossess papers for his tenants for the rest of the winter. See?”
</p>
<p>
“Killed?”
</p>
<p>
“Correct. He's done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body home,
before the coroner and the police reporters got on the trail.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley lowered his high-ball glass, with an earnest stare.
</p>
<p>
“What was the idea?”
</p>
<p>
“Robbery, of course. His son had me on the case—'phoned from the
garage where the chauffeur brought the body; after he saw the old man
unconscious. Just half an hour before he had left his office in the same
machine, after taking five thousand dollars in cash from his manager.”
</p>
<p>
“Who was with him?”
</p>
<p>
“Now, that's getting to brass tacks. When I gets that C.Q.D. from Van
Cleft, I finds the young fellow inside the ring of rubbernecks, blubbering
over the old man, where he lies on the floor of the taxi—looking
soused.”
</p>
<p>
“He was a notorious old sport about town, Captain.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure—and I thinks, it sorter serves him right. But, that's his
funeral, not mine. Van Cleft, junior, says to me: 'There's the girl that
was with him.'”
</p>
<p>
“Where was the girl?”
</p>
<p>
“She was sitting on a stool, near the car, a little blonde chorus chicken,
shaking and twitching, while the chauffeur and the garage boss held her
up. I says, 'What's this?' and Van Cleft tells me all he knows, which
ain't nothing. Them guys in that garage was wise, for it meant a cold five
hundred apiece before I left to keep their lids closed. Van Cleft begs me
to hustle the old man home, so one of my men takes her down to my office,
still a sniffling, and acting like she had the D.T.'s. The young fellow
shook like a leaf, but we takes him over to Central Park East, to the
family mansion,—carrying him up the steps like he was drunk. We gets
him into his own bed, and keeps the sister from touching his clammy hands,
while she orders the family doctor. When he gets there on the jump, I
gives him the wink and leads him to one side. 'Doc,' I says, 'you know how
to write out a death certificate, to hush this up from your end. I've done
the rest.'”
</p>
<p>
Captain Cronin leaned forward, a queer excitement agitating him.
</p>
<p>
“Do you know what that doctor says to me, Monty?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley shook his head.
</p>
<p>
He says; “My God, it's the third!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley's white hand gripped the edge of the table. “The Van Cleft's
doctor is one of the greatest surgeons in the country, Professor MacDonald
of the Medical College. He said that?”
</p>
<p>
“He did. I answers, 'Whadd'y mean the third?' Then he looks me straight in
the eye, and sings back, 'None of your business.'” Cronin shook his head.
“I never seen a man with a squarer look, and yet he has me guessing. I
goes back to the garage, over past Eighth Avenue, you know, where two
johns come up along side o' me. One rubs me with his elbow and the other
applies that brass knuckle,—then they gets pinched. I got dressed up
in a drug store, got the chauffeur's license number, and goes on down to
my office to see this girl. She's hysterical about his family using all
their money to put her in jail. I looks at her, and says, 'You won't need
their money to get to jail. That old man's dead!' Her eyes was as big as
saucers. 'I thought old Daddy Van Cleft was drunk.' I tells her, 'He was
dead in that taxi, with a chorus girl, and a roll of bills gone. What you
got to say?' She staggers forward and clutches my coat, and what do you
think SHE says to me?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley made the inquiry only with his eyes, puffing his cigarette slowly.
</p>
<p>
“She looks sorter green, and repeats after me: 'Dead, with a chorus girl,
and a roll of bills gone,'—just like a parrot. Then she springs this
on me: 'My God, it's the third!'”
</p>
<p>
Shirley dropped his cigarette, leaning forward, all nonchalance gone.
</p>
<p>
“Where is she now? Quick, let's go to her.”
</p>
<p>
He rose to his feet. Just then a door-boy walked through the grill-room
toward him. “A telephone call for Captain Cronin, sir; the party said
hurry or he would miss something good.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley snapped out, “When has the rule about telephone calls in this club
been changed? You boys are never to tell any one that a member or guest
are here until the name is announced.”
</p>
<p>
He turned toward the puzzled Captain.
</p>
<p>
“Did you ask any of your operatives to call you here? You know what a risk
you are taking, to connect me with this case like that, don't you?”
</p>
<p>
“I never even breathed it to myself. I told no one.”
</p>
<p>
“Follow me up to the telephone room.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley hurried through the grill, to the switchboard, near which stood
the booths for private calls. He called to one of the operators. “Here,
let me at that switchboard.” He pushed the boy aside, and sat down in the
vacated chair.
</p>
<p>
“Which trunk is it on? Oh, I see, the second. There Captain, take the
fourth booth against the wall.”
</p>
<p>
Cronin stepped in. Shirley connected up and listened with the transmitter
of the operator at his ear, holding the line open.
</p>
<p>
“Go ahead, here's Captain Cronin!”
</p>
<p>
A pleasant voice came over the wire. It was musical and sincere.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, Captain Cronin, is that you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes! What do you want?”
</p>
<p>
The voice continued, with a jolly laugh, ringing and infectious in its
merriment.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Captain, the joke's on you. Ha, ha, ha! It's a bully one! Ho, ho!
Ha, ha!”
</p>
<p>
“What joke?”
</p>
<p>
“You're working on the Van Cleft case. Oh, sure, you are, don't kid me
back. Well, Captain, you've missed two other perfectly good grafts. This
is the third one!”
</p>
<p>
There was a click and the speaker, with another merry gurgle, rang off.
</p>
<p>
“Quick, manager's desk,” cried Shirley, jiggling the metal key. “What call
was that? Where did it come from?”
</p>
<p>
After a little wait, a languid voice answered: “Brooklyn, Main 6969, Party
C.”
</p>
<p>
“Give me the number again—I want to speak on the wire.”
</p>
<p>
After another delay, the voice replied “The line has been discontinued.”
</p>
<p>
“I just had it! What is the name of the subscriber. Hurry, this is a
matter of life and death.”
</p>
<p>
“It's against the rules to give any further information. But our record
shows that the house burned down about two weeks ago. No one else has been
given the number. There's no instrument there!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II. THE FLEETING PROMPTER
</h2>
<p>
Monty's puzzled smile was in no wise reciprocated by the Captain, whose
red face evidenced a growing resentment.
</p>
<p>
He began a tirade, but a wink from the club man warned him. Shirley
replaced the receiver, and the regular attendant resumed his place at the
switchboard. The lad was curious at the unusual ability of the wealthy Mr.
Shirley to handle the bewildering maze of telephone attachments. Monty
explained, as he turned to go upstairs.
</p>
<p>
“Son, that was one of my smart friends trying to play a practical joke on
my guest. I fooled him. Don't let it happen again, until you send in the
party's name first.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir,” meekly promised the boy.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Captain Cronin, as the old paperback novels used to say at the end
of the first instalment, 'The Plot thickens!' At first I thought this case
of stupid badger game—”
</p>
<p>
“You aren't going to back out, Monty? Here's a whole gang of crooks which
would give you some sport rounding up, and as for money—”
</p>
<p>
“Money is easy, from both sides of a criminal matter. What interests me is
that ghostly telephone call from a house that burned down, and the
caller's knowledge of Number Three. I'm in this case, have no fear of
that.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley led his guest to the coat room.
</p>
<p>
“I'll get a taxicab, Monty. We'd better see that girl first and then have
a look at the body.”
</p>
<p>
The Captain turned to the door, as the attendant helped Monty with his
overcoat. The waiter from the grill-room approached. “Excuse me, sir, but
the gentleman dropped his handkerchief in his chair opposite you.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank you, Gordon,” he said, as he faced the servant for an instant. When
he turned again, toward the front hall, the Captain had passed out of view
through the front door.
</p>
<p>
Shirley received a surprise when he reached the pavement on Forty-fourth
Street, for Captain Cronin was not in sight. Two club men descended the
steps of the neighboring house. Others strolled along toward the Avenue,
but not a sign of a vehicle of any description could be seen, nor was
there anything suspicious in view. Cronin had disappeared as effectually
as though he had taken a passing Zeppelin!
</p>
<p>
“I'm glad this affair will not bore me,” murmured the criminologist, as he
evolved and promptly discarded a dozen vain theories to explain the
disappearance of his companion.
</p>
<p>
Twenty minutes were wasted along the block, as he waited for some sight or
sign. Then he decided to go on up to Van Cleft's residence. But, realizing
the probability of “shadow” work upon all who came from the door of the
club, after the curious message on the wire, Shirley did not propose to
expose his hand. Walking leisurely to the Avenue, he hailed a passing
hansom. He directed the driver to carry him to an address on Central Park
West. His shrewdness was not wasted, for as he stepped into the vehicle,
he espied a slinking figure crossing the street diagonally before him, to
disappear into the shadow of an adjacent doorway. This was the house of
Reginald Van Der Voor, as Shirley knew. It was closed because its master,
a social acquaintance of the club man's, was at this time touring the
Orient in his steam yacht. No man should have entered that doorway. So, as
the horse started under the flick of the long whip, Shirley peered
unobserved through the glass window at his side.
</p>
<p>
A big machine swung up behind the hansom, at some unseen hail, and the
figure came from the doorway, leaping into the car, as it followed Shirley
up the Avenue, a block or so behind.
</p>
<p>
“It is not always so easy to follow, when the leader knows his chase,”
thought Shirley. “I'm glad I'm only a simple club man.”
</p>
<p>
The automobile was unmistakably trailing him, as the hansom crossed the
Plaza, then sped through the Park drive, to the address he had given his
driver.
</p>
<p>
As Shirley had remembered, this was a large apartment house, in which one
of his bachelor friends lived. He knew the lay of the building well: next
door, with an entrance facing on the side street was another just like it,
and of equal height.
</p>
<p>
“Wait for me, here,” said Shirley. “I'll pay you now, but want to go to an
address down town in five minutes.”
</p>
<p>
He gave the driver a bill, then entered and told the elevator man to take
him to the ninth floor.
</p>
<p>
“There's nobody in, boss,” began the boy. But Shirley shook his head.
</p>
<p>
“My friend is expecting me for a little card game, that's why you think he
is out. Just take me up.”
</p>
<p>
He handed the negro a quarter, which was complete in its logic.
</p>
<p>
As he reached the floor, he waved to the elevator operator. “Go on down,
and don't let any one else come up, for Mr. Greenough doesn't want
company.”
</p>
<p>
As the car slid down, Shirley fumbled along the familiar hall to the iron
stairs which led to the roof of the building. Up these he hurried, thence
out upon the roof. It was a matter of only four minutes before he had
crossed to the next apartment building, opened the door of the roof-entry,
found the stairs to the ninth floor, and taken this elevator to the
street.
</p>
<p>
He walked out of the building, and turned toward Central Park West, to
slyly observe the entrance of the building where waited the faithful
hansom Jehu. A young man was in conversation with the driver, and the big
automobile could be seen on the other side of the street awaiting further
developments.
</p>
<p>
“He has a long vigil there,” laughed Shirley. “Now, for the real address.
I think I lost the hounds for this time.”
</p>
<p>
Another vehicle took him through the Park to the darkened mansion of the
Van Clefts'. Here, Shirley's card brought a quick response from the
surprised son of the dead millionaire.
</p>
<p>
“Why—why—I'm glad to see you, Mr. Shirley—Who sent you?”
he began.
</p>
<p>
Shirley registered complete surprise. “Sent me, my dear Van Cleft? Who
should send me? For what? It just happened that I was walking up the
Avenue, and to-morrow night I plan to give a little farewell supper to Hal
Bingley, class of '03, at the club You knew him in College? I thought you
might like to come.”
</p>
<p>
“Step in the library,” requested Van Cleft, weakly. “Sit down, Mr. Shirley—I'm
upset to-night.”
</p>
<p>
He mopped his brow with a damp handkerchief, and Shirley's big heart went
out to the young chap, as he saw the haggard lines of horror and grief on
his usually pleasant face.
</p>
<p>
“What's the trouble, old man? Anything I can do?”
</p>
<p>
“My father just died this evening, and I'm in awful trouble—I
thought it was the Coroner, or the police—” he bit his tongue as the
last words escaped him. Shirley put his hand on Van Cleft's shoulder, with
an inspiring firmness.
</p>
<p>
“Tell me how I can help. You've had a big shock. Confide in me, and I
pledge you my word, I'll keep it safer than any one you could go to.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft groped as a drowning man, at this opportunity. He caught
Shirley's hand and wrung it tensely.
</p>
<p>
“Sit down. The doctor is still upstairs with mother and sister. When the
Coroner comes, I would like to have you be here as a witness. It's an
ordeal—I'll tell you everything.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley listened attentively, without betraying his own knowledge.
Soothing in manner, he questioned the son about any possible enemy of the
murdered man.
</p>
<p>
“There's not one I know. Dad is popular—he's been too gay, lately,
but just foolish like a lot of rich men. He wouldn't harm any one. He
inherited his money, you know. Didn't have to crush the working people.
Like me, he's been endeavoring to spend it ever since he was born, but it
comes in too fast from our estates.”
</p>
<p>
He looked up apprehensively, at the sympathetic face of his companion.
</p>
<p>
“It's very unwise to tell this. I suppose it's a State's prison offence to
deceive about murder. But you understand our position: we can't afford to
let it become gossip. I'll pay this girl anything to go to Europe or the
Antipodes!”
</p>
<p>
“I wouldn't do that,” suggested Shirley, thoughtfully. “Let her stay. You
would like to bring the culprit to justice, if it can be done without
dragging your name into it. If he has planned this, he has executed other
schemes. She certainly would not remain the machine if she were the guilty
one. Why not employ a good detective?”
</p>
<p>
“I did, but hesitated to tell you. I secured Captain Cronin, of the
Holland Agency. He's managed everything so far—I was too rattled
myself. But, I wonder why he isn't here now? He was to return as soon as
he visited the garage.”
</p>
<p>
As Van Cleft spoke, the butler approached with hesitation.
</p>
<p>
“Beg pardon, sir. But you are wanted on the telephone, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, Hoskins. Connect it with the library instrument.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft lifted the receiver nervously, and answered in an unsteady
voice.
</p>
<p>
“Yes—This is Van Cleft's residence.”
</p>
<p>
Silence for a bit, then the wire was busy.
</p>
<p>
“What's that? Captain Cronin? What about him? Let me speak to him.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley was alert as a cat. Van Cleft was too dazed to understand his
sudden move, as the criminologist caught up the receiver, and placed his
palm for an instant over the mouthpiece.
</p>
<p>
“Ask him to say it again—that you didn't understand.” Shirley
removed his hand, and obeyed. Shirley held the receiver to his ear, as the
young man spoke. Then he heard these curious words: “You poor simp, you'd
better get that family doctor of yours to give you some ear medicine, and
stop wasting time with the death certificate. I told you that Cronin was
over in Bellevue Hospital with a fractured skull. Unless you drop this
investigating, you'll get one, too. Ta, ta! Old top!”
</p>
<p>
The receiver was hung up quickly at the other end of the line.
</p>
<p>
Shirley gave a quick call for “Information,” and after several minutes
learned that the call came from a drug store pay-station in Jersey City!
</p>
<p>
The melodious tones were unmistakably those of the speaker who had used
the wire from faraway Brooklyn where the house had been burned down! It
was a human impossibility for any one to have covered the distance between
the two points in this brief time, except in an aeroplane!
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft wondered dumbly at his companion's excitement. Shirley caught up
the telephone again.
</p>
<p>
“Some one says that Cronin is at Bellevue Hospital, injured. I'll find
out.”
</p>
<p>
It was true. Captain Cronin was lying at point of death, the ward nurse
said, in answer to his eager query. At first the ambulance surgeon had
supposed him to be drunk, for a patrolman had pulled him out of a dark
doorway, unconscious.
</p>
<p>
“Where was the doorway? This is his son speaking, so tell me all.”
</p>
<p>
“Just a minute. Oh! Here is the report slip. He was taken from the corner
of Avenue A and East Eleventh Street. You'd better come down right away,
for he is apt to die tonight. He's only been here ten minutes.”
</p>
<p>
“Has any one else telephoned to find out about him?”
</p>
<p>
“No. We didn't even know his name until just as you called up, when we
found his papers and some warrants in a pocketbook. How did you know?”
</p>
<p>
But Shirley disconnected curtly, this time. He bowed his head in thought,
and then, with his usual nervous custom, fumbled for a cigarette. Here was
the Captain, whom he had left on Forty-fourth Street, near Fifth Avenue, a
short time before, discovered fully three miles away.
</p>
<p>
And the news telephoned from Jersey City, by the fleeting magic voice on
the wire. Even his iron composure was stirred by this weird complication.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder!” he murmured. He had ample reason to wonder.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER III. THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER
</h2>
<p>
“Well, Mr. Shirley, your coming here was a Godsend! I don't know what to
do now. The newspapers will get this surely. I depended on Cronin: he must
have been drinking.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley shook his head, as he explained, “I know Cronin's reputation, for
I was a police reporter. He is a sterling man. There's foul work here
which extends beyond your father's case. But we are wasting time. Why
don't you introduce me to your physician? Just tell him about Cronin, and
that you have confided in me completely.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft went upstairs without a word. Unused to any worry, always able
to pay others for the execution of necessary details, this young man was a
victim of the system which had engulfed his unfortunate sire in the
maelstrom of reckless pleasure.
</p>
<p>
By his ingenuous adroitness, it may be seen, Shirley was inveigling
himself into the heart of the affair, in his favorite disguise as that of
the “innocent bystander.” His innate dramatic ability assisted him in
maintaining his friendly and almost impersonal role, with a success which
had in the past kept the secret of his system from even the evildoers
themselves.
</p>
<p>
“A little investigation of the telephone exchanges during the next day or
two will not be wasted time,” he mused. “I'll get Sam Grindle, their
assistant advertising manager to show me the way the wheels go 'round. No
man can ride a Magic Carpet of Bagdad over the skyscrapers in these days
of shattered folklore.”
</p>
<p>
Howard Van Cleft returned with the famous surgeon, Professor MacDonald. He
was elderly, with the broad high forehead, dignity of poise, and sharpness
of glance which bespeaks the successful scientist. His face, to-night, was
chalky and the firm, full mouth twitched with nervousness. He greeted
Shirley abstractedly. The criminologist's manner was that of friendly
anxiety.
</p>
<p>
“You are here, sir, as a friend of the family?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Howard has told me of the terrible mystery of this case. As an
ex-newspaper man I imagine that my influence and friendships may keep the
unpleasant details from the press.”
</p>
<p>
“That is good,” sighed the doctor, with relief. “How soon will you do it?”
</p>
<p>
“Now, using this telephone. No, for certain reasons, I had better use an
outside instrument. I will call up men I know on each paper, as though
this were a 'scoop,' so that knowing me, they will be confident that I
tell them the truth as a favor. Such deceit is excusable under the
circumstances. It may eventually bring the murderer to justice.”
</p>
<p>
Professor MacDonald winced at the word. He turned toward Van Cleft, on
sudden thought, remarking: “Howard your mother and sister may need the
comfort of your presence. I will chat with your friend until the Coroner
comes.”
</p>
<p>
The physician sank into a library chair. The criminologist quietly awaited
his cue. He lit a cigarette and the minutes drifted past with no word
between them. The doctor's gaze lowered to the vellum-bound books on the
carven table, then to the gorgeous pattern of the Kermansha at his feet.
Once more he studied the face of his companion, with the keen,
soul-gripping scrutiny of the skilled physician. As last he arrived at a
definite conclusion. He cleared his throat, and fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket for a cigar. A swiftly struck match in Monty's hand was held up so
promptly to the end of the cigar, that the doctor's lips had not closed
about it. This deftness, simple in itself, did not escape the observation
of the scientist. He smiled for the first time during their interview.
</p>
<p>
“Your reflex nerves are very wide awake for a quiet man. I believe I can
depend upon those nerves, and your quietude. May I ask what occupation you
follow, if any? Most of Howard's friends follow butterflies.”
</p>
<p>
“I am one of them, then. Some opera, more theatricals, much art gallery
touring. A little regular reading in my rooms, and there you are! My great
grandfather was too poor a trader to succeed in pelts, so he invested a
little money in rocky pastures around upper Manhattan: this has kept the
clerks of the family bankers busy ever since. I am an optimistic vagabond,
enjoying life in the observation of the rather ludicrous busyness of other
folk. In short, Doctor, I am a corpulent Hamlet, essentially modern in my
cultivation of a joy in life, debating the eternal question with myself,
but lazily leaving it to others to solve. Therein I am true to my type.”
</p>
<p>
“Pardon my bluntness,” observed MacDonald, watching him through partially
closed eyes. “You are not telling the truth. You are a busy man, with
definite work, but that is no affair of mine. I recognize in you a
different calibre from that of these rich young idlers in Howard's class.
I am going to take you into my confidence, for you understand the need for
secrecy, and will surely help in every way—noblesse oblige. This man
Cronin, the detective, was rather crude.”
</p>
<p>
“He is honest and dependable,” replied Shirley, loyally.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but I wonder why professional detectives are so primitive. They wear
their calling cards and their business shingles on their figures and
faces. Surely the crooks must know them all personally. I read detective
stories, in rest moments, and every one of the sleuths lives in some
well-known apartment, or on a prominent street. Some day we may read of
one who is truly in secret service, but not until after his death notice.
But there, I am talking to quiet my own nerves a bit,—now we will
get to cases.”
</p>
<p>
The doctor dropped his cigar into the bronze tray on the table, leaning
forward with intense earnestness, as he continued.
</p>
<p>
“This, Mr. Shirley, is the third murder of the sort within a week.
Wellington Serral, the wealthy broker, came to a sudden death in a private
dining room last Monday, in the company of a young show girl. He was a
patient of mine, and I signed the death certificate as heart failure, to
save the honorable family name for his two orphaned daughters.
</p>
<p>
“Herbert de Cleyster, the railroad magnate, died similarly in a taxicab on
Thursday. He was also one of my patients. There, too, was concerned
another of these wretched chorus girls. To-night the fatal number of the
triad was consummated in this cycle of crime. To maintain my loyalty to my
patients I have risked my professional reputation. Have I done wrong?”
</p>
<p>
“No! The criminal shall be brought to justice,” replied Shirley in a voice
vibrant with a profound determination which was not lost upon his
companion.
</p>
<p>
“Are you powerful enough to bring this about, without disgracing me or
betraying this sordid tragedy to the morbid scandal-rakers of the papers?”
</p>
<p>
“I will devote every waking hour to it. But, like you, my efforts must
remain entirely secret. I vow to find this man before I sleep again!”
</p>
<p>
“You are determined—yet it cannot be one single man. It must be an
organized gang, for all the crimes have been so strangely similar,
occurring to three men who are friends, and entrez nous, notorious for
their peccadilloes. The girls must be in the vicious circle, and ably
assisted. But there is one thing I forgot to tell you, which you forgot to
ask.”
</p>
<p>
“And this is?”
</p>
<p>
“How they died. It was by some curious method of sudden arterial stoppage.
Old as they were, some fiendish trick was employed so skilfully that the
result was actual heart failure. There was no trace of drugs in lungs or
blood. On each man's breast, beneath the sternum bone I found a dull,
barely discernible bruise mark, which I later removed by a simple massage
of the spot!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley closed his eyes, and passed his hand over his own chest—along
the armpits—behind his ears—he seemed to be mentally
enumerating some list of nerve centers. The physician observed him
curiously.
</p>
<p>
“I have it, doctor! The sen-si-yao!”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean?”
</p>
<p>
“The most powerful and secret of all the death-strokes of the Japanese art
of jiu-jitsu fighting. I paid two thousand dollars to learn the course
from a visiting instructor when I was in college. It was worth it for this
one occasion.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley arose to his feet, and approached the other, touching his
shoulder.
</p>
<p>
“Stand up, if you please. Let me ask if this was the location of the
mark?”
</p>
<p>
The physician, interested in this new professional phase, readily obeyed.
One quick movement of Shirley's muscular hand, the thumb oddly twisted and
stiffened, and a sudden jab in the doctor's abdomen made that gentleman
gasp with pain. Shirley's expression was triumphant, but the professor
regarded him with an expression of terror.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! Ugh!—What-did-you-do-to me?” he murmured thickly, when he was
at last able to speak.
</p>
<p>
“Merely demonstrated the beginning of the death punch which I named. That
pressure if continued for half a minute would have been fatal.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish you would teach me that,” was the physician's natural request, as
he nodded with a wry face.
</p>
<p>
“Impossible, my dear sir, for I learned it, according to the Oriental
custom under the most sacred obligations of secrecy. One must advance
through the whole course, by initiatory degrees, before learning the final
mysteries of the samurais. Now, we have a working hypothesis. The girls
could never have accomplished this. One man and one alone must have killed
the three, although doubtless with confederates. Yamashino assured me that
there were only six men in this country who knew it beside myself. We must
find an Orientalist!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley paced the floor, but his meditations were interrupted by the
arrival of the Coroner and his physician. Van Cleft hurried into the room
with them, to present the doctor, who exchanged a formal greeting with the
men he had met twice before that week.
</p>
<p>
“A sad affair, Professor,” observed the Coroner nervously, drinking in
with profound respect the magnificent surroundings which symbolized the
great wealth of which he secretly hoped to gain a tithing. “I trust that,
as usual, in such cases, I may suggest an undertaker?”
</p>
<p>
“Why—talk about that at once, sir?” asked Howard with a shudder.
</p>
<p>
The physician, familiar with the subtleties of coroners, gently placed an
arm about the young man's shoulder. He nodded, understandingly, to the
Coroner, as he turned toward Shirley.
</p>
<p>
“I must be going now,” the latter interposed. “Just a word with you,
Howard, that I may send a message to your mother and sister.”
</p>
<p>
The physician led away the two officials as Shirley continued: “I must go
to see Cronin—deserted there like a run-over mongrel on the street.
Can I leave this house by the rear, so that none shall know of my
assistance in the case, or follow me to the hospital? If you can secure an
old hat and coat, I will leave my own, with my stick, to get them some
other time.”
</p>
<p>
“I will get some from the butler, if you wait just a moment. You can leave
by the rear yard, if you don't mind climbing a high board fence.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft hurried downstairs, in a few minutes, bearing a weather-beaten
overcoat and an English cap, which Shirley drew down over his ears. With
the coat on, he looked very unlike the well-groomed club man who had
entered. Unseen by Van Cleft he shifted an automatic revolver into the
coat pocket from the discarded garment.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Mr. Shirley, come this way. Follow the rear area-way, across to the
next yard, where after another climb you find a vacant lot where the
Schuylers are preparing to erect their new city house. Will you attend to
everything?”
</p>
<p>
“Everything. I'll start sooner than you expect.”
</p>
<p>
Truly he did! For no sooner had he descended the second fence into the
empty lot than a stinging blow sent him at full length on the rocky
ground, where the excavations were already being started. Two men pounced
upon him in a twinkling—only his great strength, acquired through
the football years, saved him from immediate defeat. His head throbbed,
and he was dizzy as he caught the wrist of the nearest assailant with a
quick twist which resulted in a sudden, sickening crunch. The man groaned
in agony, but his companion kicked with heavy-shod feet at the prostrate
man. Shirley's left hand duplicated the vice-like grip upon the ankle of
the standing assailant, and his deftness caused another tendon strain!
Both men toppled to the ground, now, and before they realized it Shirley
had reversed the advantage. His automatic emphasized his superiority of
tactics. He understood their silence, broken only by muted groans: they
feared the police, even as did he, although for different reasons. He
“frisked” the man nearest him upon the ground, and captured deftly the
rascal's weapon: then he sprang up covering the twain.
</p>
<p>
“Get up! Youse guys is poachin' in de wrong district—dis belongs to
de Muggins gang. I'll fix youse guys fer buttin' in. Up, dere!” His hands
went into his coat pockets, but the men knew that they were still pointing
at them, the gunman's “cover” as it is called. They staggered sullenly to
their feet. He beckoned with his head, toward the front of the lot. They
followed the silent instructions, one limping while his mate wrung the
injured wrist in agony.
</p>
<p>
Directly before the lot stood a throbbing, empty automobile. Shirley
decided to take another car—he could not guard them and drive at the
same time.
</p>
<p>
“Down to Fift' Avnoo,” he ordered. “I got two guns—not a woid from
youse!” His erstwhile amiable physiognomy, now gnarled into an
unrecognizable mask of low villainy bespoke his desperate earnestness. The
men obeyed. This was apparently a gangster, of gangsters—their fear
of the dire vengeance of a rival organization of cut-throats instilled an
obedience more humble than any other threats.
</p>
<p>
Toward the Park side they advance, one leaning heavily upon the other.
Shirley, his broad shoulders hunched up; with the collar drawn high about
his neck, the murderous looking cap down over his eyes, followed them
doggedly.
</p>
<p>
A big limousine was speeding down the Avenue from some homing theater
party. Shirley hailed it with an authoritive yell which caused the
chauffeur to put on a quick brake.
</p>
<p>
“Git out dere,—no gun play. Up inter dat car!” he added, as they
approached the machine.
</p>
<p>
“Say, what you drivin' at?” cried the driver, queruously. “Is this a
hold-up?” It was a puzzling moment, but the criminologist's calm bravado
saved the situation: as luck would have it no policemen were in sight, to
spoil the maneuver.
</p>
<p>
“No,” and he assumed a more natural voice and dialect. “I'm a detective.
These men were just house-breaking, and I got them. There's twenty-five
dollars in it for you, if you take us down to the Holland Detective
Agency, in ten minutes.”
</p>
<p>
“He's kiddin' ye, feller,” snapped out one man.
</p>
<p>
“Don't fall fen him, yen boob!” sung out the other.
</p>
<p>
But Shirley's automatic now appeared outside the coat pocket. The
chauffeur realized that here was serious gaming. With his left hand
Shirley jerked out the ever ready police card and fire badge, which seemed
official enough to satisfy the driver.
</p>
<p>
“Quick now, or I'll run you in, too, for refusing to obey an officer. You
men climb into that back seat. Driver, beat it now to Thirty-nine West
Forty Street, if you need that twenty-five dollars. I'll sit with them. I
don't want any interference so I can come back and nab the rest of their
gang.”
</p>
<p>
His authoritative manner convinced this new ally, and he climbed into the
car, facing his prisoners, with the two weapons held down below the level
of the windows. Pedestrians and other motorists little recked what strange
cargo was borne as the car raced down the broad thoroughfare.
</p>
<p>
In nine minutes they drew up before the Holland Agency, a darkened, brown
front house of ancient architecture. The chauffeur sprang out to swing
back the door.
</p>
<p>
“Go up the steps, and tell the doorman that Captain Cronin wants two men
to bring down their guns and handcuffs and get two prisoners. Quick!”
</p>
<p>
The street was not empty, even at this hour. Yet the passersby did not
realize the grim drama enacted inside the waiting machine. Hours seemed to
pass before Cronin's men returned with the driver, as much surprised by
the three strange faces within the machine, as he had been.
</p>
<p>
“You take these men upstairs and keep them locked up,” bluntly commanded
the criminologist. “They're nabbed on the new case of the Captain's which
started to-night, I'm going over to Bellevue to see him.” His voice was
still disguised, his features twisted even yet.
</p>
<p>
The men gave him a curious glance, and then obeyed. As they disappeared
behind the heavy wooden door, Shirley stepped into a dark hallway, close
by. He lit a wax match to give him light for the choosing of the right
amount, from the roll of bills which he drew forth. The chauffeur whistled
with surprise at the size of the denominations. The twenty-five were
handed over.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks very much, my friend,” and the face unsnarled itself, into the
amiable lines of the normal. The voice was agreeable and smooth, which
surprised the man the more. “You took me out of a ticklish situation
tonight. I don't want any mere policemen to spoil my little game. Please
oil up your forgettery with these, and then—forget!”
</p>
<p>
“Say, gov'nor,” retorted the driver, as he put the money into the band of
his leather cap. “I ain't seen so much real change since my boss got stung
on the war. I ain't so certain but what you was the gink robbin' that
house, at that. But that's them guys funeral if you beat 'em to it.
Good-night—much obliged. But I got to slip it to you, gov'nor—you
ain't none of them Central Office flat-feet, sure 'nuff! If you are a
detective, you're some fly cop!”
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV. A SCIENTIFIC NOVELTY
</h2>
<p>
In a private ward room at Bellevue Hospital, Captain Cronin was just
returning to memory of himself and things that had been. Shirley arrived
at his cot-side as he was being propped up more comfortably. The older
man's face broke into game smiles, as the criminologist took the chair
provided by the pretty nurse.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, I'll have a little chat with my friend, if you don't think it
will do him any harm.”
</p>
<p>
“He is better now, sir. We feared he was fatally injured when they brought
him in. I'll be outside in the corridor if you need anything.”
</p>
<p>
She left not without an admiring look at the big chap, wondering why he
wore such disreputable superstructure with patent leather pumps and silk
hose showing below the ragged overcoat. Strange sights come to hospitals,
curiosity frequently leading to unprofitable knowledge: so she was
silently discreet. Shirley's garb was not unobserved by the detective
chief. Monty laughed reminiscently at the questioning glance.
</p>
<p>
“These are my working clothes—a fine combination. I nabbed two of
the gang. But what became of you?”
</p>
<p>
“Outside that club door, I wanted to save time for us both. I took the
first taxi in sight. Before I could even call out to you, the door slammed
on me, the shades flopped down, the car started up—the next thing I
knew this here nurse was sticking a spoon in my mouth, a-saying: 'Take
this—it's fine for what ails you!'”
</p>
<p>
“I wonder if it could have been the same machine they left at Van Cleft's?
I will tell you how things progressed.” So he did, leaving out only the
confidence of Professor MacDonald. The Captain became feverishly excited,
until Shirley abjured him to beware of a relapse. “You must be calm, for
the next twenty-four hours: there will be much for you to do, even then.
Meanwhile, let me call up your agency; then you give them instructions
over this table telephone to let Howard Van Cleft interview the little
chorus girl, with his friend. I'll be the friend.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm afraid I'm going to be snowed under in this case, Monty. The finest
job I've had these dozen years. But you're square, and will do all you
can.”
</p>
<p>
“Old friend, I'll do what I can to make Van Cleft and the newspapers sure
that you are the most wonderful sleuth inside or outside the public
library. Here's your office—speak up. Let me lift you.”
</p>
<p>
“Hello Pat!” called Cronin, as his superintendent came to the 'phone. “I
am detained at Bellevue, so that I can't be there when Van Cleft comes
down. Let him Third Degree that little Jane from the garage. Keep them two
men apart, too—oh, that's all right, the fellow is a friend of mine
on the 'Frisco police force. He won't butt in.” Silence for a moment,
then: “Oh, shucks, let 'em yowl! They've got more than kidnapping to worry
about for the next twenty-five years.”
</p>
<p>
He hung up the receiver, sinking back on his pillows wan from the strain.
Monty handed him a glass of water, and adjusted the bandages with a hand
as tender as a woman's. He lifted the instrument again.
</p>
<p>
“You are sterling, twenty-two carat and a yard wide, Captain! Now, get to
sleep while I find out who the ring-master is. I've sworn to keep awake
until I do. I think it well to telephone Van Cleft, and arrange for a
better get-a-way for us both.”
</p>
<p>
He was soon talking with the son of the murdered man. “Meet me down at the
Vanderbilt Hotel—ask for Mr. Hepburn's room, and send up the name of
Williams. See you in an hour. Good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
Hanging up the receiver, he turned toward the door, after a friendly pat
on Cronin's shoulder. The bell rang, and the Captain reached for it, to
sink back exhausted upon the bed. Shirley answered, to be greeted by a
pleasant feminine voice.
</p>
<p>
“Is this Captain Cronin?”
</p>
<p>
Instantly the criminologist replied affirmatively, suiting his tones as
best he could to the gruff voice of the detective chief, with a wink at
that worthy.
