← catalogue

The Voice on the Wire

by Eustace Hale Ball · English · Gutenberg #5672 · 344,118 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Voice on the Wire
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Voice on the Wire

Author: Eustace Hale Ball


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5672]
                Most recently updated: March 14, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5672

Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VOICE ON THE WIRE ***




Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer











THE VOICE ON THE WIRE


By Eustace Hale Ball




CHAPTER I. WHEN THREE IS A MYSTERY



“Mr. Shirley is waiting for you in the grill-room, sir. Just step this
way, sir, and down the stairs.”

The large man awkwardly followed the servant to the cosey grill-room on
the lower floor of the club house. He felt that every man of the little
groups about the Flemish tables must be saying: “What's he doing here?”

“I wish Monty Shirley would meet me once in a while in the back room of
a ginmill, where I'd feel comfortable,” muttered the unhappy visitor.
“This joint is too classy. But that's his game to play--”

He reached the sought-for one, however, and exclaimed eagerly: “By
Jiminy, Monty. I'm glad to find you--it would have been my luck after
this day, to get here too late.”

He was greeted with a grip that made even his generous hand wince, as
the other arose to smile a welcome.

“Hello, Captain Cronin. You're a good sight for a grouchy man's eyes!
Sit down and confide the brand of your particular favorite poison to our
Japanese Dionysius!”

The Captain sighed with relief, as he obeyed.

“Bar whiskey is good enough for an old timer like me. Don't tell me you
have the blues--your face isn't built that way!”

“Gospel truth, Captain. I've been loafing around this club--nothing to
do for a month. Bridge, handball, highballs, and yarns! I'm actually a
nervous wreck because my nerves haven't had any work to do!”

“You're the healthiest invalid I've seen since the hospital days in the
Civil War. But don't worry about something to do. I've some job now.
It's dolled up with all them frills you like: millions, murders and
mysteries! If this don't keep you awake, you'll have nightmares for the
next six months. Do you want it?”

“I'm tickled to death. Spill it!”

“Monty, it's the greatest case my detective agency has had since I left
the police force eleven years ago. It's too big for me, and I've come
to you to do a stunt as is a stunt. You will plug it for me, won't
you--just as you've always done? If I get the credit, it'll mean a
fortune to me in the advertising alone.”

“Haven't I handled every case for you in confidence. I'm not a fly-cop,
Captain Cronin. I'm a consulting specialist, and there's no shingle hung
out. Perhaps you had better take it to some one else.”

Shirley pushed away his empty glass impatiently.

“There, Monty, I didn't mean to offend you. But there's such swells
in this and such a foxey bunch of blacklegs, that I'm as nervous as a
rookie cop on his first arrest. Don't hold a grudge against me.”

Shirley lit a cigarette and resumed his good nature: “Go on, Captain.
I'm so stale with dolce far niente, after the Black Pearl affair last
month, that I act like an amateur myself. Make it short, though, for I'm
going to the opera.”

The Captain leaned over the table, his face tense with suppressed
emotion. He was a grizzled veteran of the New York police force: a man
who sought his quarry with the ferocity of a bull-dog, when the line
of search was definitely assured. Lacking imagination and the subtler
senses of criminology, Captain Cronin had built up a reputation for
success and honesty in every assignment by bravery, persistence, and
as in this case, the ability to cover his own deductive weakness by
employing the brains of others.

Montague Shirley was as antithetical from the veteran detective as a man
could well be. A noted athlete in his university, he possessed a society
rating in New York, at Newport and Tuxedo, and on the Continent which
was the envy of many a gilded youth born to the purple.

On leaving college, despite an ample patrimony, he had curiously enough
entered the lists as a newspaper man. From the sporting page he was
graduated to police news, then the city desk, at last closing his career
as the genius who invented the weekly Sunday thriller, in many colors
of illustration and vivacious Gallic style which interpreted into heart
throbs and goose-flesh the real life romances and tragedies of the
preceding six days! He had conquered the paper-and-ink world--then deep
within there stirred the call for participation in the game itself.

So, dropping quietly into the apparently indolent routine of club
existence, he had devoted his experience and genius to analytical
criminology--a line of endeavor known only to five men in the world.

He maintained no offices. He wore no glittering badges: a police card,
a fire badge, and a revolver license, renewed year after year, were the
only instruments of his trade ever in evidence. Shirley took assignments
only from the heads of certain agencies, by personal arrangement as
informal as this from Captain Cronin. His real clients never knew of his
participation, and his prey never understood that he had been the real
head-hunter!

His fees--Montague Shirley, as a master craftsman deemed his artistry
worthy of the hire. His every case meant a modest fortune to the
detective agency and Shirley's bills were never rendered, but always
paid!

So, here, the hero of the gridiron and the class re-union, the gallant
of a hundred pre-matrimonial and non-maturing engagements, the veteran
of a thousand drolleries and merry jousts in clubdom--unspoiled by
birth, breeding and wealth, untrammeled by the juggernaut of pot-boiling
and the salary-grind, had drifted into the curious profession of
confidential, consulting criminal chaser.

Shirley unostentatiously signaled for an encore on the refreshments.

“You're nervous to-night, Captain. You've been doing things before you
consulted me--which is against our Rule Number One, isn't it?”

The Captain gulped down his whiskey, and rubbed his forehead.

“Couldn't help it, Monty. It got too busy for me, before I realized
anything unusual in the case. See what I got from a gangster before I
landed here.”

He turned his close-cropped head, as Montague Shirley leaned forward
to observe an abrasion at the base of his skull. It was dressed with a
coating of collodion.

“Brass knuckled--I see the mark of the rings. Tried for the
pneumogastric nerves, to quiet you.”

“Whatever he tried for he nearly got. Kelly's nightstick got his
pneumonia gas jet, or whatever you call it. He's still quiet, in the
station house--You know old man Van Cleft, who owns sky-scrapers
down town, don't you?--Well, he's the center of this flying wedge of
excitement. His family are fine people, I understand. His daughter was
to be married next week. Monty, that wedding'll be postponed, and old
Van Cleft won't worry over dispossess papers for his tenants for the
rest of the winter. See?”

“Killed?”

“Correct. He's done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body home,
before the coroner and the police reporters got on the trail.”

Shirley lowered his high-ball glass, with an earnest stare.

“What was the idea?”

“Robbery, of course. His son had me on the case--'phoned from the
garage where the chauffeur brought the body; after he saw the old man
unconscious. Just half an hour before he had left his office in the same
machine, after taking five thousand dollars in cash from his manager.”

“Who was with him?”

“Now, that's getting to brass tacks. When I gets that C.Q.D. from
Van Cleft, I finds the young fellow inside the ring of rubbernecks,
blubbering over the old man, where he lies on the floor of the
taxi--looking soused.”

“He was a notorious old sport about town, Captain.”

“Sure--and I thinks, it sorter serves him right. But, that's his
funeral, not mine. Van Cleft, junior, says to me: 'There's the girl that
was with him.'”

“Where was the girl?”

“She was sitting on a stool, near the car, a little blonde chorus
chicken, shaking and twitching, while the chauffeur and the garage boss
held her up. I says, 'What's this?' and Van Cleft tells me all he knows,
which ain't nothing. Them guys in that garage was wise, for it meant a
cold five hundred apiece before I left to keep their lids closed. Van
Cleft begs me to hustle the old man home, so one of my men takes her
down to my office, still a sniffling, and acting like she had the
D.T.'s. The young fellow shook like a leaf, but we takes him over to
Central Park East, to the family mansion,--carrying him up the steps
like he was drunk. We gets him into his own bed, and keeps the sister
from touching his clammy hands, while she orders the family doctor. When
he gets there on the jump, I gives him the wink and leads him to one
side. 'Doc,' I says, 'you know how to write out a death certificate, to
hush this up from your end. I've done the rest.'”

Captain Cronin leaned forward, a queer excitement agitating him.

“Do you know what that doctor says to me, Monty?”

Shirley shook his head.

He says; “My God, it's the third!”

Shirley's white hand gripped the edge of the table. “The Van Cleft's
doctor is one of the greatest surgeons in the country, Professor
MacDonald of the Medical College. He said that?”

“He did. I answers, 'Whadd'y mean the third?' Then he looks me straight
in the eye, and sings back, 'None of your business.'” Cronin shook
his head. “I never seen a man with a squarer look, and yet he has me
guessing. I goes back to the garage, over past Eighth Avenue, you know,
where two johns come up along side o' me. One rubs me with his elbow
and the other applies that brass knuckle,--then they gets pinched. I got
dressed up in a drug store, got the chauffeur's license number, and goes
on down to my office to see this girl. She's hysterical about his family
using all their money to put her in jail. I looks at her, and says, 'You
won't need their money to get to jail. That old man's dead!' Her eyes
was as big as saucers. 'I thought old Daddy Van Cleft was drunk.' I
tells her, 'He was dead in that taxi, with a chorus girl, and a roll of
bills gone. What you got to say?' She staggers forward and clutches my
coat, and what do you think SHE says to me?”

Shirley made the inquiry only with his eyes, puffing his cigarette
slowly.

“She looks sorter green, and repeats after me: 'Dead, with a chorus
girl, and a roll of bills gone,'--just like a parrot. Then she springs
this on me: 'My God, it's the third!'”

Shirley dropped his cigarette, leaning forward, all nonchalance gone.

“Where is she now? Quick, let's go to her.”

He rose to his feet. Just then a door-boy walked through the grill-room
toward him. “A telephone call for Captain Cronin, sir; the party said
hurry or he would miss something good.”

Shirley snapped out, “When has the rule about telephone calls in this
club been changed? You boys are never to tell any one that a member or
guest are here until the name is announced.”

He turned toward the puzzled Captain.

“Did you ask any of your operatives to call you here? You know what a
risk you are taking, to connect me with this case like that, don't you?”

“I never even breathed it to myself. I told no one.”

“Follow me up to the telephone room.”

Shirley hurried through the grill, to the switchboard, near which stood
the booths for private calls. He called to one of the operators. “Here,
let me at that switchboard.” He pushed the boy aside, and sat down in
the vacated chair.

“Which trunk is it on? Oh, I see, the second. There Captain, take the
fourth booth against the wall.”

Cronin stepped in. Shirley connected up and listened with the
transmitter of the operator at his ear, holding the line open.

“Go ahead, here's Captain Cronin!”

A pleasant voice came over the wire. It was musical and sincere.

“Hello, Captain Cronin, is that you?”

“Yes! What do you want?”

The voice continued, with a jolly laugh, ringing and infectious in its
merriment.

“Well, Captain, the joke's on you. Ha, ha, ha! It's a bully one! Ho, ho!
Ha, ha!”

“What joke?”

“You're working on the Van Cleft case. Oh, sure, you are, don't kid me
back. Well, Captain, you've missed two other perfectly good grafts. This
is the third one!”

There was a click and the speaker, with another merry gurgle, rang off.

“Quick, manager's desk,” cried Shirley, jiggling the metal key. “What
call was that? Where did it come from?”

After a little wait, a languid voice answered: “Brooklyn, Main 6969,
Party C.”

“Give me the number again--I want to speak on the wire.”

After another delay, the voice replied “The line has been discontinued.”

“I just had it! What is the name of the subscriber. Hurry, this is a
matter of life and death.”

“It's against the rules to give any further information. But our record
shows that the house burned down about two weeks ago. No one else has
been given the number. There's no instrument there!”




CHAPTER II. THE FLEETING PROMPTER


Monty's puzzled smile was in no wise reciprocated by the Captain, whose
red face evidenced a growing resentment.

He began a tirade, but a wink from the club man warned him. Shirley
replaced the receiver, and the regular attendant resumed his place
at the switchboard. The lad was curious at the unusual ability of
the wealthy Mr. Shirley to handle the bewildering maze of telephone
attachments. Monty explained, as he turned to go upstairs.

“Son, that was one of my smart friends trying to play a practical joke
on my guest. I fooled him. Don't let it happen again, until you send in
the party's name first.”

“Yes, sir,” meekly promised the boy.

“Well, Captain Cronin, as the old paperback novels used to say at the
end of the first instalment, 'The Plot thickens!' At first I thought
this case of stupid badger game--”

“You aren't going to back out, Monty? Here's a whole gang of crooks
which would give you some sport rounding up, and as for money--”

“Money is easy, from both sides of a criminal matter. What interests me
is that ghostly telephone call from a house that burned down, and the
caller's knowledge of Number Three. I'm in this case, have no fear of
that.”

Shirley led his guest to the coat room.

“I'll get a taxicab, Monty. We'd better see that girl first and then
have a look at the body.”

The Captain turned to the door, as the attendant helped Monty with his
overcoat. The waiter from the grill-room approached. “Excuse me, sir,
but the gentleman dropped his handkerchief in his chair opposite you.”

“Thank you, Gordon,” he said, as he faced the servant for an instant.
When he turned again, toward the front hall, the Captain had passed out
of view through the front door.

Shirley received a surprise when he reached the pavement on Forty-fourth
Street, for Captain Cronin was not in sight. Two club men descended the
steps of the neighboring house. Others strolled along toward the Avenue,
but not a sign of a vehicle of any description could be seen, nor was
there anything suspicious in view. Cronin had disappeared as effectually
as though he had taken a passing Zeppelin!

“I'm glad this affair will not bore me,” murmured the criminologist, as
he evolved and promptly discarded a dozen vain theories to explain the
disappearance of his companion.

Twenty minutes were wasted along the block, as he waited for some sight
or sign. Then he decided to go on up to Van Cleft's residence. But,
realizing the probability of “shadow” work upon all who came from the
door of the club, after the curious message on the wire, Shirley did not
propose to expose his hand. Walking leisurely to the Avenue, he hailed
a passing hansom. He directed the driver to carry him to an address on
Central Park West. His shrewdness was not wasted, for as he stepped into
the vehicle, he espied a slinking figure crossing the street diagonally
before him, to disappear into the shadow of an adjacent doorway. This
was the house of Reginald Van Der Voor, as Shirley knew. It was closed
because its master, a social acquaintance of the club man's, was at this
time touring the Orient in his steam yacht. No man should have entered
that doorway. So, as the horse started under the flick of the long whip,
Shirley peered unobserved through the glass window at his side.

A big machine swung up behind the hansom, at some unseen hail, and
the figure came from the doorway, leaping into the car, as it followed
Shirley up the Avenue, a block or so behind.

“It is not always so easy to follow, when the leader knows his chase,”
 thought Shirley. “I'm glad I'm only a simple club man.”

The automobile was unmistakably trailing him, as the hansom crossed the
Plaza, then sped through the Park drive, to the address he had given his
driver.

As Shirley had remembered, this was a large apartment house, in which
one of his bachelor friends lived. He knew the lay of the building well:
next door, with an entrance facing on the side street was another just
like it, and of equal height.

“Wait for me, here,” said Shirley. “I'll pay you now, but want to go to
an address down town in five minutes.”

He gave the driver a bill, then entered and told the elevator man to
take him to the ninth floor.

“There's nobody in, boss,” began the boy. But Shirley shook his head.

“My friend is expecting me for a little card game, that's why you think
he is out. Just take me up.”

He handed the negro a quarter, which was complete in its logic.

As he reached the floor, he waved to the elevator operator. “Go on
down, and don't let any one else come up, for Mr. Greenough doesn't want
company.”

As the car slid down, Shirley fumbled along the familiar hall to the
iron stairs which led to the roof of the building. Up these he hurried,
thence out upon the roof. It was a matter of only four minutes before
he had crossed to the next apartment building, opened the door of the
roof-entry, found the stairs to the ninth floor, and taken this elevator
to the street.

He walked out of the building, and turned toward Central Park West, to
slyly observe the entrance of the building where waited the faithful
hansom Jehu. A young man was in conversation with the driver, and the
big automobile could be seen on the other side of the street awaiting
further developments.

“He has a long vigil there,” laughed Shirley. “Now, for the real
address. I think I lost the hounds for this time.”

Another vehicle took him through the Park to the darkened mansion of
the Van Clefts'. Here, Shirley's card brought a quick response from the
surprised son of the dead millionaire.

“Why--why--I'm glad to see you, Mr. Shirley--Who sent you?” he began.

Shirley registered complete surprise. “Sent me, my dear Van Cleft? Who
should send me? For what? It just happened that I was walking up the
Avenue, and to-morrow night I plan to give a little farewell supper
to Hal Bingley, class of '03, at the club You knew him in College? I
thought you might like to come.”

“Step in the library,” requested Van Cleft, weakly. “Sit down, Mr.
Shirley--I'm upset to-night.”

He mopped his brow with a damp handkerchief, and Shirley's big heart
went out to the young chap, as he saw the haggard lines of horror and
grief on his usually pleasant face.

“What's the trouble, old man? Anything I can do?”

“My father just died this evening, and I'm in awful trouble--I thought
it was the Coroner, or the police--” he bit his tongue as the last
words escaped him. Shirley put his hand on Van Cleft's shoulder, with an
inspiring firmness.

“Tell me how I can help. You've had a big shock. Confide in me, and I
pledge you my word, I'll keep it safer than any one you could go to.”

Van Cleft groped as a drowning man, at this opportunity. He caught
Shirley's hand and wrung it tensely.

“Sit down. The doctor is still upstairs with mother and sister. When the
Coroner comes, I would like to have you be here as a witness. It's an
ordeal--I'll tell you everything.”

Shirley listened attentively, without betraying his own knowledge.
Soothing in manner, he questioned the son about any possible enemy of
the murdered man.

“There's not one I know. Dad is popular--he's been too gay, lately,
but just foolish like a lot of rich men. He wouldn't harm any one. He
inherited his money, you know. Didn't have to crush the working people.
Like me, he's been endeavoring to spend it ever since he was born, but
it comes in too fast from our estates.”

He looked up apprehensively, at the sympathetic face of his companion.

“It's very unwise to tell this. I suppose it's a State's prison offence
to deceive about murder. But you understand our position: we can't
afford to let it become gossip. I'll pay this girl anything to go to
Europe or the Antipodes!”

