The setting was a bleak and musty cellar, beneath an old stable of dingy, brick construction. The building had been modernized to the extent of one single decoration on the street front, an electric sign: “Garage.” On the floor, level with the sidewalk, stood half a dozen automobiles of varied manufacture and age. Near the wide swinging doors of oak, stood a big, black limousine. Two taxicabs of the usual appearance occupied the space next to this, while a handsome machine faced them on the opposite side of the room. Two ancient machines were backed against the wall, in the rear.
In the basement beneath, several men were grouped in the front compartment, which was separated by a thick wooden partition from the rear of the cellar. Three dusty incandescents illuminated this space. In the back a curious arrangement of two large automobile headlights set on deal tables directed glaring rays toward the one door of the partition. In the center of the rear room was another table, standing behind a screen of wire gauze, at the bottom of which was cut a small semicircle, large enough for the protrusion of a white, tense hand, whose fingers were even now spasmodically clenching in nervous indication of fury. Behind either lamp was a heavy black screen, which effectually shut off ingress to that portion of the room.
The man standing between the table and the closed door of the partition, full in the light of the lamps, watched the hand as though fascinated. He could see nothing else, for behind the gauze all was darkness. Absolutely invisible, sat the possessor of the hand, observing the face of his interviewer, on the brighter side of the gauze.
“So, there's no word from the Monk?”
“No, chief. De bloke's disappeared. Either he got so much swag offen dis old Grimsby guy, after youse got de bumps, or he had cold feet and beat it wid de machine.”
“It's a crooked game on me.” rasped the voice behind the screen. “I'll send him up for this. You know how far my lines go out. What about Dutch Jake and Ben the Bite?”
The man before the screen shook his head in helpless bewilderment There was a suggestion of fright in his manner, as well.
“Can't find out a t'ing, gov'nor. I hopes you don't blame me for dis. I'm doin' my share. Dey just disappears dat night w'en you sends 'em to shadder Van Cleft's joint. My calcerlation is—”
“I'm not paying you to calculate. I've trusted you and lost six thousand dollars' worth of automobiles for my pains. You can just calculate this, that unless I get some news about Jake, Ben and the Monk by this time tomorrow, I'll send some news down to Police headquarters on Lafayette Street that will make you wish you had never been born.”
For some reason not difficult to guess, the suggestion had a galvanic effect on the bewildered one. His hands trembled as he raised them imploringly to the screen.
“Oh, gov'nor, wot have I done? Ain't I been on de level wid yez? Say, I ain't never even seen yez for de fourteen months I've been yer gobetween. I've been beat up by de cops, pinched and sent to de workhouse 'cause I wouldn't squeal, and now ye t'reatens me. Did I ever fall down on a trick ontil dis week? You'se ain't goin' ter welch on me, are you'se? I ain't no welcher meself, an' ye knows it.”
The other snapped out curtly: “Very well, cut out the sob stuff. It's up to you to prove that there hasn't been a leak somewhere or a double cross. Send in those rummies,—I want to give them the once over again. There's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, and I'm no abolitionist! Quick now. Get a wiggle on.”
The hand was withdrawn from the little opening, as the lieutenant advanced into the front compartment of the cellar. He beckoned meaningly to the others to follow him. They obeyed with a slinking walk, which showed that they were obsessed by some great dread, in that unseen presence, in the heart of the spider-web!
“Which one of you is the stool pigeon,” came the harsh query.
“W'y, gov'nor, none of us. You'se knows us,” whined one of the men.
“Yes, and I know enough to send you all to Atlanta or Sing Sing or Danamora, for the rest of your rotten lives, if I want to.”
The rascals stared vainly into the black vacuum of the screen, blinking in the glaring lights, cowering instinctively before the unseen but certain malignancy of the power behind that mysterious wall.
“I brought you here to New York,” continued the master, “you are making more money with less work and risk than ever before. But you're playing false with me, and I know some one is slipping information where it oughtn't to go. I'm going to skin alive the one who I catch. There's one eye that never sleeps, don't forget that.”
“Gee, boss, wot do we know to slip?” advanced the most forward of them. “We follers orders, and gets our kale and dat's all. We ain't never even seen ya, and don't know even wot de whole game is. Don't queer us, gov'nor!”
“Go out front again, and shut off this blab. I warn you that's all-Now, Phil, give this to the men. Tell them to keep off the cocaine—they're getting to be a lot of bone heads lately. Too much dope will spoil the best crook in the world.”
The white hand passed out a roll of crisp, new currency to the lieutenant of the gang, who gingerly reached for it, as though he expected the tapering fingers to claw him.
“Fifty dollars to each man. No holding out. Remember, every one of them is spying on the other to me. I'm not a Rip Van Winkle. Now, I want you to keep this fellow Montague Shirley covered but don't put him away until I give you the word. Send the bunch upstairs, for I don't want to be disturbed the next two hours. And just keep off the coke yourself. You're scratching your face a good deal these days—I know the signs.”
Phil expostulated nervously. “Oh, gov'nor, I ain't no fiend—just once and a while I gets a little rummy, and brightens up. It takes too much money to git it now, anyway. Goodbye, chief.”