</p>
<p>
“I just called up, Captain, to ask about you—Oh, you don't recognize
my voice. I'm Miss Wilberforce, private secretary to Mr. Van Cleft. Has
any one been to see you yet? I understand that you are very busy, and have
already missed two other good cases, this one being the THIRD! Well, don't
hurry, Captain. You may get the rest to come—if you live long
enough. Good-bye!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley looked at Cronin, startled. Another mention of the mystic number.
He called for information about the origin of the call.
</p>
<p>
“Lordee, son! Are they at it again?” asked Cronin in disgust.
</p>
<p>
“Yes—overdoing it. One thing is clear, that whoever is behind this
telephone trickery is very clever, and very conceited over that
cleverness. It may be a costly vanity. Yes, information?”
</p>
<p>
“The call was from Rector 2190-D. The American Sunday School Organization,
sir—It doesn't answer now; the office must be closed.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley put the instrument down, with a smile on his pursed lips. He waved
a good natured farewell to his friend, as he drew the cap down over his
eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Look a little happier, Captain. I'll send down some fruit and a special
vintage from our club which has bottled up in it the sunlight of a dozen
years in Southern France. I hope they keep the telephone wires busy—they
may tangle themselves up in their own spider-web!”
</p>
<p>
Leaving the hospital, he hurried to the hotel. One of his secret
idiosyncracies was a custom of “living around” at a number of hotels,
under aliases. Maintaining pleasant suites in each, he kept full supplies
of linen and garments, while effectively blotting out his own identity for
“doubling” work.
</p>
<p>
He was known as “Mr. Hepburn” here, and entering the side door he was
subjected to the curious gaze of only one servant, the operator of the
small elevator. Once in the shelter of his quarters he rummaged through
some scrap-books for data—he found it in a Sunday feature story
published a month before in a semi-theatrical paper. It described with
rollicking sarcasm, a gay “millionaire” party which had been given in
Rector's private dining rooms. Among the ridiculed hosts were Van Cleft,
Wellington Serral and Herbert De Cleyster! Here, in some elusive manner,
ran the skein of truth which if followed would lead to the solution of
mystery. He must carve out of this mass of pregnant clues the essentials
upon which to act, as the sculptor chisels the marble of a huge block to
expose the figure of his inspiration, encased there all the time!
</p>
<p>
“To find out the source of their golden-haired nymphs for this
merry-merry, that is the question! Some stage doorkeeper might be
persuaded to unburden what soul he has left!”
</p>
<p>
He jotted in his memorandum book the names of the other eight wealthy men
who were pilloried by the journalist. The younger men, Shirley felt sure,
were of that peculiarly Manhattanse type of hanger-on—well-groomed,
happy-go-hellward youths who danced, laughed and drank well,—so
essential to the philanderings of these rich old Harlequins and their
gilded Columbines. As he scribbled, the telephone of the room tinkled its
summons.
</p>
<p>
He started toward it: then his invaluable intuition prompted him to walk
into the adjoining room, where another instrument stood on a small table,
handy to the bed. Only two people could possibly know he was there. Van
Cleft could not have arrived, as yet. The other bell jingled impatiently,
but Shirley finally heard the voice of the switch-board girl.
</p>
<p>
“I'm trying to get you on the other wire, sir. There's a call.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't connect me,” he hurriedly ordered, “except to open the switch, so I
may listen. If I hang up without a word, tell the party I will be back in
twenty minutes.”
</p>
<p>
With a hotel telephone girl tact is more important than even the knowledge
of wire-knitting. It was the woman's voice which he had heard at the
hospital. Captain Cronin was anxious to speak to Mr. Williams, who was
calling on Mr. Hepburn! With the biggest jolt of this day of surprises
Shirley disconnected and whistled. Again he laughed—with that grim
chuckle which was so characteristic of his supreme battling mood! They had
found the trail even quicker than he had expected. Fortunate it was that
he had not mentioned his own name in telephoning from the hospital to
Howard. Not a wire was safe from these mysterious eaves-droppers now. He
hurried into a business suit, and left the hotel, to walk over
Thirty-fourth Street to the studio of his friend, Hammond Bell. Here he
was admitted, to find the portrait-painter finishing a solitary
chafing-dish supper.
</p>
<p>
“Delighted, Monty! Join me in the encore on this creamed chicken and
mushrooms!”
</p>
<p>
“Too rich for my primitive blood, Hammond. I'm in a hurry to get a favor.”
</p>
<p>
“I've received enough at your hands—say the word.”
</p>
<p>
“Simply this: I want to experiment with sound waves. I remembered that
once in a while some of these wild Bohemian friends of yours warbled
post-impressionist love-songs into your phonograph. It stood the strain,
and so must be a good one. It is too late now to get one in a shop; will
you lend me the whole outfit, with the recording attachment as well, for
to-night and to-morrow?”
</p>
<p>
“The easiest thing you know. Let's slide it into this grip—you can
carry the horn.”
</p>
<p>
Three minutes later Shirley made his exit, and soon was shaking hands with
Van Cleft in his own room at the hotel. He sketched his idea hurriedly, as
he adjusted the instrument on the dressing-table near the telephone.
</p>
<p>
“When the call comes, be sure to say: 'Get closer, I can't hear you.'
That's the method, and it's so simple it is almost silly.” They were
barely ready when the bell warned them. At Van Cleft's reply, when the
call for “Mr. Williams” Shirley pushed the horn close to the telephone
receiver. Van Cleft twisted it, so as to give the best advantage, and
demanded that the speaker come closer to the 'phone.
</p>
<p>
“Can you hear me now?” asked the feminine voice. “Do you hear me now?”
</p>
<p>
“No, speak louder. This is Mr. Williams. Speak up. I can't understand
you.” The voice was petulant and so distinct that even Shirley could hear
it, as he knelt by the side of the phonograph. Again Van Cleft insisted on
his deafness. There was the suggestion of a break in the voice which
brought to Shirley's eyes the sparkle of a presentiment of success. At
last Van Cleft admitted that he could hear.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you fool, I've a message for your friend Mr. Van Cleft.”
</p>
<p>
“Which one?” was the innocent inquiry, as he forgot for an instant that
now he was the sole bearer of that name.
</p>
<p>
“The one that's left. Tell him there will be none left if he continues
this gum-shoe work. He had better let well enough alone, and let that
little girl get out of town as soon as possible. The papers will go crazy
over a scandal like this, and some one is apt to grab Van Cleft. That's
all. Good-bye!”
</p>
<p>
Silently Shirley shut off the lever of the machine, to catch up the
receiver. As before his endeavor to locate the call resulted in a new
address: this time in the Bronx!
</p>
<p>
“Ah, the lady leaps from the business district to the Bronx in half an
hour. That is what I call some traveling.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft studied him with open mouth, as he withdrew the phonograph
record, coating it with the preservative to make the tiny lines permanent.
</p>
<p>
“In the name of common sense, who was that? And what's this phonograph
game?” he demanded.
</p>
<p>
“The second question may answer the first before sunrise, unless I am
badly mistaken. I have heard an old adage which declares that if you give
a man long enough rope he will hang himself. My new application is that
you let him talk enough he is apt to sing his own swan song, for a
farewell perch on the electric chair at Sing Sing!”
</p>
<p>
Then he lit a cigarette and packed up the phonograph.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER V. THE MISBEHAVIOR OF THE 'PHONE
</h2>
<p>
Still befuddled by the unusual events of the day, Howard Van Cleft was
unable to delight in a theoretical discovery. Personal fear began to
manifest itself.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Shirley, you're going at this too strong. We know the guilty party—this
miserable girl in the machine. We want to hush it up and let things go at
that.”
</p>
<p>
“We're hushing it, aren't we?” demanded Shirley, as he placed the record
in the grip. “Don't you see the wisdom of knowing who may systematically
blackmail you after secrecy is obtained. This is a matter of the future,
as well as the present.”
</p>
<p>
“But I don't want to lose my own life—I am young, with life before
me, and I want to let well enough alone, after these threats.”
</p>
<p>
“I am afraid that you have a yellow streak.” His lip curled as he studied
the pallid features of the heir to the Van Cleft millions. Fearless
himself, he could still understand the tremors of this care-free
butterfly: yet he knew he must crush the dangerous thoughts which were
developing. “If you mistrust me, hustle for yourself. You have the
death-certificate, the services will be over in a few days, and then you
will have enough money to live on your father's yacht or terra firma for
the rest of your life, in the China Sea, or India, as far away from
Broadway chorus girls as you want. That might be safe.”
</p>
<p>
He gazed out of the window, toward the twinkling lights far away across
the East River. His sarcasm made Van Cleft wince as though from a whip
lash. The latter mopped his forehead and tried to steady his voice, as he
replied with all humility.
</p>
<p>
“You're a brick, and I don't mean to offend you. Today has been terrible,
you know: this tornado has swept me from my moorings. I don't know where
to turn.”
</p>
<p>
“I am thoughtless,” and Shirley's warm hand grasped the flaccid fingers of
the young man. “Forgive me for letting my interest run away with my
sympathies. I'm thinking of the future, more than mere protection from
newspaper scandal. This crime is so ingenious that I believe it has a more
powerful motive than mere robbery. You are now at the head of a great
house of finance and society. You must guard your mother and your sister,
and those yet to come. A deadly snake is writhing its slimy trail
somewhere: here—there—'round about us! Who knows where it will
strike next? Who knows how far that blow may reach—even unto China,
or wherever you run?”
</p>
<p>
He hesitated, studying the effect upon Van Cleft, who dropped limply into
a chair, his eyes dark with terror. The psychological ruse had won.
Selfish cowardice, which temporarily threatened to ruin his campaign, now
gave way to the instinct of a fighting defense.
</p>
<p>
“There, Van Cleft, it is ghastly. You have the significance now: we must
scotch the snake. That girl is over at the Holland Agency, and we should
see her at once, to learn what she knows. Cronin has arranged for my
coming with you, so introduce me under my real name.
</p>
<p>
“Wait here fifteen minutes after I leave, so that I may get the phonograph
in readiness, for you will undoubtedly be shadowed, and that may mean
another telephone call. You were not a coward in college—I do not
believe you are one now!”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft straightened up proudly.
</p>
<p>
“No, I will fight them with all I have. But why these phonograph records:
isn't one enough?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I want autographs of all the voices. I will go now. Don't hurry in
following me. Do not fear to let any shadowers see you—it will help
us along.”
</p>
<p>
Before many minutes he had been admitted to the corridor of the Holland
Agency by a sharp-nosed individual who regarded him with suspicion. The
operatives were undoubtedly expecting trouble from all quarters, for three
other large men of the “bull” type, heavy-jowled, ponderous men,
surrounded him as he presented his card.
</p>
<p>
“I am the friend of Howard Van Cleft, about whom Captain Cronin telephoned
you from Bellevue. I am to help him interview the girl: may I wait until
he arrives?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you're wise to the case? Sure then, come into the reception room on
the right. What's that in your grip?” asked the apparent leader of the
men.
</p>
<p>
“Just an idea of Van Cleft's,” said Shirley, as he followed into the
adjoining compartment. “It's a phonograph. Have you received any phoney
'phone calls to-night? Queer ones that you didn't expect and couldn't
explain? Van Cleft has, and he decided to take records of them on this
machine.”
</p>
<p>
The superintendent nodded. Shirley opened the grip and drew out the
instrument, and made ready on the small table, near which was the desk
telephone.
</p>
<p>
“Let's get this in readiness then, and if you get any calls have them
switched up to this instrument, so that when you talk, you can hold the
receiver handy to the horn.”
</p>
<p>
“Young feller, I think you must know more about this business than you've
a right to. Just keep your hands above the table—I think I'll frisk
you!”
</p>
<p>
“No need,” snapped Shirley with a smile in his eyes, and the automatic
revolver was drawn and covering the detective before he could reach
forward. “But I have no designs on you. You will have to work quicker than
that with some people in this case.”
</p>
<p>
He slid the weapon across the table to the other who snatched it
anxiously.
</p>
<p>
“If a call comes and you don't recognize the voice at once, please ask the
party to come closer to the 'phone, to speak louder—listen, there is
the bell now! Get it connected here at once!”
</p>
<p>
The surprised superintendent, fearing that after all he might miss some
good lead, yielded to his professional curiosity against his professional
prejudices. He bawled down the hall.
</p>
<p>
“Switch on up here, Mike. I'll talk.” He caught up the instrument, as
Shirley dropped to his knees beside him, to swing the horn into place.
</p>
<p>
“What's that?” he shouted over the wire. “Yes, shure it is—What's
that you say?—I don't get you, cull—You want to speak to the
girl?—What girl?—Talk louder. Hire a hall!—Say, I ain't
no mind reader! Speak up.”
</p>
<p>
Over the instrument came the phrase once more: “Can you hear me now?”
</p>
<p>
It was the man's voice! Shirley was exultant.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I hear you. What do you want?”
</p>
<p>
“I want to call for my sister, if you're going to let her go. I want—”
</p>
<p>
An inspiration prompted Shirley to press down the prongs of the receiver.
The connection was stopped, and the superintendent turned upon him
angrily.
</p>
<p>
“You spoiled that, you nut! We was just about to find out who her brother
was—say, who are you, anyway?”
</p>
<p>
“There, don't you worry. That makes another call certain. Don't you see?
That's what I'm playing for. But here comes Van Cleft, who will tell you I
am all right.”
</p>
<p>
The millionaire entered the hallway before any serious altercation could
arise. He greeted Shirley warmly and introduced him to Pat Cleary. The man
was mollified.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I'm Captain Cronin's right bower, and I thinks as how this guy is
the joker of the deck trying to make a dirty deuce out of me. But, if you
want to see the girl, she's right upstairs. His work was a little speedy
on first acquaintance. Nick, keep your eyes on this machine, for we may
get another call on this floor—This way gentlemen. Watch your step,
for the hallway's dark.”
</p>
<p>
The girl was imprisoned in a windowless room on the second floor. As the
door opened, Shirley beheld a pitiful sight. Attired in the finery of the
Rialto, she lay prone upon a couch in the center of the dingy room,
sobbing hysterically. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her features wan and
distorted from her paroxysms of fear and grief. Like a frightened animal,
she sprang to her feet as they entered the room, retreating to the wall,
her trembling hands spread as though to brace her from falling.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't do it! I swear! The old fool was soused and I don't know what
was the matter with me. But I didn't kill any one in the world!”
</p>
<p>
“There, sit down, little girl, and don't get frightened. This gentleman
and I have come to learn the truth—not to punish you for something
you didn't do. Start with the beginning and tell all you remember.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley's gentle manner was so unexpected, his voice so inspiring that she
relaxed, sinking to the floor, as Shirley caught her limp girlish form in
his arms. He placed her on the couch again, and she regained her composure
under his calm urging. Little by little she visualized the details of the
gruesome evening and narrated them under the magnetic cross-questions of
the criminologist.
</p>
<p>
She had met the elder Van Cleft in the tea-room of a Broadway hostelry, by
appointment made the evening before at Pinkie Taylor's birthday party.
After several drinks together they took a taxicab to ride uptown to a
little chop house. Did she see any one she knew in the tea-room? Of
course, several of the fellows and girls whom she couldn't remember just
now, buzzed about, for Van Cleft was a liberal entertainer around the
youngsters. She had five varieties of cocktails in succession, and she
became dizzy. In the taxicab she became dizzier and when next she
remembered anything definite she was sitting on the stool in the garage
where she had been arrested. That was all. As she reached this point there
came a knock on the door with a call for Van Cleft.
</p>
<p>
“You Van's son!” she screamed. Then she fainted, while Shirley caught her,
calling an assistant to care for her, as he followed Van Cleft downstairs
to answer the telephone. “You know your cues?”
</p>
<p>
The millionaire nodded, as with trembling fingers he caught up the
instrument and knelt on the bare floor to hold it close to the phonograph,
which Shirley was engineering, with a fresh record in place.
</p>
<p>
“Hello! Hello, there, I say. Hello!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley strained his ears, to hear this time a rough, wheezy voice which
caused the two men to exchange startled glances, as it proceeded: “Is this
you, Howard, my boy?”
</p>
<p>
“What do you want? I can't hear you. The telephone is buzzing. Louder
please!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley nodded approbation, as the machine ran along merrily.
</p>
<p>
“Now, can you hear me. Ahem! Can you hear me now? Is this Howard Van
Cleft?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, go ahead, but louder still.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, can you hear me? This is your father's dearest friend, Howard,—this
is William Grimsby speaking. I am fearfully distressed and shocked to
learn of his death, my poor boy. And Howard, I am grieved to learn that
there is some little scandal about it. As your father's confidential
adviser, I urge you to hush it up at all cost. I was told at your home
just now by one of the servants that you had gone to this vulgar detective
agency.”
</p>
<p>
Here Shirley shut off the phonograph, addressing Van Cleft with his hand
over the mouthpiece of the telephone for the minute.
</p>
<p>
“Keep on talking until I return. Get his advice about flowers and
everything else you can think of.”
</p>
<p>
Then he ran from the room, into the hallway, out of the door, and down the
stoop to Fortieth Street. He looked about uncertainly, then espied across
the way a tailor shop, where the light of the late workman still burned.
Monty hurried thither and asked the use of the telephone upon the wall.
</p>
<p>
“Shuair, mister, but it will cost you a dime, for I have to pay the gas
and the rent.”
</p>
<p>
From the telephone directory he obtained the address and number of William
Grimsby, the banker. He received an answer promptly. The servant, after
learning his name promised to call the master. A gruff voice answered
soon. Mr. Grimsby declared that he had been reading in his library for the
last two hours, undisturbed by any telephone calls. Shirley expressed a
doubt.
</p>
<p>
“How dare you doubt my word, sir. The telephone is in my reception room
where I heard it ring just now, for the first time. What do you want?”
</p>
<p>
“An interview with you to-morrow morning at nine on a life and death
matter. I can merely remind you, sir, that two of your friends, Wellington
Serral and Herbert de Cleyster have met mysterious deaths during the past
week. Mr. Van Cleft died of heart failure to-night. I will be there at
nine. As you value your own life do not leave your residence or even
answer any telephone messages again until I see you.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I'll be—” Shirley disconnected, before the verb was reached.
He tossed the coin to the tailor, and speedily returned to the waiting
room where he signaled Van Cleft to end the conversation.
</p>
<p>
“Quick now, find out what wire called you up.” The answer was “William
Grimsby, 97 Fifth Avenue.”
</p>
<p>
“You had the wrong tip that time, Mr. Shirley,” said Van Cleft. “But how
could he have found out where I was, for none of the servants know about
Captain Cronin, or even my family that I was coming down here. He gave me
some good advice however. I want to pay the hush money and end it all
forever.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley had preserved the record and put it away with the others in the
grip. Now he lit a cigarette and puffed several rings of smoke before
answering.
</p>
<p>
“Van, it must be wonderful to be twins.”
</p>
<p>
“This is no night for joking,” petulantly, observed the nervous young man.
“I want the girl silenced—”
</p>
<p>
“She won't open her mouth after I tell her some things. It may entertain
you to know, Van, that while you were getting such good advice from Mr.
Grimsby on this wire, I was talking to the real Mr. Grimsby on his own
wire: he said I was his first caller in more than an hour. So, I gave him
some good advice, which wouldn't interest you. After this don't believe
what the telephone tells.”
</p>
<p>
“Who was I speaking with?”
</p>
<p>
“The most brilliant criminal it has ever been my pleasure to run across,”
and his eyes snapped with joy, the huntsman instinct rising to the surface
at last, “I will call him the voice until I know his better name. He is
the most scientific crook of the age.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you know about criminals?” was the incredulous question.
</p>
<p>
“I'll know a hundred times as much as I do now, when I know all about this
one, Van. You'd better have Cleary send an armed guard along with you, and
get home for a good rest. Get a man who can drive a car, and bring back
the empty auto three houses away from your residence: it will bear looking
into! I'm going up to have a revival meeting with that girl now, for I am
convinced that she is not a whit more implicated in the conception or
execution of this crime than you are. Good-night.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft left the house, with a pitying shake of the head. He was not
quite certain that he had done wisely, after all, in bringing his
eccentric friend into the affair. He little reckoned how much more
peculiarly Montague Shirley was to act for the remainder of the night.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VI. AN EXPERIMENT WITH THE “MOVIES”
</h2>
<p>
The cross-examination of Polly Marion resulted in little advantage. She
had known of the sudden departure of two other songbirds, well equipped
with funds for the land of Somewhere Else. Their absence had been the
subject of some quiet jesting among the dragon flies who flitted over the
pond of pleasure. A suggestion, from some unrecalled source, that their
disappearance had been connected with the deaths of the two aged suitors
was revitalized in her memory by the words of the elderly detective.
Familiar with the strange life of this jeweled half-world Shirley's
keenness brought forth nothing to convince him that the girl had been more
culpable than in the following of her class, known to the initiate as the
“gentle art of gold digging.”
</p>
<p>
“Polly, go home now, and stay away from these parties: that's my honest
advice, if you want to be on the 'outside looking in,' when some one is
sent to prison for this. I am in favor of hushing up this affair, and want
to ease it up for you. Are you wise?”
</p>
<p>
Polly was wise, beyond her years. Her equipoise was regained, and with a
coquettish interest in this handsome interviewer—such girls always
have an eye for future business—he returned to her theatrical
lodging house, in which at least dwelt her wardrobe and makeup box when
she was “trouping” in some spangled chorus. Of recent months she had not
been subjected to the Hurculean rigors of bearing the spear, thanks to the
gratuities of the open-handed Van Cleft, Senior. She pleaded to remain out
of the white lights, meaning it as she spoke. But Shirley wisely felt that
the butterfly would emerge from the chrysalis, shortly, to flutter into
certain gardens where he would fain cull rare blossoms! Pat Cleary
deputized a “shadow” to diarize her exits and entrances.
</p>
<p>
“The hooks are cleaned, with fresh bait upon them,” soliloquized Shirley,
as he went down the dark stoop. “Now for a little laboratory work on the
wherefore of the why!”
</p>
<p>
Although long after midnight, he numbered among his acquaintanceship, many
whom he could find far from Slumber-land. His steps led to the apartment
of a certain theatrical manager, whom he found engaged in a lively
tournament of the chips, jousting with two leading men, one playwright, a
composer and a merchant prince. The latter, of course, was winning. The
host, contributing both chips and bottled cheer, was far from optimistic
until the arrival of the club man.
</p>
<p>
“A live one abaft the mizzen!” exclaimed Dick Holloway, “Here's Shirley
sent by Heaven to join us. After all I hope to pay my next month's rent.”
</p>
<p>
Noisily welcomed by the victims of mercantile prowess, he apologetically
declined to flirt with Dame Fortune, pleading a business purpose.
</p>
<p>
“Business, Monty! By the shade of Shakspeare! I never knew you to look at
business, except to prevent it running you down like a Fourth Avenue mail
bus.”
</p>
<p>
“It is in the interest of science,” said Shirley, drawing the manager
aside, “an experiment—”
</p>
<p>
“Fudge on science. You interrupt a game at this time of night!”
</p>
<p>
“But it means money. I am willing to pay.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, Monty, money should never come between friends, and so I retract:
with three failures this season, because the public doesn't appreciate
art.”
</p>
<p>
“It's about moving pictures. I know that you have floated a syndicate for
big productions. Do you work night and day?”
</p>
<p>
“An investment? Heaven bless you! Come into my bedroom and we'll arrange
things of course, we work at night. Just this minute they are producing
the 'Bartered Bride' in six reels and eighteen thrills a foot. A
magnificently equipped studio, the public yelling for more how much have
you?”
</p>
<p>
“Not so fast, Dick. It's merely some special work tonight, what you would
call trick photography. I need a photographer, some lights, a little
space, a microscopic lens and the complete developing during the night.
And, I'll pay cash, as I have done with some suspicious poker losses in
this temple of the muses on bygone evenings. Which, I may urge with gentle
sarcasm is more than I have frequently received at your hands.”
</p>
<p>
“Touche!” laughed Holloway. “I'll write a note to the studio manager—he's
there now, and will do what you want. You could have your picture
completed by morning with a little financial coaxing applied in the right
place. Come to the library table. Go on with the game, boys, it will save
me a little.”
</p>
<p>
The potentate of dry goods was drawing in his winnings, as Shirley leaned
over Holloway's shoulder to dictate the missive. Suddenly a revolver shot
rang out from the window, and a bullet crashed into the wall behind
Shirley's head.
</p>
<p>
His hand, idly dropped into his overcoat pocket, intuitively closed around
his automatic revolver. A dark silhouette was outlined against the gray
luminosity cast up by the lights of Broadway, half a block from the
window. Through the opening another belching flame shot forth, to be
answered by the criminologist's weapon, barking like a miltraileuse. They
heard a stifled cry, and as Shirley ran forward, he exclaimed with
disappointment.
</p>
<p>
“He's escaped down the fire-escape and through that skylight.”
</p>
<p>
He faced about to smile grimly at the curious scene within. The playwright
had taken refuge among the brass andirons of the big empty fireplace. The
matinee heroes were under chairs, and Holloway behind the mahogany buffet.
From the direction of the stairway came shrill cries from the speeding
merchant, softening in intensity as he neared the street level.
</p>
<p>
“The battle's over!” exclaimed Holloway. “I don't know whether it was my
chorus men wishing the gipsy curse on me, or the stage-carpenters going on
a strike. But look! See the swag that Jerry left behind! What shall we do
with it?”
</p>
<p>
“Loot!” suggested the playwright, with rare discrimination, as he dusted
off the wood ashes, and approached the table with glistening eyes. “We'll
divide share and share alike. It's the only way to win from Jerry.”
</p>
<p>
Temperament was asserting its gameness. Shirley put back into position a
shattered portrait of Sarah Bernhardt, and his eyes twinkled as the
apostles of the muses hastened to divide the chips of the departed one
into five generous piles. Holloway completed the letter, albeit with a
nervous chirography, and handed him the envelope.
</p>
<p>
“Go now, before a submarine war zone is declared. I'm going to close up
shop before the police come visiting. Good luck, Monty, in the cause of
science.”
</p>
<p>
Although his conscience was clear about the game having created five
surprised winners by his interruption, he was disturbed over the certainty
that the voice was aware of his personal work in the case. The
difficulties were now trebled! Before any policemen appeared Shirley had
passed Broadway on his way to the motion picture studio, on the West side
of Tenth Avenue. Whatever secret observers may have been on his tracks,
nothing untoward occurred: still, his senses were quickened into caution
by the attempt on his life.
</p>
<p>
A parley with a grumpy gateman, the presentation of his letter and he was
admitted to the presence of the manager, a man exhausted with the
strenuosity of night and day work. Shirley understood the antidote for his
sullenness.
</p>
<p>
“Here, old man, send out for a little luncheon for the two of us. I have
some unusual experimental work, and need the assistance of a well-known
expert like yourself.” The flattery, embellished by a ten-dollar bill,
opened a flood-gate of optimism.
</p>
<p>
A camera man was summoned, and the apparatus prepared for some “close-up”
motion pictures. Under the weird green lights of the mercury vapor lamps,
a director and company of players were busily enacting a dramatic scene,
before a studio set. They gave little heed to the newcomer: boredom is a
prime requisite of poise in the motion picture art.
</p>
<p>
“I have here three phonograph records, which I want photographed.”
</p>
<p>
“But they don't move—you want a still camera,” exclaimed the
dumfounded manager.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, they do move as the picture is taken. I want a microscopic lens used
in the camera in such a way that we take a motion picture of the twinings
and twistings of one little thread on the wax cylinder, as it records the
sound waves around the cylinder.”
</p>
<p>
The photographer sniffed with scorn, being familiar with eccentric
uplifters of the “movies,” but responded to the command of the manager to
adjust his delicate camera mechanism for the task.
</p>
<p>
“There is a certain phrase of words on each cylinder which I want recorded
this way. Can all three be taken parallel with each other on the same
film?”
</p>
<p>
“Sure, easiest thing to do—just a triple exposure. We take it on one
edge of the film, through a little slit just a bit wider than the space of
the thread, cut in a screen. Then we rewind that film, and slide the slit
to the middle of the lens, take your second wax record, and do the same on
the right edge of the film for the third. But what's the idea?”
</p>
<p>
The camera man began to show interest: he was a skilled mechanician and he
caught the drift of a sensible purpose, at last.
</p>
<p>
Shirley did not answer. He placed the first record in the phonograph,
running it until the feminine voice could be distinguished asking: “Can
you hear me now?” He marked the beginning and end of this phrase with his
pocket knife. So with the merry masculine and the aged, disagreeable
voice, he located the same order of words: “Can you hear me now?” The
operation seems easy, in the telling, or again perhaps it appears
intensely involved and hardly worth the trouble. A motto of Shirley's was:
“Nothing is too much trouble if it's worth while.” So, with this. To the
cynical camera man its general nature was expressed in his whispered
phrase to the manager:
</p>
<p>
“You better not leave them property butcher knives on that there table,
Mr. Harrison. This gink is nuts: he thinks's he's Mike Angelo or some
other sculpture. He'll start sculpin' the crowd in a minute!”
</p>
<p>
“You take the picture and keep your opinions to yourself,” snapped Shirley
whose hearing was highly trained.
</p>
<p>
The man lapsed into silence. For two hours they fumed and perspired and
swore, under the intense heat of the low-hung mercury lamps, until at last
a test proved they had the right combination. Shirley greased the skill of
the camera man with a well-directed gratuity, and ordered speedy
development of the film. Before this was done, however, he took six other
records of voices from the folk in the studio, using the same words: “Can
you hear me now?”
</p>
<p>
The three strips of triple exposures were taken to the dark room and
developed by the camera man. They were dried on the revolving electric
drums, near a battery of fans. Shirley studied every step of the work,
with this and that question—this had been his method of acquiring a
curiously catholic knowledge of scientific methods since leaving the
university, where sporting proclivities had prompted him to slide through
courses with as little toil as possible.
</p>
<p>
A print upon “positive” film was made from each: every strip was
duplicated twenty-five times, at Shirley's suggestion. Then after two
hours of effort the material was ready to be run through the projecting
machine, for viewing upon the screen.
</p>
<p>
The manager led Shirley to the small exhibition theatre in which every
film was studied, changed and cut from twenty to fifty times before being
released for the theatres. The camera man went into the little fire-proof
booth, to operate the machine.
</p>
<p>
“Which one first, chief?”
</p>
<p>
“Take one by chance,” said Shirley, “and I will guess its number. Start
away.”
</p>
<p>
There was a flare of light upon the screen, as the operator fussed with
the lamp for better lumination. He slowly began to turn the crank, and the
criminologist watched the screen with no little excitement. The picture
thrown up resembled nothing so much as three endless snakes twisting in
the same general rhythm from top to bottom of the frame. The twenty-five
duplicates were all joined to the original, so that there was ample
opportunity to compare the movements.
</p>
<p>
“Well, gov'nor, which film was that?” asked the operator.
</p>
<p>
“Not A—it was B or C!”
</p>
<p>
“Correct. How'd you guess it? Which is this one?”
</p>
<p>
As he adjusted another roll of film in the projector, Shirley turned to
the manager sitting at his side. “Mr. Harrison, were those snakes all
exactly alike?”
</p>
<p>
“No. They all wriggled in the same direction, at the same time. But little
rough angles in some movements and queer curves in others made each
individually different.”
</p>
<p>
“Just what I thought. There goes another.—That is not film A,
either!”
</p>
<p>
“Righto!” confirmed the camera man. As the detailed divergence between the
lines became more evident in the repetitions, Shirley slapped his knee.
</p>
<p>
“Now for the finish. Try reel A.”
</p>
<p>
This time the three snakey lines moved along in almost identical
synchronism. The only difference was that the first was thin, the second
heavier, the third the darkest and most ragged of all. The relationship
was unmistakable!
</p>
<p>
“I got you gov'nor,” cried the operator. “Some dope, all right, all
right.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, what is all this?” asked the manager, nonplussed. “The last three
are alike, but what good does it do?”
</p>
<p>
“It is known that the human voice in its inflections is like handwriting—with
a distinct personality. Certain words, when pronounced naturally, without
the alterations of dialect, are always in the same rhythm. The records
taken in the studio of those five words, 'Can you hear me now?' are in the
same general rhythm, but only the last three snakes show exact similarity,
to each little quaver and turn. There was only the difference in shading:
one was the voice of a women. The second of a man of perhaps forty, the
third of an old man—all three taken at different times, and I
thought from different people. But they all came from one throat, and my
work is completed along this line—Will you please lock up the films,
the phonograph, and my records in your film vault, until I send for them;
through Mr. Holloway?”
</p>
<p>
The criminologist arose and walked into the deserted studio, from whence
the company had long since departed for belated slumbers. He picked up
three bricks which lay in a corner of the big studio, and placed them
gently into his grip. The manager and the camera man observed this with
blank amazement, as he locked it and put the key into his pocket. Then he
handed each of them a large-sized bill.
</p>
<p>
“I'm very grateful, gentlemen, for your assistance. Pleasant dreams.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley abstractedly walked out of the studio, one hand comfortably in his
overcoat pocket, swinging the grip in the other.
</p>
<p>
“Say, Lou,” confided the manager, “he's the craziest guy I've ever seen in
the movies. And that's going some, after ten years of it.”
</p>
<p>
Lou treated himself to a generous bite of plug tobacco, and spat
philosophically, before replying.
</p>
<p>
“Sure, he's crazy. Crazy, like the grandfather of all foxes!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII. ENTER A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
</h2>
<p>
A reddening zone in the East silhouetted the serrated line of the distant
elevated structure, as Shirley walked along the gray street, his thoughts
busy with the possibilities of applying his new certainty.
</p>
<p>
He had reached Sixth Avenue, and was just passing one of the elevated
pillars when a black touring car crept up behind him. The clanging bell
and the grinding motors of an early surface car drowned the sound of the
automobile in his rear. Suddenly the big machine sprang forward at highest
speed. A man leaned from the driver's seat, and snatched the grip from his
hand.
</p>
<p>
The motorman, cursing, threw on the emergency brake, in time to barely
graze the machine with his fender as it shot across the street before him.
</p>
<p>
Shirley's view was cut off, until he had run around the street-car—then
he beheld the big automobile skidding in a half-circle, as it turned down
Fifth Avenue. It was too far away to distinguish the number of the singing
license tag.
</p>
<p>
“Much good may the bricks do them! Perhaps they will help to build the
annex necessary up the river, when these gentry go there for a long
visit.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley laughed at the joke on his pursuers, and turned into a little
all-night grill for a comforting mutton chop of gargantuan proportions,
with an equally huge baked potato. He was a healthy brute, after all his
morbid line of activities! Later, at the Club, he submitted to the
amenities of the barber, whose fine Italian hand smoothed away, in a
skilful massage, the haggard lines of his long vigil. As he left the club
house for William Grimsby's residence he looked as fresh and bouyant as
though he had enjoyed the conventional eight hours' sleep.
</p>
<p>
“You are this Montague Shirley?” was the querulous greeting from the old
gentleman, when he was admitted to the drawing-room. “You kept me in
anguish the entire night, with your silly words. The telephone bell rang
at intervals of half an hour until dawn: I may have missed some important
business deal by not replying What do you mean? Is this some blackmail
game?”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir. It has to deal with blackmailing, however—but not for my
profit.”
</p>
<p>
“Explain quickly. I am a busy man. My motor is waiting now to take me to
my office.”
</p>
<p>
“Look here, Mr. Grimsby, at this memorandum book,” said Shirley, holding
forward the list which he had copied from the joy-party article in the
theatrical paper. “With some friends of yours, you held merry carnival to
Venus and Bacchus at an all-night lobster palace not long ago. Have I the
right names?”
</p>
<p>
“This is rank impertinence. How dare you? Get out of my house.”
</p>
<p>
“Not so fast, my dear sir, until you understand my drift. Throughout Club
circles you and Mr. Van Cleft, with these other cronies are sarcastically
referred to as the Lobster Club. Did you know that?”
