It is not every day in the week that a hand-organ plays "Celeste Aida" under one's window with an F natural in the third bar where the music rightfully calls for F sharp. Nor is it usual to send out a quarter of a dollar to the man as an inducement for him to retire, and then to receive in return a New York Central baggage-check numbered 18329, and reading from Cleveland to New York. Esper Indiman and I exchanged smiles.
"This looks like the real thing," said my friend. "My dear Thorp, there must be some rare element in your chemical make-up that serves to precipitate these delightful mysteries. Adventures fairly flock about us. We shall have to screen the doors and windows or be overwhelmed. Seriously, I am infinitely obliged to you, for I had started on my eleventh game of solitaire, and was beginning to feel a trifle bored. But now—now there is something doing, as Mr. Devery would remark. Let us start the ball rolling by giving Bolder the third degree."
Bolder, recalled, was disposed to be cheerfully communicable. Certainly he would know the man again; he had a good look at him. The sun was shining brightly, and it had fallen full on the fellow's face.
"Describe him, then," said Indiman, note-book in hand.
Put to the test, Bolder was not so good a witness as we had hoped for; he wandered and grew confused in his statements. Light hair? Yes, it might have been that—though, now that he thought of it, the shade was rather on the darkish order. An old man? Well, not noticeably so; perhaps thirty-five or a little younger.
"Or a little older—say fifty-five?"
"Well, it might have been fifty-five, sir. I couldn't swear to it exactly."
"That will do, Bolder," said Indiman, and our witness retired abashed.
"Check number one," commented Indiman. "Suppose we try the Grand Central now. We won't take out the carriage; the day is fine and I want the walk."
It was a beautiful morning in August, cool and clear, and we strode along briskly. A hand-organ began playing in a side street, and we stopped to listen. "It's the same aria," I said, excitedly—"'Celeste Aida.' What tremendous luck! No, it isn't; deuce take it!" I went on, dejectedly.
"But you just said it was the same," persisted Indiman.
"With a difference," I hastened to explain. Now, Indiman is not musical, and I had some trouble in convincing him that within the compass of a semitone a veritable gulf may yawn. This particular organ played the phrase in the third bar correctly—F sharp and not F natural—and consequently it could not be the same instrument that had vexed my ears half an hour ago at No. 4020 Madison Avenue.
"There is a real difference, then?" said Indiman, thoughtfully. "One that you would recognize again?"
"At any place or time," I answered, confidently. "It is an absolute means of identification, quite as much so as a glass eye would be in a man's face."
"Very good. We'll find that hand-organ, then, if we have to go through 'Little Italy' with a drag-net. How beautifully the problem is working out!—almost too beautifully."
At the incoming baggage-room Indiman presented the check numbered 18329. A porter appeared with a large trunk loaded on a truck. "City transfer?" he asked.
"No, I'll take it with me," said Indiman. "Thorp, will you get a hack."
We were about to drive off, and I felt for my match-box. Provoking! I must have left it at home, and I wanted a cigarette. "One moment," I called, and jumped out, having caught sight of Ellison, who had been with me in college. He was hurrying into the station. I should be glad to have a word with him and secure a match at the same time. But somehow I missed him in making my way through the swinging doors. Ellison was nowhere to be seen, and I had to content myself with getting a light at the cigar counter. I went back to the carriage and climbed in.
"It was Ellison," I explained. "A good chap, and I should have liked to meet him."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Indiman, politely, and we drove off.
"So you've got it," I said, staring up at the trunk that occupied the box at the hackman's left. "It looks ordinary enough."
"The porter told me that it came in last night on the Lake Shore Limited," said Indiman. "Nothing remarkable about that, either."
A sudden thought struck me. "By Jove! we're no better than thieves," I said, frowningly. "The possession of a baggage-check doesn't necessarily carry with it the ownership of the parcel for which it calls. The rightful proprietor may be even now at the Grand Central explaining the loss of the check and trying to identify his property."
Indiman looked a little blank. "Of course, your obvious theory may be the true one," he said, slowly. "The hunting of mare's-nests is a weakness of mine. But what are you about there?"
"Telling the driver to take us back to the station," I answered, with my hand on the check-cord.
"I don't know about doing that—just now. There might be some awkward explanations to make to your hypothetical owner. Or, failing him, to the police."
"It doesn't absolutely follow," he continued, "that there is an owner or that he is anxious to claim and recover his property. He may have substantial reasons for wanting to get rid of it. Remember that the baggage-check was handed in at my door with the express direction that it was to be given to the gentleman of the house. We'll have to see it through, I think."
I had nothing more to say, and shortly afterwards we pulled up at No. 4020 Madison Avenue. Bolder and the hackman carried the trunk in, and Indiman directed that it should be placed in the library, the front room on the first landing. The cabman was paid and dismissed, and we were left alone.
"Now for it," said Indiman, gayly. "I have always preferred mutton to lamb."
