CHAPTER XIIPOWER OF DARKNESS
To Orme the next half-hour was very long. He seated himself upon the floor of the closet and ate the sandwich which the clairvoyant had brought him. Occasionally he could hear her moving about the apartment.
“Poor charlatan!” he thought. “She is herself a ‘good sort.’ I suppose she excuses the sham of her profession on the ground that it deceives many persons into happiness.”
He struck another match and looked again at the ghostly paraphernalia about him. Near him hung a black robe with a large hood. He crushed one of the folds in his hands and was surprised to discover how thin it was and into how small space it could be compressed. Not far away stood several pairs of large slippers of soft black felt. The white robes were also of thinnest gossamer—flimsy stuff that swayed like smoke when he breathed toward it.
By the light of a third match he looked morecarefully at the other apparatus. There was a large pair of angel-wings, of the conventional shape. The assortment of masks was sufficiently varied for the representation of many types of men and women of different ages.
The match burned down to his fingers, and again he sat in darkness, wondering at the elaborateness of the medium’s outfit. She was a fraud, but he liked her—yes, pitied her—and he felt inclined to excuse in so far as he could. For the kiss which he had given her he felt no regret; it was hers, in all innocence, for what of good she might have found in it.
The minutes dragged by. He thought of the precious documents, safe in the inside pocket of his coat. What they were, he did not try to determine, but it was plain that they must be of international importance. The talk of ships and Alcatrante’s references to commissions had puzzled him. But suddenly came to his mind the newspaper rumors that Japan was secretly adding vessels to her navy through the agency of a South American republic which was having cruisers and battle-ships built in Europe, to turn them over at their completion, to the Japanese. There was, asyet, no international proof of this policy, for none of the ships had been completed, but the South American country was certainly adopting a policy of naval construction quite out of proportion to her position among the Powers.
How came the girl to be involved in this mix-up of nations? Through her father, of course—but who was he? A concessionaire? Her courage and determination, employed against shrewd men, was as notable as the beauty of her face and mind, for she was like a queen in her assured comprehension.
How it quickened his heart to think of her! The poor, faded medium, with the smolder of old flames in her eyes, with the records of hard experience written on her face, was a child in stature beside the girl—a child with yearnings that could never be satisfied.
Well, the girl had doubted him. He could not wonder at that, for the facts were all against him, and she had known him only for a few hours. Yet he had hoped—he had believed—that she would know the truth and the devotion in him without further evidence. Perhaps he had expected too much from her noble insight. After all—and thatwas part of the loveliness of her—she was a very human girl.
The panel swung open, and Madame Alia stood looking down at him. She spoke in an undertone.
“The Japs are still watching. Arima is sitting on the fire-escape by his window, and I can hear the other fellow moving around in the hall outside my door. I think they’re on to your being here.”
Orme thought for a minute. “I’ve got to get away soon,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that there are papers that must be delivered before twelve o’clock to-night.”
“Can I take them for you?”
“I don’t know where to tell you to take them.”
She sighed. “I guess you don’t trust me.”
“Trust you? Of course, I do. But the truth is, Madame Alia, that it is going to need hard work on my part to find the person to whom the papers belong. I don’t even know his name.” Secretly he condemned himself now, because he had not overcome his scruples and looked at the address on the envelope while he had the chance.
Again she sighed. “Well,” she said, “of course, it’s beyond me. Do you—do you mind my knowingyourname?”
“Pardon me,” he said. “I didn’t realize that you didn’t know it already. My name is Robert Orme.”
She looked at him with a smile. “Well, Mr. Orme, I’ll get you out of this. I think I know a way. But you’ll have to do just what I tell you.”
“I depend on you,” he said.
She laid her hand on his shoulder with a friendly pressure. “You’ll have to wait in here a while longer—and you’ll have to keep mighty quiet. I’ve got a circle at three o’clock—a séance. They come once a week, and I can’t well put them off. You see, I work alone. It’s a small circle, and I never liked the idea of helpers; they’re likely to give you away sooner or later. I stretch a curtain across this corner for a cabinet, and they tie me to a chair—and then things happen.” She smiled faintly. “I knowyouwon’t hurt my game.”
“All your secrets are safe with me.” He glanced at the dark interior of the closet.
“I didn’t know any other place to put you,” she said simply. “They’d have got you, if you had went to the hall—Sh-h!” The panel closed and she was away. A moment later he heard her talkingwith Arima, who apparently had again climbed up to her window.
“Thief must be here,” said Arima. “He not been in hall. My friend know. We see him come in here.”
“I told you he wasn’t here. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you call the cops.”
“We not want cops. I come in and watch.”
“But I’m going to hold a circle here in a few minutes.”
“What?” Arima’s voice had a puzzled note.