As he closed the wooden door to pay the gangsters, there was a slight grating noise, which followed a double click. A bar of wood automatically slid down into position behind the door, blocking a possible opening from the front of the cellar. The lights suddenly were darkened. The sound of shuffling feet would have indicated to a listener that the owner of the nervous hand was retreating to the rear of the darkened den. A noise resembling that of the turn of a rusty hinge might have then been heard: there was a metallic clang, the rattle of a sliding chain and the rear room was as empty as it was black!
In the front room, after payment from the red-headed ruffian, Phil, the men clambered in single file up a wooden ladder to the street level. A trap-door was put into place and closed. Then the men began to shoot “craps” for a readjustment of the spoils, with the result that Red Phil, as his henchmen called him, was the smiling possessor of most of the money, without the erstwhile necessity of “holding out.”
Then the gangsters scattered to the nearby gin-shops to while away the time before darkness should call for their evil activities. It was a cheerful little assortment of desperadoes, yet in appearance they did not differ from most of the habitues of New York garages, those cesspools of urban criminality.
From his club, Shirley telephoned Jim Merrivale in his downtown office, purposely giving another name, as he addressed his friend—a pseudonym upon which they had agreed during the night call. Shirley was suspicious of all telephones, by this time, and his guarded inquiry gave no possible clue to a wiretapping eavesdropper.
“How is the new bull-dog?” was the question, after the first guarded greeting. “Is he still muzzled?”
“Yes, Mr. Smith,” responded Merrivale, “and the meanest specimen I have ever seen outside a Zoo! When I sent the groom out to feed him this morning, he snarled and tried to claw him. He's on a hunger strike. I looked up the license number on his collar but he's not registered in this state.” (This, Shirley knew, meant the automobile tag under the machine which had been captured.)
“When are you apt to send for him—I don't think I'll keep him any longer than I can help.”
“I'll send out from the dog store, with a letter signed by me. Feed him a little croton oil to cure his disposition. Good-bye, for now, Jim. I'll write you, this day.”
Shirley hung up, and smiled with satisfaction at the news. The man would be glad to get bread and water, before long, he felt assured. However, he despatched a note to Cleary, of the Holland Agency, enclosing a written order to Merrivale to deliver over the prisoner, for safer keeping in the city.
This disposed of the started out from the club house for his afternoon of dissipation. As he left the doorway, he noticed the two men with the black caps standing not far away. They were engrossed in the rolling of cigarettes, but the swift glance which they shot at him did not escape Monty.
“Like the poor and the bill collectors, they are always with us,” was his thought, as he calmly strolled over to the Hotel California. He determined to place them in a quiet, sheltered retreat at the earliest opportunity. He found Helene more attractive than ever.
“Shall I put on this wretched rouge again to-day,” was the plaintive question, after the first greeting. “I hate it so—and yet, will do whatever you order.”
“Your role calls for it, my dear girl. Perhaps we may close the dramatic engagement sooner than we expect. To-night should be an eventful one, for I will accept every lead which Reginald Warren offers. I would like to have a record of his voice, and that of some of his friends. There is a difference between the telephone voice and that heard face to face,—you would be a good witness if I could persuade him to sing or speak for me into a record. You can straighten out the difficulties of this case, if you will, in a thoroughly feminine manner.”
“And what, sir, is that, I pray you?”
“Give him the opportunity—to fall in love with you.”
Helene's cheeks flushed a stronger carmine than the rouge which she was administering, as she looked up in quick embarrassment.
“I don't want him to love me. I want no man to love me,” was the petulant answer.
“Doubtless you have reason to be satisfied as things are,” replied Shirley, puffing a cigarette, “but the softness of cerebral conditions increases in direct ratio with the mushiness of the affections. If it is important to us—and you are my partner in this fascinating business venture—will you not sacrifice your emotions to that extent: merely to let him lead himself on, as most men do?” He paused for a critical observation of her, and then added: “You are even more beautiful to-day than you were yesterday. He cannot help loving you if he is given the chance!”
Helene's white fingers crushed the orchid which she was pinning to the bosom of her gown. Her intent gaze met the mask of Shirley's ingenuous smile, reading in his telltale eyes a message which needed no court interpreter! Quickly she turned to her mirror to put the finishing touches to her coiffure, the golden curls so alluringly wilful.
“Your flattery, sir, is very cruel. Beware! I may take it seriously. What would happen if my verdant heart were to fall a victim to the cunning wiles of the voice? Remember, I have only met two men, since I came to America, yesterday. And they are both pronounced woman-haters. I will take you at your word, about Mr. Reginald Warren, and loosen my blandishments to the best of my rustic ability.”
A wayward twinkle in her eyes should have warned Shirley that she was planning a little mischief. But, he was too preoccupied in finding the real front of her baffling street cloak to observe it. They left for the tearoom, while Helene still laughed to herself over certain subtle possibilities which she saw in the situation.
Rather early, again, for the usual throng, they were able to choose their position to their liking: to-day, it was in the center of the big room, close by the space cleared for the dancing. Gradually the tables were occupied, apparently by the identical people of the afternoon before, so marked is the peculiar character of the dance-mad individuality. To-day he varied his menu with a mild order of cocktails—for now he was not emulating the Epicurean record of the bibulous Grimsby. They observed with amusement the weird contortions, seldom graced by a vestige of rhythm or beauty, with which the intent dancers spun and zigzagged.