The trunk was of the cheap variety, covered with brown paper that vaguely simulated leather. It was perfectly new, and this was probably its first trip on the road. The lock was of simple construction. It should be easy to find a key to fit it, and one of mine, with a little filing, did the trick. The bolt shot back, and Indiman unhesitatingly threw up the lid.
There was no tray in the trunk, and the interior space was filled with some bulky article that had been carefully shrouded by manifold layers of cloth wrappings. I know that the same thought was in both our minds, but neither of us spoke. A keen-bladed ink-eraser lay on the desk before me, and I handed it to Indiman. He made a swift cut in the wrappings and drew the severed edges apart—a naked human foot protruded. To this hour I have only to shut my eyes to immediately recall that horrid vision. I remember particularly the purplish hue of the swollen veins, the unmistakable rigidity of the joints and muscles.
Indiman shut down the lid and turned the key in the lock. We looked, white-faced, one at the other, then at the maid-servant who stood not ten feet away. Had she been any nearer?
"What is it, Mary?" said Indiman, sharply.
The girl, confused and stammering, explained that she had come in to sweep; she had no idea that Mr. Indiman was in the library. No, the door was not locked, and she had just that moment walked in. Indiman cut short her apologies, and, with a tolerable assumption of indifference, dismissed her to her duties elsewhere.
"Unfortunate," he remarked, with a frown.
"I doubt if she could have seen anything," I answered, reassuringly. "I should have heard her if she had come any nearer, and the trunk was only open for a second or two."
"Quite long enough for anything to happen," said Indiman. "I say, Thorp, but this is a go," he went on, cockily enough. Then suddenly the steadiness went out of his voice, like a match-light in a high wind, and he finished with a little, choking gasp, "Just the very—rummest go."
I don't remember that we had a drink on the strength of it, but it's more than probable. Then we sat down to consider.
The natural, the obvious, and the only proper course of action was to go at once to Police Headquarters and make a frank statement of the case with its attendant circumstances. True, we were undistinguished citizens, with neither pull nor influence, but surely respectability must count for something, even as against charges of admitted theft and suspected murder. If we owned up now we should be subjected, doubtless, to more or less annoyance growing out of the affair, but the position would be infinitely less difficult than if we waited for events to force it upon us. "Murder will out," I quoted.
"So they say," answered Indiman, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.
And yet in the end we abandoned this eminently sane conclusion, deciding that we would keep our own counsel and let the matter work itself out. For such a crime as murder does not end with the actual deed; the rupturing of the thousand and one ties that bind even the most insignificant of lives to the general body of human existence cannot be accomplished without some disturbance; a circle has myriad points, and at any one of them the interrupted current may again begin to flow. Perchance the message falls upon indifferent ears or is too feeble and incoherent in itself to compel attention. In this event the signals must necessarily grow weaker and more infrequent until they finally cease altogether—the crime is now an accomplished fact, the chapter is finally closed. Or, again, the call may come as plangent and insistent as the stroke of a fire-alarm; the whole community hears and instantly understands; the murder is out.
Now either of us could presume to measure the precise quality of odic force inherent in the grisly mystery that lay under our hand; the affair might range from the dignity of a cause celebre to the commonplace of a purely commercial transaction—the economical transportation of a medical college "subject." It was this very uncertainty that fascinated our imaginations and so allowed the sober judgment to be deposed. Our ostensible argument was that the police would be sure to make a mess of the affair. If that idiot, Detective Brownson, took hold of it, the goddess Justice might throw up her hands as well as close her eyes. And inwardly we desired to cherish our secret out of the same sense of fearful joy with which one listens to a ghost story—we had tasted the coal-black wine pressed from forbidden grapes, and we craved a yet deeper draught. Finally, a connoisseur does not willingly relinquish a good find, whatever the circumstances; there are bibliomaniacs who will not hesitate to steal what they may not otherwise procure. I myself know a charming woman who collects Japanese sword-guards AT ANY COST (I have her husband's authority for this statement).
But, seriously again, the grip of the mystery was upon us; the inclination had become irresistible to see the thing out, or at least to let it run a little further, just as a child amuses itself with fire—the desire to see what will happen. Later on it might be necessary to pull up sharply, but the contingency would doubtless provide for itself. The ultimate fact remained that here was a genuine adventure, and as connoisseurs of romance we were bound to exploit it to the utmost limit of our ability. So be it, then.
"The finding of that organ-grinder is our first and obvious procedure," said Indiman, slowly. "And the clew to his identity lies, as you have explained, in his instrument."
"The organ itself is a criminal; it murders 'Celeste Aida.'"
"I believe that most of these instruments are rented from one company," continued Indiman. "We can find out definitely at the city License Bureau, and we might as well make that the starting-point of our investigations. We have plenty of time before luncheon; it is barely twelve o'clock."
"But shouldn't we begin with—with the thing itself," I objected, and glanced nervously at the big trunk standing in the middle of the floor. The identity of the victim—it may be possible to establish it—a most important point, surely."
