As the man in the limousine jumped out his chauffeur pointed his hand menacingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat. That individual raised his arms without resistance. He could not see the gun, but he knew it was there.
The man with the straw-colored hair swung open the door of the taxicab ferociously—to find the cab empty. He whirled back into the limousine, which was already moving. The right mud-guard was badly crumpled.
"Station—all the power you've got!"
Tricked. He understood what had happened. When the taxis had maneuvered into the side-street the original middle car had gone either to the front or to the rear. There was nothing for it but to play his last card—mistaken identity. To get Mathison away from his luggage for an hour or two.
The occupant of the fourth taxi, also comprehending what had taken place,picked up the speaking-tube and ordered full speed ahead.
"Sarah, this young man will bear watching. He has ideas. I doubt if I shall be necessary to him at all."
"If madame should be hurt...."
"No bridges until we come to them. Keep your veil down. He might be watching from his car-window when we arrive. He must never see you."
Mathison was extremely pleased with the result of his exploit. To have thought out all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find them moving without a hitch! He closed the door of his compartment and drew the window-curtains. He pulled down the covering of Malachi's cage.
"Malachi, you're likely to think cross-eyed all the rest of your days. But to-morrow night at this time you'll have peace and quiet."
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a bit of paper come jerkily under the door. He pounced upon it.
All compartments 2 on train bought out in advance; unknown persons. Want anything done about it? Answer window.
All compartments 2 on train bought out in advance; unknown persons. Want anything done about it? Answer window.
After a minute's wait Mathison raised the curtain a little and gave a negative sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon the lounge. So that's how it had happened! Luck and accident in San Francisco because travel East had been light, but a matter of foresight and calculation in Omaha and Chicago. Confident that he would always occupy No. 1, that he would travel a given route as rapidly as transportation facilities permitted, they had bought out No. 2 compartments on both trains.
There would be real action from now on. They would begin to realize that they hadn't any time to lose. Very well; they would find him ready. He smiled. The Secret Service agents were beginning to fidget, the best possible proof that his plans were moving forward like clockwork. To-morrow night the climax! Only a few more strands and the web would be complete.
"We idiotic Yankees!"
He went to bed early. He was confident that there would be no more gas. He was dead for the need of a few hours of recuperative sleep. The jolting ride across town had helped to dissipate most of the bodily numbness; but now his brain was cryingout for oblivion. He fell asleep almost instantly.
And yet a cessation of movement brought him out of this profound slumber. It was as if his subconsciousness had stood on guard. He peered out from the side of the curtain. They were in a railway yard somewhere. Stalled. Freights were all about and yard engines puffing and whistling. He looked at his watch. Two. He had slept four hours. He resisted the intense craving to bury his head in the pillow again. No doubt he had been refreshed actually, but he was still drunk for the want of sleep. He slipped out of his berth, drenched a towel and slapped it over his face. Then he turned on the lights and dressed. When the right time came he would sleep forty hours.
The train went on at four. At dawn it came to a standstill again and did not stir until nine. They were on a side-track, and along the main line freight was roaring and thundering. What was happening to the world? A limited, one of the fastest known, side-tracked for freight! From six until nine the freight rolled by.
A newspaper! It was almostunbelievable. He felt rather stunned. He hadn't held a newspaper in his hands since leaving Honolulu! He did not actually know whether the Germans were in Paris or the Allies in Berlin. So held by the chase across the continent, giving his every thought to the affair, he had forgotten that the world was going on outside this particular orbit and great events were toward.
Twice again that day there were long delays at sidings, east of towns barely mentioned on the map. All the freight in America seemed to be moving east. On schedule time the train should be passing through central New York; and here they were, miles and miles west of Buffalo, the next real stop. The reporter brought him a sporting page from one Chicago newspaper and the editorial page from another. He was vaguely able to learn that nothing new had happened Over There, and that there was a coal famine and a great congestion at ports for lack of ships.
He began to fuss and fume and fret. He endeavored a thousand times to find a fresh angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't be done. Pullmans were built for dividends, not comfort.
He wore a gray traveling-suit and a cap to match. The suit, though new, was in an astonishingly disreputable state. The solution is apparent; it does not signify carelessness. The fact is that you cannot loll and twist and curl up and at the same time keep the warp and woof of Scotch worsteds shipshape.
He yawned, stretched his arms until the sockets cracked, turned wrathfully and struck the top of the seat—that rolling lopover which is still one of the mysteries of modern times. Perhaps, in making the original car there had been a few yards of plush and excelsior left over. Splendid! Just enough for a pillow on the top of the seat-back, where no human head might reach it reposefully.
Mathison jumped to his feet and went through a bit of setting-up exercise. It was wasted effort. When a man is bored to the point where his soul aches along with his body, what he needs is a mental jolt, not a quickening of his respiratory organs. Nothing except that which attacks the eye surprisingly will serve to pull a man out of the bog of such lethargy.
Within the compartment, a pressed-steelimitation red mahogany, green plush, and a bluish haze which was the essence of many incinerated cigars and consumed pipes; outside, snow, thick and dusty and impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless, skyless world. But for the clatter of wheel upon rail, the train might have been speeding through the clouds; the illusion was almost perfect. Darkness was falling. Winter! After all these years of tropical climes!
The confinement was really heartbreaking. Never had he been shut up like this. And the craving for sleep was becoming a menace. It wouldn't have been so bad had he dared move about freely, eat his meals in the diner, and smoke his cigar or pipe among men.
On the opposite seat were the magazines which had been given him in Omaha. He reached for one of them. He had long since read all the stories and advertisements. Whenever monotony reached that point where it threatened to become insupportable he dove for these magazines. He could keep himself awake with them.
Odd, but he was always returning to that posed photograph. It haunted him: awonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantalizing, until you chanced to look into the wall mirror at the far side of her. Even this reflection was dim; but you caught the beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of the nose and chin; a rare face, not only beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time Mathison stared at it; and then he discovered something he had missed in previous scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner, in very small type, he read, "Posed by Norma Farrington." Some new actress. As for that, many new ones had come and gone since he had visited New York. He tore out the picture. He couldn't have told why. Norma Farrington. He smiled.