“I wouldn't do that,” suggested Shirley, thoughtfully. “Let her stay.
You would like to bring the culprit to justice, if it can be done
without dragging your name into it. If he has planned this, he has
executed other schemes. She certainly would not remain the machine if
she were the guilty one. Why not employ a good detective?”

“I did, but hesitated to tell you. I secured Captain Cronin, of the
Holland Agency. He's managed everything so far--I was too rattled
myself. But, I wonder why he isn't here now? He was to return as soon as
he visited the garage.”

As Van Cleft spoke, the butler approached with hesitation.

“Beg pardon, sir. But you are wanted on the telephone, sir.”

“All right, Hoskins. Connect it with the library instrument.”

Van Cleft lifted the receiver nervously, and answered in an unsteady
voice.

“Yes--This is Van Cleft's residence.”

Silence for a bit, then the wire was busy.

“What's that? Captain Cronin? What about him? Let me speak to him.”

Shirley was alert as a cat. Van Cleft was too dazed to understand his
sudden move, as the criminologist caught up the receiver, and placed his
palm for an instant over the mouthpiece.

“Ask him to say it again--that you didn't understand.” Shirley removed
his hand, and obeyed. Shirley held the receiver to his ear, as the young
man spoke. Then he heard these curious words: “You poor simp, you'd
better get that family doctor of yours to give you some ear medicine,
and stop wasting time with the death certificate. I told you that Cronin
was over in Bellevue Hospital with a fractured skull. Unless you drop
this investigating, you'll get one, too. Ta, ta! Old top!”

The receiver was hung up quickly at the other end of the line.

Shirley gave a quick call for “Information,” and after several minutes
learned that the call came from a drug store pay-station in Jersey City!

The melodious tones were unmistakably those of the speaker who had used
the wire from faraway Brooklyn where the house had been burned down!
It was a human impossibility for any one to have covered the distance
between the two points in this brief time, except in an aeroplane!

Van Cleft wondered dumbly at his companion's excitement. Shirley caught
up the telephone again.

“Some one says that Cronin is at Bellevue Hospital, injured. I'll find
out.”

It was true. Captain Cronin was lying at point of death, the ward nurse
said, in answer to his eager query. At first the ambulance surgeon had
supposed him to be drunk, for a patrolman had pulled him out of a dark
doorway, unconscious.

“Where was the doorway? This is his son speaking, so tell me all.”

“Just a minute. Oh! Here is the report slip. He was taken from the
corner of Avenue A and East Eleventh Street. You'd better come down
right away, for he is apt to die tonight. He's only been here ten
minutes.”

“Has any one else telephoned to find out about him?”

“No. We didn't even know his name until just as you called up, when we
found his papers and some warrants in a pocketbook. How did you know?”

But Shirley disconnected curtly, this time. He bowed his head in
thought, and then, with his usual nervous custom, fumbled for a
cigarette. Here was the Captain, whom he had left on Forty-fourth
Street, near Fifth Avenue, a short time before, discovered fully three
miles away.

And the news telephoned from Jersey City, by the fleeting magic voice
on the wire. Even his iron composure was stirred by this weird
complication.

“I wonder!” he murmured. He had ample reason to wonder.




CHAPTER III. THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER


“Well, Mr. Shirley, your coming here was a Godsend! I don't know what
to do now. The newspapers will get this surely. I depended on Cronin: he
must have been drinking.”

Shirley shook his head, as he explained, “I know Cronin's reputation,
for I was a police reporter. He is a sterling man. There's foul work
here which extends beyond your father's case. But we are wasting time.
Why don't you introduce me to your physician? Just tell him about
Cronin, and that you have confided in me completely.”

Van Cleft went upstairs without a word. Unused to any worry, always able
to pay others for the execution of necessary details, this young man was
a victim of the system which had engulfed his unfortunate sire in the
maelstrom of reckless pleasure.

By his ingenuous adroitness, it may be seen, Shirley was inveigling
himself into the heart of the affair, in his favorite disguise as that
of the “innocent bystander.” His innate dramatic ability assisted him
in maintaining his friendly and almost impersonal role, with a success
which had in the past kept the secret of his system from even the
evildoers themselves.

“A little investigation of the telephone exchanges during the next day
or two will not be wasted time,” he mused. “I'll get Sam Grindle, their
assistant advertising manager to show me the way the wheels go 'round.
No man can ride a Magic Carpet of Bagdad over the skyscrapers in these
days of shattered folklore.”

Howard Van Cleft returned with the famous surgeon, Professor MacDonald.
He was elderly, with the broad high forehead, dignity of poise, and
sharpness of glance which bespeaks the successful scientist. His face,
to-night, was chalky and the firm, full mouth twitched with nervousness.
He greeted Shirley abstractedly. The criminologist's manner was that of
friendly anxiety.

“You are here, sir, as a friend of the family?”

“Yes. Howard has told me of the terrible mystery of this case. As an
ex-newspaper man I imagine that my influence and friendships may keep
the unpleasant details from the press.”

“That is good,” sighed the doctor, with relief. “How soon will you do
it?”

“Now, using this telephone. No, for certain reasons, I had better use an
outside instrument. I will call up men I know on each paper, as though
this were a 'scoop,' so that knowing me, they will be confident that
I tell them the truth as a favor. Such deceit is excusable under the
circumstances. It may eventually bring the murderer to justice.”

Professor MacDonald winced at the word. He turned toward Van Cleft, on
sudden thought, remarking: “Howard your mother and sister may need the
comfort of your presence. I will chat with your friend until the Coroner
comes.”

The physician sank into a library chair. The criminologist quietly
awaited his cue. He lit a cigarette and the minutes drifted past with no
word between them. The doctor's gaze lowered to the vellum-bound books
on the carven table, then to the gorgeous pattern of the Kermansha at
his feet. Once more he studied the face of his companion, with the keen,
soul-gripping scrutiny of the skilled physician. As last he arrived at a
definite conclusion. He cleared his throat, and fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket for a cigar. A swiftly struck match in Monty's hand was held
up so promptly to the end of the cigar, that the doctor's lips had not
closed about it. This deftness, simple in itself, did not escape the
observation of the scientist. He smiled for the first time during their
interview.

“Your reflex nerves are very wide awake for a quiet man. I believe I can
depend upon those nerves, and your quietude. May I ask what occupation
you follow, if any? Most of Howard's friends follow butterflies.”

“I am one of them, then. Some opera, more theatricals, much art gallery
touring. A little regular reading in my rooms, and there you are! My
great grandfather was too poor a trader to succeed in pelts, so he
invested a little money in rocky pastures around upper Manhattan: this
has kept the clerks of the family bankers busy ever since. I am an
optimistic vagabond, enjoying life in the observation of the rather
ludicrous busyness of other folk. In short, Doctor, I am a corpulent
Hamlet, essentially modern in my cultivation of a joy in life, debating
the eternal question with myself, but lazily leaving it to others to
solve. Therein I am true to my type.”

“Pardon my bluntness,” observed MacDonald, watching him through
partially closed eyes. “You are not telling the truth. You are a busy
man, with definite work, but that is no affair of mine. I recognize in
you a different calibre from that of these rich young idlers in Howard's
class. I am going to take you into my confidence, for you understand the
need for secrecy, and will surely help in every way--noblesse oblige.
This man Cronin, the detective, was rather crude.”

“He is honest and dependable,” replied Shirley, loyally.

“Yes, but I wonder why professional detectives are so primitive. They
wear their calling cards and their business shingles on their figures
and faces. Surely the crooks must know them all personally. I read
detective stories, in rest moments, and every one of the sleuths lives
in some well-known apartment, or on a prominent street. Some day we
may read of one who is truly in secret service, but not until after his
death notice. But there, I am talking to quiet my own nerves a bit,--now
we will get to cases.”

The doctor dropped his cigar into the bronze tray on the table, leaning
forward with intense earnestness, as he continued.

“This, Mr. Shirley, is the third murder of the sort within a week.
Wellington Serral, the wealthy broker, came to a sudden death in a
private dining room last Monday, in the company of a young show girl.
He was a patient of mine, and I signed the death certificate as
heart failure, to save the honorable family name for his two orphaned
daughters.

“Herbert de Cleyster, the railroad magnate, died similarly in a taxicab
on Thursday. He was also one of my patients. There, too, was concerned
another of these wretched chorus girls. To-night the fatal number of the
triad was consummated in this cycle of crime. To maintain my loyalty
to my patients I have risked my professional reputation. Have I done
wrong?”

“No! The criminal shall be brought to justice,” replied Shirley in a
voice vibrant with a profound determination which was not lost upon his
companion.

“Are you powerful enough to bring this about, without disgracing me
or betraying this sordid tragedy to the morbid scandal-rakers of the
papers?”

“I will devote every waking hour to it. But, like you, my efforts must
remain entirely secret. I vow to find this man before I sleep again!”

“You are determined--yet it cannot be one single man. It must be an
organized gang, for all the crimes have been so strangely similar,
occurring to three men who are friends, and entrez nous, notorious for
their peccadilloes. The girls must be in the vicious circle, and ably
assisted. But there is one thing I forgot to tell you, which you forgot
to ask.”

“And this is?”

“How they died. It was by some curious method of sudden arterial
stoppage. Old as they were, some fiendish trick was employed so
skilfully that the result was actual heart failure. There was no trace
of drugs in lungs or blood. On each man's breast, beneath the sternum
bone I found a dull, barely discernible bruise mark, which I later
removed by a simple massage of the spot!”

Shirley closed his eyes, and passed his hand over his own chest--along
the armpits--behind his ears--he seemed to be mentally enumerating some
list of nerve centers. The physician observed him curiously.

“I have it, doctor! The sen-si-yao!”

“What do you mean?”

“The most powerful and secret of all the death-strokes of the Japanese
art of jiu-jitsu fighting. I paid two thousand dollars to learn the
course from a visiting instructor when I was in college. It was worth it
for this one occasion.”

Shirley arose to his feet, and approached the other, touching his
shoulder.

“Stand up, if you please. Let me ask if this was the location of the
mark?”

The physician, interested in this new professional phase, readily
obeyed. One quick movement of Shirley's muscular hand, the thumb oddly
twisted and stiffened, and a sudden jab in the doctor's abdomen made
that gentleman gasp with pain. Shirley's expression was triumphant, but
the professor regarded him with an expression of terror.

“Oh! Ugh!--What-did-you-do-to me?” he murmured thickly, when he was at
last able to speak.

“Merely demonstrated the beginning of the death punch which I named.
That pressure if continued for half a minute would have been fatal.”

“I wish you would teach me that,” was the physician's natural request,
as he nodded with a wry face.

“Impossible, my dear sir, for I learned it, according to the Oriental
custom under the most sacred obligations of secrecy. One must advance
through the whole course, by initiatory degrees, before learning the
final mysteries of the samurais. Now, we have a working hypothesis. The
girls could never have accomplished this. One man and one alone must
have killed the three, although doubtless with confederates. Yamashino
assured me that there were only six men in this country who knew it
beside myself. We must find an Orientalist!”

Shirley paced the floor, but his meditations were interrupted by the
arrival of the Coroner and his physician. Van Cleft hurried into the
room with them, to present the doctor, who exchanged a formal greeting
with the men he had met twice before that week.

“A sad affair, Professor,” observed the Coroner nervously, drinking in
with profound respect the magnificent surroundings which symbolized
the great wealth of which he secretly hoped to gain a tithing. “I trust
that, as usual, in such cases, I may suggest an undertaker?”

“Why--talk about that at once, sir?” asked Howard with a shudder.

The physician, familiar with the subtleties of coroners, gently placed
an arm about the young man's shoulder. He nodded, understandingly, to
the Coroner, as he turned toward Shirley.

“I must be going now,” the latter interposed. “Just a word with you,
Howard, that I may send a message to your mother and sister.”

The physician led away the two officials as Shirley continued: “I must
go to see Cronin--deserted there like a run-over mongrel on the street.
Can I leave this house by the rear, so that none shall know of my
assistance in the case, or follow me to the hospital? If you can secure
an old hat and coat, I will leave my own, with my stick, to get them
some other time.”

“I will get some from the butler, if you wait just a moment. You can
leave by the rear yard, if you don't mind climbing a high board fence.”

Van Cleft hurried downstairs, in a few minutes, bearing a weather-beaten
overcoat and an English cap, which Shirley drew down over his ears. With
the coat on, he looked very unlike the well-groomed club man who had
entered. Unseen by Van Cleft he shifted an automatic revolver into the
coat pocket from the discarded garment.

“Now, Mr. Shirley, come this way. Follow the rear area-way, across to
the next yard, where after another climb you find a vacant lot where the
Schuylers are preparing to erect their new city house. Will you attend
to everything?”

“Everything. I'll start sooner than you expect.”

Truly he did! For no sooner had he descended the second fence into the
empty lot than a stinging blow sent him at full length on the rocky
ground, where the excavations were already being started. Two men
pounced upon him in a twinkling--only his great strength, acquired
through the football years, saved him from immediate defeat. His
head throbbed, and he was dizzy as he caught the wrist of the nearest
assailant with a quick twist which resulted in a sudden, sickening
crunch. The man groaned in agony, but his companion kicked with
heavy-shod feet at the prostrate man. Shirley's left hand duplicated
the vice-like grip upon the ankle of the standing assailant, and his
deftness caused another tendon strain! Both men toppled to the ground,
now, and before they realized it Shirley had reversed the advantage.
His automatic emphasized his superiority of tactics. He understood their
silence, broken only by muted groans: they feared the police, even as
did he, although for different reasons. He “frisked” the man nearest him
upon the ground, and captured deftly the rascal's weapon: then he sprang
up covering the twain.

“Get up! Youse guys is poachin' in de wrong district--dis belongs to de
Muggins gang. I'll fix youse guys fer buttin' in. Up, dere!” His hands
went into his coat pockets, but the men knew that they were still
pointing at them, the gunman's “cover” as it is called. They staggered
sullenly to their feet. He beckoned with his head, toward the front of
the lot. They followed the silent instructions, one limping while his
mate wrung the injured wrist in agony.

Directly before the lot stood a throbbing, empty automobile. Shirley
decided to take another car--he could not guard them and drive at the
same time.

“Down to Fift' Avnoo,” he ordered. “I got two guns--not a woid
from youse!” His erstwhile amiable physiognomy, now gnarled into an
unrecognizable mask of low villainy bespoke his desperate earnestness.
The men obeyed. This was apparently a gangster, of gangsters--their fear
of the dire vengeance of a rival organization of cut-throats instilled
an obedience more humble than any other threats.

Toward the Park side they advance, one leaning heavily upon the other.
Shirley, his broad shoulders hunched up; with the collar drawn high
about his neck, the murderous looking cap down over his eyes, followed
them doggedly.

A big limousine was speeding down the Avenue from some homing theater
party. Shirley hailed it with an authoritive yell which caused the
chauffeur to put on a quick brake.

“Git out dere,--no gun play. Up inter dat car!” he added, as they
approached the machine.

“Say, what you drivin' at?” cried the driver, queruously. “Is this a
hold-up?” It was a puzzling moment, but the criminologist's calm bravado
saved the situation: as luck would have it no policemen were in sight,
to spoil the maneuver.

“No,” and he assumed a more natural voice and dialect. “I'm a detective.
These men were just house-breaking, and I got them. There's twenty-five
dollars in it for you, if you take us down to the Holland Detective
Agency, in ten minutes.”

“He's kiddin' ye, feller,” snapped out one man.

“Don't fall fen him, yen boob!” sung out the other.

But Shirley's automatic now appeared outside the coat pocket. The
chauffeur realized that here was serious gaming. With his left hand
Shirley jerked out the ever ready police card and fire badge, which
seemed official enough to satisfy the driver.

“Quick now, or I'll run you in, too, for refusing to obey an officer.
You men climb into that back seat. Driver, beat it now to Thirty-nine
West Forty Street, if you need that twenty-five dollars. I'll sit with
them. I don't want any interference so I can come back and nab the rest
of their gang.”

His authoritative manner convinced this new ally, and he climbed into
the car, facing his prisoners, with the two weapons held down below the
level of the windows. Pedestrians and other motorists little recked what
strange cargo was borne as the car raced down the broad thoroughfare.

In nine minutes they drew up before the Holland Agency, a darkened,
brown front house of ancient architecture. The chauffeur sprang out to
swing back the door.

“Go up the steps, and tell the doorman that Captain Cronin wants two men
to bring down their guns and handcuffs and get two prisoners. Quick!”

The street was not empty, even at this hour. Yet the passersby did not
realize the grim drama enacted inside the waiting machine. Hours seemed
to pass before Cronin's men returned with the driver, as much surprised
by the three strange faces within the machine, as he had been.

“You take these men upstairs and keep them locked up,” bluntly commanded
the criminologist. “They're nabbed on the new case of the Captain's
which started to-night, I'm going over to Bellevue to see him.” His
voice was still disguised, his features twisted even yet.

The men gave him a curious glance, and then obeyed. As they disappeared
behind the heavy wooden door, Shirley stepped into a dark hallway, close
by. He lit a wax match to give him light for the choosing of the right
amount, from the roll of bills which he drew forth. The chauffeur
whistled with surprise at the size of the denominations. The twenty-five
were handed over.

“Thanks very much, my friend,” and the face unsnarled itself, into the
amiable lines of the normal. The voice was agreeable and smooth, which
surprised the man the more. “You took me out of a ticklish situation
tonight. I don't want any mere policemen to spoil my little game. Please
oil up your forgettery with these, and then--forget!”

“Say, gov'nor,” retorted the driver, as he put the money into the band
of his leather cap. “I ain't seen so much real change since my boss got
stung on the war. I ain't so certain but what you was the gink robbin'
that house, at that. But that's them guys funeral if you beat 'em to
it. Good-night--much obliged. But I got to slip it to you, gov'nor--you
ain't none of them Central Office flat-feet, sure 'nuff! If you are a
detective, you're some fly cop!”