“Considering how much money they pay to learn these steps from dancing-masters, there is unusually small value in the market, Miss Marigold. I resigned myself to the approach of the sunset years, and became a voluntary exile in the garden of the wallflowers, when society dancing became mathematical.”
“I don't understand?”
“Once it was possible to chat, to smile, to woo or to silently enjoy the music and the measures of the dance in company with a sympathetic partner. Now, however, since the triumph of the 'New Mode,' one must count 'one-two-three,' and one's partner is more captious than a schoolmarm! What puzzles me is the need for new steps, to be learned from expensive teachers, when it's so easy to slide down hill in this part of New York. But here endeth the sermon, for I recognize the amiable Pinkie at that other table, where she is studying your face with the malevolence of a cobra.”
Helene slowly turned her eyes toward the other girl, who now advanced with forced effusiveness.
“Oh, my dear, and you're back again today. But where is dear old Grimmie; he is a nice old soul, though a trifle near-sighted. He wasn't half seas over last night—he was a war-zone submarine, out for a long-distance record!”
She impudently seated herself at the table with them, sending a questioning glance at the handsome companion of her quondam rival. Helene instinctively drew back, but a warning glance from Shirley plunged her into her assumed character, and she greeted the other girl with the quasi-comradeship of their class.
“Oh, yes, dear. Grimsby was a little poisoned by the salad or something like that: he was actually disagreeable with me, of all people in the world. But, I have so many friends that Grimsby does not give me any worry. He means nothing in my life. You seemed quite worried over him, though—”
“Yes, girlie,” was Pinkie's effort to parry. “I was upset—not because he was with you, but to see the old chap showing his age. His taste has deteriorated so much since he started wearing glasses. But why don't you introduce me to your gentleman friend?”
Helene's faint smile expressed volumes, as she turned toward the modest Shirley with a bow of condescension. “This is Pinkie, one of old Grimsby's sweethearts, Mr. Shirley. I'm sure you'll like her.”
“Are you Montague Shirley?” demanded the auburn-haired coquette with sudden interest. As Shirley nodded, she caught his hand with an ardent glance, ogling him impressively, as she continued: “I've heard a lot of you. I'm just that pleased to meet you!”
An indefinable resentment crept over Helene. How could this creature of the demi-monde have even distant acquaintance of such a wholesome, superior man as her escort? The effusiveness was irritating, and the overacted kittenishness of the girl made her sick at heart, although she betrayed no sign of her feeling. Helene could not understand that despite its mammoth size, New York is relatively provincial in the club and theatrical community, his acquaintanceship numbering into the thousands. Town Topics, the social gossipers of the newspapers and talkative club men bandied names about in such wise that it was easy for members of Pinkie's profession to satisfy their hopeful curiosity—prompted by visions of eventual social conquest on the one hand and a professional desire to memorize street numbers on the Wealth Highway for ultimate financial manipulations. As one of the richest members of the exclusive bachelor set, Montague Shirley, even unknown to himself, occupied reserved niches in the ambitions of a hundred and one fair plotters!
“You will honor us by taking a drink, Miss Pinkie?” was the criminologist's courteous overture.
“Pinkie Marlowe, if you want to know the rest of my name. Yes, I need a little absinthe to wake me up, for I just finished breakfast. We had a large party last night at Reg Warren's. Why don't you dance with me?”
“The old adage about fat men never being loved applies especially to those who brave the terrors of the fox-trot. I weigh two hundred, so I wisely sit under the trees and laugh at the others.”
“You two hundred?” and admiration flashed from Pinkie's emotional eyes, “I don't believe it. Why, you're just right! I could dance with a man like you all night!”
Helene's helplessness only fanned the flames of her inward fury at the brazen intent of the girl. She forgot about Jack and even her plans about Reginald Warren. But Shirley's purpose was now rewarded, for Pinkie acted as the magnet to draw over several of the gilded youths whom they had met the day before. More introductions followed, and additional refreshments were soon gracing the table. Shine Taylor was the next to join the party, and erelong the waited-for visitor was approaching them. His eyes were upon Shirley from the instant that he entered the room: he advanced directly toward their table with a certainty which proved to Monty that method was in every move.
“What a pleasant surprise, little Bonbon!” exclaimed this gentleman as he drew up to their table. “I'm so glad. I was afraid you wouldn't get home safely with Grimsby; he was so absolutely overcome last night. He promised to bring you to my little entertainment but didn't show up. What became of him?”
“Join us in a drink and forget him,” suggested Helene, as she took his hand with an innocently stupid smile. “This is Mr. Shirley, Mr.—Mr.—I had so much champagne last night I forgot your name.”
“Warren, that's simple enough. Glad to see you, Mr. Sherwood, oh, Shirley! It seems as though I had heard your name—aren't you an actor, or an artist? A musician, or something like that? My memory is so miserable.”
“I'm just a 'something like that,' not even an actor,” was the answer, as the tiniest of nudges registered Helene's appreciation. “What is your favorite poison?”
Warren gave him a startled look, and then laughed: “Oh, you mean to drink? Now you must join me for I am the intruder.” He drew out a roll of money; more nice, new hundred dollar bills. Shirley remembered that old Van Cleft had drawn several thousand dollars from his office the night of the murder. Even his trained stoicism rebelled at thought of drinking a cocktail bought with this bloody currency!