An idea had come to him, a charming idea such as often tickles the imagination of young men when they see the portrait of a beautiful woman. The more he mulled over the idea the more fascinating it became. Certainly she would not have him arrested for wanting to meet her. He folded the picture and put it away. Supposing he really started out upon such an adventurein earnest, not in imagination? Danger? Scarcely, with the little time he had at his disposal. Soon he would be in the waters that were full of slinking death. And it was this fact that let down the bars to the spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport before the death grapple.Why not? Why not? Why not?pulsed his father's blood. No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild blood he might have in his veins, but it was also the blood of unbroken promises.
What had started this rather sinister idea in his mind, or rather reawakened it? The photograph of the actress? No. The gray lady. The charm of her companionship, the hint of the things he had missed. Queer things, human beings!
No, he would not bother Norma Farrington. He would build one of his exciting romances around her and let it go at that. But he would hunt up Mrs. Chester before his leave was over, have tea with her, present her with Malachi, and tell her the story in detail.
Another human inconsistency. Hallowell had become strangely remote. As though the thing had happened months instead of days ago. And yet every move he madewas in the service of Bob—to bring his great dream to fulfilment and confusion to his enemies.
He heard some one knocking on the door. He rose quickly and stood listening. Two taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. Mathison released the lock, and with his foot ready and his shoulders hunched he drew back the door about an inch. He saw the shining black face of the porter.
"What is it?"
"Bad news, suh."
"Come along inside." The porter slipped through the opening, and he winced as he heard the door close and the lock snap. "What's the trouble?"
"Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de nex' town, an' we'se t' be stalled ontil mo'nin', suh."
"What!" explosively.
"Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah rails. An' den dey's dat new rule—coal an' freight fust. We can't get by dat wreck onless dey side-tracks de freight; an' de freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah; an' dey ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it, wah-times. Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. Soyo' will haff t' eat in de station aw go t' one o' de hotels in town."
"How big a town is this?"
"Middlin'; but dey's got a fine hotel called de Watkins, jus' a little ways f'm de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh."
"Bath in all the rooms," repeated Mathison, meditatively.
"I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested the porter, but without much enthusiasm. "Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get at de hotel."
"How long will we be stalled?"
"Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin', suh."
"What are the other passengers going to do?"
"Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh."
Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision came in a flash, one of that caliber which only true adventurers dare make. The blind Madonna of the Pagan, Chance! With a wave of the hand, to consign the burden to her! Perhaps it was the green plush, the red paint on the four steel walls; anyhow, he decided to spend the night at the hotel. He would immediately deposit the manila envelope and the little red book—Hallowell's—inthe hotel safe and advise New York by wire his positive whereabouts. If anything happened to him, they would know where to find his personal effects. There would be no Secret Service operatives at his beck and call here; he would be on his own.
This decision reacted upon him mentally and physically like champagne. All his craving for sleep, all his depression, went by the board magically. He began to thrill and bubble with gaiety. And there would be Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel room he might be inveigled into talking.
"All right, George; I'll climb out, too. The Lord help me, but I can't stand this damned green plush any longer! I'll spend the night at your Watkins. Now listen. When the train stops wait half an hour before you come for my kit-bags. Engage a taxi. If you can get me into that taxi without being observed, there'll be a five-spot for you. You didn't tell the waiter this morning about knocking. When I finally got the meal it was cold."
"I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip."
"Will you be aboard all night?"
"Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in acase like dis. Dey won't nobody see yo' in all dis rampagin' snow. All right; thutty minutes aftuh de train stops."
The porter backed out. Almost instantly he heard the lock snap into the socket. He scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly.
"Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck a bunch like dis befo'. Two women hidin' behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds—like dey jes' got ovah smallpox. An' dis chap makin' me signal on de do', an' totin' a parrot! Well, politeness is mah middle name. I'se goin' t' do jes' es dey tells me. W'en I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford Lizzie."
In the fourth compartment sat three men, playing cutthroat auction. One of them had just bid "two without" when the porter knocked.
"Come in!" shouted the blond man. "Ah, George, what's the news?"
The porter became a very mysterious individual. He shut the door softly and leaned toward the blond man's ear.
"He's goin' int' town, suh."
"Going to take his things with him?"
"Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty minutes aftuh de train stops. Dey'ssumpin' I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I has t' knock on his do' befo' I can git in. I hits two times, den I waits a moment, den I hits two times mo'."
One of the men started to say something angrily, but the blond man silenced him with a gesture.
"You should have told me that before, George," reproachfully.
"I know, suh; but I done fo'got."
"Remember my instructions. A misstep on your part and you land in jail."
"Yes, suh." For George knew these men to be Secret Service men. He had seen the magic shields. "Dey sure fools yo' sometimes, don't dey? He don't look it."
"That's why I'm taking all these precautions. I can't arrest him until we cross the New York state line. The less they look like it the more dangerous they are. Always remember that, George. He hasn't ordered anything to drink, has he?"
"No, suh; nuthin' but watah an' coffee."
"He hasn't sent or received any telegrams?"
"No, suh."
"What made him decide to risk leaving the car?"
George thought for a moment. "I reckons it was de green plush. He said he couldn't stand it any longer."
The blond man laughed. "Plush! Well, I'd risk it myself if I were in his boots. That's all, George."
The porter bobbed and went away. The moment the door closed the blond man got up.
"Out in the open at last! All things come to him who waits. Sleep. That's what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager he has kept an eye open every night; and it's beginning to tell on him. Everything is turning out beautifully: the wreck, the storm, his restlessness."
"If that black fool had only told us about that knocking!"
"Never mind the spilled milk. We all know what to do; let us see that we do it. I'll notify the local police at once. This may be the end of the chase. This porter is telling us the truth. I believe now that the other porter told the truth. Mathison isn't relying upon anybody to help him out. He hasn't sent any telegrams or received any. At least, not from his own car. It may be.... No; he never leaves thecompartment. Yet there's those three taxis. How could these turn up if he hadn't telegraphed? Never mind. Here is where we shall trip him up. I'll go and tell Berta."
Shortly after he rapped on the door of the second compartment. The door was opened cautiously.
"Oh!" said the woman with the mole.