CHAPTER IV. A SCIENTIFIC NOVELTY


In a private ward room at Bellevue Hospital, Captain Cronin was just
returning to memory of himself and things that had been. Shirley arrived
at his cot-side as he was being propped up more comfortably. The older
man's face broke into game smiles, as the criminologist took the chair
provided by the pretty nurse.

“Thanks, I'll have a little chat with my friend, if you don't think it
will do him any harm.”

“He is better now, sir. We feared he was fatally injured when they
brought him in. I'll be outside in the corridor if you need anything.”

She left not without an admiring look at the big chap, wondering why he
wore such disreputable superstructure with patent leather pumps and
silk hose showing below the ragged overcoat. Strange sights come to
hospitals, curiosity frequently leading to unprofitable knowledge: so
she was silently discreet. Shirley's garb was not unobserved by the
detective chief. Monty laughed reminiscently at the questioning glance.

“These are my working clothes--a fine combination. I nabbed two of the
gang. But what became of you?”

“Outside that club door, I wanted to save time for us both. I took
the first taxi in sight. Before I could even call out to you, the door
slammed on me, the shades flopped down, the car started up--the next
thing I knew this here nurse was sticking a spoon in my mouth, a-saying:
'Take this--it's fine for what ails you!'”

“I wonder if it could have been the same machine they left at Van
Cleft's? I will tell you how things progressed.” So he did, leaving
out only the confidence of Professor MacDonald. The Captain became
feverishly excited, until Shirley abjured him to beware of a relapse.
“You must be calm, for the next twenty-four hours: there will be much
for you to do, even then. Meanwhile, let me call up your agency; then
you give them instructions over this table telephone to let Howard Van
Cleft interview the little chorus girl, with his friend. I'll be the
friend.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to be snowed under in this case, Monty. The finest
job I've had these dozen years. But you're square, and will do all you
can.”

“Old friend, I'll do what I can to make Van Cleft and the newspapers
sure that you are the most wonderful sleuth inside or outside the public
library. Here's your office--speak up. Let me lift you.”

“Hello Pat!” called Cronin, as his superintendent came to the 'phone. “I
am detained at Bellevue, so that I can't be there when Van Cleft comes
down. Let him Third Degree that little Jane from the garage. Keep them
two men apart, too--oh, that's all right, the fellow is a friend of mine
on the 'Frisco police force. He won't butt in.” Silence for a moment,
then: “Oh, shucks, let 'em yowl! They've got more than kidnapping to
worry about for the next twenty-five years.”

He hung up the receiver, sinking back on his pillows wan from the
strain. Monty handed him a glass of water, and adjusted the bandages
with a hand as tender as a woman's. He lifted the instrument again.

“You are sterling, twenty-two carat and a yard wide, Captain! Now, get
to sleep while I find out who the ring-master is. I've sworn to keep
awake until I do. I think it well to telephone Van Cleft, and arrange
for a better get-a-way for us both.”

He was soon talking with the son of the murdered man. “Meet me down at
the Vanderbilt Hotel--ask for Mr. Hepburn's room, and send up the name
of Williams. See you in an hour. Good-bye.”

Hanging up the receiver, he turned toward the door, after a friendly pat
on Cronin's shoulder. The bell rang, and the Captain reached for it, to
sink back exhausted upon the bed. Shirley answered, to be greeted by a
pleasant feminine voice.

“Is this Captain Cronin?”

Instantly the criminologist replied affirmatively, suiting his tones as
best he could to the gruff voice of the detective chief, with a wink at
that worthy.

“I just called up, Captain, to ask about you--Oh, you don't recognize my
voice. I'm Miss Wilberforce, private secretary to Mr. Van Cleft. Has any
one been to see you yet? I understand that you are very busy, and have
already missed two other good cases, this one being the THIRD! Well,
don't hurry, Captain. You may get the rest to come--if you live long
enough. Good-bye!”

Shirley looked at Cronin, startled. Another mention of the mystic
number. He called for information about the origin of the call.

“Lordee, son! Are they at it again?” asked Cronin in disgust.

“Yes--overdoing it. One thing is clear, that whoever is behind this
telephone trickery is very clever, and very conceited over that
cleverness. It may be a costly vanity. Yes, information?”

“The call was from Rector 2190-D. The American Sunday School
Organization, sir--It doesn't answer now; the office must be closed.”

Shirley put the instrument down, with a smile on his pursed lips. He
waved a good natured farewell to his friend, as he drew the cap down
over his eyes.

“Look a little happier, Captain. I'll send down some fruit and a special
vintage from our club which has bottled up in it the sunlight of a
dozen years in Southern France. I hope they keep the telephone wires
busy--they may tangle themselves up in their own spider-web!”

Leaving the hospital, he hurried to the hotel. One of his secret
idiosyncracies was a custom of “living around” at a number of hotels,
under aliases. Maintaining pleasant suites in each, he kept full
supplies of linen and garments, while effectively blotting out his own
identity for “doubling” work.

He was known as “Mr. Hepburn” here, and entering the side door he was
subjected to the curious gaze of only one servant, the operator of the
small elevator. Once in the shelter of his quarters he rummaged through
some scrap-books for data--he found it in a Sunday feature story
published a month before in a semi-theatrical paper. It described with
rollicking sarcasm, a gay “millionaire” party which had been given in
Rector's private dining rooms. Among the ridiculed hosts were Van Cleft,
Wellington Serral and Herbert De Cleyster! Here, in some elusive manner,
ran the skein of truth which if followed would lead to the solution of
mystery. He must carve out of this mass of pregnant clues the essentials
upon which to act, as the sculptor chisels the marble of a huge block to
expose the figure of his inspiration, encased there all the time!

“To find out the source of their golden-haired nymphs for this
merry-merry, that is the question! Some stage doorkeeper might be
persuaded to unburden what soul he has left!”

He jotted in his memorandum book the names of the other eight wealthy
men who were pilloried by the journalist. The younger men,
Shirley felt sure, were of that peculiarly Manhattanse type of
hanger-on--well-groomed, happy-go-hellward youths who danced, laughed
and drank well,--so essential to the philanderings of these rich old
Harlequins and their gilded Columbines. As he scribbled, the telephone
of the room tinkled its summons.

He started toward it: then his invaluable intuition prompted him to
walk into the adjoining room, where another instrument stood on a small
table, handy to the bed. Only two people could possibly know he was
there. Van Cleft could not have arrived, as yet. The other bell jingled
impatiently, but Shirley finally heard the voice of the switch-board
girl.

“I'm trying to get you on the other wire, sir. There's a call.”

“Don't connect me,” he hurriedly ordered, “except to open the switch, so
I may listen. If I hang up without a word, tell the party I will be back
in twenty minutes.”

With a hotel telephone girl tact is more important than even the
knowledge of wire-knitting. It was the woman's voice which he had heard
at the hospital. Captain Cronin was anxious to speak to Mr. Williams,
who was calling on Mr. Hepburn! With the biggest jolt of this day of
surprises Shirley disconnected and whistled. Again he laughed--with that
grim chuckle which was so characteristic of his supreme battling mood!
They had found the trail even quicker than he had expected. Fortunate
it was that he had not mentioned his own name in telephoning from
the hospital to Howard. Not a wire was safe from these mysterious
eaves-droppers now. He hurried into a business suit, and left the hotel,
to walk over Thirty-fourth Street to the studio of his friend, Hammond
Bell. Here he was admitted, to find the portrait-painter finishing a
solitary chafing-dish supper.

“Delighted, Monty! Join me in the encore on this creamed chicken and
mushrooms!”

“Too rich for my primitive blood, Hammond. I'm in a hurry to get a
favor.”

“I've received enough at your hands--say the word.”

“Simply this: I want to experiment with sound waves. I remembered that
once in a while some of these wild Bohemian friends of yours warbled
post-impressionist love-songs into your phonograph. It stood the strain,
and so must be a good one. It is too late now to get one in a shop; will
you lend me the whole outfit, with the recording attachment as well, for
to-night and to-morrow?”

“The easiest thing you know. Let's slide it into this grip--you can
carry the horn.”

Three minutes later Shirley made his exit, and soon was shaking hands
with Van Cleft in his own room at the hotel. He sketched his idea
hurriedly, as he adjusted the instrument on the dressing-table near the
telephone.

“When the call comes, be sure to say: 'Get closer, I can't hear you.'
That's the method, and it's so simple it is almost silly.” They were
barely ready when the bell warned them. At Van Cleft's reply, when the
call for “Mr. Williams” Shirley pushed the horn close to the telephone
receiver. Van Cleft twisted it, so as to give the best advantage, and
demanded that the speaker come closer to the 'phone.

“Can you hear me now?” asked the feminine voice. “Do you hear me now?”

“No, speak louder. This is Mr. Williams. Speak up. I can't understand
you.” The voice was petulant and so distinct that even Shirley could
hear it, as he knelt by the side of the phonograph. Again Van Cleft
insisted on his deafness. There was the suggestion of a break in the
voice which brought to Shirley's eyes the sparkle of a presentiment of
success. At last Van Cleft admitted that he could hear.

“Well, you fool, I've a message for your friend Mr. Van Cleft.”

“Which one?” was the innocent inquiry, as he forgot for an instant that
now he was the sole bearer of that name.

“The one that's left. Tell him there will be none left if he continues
this gum-shoe work. He had better let well enough alone, and let that
little girl get out of town as soon as possible. The papers will go
crazy over a scandal like this, and some one is apt to grab Van Cleft.
That's all. Good-bye!”

Silently Shirley shut off the lever of the machine, to catch up the
receiver. As before his endeavor to locate the call resulted in a new
address: this time in the Bronx!

“Ah, the lady leaps from the business district to the Bronx in half an
hour. That is what I call some traveling.”

Van Cleft studied him with open mouth, as he withdrew the phonograph
record, coating it with the preservative to make the tiny lines
permanent.

“In the name of common sense, who was that? And what's this phonograph
game?” he demanded.

“The second question may answer the first before sunrise, unless I am
badly mistaken. I have heard an old adage which declares that if you
give a man long enough rope he will hang himself. My new application is
that you let him talk enough he is apt to sing his own swan song, for a
farewell perch on the electric chair at Sing Sing!”

Then he lit a cigarette and packed up the phonograph.




CHAPTER V. THE MISBEHAVIOR OF THE 'PHONE


Still befuddled by the unusual events of the day, Howard Van Cleft was
unable to delight in a theoretical discovery. Personal fear began to
manifest itself.

“Mr. Shirley, you're going at this too strong. We know the guilty
party--this miserable girl in the machine. We want to hush it up and let
things go at that.”

“We're hushing it, aren't we?” demanded Shirley, as he placed the record
in the grip. “Don't you see the wisdom of knowing who may systematically
blackmail you after secrecy is obtained. This is a matter of the future,
as well as the present.”

“But I don't want to lose my own life--I am young, with life before me,
and I want to let well enough alone, after these threats.”

“I am afraid that you have a yellow streak.” His lip curled as he
studied the pallid features of the heir to the Van Cleft millions.
Fearless himself, he could still understand the tremors of this
care-free butterfly: yet he knew he must crush the dangerous thoughts
which were developing. “If you mistrust me, hustle for yourself. You
have the death-certificate, the services will be over in a few days, and
then you will have enough money to live on your father's yacht or terra
firma for the rest of your life, in the China Sea, or India, as far away
from Broadway chorus girls as you want. That might be safe.”

He gazed out of the window, toward the twinkling lights far away across
the East River. His sarcasm made Van Cleft wince as though from a whip
lash. The latter mopped his forehead and tried to steady his voice, as
he replied with all humility.

“You're a brick, and I don't mean to offend you. Today has been
terrible, you know: this tornado has swept me from my moorings. I don't
know where to turn.”

“I am thoughtless,” and Shirley's warm hand grasped the flaccid fingers
of the young man. “Forgive me for letting my interest run away with my
sympathies. I'm thinking of the future, more than mere protection from
newspaper scandal. This crime is so ingenious that I believe it has a
more powerful motive than mere robbery. You are now at the head of a
great house of finance and society. You must guard your mother and your
sister, and those yet to come. A deadly snake is writhing its slimy
trail somewhere: here--there--'round about us! Who knows where it will
strike next? Who knows how far that blow may reach--even unto China, or
wherever you run?”

He hesitated, studying the effect upon Van Cleft, who dropped limply
into a chair, his eyes dark with terror. The psychological ruse had won.
Selfish cowardice, which temporarily threatened to ruin his campaign,
now gave way to the instinct of a fighting defense.

“There, Van Cleft, it is ghastly. You have the significance now: we must
scotch the snake. That girl is over at the Holland Agency, and we should
see her at once, to learn what she knows. Cronin has arranged for my
coming with you, so introduce me under my real name.

“Wait here fifteen minutes after I leave, so that I may get the
phonograph in readiness, for you will undoubtedly be shadowed, and that
may mean another telephone call. You were not a coward in college--I do
not believe you are one now!”

Van Cleft straightened up proudly.

“No, I will fight them with all I have. But why these phonograph
records: isn't one enough?”

“No, I want autographs of all the voices. I will go now. Don't hurry in
following me. Do not fear to let any shadowers see you--it will help us
along.”

Before many minutes he had been admitted to the corridor of the Holland
Agency by a sharp-nosed individual who regarded him with suspicion. The
operatives were undoubtedly expecting trouble from all quarters, for
three other large men of the “bull” type, heavy-jowled, ponderous men,
surrounded him as he presented his card.

“I am the friend of Howard Van Cleft, about whom Captain Cronin
telephoned you from Bellevue. I am to help him interview the girl: may I
wait until he arrives?”

“Oh, you're wise to the case? Sure then, come into the reception room on
the right. What's that in your grip?” asked the apparent leader of the
men.

“Just an idea of Van Cleft's,” said Shirley, as he followed into the
adjoining compartment. “It's a phonograph. Have you received any phoney
'phone calls to-night? Queer ones that you didn't expect and couldn't
explain? Van Cleft has, and he decided to take records of them on this
machine.”

The superintendent nodded. Shirley opened the grip and drew out the
instrument, and made ready on the small table, near which was the desk
telephone.

“Let's get this in readiness then, and if you get any calls have them
switched up to this instrument, so that when you talk, you can hold the
receiver handy to the horn.”

“Young feller, I think you must know more about this business than
you've a right to. Just keep your hands above the table--I think I'll
frisk you!”

“No need,” snapped Shirley with a smile in his eyes, and the automatic
revolver was drawn and covering the detective before he could reach
forward. “But I have no designs on you. You will have to work quicker
than that with some people in this case.”

He slid the weapon across the table to the other who snatched it
anxiously.

“If a call comes and you don't recognize the voice at once, please ask
the party to come closer to the 'phone, to speak louder--listen, there
is the bell now! Get it connected here at once!”

The surprised superintendent, fearing that after all he might miss
some good lead, yielded to his professional curiosity against his
professional prejudices. He bawled down the hall.

“Switch on up here, Mike. I'll talk.” He caught up the instrument, as
Shirley dropped to his knees beside him, to swing the horn into place.

“What's that?” he shouted over the wire. “Yes, shure it is--What's that
you say?--I don't get you, cull--You want to speak to the girl?--What
girl?--Talk louder. Hire a hall!--Say, I ain't no mind reader! Speak
up.”

Over the instrument came the phrase once more: “Can you hear me now?”

It was the man's voice! Shirley was exultant.

“Yes, I hear you. What do you want?”

“I want to call for my sister, if you're going to let her go. I want--”

An inspiration prompted Shirley to press down the prongs of the
receiver. The connection was stopped, and the superintendent turned upon
him angrily.

“You spoiled that, you nut! We was just about to find out who her
brother was--say, who are you, anyway?”

“There, don't you worry. That makes another call certain. Don't you see?
That's what I'm playing for. But here comes Van Cleft, who will tell you
I am all right.”

The millionaire entered the hallway before any serious altercation could
arise. He greeted Shirley warmly and introduced him to Pat Cleary. The
man was mollified.

“Well, I'm Captain Cronin's right bower, and I thinks as how this guy
is the joker of the deck trying to make a dirty deuce out of me. But,
if you want to see the girl, she's right upstairs. His work was a little
speedy on first acquaintance. Nick, keep your eyes on this machine, for
we may get another call on this floor--This way gentlemen. Watch your
step, for the hallway's dark.”

The girl was imprisoned in a windowless room on the second floor. As the
door opened, Shirley beheld a pitiful sight. Attired in the finery of
the Rialto, she lay prone upon a couch in the center of the dingy room,
sobbing hysterically. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her features wan
and distorted from her paroxysms of fear and grief. Like a frightened
animal, she sprang to her feet as they entered the room, retreating
to the wall, her trembling hands spread as though to brace her from
falling.

“I didn't do it! I swear! The old fool was soused and I don't know what
was the matter with me. But I didn't kill any one in the world!”

“There, sit down, little girl, and don't get frightened. This gentleman
and I have come to learn the truth--not to punish you for something you
didn't do. Start with the beginning and tell all you remember.”

Shirley's gentle manner was so unexpected, his voice so inspiring that
she relaxed, sinking to the floor, as Shirley caught her limp girlish
form in his arms. He placed her on the couch again, and she regained
her composure under his calm urging. Little by little she visualized
the details of the gruesome evening and narrated them under the magnetic
cross-questions of the criminologist.

She had met the elder Van Cleft in the tea-room of a Broadway hostelry,
by appointment made the evening before at Pinkie Taylor's birthday
party. After several drinks together they took a taxicab to ride uptown
to a little chop house. Did she see any one she knew in the tea-room? Of
course, several of the fellows and girls whom she couldn't remember just
now, buzzed about, for Van Cleft was a liberal entertainer around the
youngsters. She had five varieties of cocktails in succession, and
she became dizzy. In the taxicab she became dizzier and when next she
remembered anything definite she was sitting on the stool in the garage
where she had been arrested. That was all. As she reached this point
there came a knock on the door with a call for Van Cleft.