“You didn't tell me about Grimsby?” persisted Warren, turning to Helene, with an admiring scrutiny of the girl's charms. “I'm rather interested.”
“You'll have to ask him, not me. After we took a taxi from the Winter-Garden we had a ride in the Park. So stupid, I thought, at this time of the year. When I woke up, Grimmie was helping me into the entrance of the hotel. He was very cross with the chauffeur and with me, too. Then he took the taxi and went home, still angry.”
“So!” after a moment's silence, Warren continued, a puzzled look on his face. “What was the trouble? I don't see how any one could be cross with a nice little girl like you. But to-night, I'm to have another little party up at my house. Bring some one up, who won't be cross. You come, Mr. Shirley?”
Helene hesitated, but Monty acquiesced.
“That would be splendid. What time?”
“About eleven. I'll expect you—I must run along now, as I'm ordering some fancy dishes.”
Shirley had paid his waiter, and he rose with Helene.
“We must be leaving, too. I'll accept your invitation.”
“And I'll be there, too, Mr. Shirley,” put in Pinkie Marlowe. “I'll teach you some new steps. Reggie has a wonderful phonograph for dancing, with all the new tunes. See you later, girlie.”
They were accompanied to the door by Shine and Warren. At the check-room, Shirley was interested to note that Shine Taylor took out his green velour hat. His feet were adorned with white spats. After the door of their taxi had slammed he confided to Helene that he had located the gentleman who had caused his wreck that morning. Still, however, the clues were too weak for action. The car went first to the club, where Shirley sent in for any possible letters or messages. The servant brought out a note. It was another surprise. He gave an address to the driver and as the car turned up Fifth Avenue, he studied this missive with knit brows.
“A new worry?” asked Helene. “May I help you?”
He handed her the letter, and she noticed the nervous handwriting. It was short.
“Dear Mr. Shirley: Just received a threatening note demanding money. Can you come up at once? Howard V. C.”
Shirley answered the question in the blue eyes, as she finished.
“As I thought it would turn out. Baffled in their game of robbing old men who have all left the city, they have begun to work the chance for blackmail. I will advise Van Cleft to pay them, and then we will follow the money. Here is the mansion and I will be out in five minutes.”
He soon disappeared behind the bronze door. True to his promise, in five minutes he had returned. He looked up and down the Avenue amazed. Not a trace of the taxicab, nor of Helene Marigold could be seen!
Shirley's impulse was to pinch himself to awaken from the chimera. He knew she was armed, and would use the weapon if only to call for help. For the first time in his career the chill of terror crept into his heart—not for himself, but an irresistible dread of some impending danger for this unfathomable woman who had shared his dangers so uncomplainingly during this last wonderful day. He racked his mind vainly for some plausible reason. “She knows I need her. Yet at the supreme moment of the game she disappears. Can she be like other women, when she is most necessary?”
And he walked slowly down the Avenue, disconcerted, endeavoring to solve this sudden abortion of his best laid plans.
Shirley endured a miserable three hours, in his attempts to locate the girl. She had not returned to the Hotel California, and he returned to the club in moody reflection. It was beginning to snow, and the ground was soon covered with a thin coat of white, through which he noticed his footprints stenciled against the black of the wet pavement. He wasted a dozen matches in the freshening wind, as he tried to light a cigarette. He stepped into a doorway on the Avenue to avail himself of its shelter. As he turned out to the street again, he almost bumped into two men, wearing black caps! One of them grunted a curt apology, as he stepped on.
“They are after me as usual,” he thought. “Why not reverse operations and find out where they belong?”
It seemed hopeless: as in a checker game they had him at disadvantage with the odd number of the “move.” Theirs was the chance to observe, and an open attempt to follow them would be ridiculous. Then, the footprints gave him an idea.
Dimly behind could be discerned the two men, as he quickened his pace, turning into a side street, off Fifth Avenue. Here he knew that traffic would be light, and his footprints the best evidence of his progress. The men unwittingly caught his plan, and dropped almost out of sight. At the intersection of Madison Avenue, they quickened their steps, and caught up with him again. Across corners, down quiet streets, and by purposed diagonals he led them: still they dogged his footprints. So adroit were they that only one experienced in the art could have realized their watchfulness.
Shirley now turned a corner quickly, into an unusually deserted thoroughfare, running with short steps, so as not to betray his speed by the tracks. Before they had time to round the corner he ran up the thinly blanketed steps of a private residence. Then he backed, as swiftly down the stoop, and thus crablike, walked across the street, down a dozen houses and backward still, up the steps of another private dwelling. Inside the vestibule he hid himself. The entry had strong wooden outside doors, and he tried the strength of the hinges: they satisfied him. A dim light burned behind the glass of the inner portal. He quietly clambered up the door, and balanced himself on the wood which gallantly stood the strain. Fortunately it did not come within four feet of the high ceiling of the old fashioned house.
He suffered a good ten minutes' wait before his ruse was rewarded. Being on the “fence” was a pastime compared to this precarious test of his muscles. The two men who had followed the first footprints tired of waiting before the house. One of them determined to investigate the other steps, which led into the house of their vigilance, from the other dwelling. And so he followed on, to the vestibule where he rang the bell. Shirley could have touched his head, so near he was, but the darkness of the upper space covered the retreat of the criminologist.