The blond man stepped inside. "Good news! He's going into this town for the night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be stalled all night. He's going to risk it in the open at last. Sleep. He's going to pieces for the want of it. Out in the open!"
"It is time. I am dead. I'll never get the cramp out of my poor body. Nearly three thousand miles cooped up like this! You were free. I had to stay packed away in this suffocating box." She stooped and peered out of the window. The suburb lights were flashing by. "A horrible night!"
"On the contrary, I should call it beautiful. We are and have been perfectly prepared against a move like this. He carries two things I must have."
"I shall be glad when it's over."
"To-night. It will depend upon you. Be careful. He is very strong and clever.I thought the chase would be over in Chicago last night. He tricked me neatly. But green plush!" The blond man laughed quietly.
"What are you laughing at?"
"He's going into this town, he's going to trust to his luck, because he can't stand the sight of green plush any longer. It's acting upon him psychologically, like red upon the fighting toro. On the other hand, he will not act impulsively again."
"He hasn't gone yet."
"A fig for that! He'll go with the police, then. His way or mine; he'll go into town to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly. Look the part."
Mathison put on a fresh collar and brushed himself carefully. He packed his kit-bags and patted them affectionately, as a hunter might have patted his faithful hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerfulness, pretty women; a room big enough to turn around in, a bed big enough to turn over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot water; a theater, perhaps, drama, opera, burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. He would play the game to the hilt. His danger would be maximum, whether hestayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So he might as well get all the fun out of it possible.
He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. "Malachi, we'll both have a bath to-night. Only, we're probably doing a fool thing. There won't be any one to watch over us; we'll have to go it on our own. But I'm done. I'vegotto get outside. You poor little beggar! Are you ever going to talk again? Malachi!"
A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, but immediately the lids dropped.
Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room where everything was silent and motionless, he might find his tongue. For days he had known nothing but the strange swing of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet room in which he could wander about and claw up the curtains.
At precisely six-thirty the porter returned. He announced his arrival in the peculiar manner previously described.
"De taxi is waitin' fo' yo', suh," he whispered.
"Good for you, George. Some snowstorm!"
"It sure is. Yo' can't see yo' hand befo' yo' face. I tol' de cabby t' take yo' straight t' de Watkins. On'y a sho't ways. De Watkins is fash'nable an' has a cobbyray—leastwise dey did befo' we got int' dis wah. Anyhow, dey'll give yo' all de comfo'ts o' home, an' I reckon dey's whut's achin' yo'."
"The nail on the head, George. But I mustn't miss this train. Remember that."
"I'll telephone, suh, ef dey makes up any time."
Passenger and porter hurried from the car to the station platform, crossed twotracks, passed through the waiting-room, thence to the street, which you could not see across for the curtain of driving snow. There was a line of taxis at the curb. It appeared that everybody had deserted the train.
Mathison knew that he had committed a blunder. There was even now a chance to run back; but stubbornly he faced the direction toward which he had set his foot. A blunder which, before the night was over, might become a catastrophe. Well, one thing was certain: they should never lay hands upon that manila envelope. He would deposit it in the hotel safe. Once that was done, they could come at him from all directions, if they cared to. He knew exactly every move he was going to make.
"Boss, I wish I was whah dese bags come f'm. Pineapples an' melons; oh, boy! Say, I ain't nachelly inquis'tive, but what's in dat cage?"
"A ghost, George, by the name ofPalæornis torquatus."
"I pass!"
Mathison laughed. "It's a parrakeet, a hop-o'-my-thumb of a bird."
"Talk?"
"Almost as much as you do, George."
The porter grinned and helped stow the luggage inside the cab. Mathison climbed in and slammed the door. The porter watched the taxicab until the gray, swirling pall swallowed it up. He pocketed the bill.
"Dey ain't no reason why, but I sure hates t' take dat young man's money," he mused, remorsefully. "De undah dawg; I s'pose dat's it. W'en dey don't look like it dey is. What's he done, I wonduh? A parrot! Fust time I ev' seen a white man tote a parrot. An' he don't look like a henpeck, neither."
He turned and jogged back to the train.
The taxicabs began to straggle along. The streets were full of ruts and drifts, and the vehicles looked like giant beetles scurrying.
Gloomy town, thought Mathison, as he peered first from one window then from the other. Not a cheery, winking electric sign anywhere. Then he recalled the reason, as explained by the porter. A coal famine had forced a temporary abandonment of this wonder of American cities.
It was stinging cold, somewhere aroundzero. He threw the lap-robe over the cage. Malachi wasn't used to the cold. The shop-windows gleamed like beaten gold, so thick were they with frost. The cab lurched, staggered, and skidded.
"Lord! but the smell of clean snow!" He dipped his chin into his collar. He had been away from this kind of weather so long that it bit in.
Cabs in front and cabs behind. Were they following him? Likely enough. They would be fools if they didn't. A hot bath and a bed for himself and a room to rove about in for Malachi. The thing was written, anyhow; and deep down in his soul he knew that he was going to pull through. Fire, water, and poison gas.
In about ten minutes the cab came to a halt. The door was opened and a bellboy grinned hopefully and hospitably. Mathison stepped down from the cab, gave a dollar to the driver, and reached for Malachi and one of the kit-bags, leaving the other for the boy. He sprang up the hotel steps, keenly exhilarated. He felt alive for the first time in days. He swept on to the desk, planted the kit-bag strategically and ordered a room with a bath. But as theclerk offered the pen Mathison frowned. He hadn't planned against the contingency of signing his name to hotel registers. His slight hesitancy was not noticed by the clerk. Mathison was not without a fund of dry humor, and a flash of it swept over him at this moment.
He wrote "Richard Whittington, London." He chuckled inwardly. The name had popped into his head with one of those freakish rallies of memory; but presently he was going to regret it.
"Room with bath; number three hundred and twenty. Here, boy! How long do you expect to be with us, sir?" asked the clerk, perfunctorily.
"Until morning. Train stalled on account of wreck. You have a good safe?"
"Strong as a bank's."
"Very good. I'll be down shortly with some valuables."
"Bird?"
"A parrakeet."
"That'll be all right. We bar dogs and cats."