“A séance. The spirits come. You know. All sit around, with the light turned down, and spirits come.”
“Oh!” The Japanese either understood or pretended to. “I come, then.”
After a period of hesitation the woman said: “Why, yes, I guess you can—if you keep still. Your friend can come, too. You’re a neighbor, and I won’t charge you anything.”
“All right. I call my friend.” Footsteps crossed the room and the door to the hall was opened. Presently it closed again, and Orme heard fragments of a conversation in Japanese.
From other sounds Orme gathered that thewoman was arranging chairs. “Sit here, you two,” he heard her say. “You’ll have to keep quiet when the rest come. Do just what they do? Be sure, now.”
The bell now began to ring at frequent intervals, each time announcing the arrival of newcomers. Madame Alia’s clients were quickly assembling; Orme could hear them whispering among themselves.
A clinking noise he did not at first understand. Then he realized that it was the sound of silver dropping into a hat. Someone was taking up the collection. He knew, too, when they hung the curtain across his corner of the room, shutting off the space in which the medium was to sit, and when they lighted the gas and drew down the shades at the window. Then he heard them lead her into the cabinet and tie her to the chair.
The silence that followed these preparations grew oppressive. The clients were waiting for the right “current,” and Madame Alia, Orme had no doubt, was using the interval to free herself from her bonds.
In a little while someone started the hymn, “Over the River They Beckon to Me,” and theothers took it up—women’s voices, chiefly, struggling through the melody in their trebles, with the mumbled undertones of one or two men.
A draught of cooler air struck Orme’s cheek; a hand found his shoulder; a voice whispered. Under cover of the singing Madame Alia had opened the panel. Her lips were close to his ear. In the creepy tension of the waiting Orme had almost forgotten that Madame Alia’s ghosts were a cheat, and the touch of her hand made him start, but her first words brought him to himself.
“Hush!” she whispered. “You’ll get your chance in a minute. Put on a pair of black felt slippers. Here”—she groped along the floor, and gave him the slippers. They were large, and went easily over his shoes.
“Now the black robe, just behind you.”
He took it from its peg, and slipped into it.
“Cover your head and face with the hood.”
He did as directed, finding the eyeholes with his fingers.
“Hide your hands in the sleeves. Now, listen. I’m going to keep them busy looking at the curtains. When you hear a gong ring three times, come through the panel, and go between the curtainand the wall-hanging, on the side toward the window. The gas is down to a pinpoint. Those folks think they can see a lot more than they do. But they won’t see you, unless you show some white. Anyhow they’ll be watching the cabinet. Keep outside the circle of chairs, and work your way to the door of the next room. There are hangings there; go through them. You’ll find light enough in the next room to get to the door into the hall. First stuff the robe under the sofa. You’llfindyour hat under there. You left it here when you came, and I tucked it away. You’d better wear the slippers down to the street. Never mind about returning them—unless you care to come. Now, be careful.”
“The Japanese—where are they?”
“At the other side of the circle. Don’t worry about them. They’re only kids when it comes to my game. Now, wait till I get the things I need.” She slipped past him in the closet, and he heard faint rustlings as she gathered her paraphernalia. Soon she was back at the panel. The last stanza of the hymn was drawing to a close. “Be sure you follow directions,” she whispered.
“I will.” He pressed her hand gratefully.
“And—and you won’t forget me.”
With a sudden yearning that seemed to be beyond her control, she leaned her body against him. Her warm breath was on his face; her arm found its way around him and held him convulsively.
“Oh,” she whispered, “I can’t bear to have you go. Don’t forget me—please don’t forget me.”
“I shall never forget you, and what you have done for me,” he answered gravely.
“You will come back and see me—sometime?”
“I will come back. And I should like to bring a friend, who will have even more cause to thank you than I have."
“A friend?” A tinge of apprehension colored the question: “A—a woman?”
“Yes.”
The soft curves of her body were quickly withdrawn from him.
“Oh,” she whispered, “I don’t believe I want to see her.”
For a moment she stood motionless. Then she said:
“Are you sorry you kissed me?”
“No,” he answered, “I am not.”
Her lips brushed his forehead, and he was alone.Groping with one hand, he assured himself that the panel remained open. All in black, he awaited the signal.
And now strange manifestations began in the room without. There were rappings, some faint, some loud—coming apparently from all quarters. Invisible fingers swept gently across the strings of a guitar. Then came the soft clangor of a gong—once, twice, three times.
Orme slipped through the panel, into the cabinet. Keeping close to the wall, he moved to the left and worked out into the room. The rappings were now louder than before—loud and continuous enough to cover any slight sound he might make. A little gasp came from the circle as he went out into the room. At first he thought that he had been seen. To his eyes, fresh from complete darkness, the room seemed moderately light; but the gas was little more than a tiny blue dot.