“You Van's son!” she screamed. Then she fainted, while Shirley caught
her, calling an assistant to care for her, as he followed Van Cleft
downstairs to answer the telephone. “You know your cues?”

The millionaire nodded, as with trembling fingers he caught up
the instrument and knelt on the bare floor to hold it close to the
phonograph, which Shirley was engineering, with a fresh record in place.

“Hello! Hello, there, I say. Hello!”

Shirley strained his ears, to hear this time a rough, wheezy voice which
caused the two men to exchange startled glances, as it proceeded: “Is
this you, Howard, my boy?”

“What do you want? I can't hear you. The telephone is buzzing. Louder
please!”

Shirley nodded approbation, as the machine ran along merrily.

“Now, can you hear me. Ahem! Can you hear me now? Is this Howard Van
Cleft?”

“Yes, go ahead, but louder still.”

“Now, can you hear me? This is your father's dearest friend,
Howard,--this is William Grimsby speaking. I am fearfully distressed and
shocked to learn of his death, my poor boy. And Howard, I am grieved
to learn that there is some little scandal about it. As your father's
confidential adviser, I urge you to hush it up at all cost. I was told
at your home just now by one of the servants that you had gone to this
vulgar detective agency.”

Here Shirley shut off the phonograph, addressing Van Cleft with his hand
over the mouthpiece of the telephone for the minute.

“Keep on talking until I return. Get his advice about flowers and
everything else you can think of.”

Then he ran from the room, into the hallway, out of the door, and down
the stoop to Fortieth Street. He looked about uncertainly, then espied
across the way a tailor shop, where the light of the late workman still
burned. Monty hurried thither and asked the use of the telephone upon
the wall.

“Shuair, mister, but it will cost you a dime, for I have to pay the gas
and the rent.”

From the telephone directory he obtained the address and number of
William Grimsby, the banker. He received an answer promptly. The
servant, after learning his name promised to call the master. A gruff
voice answered soon. Mr. Grimsby declared that he had been reading in
his library for the last two hours, undisturbed by any telephone calls.
Shirley expressed a doubt.

“How dare you doubt my word, sir. The telephone is in my reception room
where I heard it ring just now, for the first time. What do you want?”

“An interview with you to-morrow morning at nine on a life and death
matter. I can merely remind you, sir, that two of your friends,
Wellington Serral and Herbert de Cleyster have met mysterious deaths
during the past week. Mr. Van Cleft died of heart failure to-night.
I will be there at nine. As you value your own life do not leave your
residence or even answer any telephone messages again until I see you.”

“Well, I'll be--” Shirley disconnected, before the verb was reached. He
tossed the coin to the tailor, and speedily returned to the waiting room
where he signaled Van Cleft to end the conversation.

“Quick now, find out what wire called you up.” The answer was “William
Grimsby, 97 Fifth Avenue.”

“You had the wrong tip that time, Mr. Shirley,” said Van Cleft. “But how
could he have found out where I was, for none of the servants know about
Captain Cronin, or even my family that I was coming down here. He gave
me some good advice however. I want to pay the hush money and end it all
forever.”

Shirley had preserved the record and put it away with the others in the
grip. Now he lit a cigarette and puffed several rings of smoke before
answering.

“Van, it must be wonderful to be twins.”

“This is no night for joking,” petulantly, observed the nervous young
man. “I want the girl silenced--”

“She won't open her mouth after I tell her some things. It may entertain
you to know, Van, that while you were getting such good advice from Mr.
Grimsby on this wire, I was talking to the real Mr. Grimsby on his own
wire: he said I was his first caller in more than an hour. So, I gave
him some good advice, which wouldn't interest you. After this don't
believe what the telephone tells.”

“Who was I speaking with?”

“The most brilliant criminal it has ever been my pleasure to run
across,” and his eyes snapped with joy, the huntsman instinct rising to
the surface at last, “I will call him the voice until I know his better
name. He is the most scientific crook of the age.”

“What do you know about criminals?” was the incredulous question.

“I'll know a hundred times as much as I do now, when I know all about
this one, Van. You'd better have Cleary send an armed guard along with
you, and get home for a good rest. Get a man who can drive a car, and
bring back the empty auto three houses away from your residence: it will
bear looking into! I'm going up to have a revival meeting with that girl
now, for I am convinced that she is not a whit more implicated in the
conception or execution of this crime than you are. Good-night.”

Van Cleft left the house, with a pitying shake of the head. He was
not quite certain that he had done wisely, after all, in bringing his
eccentric friend into the affair. He little reckoned how much more
peculiarly Montague Shirley was to act for the remainder of the night.




CHAPTER VI. AN EXPERIMENT WITH THE “MOVIES”


The cross-examination of Polly Marion resulted in little advantage. She
had known of the sudden departure of two other songbirds, well equipped
with funds for the land of Somewhere Else. Their absence had been the
subject of some quiet jesting among the dragon flies who flitted over
the pond of pleasure. A suggestion, from some unrecalled source, that
their disappearance had been connected with the deaths of the two
aged suitors was revitalized in her memory by the words of the elderly
detective. Familiar with the strange life of this jeweled half-world
Shirley's keenness brought forth nothing to convince him that the girl
had been more culpable than in the following of her class, known to the
initiate as the “gentle art of gold digging.”

“Polly, go home now, and stay away from these parties: that's my honest
advice, if you want to be on the 'outside looking in,' when some one is
sent to prison for this. I am in favor of hushing up this affair, and
want to ease it up for you. Are you wise?”

Polly was wise, beyond her years. Her equipoise was regained, and with a
coquettish interest in this handsome interviewer--such girls always have
an eye for future business--he returned to her theatrical lodging
house, in which at least dwelt her wardrobe and makeup box when she was
“trouping” in some spangled chorus. Of recent months she had not been
subjected to the Hurculean rigors of bearing the spear, thanks to the
gratuities of the open-handed Van Cleft, Senior. She pleaded to remain
out of the white lights, meaning it as she spoke. But Shirley wisely
felt that the butterfly would emerge from the chrysalis, shortly, to
flutter into certain gardens where he would fain cull rare blossoms! Pat
Cleary deputized a “shadow” to diarize her exits and entrances.

“The hooks are cleaned, with fresh bait upon them,” soliloquized
Shirley, as he went down the dark stoop. “Now for a little laboratory
work on the wherefore of the why!”

Although long after midnight, he numbered among his acquaintanceship,
many whom he could find far from Slumber-land. His steps led to the
apartment of a certain theatrical manager, whom he found engaged in
a lively tournament of the chips, jousting with two leading men, one
playwright, a composer and a merchant prince. The latter, of course, was
winning. The host, contributing both chips and bottled cheer, was far
from optimistic until the arrival of the club man.

“A live one abaft the mizzen!” exclaimed Dick Holloway, “Here's Shirley
sent by Heaven to join us. After all I hope to pay my next month's
rent.”

Noisily welcomed by the victims of mercantile prowess, he apologetically
declined to flirt with Dame Fortune, pleading a business purpose.

“Business, Monty! By the shade of Shakspeare! I never knew you to look
at business, except to prevent it running you down like a Fourth Avenue
mail bus.”

“It is in the interest of science,” said Shirley, drawing the manager
aside, “an experiment--”

“Fudge on science. You interrupt a game at this time of night!”

“But it means money. I am willing to pay.”

“Ah, Monty, money should never come between friends, and so I retract:
with three failures this season, because the public doesn't appreciate
art.”

“It's about moving pictures. I know that you have floated a syndicate
for big productions. Do you work night and day?”

“An investment? Heaven bless you! Come into my bedroom and we'll arrange
things of course, we work at night. Just this minute they are producing
the 'Bartered Bride' in six reels and eighteen thrills a foot. A
magnificently equipped studio, the public yelling for more how much have
you?”

“Not so fast, Dick. It's merely some special work tonight, what you
would call trick photography. I need a photographer, some lights, a
little space, a microscopic lens and the complete developing during the
night. And, I'll pay cash, as I have done with some suspicious poker
losses in this temple of the muses on bygone evenings. Which, I may
urge with gentle sarcasm is more than I have frequently received at your
hands.”

“Touche!” laughed Holloway. “I'll write a note to the studio
manager--he's there now, and will do what you want. You could have your
picture completed by morning with a little financial coaxing applied in
the right place. Come to the library table. Go on with the game, boys,
it will save me a little.”

The potentate of dry goods was drawing in his winnings, as Shirley
leaned over Holloway's shoulder to dictate the missive. Suddenly a
revolver shot rang out from the window, and a bullet crashed into the
wall behind Shirley's head.

His hand, idly dropped into his overcoat pocket, intuitively closed
around his automatic revolver. A dark silhouette was outlined against
the gray luminosity cast up by the lights of Broadway, half a block from
the window. Through the opening another belching flame shot forth, to
be answered by the criminologist's weapon, barking like a miltraileuse.
They heard a stifled cry, and as Shirley ran forward, he exclaimed with
disappointment.

“He's escaped down the fire-escape and through that skylight.”

He faced about to smile grimly at the curious scene within. The
playwright had taken refuge among the brass andirons of the big empty
fireplace. The matinee heroes were under chairs, and Holloway behind the
mahogany buffet. From the direction of the stairway came shrill cries
from the speeding merchant, softening in intensity as he neared the
street level.

“The battle's over!” exclaimed Holloway. “I don't know whether it was my
chorus men wishing the gipsy curse on me, or the stage-carpenters going
on a strike. But look! See the swag that Jerry left behind! What shall
we do with it?”

“Loot!” suggested the playwright, with rare discrimination, as he dusted
off the wood ashes, and approached the table with glistening eyes.
“We'll divide share and share alike. It's the only way to win from
Jerry.”

Temperament was asserting its gameness. Shirley put back into position
a shattered portrait of Sarah Bernhardt, and his eyes twinkled as the
apostles of the muses hastened to divide the chips of the departed one
into five generous piles. Holloway completed the letter, albeit with a
nervous chirography, and handed him the envelope.

“Go now, before a submarine war zone is declared. I'm going to close up
shop before the police come visiting. Good luck, Monty, in the cause of
science.”

Although his conscience was clear about the game having created five
surprised winners by his interruption, he was disturbed over the
certainty that the voice was aware of his personal work in the case. The
difficulties were now trebled! Before any policemen appeared Shirley
had passed Broadway on his way to the motion picture studio, on the West
side of Tenth Avenue. Whatever secret observers may have been on his
tracks, nothing untoward occurred: still, his senses were quickened into
caution by the attempt on his life.

A parley with a grumpy gateman, the presentation of his letter and he
was admitted to the presence of the manager, a man exhausted with the
strenuosity of night and day work. Shirley understood the antidote for
his sullenness.

“Here, old man, send out for a little luncheon for the two of us. I have
some unusual experimental work, and need the assistance of a well-known
expert like yourself.” The flattery, embellished by a ten-dollar bill,
opened a flood-gate of optimism.

A camera man was summoned, and the apparatus prepared for some
“close-up” motion pictures. Under the weird green lights of the mercury
vapor lamps, a director and company of players were busily enacting
a dramatic scene, before a studio set. They gave little heed to the
newcomer: boredom is a prime requisite of poise in the motion picture
art.

“I have here three phonograph records, which I want photographed.”

“But they don't move--you want a still camera,” exclaimed the dumfounded
manager.

“Yes, they do move as the picture is taken. I want a microscopic lens
used in the camera in such a way that we take a motion picture of the
twinings and twistings of one little thread on the wax cylinder, as it
records the sound waves around the cylinder.”

The photographer sniffed with scorn, being familiar with eccentric
uplifters of the “movies,” but responded to the command of the manager
to adjust his delicate camera mechanism for the task.

“There is a certain phrase of words on each cylinder which I want
recorded this way. Can all three be taken parallel with each other on
the same film?”

“Sure, easiest thing to do--just a triple exposure. We take it on one
edge of the film, through a little slit just a bit wider than the space
of the thread, cut in a screen. Then we rewind that film, and slide the
slit to the middle of the lens, take your second wax record, and do the
same on the right edge of the film for the third. But what's the idea?”

The camera man began to show interest: he was a skilled mechanician and
he caught the drift of a sensible purpose, at last.

Shirley did not answer. He placed the first record in the phonograph,
running it until the feminine voice could be distinguished asking: “Can
you hear me now?” He marked the beginning and end of this phrase with
his pocket knife. So with the merry masculine and the aged, disagreeable
voice, he located the same order of words: “Can you hear me now?”
 The operation seems easy, in the telling, or again perhaps it appears
intensely involved and hardly worth the trouble. A motto of Shirley's
was: “Nothing is too much trouble if it's worth while.” So, with this.
To the cynical camera man its general nature was expressed in his
whispered phrase to the manager:

“You better not leave them property butcher knives on that there table,
Mr. Harrison. This gink is nuts: he thinks's he's Mike Angelo or some
other sculpture. He'll start sculpin' the crowd in a minute!”

“You take the picture and keep your opinions to yourself,” snapped
Shirley whose hearing was highly trained.

The man lapsed into silence. For two hours they fumed and perspired and
swore, under the intense heat of the low-hung mercury lamps, until at
last a test proved they had the right combination. Shirley greased
the skill of the camera man with a well-directed gratuity, and ordered
speedy development of the film. Before this was done, however, he took
six other records of voices from the folk in the studio, using the same
words: “Can you hear me now?”

The three strips of triple exposures were taken to the dark room and
developed by the camera man. They were dried on the revolving electric
drums, near a battery of fans. Shirley studied every step of the work,
with this and that question--this had been his method of acquiring a
curiously catholic knowledge of scientific methods since leaving the
university, where sporting proclivities had prompted him to slide
through courses with as little toil as possible.

A print upon “positive” film was made from each: every strip was
duplicated twenty-five times, at Shirley's suggestion. Then after two
hours of effort the material was ready to be run through the projecting
machine, for viewing upon the screen.

The manager led Shirley to the small exhibition theatre in which every
film was studied, changed and cut from twenty to fifty times before
being released for the theatres. The camera man went into the little
fire-proof booth, to operate the machine.

“Which one first, chief?”

“Take one by chance,” said Shirley, “and I will guess its number. Start
away.”

There was a flare of light upon the screen, as the operator fussed with
the lamp for better lumination. He slowly began to turn the crank, and
the criminologist watched the screen with no little excitement. The
picture thrown up resembled nothing so much as three endless snakes
twisting in the same general rhythm from top to bottom of the frame. The
twenty-five duplicates were all joined to the original, so that there
was ample opportunity to compare the movements.

“Well, gov'nor, which film was that?” asked the operator.

“Not A--it was B or C!”

“Correct. How'd you guess it? Which is this one?”

As he adjusted another roll of film in the projector, Shirley turned to
the manager sitting at his side. “Mr. Harrison, were those snakes all
exactly alike?”

“No. They all wriggled in the same direction, at the same time. But
little rough angles in some movements and queer curves in others made
each individually different.”

“Just what I thought. There goes another.--That is not film A, either!”

“Righto!” confirmed the camera man. As the detailed divergence between
the lines became more evident in the repetitions, Shirley slapped his
knee.

“Now for the finish. Try reel A.”

This time the three snakey lines moved along in almost identical
synchronism. The only difference was that the first was thin, the second
heavier, the third the darkest and most ragged of all. The relationship
was unmistakable!

“I got you gov'nor,” cried the operator. “Some dope, all right, all
right.”

“Why, what is all this?” asked the manager, nonplussed. “The last three
are alike, but what good does it do?”

“It is known that the human voice in its inflections is like
handwriting--with a distinct personality. Certain words, when pronounced
naturally, without the alterations of dialect, are always in the same
rhythm. The records taken in the studio of those five words, 'Can you
hear me now?' are in the same general rhythm, but only the last three
snakes show exact similarity, to each little quaver and turn. There was
only the difference in shading: one was the voice of a women. The second
of a man of perhaps forty, the third of an old man--all three taken at
different times, and I thought from different people. But they all came
from one throat, and my work is completed along this line--Will you
please lock up the films, the phonograph, and my records in your film
vault, until I send for them; through Mr. Holloway?”

The criminologist arose and walked into the deserted studio, from whence
the company had long since departed for belated slumbers. He picked up
three bricks which lay in a corner of the big studio, and placed them
gently into his grip. The manager and the camera man observed this with
blank amazement, as he locked it and put the key into his pocket. Then
he handed each of them a large-sized bill.

“I'm very grateful, gentlemen, for your assistance. Pleasant dreams.”

Shirley abstractedly walked out of the studio, one hand comfortably in
his overcoat pocket, swinging the grip in the other.

“Say, Lou,” confided the manager, “he's the craziest guy I've ever seen
in the movies. And that's going some, after ten years of it.”

Lou treated himself to a generous bite of plug tobacco, and spat
philosophically, before replying.

“Sure, he's crazy. Crazy, like the grandfather of all foxes!”




CHAPTER VII. ENTER A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN


A reddening zone in the East silhouetted the serrated line of the
distant elevated structure, as Shirley walked along the gray street, his
thoughts busy with the possibilities of applying his new certainty.

He had reached Sixth Avenue, and was just passing one of the elevated
pillars when a black touring car crept up behind him. The clanging bell
and the grinding motors of an early surface car drowned the sound of
the automobile in his rear. Suddenly the big machine sprang forward at
highest speed. A man leaned from the driver's seat, and snatched the
grip from his hand.

The motorman, cursing, threw on the emergency brake, in time to barely
graze the machine with his fender as it shot across the street before
him.

Shirley's view was cut off, until he had run around the street-car--then
he beheld the big automobile skidding in a half-circle, as it turned
down Fifth Avenue. It was too far away to distinguish the number of the
singing license tag.

“Much good may the bricks do them! Perhaps they will help to build the
annex necessary up the river, when these gentry go there for a long
visit.”