The door of the elevator had scarcely closed behind Mathison when a man walked leisurely over to the desk and inspected thefreshly written signature. He seemed startled for a moment; then he laughed.
"A room, sir?"
"No. I was looking to see if a friend of mine had arrived. He hasn't."
The stranger walked away; he strolled into the bar, looked into the restaurant, mounted the first flight of stairs and wandered into the parlor, which was empty and chilly. Next he hailed an elevator and asked to be let out on the third floor. Here he walked to the end of the corridor and returned, took the next car down, and went directly into the street. At the north side of the hotel was an alley. The man stared speculatively into this, jumped into a waiting taxicab and made off.
Half an hour later a woman entered the hotel parlor, selected a chair by the corridor wall, and sat down. You might have gone into the parlor and departed without noticing her.
Meanwhile Mathison set the cage by the radiator, went into the bathroom, came back and felt of the bed, and smiled at the bellboy.
"This will do nicely. How big a town is this?"
"About seventy thousand, sir."
"What's the name of it?"
The boy grinned. Here was one of those "fresh guys" who were always springing wheezes like this because they thought the "hops" expected it.
"Petrograd."
Mathison caught the point immediately. "Boy, on my word, I haven't the least idea what the name of this town is. I'm off the stalled flyer, and I forgot to ask the porter. I wanted a bed instead of a bunk. Now shoot."
The boy named the town.
"What have you got in the line of theaters?"
"This is Tuesday," answered the boy.
"I know that. Is there a comic opera or a good burlesque?"
"Are you guying me? Where'd juh come from?"
"The other side of the world."
"I guess that's right. Why, this is showless Tuesday, all east of the Mississippi. Even little Mary Pickford ain't working to-day. New York, Boston—it's all the same. Nothing doing. The new law; all the theaters, movies, billiard-parlors, and bowling-alleys dark."
"Well, I'll be hanged!"
"It's the war, sir," said the boy, soberly. "I'm in the next draft. I don't want to kill anybody; but if I've got to do it I'm going to learn how."
Mathison held out his hand. "That's the kind of talk. It's bad, bloody work, but it's got to be done. Here's a telegram I want sent. Don't bother bringing back the change. But don't fail to have this wire sent."
"I won't fail, sir."
"Now, I want you to give this order to the waiter."
After a word or two the boy interrupted Mathison. "No meat. Fish, lobster, oysters, chicken."
"All right; make it chicken, then. And tell him to bring a banana and some almonds. And mind this particularly. Tell the waiter to knock once loudly. Make no mistake about that."
"Yes, sir"; but the boy's eyes began to widen perceptibly. Here was a queer bird.
After the boy had departed Mathison double-locked the door. Then he liberated Malachi. The bird came out and stood before the door of his cage indecisively.Then he reached down and whetted his beak on the carpet.
"Chup!" he muttered.
"You little son-of-a-gun!" cried Mathison, delighted. It was the first time Malachi had spoken since leaving Manila. Mathison stooped and extended his index finger. By aid of claw and beak, the bird mounted the living perch and slowly worked his way up the arm. "The little son-of-a-gun, he's alive again! Malachi, are you cold?"
Malachi grumbled in his own tongue. Mathison approached a curtain, and the bird at once transferred himself to that, clawing his way up to the pole, where he began to preen himself. His master watched him for a few minutes contentedly. Then he looked out of the window. He saw the dim outlines of a fire-escape. He could also see a cross-section of the street beyond the alley: clouds of snow, spouts, whirlwinds.
He turned from the window swiftly and tiptoed to the door. Some one had turned the knob cautiously. Mathison waited patiently, but the knob did not turn again. Door-knobs—they had a mysterious way of turning in the night.
There would be no going out this night; so he might as well make himself comfortable. He turned to the kit-bags. He opened them both, took a pair of slippers from the top of one and a dressing-gown and toilet articles from the top of the other. The general contents of both bags were as neatly and as compactly arranged as a drummer's case; but always on top there would be pick-ups. By the time he had bathed, changed, put on the slippers and gown—a heavenly blue silk-brocade such as aristocratic Chinese wear—the waiter arrived with the dinner. He announced his arrival by a single knock.
The door was opened in a singular fashion. Mathison kept totally behind it. An Oriental trick; it gave one the opportunity to strike first, if it were necessary to strike; moreover, it prevented any one in the hall or corridor observing the occupant of the room. The moment the waiter stepped inside the door was closed and double-locked again.
"I shall require no service, waiter. Here's a bill; keep the change for your tip."
"Thank you, sir."
The lock and the latch were released simultaneously. So adroitly was thisaccomplished that the waiter never suspected that he had been locked in or that he was immediately going to be locked out.
Mathison crossed over to the table, peeled a banana, lopped off a bit, and jabbed the fork into it. This he took to the parrakeet. Malachi sidled along the pole solemnly and reached down a coral-red claw.
On going back to the table Mathison felt top-hole in spirit. The telegram was off. If anything happened they would know where to find him. After he had finished his dinner he would find a hiding-place for that manila envelope.
Suddenly he became seized by an ironic whimsy, an impulse which in normal times he would have analyzed as idiotic. Nevertheless, he proceeded to materialize it. He searched in his coat-pocket for the picture of the actress, sliced off the non-essentials, and propped it against the water carafe. With his hand on his heart he bowed.
"Paper lady, I am at once gratified and deeply chagrined to offer you a repast so poor. I had planned a club steak; I've been planning it for six long years, and patriotism compels me to eat chicken—which I abominate! You are disappointed?I'm sorry. You won't look at me? Very well. That's not your fault; it's the fault of the fool photographer, the way he posed you. Crazy? Well, perhaps. But, Lord's truth, I wish I did know somebody like you. I'm the lonesomest duffer in all this Godforsaken world!"
So, while he munched his chicken and Malachi his banana, the clerk at the desk was having his worries.
"A queer bunch got off that stalled train," he said to the manager.
"What's the trouble?"