As he took a step forward he saw why the circle had gasped. Through the curtains of the cabinet came the semblance of a tenuous wraith in long, trailing robes of white. It was almost formless, its outlines seeming to melt into the gloom.
Advancing a little way into the circle, it shrankback as though timorous, then wavered. From the circle came a woman’s voice—anxious, eager, straining with heart-break—“Oh, my sister!”
The figure turned toward her, slowly extended its arms, and glided back to the curtains, where it stood as though waiting.
The sobbing woman arose from her chair and hastened toward the wraith.
“Agnes!” she whispered imploringly. “Won’t you speak to me, Agnes?”
The ghostly figure slowly shook its head.
“Are you happy, Agnes? Tell me. Oh, don’t go until you have told me.”
The figure nodded mutely, and with a final slow gesture, waved the woman back to her seat.
Meantime Orme cast his eyes over the circle. Dimly he saw faces, some stolid, some agitated; and there, at the farther end were the two Japanese, intent as children on these wonders. Their sparkling eyes were directed to the cabinet.
The apparition had disappeared between the curtains. But now there was a fresh gasp of wonder, as the figure of a little child stepped out into the room. It did not go far from the cabinet, and it alternately advanced and retreated,turning this way and that, as though looking for someone.
“It wants its mother!” exclaimed one of the women in the circle. “Is your mother here, little one?”
The child stared at the speaker, then withdrew to the curtains.
“They will begin to talk after a while,” explained the woman—“when the control gets stronger. I always feel so tender for these little lost spirits that come back to hunt for their loved ones.”
Orme moved swiftly around the circle. He passed so close to the Japanese that he could have touched them. The felt slippers made his steps noiseless; the thick rug absorbed the shock of his weight.
He passed through the hangings of the doorway to the next room. There he had no gaslight; the window-shades, however, were not drawn so closely but that a little daylight entered. He removed the robe and stuffed it under the old sofa at one side.
His hat, as Madame Alia had said, was there, and he put it on and went to the hall door. Thecircle had begun to sing another hymn. Orme got into the hall, shut the door silently, and hurried down the stairs, the long-drawn strains of the song following him and dying away as he neared the street entrance. In the lower hall he removed the felt slippers and tossed them into a corner.
He was amazed at the loudness of the street noises, and the glare of the sunlight as he stepped to the sidewalk. He stood there blinking for a moment, until his eyes became accustomed to the light. The foot-procession of the city streamed by him.
Suddenly a man turned in toward the doorway, and, with a startled exclamation, stopped short. Orme found himself looking into the gleaming eyes of Alcatrante.
CHAPTER XIIIAN OLD MAN OF THE SEA
“Oh, Mr. Orme, you are the man I most wished to see.” The minister’s voice carried a note of unrestrained eagerness. He extended his hand.
Orme accepted the salutation, mustering the appearance of a casual meeting; he must keep Alcatrante out of the building.
“I was sorry that I could not be at your apartment this morning,” continued Alcatrante, “and I hope you did not wait too long.”
“Oh, no,” replied Orme. “I waited for a little while, but concluded that something had called you away. Has Senhor Poritol recovered from his anxiety?”
“Why, no,” said Alcatrante. “But the course of events has changed.” He linked his arm in Orme’s and walked along with him toward the center of the city. “You see,” he went on, “my young friend Poritol overestimated the importance of that marked bill. It did give the clue to the hiding place of certain papers which were of greatvalue to him. What he failed to realize was that the papers could be of little importance to others. And yet, so perturbed is he that he has asked me to offer a considerable reward for the recovery of these papers.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.” Alcatrante sent a slanting glance at Orme. “The sum is ridiculously large, but he insists on offering one thousand dollars.”
“Quite a sum,” said Orme calmly. He was interested in the minister’s indirections.
“As for the events of last night”—continued Alcatrante, stopping short, with a significant glance.
“Well?” said Orme indifferently.
“I trust that you did not think me absurd for sending that detective to you. That I did so was a result of poor Poritol’s frantic insistence.”
“Indeed?”
“My young friend was so afraid that you would be robbed.”
“I was robbed,” laughed Orme, trying to make light of the situation.
“Why, how was that?” Alcatrante’s surprise was well assumed.
“Oh, after I said good-night to you, the two Japanese caught me while I was going through the tunnel to the courtyard.”
“My dear Mr. Orme!”
“They are clever, those Japanese.”
“And afterward you went out again?”
“What makes you think that?”
Alcatrante bit his lip. “Why,” he stammered, “the detective reported that you were absent when he arrived.”
“And therefore,” remarked Orme coolly, “he got access to my apartment and, after rummaging through my things, went sound asleep in my bedroom, where I found him snoring when I returned.”
The minister swung his cane viciously at a bit of paper that lay on the sidewalk.