"I'll have to pass up that part of it—at least for the present," said Indiman, frankly. "But we must get the box out of sight somewhere. The weather"—and here he gave a little involuntary shudder—"is getting warmer. We'd better get it down into the cellar. I'll see if the way is clear."
The servants were all busy in the upper part of the house, and we succeeded in getting the trunk down into the cellar unobserved, stowing it away temporarily in an empty coal-bin. On our way up-stairs we encountered the maid, Mary, and something in the hasty way in which she stood back to let us pass stirred again my vague suspicions. But there was nothing to say or do; we must trust to luck.
Then there was no difficulty in finding the office of the company that leases hand-organs to itinerant musicians, and the manager, an Americanized Italian, was most courteous in answering our inquiries. It appeared that this particular aria of "Celeste Aida" was only included in the repertoire of some half-dozen of the older instruments. It chanced that they were all in stock at the present time, and it would be no trouble at all to let us hear them play. "Our incomparable maestro—he is no longer remembered," said the manager, mournfully. "The public—now it is that they demand what you calla hot stuff—'Loosianner Loo' and the 'Lobster Intermezzo,' Per Bacco! if they would but open their ears—la—la—there it goes—
'"Ce-le-ste A-i-da, For-ma di-vi-na'—
Ah, gentlemen, THAT is musica."
An amiable person, but we were wasting both his and our time. Each one of the six organs reproduced the original notation of the aria, and the imperfect instrument must therefore be in private hands. So we returned thanks to Mr. Gualdo Sarto for his courtesy, and went away somewhat disheartened. Haystacks are large places and needles small objects.
Two days went by—days spent in aimless wandering about the streets waiting for a distant hand-organ to give tongue. Then a hot chase, only to draw another blank.
On the third day I came home alone about five o'clock. The weather was really hot again, and I was tired out with tramping. Yet a little chill ran down my spine as I happened to glance across the street and caught sight of a man's face in an areaway. He had been watching me; of that I was certain.
I went up to the library and sat there waiting for Indiman. The man in the areaway waited also.
At half after six Indiman appeared. He, too, had been unsuccessful; I could see it in his face before he spoke. I told him of the suspicious loiterer across the street. Together we kept close watch on the areaway, and after a while the fellow came out and strolled off with what was intended to pass as jaunty indifference. But we were not deceived.
"That fool of a girl has talked," said Indiman. "Looks like it."
"See here, Thorp, that thing in the cellar—we'll have to do something at once."
I nodded.
"The flooring in the coal-bin is brick; it won't be difficult to take up a section large enough for—"
I nodded again.
I shan't forget what we did that night—the stealing down into the echoing cellar—the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed walls—the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.
How we worked! Like slaves under the lash—an actual lash of terror. For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me. My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.
It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, passed me on her way down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I wanted but one thing—bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it, and slept for seven hours straight.
It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship in physiology—his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it illustrates the point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection. Now the European idea—"
"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.
From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the third bar instead of F sharp.
"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly. "Just around the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait, Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.
Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time luck was with me.
The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained, proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men and women under the glass front, and when the musica plays they dance—so."
Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly, and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of getting the truth out of him.
A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the door I waited a moment.
Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just been interrogated—of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck!
"Now, Mr Indiman—" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you say; it may be used against you."
Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested.
"A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?"
"Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo.
But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover, the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth!
Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived with the word.
"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the interruption.
"Dr. Ellison," I answered.
"Medicine?"
"Yes."
"Hum," said Brownson, importantly. "I will ask him to kindly take charge—"
"I should think so," broke in Ellison, cheerfully, "seeing that it's my own property. I lost baggage-check No. 18329, from Cleveland to New York, the night of my arrival in town, and somewhere in this very neighborhood. The next morning I went to the Grand Central to prove my ownership, but the trunk had been claimed and carried away."
"You are aware, Dr. Ellison," said Brownson, "that this trunk contains—well, we all know what."
"Oh, do we!" retorted Ellison, smartly. "Just stand back there." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the trunk. An irresistible curiosity drew us forward again. Ellison seized the wrapping and jerked it forcibly apart. I turned my eyes away, and Mary screamed outright.
"Did you never see an anatomical manikin before?" asked Ellison, scornfully. "Made out of papier-mache, you know, and used for demonstrations in physiology before college classes. They used to come from Paris, but they're making them in Cleveland now, and better than the French ones. I tell you I'm mighty glad to get my 'old man' back; he's just out of the shop and cost me a hundred-dollar bill."
Mr. Detective Brownson walked over to the trunk, gazed intently at the manikin, and gingerly poked it once or twice in the ribs. He turned red and swallowed at something in his throat.
"So you wish to make a charge against these gentlemen?" he asked, with almost a note of appeal in his voice.
"Not I," answered Ellison, cheerfully. "It's all between friends, and they can settle the matter with me over a petit souper at Delmonico's. Good-day, officer."