"First a tanned chap with two bags and a parrot signs his name and beats it for the elevator as if he were afraid the room would vanish before he got to it. Another man comes up and looks the book over. He laughs. Then he walks off. Right away comes a veiled woman who does the same thing. Only she signs. A coat that would pay next year's taxes, but no hat. She wants room two hundred and twenty. I ask where her luggage is, and she says she left it on the train. But she hands me a twenty. I let her have the key. Then up comes Sanford, ofThe Courier. When he pipes those two names he yells."
"What's the matter with them?" asked the manager. He was not particularly interested.
"Why, look at this. Richard Whittington, London. Sanford says there was only one man ever had that name, and he was Lord Mayor of London five hundred years ago."
"Oh, pshaw!"
"Wait a minute. Here's the name the woman wrote. Manon Roland. Sanford says her head was cut off in the French Revolution in 1793. One alone, all right; but two!"
"So long as they pay the bill and behave themselves there's nothing for us to do. Perhaps they are celebrities and don't want to be bothered by reporters."
"A new brand, then. I never saw this kind before. Anyhow, I thought I'd put you wise."
From afar Mathison heard the shrill, prolonged blast of a railway whistle. Then a rush of cold air struck him. The paper lady rose suddenly and began a series of violent spiral whirls toward the door. Mathison sprang to his feet, turning, hisautomatic ready. He remembered now that he had forgotten to examine the window lock.
Through this window came a woman. She stumbled and fell to her knees, but she got up instantly. She wore no hat. Her hair, like Roman gold, sparkled with melting snow-flakes. Under this hair was a face which had the exquisite pallor of Carrara marble. Her eyes were as purple as Manila Bay after the sunset gun. From her shoulders hung a sable coat worth a king's ransom.
Mathison's heart gave a great bound; then his brain cleared and his thoughts became cold and precise. He knew who she was. Beautiful beyond anything his fertile imagination had conceived of her: warm and fragrant as a Persian rose. Small wonder that poor old Bob Hallowell had gone to smash over her. But what did The Yellow Typhoon want of John Mathison?
"You are John Mathison?" she asked, her voice scarcely audible. "Richard Whittington?"
"Yes." His eyes still marveling over the beauty of her. It was unbelievable. A wave of poignant regret went over him.The tender loveliness of a Bouguereau housing the soul of a Salome!
"Then take heed. You are in grave danger. You carry something certain men want desperately. Don't go into the hall; don't leave your room under any circumstances to-night. The hall is watched. I dared not come to your door. They must never know that I have aided you. I had to climb the fire-escape. I dared not trust the telephone. Hide whatever you have and hide it well."
It is possible that Mathison presented a unique picture to the woman. The blue robe fluttered, bulged, and collapsed in the wind. It fell to his feet, shimmering. But for the color of it—had it been yellow—Mathison might have posed as a priest of Buddha. His handsome, bronzed face, the cold impassivity of his eyes and mouth, might have passed inspection on the platform of the Shwe Dagon pagoda in Rangoon—if one overlooked the healthy thatch of hair on his head.
She broke the tableau by taking from the pocket of her gray coat a gray veil which she wound about her head, turban-wise, dropping the edge just above her lips.
"One word more. I am a creature of impulse. I may regret this whim shortly. I may even return. I don't know. But if I do, watch out!... Beware of me!"
She backed to the window, stepped through to the fire-escape and vanished into the night.
For a space Mathison did not stir. There was something hypnotic in this singular visitation, but it was physical rather than mental. He stared at the blank square of the window as Medusa's victims must have stared at her—stonily. Morgan had described the woman minutely, and out of these substances and delineations Mathison had created a blonde Judith, something at once beautiful and terrifying. And yet he recognized the woman almost immediately.
The mind often acts inconsequently in crises. At the back of his brain something was clamoring for recognition. He was conscious of the call, but there seemed to be a blank wall in between. It was conceivable that the sheer loveliness of the woman dazed him. On his guard, yes, alert and watchful, but otherwise nonplussed. His confusion was doubtless due to the fact that he could not put the two salientstogether. It was utterly illogical that any woman so tenderly beautiful should be called The Yellow Typhoon.
He recalled Morgan's description. "A passionless, merciless leopardess. She would have curled Saint Anthony's beard and taken Michael's flaming sword away from him. A destroyer. Don't get the impression that she is what we call on the loose. That's the most singular part of it. Her reputation isn't along that line. Breaks men for the pure deviltry of it; honorable men, men too proud to fight back. Understand? Always the poor devil who has something or everything to lose. A bigamist, because that seemed to be the most exciting game she could apply her arts to. And always just beyond the reach of the law. I don't suppose there's a court in the world that could convict her of bigamy. So, keep your eyes open and your guard up. Remember, I wanted to ransack the ship."
And what kind of a game was she about to spring? She had warned him. But she had added that she might return; and in that event, let him beware. He thought keenly for a moment, and presently he saw a way out of the labyrinth. Very clever!His enemies were in the adjoining rooms, watching him from some peephole or other. A trick to make him take the manila envelope out of his kit-bag and hide it anew—where they could find it when they wanted it. He had made his first mistake. He should have deposited the envelope in the safe before coming up. The hesitance over inscribing his name—any name—on the register had befogged him temporarily. His whole carefully built campaign depended upon getting that manila envelope to New York.
What followed was a revelation in clear thinking, acted upon swiftly.
He pulled down the window, locked it, and drew the shade. He got into his clothes again, dropped the automatic into the right pocket of his coat, all the while taking inventory of his surroundings in panoramic glances. Not a step wasted, not a thought that needed readjusting. Under the telephone was a waste-basket. In this there was a discarded newspaper. He crossed the room and turned off the lights. What he did now was done in the dark. From one of the kit-bags he procured the manila envelope and the little red book, which he strapped together with a rubber band. Hetiptoed over to the waste-basket and slipped his precious packet into the folds of the newspaper, which he returned to the basket. He turned on the lights and took down the telephone.
"Hello!" he called, softly. "This is room three hundred and twenty. Will you kindly ascertain for me if rooms three eighteen and three twenty-two are occupied by passengers from the stalled flier from Chicago?... Yes, I'll hold the wire." Two minutes passed. "They are not? Thank you. No; nothing of importance. Didn't know but they might be friends from the train." So there was nothing to fear from the adjoining rooms. That was a weight off his mind.