“He was not a clever detective,” continued Orme. “And as for Poritol, don’t you think he had better offer his reward to the Japanese?”
“No,” replied Alcatrante. “They may have stolen the clue from you, but I have reason to think that the papers were already gone when they went to look for them. Poritol is really very anxious.”
“Doubtless,” said Orme.
“Perhaps,” added Alcatrante, after a short wait, “he might even go as high as two thousand.”
“Indeed? Then there will surely be many answers to his advertisement.”
“Oh, he will not advertise.” Alcatrante laughed. “Already he knows where the papers are. While waiting for the clue of the bill, he discovered what others had already availed themselves of it.”
“That is curious.” Orme smiled. “How did he discover that?”
“In a roundabout way. I won’t take time for the story.”
They walked along in silence for a little distance. Orme was figuring on an escape, for the minister’s clutch on his arm was like that of a drowning man’s. Finally he sought the simplest means of getting away. “I have an engagement,” he said. “I shall have to leave you here. Thank you for walking with me thus far.” He disengaged his arm.
“My dear Mr. Orme,” said Alcatrante, “why should we beat around the bush?”
“Why, indeed?” said Orme.
“Poritol knows that his papers are in your possession. Speaking for him, I offer you five thousand.”
“Why do you drag Poritol into this?” said Orme. “You know that he has merely been your agent from the start. You think he has bungled, but I tell you, you are the one who bungled, for you picked him to do the work. He had bad luck hiring a burglar for you. He lost his head when he ran away with another person’s motor-car and had to hand the marked bill to a country justice. He showed bad judgment when he tried to fool me with a fancy lie. But you are the real bungler, Senhor Alcatrante. Any capable diplomat could tell you that.”
Alcatrante’s yellow face grew white about the lips. His eyes flashed balefully.
“Curse you!” he exclaimed. “You know more than is good for you. Take care!”
Orme laughed in disgust. “Oh, drop this melodrama. I am not afraid of cheap Machiavellis. In this country there are some crimes that are not excused by high office.”
The minister’s teeth showed. “You shall see, my young friend.”
“Doubtless. But let me tell you one thing; if anything happens to me, my friends will know where to look for the criminal.”
Alcatrante snarled. “Don’t be too sure——”
“If necessary,” continued Orme, “a word to certain persons as to the commission for building warships—Five hundred thousand, is it not? by the new arrangement—in gold——”
Alcatrante, in ungovernable rage, raised his light cane and struck. Orme fended the blow with his arm, then wrenched the cane away and threw it into the street. A swarm of passers-by gathered about them so quickly that in a moment they were the center of a circle.
“You dunce,” said Orme. “Do you want the police?”
“No,” muttered Alcatrante, controlling himself with a great effort. “You are right.” He darted into the crowd at one side, and Orme, quick to take the hint, disappeared in the opposite direction, crossing the street and jumping into an empty cab, which had drawn up in anticipation of a fight.
“To the Rookery,” he ordered, naming the first office-building that came into his head.
“Sure,” said the driver, and away they rattled.
A glance back showed Orme that the crowd was dispersing.
At a distance was Alcatrante. He had seen Orme’s escape, and was looking about vainly for another cab. But cabs are not numerous on North Parker Street, and Orme, so far as he could tell, was not followed.
When his cab drew up at the busy entrance on La Salle Street, he found his way to the nearest public telephone. The hour was close to five, and he must discover quickly where he could find the girl. He called up the Père Marquette. “This is Mr. Orme,” he explained to the clerk. “Have there been any calls or messages for me?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Wallingham called up at twelve-thirty to know if you were going to Arradale with them.”
The golfing engagement! Orme had not even thought of it since the evening before.
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. A Japanese came about one o’clock. He left no name.”
“The same man who came last evening?”
“No, sir, an older man.”
The Japanese minister had doubtless gone straight from Arima’s apartment to the Père Marquette. “Anything else?” asked Orme.
“There was a ’phone call for you about eleven o’clock. The party left no name.”
“A woman’s voice?”
“Yes, sir. She said: ‘Tell Mr. Orme that I shall not be able to call him up at noon, but will try to do so as near two o’clock as possible.’”
“Did she call up again at two?”
“No, sir. There’s no record of it.”
Orme understood. In the interval after her attempt to reach him she had learned at Arima’s of his seeming treachery. “Very well,” he said to the clerk, and hung up the receiver.
What should he do now? The girl had given him up. He did not know her name or where to find her, and yet find her he must and that within the next few hours. The unquestionably great importance of the papers in his pocket had begun to weigh on him heavily. He was tempted to take them out, there in the telephone-booth, and examine them for a clue. The circumstances justified him.