How quickly the echoes of the strenuous life die away. After thestorm and stress of those dreadful four days one would suppose that peace at any price were the one thing worth while. And for a month or more we were quite content with the humdrum of ordinary existence. And then just because a game of patience would not make—
Indiman was playing solitaire and I was idly looking on. It so happened that an important card, the ace of hearts, was buried, and Indiman had tried every legitimate means to get it out without success.
"You can't do that," I said, decidedly, as Indiman was about to make a move. He looked up, caught my eye fixed upon the game, and colored deeply. Then he frowned and swept the cards into a disorganized heap.
"I really believe that I was on the point of cheating myself," he said, soberly. "That argues a shameful flabbiness of the moral fibre, doesn't it? A 'brace' game of solitaire! What a hideous picture of degeneracy!"
"Lay it on the weather," I suggested. "These gray November days with their depressing atmosphere of finality may be held responsible for anything."
"Even my own pet extremity—the upsetting of an apple-cart. Really, I'm getting dangerously close to it. Let's go out for a walk."
Now, why did Tito Cecco, dealer in small fruits, choose this precise day and hour to halt his barrow at our corner? Push-carts are not allowed in Madison Avenue, anyway, and five minutes earlier or later he would have been moved on by the policeman on the beat. But in that mean time Esper Indiman and I had left the house. The cart piled high with red and yellow apples confronted us, and a dangerous glint came into Indiman's eye.
"Indiman!" I implored.
Too late! With the mischievous agility of a boy, Indiman seized the hub of the near wheel and heaved it into the air. A little ripple of apples swept across the asphalt roadway, then a veritable cascade of the fruit. The light push-cart lay bottom up, its wheels revolving feebly. Tito Cecco had become incapable of either speech or motion. Then he caught the glimmer of the gold piece in Indiman's fingers, and grabbed at it eagerly.
It is a poor sort of catastrophe that does not attract the attention of at least one pair of youthful eyes, and the vultures are famous for their punctuality in the matter of invitations to dinner. Where did all the boys come from, anyway; the street was jammed with them, and reinforcements were constantly arriving. Tito Cecco, having pouched Indiman's gold piece and righted his cart, had hastily departed. He had made a good thing out of the transaction, and explanations to policemen are awkward things—always so.
The pile of fruit had disappeared with incredible swiftness, but the boys themselves departed slowly, as though reluctant to leave a region of such extraordinary windfalls. One little chap had fared particularly well, for both his coat-pockets were stuffed and each fist grabbed a big specimen of the beautiful fruit. A young fellow, fresh-faced and country-looking, had been looking at the scene from a little distance down the street. Now he walked up and spoke to the small boy.
"Give you a nickel, bub, for one of the red ones. They look just like the apples up in Saco, Maine. Lord's sakes, how I wish I was there!"
The boy signified his willingness to make the bargain, but he wanted to give a sporting color to the transaction. "Right or left?" he asked, his hands held behind his back.
"Left, of course," answered the yokel.
"'Ain't I always been that?"
The boy handed over the apple, received the promised nickel in return, and departed with a joyous whoop. The young countryman held up the apple and looked at it sentimentally.
"Now, what under the canopy's that!" he exclaimed. There was a piece of paper tightly twisted about the stem of the fruit. He unfolded it carefully, for it could be seen that it bore a written message.
When a man with a complexion like a new red wagon turns pale it means something. Indiman and I stepped up, for we really thought that he was going to faint.
"Much obliged, gentlemen. I'm all right now," said the young chap. "But for the minute I was that struck. Say, gentlemen, you'll think I'm a liar, but it was my own girl, Miss Mattie Townley, who wrote that there letter and twisted it around an apple-stem. And she wrote it to me—me, Ben Day. What do you think of that?"
"This is a world of infinite chance," said Indiman, politely.
"Look for yourself. I don't mind, and neither would Mattie."
Indiman took the little scrawl of paper and I looked over his shoulder. It read:
"Ben Day, if you're not an altogether born fool, come back to Saco, Maine. I never meant a word of what I said—you KNOW that. M. T."
"S'pose you'd call it a lovers' quarrel," explained Mr. Ben Day. "I just piked out of Saco, Maine, like a bear with a sore head, and come down here to New York. For three months I 'ain't sent sign nor sound to the home people, but she was bound to catch up with me. And, by jinks! she just did. Wonder how many other Baldwin pippins are taking the glad tidings round the country. I'd give a nickel apiece for a million of 'em." An actual tear glistened in the young fellow's eye. It was impossible not to sympathize, and we both congratulated him heartily.
"Of course, you're going back to Saco at once?" said Indiman.
"If I could get the five-o'clock express there's a through connection up north. I'd do it, too"—his voice fell suddenly—"only for—"
"Only for what?"
"This," and he held out a small package that he had been carrying. It was box-shaped and neatly wrapped in light-brown paper. The parcel was addressed to S. A. Davidge, 32 Edgewood Road, Exeter, England, and it bore a pasted label that read, "From Redfield & Company, Silversmiths, Maiden Lane, New York City." It also carried the label of the Oceanic Express Company, marked, "Charges Paid" and "per S.S. Russia" with the package number, 44,281, in indelible pencil.