But it was also a new angle to the puzzle. Had the woman really tried to do him a service? Was it inspired by some vague regret for Hallowell? Out of one labyrinth, but into another. He ran to the windows and threw up the shades. The fire-escape was empty. He went back to the telephone. It was barely possible that she had come up from the room below. That would be 220.
"Is the lady still in room two twenty?...Oh, never mind the name. Is she still there?... She isn't? Gave up the key a moment ago?... No, there isn't any trouble. She came from the stalled train.... She said she would not return? Thanks."
A blind alley. He couldn't solve the riddle at all. And because he couldn't solve it he sensed danger, a danger which ran around him in a circle.
He glanced up at the bird on the curtain-pole. Malachi had finished his dinner and was polishing his beak.
"Malachi, they've got me guessing!"
"Chup!" said the little green bird, spreading out his clipped wing. It was warm and cozy up there near the ceiling. He loved window-curtain poles. "Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?"
That phrase! It seemed to Mathison that a hand had reached out and caught him by the throat. Bob! The dear, absent-minded Hallowell! How often had he teased him by putting his tobacco-canister on the other end of the table! Bob, blind if you stirred anything on his end of the table from its accustomed place, would start hunting about the room, swearing good-naturedly.
Mathison began to pace the room. The infernal beauty of her! Negative for good and positive for evil; somehow it hurt him. He felt outraged that God should give all these lovely attributes to a daughter of Beelzebub.
Down-stairs, the clerk went into the manager's office.
"I tell you something queer is going on in this hotel."
"What now?"
"The Lord Mayor of London makes waiters signal on his door before he'll let them in. Then he begins asking questions about the people on either side of him. To cap the climax, he asked about the woman who had her head cut off in 1793."
"What? Oh yes, I see; those names on the register. Well?"
"Something fishy. The woman just surrendered her key and waltzed out."
"Gone?"
"With last year's cabbages."
"Maybe it's an elopement," suggested the manager, hopefully. Elopements were first-rate advertisements.
"Nix on the elopement. The real article gets married before they come to a hotellike the Watkins. She went up to the room I gave her and came down again. No complaints. Just surrendered the key and faded."
"Didn't ask any questions about the man?"
"Nope. There's where the mystery comes in. Mind, we'll have a robbery or a murder on our hands before morning."
"Piffle! If the woman is gone for good we can't risk meddling with this Lord Mayor chap. I'm not courting suits for damages these days; not me. You've been going to the movies too much. Anyhow, she paid five for the room. It's none of our business if she doesn't sleep in it."
"All right. Only, don't jump on me if anything happens."
"Tell your troubles to the house detective. That's what he's here for."
The clerk acted on this advice at once. "Michaels," he said, "you take this key and look around room two twenty. See if the woman took or left anything. There's a queer game going on here to-night."
The house detective returned shortly. He doubted if any one had been in room 220 at all.
"Better stick around, anyhow."
"All right."
At the police-station the night captain rocked in his swivel-chair and chewed his cigar. There had recurred to his mind an old phrase, which applied to the crook as well as to the honest man, "He travels fastest who travels alone." Well, so long as it was fish to his net, he had no right to complain. On his desk lay a stack of those sinister handbills which the police send hither and thither across the continent under the caption "Wanted." From time to time he referred to a letter which he had just received by messenger. A fall-down on the divvy, and the pal blows the game. But a thousand dollars, a real bank-roll, was worth trying for these hard times. All he had to do was to call up the Watkins. If there was anything to the information, the hotel clerk would be able to tell. He drew the telephone toward him.
"This the Watkins?... Police-station talking. Man by the name of Richard Whittington registered?... He is? Good! Listen to me. Describe him." The captain smoothed out a handbill and kept his eye on it obliquely. "All right. Tall,very dark, good-looking, blue eyes, smooth, no beard. Yes, that sounds like him.... 'Black' Ellison, wanted in San Francisco for diamond robbery and assault.... There was a woman? Gone? That's tough. She may have taken the swag. Well, it can't be helped. Get the man down-stairs to the private office. I'll send Murphy over in fifteen minutes. Better call in a patrolman. This man Ellison is a strong-arm, for all his good looks."
Up in room 320 Mathison found it impossible to keep that lovely face out of his thoughts. Something was wrong with the world. If ever he had looked into a countenance upon which was written honesty....
"The voice!" he cried, stopping suddenly. "The voice! That's the thing that's been hammering in the back of my head. I've heard that voice before. Where? How?" He rumpled his hair. "Where have I heard her voice?"
He had heard her laugh that night when she had come on deck in the Chinese costume. But the speaking voice! Where had he heard that?
Malachi, sensing his master's agitation, sidled back and forth along thecurtain-pole, grumbling as his feet came into contact with the cold brass rings.
By and by Mathison saw the paper lady on the floor; saw it with eyes busy with introspection. He stooped; the act was purely mechanical. He went on with his pacing. He folded and refolded the slip of paper many times and at length stowed it away in a pocket, without having glanced at it once, without recalling his desire to meet her, if she happened to be in New York when he arrived there.
He heard a sound. It came from the window. He wheeled quickly, his hand going into his pocket as he turned. He had almost forgotten!
Tap-tap-tap!
Dimly he saw a woman's face against the pane. She had come back! The monumental nerve of her! On the way to the window he formed his plan of action. He would give her all the rope she wanted; he would act as if he had never seen her before, play her as a fisherman plays a trout. She had warned him, and he would not ignore her warning. He ran to the window, unlocked it, and threw it up.
The woman stumbled into the room, theexpression on her face one of great terror. Hair like spun molasses, sparkling with melting snowflakes, skin like Carrara marble, with an odd little mole at the corner of her mouth, and eyes as purple as Manila Bay at sunset. From her shoulders hung a sable coat worth a king's ransom. Mathison raised her to her feet. "What is it? What's the trouble?" he asked, pulling forward a chair. Terrified. Had they discovered what she had done and had she flown to him for protection? "Beware of me!" she had said.
She sank into the chair and covered her face with her ungloved hands, rocking her body and moaning slightly.
"What's the trouble?" It took some effort to keep the ironical out of his voice. What a queer little mole! he thought. He hadn't noticed it before.