But—he had promised the girl! Stronger thanhis curiosity, stronger almost than his wish to deliver the papers, was his desire to keep that promise. It may have been foolish, quixotic; but he resolved to continue as he had begun. “At ten o’clock,” he said to himself, “if I have not found her, I will look at the papers or go to the police—do whatever is necessary.” He did not like to break promises or miss engagements.
There was his engagement with the Wallinghams. It had absolutely gone from his mind. Bessie would forgive him, of course. She was a sensible little woman, and she would know that his failure to appear was due to something unavoidable and important, but Orme’s conscience bothered him a little because he had not, before setting out that morning, telephoned to her that he might be detained.
Bessie Wallingham! She knew the girl! Why had he not thought of that before?
He got the Wallinghams’ number. Were they at home? No, they had gone to Arradale and would probably remain until the last evening train. He rang off.
It remained to try Arradale. After some delay, he got the clubhouse. Mrs. Wallingham? Yes,she had just come in. Would Mr. Orme hold the wire?
Mr. Orme certainly would, and presently he was rewarded for the delay by hearing Bessie’s brisk little voice.
“Hello?”
“Who?”
“Bob?”
“Well you ought to be ashamed of yourself; we waited over and took the next train.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about these very busy people.”
“Nonsense! I was fooling, of course. But we were sorry you didn’t come.”
“What?”
“That girl? Why, what’s the matter with you, Robert Orme?”
“Business importance? That won’t do, Bob. You’ll have to ’fess up.”
“Do I know such a girl? Are you serious?”
“Why, Bob, I can think of several. Shall I name them?”
“Not give their names! What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Oh, part of the business, is it? Well, let mesee. Tall and beautiful, you say. Dark eyes and hair. A black touring-car. Hum! I know, three girls to whom the description applies. It might be—but you don’t wish me to mention the name. Well, you’ll have to think of something more distinctive.”
Orme thought in vain. The image of the girl was ever in his mind, but describe her he could not. At last he said: “The girl I mean lives in one of the suburbs. She has a father who has lately undergone a slight operation. He is, I think, a man who is involved in negotiations with other countries.”
“Oh! Where did you meet her? Why, Bob, how interesting! I never thought of her, but she’s one of my dearest friends.”
“Now, listen, Bessie. It is absolutely necessary that I should reach her father’s house before midnight. You must help me.”
He heard her laugh. “Help you? Of course I will.”
“Where does she live?”
“Not very far from Arradale. Bob, you come right out here. I will see to the rest. It certainly is the funniest coincidence.”
“I’ll catch the first train.”
“There’s one at six—for men who come out to dine.”
“All right. Expect me. Good-by.”
Orme looked at his watch. He had an hour and a half—which meant that time must be killed. It would be unwise to return to the Père Marquette, for the South Americans and the Japanese might both be on watch for him there. But he did not care to wander about the streets, with the chance of coming face to face with some of his enemies. It was obvious that swift and elaborate machinery would be set in motion to catch him. Of course, there were many places where he could conceal himself for an hour, but——
Tom Wallingham’s office! Why had he not thought of that before? Tom was at Arradale with Bessie, but the clerks would let Orme stay in the reception-room until it was time to start for his train. Indeed, Orme remembered that Bixby, the head clerk, had been at the wedding of Tom and Bessie—had in fact taken charge of the arrangements at the church.
Moreover, Tom’s office was in this very building—the Rookery. Doubtless it was for thisreason that the Rookery had popped into his head when he gave directions to the cab-driver on North Parker Street.
Hurrying to the elevators, Orme was about to enter the nearest one, when suddenly a hand seized his elbow and pulled him to one side. He turned quickly and saw—Alcatrante.
The minister was breathing rapidly. It was plain that he had made a quick pursuit, but though his chest heaved and his mouth was partly open, his eyes were curiously steady. “One minute, Mr. Orme,” he said, forcing his lips to a smile. “I had hard work to follow you. There was no other cab, but a small boy told me that you directed your driver to the Rookery. Therefore, I got on a street-car and rode till I found a cab.” He said all this in the most casual tone, retaining his hold on Orme’s elbow as though his attitude were familiar and friendly. Perhaps he was thus detailing his own adventures merely to gain time; or perhaps he was endeavoring to puzzle Orme.
But Orme was simply annoyed. He knew how dangerous Alcatrante could be. “I am tired of being followed, Senhor,” he said disgustedly, freeing his elbow.
Alcatrante continued to smile. “That is part of the game,” he said.
“Then you will find the game serious.” Orme shut his lips together and glanced about for a policeman.
Alcatrante again grasped his elbow. “Do you want publicity?” he asked. “Your principals do not. Publicity will injure us all.”
Orme had been given enough light to know that the South American’s words were true.
“If it comes to publicity,” continued Alcatrante with an ugly grin, “I will have you arrested for stealing a certain important—document and offering to sell it to me.”