“What do you want?” was the angry question of an indignant old caretaker who answered the bell tardily. “You woke me up.”
“Say, lady, can I speak to Mr. Montague Shirley?” began the man, gingerly.
“You get away from this house, you loafer or I'll call the police. No one by that name ain't here. Now, you get!”
She slammed the door in his face.
“I'll get Chuck to watch de udder joint,” muttered the man, in a tone audible to Shirley. “Den I'll go back and git orders from Phil.”
This habit of thinking aloud was expensive. Shirley stiffly but noiselessly slid down the steps, as he disappeared in the thickening snowfall. The criminologist slowly crossed the street, and sheltered himself in a basement entrance, from which he reversed the shadowing process. The twain hesitated before the first house, then one came up the sidewalk, as the other stood his ground. This man passed within a few feet of Shirley, who followed him over to Madison Avenue, then north to Fifty-fifth Street. Here he turned west, and turned into one of the old stables, formerly used by the gentry of the exclusive section for their blooded steeds. Into one building, which announced its identity as “Garage” with its glittering electric sign, the man disappeared.
Shirley paused, looked about him, and chuckled. For he knew that through the block on Fifty-sixth Street was the tall apartment building, known as the Somerset—the address given him by Reginald Warren.
“If I only had some word from Helene Marigold I could go ahead before they realized my knowledge.”
Even as this thought crossed his mind, he turned back into Sixth Avenue. A hatless, breathless young person, running down the snowy street collided with him. As he began to apologize, he awoke to the startling fact that it was his assistant.
“Great Scott! What are you doing here? Where have you been all this time?”
The girl caught his arm unsteadily, but there was a triumph in her voice, as she cried: “Oh, this wonderful chance meeting. I was running down to my hotel but you have saved the day. I will tell you later. Quick, take this book.”
She drew forth a volume, flexibly bound, like a small loose-leaf ledger. Shirley stuck it into his overcoat pocket, which he was already slipping about the girl's shivering shoulders.
“Take me back at once, for there is more for me to do.”
“Where, my dear girl? You are indeed the lady of mysteries.”
“To the basement of Warren's apartment house. I came down the dumb-waiter, when they left me. I left the little door ajar—Can you pull me up again? He is on the eighth floor. It is a long pull—Oh, if we can only make it before they return.”
Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the mad game, as she ran once more, Shirley keeping pace with her. The flurries of the snowstorm protected them from too-curious observation, as the streets seemed deserted by pedestrians who feared the growing blizzard. She led him to the tradesman's entrance of the Somerset, into the dark corridor through which she had emerged.
“Don't strike a light, for I can feel the way. We mustn't be seen.”
Shirley obeyed,—at last she found the base of the dumbwaiter shaft.
“How did you have the strength to lower yourself down this shaft—it is no small task?” and his tone was admiring.
“I am not a weakling—tennis, boating, swimming were all in my education; they helped. But it is beyond me to pull all those floors, and lift my weight. Pull up as far as the little elevator car goes, then go away and come to his party to look for me. Do not be surprised at my actions. My role has really developed into that of an emotional heavy.”
She patted his hand with a relaxation of tenderness, as he began to draw on the long rope. The girl was by no means a light weight, but at last the dumb-waiter came to a stop. Shirley heard the opening and closing of a door above. Then, still wondering at it all, he returned to the street as unobserved as they had entered. There was at least an hour to wait. He walked over to the Athletic Club, of which he was a remiss member, attending seldom during the recent months when his exercise had been more tragic than gymnastic work. In the library of the club house he sat down to study the volume which Helene had thrust into his hands at their startling meeting.
He gave a low whistle of surprise.
“Some little book!” he muttered, “and Helene Marigold has shown me that I must fight hard to equal her in the race for laurels!”
Then he proceeded to rack his brains with a new and knottier problem than any which he had yet encountered.
The volume was a loose-leaf diary, with each page dated, and of letter size. It covered more than the current year, however, running back for nearly eighteen months. It was as scrupulously edited as a lawyer's engagement book, and curiously enough it was entirely written in typewriting!
Most surprising of all, however, was the curious code in which the entire matter was transcribed,—the most unusual one which Shirley had ever read.
Here was the first page to which he opened, letter for letter and symbol for symbol:
“THURSDAY: JANUARY SEVENTH, 1915. ;rstmrfagtp,ansmlafrav;rudyrtaftreadocayjpi dsmfaoma,ptmomha,pmlassdohmrfaypayscoae ptlagptayrsadjomrasddohmrfagocahrmrsypta ,sthoragsotgscafsyraeoyjafrav;rudyrtasyagobra djomrasmfalprajse;ruavobrtomhas,rakslras smffanrmasddohmrfan;svlavstagpta,raqsofaqj o;apmrajimftrfavpbrtomhadqrvos; aeptlakpn agomodjrfatobrtdofraftobrasyarohjyoayjotfad ocadjstqafrqpdoyr famohjyasmfaffuagpitayjpi dsmfadsgrafrqpdoyagogyrrmajimftrfa; rmyaf p;;ua,stopmayepajimfrtgptaftrddagptaqstyua eoyjabsmv;rgyamrcyasgyrtmppmasfbsmvrfad jomrapmrayjpidsm daypavpbrtapqyopmapga usvjyadimnrs, aqsofaypantplrtayjsyamohjyapt frfaqtpbodop,dayr;rqjpmragptausvjyayepa,p myjabtiodra, pmlasddohmrdagptkpnamrcyafs uasfbs mvrfadjomragojimftrfapmasvvpimyae ptlapmaer;;omhypmadrtts;a,syyrtatrqsitdan; svla,svjomra”
and so it ran on, baffling and inspiring a headache!