</p>
<p>
Grimsby's face was purple with angry mortification, but Shirley would not
be gainsaid. “I am acting in this matter as a friend of Howard Van Cleft,”
he continued. “Your three friends have met their deaths at the hand of a
cunning conspirator. Last night, white I talked with you on the telephone,
young Van Cleft was receiving advice over another wire from a person who
pretended to be William Grimsby—advising him to hush the matter up
and drop the investigation. But—Captain Cronin the famous detective—has
received a tip that the number of victims would be increased very soon—frankly,
now: do you want to be the fourth?”
</p>
<p>
Grimsby's face changed to ashen gray, as he timidly clutched Shirley's
sleeve.
</p>
<p>
“Then cooperate with me. You understand now the nature of this villain's
work: to rob and assassinate his victim in the company of a girl, so that
this would endeavor to hush the scandal, without reporting it to the
police. His progress is unchecked, and afterwards he would have untold
opportunity for continuing a demand for hush money on the surviving
relatives. May I count on you to help?”
</p>
<p>
“You may count on me to leave the city within the next two hours.”
</p>
<p>
“Good! But I want to have you disappear so quietly that this cunning
unknown will not know of it. He is watching your house now, without a
doubt.”
</p>
<p>
Grimsby strode to the window, with his characteristic limp, and drew the
heavy curtains aside, to peer out nervously.
</p>
<p>
“No one is in sight.”
</p>
<p>
“The man is as unseen in his work as a germ. But he is not unheard: he
uses the telephone to locate his victims, that is why I advised you to let
your instrument ring unanswered.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll do what I can, if I can keep out of more danger. An old man craves
life more than a young one. I fought through the Civil War and brought a
medal from Congress and this wounded knee out of it, Mr. Shirley. I didn't
fear anything then, but times have changed!”
</p>
<p>
“Here is my plan, then,” continued Shirley, his lips twitching with
sub-strata amusement, “I want to impersonate you, when you leave, so that
this man tries to send me after the other three. Don't interrupt, let me
finish—You will say that it is impossible to deceive any one at
close range. Surely, it does sound melodramatic, like a lurid tale of a
paper back novel. But I have studied the photographs of your friends. You
and I bear the closest resemblance of any in the group. Your weight is
about the same as mine—your shoulders are a trifle stooped and you
walk with a curious drag of your left foot. Your hair is white but thick:
the contour of our faces is quite similar, and so with dry cosmetics, some
physical mimicry, and the use of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses like yours
I can make a comparatively good double. The only exposure to the sharp
eyes of your enemies will be, first, when I substitute myself for you and
take your automobile back home; second, when I go down to the theatrical
district, to visit a well-known tearoom where I learn you are a frequent
guest. There the wall tables are shrouded by decorations, and I shall keep
in the shadow and talk as little as possible. Behind those dark glasses,
and entering the place with your peculiarly spotted fur coat, I will
resemble you more than you believe. If to add to the illusion, I show
hospitable prodigality with drinks for the others, it is probable that
their observation will be less analytical. Then, third in the line of
activities, I will go to the theatre, sit in a darkened box, and let them
take me where they will in whatever automobile turns up. Thus you see my
campaign.”
</p>
<p>
“How much do I have to pay you?”
</p>
<p>
“I might have expected that,” was the laughing retort. “You are noted for
the fortunes you waste on stupid show girls, while times are hard with you
in your offices where young and old men struggle along to support honest
families. Have no fear, Mr. Grimsby, my income is enough for my simple
wants. I am entering this hunt for big game, just as I have gone to India
and East Africa, for jungle trophies. It will not cost you a nickel.”
</p>
<p>
“I had better contribute a little,” began Grimsby, embarrassed, as he drew
out a check-book. But Shirley negatived with emphasis.
</p>
<p>
“How about your servants? Can you trust them with the secret?”
</p>
<p>
“They have been with me for twenty-five years or more. My wife is in
California, and the rest of the servants, except two maids and a butler,
up at my country home on the Hudson.”
</p>
<p>
“Fine: then, in two hours from now, meet me at the Hotel Astor, where I
have rooms, in the name of Madden. Bring down an extra suit of clothes,
and an extra overcoat, for I want to wear your fur one, which I see there
on the davenport. On the downward trip instruct your chauffeur to drive
your car up to your country place, as soon as he has made the return trip
from the hotel. You will be there before he gets up, on the country roads
and he will be none the wiser. Goodbye, Mr. Grimsby.”
</p>
<p>
At the club Shirley made some necessary disposition of his private
matters, for he knew this case would run longer than a day. From his rooms
he sent a note by messenger to his theatrical friend, Dick Holloway, which
read simply.
</p>
<p>
“Dear Holloway:—The experiment with the movies won the blue ribbon.
I have a new plan on foot. You can help me in this, as well. I want you to
engage for me a beautiful, clever and daring actress, afraid of nothing
under the sun or moon, and absolutely unknown on Broadway. No amateurs or
stage-struck heiresses or manicurists: you are the one impresario who can
fill my bill. I will call at your office in fifteen minutes, so have the
compact sealed by then. Who finally won the loot, last night?
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Your friend, Montague Shirley.”
</pre>
<p>
The manager was forced to go through the note twice, to make sure that his
senses were not leaving him. Then he turned in the chair, toward the
unusual young woman who sat in his private office, observing with mingled
amusement and curiosity the fleeting expressions upon his face.
</p>
<p>
“In view of your mission in America, this may interest you,” was his
amused comment, as he handed her the missive. “It is from the most curious
man in New York.”
</p>
<p>
He studied the downcast lashes, as she read the letter. Hers was a face
which had stirred a continent, yet he had never met her until this
memorable day. She might have been twenty-three years old—and again,
might have been three years younger or older. Rippling red-gold waves of
hair separated in the center of her smooth brow to caress with a soft wave
on either side the blooming cheeks, whose Nature-grown roses were unusual
in this world-weary vicinity of Broadway. A sweet mouth with a sensuous
smile at one corner, and a barely perceptible droop of pathos at the
other, lent an indescribable piquance to her dimpled smile. The blue orbs
which raised to his own with a Sphinxian laugh in their azure depths
thrilled him—Holloway, the blase, the hardened theatrical manager,
flattered and cajoled by hundreds of beautiful women on the quest of stage
success!
</p>
<p>
Adroitly veiled beneath the silken folds of the clinging gown, redolent
with the bizarre artistry of a Parisian atelier, was the shapely
suggestion of exquisite physical perfection which did not escape the
connoisseur glance of Holloway.
</p>
<p>
“He is a literary man: I know that from the small, yet fluent writing, and
the cross marks for periods show that he has written for newspapers and
corrected his own proofs—He is unusually definite in what he desires
and accustomed to having his imperious way about most things. In this
case, he is easily pleased—merely perfection is his desire.”
</p>
<p>
“Shirley is generally prompt, and is apt to breeze in here any second now,
with his two hundred pounds and six feet of brawn and ginger. I wonder—”
</p>
<p>
“Why do you suppose such a paragon is desired by your friend? Who is he?
What is he like, not an ordinary actor—” and the wondrous eyes
darkened with a curious thought.
</p>
<p>
“My dear lady, no one has discovered the mental secrets of Montague
Shirley. He apparently wastes his life as do other popular society men
with much money and more time on their hands. Yet, somehow, I always feel
in his presence as one does when standing on the bow of an ocean liner,
with the salt breeze whizzing into your heart. He is a force of nature,
yet he explains nothing: a thorough man of the world; droll, sarcastic,
generous and I believe for democracy he is unequaled by any Tammany
politician: he knows more policemen, dopes, conductors, beggars,
chauffeurs, gangsters, bartenders, jobless actors, painters, preachers,
anarchists, and all the rest of New York's flotsam and jetsam than any one
in the world. He is always the polished gentleman, and yet they take him
man for man.”
</p>
<p>
“What does this unusual person do for a living?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing but living!”
</p>
<p>
Her interest was naturally undiminshed by this perfervid tribute, and she
clapped her dainty hands together with sudden mirth.
</p>
<p>
“You know why I came here, and why to you, Mr. Holloway. You know who I
am, and although I answer none of those exorbitant terms except that I am
not known by sight along your big street Broadway, why not recommend me
for the position?”
</p>
<p>
“But you, of all people!” Holloway's face was a study in amazement. “You
can't tell what wild project he has in view. Shirley is a wild Indian, in
many things you know—just when you least expect it. I have known him
a dozen years.”
</p>
<p>
He paused to weigh the matter, and his sense of humor conquered. He roared
with mirth, which was joined in more sedately by the unknown girl. “That
settles it. You couldn't start on your campaign in a better way. You shall
be the Lady of Mystery in this story! I will not breathe a hint of your
identity to Shirley, and no one else knows, of course. What a ripping good
joke: I'm glad you came here the first hour after your landing in New
York.”
</p>
<p>
“What shall I call myself? I have it—a romantic name, which will be
worth laughing over later—let me see—Helene Marigold. Is that
flowery enough?”
</p>
<p>
“Shirley will be sure you are an actress when he hears that. Mum is the
word, may you never have stage fright and never miss a cue—Here he
comes now!”
</p>
<p>
The criminologist rushed into the office impetuously, dropping his bag on
the floor, and doffing his hat as he beheld the pretty companion of
Holloway.
</p>
<p>
“On time to the minute, as usual, Shirley. Your note came, and I followed
your instructions. Let me present to you your new star, Miss Helene
Marigold, who just disembarked on the steamer from England this morning.
You have secured a young lady who is making all Europe sit up and rub its
eyes. I believe I have at last found a match for you, Prince of the
Unexpected!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley held forth his fervent hand, and was surprised at the almost
masculine sincerity with which the delicately gloved fingers returned the
pressure. He looked into the blue eyes with a challenging scrutiny, and
received as frank an answer!
</p>
<p>
Dick Holloway indulged in an unobserved smile, as he turned to look out of
the window, lost for the nonce in mirthful speculation.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER VIII. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK
</h2>
<p>
“Dick, you can help me further, with your dramatic knowledge. I feel in
duty bound to tell Miss Marigold that she is risking her life, if she
takes up this task.”
</p>
<p>
Instead of hesitancy, which Shirley half expected, the girl's face flushed
with quickened interest, and her eyes sparkled with enjoyment as he
unfolded the situation. At the mention of Grimsby, Holloway grunted with
disgust—it may have been a variety of professional jealousy. Who
knows? However, the problem fascinated the mysterious young woman, who
blushed, in spite of herself, when Shirley put his blunt question to her.
</p>
<p>
“And you are willing to assume for a time the character of one of these
stage moths, whom rich men of this type pursue and woo, wine, dine and
boast about? Will it interfere with your own work? Any salary arranged by
Mr. Holloway is agreeable, for this unusual task.”
</p>
<p>
“The game, not the money, is the attraction. I will be ready when you
pronounce my cue.”
</p>
<p>
“Splendid. Dick, will you assist Miss Marigold in selecting an attractive
apartment in a theatrical hotel this afternoon. I will call for her at
four-thirty, to take her to tea. She may not know me, at first glance:
that depends upon the help you give me at the Astor. I will expect you
there in an hour. I haven't acted since I left the college shows: with a
hundred chances to one against my success, even I am not bored.”
</p>
<p>
He hurried from the office, and Holloway noted the glow in the girl's
glance which followed his stalwart figure. Holloway was a good tactician:
there were reasons why he enjoyed this new role of match-maker de luxe,
yet he played his hand far more subtly than at poker. Which was well!
</p>
<p>
Ensconced in the Astor, Shirley was soon busy before the cheval glass,
from which were suspended three photographs of William Grimsby, obtained
from a photographic news syndicate.
</p>
<p>
Coat and waistcoat had been removed, as he discriminatingly applied the
dry cosmetics with skill which suggested that he had disguised himself for
daylight purposes far more than he would admit. By the time he had
powdered his thick locks with the white pulverized chalk, and donned a
pair of horn-rim glasses of amber tint, his whole personality had changed.
The similarity was startling to the prototype who was admitted to the room
a few minutes later.
</p>
<p>
“Why, I beg pardon—I have come to the wrong suite,” were Grimsby's
apologetic words, as he essayed to retreat.
</p>
<p>
“You are the first victim of the mirage. Do you like the caricature?”
</p>
<p>
“Astounding, my friend!” gasped Grimsby, sinking into the chair. Shirley
drew him to the mirror, to make a closer study of the lines of senility
and late hours. A few delicate touches of purple and blue, some retouching
of the nostrils, and he drew on the suit provided by his elder. Dick
Holloway was announced, and Shirley ordered some wine and a dinner for
one! At Grimsby's surprise, Shirley, smiled indulgently.
</p>
<p>
“I am selfish—I will have a little supper party by myself, and spare
you in nothing. I want you to eat, to drink, to pour wine, to take out
your wallet, to walk, to sit down, to laugh, to scold! You have a task,
sir: I will imitate you move by move! This is a rare experiment.”
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott! Which is you?” cried Holloway who entered with the burdened
waiter.
</p>
<p>
“Neither. We're both me!” chuckled the criminologist. “But let me
introduce you to my twin—”
</p>
<p>
The two men exchanged formalities with an undercurrent of dislike. Shirley
lost no time. He compelled the old man to run through his paces, as
Holloway criticized each study in miming. Just as the capitalist would
swing his arms, limp with his left leg, shift his head ever so little,
from side to side in his walk, so Shirley copied him. A word here, an
exhortation there, and Shirley improved steadily under Holloway's
analytical direction. At last the lesson was ended, with the manager's
pronounciamento of “graduation cum lauda.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll have to star you, Monty,” he declared, as Shirley put on the fur
greatcoat of the old man, grasping the gold headed cane, and drooping his
shoulders in a perfect imitation of the other's attitude.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps it will be necessary. The chorus men have invaded society with
their fox-trots and maxixe steps. We club men will have to countercharge
the enemy, for self-preservation, to play heavy villains upon the stage.
Eh?”
</p>
<p>
He turned toward Grimsby, who was well wearied with the trying ordeal, and
evidencing a growing nervousness about his own escape.
</p>
<p>
“You know how to leave, according to my plan? Wrap the muffler well around
the lower part of your face, button this second overcoat closely about
your neck, and enter the private carriage which I ordered for 'Mr. Lee,'
waiting now at the Forty-fifth Street Side. Then drive leisurely to the
West Forty-second Street Ferry, where you can catch the late afternoon
train for your country place.”
</p>
<p>
“Good-bye, Mr. Shirley. I have been an old curmudgeon with you, I fear.
You have taught this old dog new tricks in several ways, young man.
Neither I nor my friends will forget your bravery. They are all out of the
city by now, according to word from my private secretary. Your field is
clear. Good luck, sir!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley and Holloway left the rooms first. Neither addressed the other on
the lift, as it descended to the street level. Holloway casually followed
Monty as he stiffly walked to the big red limousine waiting at the
Forty-fourth Street entrance of the hostelry. The chauffeur sprang out,
opening the door with a respectful salute. The disguise was successful!
</p>
<p>
“Home!” grunted Shirley, sinking back into the car, with collar high about
his neck and the soft hat half concealing his eyes. He scrutinized the
faces of the passers-by, photographing in that receptive memory of his the
ugly features of two men, who peered into the limousine from under the
visors of their black caps. The car sped up town through the bewildering
maze of street traffic. The chauffeur helped him up the steps of the
brownstone mansion, while Grimsby's old butler swung open the glass door,
with a helping hand under the feeble arm.
</p>
<p>
Shirley puffed and grunted impatiently until he heard the door close
behind him. Then straightening up, he turned upon the startled butler.
</p>
<p>
“Well, my man. Go out and tell the chauffeur to leave for the country at
once, as Mr. Grimsby already ordered him to do.”
</p>
<p>
“My Gawd, sir!” exclaimed the servant, paling perceptibly. “What's come
over you, sir?—Oh, I beg pardon, sir, you're the other gentleman.
You certainly fooled me, sir—You're bloody brave, sir, to do all
this for the master. Are we in any danger?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a bit—whatever happens will be outside the house. Just keep up
the secret, as you value your master's life. Go, and tell the man. I must
kill time here in the library, reading until four o'clock.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley threw aside the greatcoat, and walked to the window of the small
reception room which faced the street, to draw aside the curtains and
watch the chauffeur, as he entered the machine to speed away. A black
automobile slowly passed the house, bearing two men on the driver's seat.
From under the visors of their black caps they scrutinized the building,
to hastily look away as they observed the face at the window.
</p>
<p>
Shirley made a note of the number of the machine. He could have sworn that
this was the same car which had passed him that morning at dawn when the
grip was snatched from his hand.
</p>
<p>
He returned to the library, where he lost himself in the rare old volumes
of Grimsby's life collection: the criminologist was a booklover and the
hours drifted by as in a happy playtime, until the butler came to tell him
the time.
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott! I must hurry. Call a taxi, for me. I will go to Holloway's
office to learn where Miss Marigold has been ensconced.”
</p>
<p>
He sat in the machine before the office building, as he sent the chauffeur
up to Dick's office, to inquire for a message to “Mr. Grimsby.” A note was
brought down, informing him that the girl awaited him in the Hotel
California, a few blocks above. The machine started off once more, and
Shirley laughed at the droll situation in which he found himself.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder who Helene Marigold can be? I wonder what Holloway meant
precisely when he predicted that I would meet my match. I am not seeking
one kind—and blue eyes, surrounded by red-gold hair and peaches and
cream will not shake my determination.”
</p>
<p>
But the best laid determinations of bachelor hearts gang aft agley!
</p>
<p>
Down at the Hotel California, famous for its rare collection of attractive
feminine guests and the manifold breach-of-promise suits which had
emanated from the palm bedecked entrance, Helene Marigold was indulging
herself in a delighted, albeit highly amused, inspection of sundry large
boxes which had been arriving from shops in the neighborhood.
</p>
<p>
“As nearly as I can imagine this must look like the bower of a Broadway
Phryne. All that is missing is a family portrait in crayon of the father
who was a coal miner, the presence of a buxom financial genius for the
stage mother, and a Chinese chow-dog on a cerise velvet cushion. But who
ever attains perfection here below?”
</p>
<p>
She lifted some filmy gowns which had arrived in the latest parcel to her
chin, peering over the sheerness of the lacy cascade, into the mirror of
the dressing-table.
</p>
<p>
“If good old Jack could see me now? Poor, old, stupid, dear, silly Jack! I
must write to him at once, for he is largely responsible for my present
unusual surroundings. How pleased this would not make him, the old dear.”
</p>
<p>
With the thought, she sat down before the escritoire, dipping a pearl and
gold pen, as she paused for the words with which to begin the note.
Another knock came at the door. It could not be another gown. She had told
Holloway to keep all her personal baggage at the steamer dock until she
had finished her lark! At the portal a diminutive messenger delivered a
large white box, ornately bound in lavender ribbons. When she unwrapped
it, hidden in the folds of many reams of delicate tissue, she found a
gorgeous bunch of orchids.
</p>
<p>
“How beautiful! I wonder who could have—” then she found a white
card, and read it aloud, with a mirthful peal of laughter.
</p>
<p>
“To Lollypop's little Bonbon Tootems—from her foolish old Da-Da!”
</p>
<p>
Helene turned toward the window, to gaze out over the mysterious, foreign
motley array of roofs and obtruding skyscrapers of this curious district.
</p>
<p>
“This mysterious man plays his part with a sense of humor. If only he will
be different and not mean the flowers, ever!”
</p>
<p>
And she forgot to finish the note which was to have gone to faraway,
stupid, dear old Jack.
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later an aged gentleman entered the gorgeous foyer of the
Hotel California, impatiently presenting his card to the bell-boy, for
announcement to Miss Marigold. The lad, true to tradition, quietly
confided the name to the interested clerk, before doing so. As the visitor
was shown to the elevator, the clerk turned to his assistant with a nudge.
</p>
<p>
“There's the easiest spender of the Lobster Club. That means good trade
here, with this new peach in the crate. These old ginks are hard as
Bessemer armor-plate in business, but oh, how soft the tumble for a new
shade of peroxide.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Grimsby” was soon sitting on the velour divan, at a comfortable
distance from possible eavesdroppers at the door. She was putting the
finishing touches to her preparation for the butterfly role. Shirley felt
an unexpected thrill at this little intimacy of their relations: the rooms
were permeated with the most delicate suggestion of a curious perfume,
which was strange to him. Somehow it fitted her personality so
effectually: for despite the physical appeal of her beauty, now
accentuated by the risque costume which she had donned, at the
professional suggestion of Dick Holloway, there was a pervasive
spirituality in the girl's face, her hands, and the tones of her soft
voice.
</p>
<p>
She turned to smile at him, her dimples playing hide and seek with the
white pearls beneath the unduly scarlet lip.
</p>
<p>
“Isn't this a ripping good situation for a novel?” she began.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, too good at present, Miss Marigold. There are too many, important
people to be affected for it ever to be given to the public, for the
identities would all be exposed ruthlessly. Besides, no one would believe
it: it seems too improbable, being real life. It will be more improbable
before we finish the adventure, I suspect. Can I trust your discretion to
keep it secret? You know, I have a deal of skepticism about the best of
women.”
</p>
<p>
Helene reddened under that keen glance, and he saw that he had offended
her.
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon: I know that we shall work it out together, with
absolute mutual trust.”
</p>
<p>
Such an earnest vibrance was in his voice that somehow she was reminded of
another voice: her mind went back to the neglected letter to Jack. What
could have caused her to be so remiss? She would not let herself dwell on
the subject—instead, with a surprising deftness, she caught up
Shirley's own cue, for a staggering question of her own.
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure that you have absolutely confided in me? Did you start at
the beginning, when you told the story to-day.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean?” and Shirley caught the glance sharply.
</p>
<p>
“Your unusual rapidity of action, Mr. Shirley, for a mere interested
friend! It is queer how wonderfully your mind has connected this work, and
the various accidental happenings, to evolve this clever ruse in which I
am to assist. It doesn't seem so amateurish as you would make it. You seem
mysterious to me.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you think I am the voice? Here is a chance for real detective work, if
you can double the game, and capture me?” was the laughing retort. “I
don't believe you trust me.”
</p>
<p>
The girl stood up before him, and after one deep look, her eyes fell
before his. Those exquisite lashes sent a tiny flutter through the
case-hardened heart of the club man, despite his desperate determination
to be a Stoic.
</p>
<p>
“I do trust you,” the voice was impetuous, almost petulant. “You are a
real man: I merely give you credit for being better than the class of rich
young men of whom you pretend to be an absolute type. But there, I waste
words and time. Is my costume for this little opera boufe satisfactory to
you? Do you like my warpaint and battle armor?”
</p>
<p>
She stood before him, a glorious bird of paradise. The wanton display of a
maddening curve of slender ankle, through the slash of the clinging gown
imparted just the needed allurement to stamp her as a Vestal of the temple
of Madness. The cunning simplicity of the draping over her shoulders—luminous
with the iridiscent gleam of ivory skin beneath, accentuated by the
voluptuous beauty of her youthful bosom—the fleeting change of
colors and contours as she slowly turned about in this maddening soul-trap
of silk and laces—all these were not lost on the senses of Shirley.
As the depths of those blue eyes opened before his gaze, a mad, a
ridiculous aching to crush her in his arms, surprised the professional
consulting criminologist! For this swift instant, all memory of the Van
Cleft case, of every other problem, was driven from his mind, as a
blinding blast of seething desire surged about him.
</p>
<p>
Then the old resolution, the conquering will of the man of one purpose,
beat back the flames of this threatening conflagration. His eyes narrowed,
his hands dropped to his side, and he squinted at her with the frigid
dissective gaze of an artist studying the curves of a model.
</p>
<p>
“You must rouge your cheeks more, blue your eyelids and redden your lips
even yet. Then be generous with the powder—and that wonderful
perfume.”
</p>
<p>
An inscrutable smile played about the sensitive lips, as Helene turned to
her dressing-table. Shirley stood with his face to the window; he did not
observe it, nor would he have understood its menace to his own peace of
mind. Helene, however, did. She was a woman.
</p>
<p>
“May I smoke a cigarette? I am afraid I am almost a fiend, for I seem to
crave the foolish comfort that I imagine they give, in times of nervous
drain.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Lollypop's little Bonton Tootems enjoys their fragrance. Don't ever
ask me again. I have completed the mural decoration with futurist
extravagance in the color scheme. My cloak, sir!”
</p>
<p>
He tossed it about her, and took up his hat and gold-headed stick. With a
final glance at his own careful make-up, he started after her for the
street.
</p>
<p>
“Some chikabiddy!” was the remark of the clerk to the head bell-boy. The
words reached the ears of Shirley and Helene. Her hand trembled on his arm
as they entered a waiting taxicab. She looked pathetically at him, as she
asked.
</p>
<p>
“Don't you think I am interested, sincere and loyal, to brave such remarks
as these, and the other worse things they will say before long? I wouldn't
dare do this, if I were not sure that no one in America but you and Mr.
Holloway knows me. To wear this horrid stuff on my face—to dress in
these vulgar clothes—to impersonate such a girl! You know I'm not
nearly as bad as I'm painted!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley clasped her white-gloved hand and nodded. He was studying the
pedestrians for a familiar twain of faces. He was not disappointed, as the
car swung into Broadway.
</p>
<p>
“Look—those two men have been following me wherever I have gone.
They are a pair of old-fashioned pirates. Don't forget their faces!”
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER IX. IN THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION
</h2>
<p>
Their destination, one of the score of tango tea-rooms which had sprung to
mushroom popularity within the year, was soon reached. Leaning heavily
upon his stick, limping like his aged model, and spluttering impatiently,
Shirley was assisted by the uniformed door man into the lobby. Helene
followed meekly. Four hat boys from the check-room made the conventional
scramble for his greatcoat, hat and stick, nearly upsetting him in their
eagerness. Then Shirley led the way into the half light of the tropical,
indoor garden, picking a way through the tables to a distant wall seat,
embowered with electric grapes and artificial vines.
</p>
<p>
“Sit down, my darling child,” said the pseudo Grimsby, as he dropped into
a seat behind the table, which was protected from the lights, and furthest
away from any possible visitors. “We are early, avoiding the crush. Soon
the crowd will be here. We must have some champagne at once, to assist me
in my defensive tactics. You will have to do most of the talking.
Remember, we are going to the Winter Garden musical review when we leave
here: you may tell this to whom you will.”
</p>
<p>
Helene looked about curiously, as the big tea-room began to fill with its
usual late afternoon crowd of patrons,—young, old and indeterminate
in age. Women of maturely years, young misses from “finishing” schools,
demimondaine, social “bounders” deluded by the glitter of their own
jewelry and the thrill of their wasted money that they were climbing into
New York society—these and other curious types rubbed elbows in this
melting pot of folly. The tinkle of glasses, the increasing buzz of
conversation, the empty laughter of too many emptied cocktail glasses
mingled with the droning music of an Hawaiian string quartette in the far
corner.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly, with banging tampani and the crash of cymbals, rattle of
tambourines and beating of tomtoms, the barbaric Ethiopians of the dancing
orchestra began their syncopated outrages against every known law of
harmony—swinging weirdly into the bewitching, tickling, tingling
rhythm of a maxixe.
</p>
<p>
“How strange!” murmured Helene, as the waiter brought them some champagne
and indigestible pastries—the true ingredients of 'dansant the'.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, on with the dance-let joy be unrefined! The fall of the Roman Empire
was the bounce of a rubber nursery ball, compared with this New York
avalanche of luxurious satiation! Now, my child, old Da-da, is going to
become too intoxicated to talk three words to any of these gallants and
their lassies. Grimsby did not write a monologue for me, so I must
pantomime: you will have to carry the speaking part of our playlet.
Flatter them—but don't leave my side to dance!”
</p>
<p>
The first bottle of wine had been carried away by the waiter, (half
emptied it is true,) as he filled a second order. Shirley shielded his
face beneath a drooping spray of artificial blooms from the top of their
wallbower. Several young men were approaching them, and the criminologist
noted with relief that they evidenced their afternoon libations even so
early. Eyes dulled with over-stimulus were the less analytical. Chance was
favoring him. The newcomers were garbed in that debonair and “cultured”
modishness so dear to the hearts of magazine illustrators. Faces, weak
with sunken cheek lines, strong in creases of selfishness, darkened by the
brush strokes of nocturnal excesses and seared, all of them with the brand
mark of inbred rascality, identified them to Shirley as members of that
shrewd class of sycophants who feast on the follies of the more amateurish
moths of the Broadway Candles.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, old pop Grimsby!”
</p>
<p>
“You're in the dark of the moon, Grimmie! I couldn't make you out but for
those horn rimmed head lights.”
</p>
<p>
“Welcome to the joy-parlor, old scout.”
</p>
<p>
The greetings of the juvenile buzzards varied only in phraseology: their
portent was identical: “Open wine.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor Mr Grimsby is so ill this afternoon, but sit down and have something
with us,” volunteered Helene tremulously.
</p>
<p>
The bees gathered about the table to feast on the vinous honey, while
Shirley, mumbling a few words, maintained his partial obscurity, with one
hand to his forehead.
</p>
<p>
“Fine boysh, m'deah. Boysh, meet little Bonbon—my protashsh!”
</p>
<p>
Little Bonbon was a pronounced attraction. Her vivacious charm drew the
eyes away from Shirley, who studied the expressions of the weasel faces
about him. The girl's heart sickened under the brutal frankness of a dozen
calculating eyes, yet she valiantly maintained her part, while Shirley
marveled at her clever simulation of silly, giggly, semi-intoxication. One
youth deserted them to disappear through the distant dining room entrance.
The comments about the table were interesting to the keen-eared
masquerader.
</p>
<p>
“Old Grimsby's picked a live one, this time!”—“What show is she
with?”—“Won't Pinkie be sore?” The criminologist was not left to
wonder as to the identity of “Pinkie,” for an older man, walking behind a
red-headed girl in a luridly modern gown, approached the table with the
absent guest. The men were talking earnestly, the girl staring angrily at
Shirley's, beautiful companion.
</p>
<p>
“Hey, here come's Reggie! Sit down, Reg. Pop has passed away, but his
credit is still strong.”
</p>
<p>
“There's Pinkie—come, my dear, and join the Ladies' Aid Society and
have a lemonade,” jested another youth, making a place for the girl in the
aisle.
</p>
<p>
Pinkie's dark-haired companion sank somewhat unsteadily into a chair next
the girl. He frowned and rubbed his forehead, as though to clear his mind
for needed concentration. He shook Shirley's arm, and spoke sharply.
</p>
<p>
“Look up; Grimmie. I never saw you feel your wine so early in the
afternoon. It was a lucky day for me on Wall Street, so I celebrated
myself. You are here earlier than usual. Everybody have some champagne
with me.”
</p>
<p>
As he beckoned to the waiter, the red-haired girl bestowed a murderous
look upon Helene, who was sniffing some flowers which she had drawn from
the vase on the table.
</p>
<p>
“Who's that Jane?” she demanded, her voice-shaking with jealousy.
“Grimmie, you act as if you were doped. Introduce us to your swell friend.
Wake him, Reg Warren.”
</p>
<p>
Helene's jeweled white hand protected the safety-first dozing of her
companion, as, through the interstices of his fingers, he studied the
inscrutable difference between the face of Warren and the other youths
about them.
</p>
<p>
“Let Pop dream of a new way to make a million!” laughed one young man.
“His money grows while he sleeps.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, let him dream on,” laughed Helene, with a shrill giggle. “When he
makes that extra million he can star me on Broadway, in my own show. He,
he!”
</p>
<p>
“You'll have to spend half of it at John the Barber's getting your voice
marceled and your face manicured,” snarled Pinkie. “Come, Reg, and dance
with me: these bounders bore me.”
</p>
<p>
“Run along, Pinkie, and fox-trot your grouch away with Shine Taylor. Here
comes the wine I ordered—What's your name, girlie? Where did you
meet Grimsby?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, we're old friends,” and Helene maliciously spilled a bottle over the
interrogator's waistcoat, as she reached forward to shake his hand. “My
name's Bonbon, you wouldn't believe me if I told you my real name, anyway.
Who are you?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not Neptune,” he retorted, as he mopped the bubbles with a napkin.
“You've started in badly.” Shirley mentally disagreed. His stupor still
obsessed him, but he noted with interest that Warren paid the check for
his bottle with a new one-hundred dollar bill. Warren could elicit nothing
from Helene but silly laughter, and so he arose impatiently, as Shine
Taylor returned to whisper something in his ear. “I must be getting back
to my apartment. Bring Grimsby up to it to-night: a little bromo will
bring him back to the land of the living. I'll have a jolly crowd there—top
floor of the Somerset, on Fifty-sixth Street, you know, near Sixth Avenue.
Come up after the show.”
</p>
<p>
“We're going to the Winter Garden,” suggested Helene, at a nudge from
Shirley, and Warren nodded.
</p>
<p>
“I'll try to see you later, anyway. Goodbye!”
</p>
<p>
Losing interest in the proceedings, as the time for reckoning the bill
approached, the other gallants followed these two. Alone, again, Shirley
ordered some black coffee, and smiled at his assistant.
</p>
<p>
“He told the truth for once.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean?”
</p>
<p>
“He will try to see us later. That man is a member of the murderous clan
whom we seek. 'To-night is the night' for the exit of William Grimsby—but,
perhaps we may have a stage wait which will surprise them.”
</p>
<p>
Gradually the guests thinned out in the tea-room, but Shirley cautiously
waited until the last.
</p>
<p>
“Do you believe these young men are all members of the gang?” asked the
girl. “Why do you suppose these men are all criminals? They surely look a
bad lot.”
</p>
<p>
“There are two general reasons why men go wrong. One is hard luck, aided
by tempting opportunity—they hope to make a success out of failure,
and then keep on the straight path for the rest of their lives. Such men
are the absconders, the forgers, the bank-wreckers, and even the petty
thieves. But once branded with the prison bars and stripes, they seldom
find it possible to turn against the tide in which they find themselves:
so they become habitual offenders. They are the easiest criminals to
detect. The second class are the born crooks, who are lazy, sharp-witted
and without enough will-power to battle against the problems of honesty in
work. It is easy enough to succeed if a man is clever and unscrupulous
without a shred of generosity. The hard problem is to be affectionate,
human, and conquer every-day battles by remaining actively honest, when
your rivals are not straight. The born crook is safer from prison than the
weakling of the first class.” He looked down at the coffee, and then
continued.
</p>
<p>
“I do not believe all these young men are in this curious plot. They are
merely the small fry of the fishing banks: they are petty rascals, with
occasional big game. But somewhere, behind this sinister machine, is a
guiding hand on the throttle, a brain which is profound, an eye which is
all-seeing and a heart as cold as an Antartic mountain. There is the
exceptional type of criminal who is greedy—for money and its
luxurious possibilities; selfish—with regard for no other heart in
the world; crafty—with the cunning of an Apache, enjoying the thrill
of crime and cruelty; refined and vainglorious—with pride in his
skill to thwart justice and confidence in his ability to continually
broaden the scope of his work. Crime is the ruling passion of this unknown
man. And the way to catch him is by using that passion as a bait upon the
hook. I am the wriggling little angle worm who will dangle before his eyes
to-night. But I do not expect to land him—I merely purpose to learn
his identity, to draw the net of the law about him, in such a way as to
keep the Grimsby and Van Cleft names from the case.”
</p>
<p>
“And how can that be done?”
</p>
<p>
“That, young lady, is my 'fatal secret.' The subplot developing within my
mind is still nebulous with me,—you would lose all interest, as
would I, if you knew what was going to happen. But the time has passed,
and now we can go to the theatre. I bought the tickets by messenger this
afternoon. I will let you do the talking to the chauffeur and the usher.”
</p>
<p>
They left the tea-room, the last guests out.
</p>
<p>
It was a touching sight to see the elderly gentleman supported on one side
by a fat French waiter, and on the opposite, by the solicitous girl. The
old Civil War wound was unusually troublesome.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER X. WHEN IT'S DARK IN THE PARK
</h2>
<p>
At the entrance of the restaurant the starter tooted his shrill whistle,
and a driver began to crank his automobile in the waiting line of cars.