“Rubbish!” laughed Orme. “That would never work at all. Too many persons understand my part in this matter. And then”—as he noticed the flash of triumph in Alcatrante’s eyes—“I could not be arrested for stealing a document which was not in my possession.” It was too late; Alcatrante had been able to verify his strong suspicion that Orme had the papers.
A wave of anger swept over Orme. “Publicity or no publicity,” he said, “unless this annoyance stops, I will have you arrested.”
Alcatrante smiled. “That would not pay, Mr. Orme. There would be counter-charges and you would be much delayed—perhaps even till after midnight to-night. You Americans do not know how to play at diplomacy, Mr. Orme.”
Controlling himself, Orme hurried quickly to the nearest elevator. He had timed his action; the starter was just about to close the door as he hurried in. But quick though he was, Alcatrante was close behind him. The agile South American squeezed into the elevator by so close a margin that the door caught his coat.
“Here! What you tryin’ to do?” shouted the starter.
Alcatrante, pressing in against Orme, did not reply.
The starter jerked the door open, and glared at Alcatrante. The steady and undisturbed eye of the minister had its effect, and after a moment of hesitation the starter banged the door shut and gave the signal and the car leaped upward.
Tom Wallingham’s office was on the eighth floor. Though he knew that Alcatrante would cling to him, Orme could think of nothing better to do than to go straight to the office and counton the assistance of Bixby, who would certainly remember him. Accordingly he called out “Eight!” and, ignoring Alcatrante, left the elevator and walked down the hall, the South American at his elbow.
They passed a long series of doors, the glass panels of which were inscribed, “The Wallingham Company—Private,” with index-fingers pointing the direction of the main entrance. This was the Chicago branch of the great New York Corporation, and Thomas Wallingham, senior, had placed his son in charge of it two years before. The business was the manufacturing of refrigerators. One side of the reception-room which Orme entered hurriedly, Alcatrante still beside him, was given over to a large specimen refrigerator chamber, built in with glistening white tiles. The massive door, three feet thick, was wide open, showing the spotless inner chamber. In the outer wall was a thermometer dial fully a foot in diameter.
Once inside the reception-room, Orme stopped and looked again at Alcatrante. There was menace in the look, but the South American did not flinch. Indeed, the glance which met his own seemed to Orme to be disarmingly good-natured.Its essence was a humorous recognition that the situation had its ridiculous side.
But Orme, knowing that much was at stake, did not for an instant trust his unwelcome companion. Alcatrante would cling to him like an Old Man of the Sea, awaiting the opportunity to get the better of him. Every wile would be employed; but publicity was no part of the game—Orme began really to believe that.
To shake off Alcatrante, perhaps there was no better way than to lure him to some deserted place and overpower him. But would not Alcatrante be likely to have anticipated such a move? And would he not resort to desperate measures of his own before Orme could put his own plans into practice? Bixby might help.
Orme walked over to the inquiry-window. “I want to see Mr. Bixby,” he said, offering his card.
The young woman behind the window took the card, but at the same time she said: “Mr. Bixby left a few minutes ago. He won’t be back to-day. Shall I keep the card for him?”
“It doesn’t matter, thank you,” he said, turning away. Luck was against him. Besides Bixby no one in that office knew him.
Alcatrante smiled genially. “Since Mr. Bixby is absent,” he remarked, “shall we leave the verification of the notes until to-morrow?”
“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Orme.
“Why”—Alcatrante’s face was the picture of astonishment—“the Wallingham Company notes, of course. The notes you wish to sell me.” His voice was raised so that the girl behind the window could not help hearing.
“Rot!” said Orme.
“What?” A note of indignation crept into Alcatrante’s voice. “Are you evading? Perhaps you thought I would not insist on the verification.” Another clerk, a man, had joined the girl behind the window. Alcatrante suddenly addressed him. “This Mr. Orme told me that he needed to raise money and would transfer to me cheap some notes signed by your company. I met him at the hotel. He said that, if I would come here with him, he would show the notes and have them verified. I don’t understand.”
The clerk left the window and, opening a door, came into the reception-room. “What are the notes you have?” he asked.
“I have none,” replied Orme, in disgust. “I have never pretended to have any. This man is crazy, I think.” He pointed to Alcatrante. “He has followed me here uninvited for reasons of his own. I asked for Mr. Bixby, whom I know. I would have asked for Mr. Wallingham, my personal friend, but that I had already learned of his being at Arradale.”
“There’s funny business here somewhere,” exclaimed Alcatrante, with great earnestness. “Do you mean to say that you did not introduce yourself to me in the lobby of the Framington and ask me to buy the notes?”
Orme did not answer.
With a conservative eye the clerk looked at the two. He was not one to involve himself in a dubious affair.
