MIXED IDENTITIES.
"You're all right, neighbor," panted the fugitive as he settled back in
the carriage seat. "I was in a tight corner, but the copper hadn't any
call to rough things up with me like he did. How did you happen to be
handy by and willing to give me a lift?"
"I've been watching you for fifteen or twenty minutes," answered the
man.
"Piping me off, eh? Why was that? What's your graft, anyhow? Put me
wise and oblige."
"Oh, drop it!" said the other disgustedly. "You know me, all right
enough. Look!"
The man wore a black beard. Lifting his hands as he spoke he plucked it
away, revealing a smoothly shaven face.
"Recognize me now?" he queried, with a husky laugh.
"If I do I'm a geezer," answered the youth. "Why the bogus wind
teasers? Gee, but this is a warm play."
"You make me tired!" scowled the man. "My name's Whistler, as you know
well enough."
"Whistler, Whistler," murmured the fugitive. "On the level, Whistler,
you've got past my guard. But what's the diff? You're one-two-seven
with me for lifting me out of that bunch of trouble. But, tell me,
whose game of muggins is this, and what's the stake? Anything higher
than two-call-five and a quarter to see puts me out of the running.
You've heard of the bank that broke the man at Monte Carlo? Well,
listen--I'm It. Please drop that dizzy front, old fel, and tell me
why you're a counterfeit. Not being a has-wasser myself, I'm game for
anything that promises kopecks, simoleons, or anything white or yellow
with the eagle bird and E Pluribus Get-there on the side. Have one?"
With two yellow-stained fingers, the youth pulled a cigarette box from
under his sweater and offered it to the man. The latter, apparently in
a daze, shook his head negatively. With a grin, the fugitive lighted a
cigarette and put away the box.
"Now, Whistler," he pattered, "cut away with the straight dope and tell
me all about it."
Whistler narrowed his eyes and studied the fugitive's face for a minute.
"You've got more tricks in your basket, Matt King," said he, "than I've
given you credit for, up to now."
"Thanks, Whistler," drawled the youth, "you'll never hear me putting
up a roar when that sort of con talk is shoved at me. Yes, indeed,
I've gathered much knowledge while knocking about our little planet.
Experience came to me early and says, 'Joe, put your little hand in
mine and let's go out and take a bird's-eye view of the Universe.' We
went. Perhaps that's why, at the present speaking, I'm in N. O. all but
broke. Being bashful and retiring, I don't like to feature myself; but
you're keen, Whistler, and I couldn't dodge you."
The torrent of language flowed steadily, and as it flowed Whistler grew
more and more surprised.
"Great jumping je-lucifer!" he muttered. "You've changed a whole lot
in the last few days, King. I suppose that happened when you took to
cigarettes?"
"Nay, not according to league rules." The lad allowed a mouthful of
smoke to trickle out through his lips and nose. "King, eh?" he went on.
"How you do keep handing me the bokays. I was king of the track when I
rode the ponies, king of the plungers when I played 'em, and king of
the 'bos now they've broke me. Oh, yes, call me King by all means."
Whistler, still staring, sat back and mumbled to himself.
"What do you call yourself, _now_?" he asked.
"A mistake. I took the wrong turn at the forks of the road.
Prosperityville lay on the other track and I'm just over the hill
from the poorhouse. Also I call myself Dennis, and I spell it M-u-d.
When I was christened they named me Joe, and the other part of it was
Dashington. Generally they referred to me as Dash. That's about all I
amount to, now; just a dash--a straight line that ought to stand for
something, but don't."
"You're a pretty slick counterfeit yourself, King," laughed Whistler.
"I never dreamed that Motor Matt could play himself up like this."
"My, my!" murmured Joe Dashington. "He thinks I'm stringing him! If I'd
been careless with the truth he'd have believed me; but now that I'm
giving it to him straight, he winks the other eye and drops a mitt on
his left shoulder."
The carriage came to a stop. Joe Dashington started up and looked
through the carriage window.
"Have the cops landed on me?" he inquired, "or have we reached the
place we're going?"
"We've stopped where I wanted to, Motor Matt," returned Whistler. "Do
you see this?"
He lifted a hand from his outside jacket pocket and showed a glimmering
bit of steel.
"Not being blind," answered Dash calmly, "I'm wise to the pepper box.
Ah, ha, the plot thickens! Why the gun?"
"I said I was watching you, there on the dock," answered Whistler
sternly, "and I was doing it for a purpose. You were disguised, and I
believed then and am of the opinion now that you were trying to find
out something about me. I intended going to False River on that boat,
but changed my plans when I saw you. You're going to get out here and
accompany me into the house before which we have stopped; and you're
going to remember, Motor Matt, that this pepper box is in my pocket all
the time, and that I can use it there just as well as though I had it
in sight."
"Yes, yes, this is a funny play, but I'm a passenger, Mr. Whistler, and
you seem to hold all the trumps. I shall be glad to go into the house
with you. Johnny Hardluck has been rubbing my fur the wrong way for
days and days, and I'd get heart failure if he didn't keep it up."