She let her hands fall. "I'm in the most horribly embarrassing situation," she panted. She clasped her hands on her knees and the fingers began to snarl and twist, as they will when a body is under great mental stress. "You won't mind if I stay here a few minutes?"
"Not in the least, provided you give mean idea what's happened to drive you into this room." Mathison put both hands into the side-pockets of his coat.
"Couldn't it be possible to stay without explaining?" she pleaded.
Not a sign that she had been in this room less than half an hour gone. What was her game? Mathison, from the ironical spirit, passed into one of bewilderment. Her voice wasn't quite the same, either; it was higher, thinner. He was giving her rope, but so far she wasn't making any especial effort to gather it in. Very well; he would continue to play up to her lead and see where it led. But stretch his imagination to its fullest, he could not figure out what her game was.
He answered her query. "Supposing you were found here? I don't object, mind you; only, I'd like to know how to act should occasion arise."
"I ... I don't know how to begin! It will sound so silly and futile!" she faltered. Her gaze roved rather wildly about. "My husband ... he has the most violent temper and is most insanely jealous. Somehow he learned I was here—in the restaurant. I saw him as he entered the main entrance.I tried to slip out at the side ... but I was not quick enough. By this time he will have had the whole hotel by the ears. Oh, it is degrading—shameful!" The woman turned her head against her shoulder and closed her eyes. Mathison noted the plain gold band among the gems on her fingers. "I haven't done anything wrong. I like amusement; I like clothes.... I can't stand it much longer!... He keeps me shut up all the time. What's the good of clothes if you can't wear them? I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything! I wish I were dead!"
Maddening! He wanted to take hold of her and shake her. But he said, soothingly: "You don't wish that. You ought not to have run away."
"I know, but I couldn't stand a scene among all those people. I see now I've only made it worse by running!... I got into the parlor somehow. Then I saw the fire-escape. I stepped out and closed the window, but I found I didn't dare drop twelve feet or more to the sidewalk."
Mathison nodded. There was nothing else to do.
"And I made the fire-escape just intime. He came storming into the parlor, followed by a clerk and a bellboy. The shame of it! None of them thought to look out. I'd have been frozen but for this coat. Then it came to me—I was so desperate!—that I might find a window open if I climbed up.... And I saw you. I sha'n't bother you more than ten minutes.... Just enough time to get my nerves steadied. If he doesn't find me soon he'll go home. I can stand a scene there."
"Where's the other man? A fine chap, to leave you in the lurch like this!" cried Mathison, indignantly.
Her eyes opened; they expressed dismay. "Oh, but I wasn't with any one!"
"Alone? Good Lord! why did you run away?"
"He would have made a scene just the same. He would always swear that there was another man somewhere. I suppose he'll kill me some day. I ought not to have run; but I simply could not stand a scene in the restaurant!" She hunted about for a handkerchief, found one, and rubbed her cold little nose with it. "It sounds so silly, doesn't it? I don't know what to do!"
"Stay as long as you like. Shall I send for a cup of coffee? You must be frozen."
"No, no! You mustn't take the least trouble. I'm sorry. I just opened the window and stepped inside. I really had only one idea—to escape."
"Suppose you describe your husband. I'll call up the office and see if he has gone."
"Good Heavens, no!" her terror returning. "I am really lost if it should become known that I had taken a risk such as this. Besides, it might get you into trouble. Please no! Just a few minutes—ten—fifteen. He'll go when he can't find me. I'll return to the parlor by the way I came."
Why didn't she take out a revolver, cover him in the conventional style, and open the door for her friends in the hall? Or had she noticed that his right hand was still in the pocket of his coat? As a test he withdrew the hand. She did not appear to observe the movement. The word "baffled" had always appealed to him as blood-and-thunder stuff; but now he began to understand that it was a serious and substantial condition of the mind.
"You're welcome, any way you desire it. I'll tell you what. I'll write a letter I hadin mind. It will serve to relieve you of your embarrassment. It certainly will relieve mine."
He opened one of the kit-bags and dug out his letter-portfolio. He cleared a space on the table and sat down, facing the young woman, though apparently giving her no more attention. He started the letter, paused, tore up what he had written, and tossed the bits to the floor. The next attempt seemed to be successful, for he wrote several pages, finally sealing it in an envelope. Had the woman been able to read the contents of this letter she would have been profoundly astonished. It was a minute description of her, from the tortoise-shell comb in her hair to the white sandals on her feet.
He re-read the document; and as he came to the end of it he missed something, an essential which impressed him previously. Covertly he ran his glance over her again. Something was gone, but he could not tell what it was.
For all that she did not appear to be doing so, he knew that not a single move he made escaped her. Often he gazed at the kit-bags, but never did he let his glance stray anywhere near the waste-basket.
He wondered. Supposing the two visitations, the second ignoring the first as though it had never happened—supposing they had been launched for the express purpose of baffling and bewildering him, eventually causing him to lower his guard? Here at last was a solution that had a grain of sense.
Mathison rose and filled his pipe.
"You won't mind if I smoke and jog about a bit? I'm restless. I've had a long attack of insomnia."
"Please pay no attention to me."
After a glance at his watch he fell to pacing once more. But he paced in a peculiar manner—up and down the corridor wall. That is to say, he had the window and The Yellow Typhoon always under covert observation.
As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her lovely hands lay limply on her knees and her eyes were closed—or seemed to be. But each time the elevator door slammed she started nervously. Good acting, Mathison admitted. The jealous husband! He fought the desire to walk over to her, to smother her with the storm of words burning his tongue. There must be an overt act on her part first. The infernal beauty of her!
"Mat, you lubber!"
Even Mathison received a shock. He had forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang to her feet and whirled about, expecting to see some one behind her chair. She saw nothing. Bewildered, her gaze came back to Mathison, who pointed to the curtain-pole.
"A little parrot!" She sank back into the chair weakly. "I thought some one was behind me!"
"I had forgotten him."
"Chup! Chota Malachi!"
"What does he say?"
"That's Hindustani. He's telling me to be still and that he is a little bird."
"A Hindu parrot!" The woman gazed at the bird, frankly interested. "What a funny little bird! You have traveled far?"
