A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
The windows being wide open, it was not long before a great moth came
whirring in. He hurled himself at the light and then, dazzled and
singed, began to beat with noisy thumps against the barrier of the
ceiling. Finding no egress there, he was back at the lamp again,
whirling in dizzy circles until at last, worn out, he dropped to the
table, where he lay on his back, kicking impotently.
The room began to fill with tiny winged creatures that flung themselves
headlong to destruction, so I put out the light and sat down near the
window, with my cigar and my thoughts.
Miss Letitia's troubles I dismissed shortly. While it was odd that only
ten pearls should have been taken, still--in every other way it bore the
marks of an ordinary theft. The thief might have thought that by leaving
the majority of the gems he could postpone discovery indefinitely. But
the Fleming case was of a different order. Taken by itself, Fleming's
disappearance could have been easily accounted for. There must be times
in the lives of all unscrupulous individuals when they feel the need of
retiring temporarily from the public eye. But the intrusion into the
Fleming home, the ransacked desk and the broken money drawer--most of
all, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it--here was a hurdle my
legal mind refused to take.
I had finished my second cigar, and was growing more and more wakeful,
when I heard a footstep on the path around the house. It was black
outside; when I looked out, as I did cautiously, I could not see even
the gray-white of the cement walk. The steps had ceased, but there was a
sound of fumbling at one of the shutters below. The catch clicked twice,
as if some thin instrument was being slipped underneath to raise it, and
once I caught a muttered exclamation.
I drew in my head and, puffing my cigar until it was glowing, managed by
its light to see that it was a quarter to two. When I listened again,
the house-breaker had moved to another window, and was shaking it
cautiously.
With Miss Letitia's story of the pearls fresh in my mind, I felt at once
that the thief, finding his ten a prize, had come back for more. My
first impulse was to go to the head of my bed, where I am accustomed to
keep a revolver. With the touch of the tall corner post, however, I
remembered that I was not at home, and that it was not likely there was
a weapon in the house.
Finally, after knocking over an ornament that shattered on the hearth
and sounded like the crash of doom, I found on the mantel a heavy brass
candlestick, and with it in my hand I stepped into the gloom of the
hallway and felt my way to the stairs.
There were no night lights; the darkness was total. I found the stairs
before I expected to, and came within an ace of pitching down, headlong.
I had kicked off my shoes--a fact which I regretted later. Once down the
stairs I was on more familiar territory. I went at once into the
library, which was beneath my room, but the sounds at the window had
ceased. I thought I heard steps on the walk, going toward the front of
the house. I wheeled quickly and started for the door, when something
struck me a terrific blow on the nose. I reeled back and sat down, dizzy
and shocked. It was only when no second blow followed the first that I
realized what had occurred.
With my two hands out before me in the blackness, I had groped, one hand
on either side of the open door, which of course I had struck violently
with my nose. Afterward I found it had bled considerably, and my collar
and tie must have added to my ghastly appearance.
My candlestick had rolled under the table, and after crawling around on
my hands and knees, I found it. I had lost, I suppose, three or four
minutes, and I was raging at my awkwardness and stupidity. No one,
however, seemed to have heard the noise. For all her boasted
watchfulness, Miss Letitia must have been asleep. I got back into the
hall and from there to the dining-room. Some one was fumbling at the
shutters there, and as I looked they swung open. It was so dark outside,
with the trees and the distance from the street, that only the creaking
of the shutter told it had opened. I stood in the middle of the room,
with one hand firmly clutching my candlestick.
But the window refused to move. The burglar seemed to have no proper
tools; he got something under the sash, but it snapped, and through the
heavy plate-glass I could hear him swearing. Then he abruptly left the
window and made for the front of the house.
I blundered in the same direction, my unshod feet striking on projecting
furniture and causing me agonies, even through my excitement. When I
reached the front door, however, I was amazed to find it unlocked, and
standing open perhaps an inch. I stopped uncertainly. I was in a
peculiar position; not even the most ardent admirers of antique brass
candlesticks indorse them as weapons of offense or defense. But, there
seeming to be nothing else to do, I opened the door quietly and stepped
out into the darkness.