Shirley went over and over the lines of this bewildering phalanx of letters with no reward for his absorbed devotion to the puzzle.
“Let me see,” he mused. “Thursday, January seventh, was the date upon which Washington Serral was murdered, according to Doctor MacDonald. Any man who will maintain a record of the days in such a difficult code as this must not only be extremely methodical, but is certain to have much to put upon that record worth the trouble. Here may lay the secret of the entire case.”
At the end of the hour he had allowed himself, there was no more proximity to solution than at the inception of his effort. It was almost half-past eleven, and he knew that it was time to go to Warren's apartment. He sent a messenger with the book, carefully wrapped up, to his rooms at the club on Forty-fourth Street. It was too interesting a document to risk taking up to that apartment again, after Helene's exertions in obtaining it.
The Somerset was not dissimilar from the hundreds of highly embellished dwellings of the sort which abound in the region of the Park, causing out-of-town visitors to marvel justly at the source of the vast sums of money with which to pay the enormous rentals of them all.
The elevator operator smirked knowingly, when he asked for Warren's apartment. “You-all can go right up, boss. He's holdin' forth for another of dem high sassiety shindigs to-night. Dat gemman alluz has too many callin' to bother with the telephone when he has a party. You don't need no announcin'.”
The man directed him to the door on the left. Closed as it was the sounds of merrymaking emanated into the corridor. Shirley's pressure on the bell was answered by Shine Taylor's startled face. Warren stood behind him. The surprise of the pair amused Shirley, but their composure bespoke trained self-control.
“I'm sorry to be late,” was the criminologist's greeting. “But I came up to apologize for not being able to bring Miss Marigold. We missed connections somewhere, and I couldn't find her.”
“I am so pleased to have you with us anyway. We'll try to get along without her—” but Warren was interrupted to his discomfiture.
A silvery laugh came from the hallway behind him. Helene Marigold waved a champagne glass at Shirley.
“There's my tardy escort now. I'm here, Shirley old top! Te, he! You see I played a little joke on you this afternoon and eloped with a handsomer man than you.” She leaned unsteadily against the door post and waved a white hand at him as she coaxed. “Come on in, old dear, and don't be cross now with your little Bonbon Tootems!”
Taylor and Warren exchanged glances, for this was an unexpected sally. But they were prompt in their effusive cordiality, as they assisted Shirley in removing his overcoat, and hanging his hat with those of the other guests. He placed his cane against the hall tree, and followed his host into the jollified apartment. He did not overlook the swift glide of Shine's hand into each of his overcoat pockets in the brief interval. Here was a skilful “dip”—Shirley, however, had taken care that the pickpocket would find nothing to worry him in the overcoat.
Warren's establishment was a gorgeous one. To Shirley it was hard to harmonize the character of the man as he had already deduced it with the evident passion for the beautiful. That such a connoisseur of art objects could harbor in so broad and cultured a mind the machinations of such infamy seemed almost incredible. The riddle was not new with Reginald Warren's case: for morals and “culture” have shown their sociological, economic and even diplomatic independence of each other from the time when the memory of man runneth not!
Shirley's admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host. So after a tactful introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all stages of stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour of inspection about his rooms.
“So, you like etchings? I want you to see my five Whistlers. Here is my Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot. This crayon by Von Lenbach is a favorite of mine.” His black eyes sparkled with pride as he pointed out one gem after another in this veritable storehouse of artistic surprises. Few of the jolly throng gave evidence of appreciating them: the man was curiously superior to his associations in education as well as the patent evidence which Shirley now observed of being to the manor born. Helene Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled under her, pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched Shirley's absorption. She seemed almost asleep, but her mind drank in each mood that fired the criminologist's face, as he thoroughly relaxed from his usual bland superiority of mien, to revel in the treasures.
Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare wood-cuts, water colors—such a harmonious variety he had seldom seen in any private collection. The library was another thesaurus: rich bindings encased volumes worthy of their garb. The books, furthermore, showed the mellowing evidence of frequent use; here was no patron of the instalment editions-de-luxe!
“You like my things,” and Warren's voice purred almost happily. There was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley understood. The appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his heart. “My books—all bound privately, you know, for I hate shop bindings. Most of them from second-hand stalls, redolent with the personalities of half a hundred readers. Books are so much more worth reading when they have been read and read again. Don't you think so?”
“Yes. I see your tastes run to the modern school. Individualism, even morbidity: Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin, Gorky—They express your thoughts collectively?”
“Yes, but not radically enough. My entire intellectual life has driven me forward—I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the divinity of self, and—but there I invited you to a joy party, not a university seminar.”
“But the party will grow riper with age,” and Shirley was prone to continue the autopsy. “You are a university man. Where did you study?”