"Half-way around the world. My train was stalled to-night; so Malachi and I concluded to spend the night in peace and quiet. I rather wanted to hear him talk. Boats and trains bother him, and he hasn't spoken for days."
"A parrot!"
"A parrakeet," he corrected.
"I never knew that men carried themabout. I thought it was always fussy old maids."
"I'm a deep-sea sailor; and we sailors are always lugging around pets for mascots. I have lived in the Orient for six years." He spoke with engaging frankness. Why not? Was there anything concerning John Mathison that she did not know?
"What do you call him?"
"Malachi."
"What does that mean?"
"You have me there. It was the name of an elephant in one of Kipling's yarns."
"I see.... What's that?" she broke off.
Mathison stood perfectly still, chin up, eyes alert. The elevator door had slammed with unusual violence. This sound was followed by another—hurrying feet. Then came a blow of a fist on the panel of the door.
"What's wanted?" demanded Mathison, coldly.
"Open the door!"
"Who is it and what is wanted?"
"Open, or we'll break in!"
The woman flew to the window. While she was lifting it Mathison spoke to her.
"You are leaving?" broadly ironical.
"My husband!... He will kill me!"
"Which husband? Hallowell, Graham, Morris?"
She sent him a glance that radiated venom. It was almost as if she had suddenly poisoned the air.
"The Yellow Typhoon! And you supposed I would not recognize you, never having seen you? I don't know what your game was in warning me. No matter. Morgan was right. He said you were a beautiful mirage at the mouth of hell."
"Open the door!" came from the hall.
The woman stepped through the window, sent it rattling to the sill; and that was the last Mathison saw of her for many hours. He walked to the door.
"I will open the door only upon one condition—that you inform me who it is and what is wanted of me," he declared, still in level tones.
"It's the house detective, and you're wanted, me Lord Mayor of London!"
Mathison thought rapidly. He attacked the affair from all angles. The house detective!
Against the door came the thud of a human body.
"Never mind breaking in the door," Mathison called. "I'll open it."
He did so; and four men came rushing in—the house detective, the manager, the inquisitive clerk, and a policeman.
"The Lord Mayor of London, huh?" bellowed the house detective. He carried a revolver. "Put up your hands!" Mathison obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his hand over Mathison's pockets and gave a cry of delight as he brought forth the heavy Colt automatic. "A gat! I thought I'd find one."
"Now then," said Mathison, still able to hold his rage in check, "be so good as to explain what the devil all this means?"
"We'll explain that in the office."
"We'll explain it here and now, or you'll have to carry me. And in that event I can promise you some excitement."
"All right, me lud. Word comes from the police headquarters to hold you and hold you good. You're 'Black' Ellison, and there's a thousand iron boys waiting to be paid over on your delivery. We'll carry you, if you say so."
So that was it! Mathison saw the whole thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyondanything he had imagined. To get him out of the room in a perfectly logical way, and then search it. He saw clearly that his own mysterious actions would be held against him. Caught! He couldn't help admiring the method. The woman to keep him interested and puzzled until they were ready to fire the train.
"Is there any reason why we can't remain here? You've got to prove that I'm the man you want."
"Orders are to take you down to the private office," said the policeman.
"No objection to my taking my things along?"
"Your things, bo, will stay right where they are until Murphy looks them over."
"How am I to know that no one will enter this room while I'm down-stairs?"
"I can promise you that," said the manager.
"Don't open the window. There's a little bird up there on the curtain-pole; and he might fly out or try to."
The visitors stared at Malachi interestedly.
"He sha'n't be touched," declared the manager, a fit of trembling seizing him. Ifthis turned out wrong and the victim came back with a suit of damages! "It's no fault of the hotel, sir. The order comes from the police."
A few words, the exhibition of a paper or two, and Mathison knew that the tide would have turned immediately in his favor. But this step he stubbornly refused to take. The spirit of the gambler who scorns to hedge. Upon leaving the security of the train he had laid his offerings at the feet of Chance. He would follow through. At any rate, he determined not to disclose his identity until he had to.
"Very well; I'll go with you. But I'll put the bird back in his cage if you don't mind."
After a bit of coaxing Malachi came down from his perch and Mathison bundled him into the cage, which he set beside the radiator. He then stepped into the corridor. But he waited to see if the manager locked the door. The manager did more than that. He gave the key to Mathison, who marched over to the elevator and pressed the button.
"A cool one," whispered the excited clerk. "Didn't I tell you there was something off-color?"
The manager made a gesture. He wasn't at all happy. People would have smiled over an elopement; but the arrest of a dangerous criminal always reacted against the hotel. "You need not worry about your belongings, sir," he said to Mathison.
"I'm not worrying. I'm going to leave that for you to do."
"Bluff won't get you anywhere," growled the house detective.
"It seems to have landed you a soft job," countered Mathison, smiling as he entered the elevator.
The clerk grinned. He and the house detective were not exactly friendly.
Once in the manager's private office, Mathison coolly appropriated the managerial chair. He kept his eye on the desk clock and appeared oblivious to the low murmurings behind his back. Five minutes—ten—fifteen; he could feel the sweat rising at the roots of his hair. Trapped! They had come at him from an original angle, and the only counter for it was the disclosure of his hand. No doubt the woman was already at work. If they took him to the police-station for the night; if the maid cleaned out the room thoroughly in the morning!
"Got him, I see!" cried a cheery voice from the doorway.
Mathison turned. He saw a small, brisk Irishman, with a humorous mouth and a pair of keenly intelligent eyes. He gave a sigh of relief. Here was some one who looked as if he had the gift of reason. Pray God that he had!
"Stand up!"
Mathison obeyed.
"Humph! Got anything to say?"
"No; except if you'll come to the room with me I'll give you the stuff. I know when I'm beaten."
"Who's this woman, Manon Roland?"
"Roland? Don't know anybody by that name."
"The woman you were asking questions about over the 'phone."
"So her name was Roland!"
"All right; we'll come back to her again. You used to travel alone. Why did you hook up? Pals always blow."
"No man is perfect. Come to my room and I'll turn the stuff over to you." Mathison wondered what it was he had stolen. "You'll never find it without my help. You and I alone. Is it a bargain?"