Shirley laughed at the joke on his pursuers, and turned into a little
all-night grill for a comforting mutton chop of gargantuan proportions,
with an equally huge baked potato. He was a healthy brute, after all
his morbid line of activities! Later, at the Club, he submitted to the
amenities of the barber, whose fine Italian hand smoothed away, in a
skilful massage, the haggard lines of his long vigil. As he left the
club house for William Grimsby's residence he looked as fresh and
bouyant as though he had enjoyed the conventional eight hours' sleep.

“You are this Montague Shirley?” was the querulous greeting from the
old gentleman, when he was admitted to the drawing-room. “You kept me in
anguish the entire night, with your silly words. The telephone bell
rang at intervals of half an hour until dawn: I may have missed some
important business deal by not replying What do you mean? Is this some
blackmail game?”

“No, sir. It has to deal with blackmailing, however--but not for my
profit.”

“Explain quickly. I am a busy man. My motor is waiting now to take me to
my office.”

“Look here, Mr. Grimsby, at this memorandum book,” said Shirley, holding
forward the list which he had copied from the joy-party article in the
theatrical paper. “With some friends of yours, you held merry carnival
to Venus and Bacchus at an all-night lobster palace not long ago. Have I
the right names?”

“This is rank impertinence. How dare you? Get out of my house.”

“Not so fast, my dear sir, until you understand my drift. Throughout
Club circles you and Mr. Van Cleft, with these other cronies are
sarcastically referred to as the Lobster Club. Did you know that?”

Grimsby's face was purple with angry mortification, but Shirley would
not be gainsaid. “I am acting in this matter as a friend of Howard Van
Cleft,” he continued. “Your three friends have met their deaths at the
hand of a cunning conspirator. Last night, white I talked with you on
the telephone, young Van Cleft was receiving advice over another wire
from a person who pretended to be William Grimsby--advising him to hush
the matter up and drop the investigation. But--Captain Cronin the
famous detective--has received a tip that the number of victims would be
increased very soon--frankly, now: do you want to be the fourth?”

Grimsby's face changed to ashen gray, as he timidly clutched Shirley's
sleeve.

“Then cooperate with me. You understand now the nature of this villain's
work: to rob and assassinate his victim in the company of a girl, so
that this would endeavor to hush the scandal, without reporting it to
the police. His progress is unchecked, and afterwards he would have
untold opportunity for continuing a demand for hush money on the
surviving relatives. May I count on you to help?”

“You may count on me to leave the city within the next two hours.”

“Good! But I want to have you disappear so quietly that this cunning
unknown will not know of it. He is watching your house now, without a
doubt.”

Grimsby strode to the window, with his characteristic limp, and drew the
heavy curtains aside, to peer out nervously.

“No one is in sight.”

“The man is as unseen in his work as a germ. But he is not unheard: he
uses the telephone to locate his victims, that is why I advised you to
let your instrument ring unanswered.”

“I'll do what I can, if I can keep out of more danger. An old man craves
life more than a young one. I fought through the Civil War and brought
a medal from Congress and this wounded knee out of it, Mr. Shirley. I
didn't fear anything then, but times have changed!”

“Here is my plan, then,” continued Shirley, his lips twitching with
sub-strata amusement, “I want to impersonate you, when you leave, so
that this man tries to send me after the other three. Don't interrupt,
let me finish--You will say that it is impossible to deceive any one at
close range. Surely, it does sound melodramatic, like a lurid tale of
a paper back novel. But I have studied the photographs of your friends.
You and I bear the closest resemblance of any in the group. Your weight
is about the same as mine--your shoulders are a trifle stooped and
you walk with a curious drag of your left foot. Your hair is white
but thick: the contour of our faces is quite similar, and so with dry
cosmetics, some physical mimicry, and the use of a pair of horn-rimmed
glasses like yours I can make a comparatively good double. The only
exposure to the sharp eyes of your enemies will be, first, when I
substitute myself for you and take your automobile back home; second,
when I go down to the theatrical district, to visit a well-known tearoom
where I learn you are a frequent guest. There the wall tables are
shrouded by decorations, and I shall keep in the shadow and talk as
little as possible. Behind those dark glasses, and entering the place
with your peculiarly spotted fur coat, I will resemble you more than you
believe. If to add to the illusion, I show hospitable prodigality with
drinks for the others, it is probable that their observation will be
less analytical. Then, third in the line of activities, I will go to the
theatre, sit in a darkened box, and let them take me where they will in
whatever automobile turns up. Thus you see my campaign.”

“How much do I have to pay you?”

“I might have expected that,” was the laughing retort. “You are noted
for the fortunes you waste on stupid show girls, while times are hard
with you in your offices where young and old men struggle along to
support honest families. Have no fear, Mr. Grimsby, my income is enough
for my simple wants. I am entering this hunt for big game, just as I
have gone to India and East Africa, for jungle trophies. It will not
cost you a nickel.”

“I had better contribute a little,” began Grimsby, embarrassed, as he
drew out a check-book. But Shirley negatived with emphasis.

“How about your servants? Can you trust them with the secret?”

“They have been with me for twenty-five years or more. My wife is in
California, and the rest of the servants, except two maids and a butler,
up at my country home on the Hudson.”

“Fine: then, in two hours from now, meet me at the Hotel Astor, where I
have rooms, in the name of Madden. Bring down an extra suit of clothes,
and an extra overcoat, for I want to wear your fur one, which I see
there on the davenport. On the downward trip instruct your chauffeur
to drive your car up to your country place, as soon as he has made the
return trip from the hotel. You will be there before he gets up, on the
country roads and he will be none the wiser. Goodbye, Mr. Grimsby.”

At the club Shirley made some necessary disposition of his private
matters, for he knew this case would run longer than a day. From
his rooms he sent a note by messenger to his theatrical friend, Dick
Holloway, which read simply.

“Dear Holloway:--The experiment with the movies won the blue ribbon. I
have a new plan on foot. You can help me in this, as well. I want you to
engage for me a beautiful, clever and daring actress, afraid of nothing
under the sun or moon, and absolutely unknown on Broadway. No amateurs
or stage-struck heiresses or manicurists: you are the one impresario who
can fill my bill. I will call at your office in fifteen minutes, so have
the compact sealed by then. Who finally won the loot, last night?

                             Your friend, Montague Shirley.”

The manager was forced to go through the note twice, to make sure that
his senses were not leaving him. Then he turned in the chair, toward
the unusual young woman who sat in his private office, observing with
mingled amusement and curiosity the fleeting expressions upon his face.

“In view of your mission in America, this may interest you,” was his
amused comment, as he handed her the missive. “It is from the most
curious man in New York.”

He studied the downcast lashes, as she read the letter. Hers was a
face which had stirred a continent, yet he had never met her until this
memorable day. She might have been twenty-three years old--and again,
might have been three years younger or older. Rippling red-gold waves
of hair separated in the center of her smooth brow to caress with a soft
wave on either side the blooming cheeks, whose Nature-grown roses were
unusual in this world-weary vicinity of Broadway. A sweet mouth with a
sensuous smile at one corner, and a barely perceptible droop of pathos
at the other, lent an indescribable piquance to her dimpled smile. The
blue orbs which raised to his own with a Sphinxian laugh in their
azure depths thrilled him--Holloway, the blase, the hardened theatrical
manager, flattered and cajoled by hundreds of beautiful women on the
quest of stage success!

Adroitly veiled beneath the silken folds of the clinging gown, redolent
with the bizarre artistry of a Parisian atelier, was the shapely
suggestion of exquisite physical perfection which did not escape the
connoisseur glance of Holloway.

“He is a literary man: I know that from the small, yet fluent writing,
and the cross marks for periods show that he has written for newspapers
and corrected his own proofs--He is unusually definite in what he
desires and accustomed to having his imperious way about most things. In
this case, he is easily pleased--merely perfection is his desire.”

“Shirley is generally prompt, and is apt to breeze in here any second
now, with his two hundred pounds and six feet of brawn and ginger. I
wonder--”

“Why do you suppose such a paragon is desired by your friend? Who is he?
What is he like, not an ordinary actor--” and the wondrous eyes darkened
with a curious thought.

“My dear lady, no one has discovered the mental secrets of Montague
Shirley. He apparently wastes his life as do other popular society men
with much money and more time on their hands. Yet, somehow, I always
feel in his presence as one does when standing on the bow of an ocean
liner, with the salt breeze whizzing into your heart. He is a force of
nature, yet he explains nothing: a thorough man of the world; droll,
sarcastic, generous and I believe for democracy he is unequaled by any
Tammany politician: he knows more policemen, dopes, conductors, beggars,
chauffeurs, gangsters, bartenders, jobless actors, painters, preachers,
anarchists, and all the rest of New York's flotsam and jetsam than any
one in the world. He is always the polished gentleman, and yet they take
him man for man.”

“What does this unusual person do for a living?”

“Nothing but living!”

Her interest was naturally undiminshed by this perfervid tribute, and
she clapped her dainty hands together with sudden mirth.

“You know why I came here, and why to you, Mr. Holloway. You know who I
am, and although I answer none of those exorbitant terms except that I
am not known by sight along your big street Broadway, why not recommend
me for the position?”

“But you, of all people!” Holloway's face was a study in amazement. “You
can't tell what wild project he has in view. Shirley is a wild Indian,
in many things you know--just when you least expect it. I have known him
a dozen years.”

He paused to weigh the matter, and his sense of humor conquered. He
roared with mirth, which was joined in more sedately by the unknown
girl. “That settles it. You couldn't start on your campaign in a better
way. You shall be the Lady of Mystery in this story! I will not breathe
a hint of your identity to Shirley, and no one else knows, of course.
What a ripping good joke: I'm glad you came here the first hour after
your landing in New York.”

“What shall I call myself? I have it--a romantic name, which will be
worth laughing over later--let me see--Helene Marigold. Is that flowery
enough?”

“Shirley will be sure you are an actress when he hears that. Mum is
the word, may you never have stage fright and never miss a cue--Here he
comes now!”

The criminologist rushed into the office impetuously, dropping his bag
on the floor, and doffing his hat as he beheld the pretty companion of
Holloway.

“On time to the minute, as usual, Shirley. Your note came, and I
followed your instructions. Let me present to you your new star, Miss
Helene Marigold, who just disembarked on the steamer from England this
morning. You have secured a young lady who is making all Europe sit up
and rub its eyes. I believe I have at last found a match for you, Prince
of the Unexpected!”

Shirley held forth his fervent hand, and was surprised at the almost
masculine sincerity with which the delicately gloved fingers returned
the pressure. He looked into the blue eyes with a challenging scrutiny,
and received as frank an answer!

Dick Holloway indulged in an unobserved smile, as he turned to look out
of the window, lost for the nonce in mirthful speculation.




CHAPTER VIII. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK


“Dick, you can help me further, with your dramatic knowledge. I feel in
duty bound to tell Miss Marigold that she is risking her life, if she
takes up this task.”

Instead of hesitancy, which Shirley half expected, the girl's face
flushed with quickened interest, and her eyes sparkled with enjoyment as
he unfolded the situation. At the mention of Grimsby, Holloway grunted
with disgust--it may have been a variety of professional jealousy. Who
knows? However, the problem fascinated the mysterious young woman, who
blushed, in spite of herself, when Shirley put his blunt question to
her.

“And you are willing to assume for a time the character of one of these
stage moths, whom rich men of this type pursue and woo, wine, dine and
boast about? Will it interfere with your own work? Any salary arranged
by Mr. Holloway is agreeable, for this unusual task.”

“The game, not the money, is the attraction. I will be ready when you
pronounce my cue.”

“Splendid. Dick, will you assist Miss Marigold in selecting an
attractive apartment in a theatrical hotel this afternoon. I will call
for her at four-thirty, to take her to tea. She may not know me, at
first glance: that depends upon the help you give me at the Astor.
I will expect you there in an hour. I haven't acted since I left the
college shows: with a hundred chances to one against my success, even I
am not bored.”

He hurried from the office, and Holloway noted the glow in the
girl's glance which followed his stalwart figure. Holloway was a
good tactician: there were reasons why he enjoyed this new role of
match-maker de luxe, yet he played his hand far more subtly than at
poker. Which was well!

Ensconced in the Astor, Shirley was soon busy before the cheval glass,
from which were suspended three photographs of William Grimsby, obtained
from a photographic news syndicate.

Coat and waistcoat had been removed, as he discriminatingly applied the
dry cosmetics with skill which suggested that he had disguised himself
for daylight purposes far more than he would admit. By the time he had
powdered his thick locks with the white pulverized chalk, and donned
a pair of horn-rim glasses of amber tint, his whole personality had
changed. The similarity was startling to the prototype who was admitted
to the room a few minutes later.

“Why, I beg pardon--I have come to the wrong suite,” were Grimsby's
apologetic words, as he essayed to retreat.

“You are the first victim of the mirage. Do you like the caricature?”

“Astounding, my friend!” gasped Grimsby, sinking into the chair. Shirley
drew him to the mirror, to make a closer study of the lines of senility
and late hours. A few delicate touches of purple and blue, some
retouching of the nostrils, and he drew on the suit provided by his
elder. Dick Holloway was announced, and Shirley ordered some wine and a
dinner for one! At Grimsby's surprise, Shirley, smiled indulgently.

“I am selfish--I will have a little supper party by myself, and spare
you in nothing. I want you to eat, to drink, to pour wine, to take out
your wallet, to walk, to sit down, to laugh, to scold! You have a task,
sir: I will imitate you move by move! This is a rare experiment.”

“Great Scott! Which is you?” cried Holloway who entered with the
burdened waiter.

“Neither. We're both me!” chuckled the criminologist. “But let me
introduce you to my twin--”

The two men exchanged formalities with an undercurrent of dislike.
Shirley lost no time. He compelled the old man to run through his paces,
as Holloway criticized each study in miming. Just as the capitalist
would swing his arms, limp with his left leg, shift his head ever so
little, from side to side in his walk, so Shirley copied him. A
word here, an exhortation there, and Shirley improved steadily under
Holloway's analytical direction. At last the lesson was ended, with the
manager's pronounciamento of “graduation cum lauda.”

“I'll have to star you, Monty,” he declared, as Shirley put on the fur
greatcoat of the old man, grasping the gold headed cane, and drooping
his shoulders in a perfect imitation of the other's attitude.

“Perhaps it will be necessary. The chorus men have invaded society with
their fox-trots and maxixe steps. We club men will have to countercharge
the enemy, for self-preservation, to play heavy villains upon the stage.
Eh?”

He turned toward Grimsby, who was well wearied with the trying ordeal,
and evidencing a growing nervousness about his own escape.

“You know how to leave, according to my plan? Wrap the muffler well
around the lower part of your face, button this second overcoat closely
about your neck, and enter the private carriage which I ordered for 'Mr.
Lee,' waiting now at the Forty-fifth Street Side. Then drive leisurely
to the West Forty-second Street Ferry, where you can catch the late
afternoon train for your country place.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Shirley. I have been an old curmudgeon with you, I fear.
You have taught this old dog new tricks in several ways, young man.
Neither I nor my friends will forget your bravery. They are all out of
the city by now, according to word from my private secretary. Your field
is clear. Good luck, sir!”

Shirley and Holloway left the rooms first. Neither addressed the other
on the lift, as it descended to the street level. Holloway casually
followed Monty as he stiffly walked to the big red limousine waiting at
the Forty-fourth Street entrance of the hostelry. The chauffeur sprang
out, opening the door with a respectful salute. The disguise was
successful!

“Home!” grunted Shirley, sinking back into the car, with collar high
about his neck and the soft hat half concealing his eyes. He scrutinized
the faces of the passers-by, photographing in that receptive memory of
his the ugly features of two men, who peered into the limousine from
under the visors of their black caps. The car sped up town through the
bewildering maze of street traffic. The chauffeur helped him up the
steps of the brownstone mansion, while Grimsby's old butler swung open
the glass door, with a helping hand under the feeble arm.

Shirley puffed and grunted impatiently until he heard the door close
behind him. Then straightening up, he turned upon the startled butler.

“Well, my man. Go out and tell the chauffeur to leave for the country at
once, as Mr. Grimsby already ordered him to do.”

“My Gawd, sir!” exclaimed the servant, paling perceptibly. “What's come
over you, sir?--Oh, I beg pardon, sir, you're the other gentleman. You
certainly fooled me, sir--You're bloody brave, sir, to do all this for
the master. Are we in any danger?”

“Not a bit--whatever happens will be outside the house. Just keep up the
secret, as you value your master's life. Go, and tell the man. I must
kill time here in the library, reading until four o'clock.”

Shirley threw aside the greatcoat, and walked to the window of the small
reception room which faced the street, to draw aside the curtains and
watch the chauffeur, as he entered the machine to speed away. A black
automobile slowly passed the house, bearing two men on the driver's
seat. From under the visors of their black caps they scrutinized the
building, to hastily look away as they observed the face at the window.

Shirley made a note of the number of the machine. He could have sworn
that this was the same car which had passed him that morning at dawn
when the grip was snatched from his hand.

He returned to the library, where he lost himself in the rare old
volumes of Grimsby's life collection: the criminologist was a booklover
and the hours drifted by as in a happy playtime, until the butler came
to tell him the time.

“Great Scott! I must hurry. Call a taxi, for me. I will go to Holloway's
office to learn where Miss Marigold has been ensconced.”

He sat in the machine before the office building, as he sent the
chauffeur up to Dick's office, to inquire for a message to “Mr.
Grimsby.” A note was brought down, informing him that the girl awaited
him in the Hotel California, a few blocks above. The machine started off
once more, and Shirley laughed at the droll situation in which he found
himself.

“I wonder who Helene Marigold can be? I wonder what Holloway meant
precisely when he predicted that I would meet my match. I am not seeking
one kind--and blue eyes, surrounded by red-gold hair and peaches and
cream will not shake my determination.”

But the best laid determinations of bachelor hearts gang aft agley!

Down at the Hotel California, famous for its rare collection of
attractive feminine guests and the manifold breach-of-promise suits
which had emanated from the palm bedecked entrance, Helene Marigold was
indulging herself in a delighted, albeit highly amused, inspection
of sundry large boxes which had been arriving from shops in the
neighborhood.