“Sipping here and there,” and a forgivable vanity lightened Warren's face. “Gottingen, Warsaw, Jena, Oxford, Milan, The Sorbonne and even at Heidelberg, the jolly old place. You see my scar?” He pulled back a lock of his wavy black hair from the left temple to show a cut from a student duelist's sword. “But you Americans—I mean, we Americans—we have such opportunities to pick up the best things from the rest of the world.”
“No, Warren,” and Shirley shook his head, not overlooking the slight break which indicated that his host was a foreigner, despite the quick change. “I have been to busy wasting time to collect anything but fleeting memories. Too much polo, swimming, yachting, golfing—I have fallen into evil ways. I think your example may reform me. You must dine with me at my club some day, and give me some hints about making such wonderful purchases.”
“I know the most wonderful antique shop,” Warren began, and just then was interrupted by Shine Taylor and a dizzy blonde person with whom he maxixed through the Hindu draperies, each deftly balancing a champagne glass.
“Here, Reg, you neglect your other guests. Come on in!” Shine's companion held out a wine glass to Warren, but her eyes were fixed in a fascinated stare upon Montague Shirley.
“Why, what are you doing here?”
It was little Dolly Marion, Van Cleft's companion on the fatal automobile ride. She trembled: the glass fell to the floor with a tinkly crash. Shirley smiled indulgently. Taylor and Warren exchanged looks, but Monty knew that they must by this time be aware of his command to the girl to abstain from gay associations.
“You couldn't resist the call of the wild, could you, Miss Dolly?”
The girl sheepishly giggled, and danced out of the room, to sink into a chair, wondering what this visitation meant. Another masculine butterfly pressed more champagne upon her, and in a few moments she had forgotten to worry about anything more important than the laws of gravity. Warren had been rudely dragged away from his intellectual kinship with his guest. His manner changed, almost indefinably, but Shirley understood. He looked at Helene, a little bundle of sleepy sweetness in the big chair.
“Well, Miss! Where did you go when I left you on my call of condolence to Howard Van Cleft? He leaves town to-night for a trip on his yacht, and it was my last chance to say good-bye.”
“Where is he going?” was Warren's lapsus linguae, at this bit of news.
“Down to the Gulf, I believe. Do you know him, Warren? Nice chap. Too bad about his father's sudden death from heart failure, wasn't it? He told me they were putting in supplies for a two months' cruise and would not be able to sail before three in the morning.”
“I don't know Van Cleft,” was Warren's guarded reply. “Of course, I read of his sad loss. But he is so rich now that he can wipe out his grief with a change of scene and part of the inheritance. It's being done in society, these days.”
“Poor Van Cleft! He's besieged by blackmailers, who threaten to lay bare his father's extravagant innuendos, unless he pays fifty thousand dollars. He can afford it, but as he says, it's war times and money is scarce as brunette chorus girls. He has put the matter before the District Attorney and is going to sail for Far Cathay until they round up the gang. These criminals are so clumsy nowadays, I imagine it will be an easy task, don't you, Warren?”
The other man's eyes narrowed to black slits as he studied the childlike expression of Shirley's face. He wondered if there could be a covert threat in this innocent confidence. He answered laconically: “Oh, I suppose so. We read about crooks in the magazines and then see their capers in the motion picture thrillers, but down in real life, we find them a sordid, unimaginative lot of rogues.”
He proffered Shirley a cigarette from his jeweled case. As he leaned toward the table to draw a match from the small bronze holder, Helene observed Shirley deftly substitute it for one of his own, secreting the first.
“Yes,” continued Shirley, “the criminal who is caught generally loses his game because he is mechanical and ungifted with talent. But think of the criminals who have yet to be captured—the brilliant, the inspired ones, the chess-players of wickedness who love their game and play it with the finesse of experts.”
Shirley smoothed away the ripple of suspicion which he had mischievously aroused with, “So, that is why fellows like us would not bother with the life. The same physical and intellectual effort expended by a criminal genius would bring him money and power with no clutching legal hand to fear. But there, we're getting morbid. What I really want to do is to satisfy my vanity. Where did Miss Marigold disappear?”
“Talking about me?” and Helene opened her eyes languorously. “I was so tired waiting for you that when Mr. Warren came along in his wonderful new car I yielded to his invitation, so we enjoyed that tea-room trip which you had promised. Such a lark! Then we came up here where I had the most wonderful dinner with him and three girls. I was tired and sleepy, so I dozed away on that library davenport until the party began—and there you are and here I are, and so, forgive me, Monty?”
She slipped nimbly to the floor, with a maddening display of a silken ankle, advancing to the criminologist with a wistful playfulness which brought a flush of sudden feeling, to the face of Reginald Warren. Helene was carrying out his directions to the letter, Shirley observed.
They lingered at Warren's festivities until a wee sma' hour, Helene pretending to share the conviviality, while actually maintaining a hawk-like watch upon the two conspirators as she now felt them to be. She was amused by the frequency with which Shine Taylor and Reginald Warren plied their guest with cigarettes: Shirley's legerdemain in substituting them was worthy of the vaudeville stage.
“The wine and my smoking have made me drowsy,” he told her, with no effort at concealment. “We must get home or I'll fall asleep myself.”
A covert smile flitted across Warren's pale face, as Shirley unconventionally indulged in several semi-polite yawns, nodding a bit, as well. Helene accepted glass after glass of wine, thoughtfully poured out by her host. And as thoughtfully, did she pour it into the flower vases when his back was turned: she matched the other girls' acute transports of vinous joy without an error. Shirley walked to the window, asking if he might open it for a little fresh air. Warren nodded smiling.