"Well?" said Indiman, interrogatively.
"You see, I was in a scrape on account of that thing, and I wanted to put the matter straight. Up to ten o'clock this morning I was in the employ of the Oceanic Express Company—one of the messengers, you know, sir, who go out with the wagons. It was our first trip of the day, and we had a big load of small stuff for the Russia, When I had unloaded and checked up my sheet, No. 44,281 was missing. I went back to the office, reported the loss, and was discharged on the spot—they're hard as nails on anything like that. Well, I went home pretty blue, for it's hard work finding a job nowadays, and I didn't know which way to turn. I'd been keeping bachelor hall with the driver of the wagon. He's a foreigner named Grenelli, and claims to be an Italian. Maybe so, but he looks more like a German, and he can talk half a dozen languages. I used to go with him to the socialist meetings over on the East Side, and the Tower of Babel isn't in it with those fellows.
"An anarchist? Oh, I don't think so. Liked to shoot off his mouth about the rights of man, and he was always down on taxes. But I shouldn't call him an anarchist. Why, he was the driver of an express wagon, and the two things don't jibe.
"I should have said that Grenelli had been suspended during the investigation into the loss, and of course we went home together. We talked the thing over from end to end, but we couldn't explain the disappearance of the package—neither of us. Of course, it was me who was the real responsible party in the business, and Grenelli, who naturally wanted to get back on his time, felt pretty grouchy about it. Finally, I got mad, told him to go to blazes, and cleared out of the house.
"Well, about an hour after that I went home, and met Grenelli coming out; he said that he was going down to the company stable. At two o'clock he come back all out of breath, and he had the package with him—yes, sir, that identical package that we'd been looking for. Told me that it had been found under the driver's seat wrapped up in one of the horse-blankets. Seems funny, too, for we had hunted through that wagon-body a dozen times.
"However, that makes no difference; we had the package, and I had just started down-town to turn it in when I stopped to look at the excitement here. Lucky for me, or I'd never had a bite of this particular red apple, the sweetest pippin that orchard ever grew. Excuse me, gentlemen, if I do the saphead act—by jinks! I FEEL like it."
"The sentiment does you honor, Mr. Day," said Indiman, gravely. "You ought to take that five-o'clock train."
"Wouldn't I like to!" sighed the enamoured youth. "But I can't go down to the company office in Bowling Green and get back in time to make it. It's three o'clock now."
"You would not care to intrust the delivery of the package to me?"
"Well, hardly," was the frank reply. "You see, mister, I've been living in New York for three months, now, and I've cut most of my eye-teeth. No offence, of course."
"Certainly not."
"You look straight goods, and I b'lieve I'd run almost any risk to catch that train—well, by jinks! here comes Grenelli now; that makes it all O.K."
I did not like the looks of the man who presently joined us in response to Ben Day's hail. I distrust, on principle, people with thin, bloodless lips and obliquely set eyes. Yet the fellow spoke pleasantly enough, and he readily undertook to clear young Day's name and reputation with his former employers. The boy handed over the parcel to Grenelli, and then, as he turned to go, begged the honor of shaking hands with Indiman and myself, a permission graciously granted. After all, we had borne no inconsiderable share in the later developments of his good-fortune. Suppose Indiman had NOT upset the apple-cart?
"And now," said Indiman, turning to Grenelli and speaking with great suavity, "I am going to ask the favor of a short interview. My house is only two numbers away."
Grenelli shook his head. "I've nothing to say to you—" he began, defiantly.
Indiman stepped quickly to the fellow's side, took his arm and pressed it closely. He said a few words in an undertone, and to my surprise Grenelli instantly submitted. We entered the house and went to the library on the first floor front. Indiman took from his side coat-pocket a cocked revolver and laid it on the table. So that was the kind of persuasion that it had been necessary to apply to secure Mr. Grenelli's attendance. One is apt to yield the point when he feels a pistol-barrel prodding him in the ribs, and it is no great trick to set a trigger-catch with the weapon in your pocket.
"Stand there," said Indiman, pointing to the far end of the table, and the man obeyed.
"And now, Grenelli," continued Indiman, bluntly, "I want the truth about this affair. Bah, man! don't begin to shuffle about like that. This isn't the original package delivered by Redfield & Company to the Oceanic Express for shipment to England. You know it and I know it, so we'll just acknowledge a true bill and go on with the evidence.
"A counterfeit, then, of the real thing. But why? That's what we're after now. Simple robbery? Or is there another reason why this particular package was intended to be shipped on the steamship Russia, sailing to-day at four o'clock sharp? You see the point, don't you?
"I admit, Grenelli, that you are a clever man. Since the dynamite outrage on the Icelandic six months ago great care has been taken in the supervision of shipments, for the fast steamers and the Oceanic Express Company require that the contents of every package shall be visibly made known to them before it can be accepted. But once it is inspected and officially labelled it goes through without further difficulty, the steamship people being content with the express company's guarantee.