Whistler opened the door with one hand, and he and the youth got out of
the carriage, crossed the walk, climbed a flight of steps and vanished
into the house. They were met in the hall by a man who showed a good
deal of surprise.
"Great Scott, Whistler!" fretted the man. "I thought you were on your
way to False River, by now."
"Changed my plan, Jurgens," replied Whistler. "Conduct us into the
front room where the light is better. I've a surprise for you."
Jurgens gave a sharp look in the fugitive's direction, turned and led
the way into an apartment where the late afternoon sun rendered objects
clearer to the eye.
"What!" he cried, startled. "Matt King!" He whirled angrily on
Whistler. "What do you mean by bringing him here?"
"Don't go off the jump, Jurgens," answered Whistler, "until you learn
more. Bangs went with me to the landing, and just as I was about to
go on the boat I caught sight of King. I wondered why he was got
up like that, and I believed that he was watching me. While I was
wondering whether I should go on the boat, or not, this lad turned a
little trouble on the levee. Those two chums of his, the sailor and
the Dutchman, signaled and one of them laid a letter on a cotton bale.
King went forward to get it and a spark from his cigarette fired the
bale. A policeman started after him, and I motioned for him to come
to the carriage. I saw, then, that he didn't know me. He accepted my
invitation and I brought him away. Now we can make him tell us what his
game is, and we can have a look at that letter."
Joe Dashington listened to all this with a surprised grin.
"I suppose I ought to have heart failure over this," he remarked, "but,
somehow, it don't phase me. I can't be much worse off than I am, no
matter what happens. When you gents find out you've made a sucker play,
perhaps you'll tell me how I can turn enough of the ready for a board
bill and a place to pound my ear."
"He's trying to tell me that his name's not King," scoffed Whistler.
Jurgens, deeply interested, laid his head on one side and studied the
youth at some length.
"His face is King's, plain enough," said he finally, "but he's rigged
out like a hoodlum and talks like a beachcomber. What's the answer?"
"I'm by," laughed Joe Dashington. "You fellows tell me."
He lighted another cigarette.
"Pass over that letter," ordered Whistler.
Dashington, without a dissenting word, handed the letter to Whistler.
"I know as much about it as you do," said he. "If it's an invite to go
out with a stocking full of sand, please count me in. Anything with
money in it looks good to me."
The envelope bore the words, "For Motor Matt."
"He's King, easy enough," averred Jurgens, looking over Whistler's
shoulder.
"That's a cinch," averred Whistler, opening the letter and removing the
inclosed sheet.
Together the two men read the letter, managing to keep wary eyes on the
youth as they did so.
"DEAR MATT: I'm lying ill in bed, out on Prytania Street. Dick and
Carl know the place. There's a bag of diamonds to be delivered to the
daughter of the Man from Cape Town, over on St. Charles Avenue, and
you're the only one I can trust to do the work. You will have to be
careful about it, and I wish you would come here at midnight to-night
and get the stones. I haven't told either Carl or Dick what I want
you to do, and when you read this I think you had better keep it to
yourself--even from them. I've a feeling in my bones that there's
trouble ahead, and I want to get the responsibility of those diamonds
off my shoulders as quickly as possible.
"Yours, ARCHIBALD TOWNSEND."
Exultation flamed in the faces of Whistler and Jurgens.
"Luck!" cried Whistler. "This is our lucky day, Jurgens, and no
mistake."
"Nothing ever dropped into our hands so easy before!" jubilated
Jurgens. "All we've got to do is to think of some way to pull off the
deal and----"
Feet clattered up the outside steps. Leaving Whistler to look after the
youth, Jurgens darted into the hall.
"Hello, Bangs!" he exclaimed, a moment later. "What's the trouble?"
"I was down on the levee when Whistler took a fellow we both thought
was Motor Matt into a carriage and rushed away with him," came the
voice of Bangs, as Jurgens led him into the front room; "but when I----"
Bangs likewise wore a false beard. He was pulling it off as he came
into the room, but suddenly he stopped and stared. His eyes were on Joe
Dashington.
"Well?" demanded Jurgens curtly.
"That--that chap is a dead ringer for Motor Matt!" gasped Bangs,
pointing to the youth.
"A dead ringer for him?" echoed Whistler. "Why, Bangs, he _is_ Motor
Matt."
"That's what I thought when you rushed away with him," continued Bangs,
"but you hadn't been gone three minutes when Motor Matt showed up on
the levee and the officer tried to arrest him."
Jurgens and Whistler seemed stupefied. They stared at each other, then
at Bangs, and then at the grinning face of Dashington.
"If I could see as much as two bones in this, gents," remarked the
youth, "I'd be tickled out of my kicks. This Motor Matt must be a
beaut if he looks like yours truly. What's in the letter? Can't we use
it some way and get a strangle hold on a basket of rocks? I've got a
horrible financial stringency staring me in the face, and I'm ripe for
anything."
An idea, just then, laid hold of Jurgens.
"By George!" he exclaimed. "Fate must have framed up this whole play
for our especial benefit. Get together, all of you, and listen to me!
I've got a scheme, and it's a world beater."