“I can’t settle this matter for you, gentlemen,” he said.
With a slight bow, Orme went into the hall. It dawned upon him why Alcatrante had invented so remarkable a story. Without question, the minister had feared that Orme would enlist aid in the office, or that at least he would manage to deposit the coveted papers in safety while he foundother means to get rid of his shadow. Hence the sudden effort to discredit Orme.
In the long corridor Orme gave no further attention to Alcatrante, who was pattering along beside him. The course he now had in mind was to hire a cab and ride out of the city—all the way to Arradale, if possible. The distance could not be much greater than fifteen miles. If Alcatrante chose to pursue, well and good. There would be ways of disposing of him.
Then an audacious notion flashed into Orme’s mind. Why not let Alcatrante ride with him? Why not take the minister all the way to his destination and at the end turn him over as a prisoner?
The idea was hardly practicable. He might meet other enemies, and in that event he would not care to have an enemy already at his side. It came to him for the first time that the nearer he approached his goal, the greater would be the opposition he would have to overcome. Whatever else the South Americans and Japanese might do, they would have their guards about the house of the girl’s father. Hitherto he had assumed that, once free of Alcatrante and safe on the train to Arradale, he would have plain going; but now herealized that the dangers would pile up higher as he advanced. In any event, he must get rid of Alcatrante, and as they approached the elevator grills, he spoke.
“Senhor,” he said, “unless you stop following me, I shall be obliged to hurt you. I give you fair warning.”
Alcatrante laughed. “If you hurt me, as you threaten, you will find yourself in difficulties. You will be arrested, and you will have no opportunity to deliver the documents on time. My position as minister—my extra-territoriality—will make it very difficult for you to extricate yourself.”
Orme looked grimly down into the sallow face. “My fist against your chin,” he said, “might do it.”
Alcatrante did not lose his smile. “You will hardly try that, I think. There would not be time for you to get away. People in these passing elevators would see you.”
Orme turned away and pressed the “down” button, and a few seconds later a descending car stopped. He pushed his way in, Alcatrante after him.
The elevator was crowded. Clerks and stenographerswere beginning to leave their offices, for the hour was nearly five. Orme wedged his way in at one side and, in order to gain a momentary sense of seclusion, turned his back upon the persons who were pressing against him and stood with face to the side of the cage, looking through the scroll-work of the grating to the swiftly ascending cables in the next well. He was conscious that Alcatrante stood close to him as the car began to slip downward. It was all very ridiculous, this persistent pursuit of him.
Suddenly Alcatrante’s voice burst out, “Stop the car! I’ve been robbed! Stop the car!”
There was immediate commotion; a girl screamed, and the swaying of the huddled group made the car rattle. The elevator-man quickly threw over his lever. The car stopped with a jerk, between floors.
Orme had started to turn with the others, but with a quick exclamation he checked his movement and pressed his face again to the grating. A remarkable thing had happened. The ascending car in the next well had stopped at Alcatrante’s outcry. The few passengers it was carrying, eager to see what was happening, hurried to the sidenearest to Orme. Less than two feet from his face was the face of a girl. Almost before he saw her at all he knew her. He forgot that he had given her apparent cause to doubt him; he did not stop to wonder what she was doing in this building.
“Girl!” he whispered.
Her lips parted; her eyes opened wider.
“Girl! Go to Tom Wallingham’s office. I’ll come up there. Keep out of sight when you hear me coming. Alcatrante is with me.”
She nodded.
“I have the papers,” he added, and his heart thumped happily when he saw joy and gratitude flash into her eyes.
From his position and manner he might have been explaining to her what was happening in his own car. But now, conscious of the necessity of taking part in the discussion about him, he reluctantly turned away from the girl.
Alcatrante was still exclaiming volubly. His purse had disappeared. It had been in his pocket just before he entered the car. Therefore someone in the car must have taken it. He did not accuse any single person, though he flashed suspiciousglances at Orme, who recognized, of course, that the move was directed against himself.
To embarrass Orme with arrest and detention would well suit the purposes of Alcatrante. At this late hour such an event would prevent the delivery of the papers. Orme wondered whether the minister had realized that the papers might be found by the police and disposed of properly. The explanation of this apparent oversight on the part of Alcatrante was not difficult, however, for, perhaps it was not a part of the plan that Orme should be actually thrown into a cell. It was more likely that an arrest would be followed, after as much delay as Alcatrante could secure, by a refusal to prosecute. One advantage to Alcatrante would be the opportunity of getting assistance while Orme was in the hands of the police so that after the prisoner was released he would have more than one person to contend with. Alcatrante would give up acting alone.
“Somebody has my purse!” Alcatrante was shouting. “Somebody here! You must not let anybody out!”