According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order. But, as is
frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of “good fares”
another car “cut in” from across the street. This taxi swung quickly
around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.
</p>
<p>
Grunting and mumbling, as though still deep in his cups, Monty allowed
himself to be half pushed, half lifted into the car by the attendant.
Helene followed him. “Winter Garden,” she directed, and the machine sped
away, while the thwarted driver in the rear sent a volley of anathemas
after his successful competitor.
</p>
<p>
Shirley scrutinized the interior of the machine, but there seemed nothing
to distinguish it from the thousands of other piratical craft which
pillage the public with the aid of the taximeter clock on the port beam!
Soon they were at the big Broadway playhouse, where Shirley floundered out
first, after the ungallant manner of many sere-and-yellow beaux. He swayed
unsteadily, teetering on his cane, as Helene leaped lightly to the
sidewalk beside him. The driver stood by the door of the car, leering at
him.
</p>
<p>
“Here, keep the change,” and Shirley handed him a generous bill.
</p>
<p>
“Shall I wait fer ye, gov'nor? I ain't got no call to-night. I'll be
around here all evening.”
</p>
<p>
The criminologist nodded, and the chauffeur handed Helene the carriage
number check.
</p>
<p>
“Don't let 'em steal de old gink, inside, girlie. He's strong fer de
chorus chickens.”
</p>
<p>
Helene shuddered before the hawk-like glare of his malevolent eyes, but in
her part, she shook her head with a laugh, and followed airily after her
escort.
</p>
<p>
“Good-evening, sir. Back again to-night, I see,” volunteered the ticket
taker, to whom William Grimsby was a familiar visitant. Shirley reeled
with steadied and studied equilibrium, into the foyer of the theatre, as
he nodded. Their seats were purposely in the rear of a side box, well
protected from the audience by the holders of the front positions. The
criminologist appeared to relapse into dreams of bygone days, while his
companion peered into the vast audience and then at the nimble limbed
chorus on the stage with piquant curiosity.
</p>
<p>
“For years I wanted to see an American stage and an American audience,”
she confided in an undertone, “and to think that when I do so, it is
acting myself, on the other side of the footlights in a stranger, more
dramatic part than any one else in the theatre. A curious world, isn't
it?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley breathed deeply, drinking in the maddening perfume of her glorious
hair, so perilously near his own face. The shimmer of her shoulders, the
adorable curves of that enticing scarlet mouth murmuring so near his own,
and yet so far away, in this soul-racking game of make-believe, stirred
his blood as nothing else had done in all the kalaediscopic years.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, a more than curious world. How things have changed since last
evening when I planned a sleepy evening at the opera. I wonder what the
outcome will be?”
</p>
<p>
Helene looked up at him quickly, then as suddenly toward the Russian
danseuse within the golden frame of the great proscenium. The orchestra,
with its maddening Slavic music, stirred her pulses with a strange
telepathy. The evening wore along, until the final curtain. Shirley, with
cumbersome effort helped her with her cloak, dropping his hat and stick
more than once in simulated awkwardness. The electric numerals of the
carriage call soon brought the grimy-faced chauffeur.
</p>
<p>
“Jack on the spot, gov'nor, that's me!” and he swung the door open.
</p>
<p>
“We'll go get some supper—no, we'll take little 'scursion in Central
Park, first,” and his voice was thick, “correct, cabbie. Drive us shru
Central Park.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you going to take a chance in a dark park?” Helene asked him, as they
sat within the car, while the chauffeur cranked. Shirley was sharply
observing the man. A pedestrian crossed directly in front of the machine,
brushing against the driver, as he fumbled with the lamp. If there were an
interchange of words, the criminologist could not detect it.
</p>
<p>
“Surely. The park is good. We can be free of interference from the police.
Are you afraid?”
</p>
<p>
“No—” yet, it was a pardonably weak little voice which uttered the
valiant monosyllable.
</p>
<p>
“Here, Miss Marigold. Take this revolver. Don't use it until you have to,
but then don't hesitate a second.”
</p>
<p>
The machine started slowly up the street. Shirley groped about the sides
and bottom of the car, to make sure that no one could be concealed within
it. They were advancing up Broadway in leisurely fashion. It might have
been for the purpose of allowing some to follow. Shirley wondered, then
sniffed the air suspiciously. The girl looked at him with a silent
question.
</p>
<p>
“Quick, tear off your glove and let me have that diamond ring I noticed on
your finger, the large solitaire, not the dinner ring.”
</p>
<p>
Unquestioningly she obeyed. There was a strange Oriental odor in the car—suggestive
of an incense. The car was gliding up Central Park West, toward one of the
road entrances into the Park proper. Shirley's hand clutched the ring,
tensely. The driver, tactfully looking straight to the front, gave no heed
to the occupants of the Death Car. He was, by this time speeding too
rapidly for either of his passengers to have leaped out without injury.
Shirley understood the smoothness of the voice's system, by now. His hand
slid to the top of the glass door pane, on the right. Down the glass,
across the bottom, down from the other corner, and then over the top line,
he cut with the diamond, using a peculiar pressure. He rose to his feet,
gave the lower part of the pane a sharp tap. The glass, practically cut
loose from its case, now dropped and would have slid out to the roadway
with a crash had he not dexterously caught it, to draw it into the car.
Quickly he repeated the operation with the door pane at the left. A
nauseating, weakening something in the car sent Helene's head spinning;
she choked for breath and lay back weakly, despite her will. Shirley
turned to the small glass square in the rear. This came out more easily.
He lay the glass with the others, on the floor of the car. The good clear
air whirled through the openings, reviving the girl.
</p>
<p>
“Keep your eyes open, and that revolver ready. Now is the time. Pretend to
sleep.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley had drawn his own automatic by this time, and he realized that the
machine was slowing down. The chauffeur, as they passed a walk light,
looked back, observing that the two were apparently unconscious. He slowed
down still more, and tooted his horn three times. A large touring car
passed them, to stop some distance ahead. Then it sped on, as Shirley's
taxi followed lazily.
</p>
<p>
A figure suddenly came out of the darkness of the road. The driver stopped
the taxi, and walked around the front, as though to adjust the lamp. The
door opened slowly. A face covered with a black handkerchief obtruded. A
hand slid up the detective's knee, along his side toward the abdomen, and
a protruding thumb began a singular pressure directly below the
criminologist's heart. Shirley's analysis for Dr. MacDonald had been
correct! But jiu-jitsu is essentially a game for two.
</p>
<p>
Shirley's left hand suddenly shot forth to the neck of his assailant. His
muscular fingers closed in a deft and vice-like pinch directly below the
silk handkerchief. It was the pneumogastric nerve, which he reached: a
nerve which, when deadened by Oriental skill, paralyzes the vocal chords.
Not a sound emanated from the mysterious man, even when Shirley's right
hand shot forward, under the chin of the other, for a deft blow across the
thorax. The other tumbled backward.
</p>
<p>
“What's wrong, Chief? Too much gas?” cried the chauffeur rushing to the
side of the fallen man. As the driver dropped to his knees, Shirley flung
himself like a tiger upon the rascal's back. The struggle was brief—the
same silent silencer accomplished its purpose. Before the man knew what
had happened to him, he was dragged inside the car, and another deft pinch
sent him to oblivion!
</p>
<p>
“Hit him over the forehead with the butt of the revolver if he opens his
mouth,” grunted Shirley. “This is the chauffeur, now I'll get the other
one.”
</p>
<p>
Just then a cry came from the darkness: it was a passing patrolman.
</p>
<p>
“What you doing in that auto?”
</p>
<p>
But Shirley waited for no parley-explanations, showing his hand, laying
the whole scandal before the morning edition of the newspapers, were all
out of question now. He must take up the pursuit later. He caught up, the
chauffeur's cap, sprang into the driver's seat, and the car shot forward
like a race horse as he threw forward the lever. The astonished policeman
was within twenty-five yards of the spot, when the auto disappeared in the
darkness. He pursued it vainly.
</p>
<p>
A few moments later, a man with a handkerchief across his face, groaned
and then raised himself on his elbow, there in the roadway. He could not
remember where he was, nor why. Slowly he crawled on hands and knees, into
the rhododendrons by the roadside, where he again lost consciousness.
</p>
<p>
A big touring car rounded the curve of the roadway.
</p>
<p>
“Not a sign of the Chief,” said the driver. “He must have gone back to the
garage with the Monk. But that's a fool idea. Let's get down there right
away.”
</p>
<p>
The injured man's memory returned, and he rose stiffly to his feet. He
limped out of the Park, putting away the handkerchief, muttering profanity
and trying to fathom the mystery. As nearly as he could reason it out, he
must have been struck by another machine from the rear.
</p>
<p>
Far up in the northernmost driveway of the Park, where shrub grown banks
and rocky uplands shelter the thoroughfares, Shirley stopped his runaway
taxicab.
</p>
<p>
“Let me have his rubber coat, for I'm going to hide this car out on Long
Island. It's a long ride, but this man and his machine will disappear as
completely as though they had been dumped in the ocean.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley manacled the prisoner, and gagged him with a tightly knotted
handkerchief. He put the greatcoat of Grimsby's about Helene's shoulders,
as he brought her to the front seat of the machine. Then he shut the doors
on the prisoner, and drove the automobile out through the Easterly
entrance of the park.
</p>
<p>
“I'm not really brave, Mr. Montague,” said the tired voice at his side.
“I'm so glad I'm sitting by you, instead of back inside. We will be home
soon, won't we? I'm so exhausted—my first day in a strange country,
you know.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley, with the skill of a racing expert, guided the machine through the
maze of streets toward the Bridge over the East River. The touch of that
sweet shoulder, as it unconsciously nestled against his own, sent through
him a tremor which he had not experienced during the weird silent battle
in the dark.
</p>
<p>
“A strange night, in a strange country. Are you sorry you tried it?”
</p>
<p>
With a sidelong glance, he caught the starry light in her eyes as she
looked up at him: there seemed more than the mere reflection of passing
street lamps.
</p>
<p>
“A wonderful night: I'm glad, so glad, not sorry,” was her dreamy
response. She lapsed into silence as the somnolent drone of the motor and
the whirr of the wheels caused the tired eyes to close sleepily.
</p>
<p>
When he looked at her again, as they were speeding down the bridge Plaza
in Long Island City, she was dozing. The drowsy head touched his shoulder;
she seemed like a child, worn out with games, trustingly asleep in the
care of a big, strong brother.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER XI. A TURN IN THE TRAIL
</h2>
<p>
Helene was still asleep when Shirley stopped the engine of the taxi before
a stately Colonial mansion seated back among the pines of a beautiful Long
Island estate. They had been driving for more than an hour. The girl
stirred languorously as he strove to awaken her. She murmured drowsily:
</p>
<p>
“No, Jack, dear. Emphatically no. Let's not talk about it any more, dear
boy.”
</p>
<p>
“Who can Jack be?” and a surprising pang shot through Montague Shirley's
heart. “Jack, dear! Well, and what's it my business. She is a stranger.
She lives her life and I mine. But, at any rate, that settles some silly
things I've been thinking. I'm less awake than she is.”
</p>
<p>
This time he tried with better success, and Helene rubbed her eyes, with
hands stiffened by the brisk bite of the chill wind. She gazed at the
dimly lit house, at the big figure beside her, as Shirley sprang to the
ground—then remembered it all, and trembled despite herself.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, it's you, Mr. Shirley,” and she summoned up a little throaty laugh,
as she arose stiffly. “What a queer place to be in!”
</p>
<p>
“We are a long way from New York's white lights, Miss Marigold. This is
the country home of a good old friend of mine. You can remain here for the
rest of the night, as his wife's guest. To-morrow, when you are rested, he
can send you to the city in one of his cars.”
</p>
<p>
“You are the most curious man in two continents. I am bewildered. First,
you kidnap a chauffeur and privateer his car, then me. Now you besiege a
friend and wish to leave me on his doorstep as a foundling.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm sorry—it's the exigency of war! We must finish what we started.
This is the only place I know where I could thoroughly hide my trail. We
must wake up Jim, but first I will have a look at our guest.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley walked around the car, shooting the beam from his pocket
flashlight in through the open window of the taxi, to be met by the wicked
black eyes of his prisoner, who uttered volumes of unpronounceable hatred.
</p>
<p>
“You are still with us, little bright eyes. A pleasant trip, I trust? I
hope you found the air good—I tried to improve the ventilation for
your benefit, as well as my own.” Only a subdued gurgle answered him.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, what will they think of me—in this immodest gown, with this
paint on my face, and at this hour of night?” pleaded Helene, as he
started toward the door of the mansion.
</p>
<p>
“It would be awful at that,” and Shirley paused at the beseeching tone of
the girl. “I want you to meet Mrs. Jim as well as Jim. I am afraid they
would think this was the echo of an old college escapade, and misjudge
you. Let me think—”
</p>
<p>
He led her to a little summer-house close by, and tucked the big coat
about her as he added: “It's dark here—the wind doesn't reach you,
and I'll take you back to town in five minutes. Will that do?”
</p>
<p>
As she nodded, he hurried to the door where he yanked vigorously at the
bell. An angry head protruded from an upper story, after many encores of
the peals.
</p>
<p>
“Aw, what the dickens? Go some place else and find out!”
</p>
<p>
“Jim, Jim. It's Monty! Come down and let me in quick.”
</p>
<p>
The window closed with a bang as the head was withdrawn, while a light
soon appeared in the beveled panes of the big front door.
</p>
<p>
“You poor boob,” was the cheerful greeting as it swung wide, “What brings
you out here? I thought it was the usual joy party which had lost its way.
They always pick me out for an information bureau. Come on in!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley spoke rapidly, in a low tone. The girl in the dark summer-house
marveled at the rapid change of mien, as Jim suddenly ran down the steps
to gaze into the taxicab, then nodding to Shirley. The house-holder as
promptly returned through his front door, while Shirley swiftly unmanacled
the prisoner enough to let him walk, stiff and awkward from the long
ordeal in the car. The stern grip, of his captor prompted obedience.
</p>
<p>
Friend Jim had appeared with warmer garments, carrying a lantern. At the
door of the stable Jim's stentorian yell to the groom seemed useless, but
the two men entered. Helene felt miserably weak and deserted, in the chill
night, but she was cheered by seeing the energetic Shirley reappear,
pushing open the doors of the garage, which was connected with the stable.
He hurried to the deserted taxicab, where he seemed busied for several
minutes, the glow of his pocket lamp shooting out now and then. Through
the door of the garage a long, rakish-looking racing car was being pushed
out by Jim and his sleepy groom. There was a cheery shout from the taxi,
and Helene heard a ripping sound. Shirley reappeared, carrying an oblong
box.
</p>
<p>
“I have the gas generator:—it was built in, under the seat, and
controlled by a battery wire from the front lamp, Jim. A nice little
mechanism. Well, old pal, please apologize to Mrs. Merrivale for my rude
interruption of her beauty sleep. Keep a fatherly eye on Gentleman Mike,
and the taxicab under cover. I'll communicate with you very soon. So
long.”
</p>
<p>
To Helene's amazement, Shirley cranked the racer, jumped in and seemed to
be starting away without her, down the sweep of the driveway. Could he
have forgotten her? The man must indeed be mad, as some of his actions
indicated! But her aroused indignation was turned to admiration of his
finesse, for suddenly he veered the lights of the car toward the garage
door, throwing them in the faces of Jim and his servant. He leaped out
again, walking past the place of concealment.
</p>
<p>
“Slip into the car, while I go inside with them. I'll come out on the run,
and no one will be the wiser.”
</p>
<p>
With this passing stage direction he rushed toward his accomodating
friend, with some final directions. They were apparently humorous in
content, for both the other men roared with mirth, as he walked inside the
building, with them, an arm around the shoulder of each. Helene obeyed
him, hiding as best she could in the low seat of the throbbing machine. As
Shirley returned, Jim Merrivale was still laughing blithely.
</p>
<p>
“Good-bye, you old maniac: you'll be the death of me. I'll take care of
the star boarder, however, and feed him champagne and mushrooms.”
</p>
<p>
With a roar, Shirley started the engines, as he bounced into the seat, and
they sped down the curving driveway, with Helene leaning forward,
unobserved.
</p>
<p>
“There, we've had a little by-play that friend Jim didn't guess. I always
enjoy a little intrigue,” he laughed, as they whizzed along toward distant
New York. “But, I had to lie, and lie, and lie—like the light that
lies in women's eyes. What a jolly game!”
</p>
<p>
He was a big boy, happy in the excitement, and bubbling with his
superabundance of vitality. Helene felt curiously drawn toward him, in
this mood: she remembered a little paragraph she had read in a book that
day:
</p>
<p>
“A woman loves a man for the boy spirit that she discovers in him: she
loves him out of pity when it dies!” Then she fearsomely changed the
current of her thoughts, to complain pathetically of the cold wind!
</p>
<p>
“There, now, I am so thoughtless,” was his apology, as he stopped the car,
to wrap the overcoat more closely about her, and tuck her comfortably in a
big fur. Through the darkened streets of the suburb they raced, entering
the silent factory districts, which presaged the nearness of the river. It
was well on toward daybreak before they rolled over the Queensboro Bridge
to Manhattan. It was his second day without sleep, but Shirley was
sustained by the bizarre nature of the exploit: he could have kept at the
steering wheel for an eternity.
</p>
<p>
“Are you glad we're getting back?” he asked. Helene shook her head, then
she answered dreamily.
</p>
<p>
“Do you remember something from one of Browning's poems, that I do? It's
just silly for us, but I understand it better now.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley surprised her by quoting it, as he looked ahead into the dark
street through which they swung, his unswerving hand steady on the wheel:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
“What if we still ride on, we two,
With life forever old yet new,
Changed not in kind, but in degree,
The instant made eternity,—
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, forever ride?”
</pre>
<p>
A quick flush, not caused by the biting wind, suffused her cheek beneath
the remnants of the rouge. Then she laughed up at him appreciatively.
</p>
<p>
“Curious how our minds ran that way, and hit the very same poem, wasn't
it?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley smiled back, as he swung down Fifth Avenue.
</p>
<p>
“Not so curious after all!”
</p>
<p>
Soon they drew up before the ornate portal of the California Hotel, where
late arrivals were so customary as to cause no comment. He bade her
good-night, words seeming futile after their long hours together. The
drive in the car to the club was short. Paddy the door man was instructed
to send down to Shirley's own garage for a mechanic to store the car until
further orders. The criminologist had ere this rubbed off his grease
paint, so that his appearance was not unusual. Once in his rooms he
treated himself to a piping hot shower, cleaned off the powder from his
dark locks, and as he smoked a soothing cigarette, in his bathrobe,
studied the mechanism of the gas generator for a few moments.
</p>
<p>
“That was made by an expert who understands infernal machines with a
malevolent genius. I must look out for him,” he mused. “Well, I promised
Professor MacDonald that I would not sleep until I had come face to face
with the voice. I have fulfilled the vow: now for forgetfulness.”
</p>
<p>
He tumbled into bed, but not to oblivion. For his dreams were disturbed by
tantalizing visions of certain sun-gold locks and blue eyes not at all in
their simple connection with the business end of the Van Cleft mystery.
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XII. THE HAND OF THE VOICE
</h2>
<p>
It took stoicism to the Nth degree for Shirley to respond to the early
telephone call next morning, from the clerk of the club. A few minutes of
violent exercise, in the hand ball court, the plunge, a short swim in the
natatorium and a rub down from the Swedish masseur, however, brought him
around to the mood for another adventure. Sending for the racing car he
began the round-up of details. There was, first of all, Captain Cronin to
be visited in Bellevue. Here he was agreeably surprised to find the
detective chief recuperating with the abettance of his rugged Celtic
physique. The nurse told Shirley that another day's treatment would allow
the Captain to return to his own home: Shirley knew this meant the
executive office of the Holland Detective Agency.
</p>
<p>
“And sure, Monty, when I have a free foot once again, I'm going to apply
it to them gangsters who put me to sleep.”
</p>
<p>
“Just what I want you to do, Captain! I 'phoned to your men this morning
while I had breakfast at the club: they have that taxicab which was left
near Van Cleft's house. It's put away safely, Cleary said. There are two
gangsters where the dogs won't bite them; today they are sending out to
Jim Merrivale's house to get the third and he'll be busy with a little
private third degree. I have no evidence which would connect the man who
tried to kill me last night with the other murders, except in a
circumstantial way. What I must do is to follow up the trail, and get the
gentleman carrying out the bales, in other words, with the goods on him.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll get him, Monty, if I know you. The fellow hasn't called up at all
on the telephone to-day. I think he's afraid of you.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Captain Cronin, not that! He's up to some new game. Well, I'm off—take
care of yourself and don't eat anything the nurse doesn't bring you with
her own hands. I wouldn't put anything past this gang.”
</p>
<p>
He shook hands and hurried out of the hospital, with several more errands
to complete. He looked vainly about him for the gray racing-car. It was
gone! Here was another unexpected interference with his work, and Shirley,
sotto voce, expressed himself more practically than politely. He hurried
to an ambulance driver who stood in a doorway, solacing his jangled nerves
with a corn-cob smoke.
</p>
<p>
“Neighbor, did you see any one take the gray car standing here a few
minutes ago?”
</p>
<p>
“Yep, a feller just came out of the hospital entry, cranked her and jumped
in.”
</p>
<p>
“How long ago?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I just returned with a suicide actor case five minutes ago.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you might have seen him enter first?”
</p>
<p>
“Nope. Not a sign. All I seen was the way he cranked the machine, and he
didn't waste any elbow grease doin' it, either. He knew the trick. That's
what I thought when I seen him, even if he did look like a dude.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley hurried to the entry once more. This was the only portal through
which visitors were admitted to the hospital for the purpose of calling on
patients. He hastened to the uniformed attendant who took down the names
of all applicants. This man, upon inquiry, was a trifle dubious. True,
there had been two Italian women and before them—yes, there had been
a young chap with a green velour hat, and white spats. He had asked about
a Captain Cronin, and when told that a visitor was already seeing the
patient, agreed to wait outside. It had been about five minutes before.
The man was indefinite about more details. Shirley hurried to the
telephone booth in the corridor. To Headquarters he reported the theft of
car “99835 N.Y.,” giving a description of its special features and its
make. This warning he knew would be telephoned to all stations within five
minutes, so that every policeman in New York would be on the lookout for
the missing machine. Satisfied, he left the hospital, to walk across the
long block to the nearest north and south avenue, where he might catch a
surface car.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly he halted, to mutter in astonishment at a sight which was the
surprise of the morning: it was the missing car standing peacefully on the
next corner.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder what that means?” he murmured, as he stopped to study with great
interest the window of an Italian green grocer. A sidelong glance at the
car and its surroundings revealed nothing out of the way. He retraced his
steps to the hospital, wasted ten minutes with a cigarette or two, and
still no one seemed to take an interest in the automobile. Finally he
walked up to the car, trying the lock of which he had the only key.
Apparently it had been untampered with, for the key worked perfectly. Here
was Jim Merrivale's car, a good three hundred yards away from the place
where he had locked it to prevent any moving. He felt certain that keen
eyes had him under surveillance, yet he could not observe any observers
within the range of his own vision. It was simply a stupid, quiet slum
neighborhood and at the time, unusually deserted by the customary hordes
of children and dogs!
</p>
<p>
What had been the purpose in moving it such a short distance?
</p>
<p>
Where had it been in the twenty-five minutes since he had left it at the
entrance to the hospital?
</p>
<p>
Why had it been left here, of all places, where he would naturally walk if
desirous of taking a street-car?
</p>
<p>
There seemed no immediate answer to the conundrums. So, he nonchalantly
clambered into the car, after cranking it. The mechanism seemed in perfect
order. Puzzled, he started to speed up the street, when he observed a
white envelope close by his foot, on the floor of the car.
</p>
<p>
He picked it up, and tearing it open quickly read this simple message.
</p>
<p>
“To whom it may concern: It is frequently advisable to mind your own
business—is it not? Answer: Yes!”
</p>
<p>
“Huh,” grunted Shirley. “While not thrilling in originality, it is a
lasting truth which nobody can deny. I'll save this and frame it on the
walls of my rooms.”
</p>
<p>
As he drove around the corner and up the Avenue, there was suddenly a
terrific explosion, which threw him completely out of the machine! The
car, without a driver, its engines whirring madly, dashed into a helpless
corner fruit stand, scattering oranges, bananas, apples and desolation in
its wake, as it vainly endeavored to climb to the second story with
super-mechanical intelligence! Shirley, stunned and bruised, fell to the
pavement where he lay until an excited patrolman rushed to his rescue.
</p>
<p>
A little “first aid” work brought Shirley back to consciousness, and he
stiffly rose to his feet, with a head throbbing too much for any real
thinking.
</p>
<p>
“What's the matter with your auto?” cried the policeman. “Can't you run
it? Let's see the number.” The officer took out his notebook, to jot down
the details according to police rules. Then he turned on Shirley in
amazement. “Be gorry, it's car 99835 N.Y. I just wrote the number down
when I came on post with my squad! This car is stolen. You come with me!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley had been adjusting the mechanism, and the wheels had ceased their
whirring. He tried to expostulate in a dazed way, realizing that for once
the department was working with a vengeful promptness. He was hoist by his
own petard!
</p>
<p>
“I'm the owner of the car,” he began, rubbing his aching forehead.
</p>
<p>
“What's yer name?”
</p>
<p>
“Montague Shirley!” The policeman laughed, as he caught the criminologist
by the shoulder, and blew his whistle for another man from post duty.
</p>
<p>
“You lie. This car is owned by James Merrivale. You can't put over raw
stuff like that on me. I'm no rookie—Here, Joe,” (as the other
policeman ran up through the growing, jeering crowd,) “watch this machine.
This guy's one of them auto Raffles, and I done a good job when I lands
him. I'm going to the station-house now.”
</p>
<p>
The other policeman was examining the car, when he called to his fellow
officer: “Here, Sim, did you see this car was blown up inside the seat?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley, his acuteness returned by this time, ran to the car eluding his
captor's hold. He had not observed before the jagged shattered hole torn
in the side of the leather side. It had all happened so swiftly, that his
professional instincts were slow in reasserting themselves after the
“buck” of the car.
</p>
<p>
“You're right,” he exclaimed. “There's an alarm clock and a dry battery—the
same man made this who built the gas-generator—”
</p>
<p>
“Whadd'ye mean—ain't you the feller after all?” asked the first
patrolman, beginning to get dubious about his arrest.
</p>
<p>
“No, I am no thief. But just take me to the station-house quick, and turn
in your report. Let this other man guard that car. Hurry up!”
</p>
<p>
“Say, feller, who do you think is making this arrest? You'll go to the
station-house when I get ready.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you're ready now,” snapped the criminologist. “You'll see me
discharged very promptly, when I speak to the Commissioner over the wire.”
</p>
<p>
The officer was supercilious until the station-house was reached. He had
heard this blatant talk before. What was his surprise when Shirley
telephoned to the head of the Department and then called the Captain to
the instrument.
</p>
<p>
“Release Mr. Shirley at once,” was the crisp order. “Give him any men or
assistance he needs.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, whadd'ye know about that? Not even entered on the blotter to credit
me with a good arrest!” The patrolman turned away in disgust.
</p>
<p>
“Do you want any of the reserves, sir?” The Captain was scrupulously
polite.
</p>
<p>
“Not one. I'm going to study that machine again. You might detail a plain
clothes man to walk along the other side of the street for luck.
Good-day.”
</p>
<p>
The automobile to which he returned was still the object of community
interest. Shirley took the remains of the bomb which had caused his sudden
elevation. The policeman approached him from the fruit store.
</p>
<p>
“The man wants damages for the stock you destroyed, mister. I'll fix it up
with him if you want—about twenty-five dollars will do.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, hand him this five-dollar bill and see if that won't dry some of
the imported tears,” retorted Shirley with a laugh. In a few minutes he
was bowling along on a surface car, to the club. There was no longer any
use in trying to hide his identity or address, for the conspirators knew
at least of his interest and assistance in the case: although in this as
all others he was not known to be a professional sleuth.
</p>
<p>
In the quiet of his room he drew out magnifying glasses and other
instruments for a thorough analysis of the remains of the infernal
machine. He compared this with the mechanism of the gas-generator which
had been placed in the seat of the Death taxi. There was evidence that it
had come from the same source. Shirley sniffed at the generator and the
peculiar odor still clinging to it was familiar.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I think I will have a little surprise for Mr. Voice, the next time
we grapple, which will be an encore of his own tune, with a new verse!”
</p>
<p>
He went to a cabinet, took out a small glass vial, filled with a limpid
liquid and placed it within his own pocket. Then he prepared for a new
line of activities for the day. His first duty was a call on Pat Cleary,
superintendent of the Holland Agency.
</p>
<p>
“The Captain is progressing splendidly,” was his answer to the anxious
query. “He will be back in the harness again to-morrow. How are the
prisoners?”
</p>
<p>
“They have tried to break out twice and gave my doorman a black eye. But
they got four in return: Nick is no mollycoddle, you know. I can't quite
get the number of these fellows, for they are not registered down at
Headquarters, in the Rogue's Gallery. Their finger-prints are new ones in
this district, too. They look like imported birds, Mr. Shirley. What do
you think?”
</p>
<p>
Cleary's opinion of the club man had been gaining in ascendency.
</p>
<p>
“They may be visitors from another city, but I think the state will keep
them here as guests for a nice long time, Cleary. They say New York is
inhospitable to strangers, but we occasionally pay for board and room from
the funds of the taxpayers without a kick. We saved the day for the Van
Clefts, all right. The paper told of a beautiful but quiet funeral
ceremony, while the daughter has postponed her marriage for six months.”
</p>
<p>
Then he recounted the adventure of the exploding car. Cleary lit his
malodorous pipe, and shook his head thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
“Young man, you know your own affairs best. But with all your money, you'd
better take to the tall pines yourself, like these old guys in the
'Lobster Club.' That's the advice of a man who's in the business for money
not glory. This is a bum game. They'll get me some day, some of these
yeggs or bunk artists that I've sent away for recuperation, as the doctors
call it. But I'm doing it for bread and beefsteak, while it lasts. You run
along and play—a good way from the fire, or you'll get more than
your fingers burnt. Take their hint and beat it while the beating's good.”
</p>
<p>
A glint of steel shone from the eyes of the criminologist as he lit
another cigarette and took up his walking-stick.
</p>
<p>
“Why, Cleary, this is what I call real sport. Why go hunting polar bears
and tigers when we've got all this human game around the Gold Coast of
Manhattan? I'm tired of furs: I want a few scalps. Good-morning.”
</p>
<p>
As Cleary went up the stairway to renew the ginger of the Third Degree for
the two prisoners, he smiled to himself, and muttered:
</p>
<p>
“The guy ain't such a boob as he looks: he's just a high-class nut. I'd
enjoy it myself if it wasn't my regular work.”
</p>
<p>
At Dick Holloway's office Shirley was greeted with an eager demand for his
report of the former evening's activities. An envious look was on the face
of the theatrical manager.
</p>
<p>
“Shucks, Monty! It's a shame that all this sport is private stock, and
can't be bottled up and peddled to the public, for they're just crazy
about gangster melodrama. They're paying opera prices for the old time
ten-twent-and-thirt-melodrama, right on Broadway. Hurry up and get the man
and I'll have him dramatized while the craze is rampant.”
</p>
<p>
“Not while I own the copyright,” retorted Shirley, “this is one of the
chapters of my life that isn't going to be typewritten, much less the
subject of gate-receipts.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not so certain of that,” and Holloway's smile was quizzical.
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean? Who is this Helene Marigold? I have a right to know in
a case like this.”
</p>
<p>
“Good intuition, as far as you go. But you're guessing wrong, for she has
nothing to do with my little joke. But why worry about her?” laughed
Holloway. His friend had leaned forward, intensely, clutching his cane,
with an unusually serious look on his face. Holloway had never seen
Shirley take such an interest in any woman before. He arose from his
desk-chair and walked to the broad window, which overlooked the thronging
sidewalks of Broadway.
</p>
<p>
“Down there is the biggest, busiest street in the world filled with women
of all hues and shades. This is the first time you ever looked so anxious
about any combination of lace, curls, silks and gew-gaws before. You have
been the bright and shining example of indifferent bachelor freedom which
has made me—thrice divorced—so envious of your unalloyed,
unalimonied joy. Don't betray the feet of clay which have supported my
idol!”
</p>
<p>
The baffling smile of the debonair club man returned to Shirley's face, as
he twitted back: “Purely an altruistic inquiry, Dick. I feared that you
might be risking your own heart and the modicum of freedom which you still
possess. But I'll wager a supper-party for four that I'll find out who she
is, without either you or she telling me.”
</p>
<p>
“Taken. At last I'm to have a free banquet, after years of business
entertaining. You have met a girl who will match your wits—I expect
the sparks to fly. Well, she's worth while—I might do worse—but
in perfect fairness she ought to do better. How about it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, with Jack,” and Shirley tapped the walking stick on the floor with
an emphatic thump, while Holloway regarded him in startled surprise.
</p>
<p>
“Who is Jack?”
</p>
<p>
“You see—I am learning already. But, you and I are drifting from my
task. I wish that you would take me to call on Miss Marigold, in my
present lack of disguise. I do not care for that ancient garb any longer.
It was stretching the chances rather far, but thanks to the darkness, the
champagne, and good fortune, I succeeded in impersonating our aged friend
without detection. I will not return to Grimsby's house, but propose now
to get down to brass tacks with Mr. Voice, even though the tacks be hard
to sit upon. I wish to use her as a bait, by taking her out to tea and
getting a first-hand speaking acquaintance with these convivial
assassins.”
</p>
<p>
“Monty, you are wasting your talents outside the pages of a play
manuscript, but we will make that call instanter.”
</p>
<p>
In leisure, they promenaded up the crowded Gay Wide Way, through the
noontime crowd of theatrical folk who dot the thoroughfare in this part of
the city. His adversaries were to have every opportunity to observe his
movements and draw their own conclusions. At the Hotel California new
comment buzzed between the garrulous clerk and the switchboard person, at
sight of the well-known manager and his prosperous-looking companion.
</p>
<p>
“Who is that come on?” asked the clerk of the bellboy.
</p>
<p>
“Sure, dat's Montague Shirley, one of dem rich ginks from de College Club
on Forty-fourth Street, where I used to woik in de check room. If I had
dat guy's money I'd buy a hotel like dis.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I see where Holloway, with that blonde dame upstairs, will be
putting on a new musical show, with a new angel. It's a great business,
Miss Gwendolyn—no wonder they call it art.” And the clerk removed a
silk handkerchief from his coat cuff, to dust the register wistfully. “Why
didn't I devote my talents to the drama instead of room-keys and
due-bills?”
</p>
<p>
But Miss Gwendolyn was too busy talking to the Milwaukee drummer in Room
72 to formulate a logical reason. Shirley and Holloway improved the time
by taking the elevator to the top floor where Helene greeted them at the
door of her pretty apartment. She welcomed them happily, declaring it had
been a lonesome morning.
</p>
<p>
“Weren't you resting from that long thrill of last night, in which you
starred?” asked Holloway.
</p>
<p>
“It was too thrilling for me to sleep: I know I look a perfect frump, this
morning. I tossed on the pillow, watching the dawn over your towering New
York roofs, so nervous and almost miserable. But, with company, it's all
right again.”
</p>
<p>
Holloway laughed inwardly at the warmth of the glance which she bestowed
upon Shirley. From the angle of an audience, he was beginning to observe a
phase of this double play of personalities which was unseen by either of
the participants. Two sleepless nights, after such a first evening
together, and what then? He imagined the denouement, with a growing
enjoyment of his vantage-point as the game advanced.
</p>
<p>
“To-day, I am reversing the usual progress of history,” said Shirley, as
he sat down in the window-seat. “From second juvenility I am returning to
the first. In other words, I wish to become your adoring suitor in the
role of Montague Shirley.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't understand,” and her eyes widened in wonder, not without an
accompanying blush which did not escape Holloway.