"And now be kind enough to give me your very best attention. This morning, at ten o'clock, one of these officially registered packages disappeared from the wagon that you were driving. At half-past two this afternoon the parcel is returned to messenger Day, coming through your hands. Now, how long did it take you to make up this dummy—seal, stamp, and all? Of course, you had stolen what you needed for the forgery from the company office—all but the Redfield & Company label, and that you soaked off the original package and reaffixed to this one.
"It wasn't a plausible story that you told Day, but you knew the boy wouldn't be particular over trifles. All he cared about was the cloud upon his honesty. You figured that the package would be returned, perfunctorily examined for identification, and immediately sent on board the steamer. How much picrate or dynamite does it take to knock out the biggest steamship afloat? You could get enough of the stuff in a box of this size—couldn't you? And how were you going to set it off? Clockwork, of course. But why were you so stupid as to use a clumsy mechanism whose ticking could be heard a block away? Listen to it now."
In the succeeding silence the measured beat of the escapement was plainly audible. There was a sinister significance in the sound that I, for one, shall not easily forget. The man Grenelli paled and took an involuntary backward step.
"The steamship Russia" continued Indiman, in his calm, inflectionless voice, "was booked to carry an unusually distinguished company on this particular trip. The International Peace Congress has been in session in New York during the past fortnight. It adjourned Tuesday, and some thirty of the European delegates had engaged passage on this boat. Now, consider for a moment, Grenelli—what a catastrophe to the cause of universal peace should anything happen to the Russia! For example, the destruction of the ship and the consequent loss of life through the explosion of an infernal machine smuggled into the cargo! What confusion, what dismay, what terror! Then the poison of slow suspicion, the dull but deadly undercurrent of racial resentments, the question, growing daily more insistent, 'Who has done this thing?'
"It was an exquisite stroke of irony, Grenelli. I am connoisseur enough to admire really good technique wherever I find it. The nations assemble for a council of peace, and an invisible hand hurls a firebrand into the very centre of the august circle! Puff! The resolutions, with their well-rounded periods, go up into smoke and the tramp of armed men is heard throughout the world. Excellent! Oh, excellent, my good Grenelli!
"But chance always takes a hand in a round game, and at the psychological moment I come out of my house and upset an apple-cart—your apple-cart, my good Grenelli. What incredible bad luck!—to be bowled out by a shiny, red-cheeked pippin from Mattie Townley's orchard in Saco, Maine. You will remember a somewhat similar incident in the Garden of Eden several thousand years ago. Apples are certainly unwholesome fruit for the masculine digestion. But I beg your pardon—you were about to say—"
The man Grenelli glared at his tormentor. "What more do you want of me?" he asked, sullenly. "There's the police—why don't you turn me over to them and have done with it?"
"For the very sufficient reason, my dear Grenelli, that the evidence against you isn't strong enough. The package never reached the Russia, and how are we going to prove your intentions. Besides, in a matter of this sort, the question of tools is of small importance compared with the identity of the intelligence that employs them. Who and what is back of this affair? You, Grenelli, are going to tell me."
"Never!"
"Don't be too hasty. Think it over. We have plenty of time before us."
"I don't understand."
"You will presently. Thorp, my dear fellow, will you see that the servants are cleared out of the house at once. Let them all go to the show at the New Academy—at my expense, of course—and they needn't return until noon to-morrow. Make them understand that these are their orders. Then come back here, if you will."
When I returned to the library I found Grenelli seated at one end of the big centre-table and Indiman opposite him. In Indiman's right hand was a revolver, and the express package, addressed to S. A. Davidge, Exeter, England, lay on the table between them. The arrangement looked studied. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling—a well-founded one, as I was immediately to learn.
"Take my place for a moment," said Indiman. He went to the clock on the mantel-piece and stopped it. When he came back to the table he had his watch in his hand; he laid it face downward by the pistol. "Do you carry a timepiece?" he inquired of Grenelli. The prisoner shook his head. "Very good," continued Indiman. "We are now ready for our little experiment. Let me again have your best attention.
"The box containing the infernal machine lies on the table there. Mr. Grenelli knows at what hour the exploding mechanism is set to act; I do not. But seeing that the Russia sails to-day at four o'clock, we may assume that the explosion must be timed for to-morrow morning, when the vessel would be well out to sea. Certainly, not earlier; possibly some hours later. It makes no particular difference, for we are going to sit quietly here at the table with that curious box between us until something happens. Either Mr. Grenelli is going to give me that information or—he isn't. But in the latter case it will be of no further use to either of us. Do I make myself quite clear?"
The ticking of the mechanism concealed in the box sounded like the blows of a trip-hammer. Grenelli lit a cigarette with a poor affectation of bravado. "I can stand as much of it as you can," he said, insolently.
"You have the advantage of KNOWING how much," retorted Indiman. "But we'll wait and see who's the best man. And in the mean time, Thorp, old chap, I think you'd better cut your stick. Just bring up some biscuits and a bottle of Scotch, and we'll get along as comfortably as you please."
