CONCERNING THE IDENTITY OF THE MAN WITH THE HIGH VOICE
I had my first good look at him while he moved deliberately past me and
up to the door of the house: A man past middle age, in frock-coat and
silk hat in spite of the season, heavy without portliness, a figure of
an elderly athlete. A shock of iron-gray hair brushed the back of his
collar, and his face was a face to ponder over, a face at once square
and aquiline, broad forehead, predatory nose, and the massive lips and
jawbones of a conqueror, clear-cut under a skin of creamy ivory. He
might have been a Roman emperor in time-worn marble. While I stood
irresolute, wondering whether to follow, and on what pretext I should do
so, the door swung open and he passed ponderously within; and the next
instant Mrs. Tabor appeared at the ground-floor window, motioning to me
frantically. I came forward, but she as frantically waved me back, and
seemed to indicate by her gestures that I was to keep the taxicab where
it was. A moment later she slipped out of the door like a fugitive, ran
across the sidewalk, and fell in a heap inside the cab, crying: "Take me
away, quickly! Oh, take me away!"
I directed the astonished driver to the Grand Central, and sprang in
beside her. She was very pale and breathing in sobbing gasps; and
remembering her weak heart, I was alarmed almost for her life. But she
began to recover as soon as we were fairly in motion, and by the time we
had gone a few blocks was apparently beyond the immediate danger of
collapse. She was still, however, pitifully pale and shaken, clutching
unconsciously at my arm, and whispering: "That man--that man--" like a
frightened child.
"Whom do you mean?" I asked. "Not the chauffeur? He went the other way
as soon as you were inside."
"Chauffeur? No, what chauffeur? I mean the old man that came in after
me. He comes after me everywhere. I can't get away from him. Is he
coming now?" She tried to look out of the window.
"There's no one coming," I said blindly. "He sent his car away, and he
couldn't follow us if he tried. It's all right."
"Really? Are you quite sure?" She sat up, and began setting her hair to
rights with little aimless pats and pushes. "You must think me ill or
crazy, Mr. Crosby," she went on with a faint smile, "but if you could
only understand, you would see that I'm not so absurd as I seem."
"But who is he?"
"He's the worst of them all. He's the head of it. My own people would
hear reason if it weren't for him. He knows--oh, he knows all the things
that nobody ought to. He doesn't want me ever to see Miriam-- I can't
get away from him. I can't possibly get away from him." She was growing
hysterical again, and I dared not let her go on, much as I wanted to
hear more.
"He isn't here, anyway," I said. "He isn't anywhere about, and he isn't
coming, and you have got away from him this time. And I'm going to take
you safe home and see that no one troubles you any more."
I felt that I was talking like a fool, but my reassurance, fatuous as it
was, had its suggestive effect. She grew steadier, and I was able to
lead her mind away from its terror, until, as we reached the station,
she had become almost like herself.
"Mr. Crosby," she said as the cab stopped, "you've done me a difficult
service very tactfully, and you are a wonderful nurse; I'm really quite
myself now, and there's no need at all of your coming home with me. But
I want you to understand a little why I had such an absurd shock. That
man is insane, and I'm afraid of him. But I can't make the family
believe it."
I tried to pay the least possible attention. "I'd better come with you
anyhow," I said carelessly, "just to be on hand. There's no harm in
having a man along."
She protested that she was quite well, and that there was not the
slightest occasion for my trouble. And indeed, she was so marvelously
recovered that it was hard for me to believe my own memory of the last
few minutes: the oppression had passed from her as a slate is cleared by
a sponge, and there was hardly a sign of visible nervousness to show
that she had been excited. Nevertheless, I could not leave her so,
though I was racking my brain for an explanation, and raging at the
responsibility which prevented me from hurrying back to seek it. As I
was buying the tickets, a god from the machine appeared in the person of
Sheila, armed for travel and looking more anxious than ourselves. She
took possession of the older woman like a nurse discovering a lost
child.