</p>
<p>
“No longer a lamb in sheep's clothing, I want to entertain you, without
the halo of William Grimsby's millions. I want to take tea with these
gentle-voiced cut-throats, who after my warning to-day, are directing
their attention to me.” He narrated the narrow escape from death in the
racing-car. Helene's eyes darkened with an uncertainty which he had hardly
expected. Perhaps she would refuse to carry out their compact along these
dangerous lines.
</p>
<p>
“Do you feel it wise to place yourself beneath this new menace?”
</p>
<p>
“The sword of Damocles is over me now, I know. To run would be a
confession of weakness and open the field for his further activities, with
the rear-guard continuously exposed. There is nothing like the personal
equation. I will call at five this afternoon, if you are willing, Miss
Marigold?”
</p>
<p>
“I will fight it out to the end,” and she placed her warm hand firmly
within his own. The two friends departed, Shirley retracing his steps to
the club where many things were to be studied and planned. His system of
debit and credit records of facts known and needed, was one which brought
finite results. As he smoked and pondered at his ease, a tapping on the
study door aroused him from his vagrant speculations. At his call, a
respectful Japanese servant presented a note, just left by a
messenger-boy. He tore the envelope and read it.
</p>
<p>
“Montague Shirley:—The third time is finis. As a friend you
accomplished the purpose you sought. There is no grudge against you. Why
seek one? It is fatal for you to remain in the city. Leave while you have
time.”
</p>
<p>
That was all. The chirography was the same as that upon the note of the
racing-car episode. Shirley locked up the missive in his cabinet, and
smiled at the increasing tenseness of the situation.
</p>
<p>
“The writer of these two notes may have an opportunity to leave town
himself before long, to rest his nerves in the quiet valley of the Hudson,
at Ossining. My friend the enemy will soon be realizing a deficit in his
rolling-stock and gentlemanly assistants. Two automobiles and three
prisoners to date. There should be additional results before midnight. I
wonder where he gardens into fruition these flowers of crime?”
</p>
<p>
And even as he pondered, a curious scene was being enacted within a dozen
city blocks of the commodious club house.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIII. THE SPIDER'S WEB
</h2>
<p>
The setting was a bleak and musty cellar, beneath an old stable of dingy,
brick construction. The building had been modernized to the extent of one
single decoration on the street front, an electric sign: “Garage.” On the
floor, level with the sidewalk, stood half a dozen automobiles of varied
manufacture and age. Near the wide swinging doors of oak, stood a big,
black limousine. Two taxicabs of the usual appearance occupied the space
next to this, while a handsome machine faced them on the opposite side of
the room. Two ancient machines were backed against the wall, in the rear.
</p>
<p>
In the basement beneath, several men were grouped in the front
compartment, which was separated by a thick wooden partition from the rear
of the cellar. Three dusty incandescents illuminated this space. In the
back a curious arrangement of two large automobile headlights set on deal
tables directed glaring rays toward the one door of the partition. In the
center of the rear room was another table, standing behind a screen of
wire gauze, at the bottom of which was cut a small semicircle, large
enough for the protrusion of a white, tense hand, whose fingers were even
now spasmodically clenching in nervous indication of fury. Behind either
lamp was a heavy black screen, which effectually shut off ingress to that
portion of the room.
</p>
<p>
The man standing between the table and the closed door of the partition,
full in the light of the lamps, watched the hand as though fascinated. He
could see nothing else, for behind the gauze all was darkness. Absolutely
invisible, sat the possessor of the hand, observing the face of his
interviewer, on the brighter side of the gauze.
</p>
<p>
“So, there's no word from the Monk?”
</p>
<p>
“No, chief. De bloke's disappeared. Either he got so much swag offen dis
old Grimsby guy, after youse got de bumps, or he had cold feet and beat it
wid de machine.”
</p>
<p>
“It's a crooked game on me.” rasped the voice behind the screen. “I'll
send him up for this. You know how far my lines go out. What about Dutch
Jake and Ben the Bite?”
</p>
<p>
The man before the screen shook his head in helpless bewilderment There
was a suggestion of fright in his manner, as well.
</p>
<p>
“Can't find out a t'ing, gov'nor. I hopes you don't blame me for dis. I'm
doin' my share. Dey just disappears dat night w'en you sends 'em to
shadder Van Cleft's joint. My calcerlation is—”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not paying you to calculate. I've trusted you and lost six thousand
dollars' worth of automobiles for my pains. You can just calculate this,
that unless I get some news about Jake, Ben and the Monk by this time
tomorrow, I'll send some news down to Police headquarters on Lafayette
Street that will make you wish you had never been born.”
</p>
<p>
For some reason not difficult to guess, the suggestion had a galvanic
effect on the bewildered one. His hands trembled as he raised them
imploringly to the screen.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, gov'nor, wot have I done? Ain't I been on de level wid yez? Say, I
ain't never even seen yez for de fourteen months I've been yer gobetween.
I've been beat up by de cops, pinched and sent to de workhouse 'cause I
wouldn't squeal, and now ye t'reatens me. Did I ever fall down on a trick
ontil dis week? You'se ain't goin' ter welch on me, are you'se? I ain't no
welcher meself, an' ye knows it.”
</p>
<p>
The other snapped out curtly: “Very well, cut out the sob stuff. It's up
to you to prove that there hasn't been a leak somewhere or a double cross.
Send in those rummies,—I want to give them the once over again.
There's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, and I'm no abolitionist! Quick
now. Get a wiggle on.”
</p>
<p>
The hand was withdrawn from the little opening, as the lieutenant advanced
into the front compartment of the cellar. He beckoned meaningly to the
others to follow him. They obeyed with a slinking walk, which showed that
they were obsessed by some great dread, in that unseen presence, in the
heart of the spider-web!
</p>
<p>
“Which one of you is the stool pigeon,” came the harsh query.
</p>
<p>
“W'y, gov'nor, none of us. You'se knows us,” whined one of the men.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and I know enough to send you all to Atlanta or Sing Sing or
Danamora, for the rest of your rotten lives, if I want to.”
</p>
<p>
The rascals stared vainly into the black vacuum of the screen, blinking in
the glaring lights, cowering instinctively before the unseen but certain
malignancy of the power behind that mysterious wall.
</p>
<p>
“I brought you here to New York,” continued the master, “you are making
more money with less work and risk than ever before. But you're playing
false with me, and I know some one is slipping information where it
oughtn't to go. I'm going to skin alive the one who I catch. There's one
eye that never sleeps, don't forget that.”
</p>
<p>
“Gee, boss, wot do we know to slip?” advanced the most forward of them.
“We follers orders, and gets our kale and dat's all. We ain't never even
seen ya, and don't know even wot de whole game is. Don't queer us,
gov'nor!”
</p>
<p>
“Go out front again, and shut off this blab. I warn you that's all-Now,
Phil, give this to the men. Tell them to keep off the cocaine—they're
getting to be a lot of bone heads lately. Too much dope will spoil the
best crook in the world.”
</p>
<p>
The white hand passed out a roll of crisp, new currency to the lieutenant
of the gang, who gingerly reached for it, as though he expected the
tapering fingers to claw him.
</p>
<p>
“Fifty dollars to each man. No holding out. Remember, every one of them is
spying on the other to me. I'm not a Rip Van Winkle. Now, I want you to
keep this fellow Montague Shirley covered but don't put him away until I
give you the word. Send the bunch upstairs, for I don't want to be
disturbed the next two hours. And just keep off the coke yourself. You're
scratching your face a good deal these days—I know the signs.”
</p>
<p>
Phil expostulated nervously. “Oh, gov'nor, I ain't no fiend—just
once and a while I gets a little rummy, and brightens up. It takes too
much money to git it now, anyway. Goodbye, chief.”
</p>
<p>
As he closed the wooden door to pay the gangsters, there was a slight
grating noise, which followed a double click. A bar of wood automatically
slid down into position behind the door, blocking a possible opening from
the front of the cellar. The lights suddenly were darkened. The sound of
shuffling feet would have indicated to a listener that the owner of the
nervous hand was retreating to the rear of the darkened den. A noise
resembling that of the turn of a rusty hinge might have then been heard:
there was a metallic clang, the rattle of a sliding chain and the rear
room was as empty as it was black!
</p>
<p>
In the front room, after payment from the red-headed ruffian, Phil, the
men clambered in single file up a wooden ladder to the street level. A
trap-door was put into place and closed. Then the men began to shoot
“craps” for a readjustment of the spoils, with the result that Red Phil,
as his henchmen called him, was the smiling possessor of most of the
money, without the erstwhile necessity of “holding out.”
</p>
<p>
Then the gangsters scattered to the nearby gin-shops to while away the
time before darkness should call for their evil activities. It was a
cheerful little assortment of desperadoes, yet in appearance they did not
differ from most of the habitues of New York garages, those cesspools of
urban criminality.
</p>
<p>
From his club, Shirley telephoned Jim Merrivale in his downtown office,
purposely giving another name, as he addressed his friend—a
pseudonym upon which they had agreed during the night call. Shirley was
suspicious of all telephones, by this time, and his guarded inquiry gave
no possible clue to a wiretapping eavesdropper.
</p>
<p>
“How is the new bull-dog?” was the question, after the first guarded
greeting. “Is he still muzzled?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Mr. Smith,” responded Merrivale, “and the meanest specimen I have
ever seen outside a Zoo! When I sent the groom out to feed him this
morning, he snarled and tried to claw him. He's on a hunger strike. I
looked up the license number on his collar but he's not registered in this
state.” (This, Shirley knew, meant the automobile tag under the machine
which had been captured.)
</p>
<p>
“When are you apt to send for him—I don't think I'll keep him any
longer than I can help.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll send out from the dog store, with a letter signed by me. Feed him a
little croton oil to cure his disposition. Good-bye, for now, Jim. I'll
write you, this day.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley hung up, and smiled with satisfaction at the news. The man would
be glad to get bread and water, before long, he felt assured. However, he
despatched a note to Cleary, of the Holland Agency, enclosing a written
order to Merrivale to deliver over the prisoner, for safer keeping in the
city.
</p>
<p>
This disposed of the started out from the club house for his afternoon of
dissipation. As he left the doorway, he noticed the two men with the black
caps standing not far away. They were engrossed in the rolling of
cigarettes, but the swift glance which they shot at him did not escape
Monty.
</p>
<p>
“Like the poor and the bill collectors, they are always with us,” was his
thought, as he calmly strolled over to the Hotel California. He determined
to place them in a quiet, sheltered retreat at the earliest opportunity.
He found Helene more attractive than ever.
</p>
<p>
“Shall I put on this wretched rouge again to-day,” was the plaintive
question, after the first greeting. “I hate it so—and yet, will do
whatever you order.”
</p>
<p>
“Your role calls for it, my dear girl. Perhaps we may close the dramatic
engagement sooner than we expect. To-night should be an eventful one, for
I will accept every lead which Reginald Warren offers. I would like to
have a record of his voice, and that of some of his friends. There is a
difference between the telephone voice and that heard face to face,—you
would be a good witness if I could persuade him to sing or speak for me
into a record. You can straighten out the difficulties of this case, if
you will, in a thoroughly feminine manner.”
</p>
<p>
“And what, sir, is that, I pray you?”
</p>
<p>
“Give him the opportunity—to fall in love with you.”
</p>
<p>
Helene's cheeks flushed a stronger carmine than the rouge which she was
administering, as she looked up in quick embarrassment.
</p>
<p>
“I don't want him to love me. I want no man to love me,” was the petulant
answer.
</p>
<p>
“Doubtless you have reason to be satisfied as things are,” replied
Shirley, puffing a cigarette, “but the softness of cerebral conditions
increases in direct ratio with the mushiness of the affections. If it is
important to us—and you are my partner in this fascinating business
venture—will you not sacrifice your emotions to that extent: merely
to let him lead himself on, as most men do?” He paused for a critical
observation of her, and then added: “You are even more beautiful to-day
than you were yesterday. He cannot help loving you if he is given the
chance!”
</p>
<p>
Helene's white fingers crushed the orchid which she was pinning to the
bosom of her gown. Her intent gaze met the mask of Shirley's ingenuous
smile, reading in his telltale eyes a message which needed no court
interpreter! Quickly she turned to her mirror to put the finishing touches
to her coiffure, the golden curls so alluringly wilful.
</p>
<p>
“Your flattery, sir, is very cruel. Beware! I may take it seriously. What
would happen if my verdant heart were to fall a victim to the cunning
wiles of the voice? Remember, I have only met two men, since I came to
America, yesterday. And they are both pronounced woman-haters. I will take
you at your word, about Mr. Reginald Warren, and loosen my blandishments
to the best of my rustic ability.”
</p>
<p>
A wayward twinkle in her eyes should have warned Shirley that she was
planning a little mischief. But, he was too preoccupied in finding the
real front of her baffling street cloak to observe it. They left for the
tearoom, while Helene still laughed to herself over certain subtle
possibilities which she saw in the situation.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIV. A PILGRIMAGE INTO FRIVOLITY
</h2>
<p>
Rather early, again, for the usual throng, they were able to choose their
position to their liking: to-day, it was in the center of the big room,
close by the space cleared for the dancing. Gradually the tables were
occupied, apparently by the identical people of the afternoon before, so
marked is the peculiar character of the dance-mad individuality. To-day he
varied his menu with a mild order of cocktails—for now he was not
emulating the Epicurean record of the bibulous Grimsby. They observed with
amusement the weird contortions, seldom graced by a vestige of rhythm or
beauty, with which the intent dancers spun and zigzagged.
</p>
<p>
“Considering how much money they pay to learn these steps from
dancing-masters, there is unusually small value in the market, Miss
Marigold. I resigned myself to the approach of the sunset years, and
became a voluntary exile in the garden of the wallflowers, when society
dancing became mathematical.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't understand?”
</p>
<p>
“Once it was possible to chat, to smile, to woo or to silently enjoy the
music and the measures of the dance in company with a sympathetic partner.
Now, however, since the triumph of the 'New Mode,' one must count
'one-two-three,' and one's partner is more captious than a schoolmarm!
What puzzles me is the need for new steps, to be learned from expensive
teachers, when it's so easy to slide down hill in this part of New York.
But here endeth the sermon, for I recognize the amiable Pinkie at that
other table, where she is studying your face with the malevolence of a
cobra.”
</p>
<p>
Helene slowly turned her eyes toward the other girl, who now advanced with
forced effusiveness.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, my dear, and you're back again today. But where is dear old Grimmie;
he is a nice old soul, though a trifle near-sighted. He wasn't half seas
over last night—he was a war-zone submarine, out for a long-distance
record!”
</p>
<p>
She impudently seated herself at the table with them, sending a
questioning glance at the handsome companion of her quondam rival. Helene
instinctively drew back, but a warning glance from Shirley plunged her
into her assumed character, and she greeted the other girl with the
quasi-comradeship of their class.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, dear. Grimsby was a little poisoned by the salad or something
like that: he was actually disagreeable with me, of all people in the
world. But, I have so many friends that Grimsby does not give me any
worry. He means nothing in my life. You seemed quite worried over him,
though—”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, girlie,” was Pinkie's effort to parry. “I was upset—not
because he was with you, but to see the old chap showing his age. His
taste has deteriorated so much since he started wearing glasses. But why
don't you introduce me to your gentleman friend?”
</p>
<p>
Helene's faint smile expressed volumes, as she turned toward the modest
Shirley with a bow of condescension. “This is Pinkie, one of old Grimsby's
sweethearts, Mr. Shirley. I'm sure you'll like her.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you Montague Shirley?” demanded the auburn-haired coquette with
sudden interest. As Shirley nodded, she caught his hand with an ardent
glance, ogling him impressively, as she continued: “I've heard a lot of
you. I'm just that pleased to meet you!”
</p>
<p>
An indefinable resentment crept over Helene. How could this creature of
the demi-monde have even distant acquaintance of such a wholesome,
superior man as her escort? The effusiveness was irritating, and the
overacted kittenishness of the girl made her sick at heart, although she
betrayed no sign of her feeling. Helene could not understand that despite
its mammoth size, New York is relatively provincial in the club and
theatrical community, his acquaintanceship numbering into the thousands.
Town Topics, the social gossipers of the newspapers and talkative club men
bandied names about in such wise that it was easy for members of Pinkie's
profession to satisfy their hopeful curiosity—prompted by visions of
eventual social conquest on the one hand and a professional desire to
memorize street numbers on the Wealth Highway for ultimate financial
manipulations. As one of the richest members of the exclusive bachelor
set, Montague Shirley, even unknown to himself, occupied reserved niches
in the ambitions of a hundred and one fair plotters!
</p>
<p>
“You will honor us by taking a drink, Miss Pinkie?” was the
criminologist's courteous overture.
</p>
<p>
“Pinkie Marlowe, if you want to know the rest of my name. Yes, I need a
little absinthe to wake me up, for I just finished breakfast. We had a
large party last night at Reg Warren's. Why don't you dance with me?”
</p>
<p>
“The old adage about fat men never being loved applies especially to those
who brave the terrors of the fox-trot. I weigh two hundred, so I wisely
sit under the trees and laugh at the others.”
</p>
<p>
“You two hundred?” and admiration flashed from Pinkie's emotional eyes, “I
don't believe it. Why, you're just right! I could dance with a man like
you all night!”
</p>
<p>
Helene's helplessness only fanned the flames of her inward fury at the
brazen intent of the girl. She forgot about Jack and even her plans about
Reginald Warren. But Shirley's purpose was now rewarded, for Pinkie acted
as the magnet to draw over several of the gilded youths whom they had met
the day before. More introductions followed, and additional refreshments
were soon gracing the table. Shine Taylor was the next to join the party,
and erelong the waited-for visitor was approaching them. His eyes were
upon Shirley from the instant that he entered the room: he advanced
directly toward their table with a certainty which proved to Monty that
method was in every move.
</p>
<p>
“What a pleasant surprise, little Bonbon!” exclaimed this gentleman as he
drew up to their table. “I'm so glad. I was afraid you wouldn't get home
safely with Grimsby; he was so absolutely overcome last night. He promised
to bring you to my little entertainment but didn't show up. What became of
him?”
</p>
<p>
“Join us in a drink and forget him,” suggested Helene, as she took his
hand with an innocently stupid smile. “This is Mr. Shirley, Mr.—Mr.—I
had so much champagne last night I forgot your name.”
</p>
<p>
“Warren, that's simple enough. Glad to see you, Mr. Sherwood, oh, Shirley!
It seems as though I had heard your name—aren't you an actor, or an
artist? A musician, or something like that? My memory is so miserable.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm just a 'something like that,' not even an actor,” was the answer, as
the tiniest of nudges registered Helene's appreciation. “What is your
favorite poison?”
</p>
<p>
Warren gave him a startled look, and then laughed: “Oh, you mean to drink?
Now you must join me for I am the intruder.” He drew out a roll of money;
more nice, new hundred dollar bills. Shirley remembered that old Van Cleft
had drawn several thousand dollars from his office the night of the
murder. Even his trained stoicism rebelled at thought of drinking a
cocktail bought with this bloody currency!
</p>
<p>
“You didn't tell me about Grimsby?” persisted Warren, turning to Helene,
with an admiring scrutiny of the girl's charms. “I'm rather interested.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll have to ask him, not me. After we took a taxi from the
Winter-Garden we had a ride in the Park. So stupid, I thought, at this
time of the year. When I woke up, Grimmie was helping me into the entrance
of the hotel. He was very cross with the chauffeur and with me, too. Then
he took the taxi and went home, still angry.”
</p>
<p>
“So!” after a moment's silence, Warren continued, a puzzled look on his
face. “What was the trouble? I don't see how any one could be cross with a
nice little girl like you. But to-night, I'm to have another little party
up at my house. Bring some one up, who won't be cross. You come, Mr.
Shirley?”
</p>
<p>
Helene hesitated, but Monty acquiesced.
</p>
<p>
“That would be splendid. What time?”
</p>
<p>
“About eleven. I'll expect you—I must run along now, as I'm ordering
some fancy dishes.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley had paid his waiter, and he rose with Helene.
</p>
<p>
“We must be leaving, too. I'll accept your invitation.”
</p>
<p>
“And I'll be there, too, Mr. Shirley,” put in Pinkie Marlowe. “I'll teach
you some new steps. Reggie has a wonderful phonograph for dancing, with
all the new tunes. See you later, girlie.”
</p>
<p>
They were accompanied to the door by Shine and Warren. At the check-room,
Shirley was interested to note that Shine Taylor took out his green velour
hat. His feet were adorned with white spats. After the door of their taxi
had slammed he confided to Helene that he had located the gentleman who
had caused his wreck that morning. Still, however, the clues were too weak
for action. The car went first to the club, where Shirley sent in for any
possible letters or messages. The servant brought out a note. It was
another surprise. He gave an address to the driver and as the car turned
up Fifth Avenue, he studied this missive with knit brows.
</p>
<p>
“A new worry?” asked Helene. “May I help you?”
</p>
<p>
He handed her the letter, and she noticed the nervous handwriting. It was
short.
</p>
<p>
“Dear Mr. Shirley: Just received a threatening note demanding money. Can
you come up at once? Howard V. C.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley answered the question in the blue eyes, as she finished.
</p>
<p>
“As I thought it would turn out. Baffled in their game of robbing old men
who have all left the city, they have begun to work the chance for
blackmail. I will advise Van Cleft to pay them, and then we will follow
the money. Here is the mansion and I will be out in five minutes.”
</p>
<p>
He soon disappeared behind the bronze door. True to his promise, in five
minutes he had returned. He looked up and down the Avenue amazed. Not a
trace of the taxicab, nor of Helene Marigold could be seen!
</p>
<p>
Shirley's impulse was to pinch himself to awaken from the chimera. He knew
she was armed, and would use the weapon if only to call for help. For the
first time in his career the chill of terror crept into his heart—not
for himself, but an irresistible dread of some impending danger for this
unfathomable woman who had shared his dangers so uncomplainingly during
this last wonderful day. He racked his mind vainly for some plausible
reason. “She knows I need her. Yet at the supreme moment of the game she
disappears. Can she be like other women, when she is most necessary?”
</p>
<p>
And he walked slowly down the Avenue, disconcerted, endeavoring to solve
this sudden abortion of his best laid plans.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING HELENE'S FINESSE
</h2>
<p>
Shirley endured a miserable three hours, in his attempts to locate the
girl. She had not returned to the Hotel California, and he returned to the
club in moody reflection. It was beginning to snow, and the ground was
soon covered with a thin coat of white, through which he noticed his
footprints stenciled against the black of the wet pavement. He wasted a
dozen matches in the freshening wind, as he tried to light a cigarette. He
stepped into a doorway on the Avenue to avail himself of its shelter. As
he turned out to the street again, he almost bumped into two men, wearing
black caps! One of them grunted a curt apology, as he stepped on.
</p>
<p>
“They are after me as usual,” he thought. “Why not reverse operations and
find out where they belong?”
</p>
<p>
It seemed hopeless: as in a checker game they had him at disadvantage with
the odd number of the “move.” Theirs was the chance to observe, and an
open attempt to follow them would be ridiculous. Then, the footprints gave
him an idea.
</p>
<p>
Dimly behind could be discerned the two men, as he quickened his pace,
turning into a side street, off Fifth Avenue. Here he knew that traffic
would be light, and his footprints the best evidence of his progress. The
men unwittingly caught his plan, and dropped almost out of sight. At the
intersection of Madison Avenue, they quickened their steps, and caught up
with him again. Across corners, down quiet streets, and by purposed
diagonals he led them: still they dogged his footprints. So adroit were
they that only one experienced in the art could have realized their
watchfulness.
</p>
<p>
Shirley now turned a corner quickly, into an unusually deserted
thoroughfare, running with short steps, so as not to betray his speed by
the tracks. Before they had time to round the corner he ran up the thinly
blanketed steps of a private residence. Then he backed, as swiftly down
the stoop, and thus crablike, walked across the street, down a dozen
houses and backward still, up the steps of another private dwelling.
Inside the vestibule he hid himself. The entry had strong wooden outside
doors, and he tried the strength of the hinges: they satisfied him. A dim
light burned behind the glass of the inner portal. He quietly clambered up
the door, and balanced himself on the wood which gallantly stood the
strain. Fortunately it did not come within four feet of the high ceiling
of the old fashioned house.
</p>
<p>
He suffered a good ten minutes' wait before his ruse was rewarded. Being
on the “fence” was a pastime compared to this precarious test of his
muscles. The two men who had followed the first footprints tired of
waiting before the house. One of them determined to investigate the other
steps, which led into the house of their vigilance, from the other
dwelling. And so he followed on, to the vestibule where he rang the bell.
Shirley could have touched his head, so near he was, but the darkness of
the upper space covered the retreat of the criminologist.
</p>
<p>
“What do you want?” was the angry question of an indignant old caretaker
who answered the bell tardily. “You woke me up.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, lady, can I speak to Mr. Montague Shirley?” began the man, gingerly.
</p>
<p>
“You get away from this house, you loafer or I'll call the police. No one
by that name ain't here. Now, you get!”
</p>
<p>
She slammed the door in his face.
</p>
<p>
“I'll get Chuck to watch de udder joint,” muttered the man, in a tone
audible to Shirley. “Den I'll go back and git orders from Phil.”
</p>
<p>
This habit of thinking aloud was expensive. Shirley stiffly but
noiselessly slid down the steps, as he disappeared in the thickening
snowfall. The criminologist slowly crossed the street, and sheltered
himself in a basement entrance, from which he reversed the shadowing
process. The twain hesitated before the first house, then one came up the
sidewalk, as the other stood his ground. This man passed within a few feet
of Shirley, who followed him over to Madison Avenue, then north to
Fifty-fifth Street. Here he turned west, and turned into one of the old
stables, formerly used by the gentry of the exclusive section for their
blooded steeds. Into one building, which announced its identity as
“Garage” with its glittering electric sign, the man disappeared.
</p>
<p>
Shirley paused, looked about him, and chuckled. For he knew that through
the block on Fifty-sixth Street was the tall apartment building, known as
the Somerset—the address given him by Reginald Warren.
</p>
<p>
“If I only had some word from Helene Marigold I could go ahead before they
realized my knowledge.”
</p>
<p>
Even as this thought crossed his mind, he turned back into Sixth Avenue. A
hatless, breathless young person, running down the snowy street collided
with him. As he began to apologize, he awoke to the startling fact that it
was his assistant.
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott! What are you doing here? Where have you been all this time?”
</p>
<p>
The girl caught his arm unsteadily, but there was a triumph in her voice,
as she cried: “Oh, this wonderful chance meeting. I was running down to my
hotel but you have saved the day. I will tell you later. Quick, take this
book.”
</p>
<p>
She drew forth a volume, flexibly bound, like a small loose-leaf ledger.
Shirley stuck it into his overcoat pocket, which he was already slipping
about the girl's shivering shoulders.
</p>
<p>
“Take me back at once, for there is more for me to do.”
</p>
<p>
“Where, my dear girl? You are indeed the lady of mysteries.”
</p>
<p>
“To the basement of Warren's apartment house. I came down the dumb-waiter,
when they left me. I left the little door ajar—Can you pull me up
again? He is on the eighth floor. It is a long pull—Oh, if we can
only make it before they return.”
</p>
<p>
Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the mad game, as she ran once more,
Shirley keeping pace with her. The flurries of the snowstorm protected
them from too-curious observation, as the streets seemed deserted by
pedestrians who feared the growing blizzard. She led him to the
tradesman's entrance of the Somerset, into the dark corridor through which
she had emerged.
</p>
<p>
“Don't strike a light, for I can feel the way. We mustn't be seen.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley obeyed,—at last she found the base of the dumbwaiter shaft.
</p>
<p>
“How did you have the strength to lower yourself down this shaft—it
is no small task?” and his tone was admiring.
</p>
<p>
“I am not a weakling—tennis, boating, swimming were all in my
education; they helped. But it is beyond me to pull all those floors, and
lift my weight. Pull up as far as the little elevator car goes, then go
away and come to his party to look for me. Do not be surprised at my
actions. My role has really developed into that of an emotional heavy.”
</p>
<p>
She patted his hand with a relaxation of tenderness, as he began to draw
on the long rope. The girl was by no means a light weight, but at last the
dumb-waiter came to a stop. Shirley heard the opening and closing of a
door above. Then, still wondering at it all, he returned to the street as
unobserved as they had entered. There was at least an hour to wait. He
walked over to the Athletic Club, of which he was a remiss member,
attending seldom during the recent months when his exercise had been more
tragic than gymnastic work. In the library of the club house he sat down
to study the volume which Helene had thrust into his hands at their
startling meeting.
</p>
<p>
He gave a low whistle of surprise.
</p>
<p>
“Some little book!” he muttered, “and Helene Marigold has shown me that I
must fight hard to equal her in the race for laurels!”
</p>
<p>
Then he proceeded to rack his brains with a new and knottier problem than
any which he had yet encountered.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVI. THE STRANGE AND SURPRISING WARREN
</h2>
<p>
The volume was a loose-leaf diary, with each page dated, and of letter
size. It covered more than the current year, however, running back for
nearly eighteen months. It was as scrupulously edited as a lawyer's
engagement book, and curiously enough it was entirely written in
typewriting!
</p>
<p>
Most surprising of all, however, was the curious code in which the entire
matter was transcribed,—the most unusual one which Shirley had ever
read.
</p>
<p>
Here was the first page to which he opened, letter for letter and symbol
for symbol:
</p>
<p>
“THURSDAY: JANUARY SEVENTH, 1915.
;rstmrfagtp,ansmlafrav;rudyrtaftreadocayjpi
dsmfaoma,ptmomha,pmlassdohmrfaypayscoae
ptlagptayrsadjomrasddohmrfagocahrmrsypta
,sthoragsotgscafsyraeoyjafrav;rudyrtasyagobra
djomrasmfalprajse;ruavobrtomhas,rakslras
smffanrmasddohmrfan;svlavstagpta,raqsofaqj o;apmrajimftrfavpbrtomhadqrvos;
aeptlakpn agomodjrfatobrtdofraftobrasyarohjyoayjotfad ocadjstqafrqpdoyr
famohjyasmfaffuagpitayjpi dsmfadsgrafrqpdoyagogyrrmajimftrfa; rmyaf
p;;ua,stopmayepajimfrtgptaftrddagptaqstyua
eoyjabsmv;rgyamrcyasgyrtmppmasfbsmvrfad jomrapmrayjpidsm
daypavpbrtapqyopmapga usvjyadimnrs, aqsofaypantplrtayjsyamohjyapt
frfaqtpbodop,dayr;rqjpmragptausvjyayepa,p myjabtiodra,
pmlasddohmrdagptkpnamrcyafs uasfbs mvrfadjomragojimftrfapmasvvpimyae
ptlapmaer;;omhypmadrtts;a,syyrtatrqsitdan; svla,svjomra”
</p>
<p>
and so it ran on, baffling and inspiring a headache!
</p>
<p>
Shirley went over and over the lines of this bewildering phalanx of
letters with no reward for his absorbed devotion to the puzzle.
</p>
<p>
“Let me see,” he mused. “Thursday, January seventh, was the date upon
which Washington Serral was murdered, according to Doctor MacDonald. Any
man who will maintain a record of the days in such a difficult code as
this must not only be extremely methodical, but is certain to have much to
put upon that record worth the trouble. Here may lay the secret of the
entire case.”
</p>
<p>
At the end of the hour he had allowed himself, there was no more proximity
to solution than at the inception of his effort. It was almost half-past
eleven, and he knew that it was time to go to Warren's apartment. He sent
a messenger with the book, carefully wrapped up, to his rooms at the club
on Forty-fourth Street. It was too interesting a document to risk taking
up to that apartment again, after Helene's exertions in obtaining it.
</p>
<p>
The Somerset was not dissimilar from the hundreds of highly embellished
dwellings of the sort which abound in the region of the Park, causing
out-of-town visitors to marvel justly at the source of the vast sums of
money with which to pay the enormous rentals of them all.
</p>
<p>
The elevator operator smirked knowingly, when he asked for Warren's
apartment. “You-all can go right up, boss. He's holdin' forth for another
of dem high sassiety shindigs to-night. Dat gemman alluz has too many
callin' to bother with the telephone when he has a party. You don't need
no announcin'.”
</p>
<p>
The man directed him to the door on the left. Closed as it was the sounds
of merrymaking emanated into the corridor. Shirley's pressure on the bell
was answered by Shine Taylor's startled face. Warren stood behind him. The
surprise of the pair amused Shirley, but their composure bespoke trained
self-control.
</p>
<p>
“I'm sorry to be late,” was the criminologist's greeting. “But I came up
to apologize for not being able to bring Miss Marigold. We missed
connections somewhere, and I couldn't find her.”
</p>
<p>
“I am so pleased to have you with us anyway. We'll try to get along
without her—” but Warren was interrupted to his discomfiture.
</p>
<p>
A silvery laugh came from the hallway behind him. Helene Marigold waved a
champagne glass at Shirley.
</p>
<p>
“There's my tardy escort now. I'm here, Shirley old top! Te, he! You see I
played a little joke on you this afternoon and eloped with a handsomer man
than you.” She leaned unsteadily against the door post and waved a white
hand at him as she coaxed. “Come on in, old dear, and don't be cross now
with your little Bonbon Tootems!”
</p>
<p>
Taylor and Warren exchanged glances, for this was an unexpected sally. But
they were prompt in their effusive cordiality, as they assisted Shirley in
removing his overcoat, and hanging his hat with those of the other guests.
He placed his cane against the hall tree, and followed his host into the
jollified apartment. He did not overlook the swift glide of Shine's hand
into each of his overcoat pockets in the brief interval. Here was a
skilful “dip”—Shirley, however, had taken care that the pickpocket
would find nothing to worry him in the overcoat.
</p>
<p>
Warren's establishment was a gorgeous one. To Shirley it was hard to
harmonize the character of the man as he had already deduced it with the
evident passion for the beautiful. That such a connoisseur of art objects
could harbor in so broad and cultured a mind the machinations of such
infamy seemed almost incredible. The riddle was not new with Reginald
Warren's case: for morals and “culture” have shown their sociological,
economic and even diplomatic independence of each other from the time when
the memory of man runneth not!
</p>
<p>
Shirley's admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host. So after a tactful
introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all stages of
stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour of inspection
about his rooms.
</p>
<p>
“So, you like etchings? I want you to see my five Whistlers. Here is my
Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot. This crayon by Von Lenbach is a
favorite of mine.” His black eyes sparkled with pride as he pointed out
one gem after another in this veritable storehouse of artistic surprises.
Few of the jolly throng gave evidence of appreciating them: the man was
curiously superior to his associations in education as well as the patent
evidence which Shirley now observed of being to the manor born. Helene
Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled under her,
pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched Shirley's
absorption. She seemed almost asleep, but her mind drank in each mood that
fired the criminologist's face, as he thoroughly relaxed from his usual
bland superiority of mien, to revel in the treasures.
</p>
<p>
Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare wood-cuts,
water colors—such a harmonious variety he had seldom seen in any
private collection. The library was another thesaurus: rich bindings
encased volumes worthy of their garb. The books, furthermore, showed the
mellowing evidence of frequent use; here was no patron of the instalment
editions-de-luxe!
</p>
<p>
“You like my things,” and Warren's voice purred almost happily. There was
a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley understood. The
appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his heart. “My books—all
bound privately, you know, for I hate shop bindings. Most of them from
second-hand stalls, redolent with the personalities of half a hundred
readers. Books are so much more worth reading when they have been read and
read again. Don't you think so?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. I see your tastes run to the modern school. Individualism, even
morbidity: Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin, Gorky—They
express your thoughts collectively?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but not radically enough. My entire intellectual life has driven me
forward—I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the divinity of
self, and—but there I invited you to a joy party, not a university
seminar.”
</p>
<p>
“But the party will grow riper with age,” and Shirley was prone to
continue the autopsy. “You are a university man. Where did you study?”