But I declined to be sent away in this fashion for all that I was horribly afraid. "I can't sit down at that table," I explained, "but I'll keep coming in and out of the room as the spirit moves me. Now, don't say a word; I've made up my mind."
"Well, I sha'n't forget it," said Indiman, simply. Then, in an undertone: "As a matter of absolute fact, the fellow is a coward, and he'll weaken at the end. There isn't the slightest danger—be sure of that."
Hour by hour the early evening dragged away, and then began that interminable night. I spent most of the time in the dining-room at the back, smoking and pretending to read. Twice the book slipped from my hand, and I woke with a horrid start from my cat-nap. Then I would go softly to the library door and peep in. Always the same tableau—the two men sitting opposite each other, alert, silent, watchful, and between them the shaded lamp and that little box lying in the circle of its light.
At about four o'clock I came in and mended the fire in the grate, for the house was growing chilly. Indiman looked over at me and smiled brightly. "Well, it's good to be out of the old ruts, isn't it?" he said. "'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,' as some one has truthfully remarked. He was a philosopher, that fellow. Wish we had him here with us to-night; we'd teach him a thing or two more about what living really is."
After that I walked up and down the dining-room floor pretty steadily until the dawn began to steal over the chimney-pots of the houses at the back. It wasn't a pretty sky that the light revealed, dull and streaky looking, with a suggestion of coming rain. I stood looking at it in an absent-minded, miserable sort of stupor; then I heard Indiman calling me.
"I'm out of cigars," he explained. "There's a box in the buffet; and just put out the lamp, will you."
Grenelli looked haggard in the gray light that streamed into the room as I drew the curtains. He started, too, when he saw that the day had come—it was quite perceptible.
"I should like to know the time," he growled. "It's only fair."
"To be sure," assented Indiman, and he pushed his watch, face upward, into the middle of the table. The dial indicated half-past seven, at which I was somewhat surprised, for I had not thought it so late. But my own watch had run down, and it will be remembered that Indiman had stopped the mantel-clock the night before. Half-past seven it was, then, for all that the hour again struck me as being rather advanced for a cloudy morning in mid-November. And evidently Grenelli thought so too. He could hardly suppress the exclamation that rose to his lips as he glanced at the dial.
Ten minutes passed, and then Grenelli spoke.
"If I tell you what you want to know," he said, "am I to be allowed to leave the house at once?"
"Yes."
"And I am to be safe from arrest? At least, sufficient time will be given—"
"Bah!" interrupted Indiman, scornfully. "Come and go as you will. I can break you like a rotten stick whenever it pleases me."
Grenelli drew in his breath with a vicious hiss. "At five minutes to eight I will tell you," he said, in a loud, overbearing voice.
"Very good," answered Indiman, placidly.
But the fellow's courage deserted him at the pinch, in accordance with Indiman's prediction. He sat there dry-lipped and wet-browed, a half-burned cigarette in his yellow-stained fingers, and his eyes fixed immovably on Indiman's watch. It was barely a quarter to the hour when he gave in. He wanted to cut the corner as closely as he could, but his nerve was gone. "I will tell you—" he began.
He stopped as abruptly as he had started. Suddenly the ticking of the clock-work had ceased, and it was succeeded by a pause infinitesimally brief and withal infinitely extended. Grenelli half rose from his chair, his hands beating backward at the air. Then came a curious premonitory whir of the hidden mechanism. The metallic rattle of the gong was magnified in my ears to the dimensions of a roll of thunder; then I saw that Indiman had torn the wrappings from the box and had opened it. There was no mistaking the object that lay within—a common American alarm-clock. Grenelli looked at it, wide-eyed, then he rolled off his chair in some sort of a fit, and Indiman and I were left to stare each other out of countenance.
"Plain enough, I think," said Indiman. "There WAS another box containing the infernal machine, but Grenelli made up the dummy so successfully as to deceive even himself. He got the two mixed up, and this, the original and harmless package, was the one that should have reached the Russia if Ben Day hadn't stopped to buy a red apple. Of course, it was the ticking of the clock escapement that misled him—and me.
"The alarm mechanism must have been wound up and set just before the clock left Redfield & Company's yesterday morning. Possibly a practical joke on some clerk's part, but that doesn't matter. You see, there is a twenty-four hour dial for the alarm, and it was set at a little before XIX, corresponding to about a quarter of seven."
"But your watch says a quarter of eight," I objected.
"I set it an hour ahead," answered Indiman. "I'm not altogether a fool, and although I was certain that Grenelli would weaken, I wanted some leeway for myself and you. Undoubtedly, the infernal machine was timed for eight o'clock, and Grenelli knew it. He tried to hold on long enough to insure our destruction, and yet get away himself, but he couldn't be sure of those last few minutes. By-the-way, the box containing the bomb must be at his house. It ought to be put out of business at once. Can you get the fellow on his feet?"