“As nearly as I can imagine this must look like the bower of a Broadway
Phryne. All that is missing is a family portrait in crayon of the father
who was a coal miner, the presence of a buxom financial genius for the
stage mother, and a Chinese chow-dog on a cerise velvet cushion. But who
ever attains perfection here below?”

She lifted some filmy gowns which had arrived in the latest parcel
to her chin, peering over the sheerness of the lacy cascade, into the
mirror of the dressing-table.

“If good old Jack could see me now? Poor, old, stupid, dear, silly
Jack! I must write to him at once, for he is largely responsible for my
present unusual surroundings. How pleased this would not make him, the
old dear.”

With the thought, she sat down before the escritoire, dipping a pearl
and gold pen, as she paused for the words with which to begin the note.
Another knock came at the door. It could not be another gown. She had
told Holloway to keep all her personal baggage at the steamer dock
until she had finished her lark! At the portal a diminutive messenger
delivered a large white box, ornately bound in lavender ribbons. When
she unwrapped it, hidden in the folds of many reams of delicate tissue,
she found a gorgeous bunch of orchids.

“How beautiful! I wonder who could have--” then she found a white card,
and read it aloud, with a mirthful peal of laughter.

“To Lollypop's little Bonbon Tootems--from her foolish old Da-Da!”

Helene turned toward the window, to gaze out over the mysterious,
foreign motley array of roofs and obtruding skyscrapers of this curious
district.

“This mysterious man plays his part with a sense of humor. If only he
will be different and not mean the flowers, ever!”

And she forgot to finish the note which was to have gone to faraway,
stupid, dear old Jack.

Ten minutes later an aged gentleman entered the gorgeous foyer of the
Hotel California, impatiently presenting his card to the bell-boy,
for announcement to Miss Marigold. The lad, true to tradition, quietly
confided the name to the interested clerk, before doing so. As the
visitor was shown to the elevator, the clerk turned to his assistant
with a nudge.

“There's the easiest spender of the Lobster Club. That means good trade
here, with this new peach in the crate. These old ginks are hard as
Bessemer armor-plate in business, but oh, how soft the tumble for a new
shade of peroxide.”

“Mr. Grimsby” was soon sitting on the velour divan, at a comfortable
distance from possible eavesdroppers at the door. She was putting the
finishing touches to her preparation for the butterfly role. Shirley
felt an unexpected thrill at this little intimacy of their relations:
the rooms were permeated with the most delicate suggestion of a curious
perfume, which was strange to him. Somehow it fitted her personality
so effectually: for despite the physical appeal of her beauty,
now accentuated by the risque costume which she had donned, at the
professional suggestion of Dick Holloway, there was a pervasive
spirituality in the girl's face, her hands, and the tones of her soft
voice.

She turned to smile at him, her dimples playing hide and seek with the
white pearls beneath the unduly scarlet lip.

“Isn't this a ripping good situation for a novel?” she began.

“Yes, too good at present, Miss Marigold. There are too many, important
people to be affected for it ever to be given to the public, for the
identities would all be exposed ruthlessly. Besides, no one would
believe it: it seems too improbable, being real life. It will be more
improbable before we finish the adventure, I suspect. Can I trust your
discretion to keep it secret? You know, I have a deal of skepticism
about the best of women.”

Helene reddened under that keen glance, and he saw that he had offended
her.

“I beg your pardon: I know that we shall work it out together, with
absolute mutual trust.”

Such an earnest vibrance was in his voice that somehow she was reminded
of another voice: her mind went back to the neglected letter to Jack.
What could have caused her to be so remiss? She would not let herself
dwell on the subject--instead, with a surprising deftness, she caught up
Shirley's own cue, for a staggering question of her own.

“Are you sure that you have absolutely confided in me? Did you start at
the beginning, when you told the story to-day.”

“What do you mean?” and Shirley caught the glance sharply.

“Your unusual rapidity of action, Mr. Shirley, for a mere interested
friend! It is queer how wonderfully your mind has connected this work,
and the various accidental happenings, to evolve this clever ruse in
which I am to assist. It doesn't seem so amateurish as you would make
it. You seem mysterious to me.”

“Do you think I am the voice? Here is a chance for real detective work,
if you can double the game, and capture me?” was the laughing retort. “I
don't believe you trust me.”

The girl stood up before him, and after one deep look, her eyes fell
before his. Those exquisite lashes sent a tiny flutter through the
case-hardened heart of the club man, despite his desperate determination
to be a Stoic.

“I do trust you,” the voice was impetuous, almost petulant. “You are a
real man: I merely give you credit for being better than the class of
rich young men of whom you pretend to be an absolute type. But there,
I waste words and time. Is my costume for this little opera boufe
satisfactory to you? Do you like my warpaint and battle armor?”

She stood before him, a glorious bird of paradise. The wanton display
of a maddening curve of slender ankle, through the slash of the clinging
gown imparted just the needed allurement to stamp her as a Vestal of
the temple of Madness. The cunning simplicity of the draping over her
shoulders--luminous with the iridiscent gleam of ivory skin beneath,
accentuated by the voluptuous beauty of her youthful bosom--the fleeting
change of colors and contours as she slowly turned about in this
maddening soul-trap of silk and laces--all these were not lost on the
senses of Shirley. As the depths of those blue eyes opened before his
gaze, a mad, a ridiculous aching to crush her in his arms, surprised
the professional consulting criminologist! For this swift instant, all
memory of the Van Cleft case, of every other problem, was driven from
his mind, as a blinding blast of seething desire surged about him.

Then the old resolution, the conquering will of the man of one purpose,
beat back the flames of this threatening conflagration. His eyes
narrowed, his hands dropped to his side, and he squinted at her with the
frigid dissective gaze of an artist studying the curves of a model.

“You must rouge your cheeks more, blue your eyelids and redden your lips
even yet. Then be generous with the powder--and that wonderful perfume.”

An inscrutable smile played about the sensitive lips, as Helene turned
to her dressing-table. Shirley stood with his face to the window; he did
not observe it, nor would he have understood its menace to his own peace
of mind. Helene, however, did. She was a woman.

“May I smoke a cigarette? I am afraid I am almost a fiend, for I seem to
crave the foolish comfort that I imagine they give, in times of nervous
drain.”

“No, Lollypop's little Bonton Tootems enjoys their fragrance. Don't
ever ask me again. I have completed the mural decoration with futurist
extravagance in the color scheme. My cloak, sir!”

He tossed it about her, and took up his hat and gold-headed stick. With
a final glance at his own careful make-up, he started after her for the
street.

“Some chikabiddy!” was the remark of the clerk to the head bell-boy. The
words reached the ears of Shirley and Helene. Her hand trembled on his
arm as they entered a waiting taxicab. She looked pathetically at him,
as she asked.

“Don't you think I am interested, sincere and loyal, to brave such
remarks as these, and the other worse things they will say before long?
I wouldn't dare do this, if I were not sure that no one in America but
you and Mr. Holloway knows me. To wear this horrid stuff on my face--to
dress in these vulgar clothes--to impersonate such a girl! You know I'm
not nearly as bad as I'm painted!”

Shirley clasped her white-gloved hand and nodded. He was studying the
pedestrians for a familiar twain of faces. He was not disappointed, as
the car swung into Broadway.

“Look--those two men have been following me wherever I have gone. They
are a pair of old-fashioned pirates. Don't forget their faces!”




CHAPTER IX. IN THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION


Their destination, one of the score of tango tea-rooms which had sprung
to mushroom popularity within the year, was soon reached. Leaning
heavily upon his stick, limping like his aged model, and spluttering
impatiently, Shirley was assisted by the uniformed door man into the
lobby. Helene followed meekly. Four hat boys from the check-room made
the conventional scramble for his greatcoat, hat and stick, nearly
upsetting him in their eagerness. Then Shirley led the way into the half
light of the tropical, indoor garden, picking a way through the tables
to a distant wall seat, embowered with electric grapes and artificial
vines.

“Sit down, my darling child,” said the pseudo Grimsby, as he dropped
into a seat behind the table, which was protected from the lights, and
furthest away from any possible visitors. “We are early, avoiding the
crush. Soon the crowd will be here. We must have some champagne at once,
to assist me in my defensive tactics. You will have to do most of the
talking. Remember, we are going to the Winter Garden musical review when
we leave here: you may tell this to whom you will.”

Helene looked about curiously, as the big tea-room began to fill with
its usual late afternoon crowd of patrons,--young, old and indeterminate
in age. Women of maturely years, young misses from “finishing” schools,
demimondaine, social “bounders” deluded by the glitter of their own
jewelry and the thrill of their wasted money that they were climbing
into New York society--these and other curious types rubbed elbows in
this melting pot of folly. The tinkle of glasses, the increasing buzz
of conversation, the empty laughter of too many emptied cocktail glasses
mingled with the droning music of an Hawaiian string quartette in the
far corner.

Suddenly, with banging tampani and the crash of cymbals, rattle of
tambourines and beating of tomtoms, the barbaric Ethiopians of the
dancing orchestra began their syncopated outrages against every known
law of harmony--swinging weirdly into the bewitching, tickling, tingling
rhythm of a maxixe.

“How strange!” murmured Helene, as the waiter brought them some
champagne and indigestible pastries--the true ingredients of 'dansant
the'.

“Yes, on with the dance-let joy be unrefined! The fall of the Roman
Empire was the bounce of a rubber nursery ball, compared with this New
York avalanche of luxurious satiation! Now, my child, old Da-da, is
going to become too intoxicated to talk three words to any of these
gallants and their lassies. Grimsby did not write a monologue for me,
so I must pantomime: you will have to carry the speaking part of our
playlet. Flatter them--but don't leave my side to dance!”

The first bottle of wine had been carried away by the waiter, (half
emptied it is true,) as he filled a second order. Shirley shielded his
face beneath a drooping spray of artificial blooms from the top of
their wallbower. Several young men were approaching them, and the
criminologist noted with relief that they evidenced their afternoon
libations even so early. Eyes dulled with over-stimulus were the less
analytical. Chance was favoring him. The newcomers were garbed in that
debonair and “cultured” modishness so dear to the hearts of magazine
illustrators. Faces, weak with sunken cheek lines, strong in creases
of selfishness, darkened by the brush strokes of nocturnal excesses and
seared, all of them with the brand mark of inbred rascality, identified
them to Shirley as members of that shrewd class of sycophants who feast
on the follies of the more amateurish moths of the Broadway Candles.

“Hello, old pop Grimsby!”

“You're in the dark of the moon, Grimmie! I couldn't make you out but
for those horn rimmed head lights.”

“Welcome to the joy-parlor, old scout.”

The greetings of the juvenile buzzards varied only in phraseology: their
portent was identical: “Open wine.”

“Poor Mr Grimsby is so ill this afternoon, but sit down and have
something with us,” volunteered Helene tremulously.

The bees gathered about the table to feast on the vinous honey, while
Shirley, mumbling a few words, maintained his partial obscurity, with
one hand to his forehead.

“Fine boysh, m'deah. Boysh, meet little Bonbon--my protashsh!”

Little Bonbon was a pronounced attraction. Her vivacious charm drew the
eyes away from Shirley, who studied the expressions of the weasel faces
about him. The girl's heart sickened under the brutal frankness of a
dozen calculating eyes, yet she valiantly maintained her part,
while Shirley marveled at her clever simulation of silly, giggly,
semi-intoxication. One youth deserted them to disappear through
the distant dining room entrance. The comments about the table were
interesting to the keen-eared masquerader.

“Old Grimsby's picked a live one, this time!”--“What show is she
with?”--“Won't Pinkie be sore?” The criminologist was not left to wonder
as to the identity of “Pinkie,” for an older man, walking behind a
red-headed girl in a luridly modern gown, approached the table with the
absent guest. The men were talking earnestly, the girl staring angrily
at Shirley's, beautiful companion.

“Hey, here come's Reggie! Sit down, Reg. Pop has passed away, but his
credit is still strong.”

“There's Pinkie--come, my dear, and join the Ladies' Aid Society and
have a lemonade,” jested another youth, making a place for the girl in
the aisle.

Pinkie's dark-haired companion sank somewhat unsteadily into a chair
next the girl. He frowned and rubbed his forehead, as though to clear
his mind for needed concentration. He shook Shirley's arm, and spoke
sharply.

“Look up; Grimmie. I never saw you feel your wine so early in the
afternoon. It was a lucky day for me on Wall Street, so I celebrated
myself. You are here earlier than usual. Everybody have some champagne
with me.”

As he beckoned to the waiter, the red-haired girl bestowed a murderous
look upon Helene, who was sniffing some flowers which she had drawn from
the vase on the table.

“Who's that Jane?” she demanded, her voice-shaking with jealousy.
“Grimmie, you act as if you were doped. Introduce us to your swell
friend. Wake him, Reg Warren.”

Helene's jeweled white hand protected the safety-first dozing of her
companion, as, through the interstices of his fingers, he studied the
inscrutable difference between the face of Warren and the other youths
about them.

“Let Pop dream of a new way to make a million!” laughed one young man.
“His money grows while he sleeps.”

“Yes, let him dream on,” laughed Helene, with a shrill giggle. “When he
makes that extra million he can star me on Broadway, in my own show. He,
he!”

“You'll have to spend half of it at John the Barber's getting your voice
marceled and your face manicured,” snarled Pinkie. “Come, Reg, and dance
with me: these bounders bore me.”

“Run along, Pinkie, and fox-trot your grouch away with Shine Taylor.
Here comes the wine I ordered--What's your name, girlie? Where did you
meet Grimsby?”

“Oh, we're old friends,” and Helene maliciously spilled a bottle over
the interrogator's waistcoat, as she reached forward to shake his hand.
“My name's Bonbon, you wouldn't believe me if I told you my real name,
anyway. Who are you?”

“I'm not Neptune,” he retorted, as he mopped the bubbles with a napkin.
“You've started in badly.” Shirley mentally disagreed. His stupor still
obsessed him, but he noted with interest that Warren paid the check
for his bottle with a new one-hundred dollar bill. Warren could elicit
nothing from Helene but silly laughter, and so he arose impatiently,
as Shine Taylor returned to whisper something in his ear. “I must be
getting back to my apartment. Bring Grimsby up to it to-night: a little
bromo will bring him back to the land of the living. I'll have a jolly
crowd there--top floor of the Somerset, on Fifty-sixth Street, you know,
near Sixth Avenue. Come up after the show.”

“We're going to the Winter Garden,” suggested Helene, at a nudge from
Shirley, and Warren nodded.

“I'll try to see you later, anyway. Goodbye!”

Losing interest in the proceedings, as the time for reckoning the bill
approached, the other gallants followed these two. Alone, again, Shirley
ordered some black coffee, and smiled at his assistant.

“He told the truth for once.”

“What do you mean?”

“He will try to see us later. That man is a member of the murderous
clan whom we seek. 'To-night is the night' for the exit of William
Grimsby--but, perhaps we may have a stage wait which will surprise
them.”

Gradually the guests thinned out in the tea-room, but Shirley cautiously
waited until the last.

“Do you believe these young men are all members of the gang?” asked the
girl. “Why do you suppose these men are all criminals? They surely look
a bad lot.”

“There are two general reasons why men go wrong. One is hard luck, aided
by tempting opportunity--they hope to make a success out of failure, and
then keep on the straight path for the rest of their lives. Such men
are the absconders, the forgers, the bank-wreckers, and even the petty
thieves. But once branded with the prison bars and stripes, they seldom
find it possible to turn against the tide in which they find themselves:
so they become habitual offenders. They are the easiest criminals to
detect. The second class are the born crooks, who are lazy, sharp-witted
and without enough will-power to battle against the problems of
honesty in work. It is easy enough to succeed if a man is clever and
unscrupulous without a shred of generosity. The hard problem is to be
affectionate, human, and conquer every-day battles by remaining actively
honest, when your rivals are not straight. The born crook is safer from
prison than the weakling of the first class.” He looked down at the
coffee, and then continued.

“I do not believe all these young men are in this curious plot. They are
merely the small fry of the fishing banks: they are petty rascals, with
occasional big game. But somewhere, behind this sinister machine, is a
guiding hand on the throttle, a brain which is profound, an eye which
is all-seeing and a heart as cold as an Antartic mountain. There is the
exceptional type of criminal who is greedy--for money and its luxurious
possibilities; selfish--with regard for no other heart in the world;
crafty--with the cunning of an Apache, enjoying the thrill of crime and
cruelty; refined and vainglorious--with pride in his skill to thwart
justice and confidence in his ability to continually broaden the scope
of his work. Crime is the ruling passion of this unknown man. And the
way to catch him is by using that passion as a bait upon the hook. I
am the wriggling little angle worm who will dangle before his eyes
to-night. But I do not expect to land him--I merely purpose to learn his
identity, to draw the net of the law about him, in such a way as to keep
the Grimsby and Van Cleft names from the case.”

“And how can that be done?”

“That, young lady, is my 'fatal secret.' The subplot developing within
my mind is still nebulous with me,--you would lose all interest, as
would I, if you knew what was going to happen. But the time has passed,
and now we can go to the theatre. I bought the tickets by messenger
this afternoon. I will let you do the talking to the chauffeur and the
usher.”

They left the tea-room, the last guests out.

It was a touching sight to see the elderly gentleman supported on one
side by a fat French waiter, and on the opposite, by the solicitous
girl. The old Civil War wound was unusually troublesome.




CHAPTER X. WHEN IT'S DARK IN THE PARK


At the entrance of the restaurant the starter tooted his shrill whistle,
and a driver began to crank his automobile in the waiting line of cars.
According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order. But, as
is frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of “good fares”
 another car “cut in” from across the street. This taxi swung quickly
around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.

Grunting and mumbling, as though still deep in his cups, Monty allowed
himself to be half pushed, half lifted into the car by the attendant.
Helene followed him. “Winter Garden,” she directed, and the machine sped
away, while the thwarted driver in the rear sent a volley of anathemas
after his successful competitor.