</p>
<p>
“Sipping here and there,” and a forgivable vanity lightened Warren's face.
“Gottingen, Warsaw, Jena, Oxford, Milan, The Sorbonne and even at
Heidelberg, the jolly old place. You see my scar?” He pulled back a lock
of his wavy black hair from the left temple to show a cut from a student
duelist's sword. “But you Americans—I mean, we Americans—we
have such opportunities to pick up the best things from the rest of the
world.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Warren,” and Shirley shook his head, not overlooking the slight break
which indicated that his host was a foreigner, despite the quick change.
“I have been to busy wasting time to collect anything but fleeting
memories. Too much polo, swimming, yachting, golfing—I have fallen
into evil ways. I think your example may reform me. You must dine with me
at my club some day, and give me some hints about making such wonderful
purchases.”
</p>
<p>
“I know the most wonderful antique shop,” Warren began, and just then was
interrupted by Shine Taylor and a dizzy blonde person with whom he maxixed
through the Hindu draperies, each deftly balancing a champagne glass.
</p>
<p>
“Here, Reg, you neglect your other guests. Come on in!” Shine's companion
held out a wine glass to Warren, but her eyes were fixed in a fascinated
stare upon Montague Shirley.
</p>
<p>
“Why, what are you doing here?”
</p>
<p>
It was little Dolly Marion, Van Cleft's companion on the fatal automobile
ride. She trembled: the glass fell to the floor with a tinkly crash.
Shirley smiled indulgently. Taylor and Warren exchanged looks, but Monty
knew that they must by this time be aware of his command to the girl to
abstain from gay associations.
</p>
<p>
“You couldn't resist the call of the wild, could you, Miss Dolly?”
</p>
<p>
The girl sheepishly giggled, and danced out of the room, to sink into a
chair, wondering what this visitation meant. Another masculine butterfly
pressed more champagne upon her, and in a few moments she had forgotten to
worry about anything more important than the laws of gravity. Warren had
been rudely dragged away from his intellectual kinship with his guest. His
manner changed, almost indefinably, but Shirley understood. He looked at
Helene, a little bundle of sleepy sweetness in the big chair.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Miss! Where did you go when I left you on my call of condolence to
Howard Van Cleft? He leaves town to-night for a trip on his yacht, and it
was my last chance to say good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
“Where is he going?” was Warren's lapsus linguae, at this bit of news.
</p>
<p>
“Down to the Gulf, I believe. Do you know him, Warren? Nice chap. Too bad
about his father's sudden death from heart failure, wasn't it? He told me
they were putting in supplies for a two months' cruise and would not be
able to sail before three in the morning.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't know Van Cleft,” was Warren's guarded reply. “Of course, I read
of his sad loss. But he is so rich now that he can wipe out his grief with
a change of scene and part of the inheritance. It's being done in society,
these days.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor Van Cleft! He's besieged by blackmailers, who threaten to lay bare
his father's extravagant innuendos, unless he pays fifty thousand dollars.
He can afford it, but as he says, it's war times and money is scarce as
brunette chorus girls. He has put the matter before the District Attorney
and is going to sail for Far Cathay until they round up the gang. These
criminals are so clumsy nowadays, I imagine it will be an easy task, don't
you, Warren?”
</p>
<p>
The other man's eyes narrowed to black slits as he studied the childlike
expression of Shirley's face. He wondered if there could be a covert
threat in this innocent confidence. He answered laconically: “Oh, I
suppose so. We read about crooks in the magazines and then see their
capers in the motion picture thrillers, but down in real life, we find
them a sordid, unimaginative lot of rogues.”
</p>
<p>
He proffered Shirley a cigarette from his jeweled case. As he leaned
toward the table to draw a match from the small bronze holder, Helene
observed Shirley deftly substitute it for one of his own, secreting the
first.
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” continued Shirley, “the criminal who is caught generally loses his
game because he is mechanical and ungifted with talent. But think of the
criminals who have yet to be captured—the brilliant, the inspired
ones, the chess-players of wickedness who love their game and play it with
the finesse of experts.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley smoothed away the ripple of suspicion which he had mischievously
aroused with, “So, that is why fellows like us would not bother with the
life. The same physical and intellectual effort expended by a criminal
genius would bring him money and power with no clutching legal hand to
fear. But there, we're getting morbid. What I really want to do is to
satisfy my vanity. Where did Miss Marigold disappear?”
</p>
<p>
“Talking about me?” and Helene opened her eyes languorously. “I was so
tired waiting for you that when Mr. Warren came along in his wonderful new
car I yielded to his invitation, so we enjoyed that tea-room trip which
you had promised. Such a lark! Then we came up here where I had the most
wonderful dinner with him and three girls. I was tired and sleepy, so I
dozed away on that library davenport until the party began—and there
you are and here I are, and so, forgive me, Monty?”
</p>
<p>
She slipped nimbly to the floor, with a maddening display of a silken
ankle, advancing to the criminologist with a wistful playfulness which
brought a flush of sudden feeling, to the face of Reginald Warren. Helene
was carrying out his directions to the letter, Shirley observed.
</p>
<p>
They lingered at Warren's festivities until a wee sma' hour, Helene
pretending to share the conviviality, while actually maintaining a
hawk-like watch upon the two conspirators as she now felt them to be. She
was amused by the frequency with which Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren
plied their guest with cigarettes: Shirley's legerdemain in substituting
them was worthy of the vaudeville stage.
</p>
<p>
“The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy,” he told her, with no effort
at concealment. “We must get home or I'll fall asleep myself.”
</p>
<p>
A covert smile flitted across Warren's pale face, as Shirley
unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding a bit, as
well. Helene accepted glass after glass of wine, thoughtfully poured out
by her host. And as thoughtfully, did she pour it into the flower vases
when his back was turned: she matched the other girls' acute transports of
vinous joy without an error. Shirley walked to the window, asking if he
might open it for a little fresh air. Warren nodded smiling.
</p>
<p>
“You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight stories,”
volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. The eighth and top floor. A burglar could make a good haul of my
collection, except that I have the window to the fire escape barred from
the inside, around the corner facing to the north. Here, I am safe from
molestation.”
</p>
<p>
“A great view of the Park—what a fine library for real reading; and
I see you have a typewriter—the same make I used to thump, when I
did newspaper work—a Remwood. Let me see some of your literary work,
sometime—”
</p>
<p>
Warren waved a deprecating hand. “Very little—editors do not like
it. I do better with an adding machine down on Wall Street than a
typewriter. But let us join the others.” There was a noticeable reluctance
about dwelling upon the typewriter subject. Warren hurried into the
drawing-room, as Shirley followed with a perceptible stagger.
</p>
<p>
Shine Taylor scrutinized his condition, as he asked for another cigarette.
As he yielded to an apparent craving for sleep, the others danced and
chatted, while Taylor disappeared through the hall door. After a few
minutes he returned to grimace slightly at Warren. Shirley roused himself
from his stupor.
</p>
<p>
“Bonbon, let us be going. Good-night, everybody.”
</p>
<p>
He walked unsteadily to the door, amid a chorus of noisy farewells, with
Helene unsteady and hilarious behind him. Warren and Shine seemed
satisfied with their hospitable endeavors, as they bade good-night. The
elevator brought up two belated guests, the roseate Pinkie and a colorless
youth.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, are you going, Mr. Shirley? What a blooming shame. I just left the
most wonderful supper-party at the Claridge to see you.”
</p>
<p>
“Too bad: I hope for better luck next time.”
</p>
<p>
“The elevator is waiting,” and Helene's gaze was scornful. Shirley
restrained his smile at the girl's covert hatred of the redhaired charmer.
Then he asked maliciously: “Isn't she interesting? Too bad she associates
with her inferiors.”
</p>
<p>
“You put it mildly.”
</p>
<p>
“Here, boy, call a taxicab,” he ordered the attendant, as they reached the
lower level.
</p>
<p>
“Sorry, boss, but I dassent leave the elevator at this time of night. I'm
the only one in the place jest now.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley insisted, with a duty soother of silver, but the negro returned in
a few minutes, shaking his head. Shirley ordered him to telephone the
nearest hacking-stand. Then followed another delay, without result.
</p>
<p>
“Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this. Let us walk, as it seems to
have been planned we should.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it wise? Why put yourself in their net?”
</p>
<p>
For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had so
carefully guarded when they entered the apartment. It was heavier than a
policeman's nightstick. As he retook it, she observed the straightening
line of his lips.
</p>
<p>
“As the French say, 'We shall see what we shall see.' Please walk a little
behind me, so that my right arm may be free.”
</p>
<p>
It was after two, and the street was dark. Shirley had noted an arc-light
on the corner when he had entered the building—now it was
extinguished. A man lurched forward as they turned into Sixth Avenue, his
eyes covered by a dark cap.
</p>
<p>
“Say gent! Give a guy that's down an' out the price of a beef stew? I got
three pennies an' two more'll fix me.”
</p>
<p>
“No!”
</p>
<p>
“Aw, gent, have a heart!” The man was persistent, drawing closer, as
Shirley walked an with his companion, into the increasing darkness, away
from the corner. Another figure appeared from a dark doorway.
</p>
<p>
“I'm broke too, Mister. Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a night like
this?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out a
handkerchief to the surprise of the men. He suddenly drew Helene back
against the wall, and stood between her and the two men.
</p>
<p>
“What do you thugs want?” snapped the criminologist, as he clenched the
cane tightly and held the handkerchief in his left hand. There was no
reply. The men realized that he knew their purpose—one dropped to a
knee position as the other sprang forward. The famous football toe shot
forward with more at stake than ever in the days when the grandstands
screeched for a field goal. At the same instant he swung the loaded cane
upon the shoulders of the upright man, missing his head.
</p>
<p>
The second man swung a blackjack.
</p>
<p>
The first, with a bleeding face staggered to his feet.
</p>
<p>
The handkerchief went up to the mouth of the active assailant, and to
Helene's astonishment, he sank back with a moan. Shirley pounced upon his
mate, and after a slight tussle, applied the handkerchief with the same
benumbing effect. Then he rolled it up and tossed it far from him.
</p>
<p>
He took a police whistle from his pocket and blew it three times. His
assailants lay quietly on the ground, so that when the officer arrived he
found an immaculately garbed gentleman dusting off his coat shoulder, and
looking at his watch.
</p>
<p>
“What is it, sir?” he cried.
</p>
<p>
“A couple of drunks attacked me, after I wouldn't give them a handout.
Then they passed away. You won't need my complaint—look at them—”
</p>
<p>
The policeman shook the men, but they seemed helpless except to groan and
hold their heads in mute agony, dull and apparently unaware of what was
going on about them.
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you don't want to press the charge of assault?”
</p>
<p>
“No. I may have it looked up by my attorney. Tonight I do not care to take
my wife to the stationhouse with me. They ought to get thirty days, at
that.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley took Helene's arm, and the officer nodded.
</p>
<p>
“I'll send for the wagon, sir. They're some pickled. Good-night.”
</p>
<p>
As they walked up to the nearest car crossing, Helene turned to him with
her surprise unabated.
</p>
<p>
“What did you do to them, Mr. Shirley?”
</p>
<p>
“Merely crushed a small vial of Amyl nitrite which I thoughtfully put in
my handkerchief this afternoon. It is a chemical whose fumes are used for
restoring people afflicted with heart failure: with men like these, and
the amount of the liquid which I gave them for perfume, the result was the
same as complete unconsciousness from drunkenness.—Science is a
glorious thing, Miss Helene.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH SHIRLEY SURPRISES HIMSELF
</h2>
<p>
They reached the hotel without untoward adventure.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps we might find a little corner in that dining-room I saw this
afternoon, with an obliging waiter to bring us something to eat. Shall we
try? I need a lot of coffee, for I am going down to the dock of the Yacht
Club to await developments.”
</p>
<p>
“You big silly boy,” she cautioned, with a maternal note in her voice
which was very sweet to bachelor ears from such a maiden mouth, “you must
not let Nature snap. You have a wonderful physique but you must go home to
bed.”
</p>
<p>
“It can't be done—I want to hear about your little visit to the
apartment, and the story of the diary. I'll ask the clerk.”
</p>
<p>
A bill glided across the register of the hotel desk, and the greeter
promised to attend to the club sandwiches himself. He led them to a cosey
table, in the deserted room, and started out to send the bell-boy to a
nearby lunchroom.
</p>
<p>
“Just a minute please,—if any one calls up Miss Marigold, don't let
them know she has returned. I have something important to say, without
interruption: you understand?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I get you, sir,” and the droll part was that with a familiarity
generated of the hotel arts he did understand even better than Shirley or
Helene. He had seen many other young millionaires and golden-haired
actresses. Shirley looked across the table into the astral blue of those
gorgeous eyes. Certain unbidden, foolish words strove to liberate
themselves from his stubborn lips.
</p>
<p>
“I am a consummate idiot!” was all that escaped, and Helene looked her
surprise.
</p>
<p>
“Why, have you made a mistake?”
</p>
<p>
“I hope not. But tell me of Warren's mistake.”
</p>
<p>
She had been waiting what seemed an eternity before Van Cleft's house,
when a big machine drew up alongside. Warren greeted her with a smiling
invitation to leave Shirley guessing. Her willingness to go, she felt,
would disarm his suspicions. The little dinner in the apartment with
Shine, Warren and three girls had been in good taste enough: pretending,
however, to be overcome with weariness she persuaded them to let her
cuddle up on the couch, where she feigned sleep. Warren had tossed an
overcoat over her and left the apartment with the others, promising to
return in a few minutes. He had said to Shine, “She'll be quiet until we
return—it may be a good alibi to have her here.” Then he had
disappeared, wearing only a soft hat, with no other overcoat. Listening at
the closed hall door, she heard him direct the elevator man, “Second off,
Joe.” The door was locked from the outside. The servant's entrance was
locked, all the bedrooms locked, every one with a Yale lock above the
ordinary keyhole. The Chinese cook had been sent out sometime before to
buy groceries and wine for the later party.
</p>
<p>
“But where did you find the note-book? It may send him to the electric
chair.” Monty Shirley was lighting one of the cigarettes handed him by his
host. He sniffed at it and crushed out the embers at the end. “This
cigarette would have sent me to dreamland for a day at least—Warren
understands as much chemistry as I do.”
</p>
<p>
“At first I studied the books in the library out of curiosity and then
noticed that three books were shoved in, out of alignment with the others
on the shelf. With a manservant in the house, instead of a woman, of
course things needed dusting. But where these three books were it had been
rubbed off! I took out the books, reached behind and found the little
leather volume. It was simple. I went to his typewriter when I saw that
the pages were all typed, and took out some note-paper, from the bronze
rack.”
</p>
<p>
“And then, Miss Sleuth?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't laugh at me. I had heard of the legal phrase 'corroborative
evidence,' so knowing that it would be necessary to connect that
typewriter with the book, I rattled off a few lines on the machine. Here
it is: it will show the individuality of the machine to an expert.”
</p>
<p>
“You wonderful girl!” he murmured simply. She protested, “Don't tease me.
I have watched you and am learning some of your simple but complete
methods of working. I understand you better than you think.”
</p>
<p>
“Go on with your story,” and Shirley was uncomfortable, although he knew
not why.
</p>
<p>
“That is the end of my tale of woe. The kitchen being open, I took
advantage of the dumb-waiter, as you already know. It's fortunate that
waiter is dumb, for it must have many lurid confessions to make. I never
saw such an interminable shaft; it seemed higher than the Eiffel Tower.
See how I blistered my hands on the rope, letting myself down.”
</p>
<p>
She opened her palms, showing the red souvenirs of the coarse strands.
Almost unconsciously she placed her soft fingers within Shirley's for a
brief instant. She quickly drew them away, sensing a blush beneath the
cosmetics, glad that he could not detect it. That gentle contact thrilled
Shirley again, even as the dear memory of the tired cheek against his
shoulder, during the automobile trip of the previous night.
</p>
<p>
“After finding you so accidentally and returning with your aid, on the
little elevator, I threw myself back into the original pose on the big
couch. It was just in time, for Warren returned. His cook came in shortly
afterward. I imagine that he allows no one in that apartment, ordinarily,
when he is not there himself. But what, sir, do you think I discovered
upon the shoulder of his coat?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley shook his head. “A beautiful crimson hair,” he asked gravely,
“from the sun-kissed forehead of the delectable Pinkie? Or was it white,
from the tail of the snowy charger which tradition informs us always lurks
in the vicinity of auburn-haired enchantresses?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing so romantic. Just cobwebs! He saw me looking at them, and brushed
them off very quickly.”
</p>
<p>
“The man thinks he is a wine bottle of rare vintage!” observed Shirley.
But the jest was only in his words. He looked at her seriously and then
rapt in thought, closed his eyes the better to aid his mental calculation.
“He got off at the second floor—He wore no overcoat—A black
silk handkerchief—cobwebs—and that garage on the other street,
through the block! Miss Helene, you are a splendid ally!”
</p>
<p>
“Won't you tell me what you mean about the garage? Who were those men who
attacked you? What happened since I deserted you?”
</p>
<p>
But Shirley provokingly shook his head, as he drew out his watch.
</p>
<p>
“It is half-past two. I must hurry down to East Twenty-fifth Street and
the East River, at the yacht club mooring, before three. Tomorrow I will
give you my version in some quiet restaurant, far from the gadding crowd
of the White Light district.”
</p>
<p>
He rose, drawing back his chair; they walked to the elevator together. The
clerk beckoned politely.
</p>
<p>
“A gent named Mr. Warren telephoned to ask if you were home yet, Miss
Marigold. I told him not yet. Was that wrong?”
</p>
<p>
“It was very kind of you. Thank you so much,” and Helene's smile was the
cause of an uneasy flutter in the breast of the blase clerk. “Good-night.”
</p>
<p>
“That's a lucky guy, at that, Jimmie,” confided the clerk to the bell-boy.
“She is some beauty show, ain't she? And she's on the right track, too.”
</p>
<p>
“Yep, but she's too polite to be a great actress or a star. Her
temper'ment ain't mean enough!” responded this Solomon in brass buttons.
“I hopes we gits invited to the wedding!”
</p>
<p>
Outside, Shirley enjoyed the stimulus of the bracing early morning air. A
new inspiration seemed to fire him, altogether dissimilar to the glow
which he was wont to feel when plunging into a dangerous phase of a
professional case. He slowly drew from his pocket the typed note-paper
which had nestled in such enviable intimacy with that courageous heart.
The faint fragrance of her exquisite flesh clung to it still. He held it
to his lips and kissed it. Then he stopped, to turn about and look upward
at the tall hostelry behind him. High up below the renaissance cornice he
beheld the lights glow forth in the rooms which he knew were Helene's.
</p>
<p>
As he hurried to the club, he muttered angrily to himself: “I have made
one discovery, at least, in this unusual exploit. I find that I have lost
what common sense I possessed when I became a Freshman at college!”
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVIII. ON THE RISING TIDE
</h2>
<p>
A hurried message to the Holland Agency brought four plain clothes men
from the private reserve, under the leadership of superintendent Cleary.
Monty met them at the doorway of the club house, wearing a rough and
tumble suit.
</p>
<p>
They sped downtown, toward the East River, the criminologist on the seat
where he could direct the driver. At Twenty-sixth Street, near the docks,
they dismounted and Shirley gave his directions to the detectives.
</p>
<p>
“I want you to slide along these doorways, working yourselves separately
down the water front until you are opposite the yacht club landing. I will
work on an independent line. You must get busy when I shoot, yell or
whistle,—I can't tell which. As the popular song goes, 'You're here
and I'm here, so what do we care?' This is a chance for the Holland Agency
to get a great story in the papers for saving young Van Cleft from the
kidnappers.”
</p>
<p>
He left them at the corner, and crossing to the other pavement, began to
stagger aimlessly down the street, looking for all the world like a
longshoreman returning home from a bacchanalian celebration from some
nearby Snug Harbor. It was a familiar type of pedestrian in this
neighborhood at this time of the morning.
</p>
<p>
“That guy's a cool one, Mike,” said Cleary to one of his men. “These
college ginks ain't so bad at that when you get to know 'em with their
dress-suits off.”
</p>
<p>
“He's a reg'lar feller, that's all,” was Mike's philosophical response.
“Edjication couldn't kill it in 'im.”
</p>
<p>
A hundred yards offshore was the beautiful steam yacht of the Van Clefts',
the “White Swan.” Lights on the deck and a few glowing portholes showed
unusual activity aboard. Shirley's hint to Warren about the contemplated
trip to southern climes was the exact truth. Naked truth, he had found,
was ofttimes a more valuable artifice than Munchausen artistry of the most
consummate craft! The longshoreman, apparently befuddled in his bearings,
wandered toward the dock, which protruded into the river, a part of the
club property. He staggered, tumbled and lay prostrate on the snowy
planks.
</p>
<p>
Then he crawled awkwardly toward one of the big spiles at the side of the
structure, where he passed into a profound slumber. This, too, was a
conventional procedure for the neighborhood! A man walked across the
street, from the darkness of a deserted hallway: he gave the somnolent one
a kick. The longshoreman grunted, rolled over, and continued to snore
obliviously.
</p>
<p>
An automobile honk-honked up Twenty-third Street, and then swung around in
a swift curve toward the dock. The investigating kicker slunk away, down
the street. The limousine drew up at the entrance to the tender gangway.
Accompanied by a portly servant, a young man in a fur coat, stepped from
the machine.
</p>
<p>
“Give them another call with your horn, Sam,” he directed. “The boat will
be in for me, then.”
</p>
<p>
This was done. A scraping noise came from the hanging stairway of the
dock, and a voice called up from the darkness: “Here we are, sir!” Howard
Van Cleft leaned over the edge and looked down, somewhat nervously. A
reassuring word came up from the boat, rocking against the spiles.
</p>
<p>
“You was a bit late, sir. You said three, Mr. Van Cleft, and now it's ten
after. So the captain sent us in to wait for you. Everything's shipshape,
sir, steam up, and all the supplies aboard. Climb right down the ladder,
sir. Steady now, lads!”
</p>
<p>
This seemed to presage good. Van Cleft turned to his butler.
</p>
<p>
“Take down the luggage, Edward. Goodbye, Sam. Keep an eye on the machines.
The folks will attend to everything for you while I am away. Good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
The butler had delivered the baggage and now returned up the ladder,
puffing with his exertions.
</p>
<p>
“Good-bye, sir,” and his voice was more emotional than usual. “Watch
yourself, sir, if you please, sir. You're the last Van Cleft, and we need
you, sir.” The old man touched his hat, and climbed into the automobile,
as Van Cleft climbed down the ladder. The machine sped away under the
skilful guidance of Sam.
</p>
<p>
“Steady, sir, steady—There, we have you now, sir,—Quick, men!
Up the river with the tide. Row like hell!—Keep your oars muffled—here
comes the other boat.”
</p>
<p>
All this seemed naturally the accompaniment of the embarkment of Van
Cleft's yachting cruise, but the sleeping longshoreman suddenly arose to
his feet and blew a shrill police whistle. Next instant the flash of his
pocket-lamp illumined the dark boat below him. A volley of curses greeted
this untoward action! A revolver barked from the hand of a big man in the
stern. Young Van Cleft lay face downward in the boat, neatly gagged and
bound. As the light still flickered over the surprised oarsmen, an
answering shot evidenced better aim. The man in the back of the bobbing
vessel groaned as he fell forward upon the prostrate body of the pinioned
millionaire. One oarsman disappeared over the side of the boat, to glide
into the unfathomable darkness, with skilful strokes.
</p>
<p>
“Hold still! I'll kill the first man who makes a move!”
</p>
<p>
As Shirley's voice rang out, Cleary with his assistants was dashing across
the open space to the end of the dock.
</p>
<p>
“Shove out that boat-hook and hold onto the dock!” was the additional
order, accompanied by a punctuation mark in the form of another bullet
which splintered the gunwale of the boat. Looking as they were, into the
dazzling eye of the bulb light, the men were uncertain of the number of
their assailants: surrender was natural. Cleary's men made quick work of
them. The boat from the yacht now hove to by this time, filled with
excited and profane sailormen. The skipper of the “White Swan,” revolver
drawn, stood in its bow as it bumped against the stairway. Howard Van
Cleft was unbound: dazed but happy he tried to talk.
</p>
<p>
“What—why—who?” he mumbled.
</p>
<p>
“Pat Cleary, from the Holland Detective Agency,” was Shirley's response.
“There, handcuff these men quick. Two cops are coming. We want the credit
of this job before the rookies beat us to it.”
</p>
<p>
Van Cleft recognized the speaker, and caught his hand fervently. Shirley,
though, was too busy for gratitude. He gave another quick direction.
</p>
<p>
“Hurry on board your yacht tender and get underway. Your life isn't worth
a penny if you stay in town another hour. These men will be attended to.
Good luck and goodbye.”
</p>
<p>
The young man rapidly transferred his luggage to his own boat. They were
soon out of view on their way to the larger vessel. Shirley turned toward
Cleary.
</p>
<p>
“I'll file the charge against these two men. They tried to rob me and make
their getaway in this boat. You were down here as a bodyguard for Van
Cleft, who, of course, knew nothing about the matter as he left for his
cruise. So his name can be kept out of it entirely. And the fact that you
helped to save him from paying fifty thousand dollars in blackmail, will
not injure the size of Captain Cronin's bill. Get me?”
</p>
<p>
“It's got!” laughed Cleary.
</p>
<p>
Two patrolmen were dumfounded when they reached the spot to find four men
in handcuffs in charge of six armed guardians. The superintendent
explained the situation as laid out by Shirley. The cavalcade took its way
to the East Twenty-first Street Police Station, where the complaint was
filed. Sullen and perplexed about their failure, the men were all locked
in their cells, after their leader had his shoulder dressed by an interne
summoned from the nearby Bellevue Hospital.
</p>
<p>
Shirley and Cleary returned with the others to the waiting automobile,
after these formalities. The prisoners had been given the customary
opportunity to telephone to friends, but strangely enough did not avail
themselves of it.
</p>
<p>
“We're cutting down the ranks of the enemy, Cleary,” observed the
detective as he lit a cigarette. “But I wonder who it was that escaped in
the water?”
</p>
<p>
“He'll be next in the net. But say, Mr. Shirley, what percentage do you
get for all this work, I'm awondering?” was the answering query. The
criminologist laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, my dear man, simply thanks. That's a rare thing for a well-to-do
man to get since the I.W.W. proved to the world that it's a crime for a
man to own more than ten dollars, or even to earn it! But I wish you would
drop me off about half a block from the Somerset Apartments, on
Fifty-sixth Street. I want to watch for a late arrival.”
</p>
<p>
He waited in the shadows of the houses on the opposite side of the street.
After half an hour he was rewarded by the sight of Mr. Shine Taylor
dismounting from a taxicab. The young gentleman wore a heavy overcoat over
a bedraggled suit. One of his snowy spats was missing; his hat was
dripping, still, from its early immersion. He entered the building, after
a cautious survey of the deserted street, with a stiff and exhausted gait.
</p>
<p>
Shirley was satisfied with this new knot in the string. He returned to his
rooms at the club, to gain fresh strength for the trailing on the morrow.
And this time, he felt that he deserved his rest!
</p>
<p>
Next morning, after his usual plunge and rub-down, he ordered breakfast in
his rooms. He instructed the clerk to send up a Remwood typewriter, and
began his experiments with the code of the diary.
</p>
<p>
From an old note-book, in which were tabulated the order of letter
recurrences according to their frequency in ordinary English words, he
freshened his memory. This was the natural sequence, in direct ratio to
the use of the letters: “E: T: A: O: N: I: S: B: M, etc.” The use of “E”
was double that of any other. Yet on the pages of the book he found that
the most frequently recurring symbol was “R” which was, ordinarily, one of
the least used in the alphabet. “T,” which would have been second in
popularity, naturally, was seen only a few times in proportion. “Y,” also
seldom used, appeared very often. The symbol “A” was used with surprising
frequency.
</p>
<p>
“Let me see,” he mused. “This code is strictly typewritten. It must be
arranged on some mechanical twist of the typing method. A is used so many
times that it might be safe to assume that it is used for a space, as all
the words in this code run together. If A is used that way, what takes its
place? S would by rights be seventh on the list, but the average I have
made shows that it is about third or fourth.”
</p>
<p>
Carefully he jotted down in separate columns on a piece of paper the
individual repetitions of letters on the page of “January 7, 1915.” He
arrived at the conclusion, then, that “R” was used for “E,” that “S” took
the place of “A” and that “Y” alternated in this cipher for “T” which was
second on his little list.
</p>
<p>
Fur the benefit of the reader who may be interested enough to work out
this little problem, along the lines of Shirley's deductions the
arrangement of the so-called “Standard” keyboard is here shown, as it was
on the “Number Four” machine of Warren's Remwood, and the duplicate
machine which Shirley was using.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Q W E R T Y U I O P
A S D F G H J K L;
Z X C V B N M,.
Shift SPACE BAR Shift
Key Key
</pre>
<p>
This diagram represents the “lower case” or small letters, capitals being
made by holding down one of the shift keys on either side, and striking
the other letter at the same time, there being two symbols on each metal
type key. As only small letters were used through the code Shirley did not
bother about the capitals. He realized at last, that if his theory of
substitution were correct the writer had struck the key to the right of
the three frequent letters. He had the inception of the scheme.
</p>
<p>
Starting with the first line of the sentences so jumbled on the page for
January 7, 1915, he began to reverse the operation, copying it off,
hitting on the typewriter the keyboard letter to the left of the one
indicated in the order of the cipher.
</p>
<p>
The result was gratifying. He continued for several lines, having trouble
only with the letter “P.” At last he realized that the only substitution for
that could be “Q.” In other words, “A” had been used for the space letter
throughout, and for all the other symbols the one on the right had been
struck, except “P” which being at the end of the line had been merely
swung to the first letter on the other end of it!
</p>
<p>
No wonder Warren had been so confident of its baffling simplicity! Many of
the well-known rules for reading codes would not work with this one, and
had it not been for Shirley's suspicion, aroused in the library of the
arch-schemer the night before, he would hardly have given the typewriter,
as a mechanical aide, a second thought. Warren's desire to drop the
subject of machines had planted a dangerous seed.
</p>
<p>
Laboriously Shirley typed off the material of the entire page for the
fatal Thursday, and his elation knew no bounds as he realized that here
was a key to many of the activities of his enemy. He donned his hat and
coat and hurried over to the Hotel California to show his discovery to
Helene. She invited him up to her suite at once, where he wasted no words
but exhibited the triumphant result of his efforts. He handed her his own
transcription, and this is what she read:
</p>
<p>
“January 7, 1915, Thursday.
</p>
<p>
“learned from bank de cleyster drew six thousand in morning monk assigned
to taxi work for tea shine assigned to fix generator margie fairfax date
with de cleyster at five, shine and joe hawley covering game jake and ben
assigned black car for me paid phil one hundred covering special work job
finished riverside drive at eighty third sharp deposited night and day
four thousand safe deposit fifteen hundred lent dolly marion two hundred
for dress for party with van cleft next afternoon advanced shine one
thousand to cover option of yacht sunbeam paid to broker that night
ordered provisions telephone for yacht two month cruise monk assigned for
job next day advanced shine five hundred on account work on wellington
serral matter repairs black machine fifty party apartment same night
champagne one hundred fifty caterer one hundred tips fifty five to janitor
taxis twelve must stir phil up on work for grimsby matter memorandum
arrange for yacht mooring on east river instead of north after wednesday
eighth job finis memorandum settle telephone exchange proceeds not later
than monday paid electrician special wiring two hundred in full
settlement.”
</p>
<p>
“There, Miss Helene, how do you like my little game of letter building?”
</p>
<p>
There was a boyish gleam of triumph in his smile as he turned toward her.
</p>
<p>
“You are a wizard, but how did you work it all out?” There was no smile in
her face, only a mingled horror at the revelations of this calculating
monster in his businesslike murder work, and an unfeigned admiration for
Shirley's keenness.
</p>
<p>
“A very old method, but one which would have availed for naught without
your help. The letter paper which you used and the unmistakable identity
of Warren's machine are two more bars of iron with which to imprison him.
The paper of that note is the same on which they wrote to Van Ceft for
money, and their threats to me. This shows from a microscopic examination
of its texture. I will give the whole book to a trustworthy stenographer:
more than six months of these little confessions are tabulated here.
Warren was evidently so used to this code that he could write in it as
easily as I do with the straight alphabet. His training in German
universities developed a thoroughness, a methodical recording of every
thing, which is apt to cost him dearly. And his undoubted vanity prompted
him to have a little volume of his own in that library to which he could
turn occasionally for the retrospection of his own cleverness. Now, I must
investigate this clever telephone system. I think I have the clue
necessary.”
</p>
<p>
He intrusted the book to Helene for the morning, promising to return in an
hour or two with new information, drolly refusing to tell her his
destination.
</p>
<p>
“You're a bad, bold boy, and should be spanked, for not letting some one
know where to look for you in case you get into difficulties,” she pouted.
“Perhaps I will do some equally foolish thing myself.”
</p>
<p>
“If you knew how you frightened me yesterday!” he began.
</p>
<p>
“Did you really worry and really care?” But Shirley had slipped out of the
door, leaving her to wonder, and then begin that long delayed letter to
Jack.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIX. AN EXPEDITION UNDERGROUND
</h2>
<p>
The criminologist picked his way through the swarming vehicles which swung
up and down Broadway, across to Seventh Avenue, where he turned into a
plumber's shop. This fellow had handled small jobs on Shirley's extensive
real estate holdings, and he was naturally delighted to do a favor in the
hope of obtaining new work.
</p>
<p>
“Mike, I want to borrow an old pair of overalls, a jumper and one of those
blue caps hanging up on your wall. And I need some plumbers' tools, as
well, for a little joke I am to play on one of my friends.”
</p>
<p>
The workman was astounded at such a request from his rich client, but
nodded willingly. The dirtiest of the clothes answered Shirley's
requirements and with soot rubbed over his face and hands, his hair
disarranged, he satisfied his artistic craving for detail. He was
transformed into a typical leadpipe brigand. Hanging his own garments in
the closet, after transferring his automatic revolver into the pocket of
the jeans, he started out, carrying the furnace pot, and looking like a
union-label article.
</p>
<p>
He reached the Somerset by a roundabout walk, passing more than one of his
acquaintances with inward amusement at their failure to recognize him. He
had arranged for Helene to invite Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren down to
call on her at the apartment in the California at this particular time. So
thus he felt that the coast was clear. At the tradesmen's entrance, where
he had gone before to hoist on the dumbwaiter, he entered the building. An
investigation of the basement showed him that in the rear of the building
were one large and two small courts or air shafts. Then he ascended the
iron stairway to the street level of the vestibule.
</p>
<p>
“Say, bo, I come to fix de pipes on de second floor,” was his
self-introduction to the haughty negro attendant. “Dey're leakin' an' me
boss tells me to git on de job in a hustle.”
</p>
<p>
“Which one? I ain't heard o' no leaks. It must be in de empty apartment in
de rear, kase dat old maid in de front would been kickin' my fool head off
ef she's had any trouble. She's always grouchy.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure, dingy, it's de empty one in de rear. Lemme in an' I'll fix it.”
</p>
<p>
“You-all better see de superintendent. People is apt to be lookin' at dat
apartment to-day to rent it, an' he mightn't want no plumber mussin'
round. I'll go hunt 'im fer you-all.”
</p>
<p>
“Say, you jest lemme in now. I'm paid by de hour. You knows what plumber
bills is, an' your superintendent'll fire you if he has to pay ten
dollars' overtime 'cause you hold me up.”
</p>
<p>
This was superior logic. The negro took him up and opened the door.