The next instant I was flung heavily to the porch floor. I am not a
small man by any means, but under the fury of that onslaught I was a
child. It was a porch chair, I think, that knocked me senseless; I know
I folded up like a jack-knife, and that was all I did know for a few
minutes.
When I came to I was lying where I had fallen, and a candle was burning
beside me on the porch floor. It took me a minute to remember, and
another minute to realize that I was looking into the barrel of a
revolver. It occurred to me that I had never seen a more villainous face
than that of the man who held it--which shows my state of mind--and that
my position was the reverse of comfortable. Then the man behind the gun
spoke.
"What did you do with that bag?" he demanded, and I felt his knee on my
chest.
"What bag?" I inquired feebly. My head was jumping, and the candle was a
volcanic eruption of sparks and smoke.
"Don't be a fool," the gentleman with the revolver persisted. "If I
don't get that bag within five minutes, I'll fill you as full of holes
as a cheese."
"I haven't seen any bag," I said stupidly. "What sort of bag?" I heard
my own voice, drunk from the shock. "Paper bag, laundry bag--"
"You've hidden it in the house," he said, bringing the revolver a little
closer with every word. My senses came back with a jerk and I struggled
to free myself.
"Go in and look," I responded. "Let me up from here, and I'll take you
in myself."
The man's face was a study in amazement and anger.
"You'll take me in! You!" He got up without changing the menacing
position of the gun. "You walk in there--here, carry the candle--and
take me to that bag. Quick, do you hear?"
I was too bewildered to struggle. I got up dizzily, but when I tried to
stoop for the candle I almost fell on it. My head cleared after a
moment, and when I had picked up the candle I had a good chance to look
at my assailant. He was staring at me, too. He was a young fellow, well
dressed, and haggard beyond belief.
"I don't know anything about a bag," I persisted, "but if you will give
me your word there was nothing in it belonging to this house, I will
take you in and let you look for it."
The next moment he had lowered the revolver and clutched my arm.
"Who in the devil's name _are_ you?" he asked wildly.
I think the thing dawned on us both at the same moment.
"My name is Knox," I said coolly, feeling for my handkerchief--my head
was bleeding from a cut over the ear--"John Knox."
"Knox!" Instead of showing relief; his manner showed greater
consternation than ever. He snatched the candle from me and, holding it
up, searched my face. "Then--good God--where is my traveling-bag?"
"I have something in my head where you hit me," I said. "Perhaps that is
it."
But my sarcasm was lost on him.
"I am Harry Wardrop," he said, "and I have been robbed, Mr. Knox. I was
trying to get in the house without waking the family, and when I came
back here to the front door, where I had left my valise, it was gone. I
thought you were the thief when you came out, and--we've lost all this
time. Somebody has followed me and robbed me!"
"What was in the bag?" I asked, stepping to the edge of the porch and
looking around, with the help of the candle.
"Valuable papers," he said shortly. He seemed to be dazed and at a loss
what to do next. We had both instinctively kept our voices low.
"You are certain you left it here?" I asked. The thing seemed incredible
in the quiet and peace of that neighborhood.
"Where you are standing."
Once more I began a desultory search, going down the steps and looking
among the cannas that bordered the porch. Something glistened beside the
step, and stooping down I discovered a small brown leather
traveling-bag, apparently quite new.
"Here it is," I said, not so gracious as I might have been; I had
suffered considerably for that traveling-bag. The sight of it restored
Wardrop's poise at once. His twitching features relaxed.
"By Jove, I'm glad to see it," he said. "I can't explain,
but--tremendous things were depending on that bag, Mr. Knox. I don't
know how to apologize to you; I must have nearly brained you."
"You did," I said grimly, and gave him the bag. The moment he took it I
knew there was something wrong; he hurried into the house and lighted
the library lamp. Then he opened the traveling-bag with shaking fingers.
It was empty!
He stood for a moment, staring incredulously into it. Then he hurled it
down on the table and turned on me, as I stood beside him.
"It's a trick!" he said furiously. "You've hidden it somewhere. This is
not my bag. You've substituted one just like it."