Shirley scrutinized the interior of the machine, but there seemed
nothing to distinguish it from the thousands of other piratical craft
which pillage the public with the aid of the taximeter clock on the
port beam! Soon they were at the big Broadway playhouse, where Shirley
floundered out first, after the ungallant manner of many sere-and-yellow
beaux. He swayed unsteadily, teetering on his cane, as Helene leaped
lightly to the sidewalk beside him. The driver stood by the door of the
car, leering at him.

“Here, keep the change,” and Shirley handed him a generous bill.

“Shall I wait fer ye, gov'nor? I ain't got no call to-night. I'll be
around here all evening.”

The criminologist nodded, and the chauffeur handed Helene the carriage
number check.

“Don't let 'em steal de old gink, inside, girlie. He's strong fer de
chorus chickens.”

Helene shuddered before the hawk-like glare of his malevolent eyes, but
in her part, she shook her head with a laugh, and followed airily after
her escort.

“Good-evening, sir. Back again to-night, I see,” volunteered the ticket
taker, to whom William Grimsby was a familiar visitant. Shirley reeled
with steadied and studied equilibrium, into the foyer of the theatre,
as he nodded. Their seats were purposely in the rear of a side box, well
protected from the audience by the holders of the front positions. The
criminologist appeared to relapse into dreams of bygone days, while his
companion peered into the vast audience and then at the nimble limbed
chorus on the stage with piquant curiosity.

“For years I wanted to see an American stage and an American audience,”
 she confided in an undertone, “and to think that when I do so, it is
acting myself, on the other side of the footlights in a stranger, more
dramatic part than any one else in the theatre. A curious world, isn't
it?”

Shirley breathed deeply, drinking in the maddening perfume of her
glorious hair, so perilously near his own face. The shimmer of her
shoulders, the adorable curves of that enticing scarlet mouth murmuring
so near his own, and yet so far away, in this soul-racking game of
make-believe, stirred his blood as nothing else had done in all the
kalaediscopic years.

“Yes, a more than curious world. How things have changed since last
evening when I planned a sleepy evening at the opera. I wonder what the
outcome will be?”

Helene looked up at him quickly, then as suddenly toward the Russian
danseuse within the golden frame of the great proscenium. The orchestra,
with its maddening Slavic music, stirred her pulses with a strange
telepathy. The evening wore along, until the final curtain. Shirley,
with cumbersome effort helped her with her cloak, dropping his hat and
stick more than once in simulated awkwardness. The electric numerals of
the carriage call soon brought the grimy-faced chauffeur.

“Jack on the spot, gov'nor, that's me!” and he swung the door open.

“We'll go get some supper--no, we'll take little 'scursion in Central
Park, first,” and his voice was thick, “correct, cabbie. Drive us shru
Central Park.”

“Are you going to take a chance in a dark park?” Helene asked him,
as they sat within the car, while the chauffeur cranked. Shirley was
sharply observing the man. A pedestrian crossed directly in front of the
machine, brushing against the driver, as he fumbled with the lamp. If
there were an interchange of words, the criminologist could not detect
it.

“Surely. The park is good. We can be free of interference from the
police. Are you afraid?”

“No--” yet, it was a pardonably weak little voice which uttered the
valiant monosyllable.

“Here, Miss Marigold. Take this revolver. Don't use it until you have
to, but then don't hesitate a second.”

The machine started slowly up the street. Shirley groped about the
sides and bottom of the car, to make sure that no one could be concealed
within it. They were advancing up Broadway in leisurely fashion. It
might have been for the purpose of allowing some to follow. Shirley
wondered, then sniffed the air suspiciously. The girl looked at him with
a silent question.

“Quick, tear off your glove and let me have that diamond ring I noticed
on your finger, the large solitaire, not the dinner ring.”

Unquestioningly she obeyed. There was a strange Oriental odor in the
car--suggestive of an incense. The car was gliding up Central Park West,
toward one of the road entrances into the Park proper. Shirley's hand
clutched the ring, tensely. The driver, tactfully looking straight to
the front, gave no heed to the occupants of the Death Car. He was, by
this time speeding too rapidly for either of his passengers to have
leaped out without injury. Shirley understood the smoothness of the
voice's system, by now. His hand slid to the top of the glass door pane,
on the right. Down the glass, across the bottom, down from the other
corner, and then over the top line, he cut with the diamond, using a
peculiar pressure. He rose to his feet, gave the lower part of the pane
a sharp tap. The glass, practically cut loose from its case, now
dropped and would have slid out to the roadway with a crash had he not
dexterously caught it, to draw it into the car. Quickly he repeated
the operation with the door pane at the left. A nauseating, weakening
something in the car sent Helene's head spinning; she choked for breath
and lay back weakly, despite her will. Shirley turned to the small glass
square in the rear. This came out more easily. He lay the glass with the
others, on the floor of the car. The good clear air whirled through the
openings, reviving the girl.

“Keep your eyes open, and that revolver ready. Now is the time. Pretend
to sleep.”

Shirley had drawn his own automatic by this time, and he realized that
the machine was slowing down. The chauffeur, as they passed a walk
light, looked back, observing that the two were apparently unconscious.
He slowed down still more, and tooted his horn three times. A large
touring car passed them, to stop some distance ahead. Then it sped on,
as Shirley's taxi followed lazily.

A figure suddenly came out of the darkness of the road. The driver
stopped the taxi, and walked around the front, as though to adjust the
lamp. The door opened slowly. A face covered with a black handkerchief
obtruded. A hand slid up the detective's knee, along his side toward the
abdomen, and a protruding thumb began a singular pressure directly below
the criminologist's heart. Shirley's analysis for Dr. MacDonald had been
correct! But jiu-jitsu is essentially a game for two.

Shirley's left hand suddenly shot forth to the neck of his assailant.
His muscular fingers closed in a deft and vice-like pinch directly below
the silk handkerchief. It was the pneumogastric nerve, which he reached:
a nerve which, when deadened by Oriental skill, paralyzes the vocal
chords. Not a sound emanated from the mysterious man, even when
Shirley's right hand shot forward, under the chin of the other, for a
deft blow across the thorax. The other tumbled backward.

“What's wrong, Chief? Too much gas?” cried the chauffeur rushing to
the side of the fallen man. As the driver dropped to his knees, Shirley
flung himself like a tiger upon the rascal's back. The struggle was
brief--the same silent silencer accomplished its purpose. Before the
man knew what had happened to him, he was dragged inside the car, and
another deft pinch sent him to oblivion!

“Hit him over the forehead with the butt of the revolver if he opens his
mouth,” grunted Shirley. “This is the chauffeur, now I'll get the other
one.”

Just then a cry came from the darkness: it was a passing patrolman.

“What you doing in that auto?”

But Shirley waited for no parley-explanations, showing his hand, laying
the whole scandal before the morning edition of the newspapers, were all
out of question now. He must take up the pursuit later. He caught up,
the chauffeur's cap, sprang into the driver's seat, and the car shot
forward like a race horse as he threw forward the lever. The astonished
policeman was within twenty-five yards of the spot, when the auto
disappeared in the darkness. He pursued it vainly.

A few moments later, a man with a handkerchief across his face, groaned
and then raised himself on his elbow, there in the roadway. He could not
remember where he was, nor why. Slowly he crawled on hands and
knees, into the rhododendrons by the roadside, where he again lost
consciousness.

A big touring car rounded the curve of the roadway.

“Not a sign of the Chief,” said the driver. “He must have gone back to
the garage with the Monk. But that's a fool idea. Let's get down there
right away.”

The injured man's memory returned, and he rose stiffly to his feet.
He limped out of the Park, putting away the handkerchief, muttering
profanity and trying to fathom the mystery. As nearly as he could reason
it out, he must have been struck by another machine from the rear.

Far up in the northernmost driveway of the Park, where shrub grown banks
and rocky uplands shelter the thoroughfares, Shirley stopped his runaway
taxicab.

“Let me have his rubber coat, for I'm going to hide this car out on Long
Island. It's a long ride, but this man and his machine will disappear as
completely as though they had been dumped in the ocean.”

Shirley manacled the prisoner, and gagged him with a tightly knotted
handkerchief. He put the greatcoat of Grimsby's about Helene's
shoulders, as he brought her to the front seat of the machine. Then he
shut the doors on the prisoner, and drove the automobile out through the
Easterly entrance of the park.

“I'm not really brave, Mr. Montague,” said the tired voice at his side.
“I'm so glad I'm sitting by you, instead of back inside. We will be home
soon, won't we? I'm so exhausted--my first day in a strange country, you
know.”

Shirley, with the skill of a racing expert, guided the machine through
the maze of streets toward the Bridge over the East River. The touch of
that sweet shoulder, as it unconsciously nestled against his own, sent
through him a tremor which he had not experienced during the weird
silent battle in the dark.

“A strange night, in a strange country. Are you sorry you tried it?”

With a sidelong glance, he caught the starry light in her eyes as she
looked up at him: there seemed more than the mere reflection of passing
street lamps.

“A wonderful night: I'm glad, so glad, not sorry,” was her dreamy
response. She lapsed into silence as the somnolent drone of the motor
and the whirr of the wheels caused the tired eyes to close sleepily.

When he looked at her again, as they were speeding down the bridge
Plaza in Long Island City, she was dozing. The drowsy head touched
his shoulder; she seemed like a child, worn out with games, trustingly
asleep in the care of a big, strong brother.




CHAPTER XI. A TURN IN THE TRAIL


Helene was still asleep when Shirley stopped the engine of the taxi
before a stately Colonial mansion seated back among the pines of a
beautiful Long Island estate. They had been driving for more than an
hour. The girl stirred languorously as he strove to awaken her. She
murmured drowsily:

“No, Jack, dear. Emphatically no. Let's not talk about it any more, dear
boy.”

“Who can Jack be?” and a surprising pang shot through Montague Shirley's
heart. “Jack, dear! Well, and what's it my business. She is a stranger.
She lives her life and I mine. But, at any rate, that settles some silly
things I've been thinking. I'm less awake than she is.”

This time he tried with better success, and Helene rubbed her eyes, with
hands stiffened by the brisk bite of the chill wind. She gazed at the
dimly lit house, at the big figure beside her, as Shirley sprang to the
ground--then remembered it all, and trembled despite herself.

“Oh, it's you, Mr. Shirley,” and she summoned up a little throaty laugh,
as she arose stiffly. “What a queer place to be in!”

“We are a long way from New York's white lights, Miss Marigold. This is
the country home of a good old friend of mine. You can remain here for
the rest of the night, as his wife's guest. To-morrow, when you are
rested, he can send you to the city in one of his cars.”

“You are the most curious man in two continents. I am bewildered. First,
you kidnap a chauffeur and privateer his car, then me. Now you besiege a
friend and wish to leave me on his doorstep as a foundling.”

“I'm sorry--it's the exigency of war! We must finish what we started.
This is the only place I know where I could thoroughly hide my trail. We
must wake up Jim, but first I will have a look at our guest.”

Shirley walked around the car, shooting the beam from his pocket
flashlight in through the open window of the taxi, to be met by
the wicked black eyes of his prisoner, who uttered volumes of
unpronounceable hatred.

“You are still with us, little bright eyes. A pleasant trip, I trust? I
hope you found the air good--I tried to improve the ventilation for your
benefit, as well as my own.” Only a subdued gurgle answered him.

“Oh, what will they think of me--in this immodest gown, with this paint
on my face, and at this hour of night?” pleaded Helene, as he started
toward the door of the mansion.

“It would be awful at that,” and Shirley paused at the beseeching tone
of the girl. “I want you to meet Mrs. Jim as well as Jim. I am afraid
they would think this was the echo of an old college escapade, and
misjudge you. Let me think--”

He led her to a little summer-house close by, and tucked the big coat
about her as he added: “It's dark here--the wind doesn't reach you, and
I'll take you back to town in five minutes. Will that do?”

As she nodded, he hurried to the door where he yanked vigorously at the
bell. An angry head protruded from an upper story, after many encores of
the peals.

“Aw, what the dickens? Go some place else and find out!”

“Jim, Jim. It's Monty! Come down and let me in quick.”

The window closed with a bang as the head was withdrawn, while a light
soon appeared in the beveled panes of the big front door.

“You poor boob,” was the cheerful greeting as it swung wide, “What
brings you out here? I thought it was the usual joy party which had lost
its way. They always pick me out for an information bureau. Come on in!”

Shirley spoke rapidly, in a low tone. The girl in the dark summer-house
marveled at the rapid change of mien, as Jim suddenly ran down the steps
to gaze into the taxicab, then nodding to Shirley. The house-holder
as promptly returned through his front door, while Shirley swiftly
unmanacled the prisoner enough to let him walk, stiff and awkward from
the long ordeal in the car. The stern grip, of his captor prompted
obedience.

Friend Jim had appeared with warmer garments, carrying a lantern. At the
door of the stable Jim's stentorian yell to the groom seemed useless,
but the two men entered. Helene felt miserably weak and deserted, in
the chill night, but she was cheered by seeing the energetic Shirley
reappear, pushing open the doors of the garage, which was connected with
the stable. He hurried to the deserted taxicab, where he seemed busied
for several minutes, the glow of his pocket lamp shooting out now and
then. Through the door of the garage a long, rakish-looking racing car
was being pushed out by Jim and his sleepy groom. There was a cheery
shout from the taxi, and Helene heard a ripping sound. Shirley
reappeared, carrying an oblong box.

“I have the gas generator:--it was built in, under the seat, and
controlled by a battery wire from the front lamp, Jim. A nice little
mechanism. Well, old pal, please apologize to Mrs. Merrivale for my rude
interruption of her beauty sleep. Keep a fatherly eye on Gentleman Mike,
and the taxicab under cover. I'll communicate with you very soon. So
long.”

To Helene's amazement, Shirley cranked the racer, jumped in and seemed
to be starting away without her, down the sweep of the driveway. Could
he have forgotten her? The man must indeed be mad, as some of his
actions indicated! But her aroused indignation was turned to admiration
of his finesse, for suddenly he veered the lights of the car toward
the garage door, throwing them in the faces of Jim and his servant. He
leaped out again, walking past the place of concealment.

“Slip into the car, while I go inside with them. I'll come out on the
run, and no one will be the wiser.”

With this passing stage direction he rushed toward his accomodating
friend, with some final directions. They were apparently humorous in
content, for both the other men roared with mirth, as he walked inside
the building, with them, an arm around the shoulder of each. Helene
obeyed him, hiding as best she could in the low seat of the throbbing
machine. As Shirley returned, Jim Merrivale was still laughing blithely.

“Good-bye, you old maniac: you'll be the death of me. I'll take care of
the star boarder, however, and feed him champagne and mushrooms.”

With a roar, Shirley started the engines, as he bounced into the seat,
and they sped down the curving driveway, with Helene leaning forward,
unobserved.

“There, we've had a little by-play that friend Jim didn't guess. I
always enjoy a little intrigue,” he laughed, as they whizzed along
toward distant New York. “But, I had to lie, and lie, and lie--like the
light that lies in women's eyes. What a jolly game!”

He was a big boy, happy in the excitement, and bubbling with his
superabundance of vitality. Helene felt curiously drawn toward him, in
this mood: she remembered a little paragraph she had read in a book that
day:

“A woman loves a man for the boy spirit that she discovers in him: she
loves him out of pity when it dies!” Then she fearsomely changed the
current of her thoughts, to complain pathetically of the cold wind!

“There, now, I am so thoughtless,” was his apology, as he stopped
the car, to wrap the overcoat more closely about her, and tuck her
comfortably in a big fur. Through the darkened streets of the suburb
they raced, entering the silent factory districts, which presaged the
nearness of the river. It was well on toward daybreak before they rolled
over the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan. It was his second day without
sleep, but Shirley was sustained by the bizarre nature of the exploit:
he could have kept at the steering wheel for an eternity.

“Are you glad we're getting back?” he asked. Helene shook her head, then
she answered dreamily.

“Do you remember something from one of Browning's poems, that I do? It's
just silly for us, but I understand it better now.”

Shirley surprised her by quoting it, as he looked ahead into the dark
street through which they swung, his unswerving hand steady on the
wheel:

    “What if we still ride on, we two,
     With life forever old yet new,
     Changed not in kind, but in degree,
     The instant made eternity,--
     And heaven just prove that I and she
     Ride, ride together, forever ride?”

A quick flush, not caused by the biting wind, suffused her cheek beneath
the remnants of the rouge. Then she laughed up at him appreciatively.

“Curious how our minds ran that way, and hit the very same poem, wasn't
it?”

Shirley smiled back, as he swung down Fifth Avenue.

“Not so curious after all!”

Soon they drew up before the ornate portal of the California Hotel,
where late arrivals were so customary as to cause no comment. He bade
her good-night, words seeming futile after their long hours together.
The drive in the car to the club was short. Paddy the door man was
instructed to send down to Shirley's own garage for a mechanic to store
the car until further orders. The criminologist had ere this rubbed off
his grease paint, so that his appearance was not unusual. Once in his
rooms he treated himself to a piping hot shower, cleaned off the powder
from his dark locks, and as he smoked a soothing cigarette, in his
bathrobe, studied the mechanism of the gas generator for a few moments.

“That was made by an expert who understands infernal machines with a
malevolent genius. I must look out for him,” he mused. “Well, I promised
Professor MacDonald that I would not sleep until I had come face to face
with the voice. I have fulfilled the vow: now for forgetfulness.”

He tumbled into bed, but not to oblivion. For his dreams were disturbed
by tantalizing visions of certain sun-gold locks and blue eyes not at
all in their simple connection with the business end of the Van Cleft
mystery.