Shirley entered, and peered out of the court window in the rear. Helene's
suggestion about the dust was applicable here, for he found all the
windows coated except the one opening upon the areaway. Below he observed
a stone paving with a cracked surface. It was semidark, but his electric
pocket-light enabled him to observe one piece of the rock which seemed
entirely detached. Shirley investigated the closets of the empty
apartment. In one of them he discovered the object of his search. It was a
knotted rope. He first observed the exact way in which it had been folded
in order to replace it without suspicion being aroused. Then he took it to
the small window of the air shafts hanging it on a hook which was half
concealed behind the ledge. Down this he lowered himself, hand over hand.
The stone was quickly lifted—it was hinged on the under surface. In
the dark hole which was before him there was an iron ladder. Down he went,
into the utter blackness. His outstretched hands apprised him that he was
at the beginning of a walled tunnel, through which he groped in a
half-upright position. He reached an iron door, and remembering his
direction calculated that this must be at the rear entrance of the old
garage on West Fifty-fifth Street. It opened, as he swung a heavy iron
bar, fitted with a curious mechanism resembling the front of a safe.
Softly he entered, carrying his heavy boots in his hand. All was still
within, and he shot the glow ray of his little lamp about him. As the
reader may guess, it was the rear room of Warren's private spider-web! The
table, facing the screen was surmounted by an ingenious telephone
switchboard.
</p>
<p>
Shirley examined this closely. The various plugs were labelled: “Rector,”
“Flatbush,” “Jersey City,” “Main,” “Morningside,” and other names which
Shirley recognized as “central” stations of the telephone company. Here
was the partial solution of the mysterious calls. He determined to test
the service!
</p>
<p>
He took up the telephone receiver and sent the plug into the orifice under
the label, “Co.” wondering what that might be. Soon there was an answer.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Chief. What is it?”
</p>
<p>
“How's everything?” was Shirley's hoarse remark. “I find connections bad
in the Bronx? What's the matter?”
</p>
<p>
“I'll send one of the outside men up there to see, Chief. There's a new
exchange manager there, and he may be having the wires inspected. But my
tap is on the cable behind the building. I don't see how he could get
wise.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley smiled at this inadvertent betrayal of the system: wire tapping
with science. He was able to trap the confederate with his own mesh of
copper now.
</p>
<p>
“I want to see you right away. Some cash for you. I'm sick with a cold in
the throat so don't keep me waiting. Go up town and stand in the doorway
at 192 West Forty-first Street. Don't let anybody see you while you wait
there, so keep back out of sight. How soon can you be there?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, in half an hour if I hurry. Any trouble? You certainly have a bum
voice, Chief. But how will I know it's you?”
</p>
<p>
“I'll just say, 'Telephone,' and then you come right along with me, to a
place I have in mind. Don't be late, now! Good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley drew out the connection and tried the exchange labelled “Rector.”
Instantly a pleasant girl's voice inquired the number desired.
</p>
<p>
“Bryant 4802-R.”
</p>
<p>
This was the Hotel California.
</p>
<p>
The operator on the switchboard of the hostelry replied.
</p>
<p>
“Give me Miss Marigold's apartment, please.”
</p>
<p>
Helene's voice was soon on the wire. Shirley asked for Warren in a gruff
tone.
</p>
<p>
“What do you want?” was that gentleman's musical inquiry, in the tones
which were already so familiar to the criminologist.
</p>
<p>
“Chief, dis is de Rat. I wants to meet you down at de Blue Goose on Water
Street in half an hour. Kin you'se come? It's important.”
</p>
<p>
The other was evidently mystified.
</p>
<p>
“The Rat? What do you mean? I don't know you. Ring off!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley heard the other receiver click. He held the wire, reasoning out
the method of the intriguer. Soon there was a buzz in his ear, and
Warren's voice came to him. It was droll, this reversal of the original
method, which had been so puzzling.
</p>
<p>
“What number is this?”
</p>
<p>
“Rector 4471, sir,” answered the criminologist in the best falsetto tone
he could muster. Then he disconnected with a smile. This was turning the
tables with a vengeance. But he knew that he must be getting away from the
den before the possible investigation by Warren or his lieutenant. There
were many things he would have liked to study about the place. But his
curiosity about the telephone had made it impossible for him to remain. It
was a costly mistake, as events were destined to prove!
</p>
<p>
He hurried out of the compartment, into the tunnel, up the rope and
through the window. He replaced the knotted rope, exactly as it had been
before. He put a few drippings of molten lead from the bubbling pot, under
the wash-stand of the bathroom, to carry out the illusion of his work as
plumber. Then he departed from the building, as he had entered.
</p>
<p>
In ten minutes he was changing his garments in Mike's plumbing shop, with
a fabulous story of the excruciating joke he had played upon a sick
friend. Then he walked rapidly to the doorway at 192 West Forty-first
Street.
</p>
<p>
Back against the wall of this empty store entry, lounged a
pleasant-looking young man who puffed at a perfecto. Shirley stepped in,
and in a low tone, said: “Telephone.” The other started visibly, and
scrutinized the well-groomed club man from head to foot.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Chief, you're a surprise. I never thought you looked like that.
Where will we go?”
</p>
<p>
“Over to the gambling house a friend of mine runs, just around the corner.
There we can talk in quiet.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley led the way, restraining the smile which itched to betray his
enjoyment of the situation. The other studied him with sidelong glances of
unabated astonishment. They were soon going up the steps of the Holland
Agency, which looked for all the world, with its closed shutters, and
quiet front, like a retreat for the worshipers of Dame Fortune. Cronin
fortunately did not believe in signs. So the young man was not suspicious,
even when Shirley gave three knocks upon the door, to be admitted by the
sharp-nosed guardian of the portal.
</p>
<p>
“Tell Cleary to come downstairs, Nick,” said the criminologist. “I want
him to meet a friend of mine.”
</p>
<p>
The superintendent was soon speeding two steps at a time.
</p>
<p>
“The Captain is back, Mr. Shirley,” he exclaimed. “He's in the private
office on a couch.”
</p>
<p>
“Good, then we'll take my friend right to him.”
</p>
<p>
The stranger was beginning to evidence uneasiness, and he turned
questioningly to his conductor, with a growing frown.
</p>
<p>
“Say, what are you leading me into, Chief?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley said nothing but strode to the rear of the floor, through the door
of Captain Cronin's sanctum. The old detective was covered with a steamer
shawl, as he stretched out on a davenport. The young man observed the
photographs around the room,—an enormous collection of
double-portraits of profile and front face views—the advertized
crooks for whom Cronin had his nets spread in a dozen cases. The handcuffs
on the desk, the measuring stand, the Bertillon instruments on the table,
all these aroused his suspicions instantly.
</p>
<p>
He whirled about, angrily.
</p>
<p>
Shirley smiled in his face. Then he addressed the surprised Captain
Cronin.
</p>
<p>
“Here is our little telephone expert who arranged the wires for Warren and
his gang, Captain. You are welcome to add him to your growing collection
of prisoners.”
</p>
<p>
For answer the young man whipped out a revolver and fired point-blank at
the criminologist. His was a ready trigger finger. But he was no swifter
than the convalescent detective on the couch, who had swung a six shooter
from a mysterious fold of the steamer blanket, and planted a bullet into
the man's shoulder from the rear.
</p>
<p>
As the smoke cleared away, Shirley straightened up from the crouching
position on the floor which had saved him from the assassin, and dragged
the wounded criminal to his feet. The handcuffs clicked about his wrists
before the young man had grasped the entire situation. Cleary and three
others of the private force were in the room.
</p>
<p>
“I've got to hurry along now, Captain. Just let him know that his Chief is
captured and the sooner he turns State's evidence the better it will be
for him. The District Attorney might make it lighter, if he helps. I'll be
back this evening if I can.” And Shirley hurried away, leaving much
surprise and bewilderment in every mind.
</p>
<p>
Cronin was equal to the task of picking up the threads, and under his
sarcasm, and Cleary's rough arguments, the prisoner admitted some
interesting matters about the mysterious employer whose face he had never
seen. But Shirley's task was far from completed.
</p>
<p>
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<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XX. A DOUBLE ON THE TRAIL
</h2>
<p>
Shirley walked up to the Hotel California, at the door of which he met
Warren and Taylor just leaving. They looked somewhat embarrassed but his
manner was cordiality itself.
</p>
<p>
“Sorry you are going. I was just stepping up to see Miss Marigold. Won't
you come back?”
</p>
<p>
His invitation was refused. Then Shirley urged Warren to be his guest at
the club for dinner that evening. This was accepted with a surprising
alacrity. So, he left them, and was soon talking with Helene.
</p>
<p>
“You missed a curious little sociable party,” she assured him. “They tried
to quiz me, and I confess that I worked for the same purpose—no
results on either side. But, Warren had an unusual telephone call, which
disturbed him so much that he hurried away, sooner than he had planned.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley recounted his explorations of the afternoon, with the explanation
of Reginald's disturbance. It was certain now that the leader of the
assassins had something to cause uneasiness,—enough to take his mind
off the campaign of murder and blackmail.
</p>
<p>
“But he will try to get you out of the way,” was her anxious answer. “You
are multiplying needless dangers. Why don't you have him arrested now—the
phonograph records will identify his voice, will they not? The diary will
show his career, and everything seems complete in the case.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley sat down in the window-seat, before replying.
</p>
<p>
“It is just my own vanity, then, perhaps. I am foolish enough to believe
that I can trap him on some crime which will give him the complete
punishment he deserves without dragging in the names of these unfortunate
old society men. All our trouble would be for nothing, just now, if the
story came out. The phonograph records helped me—but I prefer to
keep that method to myself, as a matter of interest and selfishness.
Somewhere, in that beautiful apartment of his there must be clues which
will send him to the electric chair on former crimes: Warren is an artist
who has handled other brushes than the ones he used on this masterpiece.
He is not a beginner. So, I must ransack his apartment.”
</p>
<p>
“That is impossible, with all the care he takes with bolts and locks.”
</p>
<p>
“We shall see. Meanwhile, I'll spin the yarn of the last thirty-six hours.
I'm sure your curiosity is whetted: my own is by no means satisfied.”
</p>
<p>
So he gave her a survey of the progress he had made. Helene brought forth
a number of typewritten pages which she had transcribed from the diary,
proudly exhibiting a machine which she had ordered sent up from the hotel
office.
</p>
<p>
“There, sir, we are unwinding the ravelings of his past life to an extent.
I have found a mysterious reference to a Montfluery case in Paris, during
August of last year. What can you do to investigate that lead?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley jotted down the name, and answered: “A cable to the prefecture of
Police of the city of Paris from Captain Cronin will bring details. That
should be an added link in the chain, within the next twenty-four hours. I
am going to leave you for the while, as I wish to investigate a certain
yacht which is moored in the East River. That yacht is there for a purpose—you
remember his reference to the payment of supplies for a two-month cruise.
My amateurish vanity leads me to a hope that I can capture him just at the
crucial moment when he thinks he is successful in his escape from
pursuit.”
</p>
<p>
“That is the childishness of the masculine mind,” retorted Helene. “You
say we women are illogical, but we are essentially practical in the small
things. I would advise closing the doors before the horse escapes, rather
than a chase from behind!”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps,” answered Monty, “but the uncertainty does allure me. I always
enjoyed skating on thin ice, from the days of college when I loved to get
through a course of lectures on as little work as possible. The
satisfaction of 'getting away with it' against odds was so exhilarating. I
will return after my little dinner with Warren at the Club. Where will you
dine?”
</p>
<p>
“Your friend Dick Holloway is taking me to some restaurant where singing
and music may alter my refusal to him.”
</p>
<p>
“Your refusal?” and Shirley shot a quick glance at the girl. Her dimples
appeared as she added: “Yes—he wants me to star in a little play for
the coming spring, but I have had such fun playing in real-life drama that
I said him nay.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh,” was all the criminologist said, but as he left, Helene's laugh
interpretated a little feminine satisfaction. Monty's mind was just
disturbed enough about the attitude of Dick Holloway to keep him from
worrying over the Warren case until he had reached the East River, near
the yacht club mooring.
</p>
<p>
There was the white yacht which had been mentioned in the purloined book.
It was a trim, speedy craft. The criminologist walked down a few blocks to
the office of a boat contractor with whom he had dealt on bygone
occasions.
</p>
<p>
“I want to engage a fast motor-boat, Mr. Manby,” was his request. “The
speediest thing you've got. Keep it down at your dock, at Twenty-first
Street, with plenty of gasoline and a man on duty all the time, starting
with six o'clock to-night. I may need it at a minute's notice.”
</p>
<p>
“I've got a hydroplane which I'll sell this spring to some yachtsman,”
said Manby. “It's a bargain—you can do forty miles an hour in it,
without getting a drop of spray. Shall I show it to you?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and the two men who you will have alternating on duty, so they will
know me when I come for it. I'll pay for every minute it is reserved.”
</p>
<p>
They soon came to terms; the men were introduced and Shirley was well
satisfied with the racing craft, which was moored according to his
directions, handy for a quick embarkation.
</p>
<p>
Then he went up to the Holland Agency. Cronin was disappointed in his
results with the telephone confederate. All of Warren's men were
close-mouthed, as though through some biting fear of swift and unerring
vengeance for “squealing.” Even the prisoners in the station-house had not
volunteered to communicate with friends, as they were allowed to do by
law. They were “standing pat,” as the old detective declared in disgust.
</p>
<p>
“That proves one thing,” remarked the criminologist. “They are not local
products, or they would have friends other than their chief on whom to
call for bail or aid. Their whole work centers on him. I think I will send
a code message to this man Phil this afternoon or evening. He may be able
to read it, and if he does, it may assist us. I wish you would have a man
call on Miss Marigold at the California Hotel, so that she may know his
face. Then keep him covering her for they are apt to get suspicious of her
and try to quiet her. She is a game and fearless girl, but she is no match
for this gang.”
</p>
<p>
Cronin assigned one of the men immediately, and the sleuth took up a note
of introduction to Helene, in which Monty explained the need for his
watch.
</p>
<p>
Shirley then repaired to the club house to await his dinner guest. He was
thoughtful about the alacrity of Warren to dine with him. There was more
to this assumed friendliness than the mere desire to talk to him.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder if he wants to keep me occupied for some certain reason?”
pondered the club man. “Helene is protected now by a silent watcher. The
members of the Lobster Club are all out of the city. Van Cleft is safe on
the ocean. They must be laying a trap. I wonder where that trap would be?”
</p>
<p>
As he looked about his rooms he realized that many important pieces of
evidence were locked up in his chests and the small safe. His bedroom, in
the uppermost floor of the club building, was in a quiet and less
frequented part of the house. Shirley summoned one of the shrewd Japanese
valets who worked on the dormitory floors of the building.
</p>
<p>
“Chen,” he began. “Are you a good fighter?”
</p>
<p>
The Mongolian grinned characteristically. Shirley took out a bill, and
handed it to the little fellow.
</p>
<p>
“I have reason to think some one may come into my rooms to-night, while I
am busy downstairs. How would you like to lock yourself on the inside of
my clothes closet, and wait? The air is not very good, but with this ten
dollars you could take a nice ride in the country to-morrow, and get lots
of good oxygen in your lungs to make up for it.”
</p>
<p>
Chen was a willing little self-jailer. Shirley handed him his own
revolver, and the slant eyes sparkled with glee at the opportunity for
some excitement. Americans may carp at the curious manners and alleged
shortcomings of the Oriental, but personal fear does not seem to be in the
category of their faults. So, with this little valet, who improved his
time, as Shirley had discovered, by taking special courses in Columbia
University's scientific department. The criminologist had used him on more
than one occasion when Eastern subtlety and apparent lack of guile had
accomplished the impossible!
</p>
<p>
The closet door was closed, and Shirley went downstairs. At the desk of
the, club clerk he sent a cablegram to the police authorities of Paris.
The message was simple
</p>
<p>
“Cable collect to Holland Detective Agency name and record of man in
Montfleury case, August, 1914. Do you want him?................. Cronin,
Captain.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley smiled as he handed the envelope to the little messenger who had
been summoned, and made his exit through the front doorway just as the
affable Reginald Warren entered it: another instance of “ships that pass
in the night,” was the thought of the host who advanced courteously.
</p>
<p>
“You are on time to the minute: German training, I see. Let the boy have
your hat and coat, Mr. Warren.”
</p>
<p>
These little amenities completed, they sauntered about the beautiful
building, Shirley pointing out the many interesting photographs of
athletic teams, trophies, club posters, portraits of famous graduates, and
the like, which seem part and parcel of collegiate atmosphere. Warren was
profoundly interested, yet there was an abstraction in his conversation
which was not unobserved by his entertainer. As they passed a tall,
colonial clock in the broad hallway, Shirley caught him glancing uneasily
at it. This was the second time he had looked at its silvered face since
they came into the range of it. Purposely the club man took him down the
length of the big dining-hall, to exhibit the trophies of the hunt, from
jungles and polar regions, contributed by the sportsmen members of past
classes. Here Shirley chatted about this and that boar's head, yonder
elephant hide, the other tiger skin, until he had consumed additional
time. As they passed into the lounging room Shirley led his guest past
another small mahogany clock. Again the sharp, anxious glance at the
progress of the minutes. He was convinced by now that some deviltry was
being perfected on schedule time. He began to worry over his little
assistant on the floor high above: perhaps he would not be able to cope
with the plotters, after all. Yet, Chen was wiry, cunning, and needed no
diagrams as to the purpose for which he was to guard the rooms.
</p>
<p>
At last Shirley led Warren to the grill-room where they ordered their
dinner: the supreme test of a gentleman is his taste in the menu for a
discriminating guest. Warren sensed this, as the delicious viands and rare
old wines were brought out in a combination which would have warmed the
heart cockles of the fussiest old gourmon from Goutville!
</p>
<p>
“Ah, a feast fit for the gods,” were his admiring words, as the two men
smiled across this strange board of hospitality. In the midst of the meal,
their chat of student days was interrupted by a page who approached
Shirley.
</p>
<p>
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I have a note which was left here by
messenger for a gentleman named Mr. R. Warren; your guest, I believe,
sir?”
</p>
<p>
Warren's face flushed, and his surprise was indubitable. He snatched the
envelope from the boy, who had reached it toward Shirley. The
criminologist was no less in the dark. Warren, with a scant apology, tore
open the missive. It was typewritten! He read it, and his brows came
together with an angry scowl.
</p>
<p>
He arose from his seat swiftly, turning toward Shirley with a nervous
twitching of the erstwhile firm lips.
</p>
<p>
“Would you pardon me if I ran? A Wall Street client of mine has suddenly
been stricken with apoplexy. We have deals together, dependent upon
gentlemen's agreements, without a word of writing. It may mean a fortune
to get to him before he loses all power of speech. It is a shame to spoil,
at this time, such a wonderful dinner as I had promised myself with you.
Can you forgive me?”
</p>
<p>
The man was visibly panic-stricken, although his superb nerve was fighting
hard to cover his terror. Shirley wondered what news could have fallen
into his hand this way. He watched the envelope, hoping that he would
inadvertently drop it. But no such luck! Warren carefully folded it and
put it with the letter into the breast pocket of his coat.
</p>
<p>
“My dear fellow, business before indigestion, always! I am sorry to have
you go, but we will try again. I will go upstairs with you. Shall I call a
taxicab for you?”
</p>
<p>
Warren expostulated, but the host followed him to the check room. Unseen
by Warren, Shirley inserted a handkerchief from his own pocket into the
overcoat pocket of the other with a sleight-of-hand substitution, in the
withdrawal of the guest's small linen square!
</p>
<p>
Warren rushed to the door. He sprang into the first taxicab that came
along, and disappeared. Shirley watched the car as it raced away and
noticed its number. He turned to the door man.
</p>
<p>
“Whose machine was that? On the regular club stand here?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir. A man named Perkins drives it, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Will it return here as soon as the fare is taken to the end of the trip?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir, they have orders for that. They belong to a gent who supplies
cars for our club exclusively, sir. They are not allowed to take outside
passengers.”
</p>
<p>
“Very good! You send for me, in my rooms, as soon as the driver of the car
shows up. I want to find out where he went.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley hurried up in the lift to his own floor. He went to the door of
his room, and tried to open it with his key. It was bolted from inside!
There came a muffled report from within. Then he heard a cry, which he
recognized as the voice of Chen, the Jap. He dropped to the floor,
listening at the crack—a scuffle was in progress within!
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXI. A BURGLARY FOR JUSTICE
</h2>
<p>
Shirley rose, and once more applied that gridiron-trained boot of his:
this time to the lock of the door. Two doses resulted in a complete cure
for its obstinacy. As he rushed into the room, he saw a figure swing out
of the window on a dangling rope. He hesitated—the desire to chase
this intruder to the roof of the club struggled with his duty to the
unfortunate Jap, who lay on the floor, where he was being garroted by a
burly ruffian in a chauffeur's habiliments. He sprang toward his little
assistant, and made quick work of the big man.
</p>
<p>
As he threw the other, with one of his “silencer” twists of the neck
cords, the Jap sprang up. A demoniac anger twisted that usually smiling
countenance, and it took all of Shirley's strength, to wrest away the
automatic revolver from the maddened valet, to prevent swift revenge.
</p>
<p>
“Why, Chen. He's caught. Don't shoot him now!”
</p>
<p>
Chen, with a voluble stream of Nagasaki profanity, spluttered in rage, and
strove like a bantam rooster to get at his antagonist. The necessity for
quieting him to prevent bloodshed was fatal to the pursuit of the other
man, as Shirley realized bitterly. The servants were running to the room
by this time. The club steward opened the battered door, and Shirley
turned to explain.
</p>
<p>
“You have a brave little man, here, Cushman. Chen heard this burglar in my
room, and tried to capture him at the risk of his own life. He deserves
promotion and a raise in salary. Go downstairs and call the police. We'll
have this fellow locked up!”
</p>
<p>
The man glared at Shirley, and rubbed his throat which throbbed from the
vice-like grip of the jiu-jitsu. Chen still breathed hard and his almond
eyes rolled nervously. At last he was quiet again, although the slender
fingers twitched hungrily for a clawing of that dirty neck. Shirley patted
him on the back. Judgment had come to another of the gangsters, and the
criminologist was pleased at the diminution in the ranks of his opponent.
</p>
<p>
An examination of his cabinet and dresser drawers showed that the
pillaging had barely begun when Chen popped out of his hiding-place. It
was no wonder that Warren had been so solicitous as to the speeding time:
intuition had once more intervened to interrupt these well-laid schemes.
</p>
<p>
The little Jap could tell barely more of his adventure than that he had
opened the door when he heard men walking and talking in the room. Then
the struggle had ensued, with the result already described.
</p>
<p>
Now, indeed, was Shirley more puzzled than ever at Warren's sudden
departure. It had upset the plans of the conspirators: it was an unwelcome
surprise to their Chief. And furthermore it had interfered with a little
scheme of the criminologist by which he had expected to craftily imprison
his guest for the remainder of the night.
</p>
<p>
The room was put in order—not much was there to rearrange, for the
tussle had come so promptly. With a final look at his belongings, Shirley
left Chen in charge, not forgetting to slip to him another reward for his
courage.
</p>
<p>
Then he went downstairs and hurried over to the Hotel California to hold a
conference of war with Helene Marigold.
</p>
<p>
She was nervous, as she greeted him. Yet a subtle smile on her face showed
that she was not surprised by the visit. Shirley quickly outlined the
occurrences of the dinner hour. When he asked her opinion, for he had
learned to place a growing trust in her quick grasp of things, she walked
silently to her typewriter.
</p>
<p>
“Here, sir, is a little note which may amuse you.”
</p>
<p>
She handed him a piece of paper. It read:
</p>
<p>
“Chief: The Monk has turned up at the Blue Goose on Water Street. He is
drunk and telling all he knows. Come down at once to help us quiet him.
Hurry or every thing will be known. You know who.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley looked at the message, and then with tilted eyebrows at his fair
companion.
</p>
<p>
“What do you know about the Blue Goose?” he asked. “And the Monk? For I
presume that you wrote this out?”
</p>
<p>
“Your presumption is correct. I remembered hearing Warren ask Taylor this
afternoon after that telephone call from you, where the Blue Goose saloon
could be. Taylor told him it was a sailor's dive on Water Street. The
night they thought me dreaming on his library couch, I heard Taylor ask
Warren if they had heard from the Monk. So, it seemed to me that the two
questions might interest Mr. Reginald Warren if presented in a language
that he understood.”
</p>
<p>
“And what was that language?”
</p>
<p>
“It was a code message, which I typed out on this Remwood machine here, by
the system you told me. It was slow work, but I finished it and sent it
over to the club, knowing Warren would be with you. I really don't know
what good the message would do. But being an illogical woman, and a
descendant of Pandora, I thought it would be amusing to open the Pandora's
box and let all the little devils loose, just to see the glitter of their
wings!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley caught her hands delightedly.
</p>
<p>
“You bully girl! Nothing could have happened better. I'll improve my time
now, by visiting Mr. Warren's apartment, impolite as it is without an
invitation. And then I think I will go calling in that little cave of the
winds in the rear of his art collection, on the other street.”
</p>
<p>
“But, Monty—I Mean, Mr. Shirley,” and a rosy embarrassment overcame
her, “you will put your head into the lion's mouth once too often. Why not
wait until you get him under lock and key?”
</p>
<p>
“My dear girl, we will telephone my club and talk to the door man. I think
that he may be under lock and key by this time, in a manner you little
suspect. Let me have the number.”
</p>
<p>
He went to the instrument on her dressing-table. The club was soon
reached, and Dan the door man was answering his eager question.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir, the taxi has come back, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Send the chauffeur to the wire. I want to talk to him,” said Shirley. The
man was soon speaking. “What address did you take that gentleman to, my
man?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, sir, I started out for the Battery, but sir, a terrible thing
happened.”
</p>
<p>
“What was it?”
</p>
<p>
“The gentleman was overcome with an ep'leptic stroke or somethin' like
that. He pounded on the winder behind me, and when I stopped me car, and
looked in he was down an' out. I was on Thirty-third Street and Fift'
Avenue at the time, so I calls a cop, and he orders me to run 'im over to
Bellevue. He's there now, sir. He ain't hardly breathin', sir. It's
terrible!”
</p>
<p>
“Too bad, I must go and call, to see if I can help him!” was Shirley's
remark as he hung up the receiver. He repeated the news to Helene. Her
eyes sparkled, as she said: “Ah, those symptoms resemble the ones you told
me which came from that amo-amas-amat-citron, or whatever it was.”
</p>
<p>
“Not quite such a loving lemon, Miss Marigold,” he chuckled. “Amyl
nitrite. The same soothing syrup which quieted our would-be robbers on
Sixth Avenue, that night when we left his apartment. It will wear off in
about three hours. I had a little glass container folded in my own
handkerchief, which I put in his overcoat pocket as a parting souvenir,
crushing it as I did so. I reasoned that undue anxiety which he displayed
might cause him to mop his brow, close to that student-duel scar. One
smell of the chemical on that handkerchief, in the quantity which I gave,
was enough to quiet his worries. Now for the Somerset Apartment.”
</p>
<p>
He looked at his watch.
</p>
<p>
“It is eight fifteen. I want you to telephone up to Warren's apartment
exactly at ten o'clock. Tell them—there should be a them, that I
have been overcome in your apartment, and that they are the only people
who can help you, or who know you. I believe that the idea of finding me
unconscious, and getting me away will bring any and all of his friends who
may be there. If Taylor is there with others, he will hardly leave them in
the place when he goes. What I want is to be sure that the coast is
cleared of people at that hour. Then I will make an investigation into his
papers and other matters of interest. Can I count on you?”
</p>
<p>
A reproachful pouting of the scarlet lips was the only answer. Shirley
left, this time hurrying uptown to a certain engine-house, whose fire
captain he had known quite well in the old reportorial days.
</p>
<p>
It was beginning to snow once more. And as Shirley slipped out of the
engine-house, carrying a scaling ladder which he had borrowed after much
persuasion from his good-natured friend, he thanked his luck for this
natural veiling of the night, to baffle eyes too curious about the
campaign he had planned. He knew the posts of the policemen on this
street, and sedulously avoided them.
</p>
<p>
The Warren apartment faced the Eastern side of the structure, and when he
reached the front of the Somerset, he sought for a way in which to use his
implement. A scaling ladder, it may be explained to the uninitiated, is
about eight feet long—a single fire-proof bar, on which are short
cross-pieces. At one end is a curiously curving serrated hook, which is
used for grappling on the sills of windows or ledges above. It is the most
useful weapon for the city fire-fighter, enabling him to climb diagonally
across the face of a threatened structure, or even to swing horizontally
from one window to a far one, where ladders and hose-streams might not
reach.
</p>
<p>
A hundred feet to the West of the Somerset he found the excavations for a
new apartment house. No watchman was in sight, in the mist of falling
flakes, so the criminologist disappeared over the fence which separated
the plot of ground from the sidewalk. Advancing with many a stumble
through the blasted rock and shale, he obtained ingress to an alleyway in
the rear. Following this brought him to the back of the Somerset. Shirley
had an obstinate grandfather, and heredity was strong upon him. It seemed
a foolhardy attempt to scale the big structure, but he raised the ladder
to the window-sill of the second story, climbing cautiously up to that
ledge.
</p>
<p>
On the second sill he rested, then stretched his scaler diagonally forward
to the left. As he put his feet upon this, he swung like a pendulum across
the space. It was a severe grueling of nerves, but his judgment of
placement was good. When the ladder stopped swinging he clambered up
another story, as he had learned to do on truant afternoons wasted at the
firemen's training school, during the privileged days of journalistic
work.
</p>
<p>
Floor after floor he ascended, until he reached the eighth, on which was
Shirley's great goal. Here he exerted the utmost prudence, refraining from
the natural impulse to look down at the great crevasse beneath him. His
footing was slippery, but the thickening snowfall was a boon in white
disguise, for it protected him from almost certain observation from the
street below. Slowly he raised his eyes to a level with the illuminated
window, and peered in.
</p>
<p>
A strange sight greeted him.
</p>
<p>
Shine Taylor was busily engaged in the 'twisting of coils of wire, about
shiny brass cylinders, with an array of small and large clocks, electric
batteries and mysterious bottles on the carved library table. He was
intent upon the manufacture of another of his diabolical engines of death!
</p>
<p>
Even as he watched, the door opened and who should stagger into the room
but Reginald Warren!
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott, Reg! What hit you?” was Taylor's ejaculation, as the other
stumbled forward, with a hand to his purple face, to sink into an
easy-chair, groaning. The man outside the window could not distinguish the
words, but the current of thought was well expressed in pantomime.
</p>
<p>
“I've been drugged!” moaned Warren. “That devil put something on my
handkerchief which knocked me out. I came to in Bellevue and I had a time
getting away to come back here. What about the Monk? Did you see him?”
</p>
<p>
Taylor had run to his side. It seemed as though Warren's eyes would pop
from his head. The veins were swollen on his pallid brow, and he gasped
for air.
</p>
<p>
“Open the window!” he murmured, and his confederate rushed to the very
portal through which the criminologist was watching this unusual scene,
with bated breath. His heart sank, as he lowered himself with a suddenness
which vibrated the loosely-attached scaler. For the first time his eyes
turned toward the terrifying distance from which he had ascended.
</p>
<p>
There was a squeak and he heard the window slide in its frame. He felt
that all was over. It would be impossible for Shine Taylor not to observe
the hooked prong of the ladder, with its curving metal a few inches from
his hands. In this ghastly minute of suspense, Shiley's thoughts,
strangely enough turned back to one thing. He did not dash through the
gamut of his life experiences nor regret all past peccadilloes, as
novelists inform us is generally the ultimate thought in the supreme
moment before a dash into eternity! He felt only a maddening, itchingly
bewitching desire to reach up to his coat pocket and draw out that
scent-laden page of typed note-paper which had been glorified by its
caress of the warm, bare bosom of the wonderful woman who had so
mysteriously drifted into the current of his life.
</p>
<p>
Then he heard a voice through the open window so close to his ears: it was
Shine Taylor's nasal whine.
</p>
<p>
“It's snowing, Reg. The air will do you good. What a gorgeous night for a
murder. Tell me now, what was the trouble?”
</p>
<p>
And Shirley swung, and swung and swung!
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXII. IN THE DOUBLE TRAP
</h2>
<p>
Eternity had passed, the Judgment Day had been overlooked and new aeons
had gone their way, it seemed to the criminologist, when the voice was
audible again.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, all right. I just drew it down from the top. Tell me about your
doping. Who was the devil?”
</p>
<p>
He had been unobserved. By the grace of the fates, Warren's sudden
appearance had given him a better chance to hear their secrets, and
Taylor's own abstraction had dissipated any interest in the world beyond
the window. Again he lifted himself to the level of the sill, sure that
the creamy curtains upon which the light from the big electrolier was
beaming, would shield him from their view. Warren called for some brandy.
Taylor served him, but it was three minutes or more before the other could
collect himself. Then he began furiously, as the pain in his forehead
diminished.
</p>
<p>
“This Shirley: he's a clever dog. He put something on my handkerchief, and
when I got that message of yours it got me, right in the taxicab, as I was
on my way to the Blue Goose to meet you.”
</p>
<p>
“To meet me?” and Taylor's turn came to be startled. “I don't know why you
should meet me at the Blue Goose!”
</p>
<p>
“Say, didn't you send me this note in code?” demanded Warren, drawing out
the typewritten sheet. Taylor shook his head, with a blanched face.
</p>
<p>
The other looked at him with the first evidence of fear which Shirley had
ever seen on the confident face. Warren caught his assistant's hand, and
drew his face down toward the note.
</p>
<p>
“Look, it is in our code. Phil can read it but he is the only one beside
you. He is locked up in jail, and couldn't reach a typewriter. I got a
message from him this afternoon that he wouldn't squeal. You know how he
smuggled it out to me. Tell me how could any one know about the Monk and
write this so?”
</p>
<p>
Taylor shook his head, speechless. As he turned his face toward the window
Shirley observed the great drawn shadows under his squinting eyes. The
sudden shock was telling on that weasel face. Taylor walked unsteadily
toward the infernal machine, and he looked blankly toward Warren again.
The other's blazing orbs were full upon him now. There was a frightful
menace in their glittering depths as he spoke.
</p>
<p>
“Taylor, if I thought you had sold out I'd skin you alive right now!”
</p>
<p>
“Reg—Reg—you are my best friend. Don't say a thing like that.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you selling me for some purpose. Are you soft on that chicken? Has
she blarneyed you into this?” demanded his chief, rising, unsteadily, but
fierce in his suspicious tensity.
</p>
<p>
Taylor cowered, with imploring hands stretched out.
</p>
<p>
“Why, Reg, no one ever did for me what you've done. I'd die rather than
sell you out, and there ain't a dame in the world that could make me soft
on a real game like this.”
</p>
<p>
As Warren studied his white face there came a tinkle on the telephone.
</p>
<p>
“What's that? Who's that?” Warren turned and ran toward the instrument,
still studying the face of his companion. It was evident that a seed of
distrust was planted in his bosom. He answered nervously.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes! What do you want? Who's speaking?”
</p>
<p>
Then he listened, and a wise expression came over his face. It broke into
a smile for the first time since he entered the room. He winked at Taylor
who drew near him. Shirley strained his ears to catch the words.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, why, my dear Miss Bonbon. Surely, I'll be glad to come down—To
help take care of Mr. Shirley—Of course, I will come in my machine
and bring him uptown to a hospital—That's what you want?—Yes,
indeed, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
</p>
<p>
He rang off, and turned toward Taylor.
</p>
<p>
“That smooth devil has sniffed some of his own dope as sure as you live,
Shine. We'll get him. Call up and have the machine sent around. You and I
will be a committee of two, and we'll end this tonight. Bring what you
need.”
</p>
<p>
Warren drank another full glass of brandy, while Taylor gave a quick order
over the telephone. Then the latter snatched up a small black satchel
which was standing on a side table. The assistant came to the window, and
Shirley dropped down out of sight, for another moment of suspense. But the
sash was quickly closed and bolted.