"Here ye are on your way home again," she cried, "an' me thinkin' I'd
have to go all the way out alone on the hot thrain, with no one better
than meself. That man of mine's off to sea, Mrs. Tabor, an' Miss
Margaret sent me word to come back an' make meself useful. But ye'd be
knowin' that already. Ye're only in the city for the day?"
"Mrs. Tabor and I have been lunching together," I said, "and it seemed
so hot in town that I hardly liked to have her go home alone."
"Ye've been--" Sheila shot a quick glance at me. "Well, there'll be no
need, Mr. Crosby, unless ye were to come to Stamford yourself anyway,"
and she began to inquire volubly after the health of the family.
Mrs. Tabor turned to me. "There really is nothing for you to do, Mr.
Crosby, except to come soon and see me again," she said brightly. "I'm
quite well, and I'm in safe hands, as you see--"
So far as I could tell, she was right; and I had no further need of
overriding dismissal. I saw them both safely on the train, and hurried
back; resolved to reach the bottom of at least this new mystery before I
slept that night. My telephone call was answered by Reid, upon whom I
wasted no unnecessary words, telling him only that Mrs. Tabor had been
continuously with me, and was now on her way home in charge of Sheila.
"Why on earth didn't you 'phone before?" he snapped.
"Couldn't," said I shortly. "Good-by," and I raced for the subway.
A north-bound express was just leaving, and I had barely time to squeeze
inside the door. The nearest station to the house would be Sixty-sixth
Street; but by taking the express to Seventy-second, and running back on
a local, I should save time. I hung on my strap, fidgeting with
impatience while we howled through the clashing darkness and flashed
past the blurred brilliancy of the stations. As we passed Sixty-sixth
Street, a local drew out in the same direction as ourselves, running for
a moment side by side with us before it fell behind. Its rows of lighted
windows balanced almost within reach; and close inside, in one of the
cross-seats amidships of the car, sat the man whose mere presence had
so terrified Mrs. Tabor.
There was no mistaking that face, even if the silk hat and formal
frock-coat had not been at that season almost an identification in
themselves. I could as soon have mistaken Ibsen or Napoleon appearing
before me in the flesh. The massive head was bent forward thoughtfully,
and one broad white hand lay loose along the window-sill. I noticed a
plain gold ring on the little finger. Then, as the express began to
slacken speed, the window moved slowly past me and out of sight ahead. I
had a strong sense of having seen the face many times before, though,
try as I would, I could not fit it to a name. He was either some person
well enough known to have his picture often in print or else the
striking distinction of his features had given me that impression.
The local was standing at the platform as we drew into Seventy-second
Street, and I pushed out and across to it with small regard for the
amenities of the crowded station. A score of people, it seemed, were
possessed of personal designs to block my way. I dodged a chanticleer
hat, caromed off a hot and angry commuter or so, and found myself
scrambling at the tail of the impatient cluster before the
sliding-doors.
"Little lively, please!" roared the guard. "Lennux 'n West Farms, local
train! Both gates!"
I did my best, but there were too many ahead of me. Even as I reached
for that grip on the door-casing, which meant the right to squeeze
inside, the door clicked shut before my face; and two dull clanks of the
gong sealed my disappointment. I ran wildly along the train, trying to
overtake the relay of sliding doors and jangling bells; but it was of no
use. Then for an infuriating minute or two the train stood still, locked
and inviolable, while the station alarm chattered overhead, and through
the gleaming window I could see my man sitting calmly in his place. As
it creaked out into the darkness, another express growled in behind me;
and I had still presence of mind enough to slip aboard. My one chance
was that we might overtake that local in a favorable spot.
Seventy-ninth and Eighty-sixth Streets blurred past without a sign. Then
a little beyond the latter I caught sight of the local, and gradually we
drew alongside. He was still there, drumming idly on the window-pane
with his white fingers, and looking disinterestedly straight across at
me. I had a momentary impulse to conceal my face, until I remembered
that he had never seen me. So for a second we stared at each other,
pursuer and pursued, the one utterly unconscious of the other. My train
passed forward with increasing speed, while I counted the
cars--one--two--three--he was in the fourth. Either he must come into
Ninety-sixth Street or get off at Ninety-first; and the chances were in
favor of my finding him still in the train at Ninety-sixth.