CHAPTER XII. THE HAND OF THE VOICE


It took stoicism to the Nth degree for Shirley to respond to the early
telephone call next morning, from the clerk of the club. A few minutes
of violent exercise, in the hand ball court, the plunge, a short swim in
the natatorium and a rub down from the Swedish masseur, however, brought
him around to the mood for another adventure. Sending for the racing
car he began the round-up of details. There was, first of all, Captain
Cronin to be visited in Bellevue. Here he was agreeably surprised to
find the detective chief recuperating with the abettance of his rugged
Celtic physique. The nurse told Shirley that another day's treatment
would allow the Captain to return to his own home: Shirley knew this
meant the executive office of the Holland Detective Agency.

“And sure, Monty, when I have a free foot once again, I'm going to apply
it to them gangsters who put me to sleep.”

“Just what I want you to do, Captain! I 'phoned to your men this morning
while I had breakfast at the club: they have that taxicab which was left
near Van Cleft's house. It's put away safely, Cleary said. There are two
gangsters where the dogs won't bite them; today they are sending out to
Jim Merrivale's house to get the third and he'll be busy with a little
private third degree. I have no evidence which would connect the man
who tried to kill me last night with the other murders, except in a
circumstantial way. What I must do is to follow up the trail, and get
the gentleman carrying out the bales, in other words, with the goods on
him.”

“You'll get him, Monty, if I know you. The fellow hasn't called up at
all on the telephone to-day. I think he's afraid of you.”

“No, Captain Cronin, not that! He's up to some new game. Well, I'm
off--take care of yourself and don't eat anything the nurse doesn't
bring you with her own hands. I wouldn't put anything past this gang.”

He shook hands and hurried out of the hospital, with several more
errands to complete. He looked vainly about him for the gray racing-car.
It was gone! Here was another unexpected interference with his work, and
Shirley, sotto voce, expressed himself more practically than politely.
He hurried to an ambulance driver who stood in a doorway, solacing his
jangled nerves with a corn-cob smoke.

“Neighbor, did you see any one take the gray car standing here a few
minutes ago?”

“Yep, a feller just came out of the hospital entry, cranked her and
jumped in.”

“How long ago?”

“Well, I just returned with a suicide actor case five minutes ago.”

“Then you might have seen him enter first?”

“Nope. Not a sign. All I seen was the way he cranked the machine, and
he didn't waste any elbow grease doin' it, either. He knew the trick.
That's what I thought when I seen him, even if he did look like a dude.”

Shirley hurried to the entry once more. This was the only portal through
which visitors were admitted to the hospital for the purpose of calling
on patients. He hastened to the uniformed attendant who took down the
names of all applicants. This man, upon inquiry, was a trifle dubious.
True, there had been two Italian women and before them--yes, there had
been a young chap with a green velour hat, and white spats. He had asked
about a Captain Cronin, and when told that a visitor was already seeing
the patient, agreed to wait outside. It had been about five minutes
before. The man was indefinite about more details. Shirley hurried to
the telephone booth in the corridor. To Headquarters he reported the
theft of car “99835 N.Y.,” giving a description of its special features
and its make. This warning he knew would be telephoned to all stations
within five minutes, so that every policeman in New York would be on
the lookout for the missing machine. Satisfied, he left the hospital, to
walk across the long block to the nearest north and south avenue, where
he might catch a surface car.

Suddenly he halted, to mutter in astonishment at a sight which was the
surprise of the morning: it was the missing car standing peacefully on
the next corner.

“I wonder what that means?” he murmured, as he stopped to study with
great interest the window of an Italian green grocer. A sidelong glance
at the car and its surroundings revealed nothing out of the way. He
retraced his steps to the hospital, wasted ten minutes with a cigarette
or two, and still no one seemed to take an interest in the automobile.
Finally he walked up to the car, trying the lock of which he had the
only key. Apparently it had been untampered with, for the key worked
perfectly. Here was Jim Merrivale's car, a good three hundred yards away
from the place where he had locked it to prevent any moving. He felt
certain that keen eyes had him under surveillance, yet he could not
observe any observers within the range of his own vision. It was simply
a stupid, quiet slum neighborhood and at the time, unusually deserted by
the customary hordes of children and dogs!

What had been the purpose in moving it such a short distance?

Where had it been in the twenty-five minutes since he had left it at the
entrance to the hospital?

Why had it been left here, of all places, where he would naturally walk
if desirous of taking a street-car?

There seemed no immediate answer to the conundrums. So, he nonchalantly
clambered into the car, after cranking it. The mechanism seemed in
perfect order. Puzzled, he started to speed up the street, when he
observed a white envelope close by his foot, on the floor of the car.

He picked it up, and tearing it open quickly read this simple message.

“To whom it may concern: It is frequently advisable to mind your own
business--is it not? Answer: Yes!”

“Huh,” grunted Shirley. “While not thrilling in originality, it is a
lasting truth which nobody can deny. I'll save this and frame it on the
walls of my rooms.”

As he drove around the corner and up the Avenue, there was suddenly a
terrific explosion, which threw him completely out of the machine!
The car, without a driver, its engines whirring madly, dashed into a
helpless corner fruit stand, scattering oranges, bananas, apples and
desolation in its wake, as it vainly endeavored to climb to the second
story with super-mechanical intelligence! Shirley, stunned and bruised,
fell to the pavement where he lay until an excited patrolman rushed to
his rescue.

A little “first aid” work brought Shirley back to consciousness, and he
stiffly rose to his feet, with a head throbbing too much for any real
thinking.

“What's the matter with your auto?” cried the policeman. “Can't you run
it? Let's see the number.” The officer took out his notebook, to jot
down the details according to police rules. Then he turned on Shirley in
amazement. “Be gorry, it's car 99835 N.Y. I just wrote the number down
when I came on post with my squad! This car is stolen. You come with
me!”

Shirley had been adjusting the mechanism, and the wheels had ceased
their whirring. He tried to expostulate in a dazed way, realizing that
for once the department was working with a vengeful promptness. He was
hoist by his own petard!

“I'm the owner of the car,” he began, rubbing his aching forehead.

“What's yer name?”

“Montague Shirley!” The policeman laughed, as he caught the
criminologist by the shoulder, and blew his whistle for another man from
post duty.

“You lie. This car is owned by James Merrivale. You can't put over
raw stuff like that on me. I'm no rookie--Here, Joe,” (as the other
policeman ran up through the growing, jeering crowd,) “watch this
machine. This guy's one of them auto Raffles, and I done a good job when
I lands him. I'm going to the station-house now.”

The other policeman was examining the car, when he called to his fellow
officer: “Here, Sim, did you see this car was blown up inside the seat?”

Shirley, his acuteness returned by this time, ran to the car eluding his
captor's hold. He had not observed before the jagged shattered hole torn
in the side of the leather side. It had all happened so swiftly, that
his professional instincts were slow in reasserting themselves after the
“buck” of the car.

“You're right,” he exclaimed. “There's an alarm clock and a dry
battery--the same man made this who built the gas-generator--”

“Whadd'ye mean--ain't you the feller after all?” asked the first
patrolman, beginning to get dubious about his arrest.

“No, I am no thief. But just take me to the station-house quick, and
turn in your report. Let this other man guard that car. Hurry up!”

“Say, feller, who do you think is making this arrest? You'll go to the
station-house when I get ready.”

“Then you're ready now,” snapped the criminologist. “You'll see me
discharged very promptly, when I speak to the Commissioner over the
wire.”

The officer was supercilious until the station-house was reached. He
had heard this blatant talk before. What was his surprise when Shirley
telephoned to the head of the Department and then called the Captain to
the instrument.

“Release Mr. Shirley at once,” was the crisp order. “Give him any men or
assistance he needs.”

“Well, whadd'ye know about that? Not even entered on the blotter to
credit me with a good arrest!” The patrolman turned away in disgust.

“Do you want any of the reserves, sir?” The Captain was scrupulously
polite.

“Not one. I'm going to study that machine again. You might detail a
plain clothes man to walk along the other side of the street for luck.
Good-day.”

The automobile to which he returned was still the object of community
interest. Shirley took the remains of the bomb which had caused his
sudden elevation. The policeman approached him from the fruit store.

“The man wants damages for the stock you destroyed, mister. I'll fix it
up with him if you want--about twenty-five dollars will do.”

“Well, hand him this five-dollar bill and see if that won't dry some of
the imported tears,” retorted Shirley with a laugh. In a few minutes he
was bowling along on a surface car, to the club. There was no longer any
use in trying to hide his identity or address, for the conspirators knew
at least of his interest and assistance in the case: although in this as
all others he was not known to be a professional sleuth.

In the quiet of his room he drew out magnifying glasses and other
instruments for a thorough analysis of the remains of the infernal
machine. He compared this with the mechanism of the gas-generator which
had been placed in the seat of the Death taxi. There was evidence that
it had come from the same source. Shirley sniffed at the generator and
the peculiar odor still clinging to it was familiar.

“Well, I think I will have a little surprise for Mr. Voice, the next
time we grapple, which will be an encore of his own tune, with a new
verse!”

He went to a cabinet, took out a small glass vial, filled with a limpid
liquid and placed it within his own pocket. Then he prepared for a new
line of activities for the day. His first duty was a call on Pat Cleary,
superintendent of the Holland Agency.

“The Captain is progressing splendidly,” was his answer to the anxious
query. “He will be back in the harness again to-morrow. How are the
prisoners?”

“They have tried to break out twice and gave my doorman a black eye. But
they got four in return: Nick is no mollycoddle, you know. I can't quite
get the number of these fellows, for they are not registered down at
Headquarters, in the Rogue's Gallery. Their finger-prints are new ones
in this district, too. They look like imported birds, Mr. Shirley. What
do you think?”

Cleary's opinion of the club man had been gaining in ascendency.

“They may be visitors from another city, but I think the state will keep
them here as guests for a nice long time, Cleary. They say New York is
inhospitable to strangers, but we occasionally pay for board and room
from the funds of the taxpayers without a kick. We saved the day for the
Van Clefts, all right. The paper told of a beautiful but quiet funeral
ceremony, while the daughter has postponed her marriage for six months.”

Then he recounted the adventure of the exploding car. Cleary lit his
malodorous pipe, and shook his head thoughtfully.

“Young man, you know your own affairs best. But with all your money,
you'd better take to the tall pines yourself, like these old guys in
the 'Lobster Club.' That's the advice of a man who's in the business for
money not glory. This is a bum game. They'll get me some day, some of
these yeggs or bunk artists that I've sent away for recuperation, as
the doctors call it. But I'm doing it for bread and beefsteak, while it
lasts. You run along and play--a good way from the fire, or you'll get
more than your fingers burnt. Take their hint and beat it while the
beating's good.”

A glint of steel shone from the eyes of the criminologist as he lit
another cigarette and took up his walking-stick.

“Why, Cleary, this is what I call real sport. Why go hunting polar bears
and tigers when we've got all this human game around the Gold Coast of
Manhattan? I'm tired of furs: I want a few scalps. Good-morning.”

As Cleary went up the stairway to renew the ginger of the Third Degree
for the two prisoners, he smiled to himself, and muttered:

“The guy ain't such a boob as he looks: he's just a high-class nut. I'd
enjoy it myself if it wasn't my regular work.”

At Dick Holloway's office Shirley was greeted with an eager demand for
his report of the former evening's activities. An envious look was on
the face of the theatrical manager.

“Shucks, Monty! It's a shame that all this sport is private stock, and
can't be bottled up and peddled to the public, for they're just crazy
about gangster melodrama. They're paying opera prices for the old time
ten-twent-and-thirt-melodrama, right on Broadway. Hurry up and get the
man and I'll have him dramatized while the craze is rampant.”

“Not while I own the copyright,” retorted Shirley, “this is one of the
chapters of my life that isn't going to be typewritten, much less the
subject of gate-receipts.”

“I'm not so certain of that,” and Holloway's smile was quizzical.

“What do you mean? Who is this Helene Marigold? I have a right to know
in a case like this.”

“Good intuition, as far as you go. But you're guessing wrong, for she
has nothing to do with my little joke. But why worry about her?” laughed
Holloway. His friend had leaned forward, intensely, clutching his cane,
with an unusually serious look on his face. Holloway had never seen
Shirley take such an interest in any woman before. He arose from
his desk-chair and walked to the broad window, which overlooked the
thronging sidewalks of Broadway.

“Down there is the biggest, busiest street in the world filled with
women of all hues and shades. This is the first time you ever looked so
anxious about any combination of lace, curls, silks and gew-gaws before.
You have been the bright and shining example of indifferent bachelor
freedom which has made me--thrice divorced--so envious of your
unalloyed, unalimonied joy. Don't betray the feet of clay which have
supported my idol!”

The baffling smile of the debonair club man returned to Shirley's face,
as he twitted back: “Purely an altruistic inquiry, Dick. I feared that
you might be risking your own heart and the modicum of freedom which you
still possess. But I'll wager a supper-party for four that I'll find out
who she is, without either you or she telling me.”

“Taken. At last I'm to have a free banquet, after years of business
entertaining. You have met a girl who will match your wits--I expect the
sparks to fly. Well, she's worth while--I might do worse--but in perfect
fairness she ought to do better. How about it?”

“Yes, with Jack,” and Shirley tapped the walking stick on the floor with
an emphatic thump, while Holloway regarded him in startled surprise.

“Who is Jack?”

“You see--I am learning already. But, you and I are drifting from my
task. I wish that you would take me to call on Miss Marigold, in my
present lack of disguise. I do not care for that ancient garb any
longer. It was stretching the chances rather far, but thanks to the
darkness, the champagne, and good fortune, I succeeded in impersonating
our aged friend without detection. I will not return to Grimsby's house,
but propose now to get down to brass tacks with Mr. Voice, even though
the tacks be hard to sit upon. I wish to use her as a bait, by taking
her out to tea and getting a first-hand speaking acquaintance with these
convivial assassins.”

“Monty, you are wasting your talents outside the pages of a play
manuscript, but we will make that call instanter.”

In leisure, they promenaded up the crowded Gay Wide Way, through the
noontime crowd of theatrical folk who dot the thoroughfare in this part
of the city. His adversaries were to have every opportunity to observe
his movements and draw their own conclusions. At the Hotel California
new comment buzzed between the garrulous clerk and the switchboard
person, at sight of the well-known manager and his prosperous-looking
companion.

“Who is that come on?” asked the clerk of the bellboy.

“Sure, dat's Montague Shirley, one of dem rich ginks from de College
Club on Forty-fourth Street, where I used to woik in de check room. If I
had dat guy's money I'd buy a hotel like dis.”

“Then I see where Holloway, with that blonde dame upstairs, will be
putting on a new musical show, with a new angel. It's a great business,
Miss Gwendolyn--no wonder they call it art.” And the clerk removed a
silk handkerchief from his coat cuff, to dust the register wistfully.
“Why didn't I devote my talents to the drama instead of room-keys and
due-bills?”

But Miss Gwendolyn was too busy talking to the Milwaukee drummer in Room
72 to formulate a logical reason. Shirley and Holloway improved the time
by taking the elevator to the top floor where Helene greeted them at the
door of her pretty apartment. She welcomed them happily, declaring it
had been a lonesome morning.

“Weren't you resting from that long thrill of last night, in which you
starred?” asked Holloway.

“It was too thrilling for me to sleep: I know I look a perfect frump,
this morning. I tossed on the pillow, watching the dawn over your
towering New York roofs, so nervous and almost miserable. But, with
company, it's all right again.”

Holloway laughed inwardly at the warmth of the glance which she bestowed
upon Shirley. From the angle of an audience, he was beginning to observe
a phase of this double play of personalities which was unseen by either
of the participants. Two sleepless nights, after such a first evening
together, and what then? He imagined the denouement, with a growing
enjoyment of his vantage-point as the game advanced.

“To-day, I am reversing the usual progress of history,” said Shirley, as
he sat down in the window-seat. “From second juvenility I am returning
to the first. In other words, I wish to become your adoring suitor in
the role of Montague Shirley.”

“I don't understand,” and her eyes widened in wonder, not without an
accompanying blush which did not escape Holloway.

“No longer a lamb in sheep's clothing, I want to entertain you, without
the halo of William Grimsby's millions. I want to take tea with these
gentle-voiced cut-throats, who after my warning to-day, are directing
their attention to me.” He narrated the narrow escape from death in
the racing-car. Helene's eyes darkened with an uncertainty which he had
hardly expected. Perhaps she would refuse to carry out their compact
along these dangerous lines.

“Do you feel it wise to place yourself beneath this new menace?”

“The sword of Damocles is over me now, I know. To run would be a
confession of weakness and open the field for his further activities,
with the rear-guard continuously exposed. There is nothing like the
personal equation. I will call at five this afternoon, if you are
willing, Miss Marigold?”

“I will fight it out to the end,” and she placed her warm hand firmly
within his own. The two friends departed, Shirley retracing his steps to
the club where many things were to be studied and planned. His system
of debit and credit records of facts known and needed, was one which
brought finite results. As he smoked and pondered at his ease, a tapping
on the study door aroused him from his vagrant speculations. At his
call, a respectful Japanese servant presented a note, just left by a
messenger-boy. He tore the envelope and read it.

“Montague Shirley:--The third time is finis. As a friend you
accomplished the purpose you sought. There is no grudge against you.
Why seek one? It is fatal for you to remain in the city. Leave while you
have time.”

That was all. The chirography was the same as that upon the note of the
racing-car episode. Shirley locked up the missive in his cabinet, and
smiled at the increasing tenseness of the situation.

“The writer of these two notes may have an opportunity to leave town
himself before long, to rest his nerves in the quiet valley of the
Hudson, at Ossining. My friend the enemy will soon be realizing a
deficit in his rolling-stock and gentlemanly assistants. Two automobiles
and three prisoners to date. There should be additional results before
midnight. I wonder where he gardens into fruition these flowers of
crime?”

And even as he pondered, a curious scene was being enacted within a
dozen city blocks of the commodious club house.




CHAPTER XIII. THE SPIDER'S WEB


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.




CHAPTER XIV. A PILGRIMAGE INTO FRIVOLITY


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.




CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING HELENE'S FINESSE


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.




CHAPTER XVI. THE STRANGE AND SURPRISING WARREN


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

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/5672