</p>
<p>
The light was turned out, and he waited another five minutes, stiffening
in the cold wind which had sprung up to send the big flakes in eddies
against his numbed fingers. With difficulty he fished out a long, thin
wire from his pocket, with which he had frequently turned the safety catch
of windows on other such occasions. Again it served its purpose, and he
drew himself up to the sash of the opened window. He brushed off the snow,
so as to leave no telltale puddles of drippings. He went to the door of
the library, and then to that of the vestibule.
</p>
<p>
It was locked from the outside, even as they had done when Helene was the
drowsy prisoner.
</p>
<p>
He had little time, he knew, for his search, but he first thought of the
girl's predicament. He must cover the tracks there. He took up the
receiver, and in a minute was talking to her.
</p>
<p>
“I'm in. Leave word downstairs (and pay the clerk and bell-boy a good
bribe) that you have gone to a hospital with a sick friend. Tell them to
swear to that, and better still leave the hotel at once, hunt up Dick
Holloway—you'll find him at the Thespis Club to-night. Send in the
chauffeur to ask for him and have him stay with you in the machine. I am
going to visit the other place when I finish here. I'll be down there, at
the Thespis Club, by eleven again. Good-bye—use your wits.”
</p>
<p>
Then he began a hurried ransacking of the apartment. He picked up a
note-book here, sheets of memoranda there, letters and documents which he
thought would be convenient. Warren's bedrooms were locked, but a small
“jimmie” sufficed to force them open. He found in one drawer a dozen or
more bank books, with as many different financial houses, and under many
names. This he shoved into his pockets. At last, satisfied that he could
gain no more, he retreated to the window. He shut this and was once more
on the windowsill. Here he looked down, and a new inspiration came to him.
He would have difficulty in getting admission to the apartment entrance,
at this time of night. The attendant would remember him and warn Warren
upon the latter's return. It was but one more climb, a single story, to
the roof. So, up he went, deserting the faithful scaling ladder on the
roof, for the time being.
</p>
<p>
He sought around for several minutes on the snowy, slippery surface before
he found the entrance to the iron stairway close by the elevator shaft.
Then he went softly down.
</p>
<p>
Past Warren's apartment, on his way without a noise, his boots off, he
continued until he reached the second floor. Here he was baffled again.
Why had he not taken some impression of the pass-key of the negro
attendant when let in before? Yet now he remembered that the man had never
relinquished his hold upon that open sesame. He remembered the “jimmy”—yet
this would betray him, by the broken lock!
</p>
<p>
There was the servant's entrance, however, in the rear of the hallway. To
this he slipped, even as the elevator passed up bearing Warren and Shine
Taylor, muttering angrily. Shirley found the rear door to the rooms, and
there he worked quickly, forcing the lock. He was soon inside, and hid
himself in the pantry of the darkened apartment. He had not long to wait.
</p>
<p>
There was a clicking noise which reverberated through the empty room, as
the other two entered by the front portal. He heard them talking in
whispers, then the creaking of a window, and all was silent again.
</p>
<p>
Shirley went to the same small window through which he had descended
before. With his boots tied together by their laces, and suspended from
his neck, on either side, he went down the rope noiselessly. He found the
iron door partially opened, as he reached the end of the corridor. A block
of wood held it back from the jamb.
</p>
<p>
“He is prepared for a quick retreat. So shall I be,” thought Shirley, as
he noiselessly crept into the chamber, after having drawn away the wooden
block. He let the door come gently to its frame, stopping it within an
inch of its lock. As he turned slightly forward he caught two curious
silhouettes: Warren at his table, with Shine at his side, their outlines
clear and black against the brightness of the headlights. On, the other
side of the transparent screen stood a man, with one eye blackened, his
face badly bruised and wicked in its battered condensation of evil
determination with rage and fright, so oddly mixed.
</p>
<p>
“It ain't my fault, Chief! There are only six of the boys left. I tried me
best but this little Chinyman he soaks me one on the lamp, with a gun
butt. Me pal was nabbed in the room when I sneaks out on the rope. I finds
out afterward that Jimmie's watch must-a been about twenty minutes slow.
That's how we misses.”
</p>
<p>
“But you didn't get him, and I'm going to break you for this!”
</p>
<p>
“But gov'nor, listen—we leaves the machine all right. That'll git
'im anyway. What'll I do?”
</p>
<p>
“I have the addresses of the other men here in my pocket. You tell them to
stick right in their rooms for the next twenty-four hours. If they don't
hear anything from me, tell them to go to Frisco by roundabout ways and
I'll forward their money, care of Kelso. Now get out.”
</p>
<p>
The man disappeared and there was a double click as the door to the front
compartment closed. Warren turned toward Taylor, While Shirley flattened
himself against the rear wall, and crouched down slowly, without a
betraying sound.
</p>
<p>
“I don't understand that girl not being there. Some one's closing in on
us. I'm going to break that girl's spirit before I'm through. She'll be on
the yacht tonight, for everything's ready now. What sort of a machine did
you arrange for his room?”
</p>
<p>
“The old telephone one we worked in Oakland. It is under his bed. I told
the men to do that first before they went through his things. Then it
would look like plain robbery, and when he goes to take the receiver off
the hook it's 'good-night, nursey!' That little popper will blow the roof
off that club house!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley's blood might have run cold at the calm pride of this degenerate
fiend, had it not been boiling at the reference to Helene. He crept nearer
to them, along the wall. He lay down on the floor, below the level of the
first bullet paths. Then he drew his automatic and the bulb light, ready
for his surprise.
</p>
<p>
“I'll call up Kick Brown at the telephone company. He's on duty until
twelve. That's an hour yet.”
</p>
<p>
He placed the plug in position but there came no answer over his private
wire. Warren cursed: this time in a dialect unknown to Shirley. The man
was asserting his most primitive nature now.
</p>
<p>
“What does that mean? He knows that it's important to-night. I wonder if
some one has squealed. You know what I said upstairs, Shine?” Warren's
voice was ominous. “I don't like the looks of things. And you're the only
one who has ever known the inside working of my system. I've even told you
the key to my code—Phil knows it in part, but there is nothing I've
kept from you.”
</p>
<p>
Here Shirley's dramatic instinct asserted itself. In a sepulchral voice,
he spoke: “One key to the right, in writing. One to the left to read.
Hands up, Warren, you're wanted in Paris, and we have the goods on you!”
</p>
<p>
Placing the bulb light far to his left, he twisted the little catch which
kept it glowing permanently. The light fell full on the face of Warren and
Taylor as they sprang up back to back!
</p>
<p>
“Drop that revolver. It's all up now. You go to the chair for these
murders.”
</p>
<p>
Warren shot for the body he supposed to be above the little light. As he
did so Shirley sent a bullet into the arch criminal's right wrist. The
weapon dropped from his hand to the table. Shine Taylor, terror-stricken,
staggered against his companion, groping for support. Warren misunderstood
it: he thought his assistant was trying to hold him. The swift
interpretation gave new fuel to the flame of mistrust which had sprung up
in his heart. He knew not how many men were about him—he merely
realized that his crafty plans had been set at naught,—there could
be only this one explanation. He struck at Taylor, who moaned in pain.
</p>
<p>
“You cur, you've squealed on me!” With his uninjured left hand he caught
the other in his Oriental death grip, with all his consummate skill.
Astonished at the sudden move, Shirley rose to his feet. But he hesitated
too long.
</p>
<p>
With a faint gurgle, Shine Taylor, pickpocket, mechanical artist and
criminal genius sank to the mouldy ground of the cellar—lifeless!
</p>
<p>
Shirley snatched up the light, instinctively throwing its rays upon the
face of the dead man. It was horrible to see this ghastly ending of the
miserable life, so suddenly conceived and grewsomely executed! Here was
Warren's opportunity. He caught up his weapon from the table with the left
hand, and sent a shot at the intruder, leaping at the same time toward the
rear entrance. Monty swung the light about, but the other threw on an
electric switch. He stood by the iron portal a fiendish smirk on his
distorted features.
</p>
<p>
“So, my luck is good after all: I've got you where I most want you!” His
weapon covered Shirley's. “I shoot as well with my left hand as with my
right. But, no, I won't shoot you. I'll put you away without a trace left.
That is always the clever way. I told you that the average criminal was
too careless about little things. Good-bye, Mr. Montague Shirley, I wish
you a pleasant journey!”
</p>
<p>
His hand, bleeding from the bullet wound, was pushing the iron door,
behind him as he faced Shirley. Suddenly a frightful sound broke the
stillness: it was the final exhalation of air from the dead man's lungs.
It sent a creeping chill through Shirley's blood. Warren's right hand
dropped, nervously for an instant, despite his resolution. In that second
Shirley had brought his own weapon up to a level with the other's eyes.
</p>
<p>
The door closed with a clang!
</p>
<p>
Warren's face lost its sneering smile. He was locked in from the rear!
</p>
<p>
“Now, let's see you get out the front way,” retorted the criminologist. He
had one hand behind him. He felt a metal contrivance, With three buttons
on it. He thought perhaps it were the controlling switch for the lights.
He would take his chances in the dark. He pressed all three quickly.
</p>
<p>
There was a clang from the front, as some mechanism whirred for an
instant. A gong sounded above, and scurrying feet could be heard—then
were audible no more. It was the warning alarm for the gangsters: they had
fled.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly to Shirley's straining ears came the tick-ticking of an alarm
clock, from the corner of the room to his right. He dare not look at it.
Warren's eyes grew black with the Great Fear!
</p>
<p>
“You fool, you've locked all the entrances, and sent the men away. That
clock will ring in exactly five minutes. When it does, this place will go
up from a load of lyddite. You've dug your own grave!”
</p>
<p>
Warren's voice was hoarse, and his bright eyes radiated venomously, as he
kept his weapon pointed, like Shirley's, at the face opposite. They were
both prisoners in the death cellar, with the advantage in favor of
neither!
</p>
<p>
And the ticking clock, with its maddening, mechanical death chant seemed
to Shirley to cry, with each beat, like the reminiscence of some nightmare
barbershop: “Next! Next! Next!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIII. CAPTURED AND THEN
</h2>
<p>
Warren's white lips were moving in perfect synchronism, as he counted the
seconds and ticks of the clock. Shirley, never so acute, cudgeled his mind
for some devise by which he might overcame the other. It was hopeless. At
last, just as he knew the inevitable second was almost completed, a faint
rustling came from the other side of the iron door. Warren's face
brightened with hope. With a nerve-racking rasp, the iron bar on the other
side was raised: it was a torturing delay as the two waited!
</p>
<p>
The door slowly opened. After a harrowing pause a revolver muzzle slid
gently through the crack, and a woman's voice murmured softly: “Drop the
gun!”
</p>
<p>
It was Helene Marigold!
</p>
<p>
Warren's ashen face changed to purple hue, his hand trembled just enough
to incite Shirley to a desperate chance. As the criminal drew the trigger
with a spasmodic jerk, Shirley was dropping to the floor, whence he pushed
himself forward with a froglike leap, as he straightened out the great
muscles.
</p>
<p>
Together they rolled in a frenzied struggle.
</p>
<p>
“Run back, Helene. The clock will explode!” cried Shirley, desperately.
Instead, she sprang into the bright room, espied the diabolical
arrangement in the corner, and ran to pick it up. She saw the wire, and
her deft fingers reached behind the clock to turn back its hands. Had she
torn the wire, as a man would have done, the dreaded explosion would have
ended it all.
</p>
<p>
“We're coming!”
</p>
<p>
It was the voice of Pat Cleary from the passageway. He rushed through the
subterranean passage, followed by several men, with Dick Holloway
excitedly in their train. After a titanic struggle, with the man baffled
in this maddening moment of ruined triumph, they handcuffed him.
</p>
<p>
Shirley led Helene into the front compartment before she could observe the
horror stamped upon the face of the murdered rogue.
</p>
<p>
The girl turned her glorious eyes to his, reached forth her hands, and
then the eternal feminine conquered as she trembled unsteadily and sank
into his arms.
</p>
<p>
“Break down the doors, Cleary. Out here, to the street. Pull off the hands
of that clock—it's a lyddite bomb!” cried Shirley, excitedly.
</p>
<p>
One of the men used the table with clattering effect. The iron door of the
front room gave way, and Shirley carried Helene up the ladder, to the main
floor of the old garage. She seemed a sleeping lily—so pale, so
fragile, so fragrant in her colorless beauty. He had never seen her so
before! For an instant a great terror pierced him: she seemed not to
breathe. But as he placed his face close to her mouth, her eyes opened for
one divine look, then drooped again. A white hand and arm curled, with
childish confidence, about his shoulder. He bore her thus to the big car
from the Agency, which stood outside.
</p>
<p>
“Quick, down to the Hotel California,” he called to the chauffeur, “Pat
Cleary can handle matters there.”
</p>
<p>
As they sped toward her apartment the roses took their wonted place in her
cheeks. She sat up to smile in his face. Then she lowered her glance, with
carmine mounting hotly to her brow. Helene said no word—nor did
Shirley. She simply leaned toward him, to bury her face upon the broad
shoulder, as neither heeded the possible curiosity of the driver on the
seat in front.
</p>
<p>
At least, they understood completely. There was nothing else to say!
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
* * *
</pre>
<p>
As Shirley left her at the door of the apartment, he turned into the
elevator, his mind whirling with the strange imprisonment into which he
had let his unwilling heart drift. The clerk stopped him at the lower
floor.
</p>
<p>
“There's a call for you, sir. It's rush, the gentleman said!”
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott! What now?” he ran to the instrument, and he heard Captain
Cronin's excited voice.
</p>
<p>
“Shirley. The man's escaped again! They just came into the place. He threw
some sort of bottle at the front of the patrol wagon which blew it all to
pieces. He got away in the mix-up—three policemen were injured!”
</p>
<p>
“I'll get him, Captain, if it's the last act of my life.”
</p>
<p>
To the surprise of the blase clerk, the well-known club man ran out of the
hotel, dropping his hat in his excitement. He shouted to the driver who
still waited in the agency machine.
</p>
<p>
“The sky's the limit, now, son. Race for Twenty-first Street and the East
River. Let me off at the end of the dock. Then go back to get some men
from the agency, as I'll have a prisoner, then, or they'll get my body!”
</p>
<p>
The machine raced down the street, regardless of the warnings of
policemen. Shirley was confident that his was not the only car on such a
mission. He reached the dock of Manby, where was waiting the expert
engineer of the hydroplane. He had not planned in vain.
</p>
<p>
“Have you seen an auto go past here before mine?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir, I was smoking me pipe, and settin' on the rail of the dock,
when one shoots up toward the Twenty-third Street Ferry, with a cop on a
motor-cycle chasin' it behind.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, quick, into the boat.”
</p>
<p>
They clambered down the wet ladder, and after an aggravating delay, the
whirring engines of the racing craft were started. Shirley took off his
coat, and lashed a long rope about his waist. He tied the other end of it
securely to a thwart in the boat.
</p>
<p>
“What's your idee, Cap?” asked the engineer, as he waited the signal.
</p>
<p>
“There's a man trying to catch that white yacht out in the river. I want
to get him, that's all. If I fall out of this boat, keep right on going,
for I'm tied up now. Where's the boat hook?”
</p>
<p>
“Here, sir. Are you ready? Just give me your directions. All right, sir,
we're off.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley grunted and the hydroplane sped out onto the river, in a big
curve, as he directed. Like a white ghost on the river was the trim yacht,
which even now could be seen speeding down the stream, all steam up. There
were two toots on the whistle and Shirley feared that his man had boarded
her. But the hydroplane, ploughing through the cold waves, whizzed toward
the yacht, as he climbed out to the small flat stern. A small boat had
swung close to the yacht now. A ladder had been lowered from a spar, while
a man standing in the little craft missed it. The yacht was gliding past
the boat, when another rope ladder was deftly swung over the stern.
</p>
<p>
The hydroplane was close up now, and Shirley saw his prey dangling at the
end of the ladder, now in the water, struggling with the rungs of the
ladder, and now being drawn up.
</p>
<p>
His engineer, with a skilful hand on the helm, swung in close to the
yacht, as keen for the capture as his patron. They whizzed past at almost
railroad speed, and Shirley, sprang toward the ladder. His arms closed
about the body of Reginald Warren in a grip which he braced by a curious
finger-lock he had learned in wrestling practice.
</p>
<p>
Two revolvers barked over the taffrail of the yacht, as the hydroplane
raced onward, dragging Shirley and his prisoner at the end of the rope,
through the water. Again the shots rang out, but they were out of range,
on the dark waters so quickly, that before the police boat had set out
from shore to investigate the firing from the pleasure vessel, the
criminologist's struggle with his wounded antagonist was over.
</p>
<p>
Half drowned, himself, with Warren completely past consciousness, Shirley
was pulled into his own boat as the engines were slowed down. They
returned rapidly to the dock.
</p>
<p>
“Help me work him—that was a pretty rough yank. He's been shot in
the hand already.”
</p>
<p>
They rolled Warren on a barrel, “pumped” his arms, and by the time the
Cronin automobile had returned with the other detectives, Warren was
restored to understanding again. Shirley forced some liquor between his
teeth, to be greeted with a torrent of strange oaths.
</p>
<p>
“The jig is up, Warren,” said the criminologist. “As a chess-player in the
little game, you are a wonder. But, I think I may at last call
'Checkmate.'”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not dead yet, Shirley,” hissed Warren. “I gave you your chance to
keep out of this. But you wouldn't take it. I'll settle the score with you
before I'm finished. There's one man in the world who knows how to get
away from bars. I'm that man.”
</p>
<p>
Then his teeth snapped together with a click. He said nothing more that
night, even during the operation for probing Shirley's bullet, and the
painful dressing. At the station-house, and his arraignment before the
magistrate at Night Court, where he saw some other familiar faces of his
fellow gangsters—now rounded up on the same charges—he still
maintained that feline silence.
</p>
<p>
And his eyes never left the face of Montague Shirley, as long as that calm
young man was in sight!
</p>
<p>
Shirley merely presented his charge of murder—for the strangling of
Shine Taylor. The names of the aged millionaires were not brought into the
matter—there was no need. He had done his work well.
</p>
<p>
At Cronin's agency, late that night, there came a cablegram from the
greatest detective bureau of France.
</p>
<p>
“The Montfleury case” was the most daring robbery and sale of state war
secrets ever perpetrated in Paris. It had been successful, despite the
capture, and conviction of the criminal, Laschlas Rozi, a Hungarian
adventurer who had killed three men to carry his point. The scoundrel had
escaped after murdering his prison guard, and wearing his clothes out of
the gaol. A reward of 100,000 francs had been offered for his capture, by
the Department of Justice.
</p>
<p>
“Monty, who gets all the credit for this little deal—that's what's
bothering me?” asked Captain Cronin, as they sipped a toast of rare old
port, in his rear office.
</p>
<p>
Shirley lit the ubiquitous cigarette, and tilted back in his chair.
</p>
<p>
“Captain: why ask foolish questions? This case ought to buy you five or
six of those big farms you've been planning about—and leave you
fifty thousand dollars with which to pay the damages for being a gentleman
farmer.”
</p>
<p>
“And you, Monty? You know you never have to present a bill with me. What
will you do with your pin money?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm going down on Fifth Avenue tomorrow and invest it in a solitaire
ring, for a very small finger.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION
</h2>
<p>
Shirley made some investigations in a private reading room of the Public
Library: there was much good treasure there, not salable over the counter
of a grocery store, mayhap, but unusually valuable in the high grade work
which was his specialty. In an old volume enumerating the noble families
of Austro-Hungary he found two distinguished lines, “Laschlas” and “Rozi.”
</p>
<p>
From the library he went to a cable office where he sent a message to the
chief of police of Budapesth inquiring about the remaining members of the
families. The old volume in the library was thirty-four years behind the
times: it was the only record obtainable in America.
</p>
<p>
After a couple of hours, which he devote to some personal matters, he
received a response to his inquiry. When translated from the Hungarian it
read thus:
</p>
<p>
“Professor Montague Shirley, College Club, N.Y., U.S.A.
</p>
<p>
Families extinct except Countess Laschlas, and son Count Rozi Laschlas,
reported killed in Albanian revolution.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Csherkini, Minister of Justice.”
</pre>
<p>
The criminologist was happy. Here was a weapon which he had not yet used.
Now he turned his steps towards the Tombs, for an interview with the
prisoner.
</p>
<p>
After some parley with the warden, he was admitted for a visit to Reginald
Warren. That gentleman's fury was rekindled at the sight of the club man
who had been so instrumental in his downfall. But a cunning smile played
over the features of the criminal.
</p>
<p>
“So, you have come to gloat over your work, Shirley? Well, it is a game
two can play.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes? I am always interested in sport. I came to see if there was anything
I could do for you in your confinement,” was the unruffled reply.
</p>
<p>
“You will be busy with your own affairs,” retorted Warren. “I have been
busy writing my confession. Here is the manuscript. I will baffle all your
efforts to hush up the affairs of the 'Lobster Club.' Furthermore, my
confession,” (and he exultantly waved a mass of manuscript at his
visitor,) “will send young Van Cleft to prison for perjury on the
certificate of his father's death. Captain Cronin, that prince of
blockheads, will share the same fate. Professor MacDonald, who I know very
well signed the death certificates, will be disgraced and driven from
professional standing. You will be implicated in this plot to thwart
justice. With the German university thoroughness to which you so
sarcastically referred, I have written down the facts as carefully as
though I were preparing a thesis for a doctor's degree!”
</p>
<p>
He laughed maliciously, studying the effect of his words. He was
disappointed. Shirley's bland manner changed not a whit. Instead the
criminologist offered him a cigarette.
</p>
<p>
“You might as well smoke now—as later!” and there was a wealth of
innuendo in the emphasis. “Is that all you are going to do, to square your
accounts?”
</p>
<p>
“By no means! As my trump card, I have implicated Miss Helene Marigold in
the various exploits which have been so successful now. She is unknown in
New York—I investigated that matter. She will have a fine task in
proving an alibi, after the careful preparation I have made. In fact, I
accuse her of being the mistress of my dead con'federate—”
</p>
<p>
Shirley sprang to his feet, and the rage which was shown in his strong
features brought a leer to the face of the other.
</p>
<p>
“Strike me,” continued the tormentor. “All I have to do is to call the
guard. I have been busy thinking since they locked me up here. There is
nothing more to do to me than the electric chair—but, I am not
finished yet.”
</p>
<p>
The criminologist controlled himself with difficulty. He realized that an
altercation with the prisoner would shatter his whole case, like a house
of cards blown down by a vagrant breeze. He sat down again, the mask of
calm indifference playing over his features.
</p>
<p>
“And what then?”
</p>
<p>
“Is not that sufficient to interest you? It will be another month before
my trial, and my literary work has just begun. The newspapers are filled
with war news, which have ceased to be a nine days' wonder. I shall
provide them with material which will be the story of the age! Another
month, and then?”
</p>
<p>
The prisoner lit the cigarette which he had accepted, and stretched back
in the plain wooden chair to enjoy the misery of his victim.
</p>
<p>
“But, a month—let me see? That would enable me to do some
corresponding myself, wouldn't it?” and Shirley took out a memorandum
book. “You have degraded a splendid intellect, a gallant spirit and
brought disgrace upon yourself, for this miserable ending. You have
ruthlessly murdered others, caring naught for the misery and wretchedness
of those left behind. Has it been worth it all, Warren?”
</p>
<p>
The other's eyes twinkled, as he nodded.
</p>
<p>
“A wonderful game. And I haven't completed the score, even now.”
</p>
<p>
“You are right, Warren. There is one soul more whom you have not affected.
It is too bad that you were not killed in the Albanian revolution,—then
you would have been on record as a hero instead of the vilest scoundrel in
Christendom.”
</p>
<p>
Had the death-dealing current of the electric chair been turned upon
Warren he could not have been more startled, as he sprang up. His pallid
face seemed to turn a sickly green, as his dark eyes opened in galvanized
amazement.
</p>
<p>
“Albanian—what do you mean? I never saw Albania!”
</p>
<p>
“You will never see it again. You will never see Budapesth again, either,”
was the menacing continuation of the criminologist's methodical speech.
“But a very old lady, the Countess Laschlas, will see the accounts of her
son's wretched death, in the New York papers which will be sent to her, in
care of the American consul!”
</p>
<p>
It was merely a deductive guess: but the shot struck the center of the
bull's-eye. Warren, alias Count Laschlas, staggered back, and his nervous
fingers touched the chilling surface of the stone wall. He dropped his
eyes, and then strove to regain his nonchalance. It was a pitiable
failure.
</p>
<p>
“Just as you have dealt to the children of others, so will you deal with
your own mother, the last of a distinguished line of aristocrats. I swear,
by the memory of my own dead parents, that I will avenge the misery you
have given to the innocent. The good Book says, the sins of the fathers
shall be visited upon the children even unto the third and the fourth
generation. But life to-day has taught me that the sins of the children
are visited upon the fathers and the mothers—especially, the sweet,
loving, trusting mothers! As I value my honor, Reginald Warren, or Count
Rozi, I will see to it that your mother shall know every detail of the
whole miserable career of her son. That is my answer to your alleged
confession. If there is a hereafter, from which you may observe that which
follows your death, you will be able to see through eternity the earthly
punishment which has been visited upon the one person whom you love and
respect.”
</p>
<p>
The criminal's ashen face was buried in his hands.
</p>
<p>
Great sobs emanated from his white lips, as his shoulders heaved in a
paroxysm.
</p>
<p>
Shirley had struck the Achilles tendon—the hardest wretch in the
world had one, as he knew!
</p>
<p>
“Oh—oh—” he moaned, “the poor little mutter. She has forgiven
so much, suffered so much. You can't do it. You won't do it!” He fell to
his knees, clawing at the criminologist's garments with his trembling
hands, the tears streaming down his face.
</p>
<p>
“What about those who have seen no compassion from you?” cried Shirley in
a terrible voice. “Your vanity, your self-worship! Do they not comfort you
now? This is only the suffering of another which you contemplate! Why all
these hysterics?”
</p>
<p>
Warren, groveling on the floor of the reception-room, was a picture of
abject, horrid soul-torture. At last, through the subtlety of this
unconventional sleuth, along methods which were never dreamed of in the
ordinary police category, he had been broken on the wheel which he had
himself so cunningly constructed!
</p>
<p>
“And if that mother dies, cursing your memory with her last breath,
cursing the love of the father, of her husband, of the ancestors, all
responsible for your being in the world today, what will you think, when
you watch from the other side of that great unseen wall?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Shirley! I can't. See—I'll destroy this stuff. I'll keep silent
about the others. I mean it. Here: I tear it up now and give you the
pieces to burn!”
</p>
<p>
Warren, maddened by his fears, nervously tore the sheets into bits and
pressed the remnants into the criminologist's hands.
</p>
<p>
“Will you promise to keep my identity a secret?”
</p>
<p>
“I will not send word to Budapesth. You have a bad record in Paris, and
other parts of the world. But, if you play fair on the confidential nature
of this case, saving the innocent from disgrace and shame, I will see that
the story never reaches your mother. There is no need to ask this on your
honor—that does not count.”
</p>
<p>
Warren winced at this final thrust. He turned toward Shirley, eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“You don't understand me at that, Shirley. I have had a curious career.
Somewhere I inherited a strain of criminality—you know how many
ancestors a man has in ten generations. I was a member of a poor but
prominent family. The government paid for my education in the best
universities of Europe, for I was to hold a position under the Emperor,
which had been held in my family for generations. But I was ruined by the
extravagances and the excesses which I learned from the rich young men
whom I met. I studied feverishly, yet was able to waste much time with the
gilded fools, by my ability to learn more quickly. The result was that I
could not be contented with the small salary of my government office. I
had to keep up appearances with my companions. So, I drifted into
gambling, into sharp tricks—then became a mercenary soldier, an
officer, in the continuous revolutions of the southeastern part of Europe.
I sank deeper and at last, in one serious escapade, I managed to have
myself reported dead, so as to quiet the heartaches of my mother, who
believed I was killed on the battlefield. There is the miserable story—or
all I will tell. They caught me in Paris and a girl betrayed part of my
name—fortunately they did not hunt me up, so my mother was saved
that disgrace. Will you keep the secret now, on our understanding?”
</p>
<p>
“I give you my word for that, Warren.” Shirley rose, putting the torn-up
papers into his pockets. “I am sorry for the past—but you have made
the present for yourself. Good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
Warren returned to his cell and the detective to the club house.
</p>
<p>
There he found an additional cable message. It said: “Countess Laschlas
has been dead ten months.” It was signed like the other.
</p>
<p>
Shirley tore up the message, and blinked more than seemed necessary.
</p>
<p>
“Poor little old lady, she knows it all now. I will not have to tell her.”
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
* * *
</pre>
<p>
That afternoon Shirley called again at the Hotel California for Helene.
</p>
<p>
“I want you to go to a sweet, old-fashioned English tea-room, where I may
tell you the rest of the story. There will be no tango music, no cymbals,
no tinkling cocktails, nor, champagne. Can you pour real tea?”
</p>
<p>
“I am an English girl. I have been five days without it.”
</p>
<p>
As they were ensconced at the quaint little table, he realized how
wondrously blended in her was that triad of feminine essential spirits:
the eternal mother instinct, the sensuous strength of the wife-love and
the wistful allurement of maiden tenderness.
</p>
<p>
“Does my great big boy wish three lumps of sugar, after his hard tasks?”
</p>
<p>
“He'll die in the flower of immaturity if he has too many sweets in one
day.”
</p>
<p>
He drew out his memorandum book, opening it to a closely-written page.
</p>
<p>
“Before the confections, I must hand in my report to the commanding
officer.”
</p>
<p>
“Advance three paces to the front, and hand over the details,” and she
added another lump of sugar, with a mischievous twinkle in the blue eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Very well, excellency. We transcribed the addresses of Warren's gangsters
from his note-book, and they have all been arrested. The men we captured
in the earlier skirmishes are all languishing in the tombs, as accomplices
in his crime, as well as for their attempts against my own life. You will
be astonished, Helene, at the revelations of his operations as shown by
his bank-books, a translation of that diary and some of the letters which
I took when I burglarized his rooms. I have sent a code letter to Phil,
advising him to confess all, and that man's testimony adds to the
corroboration. I went down to the District Attorney with a full statement
of the facts, leaving nothing unbared. Like me, he agreed that it were
best to let the law take its course, demanding the full penalty, and
saving the honor of a dozen families who would have been dragged into the
case, had not Warren laid himself liable by the murder of his confederate,
Taylor. That young man was an electrical genius—with his brains
misguided by his equally misdirected employer. There is no chance of a
miscarriage of justice, and Warren had accumulated so much money that many
of the victims of his organization can be reimbursed in full.”
</p>
<p>
“You have handled all this with a suspicious skill for a lazy society man,
with no experience in such matters.”
</p>
<p>
Shirley understood the subtle sarcasm of the remark, but he proceeded
unruffled, to lull her suspicious.
</p>
<p>
“I only tried to cover the points which meant happiness and peace of mind
to others. It was merely a matter of common or garden horse sense, as we
call it in America. Warren has been systematically robbing the rich men of
New York for three years, under various subterfuges. No wonder he could
afford such gorgeous collections of art, keeping aloof from his associates
in crime. His treasures, like those in many European museums were bought
with blood. It is curious how a complex case like this smooths itself out
so simply when the key is obtained. And you, Helene, have been the genius
to supply that key: my own work has been merely corroborative!”
</p>
<p>
He looked at the delicate features of the girl, remembering with a
recurring thrill the margin by which they had escaped death in the cellar
den of the conspirators.
</p>
<p>
“Cleary and Dick Holloway told me how cleverly you led the men to the
Somerset where you followed my trail through the mole's passage. It was a
frightful risk for you to take: Cleary should have had more sense and led
the way himself.”
</p>
<p>
Helene's lips pursed themselves into a tempting pout.
</p>
<p>
“Are you not happier that it was I, at that supreme moment?”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed I am: success was all the sweeter. There is remaining only one
mystery which I must admit is still unsolved in this curious affair. And
that is you. Who are you?”
</p>
<p>
She parried with the same question.
</p>
<p>
“I know your name, sir, but you profess to be a society butterfly,
flitting from pleasure to dissipation, and back again. Tell me the truth,
now, if ever.”
</p>
<p>
“Why—gracious, Helene—of all the foolish questions!” He was
adorably boyish in his confusion. She laughed gleefully, like a happy
schoolgirl.
</p>
<p>
“Then, Monty Shirley, my score is better than yours, for I have every
mystery cleared. But while I know all about you, what frightful chances
you are taking with me!”
</p>
<p>
Shirley reddened, as he burned his finger with the match which had been
raised to the end of his cigarette. He accused her of teasing, and she
glanced happily at the iridiscent solitaire upon the third finger of her
left hand.
</p>
<p>
“Dear boy, I realize that I understand about you what you cannot fathom
with me. You are not a moth, but your self-sacrifice, and bravery in this
case are professional: you worked on this case as you have on a hundred
others: you are a very original and successful expert in criminology. And
I am not more than half bad at observation and deduction, myself; now, am
I, dear?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley gracefully admitted defeat, with a question: “Who are you, Helene?
And who is dear old Jack?”
</p>
<p>
The roses blossomed in her cheeks as she answered: “Jack is a very sweet
boy, ten years older than you in gray hair and the calendar, and
infinitely younger in worldly wisdom and intellect. He is an English army
officer, who was foolish enough to imagine he loved me, foolish enough to
propose every three days for the last three years and foolish enough to
bore me until in self-defense I escaped from his clutches. As for myself,
at least I am not the young woman who can stand staying in that gaudy
theatrical hotel for another day longer. I have done so many bold,
unmaidenly things that you may believe it easy for me. It is not.
</p>
<p>
“I am truly a horrid, old-time, hoopskirt-minded prude. My first act of
domestic tyranny is to make you find a sedate, prim place for my work and
play, where I may know my own blushes when I see them in the mirror, and
will have less occasion to deserve them!”
</p>
<p>
“Your work? What is that?”
</p>
<p>
“It is very hard work—with a typewriter, but not in code. I will not
divulge my name until we tell it to the marriage license clerk. But Dick
Holloway knows me, and I came to this country, partly to see him. I have
written a few plays, which simple as they were, seemed to interest
European audiences and critics. Some of my novels have strangely enough
brought in royalties, despite the publishers! But, I became satiated with
life in England and on the Continent. I came here because I felt that I
needed life in a younger and newer country. I needed an emotional and
physical awakening.”
</p>
<p>
“You have not wasted any time in drowsiness since you reached America.”
</p>
<p>
“No—and all because I went to Holloway's office that fateful
morning, before I saw any one else in New York, to ask about a play which
he is to produce this spring. I confess that it was my first experience as
an actress. Will you forgive my deception?”
</p>
<p>
Shirley nodded, as he studied the animated face with a new interest. He
admitted to himself that Holloway's prediction had come true—he had
met his match.
</p>
<p>
“And so, my dear Helene (for such I shall always call you, whether your
really, truly name be Mehitabel, Samantha or Sophronisa) you came here,
went through all these horrors without a complaint, crushing the
independence of my confirmed bachelorhood for the sake of what we
newspaper men call copy?”
</p>
<p>
Helene nodded demurely.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but it was such wonderful 'copy,' Monty boy.”
</p>
<p>
The criminologist scowled over his cigarette, yet he could not feel as
unhappy as he felt this defeat should make him.
</p>
<p>
“When will the 'copy' be ready for publication, my dear girl. It would be
most interesting, I fancy.”
</p>
<p>
Helene caught his hand, drawing it toward her throbbing heart. Her wet
lips were almost touching his ear, as she confided, whisperingly, with the
blue eyes averted: “Only published in editions de luxe: some bindings will
be with blue ribbons, some with pink. All of them with flexible backs and
gloriously illumined by the Master's brush. The authors' autographs will
be on every copy to prove the collaboration, and every volume will be a
poem in itself.... But there, Montague dear, I am a novelist—not a
fortune-teller!”
</p>
<p>
“How can I forecast the exact dates of publication?”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
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