"Don't be a fool," I retorted. "How could I substitute an empty satchel
for yours when up to fifteen minutes ago I had never seen you or your
grip either? Use a little common sense. Some place to-night you have put
down that bag, and some clever thief has substituted a similar one. It's
an old trick."
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"It's impossible," he said after a pause, while he seemed to be going
over, minute by minute, the events of the night. "I was followed, as
far as that goes, in Plattsburg. Two men watched me from the minute
I got there, on Tuesday; I changed my hotel, and for all of
yesterday--Wednesday, that is--I felt secure enough. But on my way to
the train I felt that I was under surveillance again, and by turning
quickly I came face to face with one of the men."
"Would you know him?" I asked.
"Yes. I thought he was a detective, you know I've had a lot of that sort
of thing lately, with election coming on. He didn't get on the train,
however."
"But the other one may have done so."
"Yes, the other one may. The thing I don't understand is this, Mr. Knox.
When we drew in at Bellwood Station I distinctly remember opening the
bag and putting my newspaper and railroad schedule inside. It was the
right bag then; my clothing was in it, and my brushes."
I had been examining the empty bag as he talked.
"Where did you put your railroad schedule?" I asked.
"In the leather pocket at the side."
"It is here," I said, drawing out the yellow folder. For a moment my
companion looked almost haunted. He pressed his hands to his head and
began to pace the room like a crazy man.
"The whole thing is impossible. I tell you, that valise was heavy when I
walked up from the station. I changed it from one hand to the other
because of the weight. When I got here I set it down on the edge of the
porch and tried the door. When I found it locked--"
"But it wasn't locked," I broke in. "When I came down-stairs to look for
a burglar, I found it open at least an inch."
He stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked at me curiously.
"We're both crazy, then," he asserted gravely. "I tell you, I tried
every way I knew to unlock that door, and could hear the chain rattling.
Unlocked! You don't know the way this house is fastened up at night."
"Nevertheless, it was unlocked when I came down."
We were so engrossed that neither of us had heard steps on the stairs.
The sound of a smothered exclamation from the doorway caused us both to
turn suddenly. Standing there, in a loose gown of some sort, very much
surprised and startled, was Margery Fleming. Wardrop pulled himself
together at once. As for me, I knew what sort of figure I cut, my collar
stained with blood, a lump on my forehead that felt as big as a
door-knob, and no shoes.
"What _is_ the matter?" she asked uncertainly. "I heard such queer
noises, and I thought some one had broken into the house."
"Mr. Wardrop was trying to break in," I explained, "and I heard him and
came down. On the way I had a bloody encounter with an open door, in
which I came out the loser."
I don't think she quite believed me. She looked from my swollen head to
the open bag, and then to Wardrop's pale face. Then I think, woman-like,
she remembered the two great braids that hung over her shoulders and
the dressing-gown she wore, for she backed precipitately into the hall.
"I'm glad that's all it is," she called back cautiously, and we could
hear her running up the stairs.
"You'd better go to bed," Wardrop said, picking up his hat. "I'm going
down to the station. There's no train out of here between midnight and a
flag train at four-thirty A. M. It's not likely to be of any use, but I
want to see who goes on that train."
"It is only half past two," I said, glancing at my watch. "We might look
around outside first."
The necessity for action made him welcome any suggestion. Reticent as he
was, his feverish excitement made me think that something vital hung on
the recovery of the contents of that Russia leather bag. We found a
lantern somewhere in the back of the house, and together we went over
the grounds. It did not take long, and we found nothing.
As I look back on that night, the key to what had passed and to much
that was coming was so simple, so direct--and yet we missed it entirely.
Nor, when bigger things developed, and Hunter's trained senses were
brought into play, did he do much better. It was some time before we
learned the true inwardness of the events of that night.
At five o'clock in the morning Wardrop came back exhausted and
nerveless. No one had taken the four-thirty; the contents of the bag
were gone, probably beyond recall. I put my dented candlestick back on
the mantel, and prepared for a little sleep, blessing the deafness of
old age which had enabled the Maitland ladies to sleep through it all. I
tried to forget the queer events of the night, but the throbbing of my
head kept me awake, and through it all one question obtruded itself--who
had unlocked the front door and left it open?