“You are well on the way to heaven in this altitude of eight stories,” volunteered Shirley, with a sleepy laugh.
“Yes. The eighth and top floor. A burglar could make a good haul of my collection, except that I have the window to the fire escape barred from the inside, around the corner facing to the north. Here, I am safe from molestation.”
“A great view of the Park—what a fine library for real reading; and I see you have a typewriter—the same make I used to thump, when I did newspaper work—a Remwood. Let me see some of your literary work, sometime—”
Warren waved a deprecating hand. “Very little—editors do not like it. I do better with an adding machine down on Wall Street than a typewriter. But let us join the others.” There was a noticeable reluctance about dwelling upon the typewriter subject. Warren hurried into the drawing-room, as Shirley followed with a perceptible stagger.
Shine Taylor scrutinized his condition, as he asked for another cigarette. As he yielded to an apparent craving for sleep, the others danced and chatted, while Taylor disappeared through the hall door. After a few minutes he returned to grimace slightly at Warren. Shirley roused himself from his stupor.
“Bonbon, let us be going. Good-night, everybody.”
He walked unsteadily to the door, amid a chorus of noisy farewells, with Helene unsteady and hilarious behind him. Warren and Shine seemed satisfied with their hospitable endeavors, as they bade good-night. The elevator brought up two belated guests, the roseate Pinkie and a colorless youth.
“Oh, are you going, Mr. Shirley? What a blooming shame. I just left the most wonderful supper-party at the Claridge to see you.”
“Too bad: I hope for better luck next time.”
“The elevator is waiting,” and Helene's gaze was scornful. Shirley restrained his smile at the girl's covert hatred of the redhaired charmer. Then he asked maliciously: “Isn't she interesting? Too bad she associates with her inferiors.”
“You put it mildly.”
“Here, boy, call a taxicab,” he ordered the attendant, as they reached the lower level.
“Sorry, boss, but I dassent leave the elevator at this time of night. I'm the only one in the place jest now.”
Shirley insisted, with a duty soother of silver, but the negro returned in a few minutes, shaking his head. Shirley ordered him to telephone the nearest hacking-stand. Then followed another delay, without result.
“Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this. Let us walk, as it seems to have been planned we should.”
“Is it wise? Why put yourself in their net?”
For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had so carefully guarded when they entered the apartment. It was heavier than a policeman's nightstick. As he retook it, she observed the straightening line of his lips.
“As the French say, 'We shall see what we shall see.' Please walk a little behind me, so that my right arm may be free.”
It was after two, and the street was dark. Shirley had noted an arc-light on the corner when he had entered the building—now it was extinguished. A man lurched forward as they turned into Sixth Avenue, his eyes covered by a dark cap.
“Say gent! Give a guy that's down an' out the price of a beef stew? I got three pennies an' two more'll fix me.”
“No!”
“Aw, gent, have a heart!” The man was persistent, drawing closer, as Shirley walked an with his companion, into the increasing darkness, away from the corner. Another figure appeared from a dark doorway.
“I'm broke too, Mister. Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a night like this?”
Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out a handkerchief to the surprise of the men. He suddenly drew Helene back against the wall, and stood between her and the two men.
“What do you thugs want?” snapped the criminologist, as he clenched the cane tightly and held the handkerchief in his left hand. There was no reply. The men realized that he knew their purpose—one dropped to a knee position as the other sprang forward. The famous football toe shot forward with more at stake than ever in the days when the grandstands screeched for a field goal. At the same instant he swung the loaded cane upon the shoulders of the upright man, missing his head.
The second man swung a blackjack.
The first, with a bleeding face staggered to his feet.
The handkerchief went up to the mouth of the active assailant, and to Helene's astonishment, he sank back with a moan. Shirley pounced upon his mate, and after a slight tussle, applied the handkerchief with the same benumbing effect. Then he rolled it up and tossed it far from him.
He took a police whistle from his pocket and blew it three times. His assailants lay quietly on the ground, so that when the officer arrived he found an immaculately garbed gentleman dusting off his coat shoulder, and looking at his watch.
“What is it, sir?” he cried.
“A couple of drunks attacked me, after I wouldn't give them a handout. Then they passed away. You won't need my complaint—look at them—”
The policeman shook the men, but they seemed helpless except to groan and hold their heads in mute agony, dull and apparently unaware of what was going on about them.
“Well, if you don't want to press the charge of assault?”
“No. I may have it looked up by my attorney. Tonight I do not care to take my wife to the stationhouse with me. They ought to get thirty days, at that.”
Shirley took Helene's arm, and the officer nodded.
“I'll send for the wagon, sir. They're some pickled. Good-night.”
As they walked up to the nearest car crossing, Helene turned to him with her surprise unabated.
“What did you do to them, Mr. Shirley?”
“Merely crushed a small vial of Amyl nitrite which I thoughtfully put in my handkerchief this afternoon. It is a chemical whose fumes are used for restoring people afflicted with heart failure: with men like these, and the amount of the liquid which I gave them for perfume, the result was the same as complete unconsciousness from drunkenness.—Science is a glorious thing, Miss Helene.”