But it took some time to bring the man around, and it was more than half an hour later before we got away, the three of us together in a hansom. I should say that the lodging occupied by Grenelli and Day was the loft of a disused private stable, situated in a side street, three or four blocks off, and the driver was instructed to get there as quickly as possible. As we passed a jeweler's place Grenelli glanced at the electric-clock dial in the window and saw that it was twenty-five minutes of eight. He had been deceived, then; he knew it instantly. "But it worked both ways," he sneered. "I have my secret still."
"Quite so," answered Indiman, and smiled.
At the corner we were halted by a hail from the sidewalk. It was Brownson, of the detective bureau.
"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Indiman, but I want that man with you. Charged with larceny of a package consigned to Oceanic Express Company. I've been waiting for him all night."
"By all means, officer," and the three of us got out.
"I managed it pretty well, I think," continued Brownson. "Searched every nook and corner of the stable where Grenelli and Day lived, and finally I found the parcel. It answered precisely to the description, and I sent it down by Officer Smith to the RUSSIA not more than an hour ago."
"To the RUSSIA! Why she sailed yesterday afternoon at four o'clock."
"Slight accident to her low-pressure cylinder," explained Brownson. "She was delayed for several hours and was to sail early this morning. I beg your pardon—why, excuse me, Mr. Indiman—"
There was a public telephone in the corner shop, and Indiman dashed into the booth, upsetting Officer Brownson into the gutter as he rushed past him. The clerk at the pier of the Cis-Atlantic Company answered that the RUSSIA had sailed a little before seven, and must be in the lower bay by this time. Impossible to reach her, as the morning was densely foggy and she carried no wireless apparatus. An indescribable expression came into the man Grenelli's face as he realized what this new turn of the kaleidoscope meant. But Indiman and I involuntarily looked the other way.
Officer Smith had returned from his mission, and apparently his superior was not pleased with its outcome.
"Block on the Elevated!" he exclaimed, disgustedly. "Always some excuse. Then you missed the Russia?"
"She had just been pulled into the stream when I reached the pier."
"Where's the package?"
"I brought it back with me."
Now, to be honest, I jumped at that. It was possible that the booby had the box under his coat, and it was now ten minutes of eight. But Brownson, who didn't know, went on imperturbably. "You should have handed it over to the representative of the express company. What did you do with it?"
"It's at the stable where Grenelli lived," explained Officer Smith. "I locked it up in a bureau drawer, and here's the key."
Brownson looked at his subordinate patronizingly. "You have much to learn, young man—" he began. "Much to learn. Hallo! Something's blown up down the block."
Well, to sum up briefly, there was no stable left. Fortunately no one had been injured by the explosion, and the outside damage was confined to a few broken windows. We all went poking about in the ruins looking for a clew to the mystery.
"Here's that box, Brownson," said Indiman, suddenly. "The cover is somewhat torn, but you can make out the address easily enough. It's the lost property, certainly, and you've got the thief, too." He handed the officer the package containing the alarm-clock.
"That I have," answered the gratified Brownson. "Keep close eye on Grenelli, Officer Smith, and I may be able to overlook your shortcomings of this morning. I say, Mr. Indiman, but there's a regular miracle in this 'ere business. Now, how do you suppose this blessed little twopenny box ever come through an earthquake like that there."
"I'll never tell you," said Indiman.
We had been dining with Ellison, the deferred settlement of that little account which we had been owing him since August. However, we made it up, interest and all. The occasion had been an undeniably cheerful one, and it was close to midnight when we finally separated. Ellison went on his way up-town and Indiman and I stood on the corner waiting for a hansom, for as it chanced there was not a single disengaged one in the rank before the restaurant. "Here we are," said Indiman, and raised his stick as a four-wheeler was about to pass us. But the driver made a negative sign and drove on. "He has a fare, after all," said Indiman, with some annoyance. "But look, Thorp!"
The rolling shades at the doors had been closely drawn, but just as the carriage came opposite us a sudden jolt displaced the spring catch of the curtain and up it flew with a snap. There were two persons in the cab, and the electric light from the corner shone full upon them. The one nearest us was an undersized, swarthy-faced person who wore a Turkish fez; his companion was a portly man attired in evening clothes and having his head entirely enveloped in a bag of some dark material gathered at the neck by a draw-string.
With an exclamation that might pass for a blood-curdling Levantine oath the man of the fez seized the window-curtain and pulled it down; the carriage rolled on.
"An extraordinary spectacle," I remarked. "There ought to be a big story behind that."
"I admit," said Indiman, calmly, "that it is not usual for gentlemen to drive about town with their heads done up in black bags. Nevertheless, I doubt if there is much in the mystery worthy of a connoisseur's attention. It strikes me as smacking of the made-up, the theatric; it has something of the air commercial about it—an advertisement, perhaps."
"Nonsense!" I retorted, warmly.
"Well, let the event decide. The cab's number—did you note it?"
"No."
"It was No. 872," said Indiman.