I got out there, crossed over to the local platform, and waited. When
the train came in, I was opposite the fourth car. The center seat was
empty, and I sought in vain among the passengers thronging to the doors.
Then I hurried back ahead of the crowd, and from before the ticket
window ran my eyes again over the platform to make sure. Well, he had
left the train at the last station; it was a question of seconds. I was
in the street above in less time than it takes to tell it, and swung
myself recklessly aboard a passing south-bound surface car; but a stream
of trucks and automobiles blocked the track; and before we passed the
next corner I jumped off and ran. Three blocks I went at the top of my
speed, my breath growing shorter at every stride. And then, nearly a
block away to the westward, I caught sight of the silk hat against the
reddening sky.
It was an easy matter enough to overtake the man. He walked along slowly
and rather heavily, glancing upward at the numbers of the houses; and
presently he paused to verify an address in a pocketbook. I might have
spoken to him then, but I hesitated for a pretext. His name was what I
wanted first; and in my ignorance of the circumstances it would be safer
to settle one thing at a time. While I debated with myself, he went up
the steps of a house near West End Avenue. Since it was evidently not
his home, nothing could be lost by a little patient consideration; so
lighting a cigarette, of which by now I felt considerable need, I
strolled to and fro before the house, while I pondered my next move.
Five or ten minutes went by, and I was on the point of ringing the bell
and asking who it was that had just come in, when the electric brougham
purred around the corner, with my friend Thomas sitting stolidly at the
wheel. At the moment, I happened to be nearly at the other end of the
block, and before I reached the spot where the brougham had drawn up my
man had come out of the house. I could hardly question his servant
before his face. And the next minute he had clambered in and driven
decorously away.
I ran as far as the corner, looking about in all directions for a
taxicab. None was in sight; and to follow afoot for any distance was, of
course, impossible. I should have to be content with the number of the
brougham and such information as inquiries at the two houses I knew the
man to have visited might yield. Then a boy came by on a decrepit
bicycle, and I caught at his handles.
"Let me take your wheel," I panted. He twisted his face into position
for a howl. "Nonsense, kid, I'm not going to steal it. Look at me.
Here," I thrust a bill into his hand. "That's more than your machine's
worth, and I'll send it back to you in an hour. Where do you live?"
He told me in a dazed sort of tone, and I was wavering on my way almost
before he had finished. The wheel ran abominably hard, and was so much
too low for me that my knees barely cleared the handle-bars; still, it
meant all the difference between losing the brougham altogether and
being able to follow it easily. All the way down to the fifties it led
me, and eastward beyond Madison Avenue, halting at last before a
rigid-looking domicile whose lower window displayed a strip of ground
glass with the legend: "Immanuel Paulus, M. D."
Somehow, the name was indefinitely familiar, as the face had been. I
wasted no time in surmise, but went straight up to the door.
"Was that Doctor Paulus who just came in?" I asked the maid. She looked
me over cautiously.
"Who was it wanted to see him, sir?"
"He wouldn't know me," I said, "it's only that I have something which I
think he lost in the street."
The trick worked, as I had expected, and a moment later my man stood
before me identified, even to the shrill precision of his voice with its
tinge of German accent.
"I found this in front of your door, Doctor," said I, "and I thought you
had dropped it as you went in." And I handed him my silver pocket-knife.
Deliberately he produced his own, and with deliberate courtesy pointed
out my mistake. I thought as the door closed behind me that there had
been a glint of recognition in his eyes. But the final step remained to
take; and with an aching swarm of suspicions writhing in my brain, I
sought out a public telephone.
"Mac," I asked, "who and what is Doctor Immanuel Paulus?" and the answer
I had expected set the keystone upon a whole arch of tottering
reminiscences.
"Biggest alienist and nerve-shark in town; biggest in the country, I
guess. He was the old guy sittin' alone in the corner at that
spook-hunt. D'you remember?"