The elevator-boy had been gaping in seeming paralysis, but now several of the passengers—menwho doubtless were sure of their positions—were angrily ordering him to take the car down. Some of them had trains to catch.
“No! No!” screamed Alcatrante.
Orme had kept out of the discussion, but now he spoke quietly. “I think, Senhor Alcatrante”—he uttered the name distinctly, knowing that the South American probably did not wish himself identified—“I think that, if the boy will take the car almost to the bottom, the starter will help you.”
There was a chorus of seconds to this suggestion. The boy pulled the lever and let the car descend slowly, while Alcatrante continued to exclaim.
How would the South American try to throw suspicion where he wished it? Orme puzzled over this question, for certainly the police would not arrest all the passengers. And then he suddenly remembered how Alcatrante had crowded against him when they entered the car.
A cold wave of horror swept over him. Was it possible that——?
He put his hand into the left side pocket of his coat. Something was there that did not belongthere—a smooth, bulging purse. Alcatrante had put it there.
Orme fingered the purse. He would have to get rid of it, but he dared not to drop it to the floor, and if he thrust it through the grating and let it fall into the elevator well, someone would be almost certain to detect the action. There was only a moment left before the car would stop. He looked down at Alcatrante, who was close in front of him. Then his face relaxed and in spite of the gravity of his situation he smiled; for he had found a solution. Promptly he acted upon it.
The car halted just below the ceiling of the first floor. “What’s the matter with you?” called a voice—the voice of the starter.
“Man robbed,” said the elevator-boy.
“Bring the car down.”
“No!” shouted Alcatrante. “The thief is in the car. He must not escape.”
“I won’t let him out. Bring the car down.”
The boy let the car descend to the floor level. The starter placed himself against the gate. “Now then, who was robbed?” he demanded.
Alcatrante crowded forward. “It was I. My purse is gone. I had it just before I got in.”
“Oh, it was you, was it?” The starter remembered the trouble Alcatrante had made a few minutes before. “Sure you didn’t drop it?”
“I am certain that I did not.”
The passengers were shuffling their feet about, in a vain effort to touch the lost property. A young girl was giggling hysterically.
“Perhaps you put it in the wrong pocket, and didn’t look careful enough.”
“I looked, I looked,” exclaimed Alcatrante. “Do you think I would not know. See! I put it in this pocket, which now is empty.”
He thrust his hand into the pocket which he had indicated. Suddenly his expression changed to astonishment.
“Find it?” grinned the starter.
With the blankest of looks Alcatrante pulled the purse from his pocket. “It was not there two minutes ago,” he muttered.
“You’ve been dreamin’,” remarked the starter, opening the gate with a bang. “All out!”
Orme chuckled to himself. In a moment Alcatrante would realize how the purse had been replaced in his pocket, and he would be furious. Meantime Orme entered another elevator, to goback to the eighth floor, and, as he had expected, the minister followed him.
When they were outside the office of the Wallingham Company, Orme paused, his hand on the door. “Senhor Alcatrante,” he said, “this business must end. I shall simply have to call the police.”
“At your own risk,” said Alcatrante. Then an ugly light flashed in his eyes and his upper lip lifted above his yellow teeth. “You got the better of me there in the elevator,” he snarled. “You won’t get the better again.”
Orme opened the office-door. He glanced about the reception-room, to see whether the girl had hidden herself. She was not in view; indeed, there was even no one at the inquiry-window. Orme reasoned that at this hour some of the clerks might be leaving—which would mean, perhaps, that they were first putting away their books. At least they would not be expecting business callers.
The door of the great sample refrigerator was ajar only two or three feet. When Orme was there a few minutes before it had been wide open. He wondered whether the girl had chosen it as her hiding-place. If she had, his plan of actionwould be simplified, for he would slip the papers in to her, then get Alcatrante from the room.
In a casual way he folded his arms. He could now put his hand into his inside coat-pocket and the motion would hardly be noticed.
For a moment he stood as though waiting for someone to appear at the inquiry-window. Though Alcatrante was watching him closely, Orme continued to act as if he were the only person in the room.
And now the dial of the big thermometer in the outer wall of the refrigerator appeared to catch his eye, and he strolled over to it. This placed him almost in the open doorway. Apparently his eyes were on the dial, but in reality he was glancing sidewise into the chamber of the refrigerator. He glimpsed a moving figure in there—heard a faint rustling. Thrusting his hand into the inside of his coat, he was about to take out the precious papers to pass them in to her.
Then he received a violent push from behind. He plunged forward, tripped with one foot on the sill of the refrigerator doorway, and went in headlong, sprawling on the tiled floor. His clutchinghand caught the fold of a woman’s skirt. Then, though he remained conscious, everything suddenly turned black.
Bewildered as he was, several seconds passed before he realized that the massive door had been closed—that he and the girl were prisoners.